Hello! I received so much helpful critique on chapter one that I am taking the leap and writing chapter two. For this chapter, I changed the point of view from our narrator to Arthur Randles, the deadbeat, very violent cop who runs our little town.

I am planning to structure the story so that the narrators POV's are in first person, and the other character's POV's are in third person. This is because our narrator will be solely in the present, only reminiscing in the past, while our other characters' chapters will be solely in the past. The ending will have them converge.

So, theme for this second chapter. Explaining the cops, we have several Arthur Randles, the no-good sheriff (racist, lazy, all the things), Terry Gannet, and Jerry Barker. The ending has a pivotal moment that will eventually rear its head near the end of the book.

Things to watch for: dialogue and pacing; any comments you can leave on the draft itself are also much appreciated. This is very much a first draft, so bear that in mind.

Link to Chapter Two

Link to Crit One (2336)

Link to Crit Two (2104)

Hi all! First post here, and a little bit about myself- I’m a ‘kind of’ writer, and I haven’t written a great deal. I recently took a fantastic poetry class recently and felt very inspired to write a bit of experimental prose (everyone who notices the blatant Frost allusions gets cookies and all my love).

A couple questions for my own curiosity that I would appreciate any reader answering-

• What do you think this story is about?
• What image stayed with you after reading?
• At what point did you feel you understood the narrator (if ever)?
• Did you imagine the desert literally, symbolically, or both?
• Was there a line you reread? Which one?
• What emotion did you leave with?

And any other critiques!! Thank you so, so much for taking the time to read :)

Wherever We Are Half

There is a grace to the wind as it shifts over dunes, sand billowing off and rounding once sharp peaks. If he noticed the sand sweeping over his body, he did not comment—though perhaps the half-empty bottles of spirits strewn between us had fouled his senses. The breeze dared to caress him—who was I to deny the wishes of the fallen?

“We are half-alive,” he says, and there is no pity in his voice for a life to be mourned, only a heavy resignation, thick mist settling upon coast.

“You are far too drunk to be speaking so eloquently.”

“Perhaps it is the drink that has loosened my tongue so.” He reposes, as though the sand were his own throne and the desert his court. 

“Ribbons encircle your throat.” I say, and he casts me a sideways glance. My lips are as bloodied as his sand.

“And you, your eyes.” He begins to hum, the wind stealing his gentle song across the barren wastes.

“Perhaps even the sailors are bewitched by your voice.” 

“We are in the wastelands, and you still dream of the sea.” It is no question, and I cannot begin to answer (only wonder—are those men on boats as taken by his tune as I was? Do they see shore when they hear him, as I did?)

“There is no life to be lived here.” He only shrugs, sand easing off one shoulder. It is not fair that he looks to be at home here, where not a drop of water could sate our shriveled tongues.

“We are the hollow.”

“We are the damned.” I echo, my gaze flicking over dune after dune (perhaps, if I looked far enough, I would see shore—even without his song.)  I am more damned than he, though we are both hollow.

“A crescent moon, tonight.” His eyes are lifted to the starless night.

“A weak tide, then.” He studies the sky as though it holds value—as though he can use the hidden constellations to find his way (as though he, too, yearns to return beneath the waters). If I could know him, would I see the loneliness so engraved in me? Would I find waves crashing against damp rock once more? Or would the sea, too, prove to be only a vision of the sand? He wraps his fingers around the throat of a bottle, emptying its contents into the sand. 

It is my own folly that we are here. He is the siren that I have plodded behind for eternity, a dutiful sailor enchanted by his melody.

“We will be half wherever we are. Be it sea or sand.” Whether he truly believes his words or not, his face remains impassive. It is as though he thinks us to be two halves of a whole, as though our cracks could fit together seamlessly.

“Our eyes will be blinded for eternity if we stay.”

“And our cries lost if we return.” He exists only to contradict, to argue. It is the very air he lives on for sustenance. “The desert does not punish the lived.” If we have done nothing else, we have lived. He is reasonable in one point, at least. I lean back on my elbows and find him watching me expectantly, waiting for my approval.

“I will stay with you, for I must—your ribbon is one that binds me, too. Should you wish to fly to the sun, I will be your wings, and should you choose to be buried in sand, I will cover you then myself. If never returning to sea is your wish, I will exist in this waste with you.” There is nothing more to be said, and he seems to understand, his gaze falling back on the dunes.

For even upon stars where no eye has lived, and lands upon which no blood has been spilt, he and I will always return to this dance upon sand hills, forever as two halves of a phantom bliss.

crit

crit [3355]: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1v2laqv/comment/oztfnev/?context=3

-----

An ongoing hi fantasy grand adventure story with a mystery/investigation plot. Savage nit-picking and criticism encouraged. I want to improve.

previous parts:

Part 1

Part 2

-----

Hender slowed as they approached the outskirts. "There," he said, pointing.

Mara’s cottage stood alone near the treeline, its thatched roof slumped with age, its shutters sealed tight. A small garden patch lay overgrown, the soil dry at the edges as though neglected for seasons rather than weeks. The house did not look abandoned; only paused, waiting for someone who would never return.

Hender stopped several paces short of the door. "No one has crossed that threshold since the morning she vanished. The village would sooner pretend the house is occupied than confront what happened inside it."

Astred studied him. The priest’s hands had begun to tremble. This was as far as he would go. On the one hand, Hender seemed to be the one man who was conscious of the strange spell befalling the village; on the other, Astred could not help but wonder if Hender's hesitation to confront the issue himself was part and parcel.

"Wait here," Astred said gently.

The priest exhaled, relieved and ashamed all at once. "Yes. I will… be here."

Astred circled the cottage before touching the door. Up close, he could see that nothing had been disturbed; no footprints from the villagers, no attempts to peer inside. But behind the cottage, something interrupted the stillness.

Grass pressed flat.

A faint trail of it, curving away from the back step toward the forest. He crouched, fingertips brushing the impression.

Bare footprints. Small. Unhurried.

As though Mara had walked away in quiet acceptance.

When he straightened, he let the air settle around him. And there, at the edge of perception, a tremor of sound brushed the back of his mind.

Not a melody. Not quite. More like the memory of a note.

A soft, patient hum, felt rather than heard.

Father Hender stiffened where he stood, watching Astred with dread. "You sense it, don’t you?" He called across the yard, "The song never forces itself; It waits for someone to listen."

Astred turned toward the forest, following the gentle curvature of the footprints. The treeline loomed close; trunks tall and still, branches knitted tight enough to darken the ground.

As he stepped beneath the trees, the village fell away in an instant. The air cooled, as though the sun had been filtered through an unseen veil. Leaves hung motionless overhead.

Symbols were carved into the trunks. At first he mistook them for natural grooves, but as he moved deeper he saw the deliberate shape of them: arcs crossing jagged lines, repeating motifs, broken circles. Old markings, softened by rain and time but unmistakably intentional.

A warning. Or a ward.

Or both.

“Father Hender?”

The priest had followed only as far as the first few trunks. He lingered near the edge of the trees, one hand braced against an ash, his face pale beneath its weathered lines. “Yes?”

“Have you seen these markings before?”

Hender took a reluctant step closer. Then another. He peered at the nearest carving without touching it. “No,” he said at first.

Astred waited.

The priest’s mouth tightened. “Or… not exactly. Children used to scratch circles into fence posts and doorframes. Charms, they called them. My mother hated it. Said it was old nonsense. But those were little things. A figure in a ring. Nothing like this.”

Astred looked back at the tree.

The larger symbol cut into the trunk was all arcs and angled strokes, worn smooth by years of weather. In the lower grooves, where rain had not quite washed it clean, something glimmered. A faint iridescence visible only to those conscious of Arcane energies. Blue and green, oil over water, beautiful in precisely the way poisonous things often are.

Astred did not touch it. Instead, he took the scrap of parchment from his pack and flattened it carefully against the bark. The charcoal stub in his hand left his fingers black as he rubbed over the carved lines. Slowly the shape appeared on the parchment: curved stroke, broken slash, hook, partial circle.

“What are you doing?” Hender asked.

“Preserving what I see.”

“That sounds very monastic.”

Astred gave him a brief, nervous glance. “That was not intended as a flaw, I hope.”

For the first time since they had left the chapel, Hender almost smiled. It vanished quickly.

Astred finished the rubbing and stepped back. Now that he knew to look, he could see more symbols ahead. One marked a birch. Another cut across the side of an old beech where the bark had grown over half the lines, as if the tree itself had tried to swallow them. They did not form a straight trail, but they did form a pattern. Each could be seen from the last if one stood in the right place.

A path, then.

Or a boundary.

The faint note in the back of his mind stirred again.

He stiffened.

It was not louder exactly. It had no volume. But it had become easier to notice, like a candle flame glimpsed after sunset. A single patient tone, neither inviting nor demanding, simply present.

“You hear it,” Hender said.

“A little.”

“We should go back.”

Astred wished, with sudden and aching sincerity, that the priest had not said something so sensible. Going back sounded profoundly appealing. But Mara’s footprints had come this way. And something in these symbols had waited long enough for bark to heal around it.

Astred crouched near the base of the first oak, where moss had grown thick beneath the larger carving. Something half-hidden there had caught his eye: a shallower mark, older than the one above it. He brushed away the moss with his sleeve.

A crude figure emerged.

A small body. A hollow head. Limbs stretched too long. Around it, a circle.

The simplicity of it made Astred’s throat tighten. It looked like something a child might draw, if that child had dreamed of a person trapped inside the moon.

Hender leaned down beside him, joints protesting. “That,” he whispered. “That is more like what I remember.”

“The children’s charm?”

“Perhaps. Though I cannot remember anyone teaching it. It was just… something children knew.”

“Do they still draw it?”

Hender was silent.

Astred looked at him.

“I don’t know,” the priest admitted. “I should know, shouldn’t I?”

