My Critique [2058]: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/I5ifUIrDJi

Hello! My first post here. I'm in the process of starting a Substack of travel stories of mine. This will be the first and I'd love to know if you think it's suitable. I'm not a baby writer, but I don't have much experience in Literary Non-Fiction (is this Literary Non-Fiction?).

Baaaarby

United Kingdom, June 2026: I like the idea of having a pet. A cat, better two, or a dog that looks a bit funny. I like the idea of putting fresh laundry on the balcony on a sunny day. My eternal enemy in life is boredom, so I love changing up my flat. I also like living in the middle of everything, where I can leave my flat and see life happening around me. Ideally, I’d live next to a downtown park where I can lie down in the summer to read or listen to music. 

If I lived in the Barbican, I wouldn't have any of that. I wouldn’t be allowed, or it wouldn’t be possible. Somehow, I couldn’t care less. If I was offered a lease there (which unfortunately will never happen), I wouldn’t think twice about accepting. I’d barely think once before signing that contract. I’d move in before I can finish spelling the word ‘Brutalism’. 

Before today, the Barbican was nothing more than a place I had heard about. A footnote in a modern architecture class I took at university. The topic of a TikTok thinkpiece that I watched completely but never thought about again. The first two times I came to London I didn’t even consider visiting it. This time, on a day when my London host and buddy Felix is working, I thought why not. I‘ve already seen all the landmarks one has to see when in London. Why not check out the Barbican.

I’m standing in the lobby of the Barbican Centre and the Barbican walking tour I booked will begin in an hour. To keep my mind open, I didn’t do any research and barely know where I am. Reaching the lobby already meant getting lost. In a way, I've already done my own walking tour, taken lots of pictures and soaked up the vibes. I have some ideas, but generally, I didn't understand what I was walking through. 

To me, it seemed like an unusually quiet and empty part of London that lacked greenery. The overwhelming amount of concrete and distinctive sameness across all the buildings made it feel vaguely imposing and aggressive. I looked at a free art exhibition I found in a corner, a kind of mud hut with a strong cinnamon scent. I'm sure it was relevant, but its relevance didn't reveal itself to me.

I’m not alone in the lobby, not at all. There are hundreds of giddy young adults in shiny graduation robes running around. There must be some kind of event here today. Honestly, the frenetic energy is a bit much for me. I came here seeking a low-stimulation, intellectual escape after a physically and socially intense week spent reuniting with friends all over the UK. 

I can’t even hide inside my phone, because I’m on 13 per cent battery. I still have two to three hours of tour ahead of me and I want to take pictures. I also need my phone to find my way back to Felix’s flat afterwards. I know London, but I don’t know it like that.

I spend some minutes begging everyone working here for a charger or an outlet. It results in nothing besides me getting annoyed at the Barbican employees who refuse to help me. In a last attempt, I buy an overpriced brownie in the Barbican canteen in the hopes of finding an outlet there.

This works and I finally find electricity, only to discover that my EU to UK adapter doesn’t work anymore. I surrender to 13 per cent battery and eat my brownie while staring into the void. There’s nothing, absolutely nothing I can do to avoid looking at robed students celebrating and having the time of their lives. 

Time passes unbearably slowly but eventually, the students leave to attend their actual graduation ceremony and I make my way to the walking tour meeting spot. It starts next to the shop that I have browsed extensively. Of course, I’ve already bought an overpriced tote bag. Is everything in London overpriced? Or am I poor? 

The walking tour begins, ending my eternity of purposelessness. We’re about ten people, but I don’t care much about anyone else. In the past, I’ve used walking tours to find friends. Back when I was a lonely solo traveller. Currently, I have the opposite problem of nearly excessive pleasant company. 

Instead, I’m locked in on our guide, a very British and surprisingly young man who speaks fast but with great precision and knowledge. Again, it makes me remember other walking tours and how, in some countries where English isn’t common, language can be a problem. Today, I will understand everything. I’m not lonely. My phone won’t distract me. I couldn’t be any more prepared to learn about the Barbican. It better be interesting.

The guide starts by covering the basic facts about the Barbican that I already know. Earlier, when I couldn’t bear looking at more happy graduates, I’d used two per cent of my battery to read a basic summary of the Barbican’s history.

Contrary to popular belief, the Baaaarby (I pronounce this with a ridiculous British accent in my head, and I also don’t think anyone else calls it that) was not built as social housing. It was built by the city in the 60s and 70s in a very central location in London that had been flattened in the war. It was always intended to appeal to a more affluent audience.

Under Thatcher in the 80s, most of it was sold to the people living there. In the 2000s, it was voted London’s ugliest building. Now, it’s trendier again. I’m unsure if that makes me basic because I’m following a trend or cool because I’m with the zeitgeist. Sadly, this is not something my guide can help me figure out.

