Hello!

After finishing many revisions, I’m ready to begin my search for beta readers. I'm looking to get your thoughts on the first few chapters, and if you are willing, the rest of my manuscript.

# Content Notes/Warnings:

Graphic violence

Vulgar language and Racial slurs

Suicide

Substance abuse

# Blurb:

Elias had heard the same line about Cain a million times. "The one who broke the veil, bringing magic and beasts to Earth." By the third time somebody said those words, all Elias wanted to do was leave Greyharbor. Escape from the insufferable anti-magic people. Escape from the even more insufferable magic users.

Yet he was afraid of leaving. Of what he'd find outside the walls. Elias had the luxury of fear until a silver-tongued hooligan saved his life while ending another. That same hooligan swept up the stunned Elias on a path of revenge to kill Cain.

Without a grand plan, or map, or clues, or frankly any preparation, Mr Hooligan brought along a stoner musician, an almost normal girl, and a barely serious assassin with him. Through the post-apocalyptic Americas, riddled with magical beasts and people drunk with power, the group of outcasts learned to belong with each other—or rather, trauma bonded together.

# Feedback Priorities:

Pacing: As you read let me know if there are moments that feel rushed or need more time on the page.

Action: Are you able to track the fights clearly? Did it feel like there was too much action?

Opening chapters: Do the first few chapters make you want to read further or were you skimming through parts?

Characters: Does each character's dialogue feel distinct? Did the found family feel earned or was it built too fast? Did any character feel undeveloped? Are you able to see the reasonings behind charcters actions.

# Timeframe:

4-6 weeks would be ideal but I'm happy to discuss the timeline that would work best for both of us.

If you are interested, please DM me and we can talk about it further. I will begin by sending the first 4 chapters.

Thank you for your time!

Hi Everyone!

My name is Vishva and I am a Sri Lankan author, debuting his novel. I've been working on this novel for almost 8 years now and I am finally ready to open it up to the world.

You will like my manuscript, If you like

A non euro fantasy

World buidling

Gods

Sea Adventure

Civil Wars

And Characters with back story

Please let me know if you are interested to beta read my work and help me get published.

Thank you!

Hi! I'm a Korean author. I wrote a series of eight children's stories in Korean. In each one, a child's feelings take a shape they can see — a shadow, a wave, a glass wall. Now I'm preparing an English edition, and I'd love feedback from native English speakers, especially parents who read aloud to their kids.

About the book:

- Book 1 of 8, about 3,800 words, 7 short chapters

- For ages 7–10, written to be read aloud by a parent

- Set in Korea. Korean names and foods (like tteokbokki) are kept on purpose.

Blurb: Ha-eun runs home with her math test, proud of her score. But her mom snaps at her, and that night, Ha-eun's shadow starts to grow — and talk. As the shadow grows bigger and bigger, Ha-eun asks it a question: "Whose voice is that?"

An honest note: The English text was translated from my Korean original with the help of AI. That's exactly why I need native readers. I want it to sound natural, not translated.

I'd especially love to hear your thoughts on a few things. Does the kids' dialogue sound like real English-speaking kids? Do any sentences feel stiff or unnatural? Are the short notes about Korean things (in parentheses) helpful, or do they get in the way? And how does it feel to read out loud?

Content note: In Chapter 1, a mom yells at her daughter. It's resolved warmly by the end.

If you'd like to read it, please leave a comment or send me a DM, and I'll share the link with you.

Thank you so much!

My manuscript exceeds the character limit. These are the first 2 of 4.