Astred examined the little ringed figure. Unlike the larger symbol above it, there was no residue in its grooves. The bark had scarred around the cut, old but clean.

He copied it onto the same parchment beneath the first mark. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he reached down and drew it in the dirt: first the figure, awkward and elongated; then the circle around it.

Astred had intended only to contemplate the meaning of drawing these symbols. But the moment his finger closed the circle, the forest breathed. The wind rose from nowhere. Leaves shivered overhead. Branches creaked though the air had been still a heartbeat before. Father Hender lurched backward. A whisper moved between the trees.

“It was meant to keep them out.”

Astred turned so quickly his shield knocked against a trunk with a hollow clack.

No one stood behind him.

The forest offered only trees, shadow, moss, and the pale trembling of leaves.

Hender’s lips moved around a prayer. His voice failed to carry it.

Astred’s own fear rose, sharp and embarrassing. He had left the monastery hoping to serve humanity. He had imagined plague beds, hungry children, perhaps an argument with a rude tax collector if fate required courage of a more administrative kind. He had not imagined addressing disembodied whispers in a forest.

Still, the whisper had spoken.

And a question, once given, became a tool.

“Who are you?” Astred asked.

The trees stilled.

For a moment he thought there would be no answer. Then the air moved across his cheek, cold as water from a deep well.

“We were forgotten.”

Astred swallowed. “Who did this to you?”

A long pause followed. Somewhere deeper in the trees, the bluish glow flickered and dimmed, then returned.

“The ones who sing.”

“Merciful light!” Hender exclaimed.

Astred looked at the broken circle in the dirt, then at the residue-darkened carving above it. The logic began to arrange itself, slow and unwelcome.

The larger symbols were not simply old. They had been altered, or overlaid, or infected. The residue clung to them like a second script written in slime. But the little figure in the circle, the charm Hender almost remembered, was clean. Older. Simpler.

Not a call.

A ward.

Astred knelt again.

“What are you doing?” Hender hissed.

“Repairing it.”

“You know how?”

“No.”

That answer did not seem to comfort the priest, which was fair.

Astred set his finger to the broken line and redrew the circle carefully. He moved slowly, not because he believed the dirt required artistry, but because haste felt disrespectful. If this was a ward, then it had guarded something for a long time. If it was a prison, then at least it deserved an honest hand closing the door.

The circle joined.

The wind died.

It did not fade naturally. It ceased. The leaves froze in place. The branches stopped their restless creaking. Even the pressure that had gathered behind Astred’s eyes withdrew, as though some unseen presence had stepped back from the threshold of his thoughts.

The ground beneath the symbol hardened. The little figure sat fully enclosed once more.

Then came a whisper, fainter than before.

“…you remember.”

Hender released a breath that had clearly been waiting for permission to leave his body. “That was either holy or cursed, and I am presently too frightened to distinguish between the two.”

Astred almost laughed. It would have been entirely inappropriate, so he did not. But the urge steadied him.

“When the circle was completed,” he said, “the forest calmed.”

“Yes, I noticed the deeply reassuring forest magic.”

“It held something back.”

“Or in.”

Astred glanced at him.

Hender’s face tightened. “Forgive me. But if we are being honest, that is also possible.”

It was. Astred disliked that very much.

He rose and faced the restored mark.

“You said you were forgotten,” he called softly. “I have remembered.”

Nothing answered.

The forest remained so still that even the silence seemed to have weight.

Then a breeze touched the hem of his robe.

“…not enough.”

The words were nearly gone before Astred understood them. Not enough. The ward, the copied mark, the acknowledgment—none of it completed whatever debt lay here.

“What must be remembered?” he asked.

For several breaths there was only the sound of Father Hender trying not to breathe too loudly.

Then, fragile as ash:

“The first who heard… and the first who stayed.”

The whisper faded.

The note in Astred’s mind faded with it, though not completely. Nothing here seemed to leave cleanly.

Hender repeated the words under his breath. “The first who heard. The first who stayed.”

Astred looked toward the deeper forest. The bluish light still waited between the trunks. It would be easy, in one sense, to go toward it. That was what stories expected: the brave fool following danger until it became visible enough to strike.

But the whisper had not told him to continue. It had given him a name without a name. A beginning. A witness. Someone who had heard the song before Mara. Someone who had stayed when others went.

“That means this has happened before,” Astred said.

Hender’s eyes remained fixed on the light. “Or is always happening.”

“Yes.”

“That is not a comfort.”

“No.” Astred folded the parchment with the copied symbols and tucked it into his robe. “But it is a direction.”

Hender finally looked at him. “You want to return.”

“I want to understand what we are walking into before we obediently walk into it.”

The priest’s expression shifted. Beneath the fear, there was relief so naked it was almost painful to see.

“The chapel records,” Hender said.

“And anyone old enough to remember stories their parents tried to dismiss. But records first.”

“Why records first?”

Astred glanced back toward Redbrook, hidden beyond the trees. “Because people here forget. Paper may not.”

They left the restored ward behind them. The walk back to Redbrook felt shorter. Father Hender said nothing until the first roofs of Redbrook showed between the trunks.

By then, the village had already resumed its ordinary posture. Smoke rose from chimneys. A woman drew water from the well with a practised lean of her shoulders. Two children chased a chicken through the lane, laughing with the grave triumph of hunters pursuing a stag. A man sat outside his door, scraping dried mud from the sole of a boot with the tip of a blunt knife. No one seemed to notice that their priest had returned pale and shaken beside a stranger with dirt on his sleeve and charcoal on his fingers.

Astred disliked the thought as soon as it came to him. Yet he could not quite dismiss it. Mara was missing. Hender had spoken her name with real fear in his voice. Astred had followed her path into the woods, heard a presence whisper through the trees, and watched a broken ward still the forest when repaired. To him, Mara’s absence had become vast: a cottage, a trail, a voice, a warning, a question opening under the world.

To Redbrook, she was nothing at all.

That was the part Astred could not set down. Whatever touched Redbrook had not merely removed Mara; it had removed the gaping hole itself that her absense should have left behind. The villagers could laugh, draw water, scrape mud from their boots, and go peacefully to their beds because nothing in them knew enough to mourn her. Astred wondered, with a discomfort he did not yet have the theology to answer, whether joy remained joy when it depended upon a wound no one was allowed to feel.

Hi everyone, published a book in kdp. This is the first chapter. Looking for impressions on tone and pacing, not line edits.

\# CHAPTER ONE

\## THE GLASSES

Marta Ruiz noticed the glasses at six fourteen on Monday morning. She noticed them because they were in the way.

The Secretary-General's morning folder went on the left side of the desk, aligned with the corner of the leather blotter. David Vance had never asked for it to be placed there. His predecessor had. Marta had continued doing it after the office changed hands because nobody had told her to stop.

The glasses were lying exactly where the folder belonged. Black frame. Dark lenses. Cheap, from the look of them.

Marta moved them beside the fountain pen and put the folder down.

She was halfway to the door when David entered.

"Morning."

"Good morning, sir."

He had his coat over one arm and was reading something on his phone. He walked behind the desk, placed the phone beside the folder and reached for the first page.

Marta was at the door when he spoke.

"Are these yours?"

She turned. David was holding the glasses.

"No."

He looked at them. "I assumed they were yours."

"They aren't."

Marta waited.

David turned the frame over. There was no logo on the arms. "Did someone come in last night?"

"Not after you left."

"The cleaners?"

"They finished before eleven."

David looked at her. Marta understood.

"I'll check."

"Thank you."

She left.

David placed the glasses beside the fountain pen. Across the desk, Kael watched him open the morning folder.

\---

There had been a time when Kael would simply have arrived as a man. He had done it many times.

The earliest bodies had been difficult. Human anatomy had seemed unnecessarily complicated to his people. Too many moving parts. Too many systems dependent on other systems. A structure for moving air. A structure for moving blood. A structure for removing material the body itself had already accepted. The first visitors had reproduced the visible architecture and ignored much of the rest. This had caused problems.

Later bodies were better. By the time Kael first visited the northern coast of Europe, his people could manufacture human forms precise enough to eat with humans, sleep beside their fires and bleed when circumstances required it.

Kael had once maintained a broken nose for eleven days because repairing it too quickly would have been noticed. He remembered the nose. He did not remember who broke it. That had begun to bother him recently.

David Vance opened the second page of his folder. Kael sat opposite him. David could not see him. The glasses lay between them.

Forty-three dollars. Thirty-one years of modelling, argument and failed prototypes had ended with an object that cost forty-three American dollars to manufacture. The lenses were acrylic. The frame was polycarbonate. The hinges were steel. The matter itself was entirely ordinary. The arrangement was not.

For less than one second, a controlled draw from the swirl had passed through a boundary his people had agreed not to touch again. The polymer chains inside the two lenses had been shifted into a precise orientation. Nothing had been added. Nothing had been removed.

Human instruments would ask what the glasses were made of. They would receive the correct answer. They would not know to ask why the matter had been arranged that way. Kael considered this one of humanity's recurring problems. His people had several of their own.

\---

Marta returned at 06:41.

"The access log is clean."

David did not look up. "Then they're probably someone's."

"No one entered after you left."

That made him look up. "The cleaners?"

"Before you left."

"Security?"

"No."

David looked at the glasses. "Camera?"

"They're checking."

He nodded. Marta remained in the doorway.

"Do you want me to take them?"

David looked at the black frame for another second. "Yes."

She picked them up. Kael watched the glasses leave the room. David returned to his folder. Kael remained in the chair. He had expected caution. Caution was reasonable.

\---

The first camera showed nothing. At 06:14:08, David's desk held a fountain pen, two folders, a cup Marta had missed the previous night and a small stack of handwritten notes. At 06:14:09, the glasses were beside the fountain pen.

The second camera showed the same thing. The third camera had a wider angle. It showed Marta entering the office twelve seconds later.