Instead, he tells us that prices here are extortionate, even for London. There is a waitlist for the few flats still owned by the council, but it can take decades. This knowledge sparks something in me. How epic would it be to live here. In London’s ugliest building. In one of the world's most accomplished Brutalist projects. Maybe I’m a victim of scarcity economics. Maybe this is just the first time I’m considering the Barbican as a place where people actually live.

As we’re leaving the Barbican Centre to explore more of the estate, I can’t help but disagree that the Barbican is ugly. It’s definitely too much concrete and the ground would benefit tremendously from being unsealed. People in the 60s must’ve hated grass. But the buildings are so unique and have so much personality. It might be a rather aggressive personality. But it’s beginning to win me over. 

From the outside, all the concrete walls have a stone-like finish that makes Brutalism purists say that the Barbican isn’t actually Brutalist, as that would require untreated concrete. I learn that said finish was achieved in a torturous hand-hammering process that left many of the (apparently mostly Black) construction workers with respiratory diseases and permanent nerve damage in their hands. The guide tells us this in between other curious bits about the Barbican. Fun fact! This place was built on exploitation. Moving on.

Many of the buildings have colorful red and yellow geraniums on their balconies and it helps tremendously in reducing the aggressive vibe of all the concrete. Our guide explains that all people living in the Barbican are supposed to keep geraniums on their balconies. Reducing the oppressiveness of the Barbican through dictating flower choices. I like it.

We continue walking to areas I had already seen when I was lost in the Barbican two hours earlier. We stop where, when I still had battery, I took a sneaky but epic photo of a man sunbathing shirtless on the plain concrete. He had put his shirt to cover his eyes, so he couldn’t see me being very inconsiderate of his privacy. I couldn’t help but capture him being so human in the hostile geometry of the Barbican. The idea of owning a luxury flat in the Barbican but sunbathing on plain concrete in public. I like it.

It turns out that this spot used to be the Barbican’s main entrance. Only a grand staircase remains as a remnant of that. Sadly, everyone ended up using a different entrance that was originally intended for truck deliveries. Accordingly, that one became the main one. Because of that, the Barbican layout doesn’t quite make sense today. It gives me way too much joy knowing that I wasn’t lost because I’m stupid, but because the Barbican (reminder: a Brutalist masterpiece) is a little bit of a mess.

The guide also explains that the architects were very inspired by Italy and Egypt and there are lots of references to both places in the way the Barbican is built. From a certain angle, the grand staircase looks like the Sphinx. I can’t help but ask myself “Why?!” but I don’t dare ask this idiosyncratic question. I’m sure they had their reasons. It just seems a little nerdy to me. Some of Britain’s smartest men looking at 4,000-year-old sphinxes and pyramids and thinking “Hell yeah, we need more of that vibe for our concrete estate.”

Over the course of the next two hours, more and more of these absurdities reveal themselves. No pets in the flats, and the original waste management system doesn’t really work. No major rearrangements of the rooms. Heating is centrally controlled. Barbican citizens gain access to private parks but can’t bring a ball or play loud music there. 

It’s all a bit silly, but together with the Barbican’s oppressive looks, I find it very endearing. Maybe it was the shirtless man on the concrete. Maybe it’s the guide telling of the reality of actually living here. Maybe it’s the graduates filling it with frantic excitement. But underneath the excessive concrete, the Barbican is embarrassingly human. 

Making it large and imposing couldn’t stop the Barbican from being human. Overcomplexity and random Egyptian references couldn’t stop it either. Even the endlessly strict rules can’t change it. The Barbican, built as a carless utopian district for rich people, is a mess.

It’s a mess and it’s human and it keeps changing and so do the people that keep using it in ways it wasn’t intended to be used. All the concrete gives it a sense of lifelessness, like it’s trying to hide its humanity. But it can’t. It’s a district-size showcase that nothing we build can ever be anything other than human. No amount of intellect or money or power can change it. It’s both tragic and beautiful, and surprisingly funny. Shakespearean, one might even say. 

Despite being on five per cent battery (I couldn’t resist taking more pictures), I’m euphoric after the walking tour. I loved the Barbican more than I ever expected. I want to live here even though I might hate it because it’s impractical. Realistically, I won’t ever be able to afford living here. Realistically, I should focus on finding the right tube to take me home. 

It’s all a bit absurd. But so deliciously human.

HALLOWEEN CONTEST ENDS TOMORROW WHICH IS FRIDAY AND YOU HAVE LESS THAN 48 HOURS TO FINISH YOUR SUBMISSION.

That is all.

This is the opening of my 81k manuscript.

My comps are Wake Up and Open Your Eyes by Clay McLeod Chapman & American Rapture by CJ Leede, so if you read either of those books, I'd LOVE to hear from you. Or if you're a fan of Evil Dead, When Evil Lurks, The Sadness, The Thing, Society, Don't Look Up, etc. that's awesome, too.