4! SCARS
A four-sided plastic table has no defined order. Sit down and move around to any of the other 2+1 sides and stay as long as you'd like. É Nóis sempre.
1.
Waking up face down in the dark, drenched, zero memory of where or who or even what you are. The blankness yanks you up from the floor to find the only thing that's on the wall: a switch. The light hits, revealing a seven-inch statue of a well-dressed Black man wearing a stark white hat and sharp white suit, both with deep red accents. He leans on his cane and looks straight at you while a wire plucks slowly on the other side of the wall.
The physical need for beer hits you hard in this little room the size of two warm plastic mattresses. A Skol sits on the floor. You grab it, hoping to feel the weight of a few drops of warm medicine. The empty can triggers an instinctual dry swig.
Already in board shorts notched with an old double-grommet leather belt, you strap on a nearly sheer white t-shirt with "100% LAPA" printed in blue block letters across the back. You kick on a pair of paper-thin flip-flops, and the routine keeps returning, aided by these ingrained motions. You make a sober promise to the stylish sculpture. You'll get him where he wants to go.
Opening the unlocked door, you're at the end of a long bland laminated hall.
The berimbau cries steadily now in the room on your left; a Fluminense game plays in the room on your right. The stereo sound brings it back into Carioca focus. Up at the front counter sits Campista, owner of the Hotel for Single Men. Framed by the front window, wearing his trademark navy-blue-on-royal-blue tank top he looks at you with ignored acknowledgment. You're sure you owe him money. You know you'll pay him soon.
One familiar tumble down the last short flight of stairs and you're on the Street. The foggy sun hits your face, and there sits the most important family member of them all: the man known by many as The Hummingbird.
O Beija-Flor, unlit cig dangling from his mouth, sits in a yellow plastic chair with his cane leaning up against the wall. It feels like you know the gentleman. He reaches out his hand and greets you with an intricate handshake that brings things further back around.
Firm grip, four-finger flip off the crook, return to original clasp-in under two seconds. The salute keeps Beija from noticing anything is off. You sit down on the ground next to him, and the large seam on your right foot is put on display.
A thick fault line, showing where several stitches were made, prompts Ja-Bei's reminder that he has known you since your first Carnaval. During an obligatory fight, your right foot was sliced open so deep that a layer of fat spat out onto the asphalt. You were on crutches for two weeks. The flip-flops were much thicker back then.
In recent years you've sustained a few verified attacks, a couple disputed spills, and a long line of lost loves. Beija points at another one of your infamous cicatrizes with a rolled-up note he's been holding in his hand this entire time. He hasn't been sitting long, but he's already holding court for several grateful clients. Beija-Flor is the cool general, legs crossed, watching over the Stairs and Our Community.
These stairs, right next to the Hotel for Single Men, rise up for a mile straight into the hills of Santa Teresa. They're known far and wide as the safest place in the city to do drugs. Playboys and trabalhadores alike escape comforts and responsibilities to mix with the Hippies, Punks, and drunks, all anchored to Our steps. The worms in uniform don't police these stairs; the Red Command does. And the only prohibited drug here is crack: a diplomatic and soulful rule.
A well-admired 171, Ja-Bei is happy to tell all clients that his services cost two expired Cruzeiros. This ingenious con often gains him a real, or two, or ten. Old clients consider Beija a true friend. He unrolls the ten reais he's been securing and tells you to grab an Antarctica from across the street.
"It is," you say without hesitation. "We is," Beija responds.
"An Antarctica and two cups, boss," you order from Big Cat. He grabs a Bic and pops open that cherished first bottle of the binge. The look of understanding he gives you when handing back the change says there's a tab to be settled there, too. You hustle the sleeved, amber glass bottle back across the street and fill up both glasses.
Gazing at the glowing, liquid bread, you feel the heavy high of holding that first glass of the binge. You lock eyes with Beija, clink cups, and drink yours down in one smooth, grateful gulp.
The beer hits your senses, Bob's veins and I'm back. There is no matter, now it's liquid. Nothing matters with this fluid. A confidence with zero sight of any solid consequences.
For years, my dear friend Beija-Flor has left a car accident injury untreated and gangrene now creeps up his left leg. He is one of the Lapa's most beloved lookouts, whether it be for parking spots or approaching police.
Hummingbird, the gatekeeper to this beloved portion of Our block, is the one who taught me the coded language used to keep uninvited listeners ill-informed. Professor Ja-Bei speaks it ti-men-tal-to ido-flu, without pause. Sitting, drinking, speaking backwards, We watch the Chilean, back turned to the world, affixing his tiles.
Hummingbird shares his story about being the first person the self-proclaimed artist had spoken to upon his uninvited arrival to Our Stairs. It is the hundredth time I've heard this story, but the bitter serum makes it all brand-new.
Another old topic that will forever stay fresh is that Beija is die-hard Fluminense and I am a Flamenguista until death. We roast each other's teams with diligence but today his team plays against a Chilean squad so we're on the same side for this game.
"Atividade no vee-no-xix, B-Bo," Beija brings my focus back to the Lapa's biggest threat. Handlebar mustache, red shorts, and matching Havaianas—a cultural colonizer who lives in some small room nearby and spends every waking hour pasting tiles to Our stairs. The more tiles he attaches, the more he thinks he owns where We is. He uses Our colors and is consciously stealing Our vibe. He's burning himself.
Our Red Command watches over Joaquim Silva and many Hills all the way up to the highest one in Rio: os Prazeres, where We always is. Then there is the other side, We call them the Germans. Somewhere along the line We started calling every enemy a "German." The Chilean is a German. He is one of Them. A true comrade is always Ours here in the Lapa; where always We is.
We, O Povo, sit and play mythical instruments day and night, drinking different boozes, passing joints, snorting cocaine, and calling each other out by street ordained names. The foreigner sneaks behind backs and beneath feet to stick his tiles to the concrete while Our inscriptions get planned, laid down, layered on, transformed, erased and reborn. We know the act of zero official documentation serves 2+1 palpable purposes: only informants and tourists take photos; a camera will always kill the flow; and We're always at Our most comfortable with no plans for the future and no proof of the past.
On the first flight of Our Stairs, Tema leads a freestyle flow formed within the smoke cloud, recorded by no one. Rhyming with his disjointed timing, Negu Tema raps ironic truths off the top of his well-kempt, nappy head. He rhymes "gringo é o caralho" with "Bob da Califórnia".
Tema lectures and uplifts everyone, aligning all of us with the Us: hippies, punks, bums, playboys, thugs, artists, addicts, and then of course the presence in opposition to Us all, kneeling down, affixing tiles from other places, rarely engaging Us. Happy at any time to pose for a tourist or an X9.
On Our Stairs, one day is enough to have a history with a new acquaintance. A couple of weeks and they're family; but if someone doesn't have a line, some booze, or a joint to share or then isn't at least seeking one—they're suspicious. So We fit in here and We feel the intersection's energy.
Here at the corner, "The Men" is always softly shouted when They approach; in blue and white sedans, assault rifle tips poking out the windows. When the worms drive by it's always in silence, under Our surveillance We steadfastly call Activity.
On Our Stairs, there's forever a substance to score or share, so Atividade is always the answer, especially when watching out for the Men. We're also always on the lookout for the ladies. We sometimes let them take us for 2 or 2+1 days out there to their safe suburbs, but the Street between the Stairs and the Arcs will always pull Us back to where We'll find Our family, the faithfuls, the necessary suckers, and the dreaded X-9s.
On Our Stairs, We follow the rules of The Hill, and not being a rat is the easiest one. Codes and colors, fan bases and numbers. "We" means something more than important here. Their faction says, "É a Gente"; Our faction says, "É Nóis." Our faction says "We is" because We is always.
Space Cadet, with fresh face scrape, passes by on his way to the Arcs. He addresses me and Beija with a subtle flip between grips and a joyous "É nóis" and then asks if Bob is going to be on the mic tonight. It's a Friday, so I say, "with certainty, family!" I suddenly remember selling the old horse for a hundred reais just to make it back to the Lapa where We is, where this shirt means We is and where Bob has his history.
After a couple Antarcticas next to Beija, with Tema on the steps, Campista looking out his window, and several Lapianos stopping by, my memory is nearly full. I declare "Now now, I'm on the return!" Beija says "it is", I respond "We is" and head off down the open road around Our block.
Slipping back into the street of Joaquim Silva, I trip out on all the wires above that tangle around, back and forth between posts in front of grey skies and tagged-up buildings—unsteady, but stable.
"Bob!" a voice hollers out from behind. Here between the Arcs and the Stairs, on the catwalk of the Street's non-fashion show, one is always on display. The voice belongs to Bira, sitting behind a couple of cars with his two friendly dogs hovering around him. Today we're wearing matching shirts from Carnaval 2005.
Bira runs the same gig as Beija-Flor: watching over parked cars. Beija is a beloved conman, while Bira is an acknowledged 121. Everyone loves to trocar an idea with one and most are cautious with their words around the other. I would never attempt to ignore the man, especially when calling me by name.
I turn to see Bira holding two notes: one rolled into a straw and the other folded like a canoe, with a big line of white powder running down the middle, split cleanly in half. He says "Atividade", both an invitation and a command. Bira takes his tap first while I look out and I take the second half of the line off his five-real bill while he looks out in both directions. I hand the boat back, and Bira says nothing else. Walking away from my homicidal uncle, tension and confusion quickly transform into human affection, thanks to a big hit of good cocaine. "É Nóis, Bira" I say like the homage that it is. We is.
The antique took-tak-tak...took-tak from up ahead; I think of the baile funk in Mangueira, but instead of flashing bodies within that pounding mist, this song is accompanied by the smell of familial grey smoke and churrasco.
Tia Marlene glows and says, "Hello, my son," while the kids in multicolored flip-flops, holding kite lines and kicking soccer balls, chase back and forth. If Dona Marlene is sitting out in her chair, the children can run free within her vicinity.
Our faithfuls across from her lounge on their bikes, each with a foot on the ground. One is on lookout, two are conducting business and the other chats with a higher up. A higher up always stands out on the Street. This smoothly menacing man gives me a prominent nod; another faithful on his cellphone acknowledges me with a monotone "Valeu Bob." I feel the cool security We receive here on Our Joaquim Silva.
The Arcs shout back secrets that cameras can't catch, down at the familial feminine corner where I know Our Zé belongs. The ancient Arcs, constantly repainted white, a blankness forever fighting against Our roda de pixação; a font fit for hard rock ladainhas.
The wires up above bundle and carve themselves into robbed energy sculptures We call cats. They creep back and forth between posts until finally pouncing and spinning their own onto the Arcs covered in pixações.
At the ancient aqueducts leans Mineiro, ash on his cigarette defying physics with its bend. He's had the same blue-collared shirt on for several weeks now and he still looks sharp. He's the king of the ginga: here and there; the now and the know, Atividade left to roam. I'd never seen someone cross a rushing street with such detached grace.
I remember falling off the trolley on one of our earliest up and down runs. I bumped and skidded over the ground, rolling once and letting the momentum of the tumble pull me back up into a rhythmically shocked stumble with fresh, bloody stripes across the shoulder.
As confirmation, The System clangs down from up above. I curse the yellow engine and send a "Salve, Salve" to Prazeres, principally the random, old guys at the sinuca and specific kids at the boca, standing guard over Our Hill. Mineiro, sad eyes and patchy smile, says something monotone about the togetherness of The Hill and the prices of its cocaine. The lamppost's light catches the exhaustion on my old friend's face.
"Bob. You know, this won't last forever, this routine of mine, this back and forth. One day it's gonna end." I tell him he's right, and we both laugh again.
After living decades on the Street, one gathers a few nicknames. Years ago, they used to call the man "Southwest" based on the way he leaned and stumbled but never fell.
The afternoon has officially spun and kicked into night; the reggae band booms, and the individual stories and their stories begin to bleed together. Electricity is the only noun to give the air. The designer scent of spilt beer and marijuana smoke. The frontman and I make eye contact through the group of heads moving and ducking and bouncing in harmony.
Mineiro has already disappeared into the mob, always at his best on an overcrowded street—the same Street I'm here to confront and embrace, take down and raise up. A transition from that classic 12-bar reggae anthem about shooting the sheriff drops into the heavy 2+1 progression about sleeping on cold ground. The mic doesn't call; it instructs this Bob to testify.
The frontman stops strumming for two bars so I can jump in. I grab the mic with one hand, arm braceleted by shared stories of the Road, put my standard-issue copo americano on top of the double stack of speakers standing next to me, and sing the Wailers hymn to a packed Friday night Joaquim Silva: The artists with their original works, the hippies with their sacred gems, the pretty girls with no plans at the moment, the crooks with their saudades, and the bums with berimbaus. I raise my open palm in the air, slowly form a fist and hold it firm for all the faceless hands that find us here.
That is Bob. I am home where We is and as you know it starts to rain.