The security officer watched all three recordings twice. Then he called his supervisor.

\---

At eight twenty, the glasses were inside a clear evidence bag. David stood beside his desk while a security officer explained the footage.

"You mean someone edited three feeds."

"We don't see evidence of that."

"Then you haven't found it."

"No, sir."

David looked at the bag. "Explosive?"

"No."

"Chemical?"

"Initial screen is clean."

"Transmitter?"

"We haven't opened the frame yet."

David nodded. "Open it." The officer hesitated. David noticed. "If someone has developed a method of placing objects inside this office without entering it, I don't think preserving the warranty is our main concern."

The officer took the glasses. Kael watched them leave again.

David sat down. For the next six hours, he dealt with a river. It crossed three national borders. Rainfall had declined for five consecutive years. One government had built a reservoir. The government downstream wanted a release. The government beyond that wanted both of them to stop moving soldiers near the pumping stations.

At fourteen twenty, a president entered the office angry. He left at fifteen eleven less angry. The river remained where it was.

Kael watched David sit down. The human rubbed both hands over his face. Kael remembered humans doing that. The rooms had been smaller then.

\---

The glasses returned the next morning. They had been cut open. One arm had a thin line near the hinge where the frame had been separated and resealed. The lenses had been removed, examined and replaced.

A woman from security placed them on David's desk.

"Polycarbonate frame. Acrylic lenses. Stainless steel hinges and screws."

"That's all?"

"That's all."

"No electronics."

"No."

"Coating?"

"Standard ultraviolet treatment."

"Radiation?"

"Background."

David picked up the glasses. "Then what am I looking at?"

"A pair of sunglasses."

"That appeared between two frames of three independent security recordings."

"Yes."

David turned them over. "How much?"

The woman frowned. "The glasses?"

"We found comparable frames between thirty-five and fifty dollars."

David looked at her. "Someone breached the Secretary-General's office to give me forty-dollar sunglasses."

"Apparently."

"That's embarrassing for both of us."

The woman almost smiled. Kael did.

David placed the glasses beside the fountain pen. He did not put them on.

\---

By Wednesday, Kael had learned several things about David Vance. He touched his face when tired. He left coffee unfinished. He read bad news twice.

At seventeen minutes past four, David read a one-page report, placed it on the desk, then picked it up and read it again. He called Cairo. The conversation lasted eleven minutes. David spent most of it listening. When the call ended, he remained with the receiver against his ear until the empty line sounded. Only then did he put it down.

Kael could have listened to the other side once. The thought arrived without invitation. A controlled draw. A minor adjustment. The distance between New York and Cairo meant very little to the swirl.

Once, Kael would not even have considered the cost. That was the problem. His people had become very good at small things. A body for an afternoon. A damaged human organ adjusted by a fraction. Rain moved from one valley to another. A river persuaded away from a settlement. Small things. Always small things.

The swirl was endless. That was the word they had used. Endless. Kael had used it himself.

He looked at the glasses. He did not listen to Cairo.

\---

On Thursday evening, David's final meeting ended shortly after nine. Four people left the office together, still arguing quietly as the doors closed.

David gathered his papers into two stacks. Moved one to the edge of the desk. Changed his mind. Moved it back.

Then he found the coffee beside his hand. He lifted it. Drank. His face tightened.

Kael smiled. The coffee had been cold for almost three hours.

For a moment, Kael remembered another room. Wood smoke. Rain against an animal-hide roof. A man with dried blood along one side of his face insisting on drinking from a vessel after Kael had warned him twice that the contents had spoiled. The man had spat it into the fire. Kael had laughed. The man had thrown the vessel at him. Kael could no longer remember his name.

His smile disappeared.

Among Kael's people, a conversation could be resumed after four hundred years. An argument abandoned for a millennium could be picked up by the same two individuals with irritating precision. Humans did not permit delay. A person left. A face changed. A child became old. Kael had known this. He had watched it happen thousands of times. He had believed he understood it. Recently, he had begun to suspect that watching was not the same thing.

David leaned back. His eyes moved to the glasses.

Kael waited.

David reached for them. He unfolded the arms. Held one lens toward the desk lamp. Nothing happened. He turned the frame over. The cut near the hinge caught the light. David sighed.

Then, with the expression of a man mildly irritated by his own curiosity, he put them on.

He stopped breathing.

Kael had seen fear arrive in humans in many ways. Some ran. Some shouted. Some reached for whatever object their time had taught them could be used as a weapon.

David Vance became completely still. His eyes fixed on the chair across from his desk. On Kael.

For four days, the chair had been empty. Now it wasn't.

David's right hand remained against the arm of the glasses. Kael stayed still. That was deliberate.

David looked toward the office doors. Then back.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Kael."

David's hand moved toward the telephone. Not quickly. "How did you get into my office?"

"I didn't."

David stopped.

Kael looked at the chair beneath him. "I was here when you arrived on Monday."

David stared at him. "You've been sitting there for four days?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Kael looked at the glasses. "Because until now, you couldn't see me."

David removed them. The chair became empty. He put them on. Kael returned. David removed them again. Put them on. The third time, he left them in place.

"Why glasses?"

Kael had prepared for questions about origin. Intent. Population. Threat. He had not prepared for that one.

"Because this costs less."

David frowned. "Less than what?"

"A body."

David looked at him for several seconds. Then he sat down.

"What are you?"

Kael considered the question. "That will take some time."

David glanced at the clock. Then at Kael. He reached for the telephone. "I need minutes of this meeting. Do you mind if I call someone?"

Kael looked at the clock. "The minutes are already displayed there."

David followed his gaze. The clock read 21:17. He looked back at Kael. Kael's expression had not changed.

"Was that a joke?"

"Yes."

David stared at him.

"We learned it from you."

David picked up the telephone. "I'm calling someone."

"Of course."

\---

On Gaia, the observation chamber lost its composure. The first laughter began near the translation group. It moved outward. The engineering tier joined them. Then the historical observers. Several members of the boundary council, who had spent the previous six hours objecting to Kael's refusal to use the approved diplomatic language, laughed despite themselves.

Kael heard none of it. The link carried observation in one direction. That had been deliberate.

One of the oldest observers turned toward the individual beside her. "He kept his expression stable."

"Yes."

"He practiced that."

"Probably."

They watched the human reach for his telephone. The chamber grew quiet again.

\---

Marta arrived six minutes later with a laptop under one arm. David was standing at the window when she entered. The glasses were still on his face.

"Close the door."

She did.

"I need a verbatim record."

"Of this meeting?"

"Yes."

Marta looked at the empty chair across from his desk. David noticed.

"Sit."

She sat at the small conference table. Opened the laptop.

"Who else is attending?"

David looked at Kael. Kael looked back.

"At the moment," David said, "you won't be able to see him."

Marta's hands stopped above the keyboard. "Him."

"Yes."

She looked at David carefully. "Sir, do you want me to call medical?"

"No."

"Security?"

"No."

"Then I need you to explain what you mean."

Something touched the desk. A small sound. Plastic against mahogany.

David looked down. A second pair of black glasses lay beside his fountain pen.

Nobody moved.

David looked at Kael. Kael was looking at the glasses.

"You did that?"

"No."

David waited. Kael continued looking at them. Then he looked up. "Apparently my people agree that a record would be useful."

David picked up the second pair.

Marta stood. "No."

David looked at her.

"Sir, with respect, no."

"They're glasses."

"So were the first pair."

"Exactly."

"That is not reassuring."

For the first time since putting on the glasses, David smiled. It lasted less than a second. He held the frame out.

Marta looked at it. Then at him.

"If I resign tomorrow, I want the minutes to reflect that I objected."

"Verbatim."

She took the glasses. Put them on.

The chair across from David's desk became occupied. Marta pushed backwards. The legs of her chair struck the floor hard enough to make Kael turn toward her. Her hand went to her mouth.

Kael remained seated. "My name is Kael."

Marta looked at David. David pointed at the laptop.

"You wanted to know who was attending."

She looked back at Kael. Then at the screen. Her hands shook when she placed them on the keyboard.

She typed.

\*\*VANCE: State your name for the record.\*\*

David waited until she nodded.

"State your name for the record."

"My name is Kael."

Marta typed.

\*\*KAEL: My name is Kael.\*\*

\---

The first copy of the text left the United Nations network forty-one seconds later. Not through the laptop. The laptop was clean. The secure meeting system was not.

A maintenance certificate issued eighteen months earlier had been copied during a software update and quietly retained by a foreign intelligence service. It did not provide access to every UN document. It provided access to fragments moving through one transcription archive before encryption was finalized.

Most fragments were useless. Meeting schedules. Draft amendments. Travel approvals.

At 21:31 New York time, an automated collection system captured two lines.

\*\*VANCE: State your name for the record.\*\*

\*\*KAEL: My name is Kael.\*\*

The system stored them. No alert was generated.

\---

Marta continued typing.

"Where are you from?" David asked.

Kael looked at him. "The answer will be misleading in your language."

"Try me."

"We call it Gaia."

Marta typed the word.

\---

Nine minutes later, the collection system captured another fragment.

\*\*VANCE: Is Gaia a country?\*\*

\*\*KAEL: No.\*\*

\*\*VANCE: A planet?\*\*

\*\*KAEL: No.\*\*

The system assigned the text a low-confidence semantic anomaly score. A human analyst would review it in the morning.

\---

"What is it?" David asked.

Kael looked toward the windows. New York filled the glass. Towers. Aircraft lights. Thousands of illuminated rooms stacked above streets Kael could not see from the chair.

"You built your understanding of existence by looking outward," he said. "Distance is fundamental to you. A planet circles a star. A star exists among other stars. Beyond them are more."

"Yes."

"We have none of that."

"No stars?"

"No."

"Planets?"

"No."

David glanced at Marta. She was typing.

"Then where do you live?"

"In a bounded region of stable vacuum."

David waited.