Other than that, I'm looking for standard ol' feedback.

TW: Body horror.

| Crit [2170] |

Here's the link.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1NEVXEBNUwDBLC8gf-xjAaGiX9L3JVd5xhmlKN4CS8Ao/edit?usp=sharing

Chapter one (draft) of the novella I'm writing. This is my first time posting on this subreddit so I'd appreciate knowing if there's anything I could improve on.

Critique: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1xb5lo9/comment/19rg7jzc1tqed/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

What I'm Looking For: - Thoughts on character voice - Thoughts on pacing - Thoughts on coherence - Thoughts on execution - Does it catch your interest?

It is five o'clock ante-meridiem; I am now seen on camera A-Thirteen-One. The Eyes shift on the wall once-more.

Today inaugurates the three-day working period. I'm happy with how I utilized my off-days. I work Monday to Wednesday. I have Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday off. I spent my Thursday recovering from the sleep deprivation, Friday was spent cleaning, Saturday was spent running errands, and Sunday was spent preparing for Monday.

I catch a low---subtle whirr. Whilst fumbling with the buttons of my shirt I note the sound comes from above the front door. I remind myself to pay it no mind. I focus on my reflection; I look less tired than last week. My eyes flick to the right. I subsequently squeeze them shut.

I adjust my collar meticulously in the mirror before grabbing my coat from the coat rack and putting it on. The jingle of the keys remind me they're in the pocket. Exiting, I take extra care to lock the door behind me. I am now seen on camera A-Thirteen-Zero. The Eyes shift once-more.

The sky is a somber-grey and the winds are chilling. The winter air is crisp. The grey-and-white color scheme of the houses creates a very solemn feeling in my chest. Observing these houses I remember how Mama would wish the city had a more colorful palette. The whoosh of air created from a passing car reminds me I need to make my way to work.

I could head west and take that shortcut or use the one currently in front of me. The city has a central tower, three surrounding streets, and four straight-shots to the center north, east, west, and south. It would be nice to take the long way, however, it would be more efficient to take the shortcut regardless. Five thirty-two o'clock ante-meridiem I arrive at Scire Central and am seen on camera T-1. The Eyes shift once-more.

I sit at my desk, log onto the computer, and open the Network. I surveil a man of the name Jean Lee. Every tiny---miniscule---involuntary movement made is spotted and logged. What time he sleeps. What time he wakes. How long it took him to shower. If he used a washcloth. If he used soap. If he washed his ass. If he shaved. How he shaved. How long he used the bathroom. If he cleaned up after himself after using the bathroom. If he wiped his ass after using the bathroom. Every single---negligent detail. I fight through the disgust---the repulsion. The sickening---gut-wrenching hate that claws out from my supple, tenuous flesh.

These thoughts tide me over for the following work-days.

Crit

Exercise suggested by another poster. Posting publically because I didn't want to post my writing on someone else's writing, and it didn't seem fair to do it in DM when the other challenge attempt was shared publicly (hopefully this is OK? probably I'm overthinking)

Working with following constraints:

- 2 sentences max

- Established : in scene before they had a fight with some other character due to messed up prior run. To avoid potential repetition, lets make other character unnamed (as if it was mentioned in last sentance)
- Scene : Character is going to grocery shop.
- Narrative : During the scene character should start angry but become more and more relaxed.
- Leitmotif : Lets say the leitmotif is characters innate anxiety symbolized by how they walk.
- Foreshadowing : Because they are anxious attempting to relax, and not paying attention to current list, they will forget something again.

Guiding Questions (but also welcome any criticisms)

- How legible/readable is it?

- Info balance - what (potentially) crucial context is missing and what feels like extraneous detail?

- I'm not really sure what else to ask, this is incredibly short

Text

John limped into the corner shop, grinding his teeth and thinking; that woman, that awful harridan, that ginger hag with the migraines, yelling because he forgot again (like always), and she only asked for one thing (like always), and since he returned from the war with shrapnel in his knee and a damaged brain he always made a fool of himself, didn’t he, and John was still thinking this as he furiously threw loose change at the counter, packed up the Valerian root, stomp-limped outside into the miserable rain and waited for the bus. How awful it must be, he then thought, to suffer those migraines, and how awful it must’ve been to wait all the time he was away, almost as awful as being away and missing her, his red-haired battle-axe, and as the bus rattled and bounced over craters of potholes on the road home John worried at this thought like biting nails down to the quick, until the thought was calm and nothing, and he stood dripping at his front door, slid the key into the lock and realized - he forgot to buy painkillers again.

u/archdan shred to heart's content (and thanks for suggesting it), I'm curious where this could do with refining in terms of legibility

Crits: [2170] , [443]

Hey guys, its my first time posting here haha, but please be as brutal as possible, thanks in advance!

Some info:

I left the ending sorta ambiguous on purpose, though i'm not sure if it works.