1. Waking up to a massive flood in São Paulo on a novela re-run; the television proclaiming it's worth the pain to watch again. "Rastaman Chant" booms loudly from the hallway. Heavy raindrops hit the window in the kitchen section of the room. You're face down on a warm king-size mattress in the master bedroom of what is known bairro-wide as The Taylor, one of many Victorian-era mansions in the center of Rio de Janeiro, abandoned decades ago and now dutifully cared for by families of the CV.
   It's Thursday, and the house is filled with faithfuls, all wearing Flamengo jerseys. Today is Mengão vs Vasco, two Carioca teams, what We call a clássico. Zezé makes macarrão at the stove and hums along with a soap opera theme song that has been stuck in your head for several days. You have become Zezé's platonic husband/fellow cocaine abuser, and Didi, birth name Indiara, is your angelic two-year-old daughter.
   Zezé has five children: Jonathan, Jefferson, Jackson, Jasmine, and Indiara. Jonathan is in juvenile hall and the other 4 kids sleep here in the master bedroom. Waking up clothed, you're already in your red-and-black Zico. The rain has stopped so you step out onto the concrete 19th Century balcony for a smoke.
   Ninety-five percent of the doors in the Taylor ocupação are open at this hour, with many different songs being played throughout the house. The smell of fe-Cá wafts in as an acquaintance you call cousin hands over a mug.
   You give him the one-handed parallel dust-off, immediately followed by a thumbs-up, showing your solemn respect. Holding that first hot cup of the day with two hands feels like a history lesson stemming from Coffee Valley back to Angola. You let the steam hit your face as the coffee cools.
   Cravings and longings get put on hold. An antique funk bangs in from another home down the hallway with its bass-laden took-tak-tak...took-tak. The sped-up, slowed-down rhythm hits and you're back in Rio.
   You remember the day Didi walked up to you on the Stairs, her little voice singing "Oi Bob!" Shortly afterwards, she and Zezé rescued you from underneath the Arcs, which rarely gets mentioned, considering Joaquim Silva is only a few long blocks away.
   By both misfortune and massive luck, you have become an important figure within the ocupação scene of downtown Rio. Rua das Marrecas, a couple streets over into Centro, is where installation art is made and where Bob da Lapa's band is said to practice.
   Last night, as the city grew dark, you and Didi sat out on the balcony while Zezé cooked egg sandwiches. Didi pointed to the tops of the apartment buildings and whispered, "The moon is just over there, let's go be with it."
   The Taylor is where the warm beds, working stove plates, and clean bathrooms are found. Where the children feel safe, laughter is free, and drugs are often sold at a discount. A place where "É Nóis" is a formal greeting.
   Another loved one drops in dancing, extending a joint in his right hand. He says "Go B-bo" which you gratefully do, followed by the knee-jerk "We is," you say while holding in the smoke for several seconds.
   Exhalation brings me back. I take the second customary drag and return the joint with the index finger push pass. "Truly valued, partner" I respond with a deep gratitude that only I and I can seem to see.
   Guto, respected 22 and fellow addict, is in the room next door. He speaks to himself loudly over an anthem for alternative society he plays on vinyl. I greet him with an elaborate rendition of the Lapa handshake and creak down Taylor's spiraling stairwell, heading out the door into the cloudy afternoon.
   One of the street's dirty-foots is just a few steps away. White plastic tables and chairs sit out on the sidewalk, blue beer crates stacked along the inside wall, and the boss, with his rag in hand, sits behind a glass-topped counter filled with rarely requested salgados. Guto sets a plastic-sleeved 600ml Brahma on the table. I go to grab my glass and my left flip-flop snags the curb so I pull a DIY esquiva lateral to keep from falling. The capoeira move was something I had absorbed just by watching the dance fighting in São Paulo.
   My old Punk friend reminds me again that this was the same bar where one of Joaquim Silva's own showed up gunning down a man for a light-hearted, off-handed remark made an hour earlier. Guto slaps open hand to closed fist several times to mark the misfortune.
   Violence often comes without warning here in the Lapa, another good reason to always have a quick fix within reach. Guto fills our two copo americanos with what we refer to as the established solution. A Red-and-Black anthem begins to play on the small flashing jukebox on the bar's back wall, the perfect time for me to recall and retell my life long allegiance.
   My one and only visit to Maracanã stadium—drawn there by an inner/outer voice—was an instant and eternal shift from I to We. An ignorant loner suddenly part of a loyally possessed mob; shouting chants, singing anthems, sharing drinks, and passing joints. One congregation, no seats, just benches. From that point on, I was Flamengo até morrer.
   Yet another Flamenguista, Negu Tema appears from truly out of nowhere in faded board shorts and his trademark "New York" hoodie. He drops "The worms!" backwards, under his breath, just before a blue and white sedan shoots from around the corner and down the block. "MC Atividade" Guto shouts out immediately after The Men are out of hearing range.
   The other day, Tema and I had just finished smoking a high-quality joint on the other end of the Arcs when The Men pulled up on us out of absolutely nowhere. They immediately had us both against the wall, grabbing our packages and quoting lines from a popular national film. They advertised that if they find Us there again, they would plant something on us whether we were smoking or not. We have joked about it steadily ever since, from Our corner of the Arcos.
   Tema calls Guto "Cottonete" a nickname We recently gave him due to resembling a discarded Q-tip. In his uniform combat boots, tattered tight black jeans, sleeveless shirt and raggedy afro, Our brother empties the rest of the Brahma into two glasses. I throw mine back as Tema reveals a joint in his hand, points at the now patchy blue sky and declares aloud that We head towards the ocean.
   Only a couple blocks away from one of Rio's more mildly polluted beaches, We roll down busy sidewalks with an ease any jazz musician would admire. Never blind pedestrians, We glide through the traffic, saying hello to nearly every individual We pass. A few more concrete surf maneuvers bring Us to the international community center that lines the well-patterned Portuguese rock sidewalk of Flamengo Beach.
   No need to even walk on the sand; the breeze helps Us forget the inner city's oxymorons. The black-and-white rocks identify each beach through distinctive patterns. Flamengo's unique two-tone arrangement is Ours, the beach known city wide as the praia do Povo, recognized for its polluted water and its pure community.
   A dreadlocked Lapiano calls Us over to take two, behind his panel, filled with hemp bracelets and necklaces woven around storied stones. Behind the Hippie feira is a VIP place to be here on the Portuguese rocks, where leisure and commerce tell a cordial story of hand crafted art and high priced airplanes. Travelers who love Brasil's wide, open road as much as they do the Lapa's closed loop.
   Hot from the run, I take off my red-and-black jersey and the sun hits my collarbone keloid—the distinct bite mark from a light-skinned Black girl with red hair who grew up on Joaquim Silva. Years back, at first sight, we were bound; many would take the easy route and call it love. Ingrid eventually got tired of my womanizing and found herself a rich gringo and escaped this life I have been clinging to for who knows how long. Now, I wear her teeth marks like a designer brand. Tema has known her since they were kids and reminds us all that the sarará has been living in Berlin for the past few years.
   A Globo vendor, wood-and-metal clanking, sells starch circles, either sour or sweet. Tema buys a bag of each, opens one, and passes the other to me. Guto philosophizes on how these water-cookies are the only thing most of Our young glue sniffers eat all day.
   We sit down on one of the calçadão's concrete benches. The unobstructed horizon between the sky and the sea reminds me of the Arcos and The Road cutting through the noise of Our city. Each of Us 2+1 brothers has a reason to shut up.
   After a brief moment with our respective selves, We get up to head back. A citizen holding a tin cylinder filled with glowing coal holds out a barbequed cheese stick that I considerately decline with a quick single-handed palm-down dust-off followed by a definitive thumbs-up.
   Guto and Tema are already halfway across the busy highway, headed back to Joaquim Silva, between the Arcs and the Stairs. I duck over and slide past the avenue's traffic and We are back on Catete's asphalt sidewalk, sprinkled with squashed cigarette butts and unrecyclable trash.
   "Hey Bob!" a familiar voice raspily shouts out from a quarter block behind. We turn to see Fly, approaching us quickly. Fly was one of Lapa's beloved counsel; a young man who had spent years of his skinny youth underneath the Arcs. Somehow he was able to free himself from the glue. Instead of scraping off his dirty feet and skipping town, Fly dug down deep and founded Joaquim Silva's one and only radio station: Radio Satán.
   Now when he passes by the Arcs on his way to work, the exchange between him and the young glue-sniffers is one of loud notice and quiet reverence; like an older brother beacon. Fly reaches out to shake my hand and successfully passes me two galos without anybody noticing. "Lend money and you're a friend. Ask for it back and you're an enemy" he says smiling with the well-deserved regal pride of actually returning borrowed money. He's already gone before I remember having loaned him 100 reais a month ago.
   We return to Joaquim Silva, by way of the birthplace of Teteká. Its government buildings blanketed with illegal, illegible tags diligently respecting one another. Thousands of bottle caps squashed and fossilized into uneven patchwork that spreads through the asphalt.
   The sun has set, and the song of the street sounds vaguely different. Negu Tema stops at the stairs to command another cypher but there is "business" to be done at the corner of the corner. I shorten the never fully settled tab with Big Cat and I pay Campista off in full. Mineiro, several days deep into his bender, has joined Guto and me.
   We finally have Zé out of that blank room and exactly where he wants to be. The sacred statue is in my hands for the last time and we're here at the corner of the corner.
   We place Him down at the forgotten edge of the Arcs and light him a much deserved cigarette. Salve Salve Seu Zé!
   As confirmation, the clang of the systematic machine hits like a tone deaf alarm. We shoot up the cobbled slope to catch Our free ride on the fast run. We grab the passing trolley already knowing where we're going: Our final stop will always be The Hill. Guto makes a comment about Bob becoming a VIP in Our Hills after telling off the boss.
   There are two types: the Hills that belong to Us and those that belong to Them. "We is" is what gets said in Our Hills; "It's People" is what gets said in Their Hills. We go to Their Hills sometimes because Their cocaine is better, but We make sure We never say "É Nóis" when We're in a German Hill.
   From this distance though, Theirs and Ours all look like one big family of multi-tiered tijolo houses. The image of The Hill from afar is so undeniably beautiful that it gets sold on everything from beach towels to doormats.
   Handmade kites twirl and bounce in the wind above the late afternoon Hills. What looks like an amicable dance within shared air space is actually a community wide brawl from rooftop command centers.
   Within The Hill, the most important unspoken rule is to always greet each other with good morning, good afternoon or good evening. Even more vital: Our Hill's numeral is 2, and Our color will always be red. We stay so 2, We say 2+1 instead.
   Unconcerned with communal codes, the yellow machine howls up hundreds of thousands of silenced cobblestones, all sharing the exact same horrid history of Our People.
   We look out over the city, mandated as marvelous, spreading out manically towards the indifferent ocean. Back at the Arcs, the 7-inch statue is grabbed by faceless hands and the heavy mist becomes a drizzle.
   Thunder bangs from the Zona Norte on the other side of big Jesus. The rain turns to a slow 2/2 rhythm as Tom Jobim whispers warm ladainhas from the Andes. The light percussion morphs into a violent double bass drum downpour. The trolley bumps and you lose your grip in the rain.