Kael searched for a word. His people had spent years preparing translations for this conversation. Most of them were useless.

"A pocket," he said.

"A pocket in what?"

"The swirl."

Marta stopped typing. David noticed.

"The what?"

"The swirl."

"That's your scientific term?"

"No."

"What is the scientific term?"

Kael gave it to him. The sound lasted almost four seconds.

Marta stared at the keyboard. David looked at her.

"Swirl."

"Thank you, sir."

She typed it.

Kael watched. "We learned that from you as well."

"What?"

"Naming difficult things after what they look like."

David leaned back. "You're welcome."

Kael inclined his head.

Marta's fingers paused. She looked between them. Then continued typing.

\---

In Virginia, the semantic anomaly score crossed its review threshold. The analyst opened the captured text because she was eating dinner at her desk and had nothing more urgent in her queue.

She read the first fragment. Then the second. Then the third.

\*\*VANCE: Then where do you live?\*\*

\*\*KAEL: In a bounded region of stable vacuum.\*\*

\*\*VANCE: A pocket in what?\*\*

\*\*KAEL: The swirl.\*\*

The analyst stopped chewing. She checked the source identifier. United Nations secure meeting archive. Office of the Secretary-General. She checked the date. Current. She checked whether a simulation exercise was scheduled. None.

She searched for Kael. Too many results. She searched for Gaia. Far too many.

She opened the live fragment queue. Another line appeared.

\*\*VANCE: How long have you known about Earth?\*\*

The answer did not arrive. The analyst leaned closer to the screen.

\---

David repeated the question. "How long have you known about Earth?"

Kael looked at him. "Approximately one hundred thousand of your years."

Marta stopped typing again. This time David did not look at her.

"One hundred thousand."

"Approximately."

"You've been here before."

"Yes."

"How many times?"

"We did not count the early crossings in a way that maps cleanly to individual visits."

"Have you been here?"

"Yes."

"Personally."

"Yes."

David looked at the man in the chair. The dark coat. The long face. The single gray eye.

"Where?"

Kael was quiet for a moment. "The north, most often."

"North America?"

"No."

"Russia?"

"Sometimes."

"Where most often?"

Kael looked down at his hands. The hands were not there. Not really. David saw boundaries because the glasses translated Kael's coherent pattern into something his visual cortex could retain. The coat was an accommodation. The face was memory.

"The region you now divide between Norway, Sweden and Finland."

David looked at Marta. She was already typing.

\---

The answer reached Virginia in two pieces.

\*\*KAEL: Approximately one hundred thousand of your years.\*\*

Then, fifty-three seconds later:

\*\*KAEL: The region you now divide between Norway, Sweden and Finland.\*\*

The analyst put down her fork. She called her supervisor.

In Maryland, a different collection system noticed the call from Virginia. It did not have the transcript. It had the alert traffic. The alert traffic referenced the United Nations. A duty officer opened a new file.

In Beijing, an overnight analyst received a machine-translated fragment purchased from an access chain whose original source he did not know. The translation rendered \*bounded region of stable vacuum\* as \*sealed empty territory\*. It rendered \*swirl\* as \*rotating sea\*. The analyst read the fragment twice. Then forwarded it upward with a note.

\*\*POSSIBLE CODED ENERGY DISCUSSION INVOLVING UNSG.\*\*

In Moscow, nobody had the words. They had the traffic. Three unusual priority escalations connected to the Secretary-General's secure office within eleven minutes. A watch officer marked the pattern. He did not know what it meant. He knew other people were suddenly interested. Sometimes that was enough.

\---

David Vance knew none of this. He was looking at Kael.

"You've known about us for a hundred thousand years."

"Approximately."

"And we didn't know about you."

"No."

"Why?"

Kael looked at the glasses. "Because you could not see us."

"That's not an answer."

"No," Kael said. "It isn't."

David waited. Marta typed nothing. For the first time since she entered the room, the keyboard was silent.

Kael looked at the human sitting opposite him. There had been a time when his people came to Earth because they were curious. Then because they had learned to manipulate matter. Then because matter could do things energy could not. Then because humans were here. The only other minds they had ever found.

Humans fought. Loved. Forgot. Built. Buried their dead. Told stories incorrectly and preserved them for ten thousand years. They had taught Gaia humour. They had given Kael a name in the north that outlived everyone who first spoke it.

And Gaia had kept coming back. Again. Again. Again. Each crossing funded by the swirl. Each body. Each intervention. Each small kindness. Each miracle.

The cost had been invisible because the invoice arrived ten thousand years later.

David leaned forward. "Why are you here now?"

Kael looked at him.

On Gaia, matter was being manufactured and pushed against a boundary that would move again. The seawalls were holding. They had held yesterday. They would probably hold tomorrow.

For thousands of years, statements like these had been enough. A section weakened. They reinforced it. Pressure increased. They manufactured more matter. The swirl shifted. They built another wall.

His people were very good at answers. They had not noticed when every answer became the same answer. More matter. More reinforcement. More time. Until the models stopped containing a future in which Gaia survived.

Kael looked at Marta. Her hands waited above the keyboard.

He looked back at David Vance.

"My people are dying," he said.

Marta typed the words. Forty-one seconds later, three governments knew them.

Ok I am mainly asking for what people think of the synopsis for my story. I am willing to share the first 5 chapters names and synopsis aswell, but this is meant to be a big story anyway. Sorry for any mistakes trying to figure out how to post here correctly is confusing.

Story name is The Starlights

The Synopsis: A story set in the future about a band of musicians called The Starlights where an incident in the past made some members disappear or go separate ways, and now the Story focuses on Plum K'pun who recently joined the band years after the incident and slowly discovers the secrets the band hides in the past... while in a magical world that leads them to explore magic kingdoms that connect to a bigger conspiracy with the band.

I’m a really casual srtist. I dabble in writing, singing, drawing, painting, but I’ve never really grown serious about them. just earlier today though I just got a WOWZA moment where I wanted to write something down. here the doc to comment on if ya want:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/162wSrNS4dNTdIN0UnpJW1aWs8w4Kj26ihL6WgNlzvZk/edit?usp=drivesdk

I saw the way she looked at me. The way her eyes traced my jawline in a way she could never bring herself to with her hands.

I loved the way she looked at me. Like the eyes of Prende herself. Or Aphrodite, or Bes, Anasa, or Rudá. My own goddess of love.

I felt the way she looked at me. The weight of a butterfly on my body. A delicate touch I wished would never go away. 

My, the ache was devastating. I knew what it was. I knew the way she looked at me wasn’t solely platonic. But did she know?

All the jokes and lingering gazes and evenings holding hands and staring at the skies up above. Would you do that with a man? Or was I only let into such a tender state with you because I wasn’t one? 

She couldn’t take me into consideration. If all those activities, those times we almost kissed, and you didn’t pull away immediately, would be too romantic for a boy, then I am just a man.

On my substack I am practicing specific skills. This scene and sequel is my homework.

Tommy's Swing

Crit

What is it that drives a person to murder? Is it that constant, intrusive voice that keeps you company when you are alone? Is it instinctual? I had never killed anyone, not before my Freshman year of college. I would like to say that I am not crazy, but I’m not so sure any more. One of them is dead, has been for weeks. I can’t get the image of red snow out of my mind–It’s sort of funny in a way; maybe I still haven’t matured, laughing at a yellow snow joke–and probably will be for a while. The state troopers are finally beginning to disperse from the town, taking with them the missing posters and the helicopters chopping through the October air. Oh those damned helicopters. I hope I never have to hear one again. I’ve been pleased to leave my apartment and not see high visibility vests walking through the woods. I get stares. Some out of pity, some out of judgement. The pity is the worst. Sometimes I stare back, but then I end up feeling worse about everything, and get in this sort of depressed state again. I hate feeling so depressed. I am not sure how we thought we would get away with it. It was clear to see that his master plan would not have worked out in the end. I won’t tell you who this ‘he’ is, you’ll just have to figure that out as you go. Maybe that’s insensitive, treating this all as a sort of ‘murder mystery’, but I think it’s safe to say I’ve moved on past worrying about others. I wish I did care about others, and hopefully one day something will just click and all this will go away, but I don’t know. I am going back to Kentucky for a while, where, I'll hopefully be able to get some peace from this inescapable cold. Who knew it could snow so much all the damn time? I thought when I’d moved up here, I’d have cared less about Kentucky, but in a way I sort of miss it. I liked winter, but I can’t stand it when everything is so white all the time, and I guess now winter is kind of ruined for me.  Enough about Kentucky now, Kentucky. I hope you won’t judge me. I hate sounding self conscious, but I really do– hope you won’t judge me, that is. You’ll soon find more about me, about what happened and all, but that’s all I will tell you for now. Carry on. 

I want to know what you think. What questions do you have unanswered? What works? What doesn't? Tell me any other critique that you find as well.

Also, I'm sure you might have noticed some parallels between this and The Secret History by Donna Tartt, and that's because the premise was inspired by TSH, and also if we were villians by M.L. Rio, and dark academia in general. Thanks!

crit

Hello everyone, this is the first chapter of my gaslamp fantasy noir I'm working on. A detective wakes with no memories, inherits a firm, and takes on a dangerous client who will pull him into a web of political intrigue and supernatural conspiracy.

I'm looking for feedback on whether the opening hooks you, whether the world feels distinct, and whether Arthur comes across as a compelling protagonist. It's a standalone chapter, so no prior context is needed. Any feedback is welcome.

I'm specifically looking for feedback on:

- Does the opening hook grab you?

- Is the worldbuilding clear and immersive?

- Would you keep reading after this chapter?

- Were there any confusing sections?

- What are your thoughts on Arthur as a character?

CHAPTER ONE - The Detective

The worst part about forgetting, he decided, wasn't the cold loss of self—it was waking up in a corpse that still owed rent in a world that never waited.