I tried to add transitions between scenes but I also wanted more abruptness in them, since this is more of a memoir.
-------------------

“Hey, Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Why is the sky blue?”
“I don’t know.”
“I really like the color blue. I think when I grow up I’ll buy a blue car.”
“Then make sure you do well in school!”
“Mom, why does that man only have one arm?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Come on, you’re almost late to your piano class.”
“Mom?”
“What?”
“I don’t wanna go.”
“If you don’t want to go, you don’t have to.”
“I’ll go, Mom.”
“Then let’s go.”

The summer I was ten, I thought the sky had turned gray. When I told my mom, she pressed a hand to my forehead and told me to get back in bed.

My eyes fluttered open the next morning to the familiar feeling of my mom putting my socks on for me. I curled up and tried to return to my dream, but the blankets were yanked off me, and the glaring light of a lamp illuminated the room.

“Mom? I think I’m sick.”
“No, you probably just have a cold.”
“But my head is hurting so much.”
“That’s normal. Come on, you’re gonna be late to morning tutoring.”
“I—never mind.”

I looked outside the window. The sky was still covered with stars, and it seemed even the birds hadn’t yet awoken. I slowly dragged my body downstairs into the car, falling asleep once more to the gentle hum of the engine.

“Jack?”
“Mhm?”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, Mr. Ben, I’m so sorry I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Don’t let it happen again, and please stop doodling in your notebook.”
“Of course, Mr. Ben.”
“Good, now can someone tell me what the title ‘All Summer in a Day’ means?”

Apparently, in the story, the kids on Venus could only see the sun for one hour once every seven years. As I leaned my head on one palm, I wondered what happened to Margot, the protagonist of the short story who had dreamt of seeing the sun once more.

I couldn’t understand what Margot felt, but I knew how I felt when I returned home that Saturday and found out that my friends had spent the day together outside playing soccer.

That evening, I decided to secretly copy the answer key into my math workbook, and spent the rest of the time staring outside at a small bird sitting on a single willow tree shaking gently in the wind beside a small, lotus-filled pond.

In my hands, I played with a toy airplane my friend had given me for my birthday, imagining it carrying me, going up and down and in circles through the bright blue sky.

Joanna was my best friend, and she liked reading. She especially liked the Magic Tree House series, and it was her dream to build a treehouse with me.

“Jack! Why are you so slow?”
“Maybe because I’m carrying this gigantic board?”
“Doesn’t sound like my problem!”
“Alright, you can carry it next time.”
“Haha, kidding—”

I smiled as I climbed up the ladder to where she was sitting, slowly heaving a wooden board across to her, and watched her rest it between two large branches.

“I think we need another board.”
“Why? I know you’re tall, but you’re not that tall.”
“Are you dumb? Where are you gonna lie down?”
“Hey!”

We were soon finished with our attempt. Though maybe two boards we could barely sit on didn’t pass the test for being a magic treehouse.

“Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“Look at the sky.”
“What about it?”
“I’ll be a pilot one day.”
“Flying what? The model airplane you gave me?”
“I’m serious!”
“Do I get free flights then?”
“Of course not! You are definitely getting charged double, haha.”

I looked up and smiled, letting out a small sigh as I watched a swarm of swallows sail across the sky.

“Joanna?”
“Yeah?”
“Will we be friends forever?”
“Of course! In fact, let’s meet here every month!”
“What if one of us can’t make it?”
“Haha, then the other one gets more room, I guess!”

I turned my head to look at her. She was lying on her back, staring into the sky; her eyes were half closed and the corners of her mouth bent upwards ever so slightly as she turned and looked at me.

“Remember—don’t make me come here alone!”
“Definitely! When have I ever lied?”

That summer was also the summer my mom got very sick. I knew it when I was rushed out of my math class to the hospital.

“Dad, I don’t like it here…”
“It’s okay, everything is going to be okay.”
“I don’t like the smell.”
“It’s going to be okay, it’s going to be okay.”
“Dad, why is Mom sick?”
“She worked too hard.”
“Dad, what’s cancer?”
“Don’t worry about it, it’s going to be okay.”

Did I mention I don’t like hospitals?

I didn’t like it when they told us my mom had cancer; when they told us my mom needed another operation; when they told us my mom would need to take pills every day to live normally.

Often, I would sit by the door, kicking my legs aimlessly at the air. I would watch my dad run frantically in and out of the room, only turning to give me a weary smile when he saw me watching.

I would look up. There was no sky, only the metallic gray ceiling and my reflection staring back at me. I would fiddle with my toy airplane and try to smile, but it seemed I had forgotten how.

For the rest of that summer, I had to stay in the hospital each day after my classes, doing my homework on a small desk by my mom’s bedside, relying on a ray of warm light making it through the gray clouds to see.