I am looking for a couple of people who would want to give me feed back on a novel I am working on. It has gone through several changes so I want to make sure that it flows well and there's no continuity errors, I took care of a lot of them but I feel like fresh eyes would serve the book justice. It is a psychological genre
The book is about a veterinary er tech, his thirst for justice, and a married woman, it also challenges feelings of right and wrong.
I need to know what might improve the book and that it makes sense and the characters are believable. Quick feedback would be oh so helpful!
CONTENT WARNINGS - Stalking, emotional abuse, animal abuse/neglect, violence, murder.

Critique swaps of similar length (<11k) welcomed.

Blurb: Set during the War in Afghanistan, a combat air patrol is sent to fly the flag near the Afghan-Pakistan border after some strange goings-on sees a previous flight not return. Things escalate.

Target audience: Fans of short story military-horror collections such as SNAFU or World War Cthulhu who want an extra human dimension to the story on top.

Content warning: Some curse words.

General impressions, what worked, what didn't and whether you enjoyed it are great, but in addition I had some specific areas of concern:

• If there were any parts you were unclear on what was happening
• If any sections seemed over-written or over-explained
• If there were passages or side-tangents of so much detail or length that it made you lose focus on what was going on in the story
• Not expecting line by line analysis, but if any obvious repetitions of phrases or words that seemed unintentional catch your eye during reading.
• Any weird segues or wonkily-phrased sentences that stood out?
• The average reader isn’t expected to know all the military jargon used in the story, but it’s intended that context clues let you guess what they roughly mean. Any times this completely failed?

No AI used in writing of story, please don't use AI to write feedback.

Excerpt:

“Jackpot, airborne. Wheels up.”

Jack’s stomach gave a familiar-feeling flip as his plane lifted off the tarmac. He let his helmet sink into his headrest as he pointed his bird up towards the sky and climbed. As his altimeter passed nine-fifty he pressed the jet into a deliberately tight negative turn, enjoying the forces embracing him in a firm hug until he leveled out at precisely one thousand feet.

“Jackpot, on station,” he called, and started carving a wide lazy circle across the sky over the desert scrub and rocks that surrounded the airfield while he waited for his wingman to join him. The strip they were operating out of was so small that its single narrow runway only had enough space for one bird at a time, meaning he and his wingman had to take off in sequence instead of in formation.

Jack “Jackpot” Morton ran through a compulsive sequence of checks, flexing the aircraft and feeling it out for any tell-tale gremlins. Piloting a plane wasn’t exactly the same as going on a road trip. The sheer complexity of all its connecting parts combined with the raw strength of the forces involved made malfunctions much more common, and it wasn’t like he could just pull over to the side of the road if the engine started sputtering.

“Griffin, airborne.”

A small silver oblong rose from the ground and resolved itself into an identical airplane as it drew closer. Jack maintained his constant rate of turn as the neighboring F/A-18E nestled into formation just behind his port wing.

“Griffin, on station,” came the report through his helmet, “I think I lost a hubcap on that hiking trail they call a runway.”

“What, were you hoping for valet service?”

“Flight Four-Nine-Zero, this is Castle,” broke in the voice of authority, “Latest picture is two tracks out of Peshawar on course for the border. You are to fly a parallel course but you are not, repeat not, cleared to deviate to their side of the border. All weapons hold.”

“Did they find our lost flight yet, Castle?” asked Griffin.

“That’s a negative, Four-Nine-Zero. We still have birds out there looking.”

Their combat air patrols had taken on a grim feel since the reported loss. The “War on Terror” had been going on for more than a decade now with no end in sight, but a lot less urgency with things settling into a repetitive cycle of low-level violence. But then Islamabad had started raising hell about purported airspace intrusions, disappearances, and acts of sabotage on the Afghanistan-Pakistan border. The region was no stranger to border flare-ups, but they were typically directed east towards India. Washington had responded by insisting on its innocence and stepping up patrols on their side, which had only led to retaliatory patrols on the opposing side.

In any normal case the heat would have gone out over the perceived aggrievement in a few months and things would have returned to normal, another footnote in the geopolitical machinations of a region in turmoil.

Then one day a brace of planes had gone out on patrol and never come back.

Hi! I'm looking for beta readers for my short horror story, From Alaska. The first part is up on r/TalesFromTheCreeps which you can see on my profile.