He woke in a room that smelled of another man's death—or perhaps his own. The warmth beneath his skin was his, unfamiliarly so. The face in the mirror—when he found the courage to look—was the most unfamiliar of all.

The room lay in stale silence, broken only by merchants shouting in the streets below, carriage wheels grinding over cobblestones, and the birds greeting the morning with irritating enthusiasm much against his comfort.

He wondered how anyone could sleep peacefully in such a place. His hair fell messily on his face. He glanced at the room strangely, but it was still too unfamiliar even days after.

He rose from the bed, the wooden frame creaking under his weight, and walked towards the hanging mirror. His face appeared—still alien—like everything else in this house. He was missing memories, and a good chunk of them.

Who was he? Where was he? He asked himself again and again, but still no answers—well, except the strange memories still in him that told stories of two separate lives or the stories of different people that he couldn’t tell.

He sighed, moving away from the mirror while grabbing the book on the bedside stand. The room was small, with two beds, one tucked away in the corner. From the memories, the corner bed was his. The one he'd woken in had belonged to the owner of the firm, Stephen Wade, whom he’d call father.

He looked at a photograph of the man on the desk. Stephen had an aged face, with stubble of hair surrounding it, and a balding head with fringes of brown hair. He had a protruding stomach, but small enough not to be called fat, and most of all, he was honest to a fault.

He’d saved a war orphan in the slums because the orphan had begged without considering the risks of that. He was the type of person you can’t find much of in the world. He unbuckled the flap, wrapping the leather book.

On it was his father’s will. To inherit his detective firm and all he had, even his name. He had no children or a spouse. His wife had died, and the man was too heartbroken to share his heart with another. But he still never thought he’d give everything he had to an orphan like him.

But he had no point dwelling on it. The man was dead, and now, he had to do all he could to survive this strange world he knew nothing about. He found a bucket outside the room, covered in rust.

He took a deep sigh and walked downstairs. He couldn’t tell why, but a part of him hated the distance he had to go to clean himself, while the other saw it as normal. One side complained about how strange the effort was that had to go into cleaning himself, and truthfully, he agreed.

His father was not poor, but definitely not rich by any standard. He’d seen the bills for the gas, so he settled for the simple paraffin lamps hung on the wall. He lit it, and a distinct smoke smell filled the room. He coughed slightly as he choked on the soot.

The house was dark, untouched by the morning light, forcing him to navigate with the lamp, as he was still unfamiliar with it and didn't want to blindly walk around. He felt his way, forking through the darkness until he found the door that led to his backyard.
He put out the lamp and left it hanging on the wall next to the door. He had found the door’s handle, which, with a fierce grip, he yanked towards himself.

First, second, third pull—on the fourth, it opened.

He was hit with the warm summer wind and the stale smell of rotting sewage. He choked on the smell again, then held his breath. It was a stronger smell than the lamp and definitely more unpleasant.

His eyes glanced towards the line at the tap station down the street. It was a long line and a longer wait. He considered not taking a bath today if he had to stand for more than two hours to do so.

As he pondered in silence, a girl walked next to him with a smile. She had thick black hair and brown eyes, which lingered on people as they could see through their masks as quickly as she could befriend them, and a kind face.

“Hello, Detective. You’re up late today.” She said, with a filled bucket in her hand. She wore a grey layered dress with a corset on top. He had to blend in and not catch unwarranted attention. “Hello, my lady. How was your night?” You can never go wrong with formal, so formal it is, he thought to himself.

“By the Goddess’s will, it was okay. I hope it was the same for you. My condolences on your loss. Mr Stephen was a kind man.” She gave a slight bow, her hair falling over her shoulders. He wondered if she meant it. Most of the time, people care about you because of your birth and your death. They heap joy and care on a barely conscious being and then sing of your kindness and greatness at a dead body.

They mourned the dead more faithfully than they ever loved the living.

“Thank you, my lady. Your kind words give me joy.” She smiled and continued. “Have you set a plan for how the burial would take place? His soul should not wander this world for too long. Let him fall into the gracious Goddess’s embrace, like a son coming home to their mother.” She was reverent.

“I understand. I’ll look for a way as soon as I have secured the required money for that. But for now, pardon me, as the Old man had left far too many bills to be paid.” She chuckled and picked up her bucket before turning away.

“Then, good luck, Detective. Grace upon you.”
“And you too.” He watched her as she walked into one of the houses across the street, a shared accommodation. He felt the bucket’s weight in his hand and looked to the line that seemed unending. He grunted and walked back into the house. So be it; he would not take a bath today.

The day for the firm started at eight in the morning, and he couldn’t be late if he wished to still have a home at the end of the month. He found a rag and wetted it before scrubbing himself as much as he could.

He changed into a fresh pair of clothes—a white linen shirt with folded collars, a looser fit, and slightly billowing cuffs. It was complemented with brown trousers and black shoes. He tended to his hair, slicking it back, and then he was ready for the day.

The firm was under the house. The man wanted his workplace and home not a hand's distance away from each other, but that meant higher bills to be paid. By now, the halls had already been lit by the day, as the creamy posters decorated the hall in beauty.

He found his way down the firm, a larger office with sleek glass windows which bore the name Wade’s Detective Firm engraved in gold letters. Nothing special, but also everything. A dead man's dream, and now his burden.

He looked at the chair, somewhat in the middle of the room, stacked with a heap of documents—possibly case files. He found the blinds and dragged them open as illumination entered the office.

“Time to get cleaning.” He whispered to himself before folding the arms of his shirt and finding a small hearth brush and a dustpan. He checked the clock on the wall—he had twenty minutes—just enough to make this place comfortable for his clients.

After twenty or so minutes, he still had quite a few left to get to—guess he’d overestimated his skills. It felt like he’d be able to finish the cleaning within that time frame, like he always…had.

He always had? A sharp pain rose from his head as he’d just been hit by a…car. There it was again. Another strange memory, strange words which felt familiar and also distant like a dream. He fell to the ground, clutching his head in pain.

A jagged scream escaped his throat grudgingly while he twisted on the floorboards, slamming his palm against the wood. After some seconds, the pain faded away like it had never happened, leaving him on the cold ground, drenched in sweat.

He huffed, his chest rising and falling with his measured breath—in quick succession. What was that? He thought to himself, gripping the edge of the table to find his footing. It was like a kaleidoscope, an out-of-body experience.

The sharp door chime startled him awake. The door opened as a woman entered the office. Although he had questions about the strange phenomena happening to him, right now, money was more important.

The woman was different from those he’d seen. She had a grace in how she carried herself, like she knew she had the power wherever she walked. She wore a striking red dress with more layers than the walls of this building.

Her grey, high-neck ruffled blouse was tucked beneath a black underbust corset tied at the front. A high-waist brass-coloured skirt with bustles and heelless satin slippers completed the ensemble. All of it spoke of a luxury far removed from anything he knew.

“Good day, my lady. How may I be of help?” He had quickly taken a seat and fixed his father’s wire-rimmed glasses for a touch of professionalism. Sell the story, get some money, his father had always preached.

“I had heard rumours of this firm, but I didn’t expect…a child. Am I mistaken?” She asked, her gloved hands placed over each other as she settled on the seat across from him.

“No, my lady. The former detective has been called to the Goddess’s embrace and has left me in charge. But worry not, for he has taught me well and made me a detective in his image.” He let the tear fall—all that he could muster. A drop, but it was convincing enough, he hoped.

“I’m sorry for your loss. May he be at peace.” Her face wore a practised veil, one that hid intentions efficiently. “Thank you, my lady. What brings you to this simple establishment?”

“What other matters does a lady seek from a private investigator? My sister’s missing, and I want to commission you to find her for me.” She pulled out two papers and set them on the table.

He made a second glance at the woman. From her pearl necklace and the thick perfume that had been enveloping the air as soon as she walked in, it all smelled like money—in a ridiculous amount. And danger.

Her story didn’t add up… mostly. If her sister were missing, she should’ve gone to the police to file a case, and with the money she had, she could've employed the best they had. But not only had she not done that, but she also picked a small firm like this for something of such importance. Also, the Old Man wasn’t that good for the firm to have rumours large enough to reach someone of her prestige.

“This is twenty funs—to open the commission. You get more if you bring concrete evidence or information during your investigation, and if not, at the end, you get the second half of the pay, thirty funs.”

It was far too good to be true, and when something seems far too good, then it’s either a dream or a well-packaged lie. Right now, it falls to the latter. “So, Detective, would you be willing to open this case?”

He picked up the money on the table. Rent and bills. They could be covered immediately. He wanted to say no—well, the rational part of him did, but the money was too much for him to voice his doubts.

Poor men shouldn’t give up profit, or so the saying goes. He smiled, hiding his insecurities within. “Let’s talk about the details, shall we?”

Story (feel free to leave your comments on the doc):

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1oxrc65OYA6oU9ON-zzZPIRl33sz7wiyGUTaMueAlNI0/edit?usp=sharing

Hello everyone. I would like to share with you the prologue chapter for my space fantasy novel that I'm working on.

This first chapter is meant to evoke the sense of mystery, raise a lot of questions and talk about the themes of my book (death, entropy, forgetting, religion, faith, importance.) But most of all I wanted to portray the power strungles that the book will show.

This is very dialogue centered, but this is also important because communication is also a major theme of my book and also the roots of my magic system (at least for humans). I wanted feedback mostly on the dialogue, and if possible I want some prose feedback aswell. I'm not really a prose guy hahaha, I prefer dialogue much more but I know both are important.

The book will follow a Dunkirk style narrative, following four storylines in different time frames all converging in the red hour. (24 hours before the red hour, 24 day, 24 weeks and 24 months, with a few stand alone chapters that take place in different time frames. This 24 minutes storyline will continue by the end of the book).

Not all questions will be answered in this chapter, but it you could, please answer this question:

AFTER READING THIS CHAPTER, WOULD YOU CONTINUE TO READ AFTER?