I only truly understood my mom was sick when, after I failed to swallow my headache pills, she hit me for the first time. A small slap on my head, yet I felt dizzy and my legs went numb.

“Mom? You promised me you would never hit me.”

I looked into her eyes, tears welling up. I saw her face turn pale as she almost fell out of her hospital bed rushing to hug me.

I flinched and moved my head backwards, and I saw her eyes well up as she held on to me and said she was so, so sorry, that it would never happen again, and that she loved me so, so much.

I could only cry in her arms, letting my arms hang helplessly by my side.

“Mom? Can I skip piano class tomorrow?”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”

That summer was also the last I spent with my best friend.

We laughed as we tried to climb the old goldenrain tree we had long since been acquainted with. We laughed as we both stood on its tall branches. I laughed as I threw a handful of leaves at her. She stopped laughing when she slipped and fell backwards.

I rushed down the ladder and knelt down beside her. She had fallen onto a boulder.

My hands shook as I called my father, my breath getting faster as I kept pressing the wrong numbers before finally hearing my dad on the other side.

“Dad, please come, Joanna is hurt really bad, please come.”
“Slow down, I’m coming right now. Stay where you are.”
“Please come fast, please.”

I tried to reach out to move her, but my hands didn’t know what to do. I could only cry as I heard my dad’s heavy footsteps rushing over.

“Dad, I didn’t mean to do it! I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s okay, it’s okay, we know you didn’t mean to.”
“Will she be fine?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Please don’t lie to me.”

I remember my dad taking me in his arms; I remember the grim look on his face as he called the ambulance; I remember looking away as her parents rushed over; I remember crying by my dad’s side in the hospital waiting room.

“Dad? What’s a vegetative state?”
“It just means she can sleep for a long, long time.”
“Like the princess in the story?”
“Yes, just like her.”
“Can we still play together?”
“Maybe later.”
“Will she die?”
“Of course not.”

I knew she wasn’t sleeping. I had briefly seen her lying on the bed in her room. Like so many times before, she was lying on her back looking upwards past the ceiling towards the sky.

I couldn’t bring myself to walk into that room, but I wondered if her sky had also turned gray. I stared at her for a while outside the room, before gently placing a small lotus flower on a hospital tray beside me.

“What happens after I die, Dad?”
“You will go to heaven, where you will get to meet your grandparents again!”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure of it.”

Well, I wasn’t so sure of it as I lay on the treehouse, taking up both of the boards. I wasn’t sure as I stared at the small model airplane she had given me for my birthday. I looked down towards the ground; it seemed so far off.

“Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“Will you come here with me every month?”

I stared back up at the gray sky, at a small swallow flitting across it, carried by a soft summer breeze. I smiled and rolled away from the edge.

“Of course! When have I ever lied?”

Critique

"It was a rainy sunset over a vast green hilly field. Dark gray clouds covered the sky, and the rain grew heavier until it gave way to a thunderstorm.

Through the rain and lightning, I could see The girl standing right next to her parked car.

I slowly descended feet first from the clouds. From above, I could look at her figure - smaller stature than mine, Long Brown Hair, blue jeans, and every little facial feature of her.

In the past, we ended up falling through and leaving a bittersweet feeling behind. Neither of us has spoken to the other in a long time, and I wanted to know what the hell she was doing here in weather like this.

I finally landed on the wet grass and walked in her direction.

Just like she used to, she had to tilt up her head to meet my eyes. Her Eyes were a little bit wide open and I saw clearly their color again. The way she spoke to me seemed like she was feeling a bit shy, I'm not sure.

She told me what was troubling her - her car had broken down, and she had no idea what to do. I'm no mechanic, but I managed to fix it easily.

The rain and wind grew stronger, I stood outside and she got inside the car. She rolled the window down slightly so we could speak for a few moments. In a straightforward manner I asked her if she was leaving our town for good, which she responded by nodding her head and saying yes.

Man-made weapons have absolute no power against me, but when I heard that answer, it really felt like a train had hit me. I wanted to know where she was going to, so I asked her. While looking away, she said she wouldn't tell me. I told her I was capable to listen to others' thoughts - and that I would not do it on her.

I'm pretty sure she thought I was lying, judging by the look on her face as she stared into my green fractal eyes. She was probably imagining some horrible things on purpose, trying to provoke a reaction from me to see if I was telling the truth about not reading her thoughts.

I don't remember saying goodbye to her. I turned away from the car, and walked for a while. I looked up to the wild thunderstorm and wished to be in the clouds with the rain and lightning again. Tearing through the sound barrier, I surged into the chaotic thunderstorm.

I am not going to lie, I did feel that bittersweet feeling again."