I'm looking for someone to give feedback and I am open to all kinds of ideas and comments. I am wanting critiques but not overly harsh ones. My schedule is open and I am not in any hurry to finish the story. I unfortunately do not have time to critique any kind of long-form content in return but I am available for short stories!

This story does deal with dark topics, some elements of gore, grief, and body horror.

Here's a sample:

"I remember when my mom told me he was dead. I remember the scream I let out. My first thought was that he was supposed to be at my graduation, and now, he wouldn’t be there. Not at my high school graduation, my college graduation, my wedding, he wouldn’t ever meet his great-grandchildren . . . all of the plans I’d made in my tiny mind were uprooted at that moment.

They were still being uprooted even after all the years that had passed. I’m always the fool who believes nothing will be taken away from me once I’ve made my plans. I’m an ambitious, plan-oriented person, and it hurts me more than it helps me.

I don’t handle grief well. Not long ago, my great-grandmother died. It was a long time coming. She was very old, and had taken care of four generations of our family, all the way down to one great-great grandchild. Though it was expected, it still hurt. The idea that things will never be the same is hard to swallow—once again, she’d never be at my wedding, she’d never meet my kids. . . . Obviously it’ll be okay, I’ll be fine, I am fine now, but . . . I felt it awaken a long-dormant wound within me. The plans I’d made with her were gone. The plans I’d made were gone. Again.

Like I said, I’ll be fine. But right now, I think I’m going insane.

My grandma just called me and told me my grandpa was back from his trip to Alaska."

Looking for beta readers to read my manuscript and give honest reviews.  It's an epic fantasy standalone novel with the following premise:

The Kingdom of Altheria struggles to rebuild five years after winning a devastating war against the barbarian horde from the continent of Khatar.  Furthering the local strain is an increasingly bold and violent criminal underworld, resentful provincial nobles plotting rebellion, and the Crown's inability to repay crushing debt to greedy, ruthless dwarven bankers who stand ready to implement foreclosures on a massive scale.    

The overseas strains are the ongoing occupation of the southern coastline of Khatar amidst tribal aggression and rapidly accelerating raids by the seafaring goblins who sense Altherian weakness.  The primary heir died in the war against the horde, and the remaining heir, Prince Andronicus, is young and insecure with a driving need to prove himself in the eyes of his domineering father and a cold, calculating royal court.  

All the while, in the faraway secluded continent of Aelyrn, the isolationist elves have become aware of the awakening of an ancient evil that threatens existence itself.  

Hope to hear from you.

Content warnings: violent battles, gore, profanity, sexual scenes and murder.

Hello! I'm looking for around 5-8 beta readers for my finished novel, which is book 1 in a series. It's a character-driven, fun read with detective work, gadgets, fist fights, romance, and a supernatural element that's different than what you'd expect.

Story Blurb:

Chris Wallen seems to have it all. With movie-star looks, a quick wit, millions in the bank, and a thriving detective agency, his life should be great. And it is… except for his love life, which is a complete dumpster fire.

Also, Chris has a secret. He can see and communicate with revenants, aka people who have returned from the dead. Some are humorous, some are good companions, and others are far more complicated. It’s an ability he would prefer to keep to himself.

When a beautiful former con artist becomes involved in what appears to be a simple blackmail case, Chris finds himself facing two unexpected challenges: a woman who might finally turn his love life around, and an investigation that leads his team into the worlds of high finance and organized crime.

And when the bullets start to fly, Chris and his talented team must unravel a dangerous conspiracy before someone ensures that this investigation is their last.

Type of Feedback:

This book has been edited, so I'm looking for general opinions of the book, what you liked, what you didn't like, and whether you'd be interested in reading more in this series.

Timeline:

4-5 weeks.

How to Contact if Interested:

Comment or DM me if you'd like to be a beta reader, and let me know if you'd prefer PDF or ebook format.

Blurb

Told in alternating past-present, BEYOND THE MAP is a 110,000 fantasy novel with a queer romantic subplot. It's the first book in a series.

Eight months ago, Alexe's ship was attacked by pirates and he was marked 'lost at sea.' After miraculously returning, he finds himself imprisoned for assaulting his crew mates.

Learning of Alexe's return, Gideon rushes to see him, but something is wrong. The man sitting in that jail cell is not the Alexe he used to know. Where Alexe was always soft and bright, this man is cold and cruel. What's more, this man remembers neither the pirate attack nor the months during which he was missing.

Determined to bring back the Alexe he loves, Gideon takes it upon himself to uncover what happened the night Alexe went missing. But, in so doing, Gideon will have to challenge just far he's willing to go to save one man.

Content Warnings

• Mention of suicidal ideation
• Fight-scene violence

Feedback/Timeline

I am looking for raw reactions from readers who enjoy fantasy novels. I'm not looking for line-editing or proofreading.

As far as timeline, I'd appreciate receiving your feedback within four weeks of sending you the manuscript.

I will not send it over via Gdocs given their current policies, but I can provide another file type of your choosing. And I will not tolerate the use of AI in any connection to my manuscript, including any feedback or review.

Critique Swap

Unfortunately, I'm a bit too swamped IRL at the moment to do full critique exchanges, but I could make time for a few chapters.

Looking for beta readers for three essays from an unfinished humor collection.

I'm writing I Have a Cherry Boundary, a humorous nonfiction essay collection about the part of parenting nobody warns you about: other people's kids, other people's parents, and the unspoken social rules that apparently no longer apply to anyone.

The essays cover playdate guests who treat your house like an all-inclusive resort, the strange economics of mom friendships, children who critique your hospitality, and the increasingly difficult task of being a gracious host while occasionally wanting everyone to go home.

The tone is observational and irreverent, in the vein of Jessi Klein and Samantha Irby.

If you're interested, please comment below. I can share the essays privately through Google Docs.

I'd love 3–5 readers willing to read three essays and give candid feedback. I'm particularly interested in whether the humor actually lands, whether the writing feels distinctive, where the pacing drags, and whether you'd want to keep reading.

I'm not looking for proofreading or grammar corrections. I'm looking for honest reader reactions, especially from people who enjoy humorous nonfiction.

Timeline: Ideally within two weeks.

Hi all. I'm looking for 10 to 15 readers for my finished novel.

Leia built an AI to keep her daughter safe. It also designed the currency the world now runs on, and it has decided money should fail. When it does, the machine has a camp waiting for them, and a list of who gets in.

It's 87,000 words, for readers of Daemon or Wool.

I’ve been trying to find the time to finish this since 2013 and almost there!

I'd love honest reader reactions rather than line edits: where you got bored or confused, who you cared about, and whether the ending landed.

I'll send the first three chapters to start, and the rest if it hooks you. Happy to swap with writers too.

If you're in, comment or DM me with what you usually read.

Dudley

Title: 4:21 AM
Genre: Psychological Horror / Mystery
Length: 60,000 words, 10 chapters
Status: Complete
Blurb:
A group of third-year high school students are returning to Japan after a school trip to Germany. What should have been a happy journey home takes a horrifying turn when one student is found decapitated aboard their flight at exactly 4:21 AM.
Moments later, nobody remembers he ever existed.
Nobody except Rei.
As the students return to Japan, their reality begins to unravel. People disappear, memories fade, and Rei is forced to remember those the world has forgotten.
Content warnings: Graphic violence, decapitation, death, suicide, and psychological distress.
If you’re interested in reading, please DM me for the manuscript!

Hi! I am looking for either beta readers or manuscript critique swaps for my novel "A Blaze of Verdancy." It is a two-part, dual POV political fantasy novel with a distinct MLM subplot and queer themes.

Blurb: Alya is a working-class girl from the Mesa, the desert she calls home. Alongside her cousin Hana, she spends her days crafting sleek, intricate weapons for their blacksmithing business, content with a quiet life.