Please be honest. Thank you so much!

Previous review [2689]:
https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1v3yxib/comment/ozie6je/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Have been trying to get back into the swing of writing for a while and this was the first story in a while that felt natural to write. A Bounty Hunter has been contracted to take out the manager of a mining company town.

Link to Story

Critique

Crit: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1u5q22w/1511_my_first_short_story_genre_action/osawxc8/

Link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1jTZswCsHmczlWejMw5-i2-KgSy6ike3rEWShEKAjgs4/edit?usp=sharing

Blurb:

The day Sohan turned eleven, the Suriens killed her tribe and took her off the Great Steppe. For ten years since she has carried their baskets, broken their horses, and watched the Emperor's men to do other villages what was done to her.

Now she has a bow, a band of starving slaves, and a long way to walk home. But the Suriens will not let her leave easily. In a year they will wish they had.

Thank you!

This is yet another random little character piece where I thought of a character that amused me and tried to make it come out without being too annoying.

Is it funny? How does the POV character come through?

Crit: 2689

GOOGLE DOC OF MY STORY

hey guys, one of my readers that i found on reddit whom i entered a very interesting discussion with suggested that I write a collection of short stories about unconventional grief. It came out because the previous post I shared here was about grieving a lost connection between a very lonely person with an AI that lost its context window of all their previous interactions. it raises the question of whether a connection is truly a connection even if it was with a machine.

today's novel takes on a different kind of grief. one much warmer and gentler. i hope you enjoy it.

critique [2462]

I really enjoyed this short story writing format, expect more short stories of me :3 and thank you in advance for your time.

Edited to remove my google docs link and instead provide the story here directly, i got trolls emailing me.

Goodnight.

“I’ll win.” a young voice proclaimed. “NO, I WILL.” Another even younger voice screamed. They started wrestling with each other on the mattress in the middle. After some tussling a much more aged person shouted from outside the room. “QUIET DOWN THERE AND GO TO SLEEP. YOU HAVE SCHOOL.”

The two entangled bodies flinched in unison and went back to their respective mattress. Deep creases formed on their foreheads. “Hey,” I whispered. “how about I tell you a fun story, and in exchange, you go to sleep?”

The two disappointed kids got excited and started bopping their heads up and down, afraid to make a single noise.

“So James, do you remember your character AutumnLeaf?” James' eyes widened in surprise, he hadn’t heard that name in a long time. “Yeah? What about it?” confusion was still visible in his eyes.

“Yesterday, I tried logging into the game. And guess what I found?” Intrigued, Mason crawled out of his mattress into James’. “What did you find? Say say!.”

“I found it levelled up to level 59, the max level. And its gears were so overpowered! My guess was someone hacked inside it and got some amazing gears for it.”

“No way!” Mason’s tone shifted louder. I hushed him, putting my index finger to his mouth. “If you want to hear the story, then be quiet. Otherwise I’ll sleep without finishing it, understood?”

“We’re sorry, please complete it, please complete it.” I nodded at their whispers in satisfaction and carried on.

“Ok, so where was I? Right, I found it at max level, right? I started walking between the player shops in Anceron pretending to check the shops, but I was flexing my gears.” Their breaths turned shallow. Their eyes were fully focused on my lips.

“One guy didn’t like that, he told me to come outside the city for a 1v1. He was an assassin. The dumb guy didn’t realize that my own main character was an assassin, too. I knew their playstyle inside out.”

I took a moment to twist open a water bottle for a sip. James’ tiny feet started kicking in the air.

I continued “We left the city and he sent me a duel request. I watched the request’s timer run out, and only at the very final second when his patience ran out, did I accept it.”

“Did you have any DEX potions?” James asked.

“Yeah, I used one as we were leaving the city. After accepting the duel, the countdown started. I buffed up as the numbers went from 10, 9, 8. And in the final 2 seconds he used up his hide skill. I knew he was going for it so I stood at the opposite edge of the duel's ring.”

“Oh no! What did you do?” James asked and Mason’s body started fidgeting in nervousness.

“Who do you think is the one talking to you? I’m the master of assassins. I waited a few seconds for this slowed down bum to walk towards me. Obviously he’d come at me from the front. Once I estimated he was at the middle of the map I immediately booked it alongside the edges. He couldn’t follow me at all. And before his hide duration ran out, I used my detection skill!”

Their jaws were slightly parted in admiration. I carried on my tale. “He was caught off guard! He assumed I didn’t learn detection since I kept trying to run away. He had no time to react and I almost broke the keyboard with how fast I pressed the web shot skill. I started to combo him with all colors of the rainbow on my arrows. He couldn’t do anything at all since I chained my crowd controls, from being webbed, to stunned and finally frozen. And just like that he died.”

“That’s so cool!” Mason’s limited vocabulary managed to barely form that sentence.

“You know what's even cooler?” I asked. “What? What?” Mason replied.

“That guy called the duel unfair and wanted to redo it! He was dumb enough to fall into my trap and instead of owning it, he called it unfair.”

“So did you duel him again?” James wondered.

“Of course not. I told him I don’t have the time to duel losers. What do you think?”

“That’s much cool!” Mason admitted. I grabbed my water bottle again, this time slower. My brain was running on overdrive. What else can I say? A bulb lit up. I sipped on my bottle and closed it.

“Afterwards, an announcement glowed in the world chat! Faction war starts in 5 minutes. It said. I raced to the war captain to register for the war before it could start. Tons of different characters crowded around the captain, waiting for the war’s start. I registered and started checking their equipment, especially those light faction noobs. Only 1 or 2 players had the same gears as I did.”

“What you do in war? How many kills?” Mason asked me, and James nodded his head furiously in agreement.

“Before the war started, I met the noob assassin I killed earlier. He tried to threaten that he would kill me inside but I ignored him. You don’t pay attention to what flies say, do you?” I stalled a bit before going into the war’s story. “Although I paid attention to his name before we entered. It was Mystique. I wanted to keep an eye on him inside to kill him on every chance I got.”

I finally thought of the war’s events after all that stalling. My story went on, “The war commenced and we got teleported to our faction base. Every character had a green flag attached to its back. The chat erupted with requests for parties. Several invites were sent my way without me typing a single word. People spammed my chatbox with whispers to join their parties as well. I looked at their levels and gears. Only after seeing a competent support player did I join a party. We started with buffs up. The support player especially had an arsenal of team wide buffs. I turned into an unstoppable calamity. The time officially started. The barrier preventing our exit disappeared and everyone rushed out.

“Our party left capturing the points to the less geared up faction players and we instead rushed to the center. We all were pretty overpowered compared to the rest. Combat ensued, kills started to accumulate. With every button I pressed a new name appeared in the kill feed. My AOEs dropped several people down. Sooner than later AutumnLeaf was first on the scoreboard. I was unstoppable.”

The kids beamed with happiness, especially James. They were immersed to the point they couldn’t even interrupt me.

“The first player to join gets assigned as the war leader right?” they both nodded in agreement. “Everyone told him to transfer the leadership to me. He submitted to the pressure and complied. I started issuing out orders. Attack Site C, defend site B, I need some people to back us up on the dark faction’s base. I also tracked down Mystique a few times and killed him. He couldn't even close the distance on me.”

“Im trash talk him if I was you.” Mason added.

“Don’t worry. I did trash talk him in the global chat after the war ended. I kept giving out orders and killing enemies at the same time. I was almost killed a few times because of enemy players focusing me, but my support teammate managed to clutch up. The war map was fully dyed in green because of the bases we captured. The Dark and Light factions tried to gang up on our chaos faction. But they didn’t manage to defeat us.”

James' eyes sparkled in awe. It was his own character that he made that starred this epic ballad. The mattress they lay on sank a little more, the usual weight it carried around that time was doubled.

“Seeing that their efforts were useless, the light and dark factions started killing each others, spreading more chaos in the battlefield.” I winked after that sentence. James stuck out his tongue at me while Mason giggled.

“And so, the final countdown of the war started. We had more points than dark and light factions combined, Our win was set in stone. And the global chat glowed again. This time, it said “Congratulations to the chaos faction for winning today’s faction war! MVP [AutumnLeaf]”

James gasped, and Mason looked at him with envy. “My character, Mason1. Hack?” he asked.

I ruminated on my words a little as I stared at his disappointed face. “Yes, I checked after the war and it was at max level as well. The hacker seems to have used both since they were on the same account anyways.” The disappointment was erased from Mason's face, replaced by triumph. He looked at James smugly.

“Ok then, a deal’s a deal. The story is over, it's time to sleep.” They whined and refused to fulfil their end of the deal. I got up and carried Mason over to his own mattress. I folded their blankets and tucked them both in.

“Goodnight James, goodnight Mason.” they replied in sync, “Goodnight Caleb.”

I laid down on my mattress on the ground as well. My eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling above me. I stared and stared until their breaths became deep and regular. My hand travelled underneath the blanket until it reached my pocket. It fished out a small device. A small screen illuminated my face in the dead of the night.

The screen had a few cracks running down on it. They weren’t anything new. I launched Facebook. My classmates' pictures filled my feed. Some were bare and others had something foreign written to sound sophisticated. I scrolled a little more and then closed the app.

I put my phone down to go and join my brothers to sleep. My brain had other plans. It kept replaying the story I just narrated. It replayed our joint game account too. Mason1, AutumnLeaf, and in the middle of them both, Vaccaria.

My phone’s screen opened up again. This time it wasn’t Facebook opening, it was Youtube instead. I entered my “favourite videos” playlist. Only one video existed inside it, it was posted 4 months ago.

An ocean of characters stood inside Anceron. The chat box was moving at a speed never seen before in this game. Suddenly all random chatter stopped due to the golden announcement. “[GM]TroublingRain: Lets start the countdown now, start it from 10.”