(edited) : Articles
Word budget economy:

• Critique 1 : 400
• Critique 2 : 312
• Critique 3 : 469

Please consider these two paragraphs about same scene:

• The scene describes Hook+beat 1 Act 3/4 of horror story
• Amidst playing 3 boys find torn bandages in the branches. Instead of considering danger their world substitutes reality.
• This beat should evoke following moods : Drama, Adventure, Comedy, Mystery and signal setup for horror.

Important info:

• The narrator is part of the story (one of the kids) and needs to serve as a subtle, flamboyant annoyance (mirroring the character of his younger self)
• In this beat he should interrupt as a foreshadowing

Beat 1 A : (Flamboyant / Atmospheric Variant)

Gazing up at the gray sky, the white bandages swayed in the evening breeze. They moved just enough to be noticed, occasionally nudged by the wind, only to suggest the way. To the children, the white lines strung between branches didn't suggest danger, but rather reflection. Every subtle sway directed their gaze to their latest adventure and their role in it, presenting to them the game board of their epic.

All three boys, all at once, climbed onto a small patch of earth for a better view, cheerfully reminiscing about the time spent together, never actually acknowledging one another. A gentle breeze touched the bandages as if composing a symphony, where each note was plucked in reverse of their experiences, finally culminating in a dissonant chord of their first jump. Nature itself failed to recognize that their playground was nothing more than a simple, shallow sewer drain, or to reprimand them for ignoring their obligations and stern instructions.

The boys revisited their investigation of the Amazon's trash, the exploration of its boundaries, the rescue mission of the missing shoe, and finally, the first great leap of mankind. Their reminiscing was cut short once their gaze found the white bundle with reddish-brown stains, moving to the breeze's rhythm like a trophy of a now-ending adventure.

Beat 1 B : (Idiomatic / Direct Variant)

The torn bandages swayed alluringly between the branches. Oh thee who wonder, perhaps ponder it over. To the three boys, white lines seemed like they were echoes of their prior epic adventures. They mirrored the game board of their playground, now seemingly leading back to the first jump. Finding sufficiently approachable elevation, the boys reminisced over their prior games, with a sort of pride. As if they weren’t playing in the sewer for this entire time – skipping class paid off. The investigation, the exploration, the rescue and the first jump neatly traced a path to a tree. High in the branches was lodged a white bundle, stained with uneven, reddish-brown splotches.

Looking for critiques regarding:

• Pacing between paragraphs given varying Narrators voices.
  • In paragraph A narrator is more flamboyant
  • In paragraph B narrator is more idiomatic
• Cadence and pacing between Paragraph:
  • I'm worried that overly flamboyant narrator might hinder the experience and slow down the story too much.
• I'm also looking for any unintentional shift in pacing.

First, the Halloween contest is open until Friday at midnight Eastern time. There's still time to enter!

Alright. I'm looking for opinions about stakes. How do you build up what matters in your story so people are compelled to read on?

As a for instance, I'm finishing up Clockwork Orange. I don't know that I'd say the stakes were clear in the first part, yeah? But about halfway through the second part, there are a few things that pop out. Free will. The ability to keep the things you love. Friendships and family. Alex gets all these things stripped from him though I don't think he would have identified them as that important to think about in the first part of the book. But the point is the larger commentary on how much control society should have over people to make life peaceful for everyone. Where is that balance? And that larger point doesn't start coming in until the third part.

So, I guess what I'm getting at is story structure and how that plays into how we evaluate the stakes of a story. And do we even all come away with the same stakes when we're reading?

Thoughts? How do you go about setting up those parts?

Story: -

https://docs.google.com/document/d/12OhXYwF036Tn5HUPeUsJFRKFvQMbue-TtYisKoiq6Zg/edit?usp=sharing

Crits: -

[2200] https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1v7yyhl/comment/p09tnj9/?context=3

[2900] https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1wy8hdb/comment/pefbknx/?context=3

[2377] https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1wyt2il/comment/pea0yxh/?context=3

Note: -

One of the crits is 3 months ago but I don't know how to see the exact date, so just in case, I added another crit.

Feedback note: -

The highlights the sentences or phrases where I'm not sure if it's good enough, so if you wish, please comment on those as well.

My Critique [1379]| https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/vqNdmfQ5AB

I would have critiqued more before posting myself, but unfortunately I am on a tight schedule. I will contribute further whenever possible.

____

In Time And Not

Once in time, a boy drops a watch, and it dents. The boy cries, then cries walking home, then wipes his tears on a sooty sleeve. He examines the watch, running his finger across the dent, feeling how his finger molds into it. The hands tick, tick, tick, again and again. He imagines the gears inside, grinding quietly, pushing the watch along. A blacksmith close by slams a hammer onto a melting piece of metal, striking, breaking, molding. The boy cries because the watch was ‘worth more than our house, boy,’ as his mother had said. The boy hardens his soft mouth and sees a pawn shop far, far away.