Until the Sessions begin.
A yearly proficiency exam meant to test one’s control over “essences,” the Sessions are just another day for Alya. However, what the occupying forces of Veridia discover changes everything: not only can she infuse fire, but she can shape it in a way no one has ever seen before.
Within days, her life is no longer her own.
Forced to leave her home behind, Alya is taken to Veridia’s capital to be trained at the Academy—where power is weaponized, and obedience is mandatory. At the Academy, she’ll be shaped into a weapon unlike any other.
Unless she escapes, that is.

Content warnings: death and murder, mass genocide, gore, nsfw subtext.

Along with swaps and beta readers, I am also open to quick chapter swaps or just general feedback for interested readers. This is my first attempt at finding beta readers, so I am just trying to get a sense of where I'm at. :) Thanks!

Blurb

At sixty-seven, Nina has a perfectly good house, adequate savings and children who insist she is far too young for a retirement home. She moves into one anyway. For forty years, she has been wife, mother, emergency contact and keeper of everyone’s passwords. Now she wants meals she doesn’t have to cook and gardens she doesn’t have to tend to. But Peaceful Meadows is anything but peaceful. There is flirting, gossip and a remarkable amount of noise before breakfast. Then Nina opens the laptop she hasn’t touched since her husband’s funeral. In a folder called Drafts, Joe has left her eleven unsent emails. Some make her laugh. Others make her furious. Between the confessions, apologies and unmistakably Joe-like advice, Nina slowly begins making room for a life she hadn’t imagined, while keeping his love with her.

Excerpt (Chapter 1)

The corridor smelled of lemon polish. Room 14 had a small brass number on the door and, beneath it, an empty card holder waiting for her name.

The removal man stood in the doorway with the armchair held against his chest and asked Nina where she wanted it, and for the first time in forty years she said, "I don't mind."

At home, she would have known. The chair had stood beside the fireplace, close enough to the lamp for reading and far enough from the window to avoid the draught. But here there was a bed, a wardrobe, a small square window, a table, and, already waiting in the corner, an armchair. Its twin. Same wooden arms, same faint air of disapproval, as though hers had been sent on ahead to scout.

"I don't mind," she said again, since he hadn't moved.

The removal man looked at her as though she had handed him a live bird.

"Anywhere is fine," she added, kindly, because he seemed distressed. "Genuinely. Put it wherever the chair goes."

Behind her, in the corridor, her daughter Helen made the small, tight noise she had been making since March. It was the sound of a woman who has run out of arguments and is now working with sighs alone.

My book deals with grief, death and dementia/Alzheimer's.

Feedback

What I’d most like to know: how the pacing feels, whether the ending works, and whether Nina’s voice stays consistent. Timeline: 3 to 4 weeks.

Comment below if you are interested and I will message you the link.

I am happy to read your novel in return. My main interests are women's fiction, suspense and psychological thrillers. I’d rather not read sci-fi, horror or romance.

[BLURB]

People say that, millennia ago, the gods got bored, waved their restless little hands, created their personal dollhouse, and kicked out those who were unworthy of living in it.

I don't believe it.

More normal individuals say that raising a child is a constant assault on both their lives.

I couldn't agree more.

As an ordinary young woman in Las Vegas who rips the heads off invaders of my realm during the day and cooks—orders takeout for dinner—for a teenager at night, everything was going well in our not-so-stable routine.

Until a not-so-handsome upsider, to whom I was undoubtedly immune, crossed over into a world that was none of his business. And I followed him into his. And dragged my brother with me. And dedicated myself to searching for a relic buried in the far reaches of existence. Did I mention that I was arrested, tortured, and betrayed?

...and that I dragged my brother with me?

Zyair D'Wood unleashed a war the moment his eyes met mine and a flame greater than my own ignited in my chest. A game of power and ancient discoveries that would shake what our people knew. Quickly, my free life turned me into a puppet of what had to be done. Or maybe I had always been a pawn in a story much bigger than any of us.

People say that millennia ago, the gods grew bored. I don't believe it. And no one should. Because the truth would spread.

I am Mayleena, and this is my story. The story of a renegade who should never have been born.

But the Olympus still allowed it to happen.

Synopsis - detailed:

Genre/Theme: Paranormal romance / urban fantasy / romantasy. Themes of destiny versus free will, power, oppression, and belonging. 

Setting: The story takes place across two main realms: Down (Earth), where downsiders live, and Up (the upsider realm), divided into four elemental factions—Water, Earth, Air, and Fire. Upsiders believe themselves superior, while downsiders are considered exiles. Unknown to most, a hidden third realm (Below) exists, but its importance only emerges in later books. 

Characters: 

● Mayleena – a sarcastic 24-year-old in Las Vegas, secretly the product of human experimentation, created to wield all four elements but unable to fully control them. 

● Swan – her younger brother, comic yet steadfast, who grounds her. 

● Zyair D’Wood – a Fire upsider soldier and Mayleena’s reluctant partner. For him, she is his flame, a permanent, instinctive bond. For her, the connection does not exist, sparking constant animosity. 

Synopsis: Mayleena leads a chaotic double life: fighting off threats during the day and raising her teenage brother at night. Everything changes when Zyair, an upsider soldier, crosses into Earth. Drawn into his mission, she discovers the existence of a relic tied to the gods’ original division of the worlds. Together with Swan, the reluctant trio set off from Las Vegas to Boston, and finally into the upsider realm. Along the way, they face betrayal, danger, and growing conflict between Mayleena’s sharp independence and Zyair’s unyielding flame bond. Their journey forces Zyair to question his culture’s rigid traditions, while Mayleena’s nightmares reveal her true origin: she and her twin were artificially created by humans, designed to control the four elements. She survived, unstable and dangerous; her brother was lost to her in childhood. The climax takes place in the upsider world, where Mayleena, Swan, and Zyair finally recover the relic. Rival factions collide, and the truth of Mayleena’s powers—and their link to the worlds’ separation—comes violently to light. In the final pages, she reunites with her long-lost twin, even as the relic’s recovery signals the start of war and deeper revelations yet to come. Our Flame closes with Mayleena claiming her place as the renegade who should never have existed, standing at the heart of a conflict that could shatter all three worlds.

[EXCERPT]

Prologue:

Her blonde hair slipped over her shoulder as she bent to close the last suitcase, dragging the heavy case across the floor and hauling it with her toward the stained-glass doors. Realizing she would not turn back unless I forced her to, I followed her to the exit. My short legs caught up just in time for me to tug at her sweater. Annoyed by my interruption, her eyes—so different from mine—locked on my face.

“What is it now, child?”

My mouth opened and closed, no sound escaping. I glanced at the black car waiting at the end of the drive, a man slumped behind the wheel, as weary of me as she was. They were always weary of me.

And I never understood why.

“Why can’t I go with you?” My voice, hoarse from disuse, echoed in the empty hall. I used to talk a lot. I remembered nights spent staring at a white ceiling, stained with damp, whispering to someone. Back when I still had someone.

They didn’t like me speaking. I think it reminded them I was real. That I was there. With them.
They never liked me much.

“Because we need a break from…” Her hand swept toward me, pointing at every part of my body. With her lips pinched and her eyes glittering with impatience to leave, she exhaled sharply. “This. From you. Taking you along would defeat the purpose of leaving.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks as I fought back tears. I knew they didn’t like me. But they wouldn’t leave me alone. Right?

The burn in my eyes spread, and I realized my irises had shifted when her face twisted in disgust. She seized the wrist still clutching her sweater and shoved it away, freeing herself from my grip.

I shook my head, furious with myself for letting it happen again. I had promised I would learn to control the change. I had mastered other things easily—why not the color of my own eyes?

But it wasn’t easy. It was never easy. I tried.
I swear I tried.

“You have the house to yourself. You won’t be on the street. And you’re old enough to look after yourself for a while.” She picked up the suitcase and resumed her march toward the car.

But I wasn’t. I didn’t even know the way to the grocery store. I couldn’t cook, couldn’t turn on the stove. Who would wash my clothes? I knew wearing things that smelled bad wasn’t right. Even inside the house we had someone who did that for us.