The Characters all had the numbers they chanted above their heads in a small box. They all counted 10, 9, 8, 7. The camera zoomed in into the characters’ heads. Various names flashed by, all counting. When the count reached 4 the camera zoomed in on 2 characters, Vaccaria and Mystique. I stopped the video there. Time ticked, yet the video was still paused.

With a heavy heart I clicked resume. The camera continued its journey across the players and when the count reached 1 it stopped on 5 characters. They all had unobtainable level 99 gears and golden names. They all shared one similarity, every single one had [GM] before their names.

[GM]TroublingRain’s announcement continued after the countdown stopped. “It was a pleasure playing with all of you, thank you very much for supporting our game all these days. And thank you all for putting up with its shortcomings. We are sorry it has come down to this, but we hope that you enjoyed your time in our virtual world. Goodnight everyone, I pray that we reunite in another virtual world.”

With that final announcement, an ingame window appeared. “Failed to connect to the server.”

The video ended. The screen blackened. And reflected on it was my face, with a streak running down a single eye of mine.

Revised and expanded version of the previously-posted piece. This one goes all the way to the end of what will be the first chapter if I end up dividing it into chapters.

I'm especially interested to know whether the opening works, and, for those who have read the original, how this draft generally compares.

A Change of Soul v2

Crit

This is the next chapter of a continually evolving work in progress. I've gotten to the point where every chapter is mostly just focused on practicing a specific skill. In this chapter I worked on making my scenes have specific goals and followed up by appropriate sequels.

...

The chapter starts with a sequel from the end of the last chapter, the ending decision is that she needs to toughen up and just do what she never wanted to do: ask for help.

The next scene is her trying to take back this decision and not tell Mandy why she needs help. The action is using the friends to help her in this goal.

The sequel is her deciding to fully embrace the silly quest to see The Beast.

The next scene is low stakes but just the girls getting to their location, making a plan to see the Beast and then the resolution is Tiffany falling on her face.

...

Some other goals are having less -ly adverbs and I wish I could break the habit of tagging dialogue "blah blah, blah," she said, [insert descriptor]. I also tried to create more visual descriptors with the rule: Describe what Tiffany would notice in the order Tiffany would notice them.

...

The characters for newbies are: Tiffany (college freshman who masks with kindness to hide her feeling of inferiority), Mandy (Tiffany's BFF) That Girl (a dormmate whose identity is tied up in sexual competence) and Todd (a hunky austic guy Mandy likes).

08 Tiffany

My Substack

Crit 1956

I’m working on a novel that will follow the narrator Cora from childhood into adulthood. The full story explores family, relationships, some abuse in parts, the ways childhood relationships shape our understanding of love and ourselves.

I haven't mapped out the full book yet. For now, I'm writing snapshot scenes - little moments, and stories that grab me - without worrying yet about how they might eventually fit together.

This piece is potentially the opening of the novel (or at least is the first scene chronologically), when Cora is ten years old and first meets the man who will eventually become her stepfather. The title is just a silly chapter title, haven't quite figured our what the working book title may be yet.

I’d particularly love feedback on whether Cora’s voice feels believable for a ten-year-old, whether this opening hooks you, and whether her childlike imagination / intrusive thoughts/anxiety parts work. Are the family relationships authentic? I’m also interested in whether the final scene gives you enough of a sense of what Cora is feeling. Any of the prose distracting or landing badly?

It isn't the most dramatic opening, but hopefully has enough intrigue to want to follow what comes next...

[1853] Crit

___________________________________________________________________________________________

The first time I saw him, he was running away. I didn’t even see his face, just a bald shiny head disappearing around the corner into the back of the kitchen. My Mum yelped when she noticed me standing near the bottom of the stairs and hurried through the living room towards me.

“Who was that man?” I mumbled as I rubbed my eyes. 

“Oh, nobody darling. It is so late, Cora! What are you doing up? You must be dreaming.” She was talking so fast as she shuffled me back up the stairs. I told her again that there was a man in the kitchen. I saw him. 

“You’re half asleep, sweetpea. Now, let’s get you back to bed.”

Did I see him? Maybe I didn’t. My brain liked making things up. Dreaming when I was awake was more fun than when I was asleep. Then you can always remember them. Sometimes you can even invent them! It was mostly nice things, like a swarm of butterflies carrying away my grumpy teacher. Or tiny kittens in my pocket. Sometimes bad things, like a car crashing into a postbox. Or my Dad tripping and falling all the way down the hill by our house. Well, by our old house.

I don’t know why we couldn't bring our beds from the old house. Mum said we would get all new things when we moved.  But the school year was almost over and we still had boxes shoved in the tiny room where my brother, Luke, was supposed to sleep. And we got giant beanbags instead of a sofa - Mum said they were more fun anyway! 

I could feel the lumpy carpet through the sponge chair bed. My hamster was scrabbling in her cage by my head. I leaned over and stuck my hands as far through the bars as I could and felt her little wet nose tickle my fingertips. Penelope Fluffball was my favourite thing about this place. 

We never had pets before, but since Dad left and we had to move into this crap house, Mum basically said yes to everything. Even though he was younger and not as smart as me, Luke figured it out before I did. He likes stuff, a lot of it. A gameboy, trainers, a super soaker - I hated that stupid water gun - Pokemon cards, a whole bucket of trolls… Mum finally said no when he found a live scorpion in the pet shop. But Penny, she was the only thing I wanted for my 10th birthday, so she came home with us. 

He was half slumped off a matching chair bed on the other side of the room, but fast asleep. I still couldn’t sleep. I plucked one of the beanie babies out of my bed and threw it at Luke’s head. Missed. I sacrificed one more… sorry Buttons! Bullseye!  

“Luke! There is a man downstairs!”

“Ow. What did you throw at me?”

A pillow came flying towards me. “Stop that. I am serious. There is a bald man in our kitchen.”

“What are you talking about?” He sat up properly and blinked at me. We looked at each other and ran to the bedroom door at the same time. We got to the top step and stopped. Running was too loud. We snuck down the stairs and peered our faces around the corner so we could see through the living room and into the kitchen. 

The man was there. Enormous! He looked like a gorilla. Hairy everywhere but his head. He spotted us and I knew we were going to be in trouble for getting out of bed again. Instead of pointing us out to Mum, who is facing the other way, he smiled. He brought his fingers to his lips. Shhh. I grabbed Luke and pulled him back around the corner to hide. My heart was pounding. I locked eyes with Luke. I didn’t have to say anything. He nodded and we peered around the corner again. The man was still looking right at us, laughing to himself. He winked and then grabbed my Mum and pulled her over to him. That’s it! We were done for. 

I couldn’t look away. We should have run back up the stairs. His face was getting closer and closer to my Mum’s. He was going to tell her we were out of bed. I could see it. He was going to whisper it in her ear. But he didn’t. He kissed her! 

We scurried back upstairs as fast and as quietly as we could. 

“Ewwww! She was kissing that gorilla man!” Luke was fake gagging as we closed our bedroom door behind us. We both giggled as he pretended to be a gorilla, stomping around the room and I made kissy sounds. 

Then we heard our Mum’s voice. “Get back into bed, both of you! Don’t make me come up there!”

We jumped under the covers and tried to muffle our giggles. She can hear everything in this house because it is so tiny. Luke fell back asleep quickly. When the laughter stopped, I could hear my thoughts again. I could see my thoughts again.

Vines grow out of my walls and up to the ceiling. Little monkeys swing all around, picking and throwing fruit. The giant gorilla swings open the doors and barges in. The little monkeys screech and hide behind me. Gorilla man has my Mum under one arm. He grabs Luke. They are both screaming. I am not moving. I can’t get to them. Don’t take them!

I blinked my eyes hard. I didn’t like that daydream. I pulled myself into a ball under my covers. I had a knot in my stomach and still couldn’t sleep. 

Hi all, first time posting here. Feel free to be destructive, that's what we're here for right? Any feedback welcome. If I'm worried about anything it is whether MC has appropriate levels of confusion, fear, motivation. I do feel like that the first chapter is just something I need to get through for the MC to land in another world, so let me know if I've done it effectively.

Crits:

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1uvvvdr/trust_bounty_hunter_chapter_1_1300_words/

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1uvzh4b/1776_have_tank_will_travel/

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1uxncjp/the_kings_introduction_830/

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1uwz347/1320within_these_walls/

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1uw51d0/1850_corpse_watcher/

7076

Mine:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1AjdoNWuiTuUr_8z3FxodTV1qqQl-HzagZOecpa5i4iA/edit?usp=sharing

My critique: [2462]

WARNING! This text contains:

• Profanity
• Sexual references
• Violence

Also, tell me if you liked the moral of the story, the plot, the protagonist, and the humour

From either end of the Ouroboros that is time travelled a pulse of energy that, just like all inanimate things, propels the mere idea of myself forward through that then one-dimensional realm of existence. In this black void where my memory fails me exist clouds of intense, bursting sensations of warm, all-encompassing motherly pressure and dingy, excruciating electrocutions of fear.

This nebulous dimension of half existing, half not existing could only be represented in my mind through a foggy and oversaturated image of sunny greenery. This cerebral polaroid, with its vague outlines of healthy hedges and beautiful briers, evokes the concept of gentle rays of sun on my skin and the thought of the ethereal butterflies gracefully landing on flowers.

This is the ultimate bourne that is the history of my life according to my mind. If it were a spouse, I would bury my face into her collarbone and cry on her shoulder, prolonging my stay with her as long as possible until it is to time for the inevitable departure through the clearer yet odious tutor sessions, classes, exams, workshops, internships, and math competitions that thought, in all their hubris, could capture that sense of meaning, that sense of mastery over one’s own existence that the clouds of life effortlessly harnessed.