In time, a boy with the same mouth as the first boy pulls a watch with a dent out of an ornate drawer. He coughs, his voice suspended between young boy and young man. He looks at it, then at a portrait of the first boy with his deep wrinkles and white hair and sharp suit over bone and skin. At the watch, then at a random message on his phone. The watch slides from between his fingers, and into the drawer, with a heavy thud. As he turns, a moonlit corridor and a small hand fumbling inside a drawer appear in his periphery, vanishing before thoughts form. Blinking eyes trace back to the watch, glossing over the deep dent, over the roughly carved initials. He closes the drawer on fading light.

In time, the soot-covered crying boy—now with a man’s face—walks into a shop covered with clocks, a crumpled list in his hand, a serial number scribbled in its corner. He searches for and finds a watch with a dent and pays in what was ‘worth more than our house, boy’. He takes a tool and pushes it into the watch as it bleeds shavings. He coughs, soot misting over the watch. At home, he glances at his awkwardly carved initials, feels how his finger fits perfectly in the dent. He notices scratches. Looking around himself absentmindedly, he throws it in an ornate drawer. His son comes to him, tells him with a lisping voice that he’s going to have a boy, tells him the boy will have his smile. The boy with a man’s face doesn’t smile until he does, taut lips blooming.

In time, the boy with the phone sits in a room joined to other rooms, and his father enters from one or another of them. He asks, with a lisping voice, what the boy is doing, understands that he is doing nothing, and tells him the tale of a grandfather, the boy’s grandfather, who was a soot-covered blacksmith apprentice, who lived in a house worth a watch, who the boy should aspire to be. The boy listens and doesn’t, and remembers the remembrance of his father. Later, his mind wanders to a watch in a drawer somewhere in a big house, fading light falling across its hands through a slit in the drawer. He imagines it without a dent.

Soon, in a big house, at the end of a long, dark corridor, the soot-covered boy lies under a sheet, bone under his skin, staring at his pristine face lined with deep wrinkles reflected in the window. The boy in the window stares back at him, glancing at a watch with a dent sitting on his plain side table. The hands lag behind, out of sync with the clock on the wall. A tear slides down his cheek, nestling in his ear. His throat screams for water. He rises in stutters and opens the plain side table drawer, pulling out fraying, aging documents. He picks up a pen inset with a ruby, hand trembling from its weight. He scratches out lines, adds others, and exhales.

A full-cheeked boy with a mouth like his grandfather’s stands in a moonlit corridor. He reaches up to open an ornate drawer, moonlight coating everything in white silver. His hand fumbles inside, catching on a round object, and he pulls it out. He exhales over it, mist building on the glass, blowing away the dust. His fingers dip into a dent in the back, not quite fitting. He sees shapes on the back, ridges and edges. He runs to the room of a boy covered in soot and wrinkles, whose mouth is like his.

A servant stands in shadows, keeping watch over the master of the estate—the man whose lungs were made of soot. The room has a bed against one wall, the opposite wall a window. A plain side table sits in the middle. The soot-lunged man lies on the bed. A boy, the grandson of the estate, runs into the room. Something in the grandson’s hand catches the moonlight. The servant strains to pluck voices floating in the air, and fails, for half are too frail and half too soft. The boy holds up the watch, moonlight in his eyes, standing in front of the window. The master of the estate looks, then moves his lips. The boy shakes the watch, coming forward slowly. Voices start swimming in the air, become sharp and brittle and high, stinging the servant’s ears. The boy puts the watch on the plain side table, and runs out. A sniffle echoes in his wake. The master of the estate stares at the window; something gleams on his cheek, rolling down, nestling in his ear; he pulls some documents from the side table, picks up his ruby pen, and writes. He calls for water. He tells the servant to put a watch in an ornate drawer, at the end of a long, moonlit corridor, in a big house.

In time, when the boy with his grandfather’s mouth turns eighteen, people in black coats and ties and shirts starched white visit. They talk of coming of age, they talk of segments of wills. They talk of how a particular segment was reserved until he came of age. They tell him that he has inherited a broken, inscribed watch. The boy sees a moonlit night and a soot-lunged man, and an ornate drawer and a dent. He searches for an ornate drawer in a big house with joint rooms and carpeted corridors and sooty fireplaces. He finds it. He opens it. He sees dust dark as soot, and an imprint slowly fading. He stares, then closes the drawer, his face in battle between grimace and smile. He imagines the watch, imagines it with a dent.

In between, the drawer was opened, closed; sunlight fell in, moonlight did too. Hands touched the watch, left prints and signs. In time, it was picked up, and placed in a pocket.

Through time, the watch passed hands, then more hands. Soft hands, hard hands, thin hands, thick hands, scarred hands, clean hands, calloused hands, supple hands, brittle hands, hands and hands. No finger fit the dent, and each felt like it did.