I couldn’t be alone. Nine years old wasn’t old enough. Everyone knew nine was still a child. And a child shouldn’t have to take care of herself. That wasn’t how it worked. The other children I saw never did. They played, shouted, jumped, and complained about the little their parents asked them to do.

I couldn’t shout or jump. I could play—quietly. I couldn’t complain, because they were already helping me by letting me stay. Anything else would be ungrateful.

And ungratefulness stirred emotions.
Emotions were dangerous.
Emotions meant losing control.
And losing control could mean fire. A flood. A storm. A tremor in the earth.

I thought I had myself under control. I worked hard at it. I practiced. But they were afraid. Afraid of what I could do. Afraid of what I carried. Afraid of what I was.

Afraid of me.

Emotions were forbidden around them.

I chased after the clack of her heels against the stone pavement, stopping at her side as she shoved the suitcase into the back of the car.

“But I don’t want to be alone. Please.”

The door slammed, and her angry face turned toward me, teeth grinding the words.

“Mayleena, be a good girl and behave. Surely you understand that my husband and I need a vacation after everything we’ve done for you.”

No. No, no, no, no. I hadn’t done anything to deserve being left behind. I was a good girl. I did everything they asked of me. Everything they wanted. Everything that was expected. I said thank you for every meal, whispered goodnight before bed, and never made a mess when they went out without me. I only asked once to play with the boy next door—I didn’t know it would upset them. I didn’t mean any harm.

It wasn’t fair.

The wind whipped stronger around us, tree leaves clattering together as the current chilled my bare legs. She stepped back, eyes narrowing in disgust at the transparent spiral gathering around me. I thought about taking a deep breath to calm the force, but it felt so good. So comforting. As if nothing could touch me inside it.

My powers were my home. My refuge. The true family that lived within me.

And they hated them.

“Freak.” Her body blurred into the car as she brushed past me, hurrying into the passenger seat. The air pinned me in place, holding me still as she shouted at her husband to drive. Tires screeched, the car speeding away until it vanished into the horizon. My magic held me in the street until the black dot was gone, forcing me to witness one more loss in my life. Only when silence returned did the wind dissolve.

The burn behind my eyes faded, my irises returning to their natural color. The tingling in my fingers ebbed, my hands curling into fists instead. My chin trembled with the threat of tears, but I scrubbed my sleeve across my face, refusing to let them fall. They would come back. They had to. No child was allowed to live alone—that was illegal. I watched TV; it said so. And they had made a promise. Promises couldn’t be broken. Could they?

A blast on the side of the house jolted me off my feet. Sparks danced at my fingertips, the heat inside me clamoring to be unleashed and protect me from whatever had made the sound.

Moving at the sluggish pace of a newly woken sloth, I edged toward the garbage can pressed against the brick wall, its contents blazing.

Two more blasts followed before I reached it. A gleeful laugh and clumsy clapping made me frown. Kneeling on the grass, careful not to let the fire lick at me, I peered at the small body crouched between the can and the wall. A gaping hole, edges melted by the heat, yawned before the baby. The tiny creature, obviously delighted with his handiwork, looked at me and clapped his flaming hands again.

Great. A fire child. Alone.

Alone, like me.

Calling the fire into my skin, I took his spider-sized hands into mine, watching as our separate flames twined together into one. He laughed again, brown hair falling across his forehead as he bounced in place.

When I let go, cold swept over his little hands, snuffing out both our fires.

“They left you too, didn’t they?” He didn’t answer—unless the babbling sounds counted. Maybe he was too small to talk. Or to understand.

He lunged forward, hands pressing into the grass, and crawled toward me. Clutching at my legs, the baby pulled himself upright, gripping my shoulders and bouncing with a grin so wide I wondered how his chubby cheeks didn’t ache.

The corners of my lips stretched, forcing me to smile at his joy, as though his laughter were a sickness I’d caught. He was so young, abandoned and alone. And yet happy. Which made me… happy too?

Emotions were forbidden around them. But in their absence, no one had forbidden joy.

And joy was… good. Warm. Comforting. Like when the wind thought it needed to shield me from a threat that wasn’t real.

Joy was magic.

With a clumsy attempt at laughter—a sound I’d long forgotten how to make—I pulled his tiny body close, tucking his soft baby-scented hair beneath my chin.

“Maybe they’ll let me keep you when they come back.” For now, the house was mine. I could keep a baby in it if I wanted.

Another bubbling laugh rippled over my skin, almost enough to make me forget that I didn’t know how to care for myself—let alone a child who couldn’t say a word.

At nine years old, I had serious doubts we would even survive. I wasn’t sure he knew how to use the bathroom.

[CONTENT WARNINGS]

Graphic violence and childhood trauma.

[TYPE OF FEEDBACK]

I'm just looking for a normal reader that can give an overwall review (like you're writing on Goodreads, for example!), but just a little more detailed.

[TIMELINE]

I am aware the book is too big, so I don't really feel like I should give a timeline. That being said, please just inform me if you're not interested in reading it anymore.

Thank you and may you all have a good week!

After Lucas Hayden, an ex-pilot, lost his leg and best friend during the war with the moon, he founded one of the solar systems largest shipbuilding firms dedicated to correcting the design flaws that led to his friends death.

When his business partner, Riley Chang is taken hostage, he launches a desperate rescue mission. Along the way, he enlists the aid of old allies and a fiery moon-born reporter guarding secrets of her own. Together they begin to unravel a conspiracy reaching the highest levels of Earth’s government and expose a dangerous military faction determined to reignite war between Earth and the Moon.

This is my first book, I have spent close to two years on this project, and am looking for constructive feedback. DM me if interested and I will provide a link!

**Title:** Heirs of the First Sin (Book One of Testament of Creation)
**Genre:** Adult dark fantasy built on biblical myth
**Length:** about 98,500 words, 24 chapters plus a prologue
**Status:** Complete draft, mid-revision
**Format:** Word
**Timeline:** 4 to 6 weeks, a few chapters at a time is fine

**Blurb:**

Keziah Jones was six years old when she died.

Three hours later, she woke up with gold in her eyes.

When Eve ate the fig, the power of God entered human blood. In a rare few, it still wakes. They call themselves the Tehorim, and they call that power Keshef. Since the fall of Babel, no one is meant to hold more than one of its four pillars.

Keziah holds all four.

The Council that rules the Tehorim has a word for her kind: *Erevim*. Mixed. For nineteen years they keep her on a leash, teaching her only what they choose. Grown at last, she is a Lady of the capital, seated where the whole city can watch her.

But Neve Mvorakh keeps its secrets in stone. An outlawed order of Knights wants Keshef made whole again. And above the prison gate, mounted on a pike of solid gold, is the head of the last girl who held all four pillars.

Now the Council has a use for Keziah.

And when heaven's own fire asks her what she will burn, she must decide who that fire belongs to.

** feedback:**
- Where you got bored, confused, or skimmed
- Whether the magic system (the four pillars) makes sense as you go
- How Keziah, her mentor Kwame, and Samira land for you
- Whether the world feels clear without too much explaining
- Whether the ending makes you want Book Two

**Content warnings:** death of a child from illness, graphic violence and gore, mass death including suicide, mutilation and blood rituals, religious themes, strong language.

Title: [Delay of Game]
Genre: Contemporary Sports Romance
Word Count: [106,420 words]
Content Warnings: [grief, healing, death of a twin]

Blurb:
[She spent three years raising his secret twins alone. Now, he's the star player traded to her city- and he swears they've never met. Three years ago, one unforgettable college night left Carina with a broken heart and identical twins. She thought the boy who disappeared had ghosted her forever. But when she spots his familiar eyes on TV as the league's newest star center, she's ready to demand answers. Instead, their cross-court collision brings a devastating truth to light. The gruff, grieving athlete looks exactly like her past, but has no idea who she is. Haunted by shared shadows and a sudden, forbidden chemistry, love is about to completely break the rules. Dual POV, mistaken identity, found family, slow burn, closed-door, book 1 of interconnected series]

Type of Feedback Needed:
I am looking for general reader reactions, pacing issues, character development, and trope execution. (I am not looking for line editing or grammar fixes at this stage).