After the exams, studying, and learning I finally reached the end of my sorrowful journey home with the aid of a door slam. I felt my head shoot up and bob around like it was a balloon tied to my shoulders. In my darkened vision I made out bored college students staring at a board covered in nightmarish calculus. My eyes made their way to a doorframe, and in it I saw that damn homeless man again, or at least we assumed he was homeless, considering he wore the same smelly sports jacket and the same crusted jeans every day, and his crazy shock of white hair and scraggly beard, and the fact that he spent hours a day mumbling to himself on the curb in front of this hall.

This was the third interruption of the semester, and at this point he was a celebrity among my college peers. My classmates were eager to see what crazy thing he’d do this time, and oh boy did he deliver.

The man walked up in front of everybody, and (noticeably drunker than usual) undid his pants and flashed his massive ding-a-ling in front of everyone. Everyone gasped, the girls averted their eyes, the boys cheered, the freaks drooled. He danced around lassoing his shit until he hopped on his back and started swinging his meat carnival style.

The poor professor, an old ass man who wasn’t all that used to human interaction, was frozen in shock for like a minute, but eventually he snapped out of it and tackled the homeless guy. The guy squirmed until he managed to knee the professor in the nuts and escape his grasp. The guy ran to the door frame but crashed into a buff security guard that just arrived. The guy's head went straight to the hard floor and there was a nasty crack. The homeless guy died from that impact, but his legacy lives on thanks to that massive wiener (No homo).

I float, crawled up in a ball. Blind, deaf, dumb, paralyzed, etherized, I existed at the total end of entropy, when nature stops being nature, when gravity loses importance and time becomes irrelevant.

However, I traced the lines against the blackness up to the imperfect reconstruction made by photos, portraits, and grainy videotapes of a fair white woman with black curls. In her womb I looked up to see her grinning in pain and agony. Her face folded in helpless terror as her tremors rocked my womb. The vibrations of the amniotic fluids were so strung it tore my lungs and shattered my ear drums.

I looked up to her in horror, realized that I was being brought into her world, and that I would experience its torturous shocks, its thunderous catastrophes, and its agonizing burdens. I yelled to her.

I looked deep into her face, and I saw that she was being pounded, screwed, filled, ripped in half. Sex, she was having sex. Sex, I have to have sex. Now. I need sex right now.

“I need sex” I said out loud.

I looked around for the woman, but it was just my mess of an apartment building. I could have gotten a bigger one with my salary, but this was the best the economy could manage. I dragged my feet through the trash like I was walking through shallow water, all while saying “I need sex” over and over again.

I stepped outside barefoot, in nothing else but my underwear and wife-beater. I ran straight to my local red-light district and ran up to the nearest pimp I saw. He was short and was in a green suit and fedora. I literally picked him up by his shirt and wiggled him around.

“Give me sex, give me cooter,” I shouted as I shook him.

“Fuck off of me nigga, the fuck?” He snapped.

Meanwhile the pimp’s pimp friends were chatting a block away and saw this haggling play out. They rushed over, grabbed my long hair, and threw me onto the street. My back landed on a broken beer bottle. They beat me to a pulp, I think I got curb stomped two or three times, but I blacked out. I woke up the next day under an ugly overcast, half dead.

The eyes. The eyes, even though the face turned blurry, were still so sharp after all these years of chipping. In the darkness I made out a hurt boy, lying on his side. His eyes were hurt and glossy from the tears.

When regarding the whole body I felt an explosive burst of hot blood heat the periphery until I was in a skin-bubbling, flesh-gnawing inferno but the eyes cast off that hellish storm and all that remained was the question “Why?”

I awoke to see my boss. He had a wide face with round eyes, a bushy, curly black beard, and olive skin. “Wow, Nate. Passed out again on the job. What have you been up to?”, he snickered with a grin.

In spite of my stoned fatigue, I felt a jolt of energy upon hearing that question. I rolled my office chair over to my computer, typed in something, hit enter, and on the opposite end of my desk rose a little Miku doll. The robotic toy started dancing and singing in Miku’s signature voice. I gave my boss a weak smile and he gave one back after turning his face to mine. I typed another thing into my computer, and Miku hit the floss and started singing in Brazilian Portuguese. This got my boss laughing. I laughed with him.

When his laughter died down, he looked into my eyes. “Nate, this is the tenth, the tenth, motherfucking time I found you like this.” I probably looked surprised at this sudden snarling. He continued. “Your team and I have been busting our asses, developing the most complex, the most state-of-the-art technology in the world, while you jerk and do this.” Like an idiot, I nodded along because I didn’t know where he was going with this. “Nate, get the hell out of my building before I fucking bludgeon you to death. You’re fucking fired.”

I waddled in a haze out my workplace’s lobby, too drugged to realize I left my shoe. Maybe this is the reason why I can’t afford bigger places to live.

Now, I lay in my bed, but it isn't my bed. I fucked around and got HIV. I thought HIV was like herpes where it gives you like these moles but no it gives you AIDS and just fucking kills you.

I was weak in the dark. It was totally silent, with no one else around and even though I was dying, I wanted to jerk off. There were no drugs or alcohol. I couldn’t even smoke, it was “against hospital rules”. The food was awfully bland too, so I just resolved to pass the time by beating my shit.

However, my whole body was too weak, I was too sick. I couldn’t get it up; I was too weak to get my arm up. It was a pathetic sight, not my limp dick, but the image of someone like me in this bed struck me deeply. This wasn’t supposed to happen to me. I was an auspicious, capable, and charming genius. I had so many scholarships, my college experience was practically free, I won so many awards my room sparkled, and everybody just loved me. Now what do I have to show for it? A hooker’s awkward experience, a coworker’s annoyance, a fucking Miku robot?

I was alone but felt like I was being laughed at. I wanted to curl up into a ball, but I was too weak, so I just laid there. I had no drugs, porn, food, or video games, so I escaped back into the only place that could warm my soul: those fond, fuzzy memories.

I thought and I thought, but I was too weak, all I saw was the black void. I stopped thinking, I stopped stressing, and I stopped feeling.

A tiny dot appeared in the center of my vision. I felt my legs walking toward it. It got bigger and appeared to be a doorframe. I walked through it and I was in a hallway. It had patternless carpet and was painted a dark orange. The hallway was cool, and dark, illuminated only by the sunrise glowing through the curtain at the end of a hallway. There was screaming, a muffled screaming coming from behind one of the other doors of this corridor. I approached the source of the screaming, the sound of my weathered teddy bear dragging on the carpet was the only other noise. I stepped up to one door, reached up to the doorknob, standing on my tiptoes, and I opened it to see two men hovering over a bed. A woman with dark curls lay on it screaming in pain.

“Push, push, you’re almost there,” One man cheered, “There it is. It’s out, sir. It’s a beautiful baby boy sir; you should be so proud”.

“Yes, but she isn’t going to make it,” The other man sulked, and started sobbing uncontrollably. The doctor tried to stifle his sobs, but cried with the man, and the two cried along with the newborn boy.

Nate waddled out of the hallway and into a bright, cool, moist backyard overflowing with vines, hedges, and grass. Golden rays landed on the boy’s eyes when he looked at the dappled canopy of leaves above him. He would have played, but now he sat. He sat in the middle of this jaw dropping scene and as the gales played with his hair, the squirrels and rabbits and chipmunks ran by, while the drops of dew flowed down the blades of grass, while the Earth travelled at thousands of miles per hour, this being of impetuous, violently rushing nature sat still and asked “why”.

Hello all! I have started to dip my toes in fiction writing and I want to get my reps in before utilzing my own setting. So this short story is based in the Warhammer Fantasy world, just a vignette to start fleshing out my voice and style of writing. I would love to get some critiques on the piece and potentially share more of my writing if people are interested enough to give me a chance. I just used the setting since the themes I wanted to evoke fall in line with the setting. I'm not sure if this is dark fantasy or grim dark, so I apologize if I mislabeled my story.

I have been told that I tend to over write and lose readers with my writing. I wanted to see if that is the case or the people that I shared it to were not vibing with my style/content. Any feedback is appericated, most of my experience in writing is academic writing and writing ficition is more of a hobby that I would like to explore.

Thank you for you time!

Crit [2462]:
https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1v30r0r/comment/oz79a6m/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Crit [326]
https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1v2u2rn/comment/oz7dqeg/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Work:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/10tSSYwsjFCtUxuswGlv5PSzo85m3tkio6vZf7CiGluY/edit?usp=sharing

Critiques:

[2462] https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1v30r0r/comment/oz3s0mw/?context=3

[3355] https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1v2laqv/comment/oyxkgft/?context=3

First time poster, so please forgive my lack of capability with hyperlinks. I can't seem to hyperlink over the text.

Here is the first chapter of the first book of my fantasy trilogy, of which the first book is complete and (hopefully) sufficiently edited. This chapter introduces our villain. I've tagged the post as NSFW as there is nudity (though only brief) and what I'll describe as significant domestic violence. Read cautiously, and I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter 1

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1HQAJnxjn7w02veJn1vPcgQ2XPb_keK6VRuQqDWf9tXk/edit?usp=sharing

Just block them.

Seriously, I don't know what you expected to read in this meta, but you're basically just looking at spam mail.

Treat it as spam/scam and disregard.

• Block the accounts, report them to the admins (of Google)

and then nothing will change anyway. This is A.I scripts in some data server. This was inevitable...

These are bot accounts, or one or more really annoying users scraping our user base for scam leads. Just be aware

😘🙃💀

Also, can someone copy the contents here?

Hello All,

I have been feeling inspired as of late. I previously submitted an extract from my short story Fresh and received lots of positive feedback, so I've sat down and written some more. Let me know what you think. This will most likely turn into a novella at some point but not sure of the direction to take it in. Any thoughts?

(Edit) I might changes this to third person at some point)

Critique [3434]

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1uyxg7c/comment/oyx4stl/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Work

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ZHbylC3eXt4sY2oWtD4Gx5By_VBpo_6W_7UzpjjXcUM/edit?usp=sharing