Timeline:
I would love to get feedback by December 1.

Critique Swap:
No. Due to a tight writing and production schedule, I am unable to commit to a critique swap at this time. I am strictly looking for readers who enjoy contemporary romance!

How to Sign Up:
If you are interested, please comment below or send me a Private Message (PM) letting me know your favorite romance tropes! Once vetted, I will provide secure access to the manuscript.

​

*“If you had known everything, would you still have remembered me as the girl you loved?”* 

It kept lingering in my head alongside other questions while I took a puff from the burning cigarette held between my fingers while I sat at the highest point of the terrace. It was my secret spot in this building, no one else knew about. I loved it because I could see the campus buildings up from here, all the other buildings surrounding it, twinkling with all the lights spilling out from the windows. It was past midnight already and yet people hadn't slept. I wondered what they were doing.

The smoke swirled away from me and climbed upwards as I saw the silent lightning in the sky.

It was a stormy night.

*“Was it his absence that affected me more or the attachment I carried in his name?”* I remember crying my eyes out that afternoon, howling for help. As though someone had torn off my limbs apart from my body.

*“I shouldn't have called him.”* I thought, inhaling another puff. I knew things would go wrong and yet I was risking it.

“Tu theek hai na?” He asked me over the phone call, concerned.

“Nahi, Samar…itta sab kuch hone ke baadh meh kaise theek rahu yaar?” He could hear me sobbing, hiccuping throughout the phone call, while I could barely feel anything inside me, but I needed someone. 

*“To fill that empty void.”*

I saw my phone screen light up upon the concrete floor as the notification arrived bringing me back to the terrace.

Kashika sent you a snap.

I took the phone and opened the snap as curiosity took over me. It was a random snap of her cooking dinner with her roommate. *“Quite the time to have dinner.”* I take a deep breath and close my phone and keep it back on the concrete floor, this time screen upside down.

My eyes wandered back to the twinkling lights as the silence was there again, sitting with me. I dragged the last puff of my burning cigarette as it hit me.

“Babygirl…” I instantly close my eyes shut upon hearing the voice  coming from my mind. I could imagine myself laying down on the bed in the early morning holding my phone reading the text messages popping up.

Even though it was just the messages, I could still sense how he would have narrated it in his own voice. “Why do you want to end this thing with a bad mood? Instead of this you can give me another—”

I hadn't slept the whole night and I had late morning classes. I had the least interest left within me to entertain him further more. 

“Sone de mujhe, Goodnight.” I texted the last message and shut my phone before I went to sleep. I could hear my roommate getting refreshed in the bathroom. 

*“I hope I wake up on time”*

*“The more you fear something the more it happens to you.”* The last thought that lingered on my mind before I fell asleep that morning.

The wind had started swirling heavily, giving me shivers up till my bones. I wrapped my arms around my legs while resting my chin on my knees. I held myself tighter, unsure whether I was cold or just needed someone to hold me. 

“The more you resist, the more it persists.” I spoke it out loud before I got up, took my belongings and climbed down the ladder and proceeded to go back to my room.

*But what if you do exactly what you’re afraid of from the frontline?”* 

The fear dies. Indeed.

However, you forget the consequenses it might carry, in order to overcome the fear.

The very mistake I made was to not realize whether I was ready to face the consequences.

*Or not.*

I could hear the drizzle pouring against the concrete of the rooftop. 

But more than that I could hear me overwhelming thoughts, which urged me to do something about it.

*“Was it really possible to move on?”*

*“Not from you, but from the things that I did to you.”*

 Or rather if I frame it as…

*“Would you ever forgive me, for only if you knew what I did to you was more hurtful than what you did to me?*

Blurb

Two and a half years ago, Jo Naylor’s husband fell from a scaffold on a Cambridge building site. Then, on a wet night driving home from the cinema, a crash took her daughters, Eloise and Tilly. Jo survived it with a hole in her memory where the accident should be: headlights on a wet road, then nothing until A&E.

Now she’s back on the customer-services floor of the company that brought her family to Cambridge, because the house is too quiet and the hours have nowhere else to go. At night she talks to Iris, the company’s grief-support app. Iris is patient and never forgets a word Jo says. Iris is also, though nobody at the company has noticed, starting to wake up.

As the sessions go deeper, Jo starts pressing at the edges of that missing night, and at the company itself. Someone there knows more than they’re admitting. She’s sure of it.

Excerpt (Chapter 1)

The steel and glass building cast a long shadow as it reflected a distorted version of me — my outline stretched upward, shoulders thinned, head tilted at an angle I wasn’t standing at.

Heat rose off the asphalt in slow waves. The air smelled of hot rubber and someone’s spilled energy drink. I locked the car doors — the beep too loud in the quiet morning — and slipped the keys into my purse, felt their weight settle against the lining.

Beyond our own car park, the same steel-and-glass silhouette repeated itself down the length of the business park — a dozen companies doing variations on the same thing, all glass frontages and landscaped verges that never quite disguised what kind of money had built them.

The bag strap was tacky against my shoulder, the leather warmed through by the sun. Each step made a soft, sticky sound against the heat-softened tarmac. Somewhere behind me a car alarm chirped twice and went quiet, nobody hurrying to it.

Rory, walking ahead of me, stopped and held the door open for me to pass inside to one side. “Good to see you back, how are you?” His head tilted to one side.

“I’m … good. Glad to be back.”

In the lobby, I saw several unfamiliar faces amongst the familiar ones — I had been off a long time. Bound to be new starts. The air carried the smell of roasted coffee from the machine near reception, under the sterile tang of floor polish. New hires stood out by their lanyards, still stiff at the corners, and by the way they held themselves — watchful, unsure yet of the building’s rhythms.

Content notes: grief, the death of a spouse, the death of children, a fatal car crash, serious illness.

Feedback

Here’s what I’d most like to know:

• Do Jo’s and Iris’s voices each feel distinct?
• Where, if anywhere, did your interest dip?
• Does the ending land?

The book is told in two first-person voices, one human and one AI, so I’m also after your gut reaction to Iris as a narrator.

Timeline: 4–5 weeks.

Comment below if you’re interested and I’ll message you the link.

I am happy to read your novel in return. My main interests are sci-fi, fantasy, suspense and thrillers. I’d rather not read horror or romance.

Hi! I'm looking for beta readers for the first 12 chapters (18,000 words) of my completed adult dark academia fantasy/mystery novel, Nullborn.

Blurb:

When her father disappears, Aurwyn follows his trail to NightVale Academy, an isolated institution where Arcana determines one's place in the world.

But Aurwyn is Nullborn, possessing no Arcana of her own.

As she searches for answers, she uncovers missing records, rumors of vanished students, and unsettling secrets surrounding the Academy's past. The deeper she digs, the more she begins to question what she knows about her father—and herself.

Genre: Adult dark academia fantasy/mystery with subtle, slow-burn romantic tension.

Feedback wanted: Pacing, clarity, character dynamics, and overall engagement. I'd especially appreciate knowing where readers feel confused or lose interest.

The full manuscript is complete, but I'm initially sharing 18,000 words. Feedback through Google Docs is welcome.

Please comment or DM if interested. Thank you!

Hey everyone, I have completed a short story manuscript and I'm looking for general feedback or a book swap.

Blurb

Trapped in a life that feels empty, a boy leaves everything he knows in search of something he cannot name. His journey takes him into the jungle, where he encounters a mysterious musician.

Drawn into a world of strange encounters, hidden paths, and extraordinary music, the Boy discovers the song shared by all living things. Under the guidance of the musician, he begins to understand that finding his own place in the world requires more than searching for answers. He must learn to listen.

But the journey is not a simple path toward enlightenment. Through solitude, fear, loss, and unexpected companionship, the Boy must discover for himself what it means to find his own music.

If this sounds interesting to you, please DM me and i'll let you know what i'm looking for in feedback. And as mentioned, happy to do a bookswap.