Soon or late, it reached another pair of hands, and its face was polished bright. It was opened wide, spilling gears and screws, and dust and soot were wiped off. It felt the cushioned comfort of velvet against its back, molding perfectly into the dent, and was buried under a thin glass sheet. It rested there, hands unmoving.

Once in time and not, it thought it saw a man with another soot-lunged man’s mouth, but then the moment passed.

Crits: 2332 2377

Ethiopia

This one's an older story of mine that I translated into English. Looking for any feedback on the characters, pace, stakes, prose, etc. It's a complete literary short story.

EDIT: also good web hygiene -> NEVER click links in google doc comments (left by spam bots) if you don't recognize the username.

Crit - 3891

Document Link - 2332

TLDR; open to any criticism but primarily looking for an idea of how it reads to someone unfamiliar with the world and lacking some context (to give me better idea what to revise).

Long + rambly version

I'm working on some short stories/serials set in a paranormal urban fantasy universe. This is first part of a completed 12.5K short story. I have gotten feedback from people familiar with the world and my original outlines (this is set after a planned novel i still haven't completed), but I'd appreciate some fresh perspectives from readers coming in entirely blind.

Some guiding questions:

- is it readable, and if so, how easily? intended to be airport style pulpy genre fiction, so appreciate pinpointing anything that gets in the way of that

- i'm aware a few parts/lines pretend the reader already has more context. how much does this pull you out? cut or expand these parts with more info, do you reckon?

- do you have some shape of what the story could be in mind, by the end (if you made it to the end)? Like, if I put on episode of Midsummer Murders I can kind of tell what ballpark it's going to be in, you know? Do you have some genre expectations already set, in other words, or does it feel entirely arbitrary and meandering?

- if you tapped out (stopped reading), where and why?

- craft criticism on technicals like prose, voice, characterisation, stakes, conflict, scene structure, pacing, etc always welcome. shred, go wild.

Note on setting:

- I'm not American. For reasons, this world/story are set in America. Miami is fairly arbitrary at this stage but there's some placeholders, and likely many things I haven't considered (so, happy to hear obvious mistakes so I can fix them, but I'm not trying to offend anyone on purpose here).

Thanks for feedback and your time.

My critiques | [2377]
This is my first time writing in a loooong long time, so I'm really just looking for any critique people feel they want to give! However broad or granular you want to get. Feel free to tell me something's trash as long as you can articulate why it's trash or what would make it less trash.

For a little context, this was written basically intending it to be a prologue for a post-apocalyptic/horror/gaslight/steampunk fantasy. (Warning, some gore)

Perhaps part of a first chapter/introduction for one character's point of view.

As such, mostly I want to know the following:

Was it enjoyable? Are you intrigued? Did the narrator have a clear and natural voice?

Thanks in advance.

----

Sure, it’s a hard job being a Torch, but it’s worth it.

That’s the line that gets you the free beer, or the doe eyes, or the big innocent smile with the ‘I wanna be just like you when I grow up’. They should give us recruitment bonuses or something for that last one. Anyway, before the ‘it’s worth it’ you have to lay it on a little thicker, butter them up, you know?

It’s hot as a Burner’s balls. It’s exhausting. Sometimes it takes days to get the blight-ash stink out of your beard. And yeah, sure, it’s dangerous. Every day you walk out onto the torch line you know you might not walk off. But, (this is where you pause and take a pensive-looking gulp of beer,) that’s the price we pay. And it’s a small price to make sure you’n your’n are safe from the Blight.

You start there. Then another pause while you swirl the glass around a bit; like you’re lost in the memory of the Torch siblings you’ve lost (which you shouldn’t be, don’t think about that). Then you lock eyes, say it, maybe with a sigh. ‘It’s a hard job. But it’s worth it.’ Make them feel like they’re worth it, let that sink in while you finish your beer. Works every time. Most of the time. Now and then at least.

Of course, it’s most definitely not worth it. Not the pay, not the free beer, not the starry eyed kids calling you a hero. Hell, not even the women - unless you’re down in Letic, but maybe I’ve just got a thing for Leticians. Even then, it’s probably not. Not when things go wrong at least.

Nothing is worth having to make the choice between huffing up great big panicky recycled lung-fulls of your own reeking sweat, shit and piss as it sloshes around in your boots; and on the other hand ripping your hood off to choke on blight-smoke that’s sure to leave your eye-juice spilling down your cheeks before you run out of breath for screaming.

Yet here we are.

Honestly from what I’m seeing happen to Boric, maybe my eyes melting out would’ve been the right call. Plus when you’re screaming out you’re not breathing in. I’m an optimist, see.

It’s a funny thing about Compound 38. When the Hand added c38 to the mix there was a lot of chatter going around about where it came from. Speculation always flies from amateur alchemists about each new compound. The longest odds in our company’s betting pool was that it was supposedly distilled from some critter up in County Morfen, what lives in the blighted scrublands in the hills there. It’s some little furry fella. Looks like it’d be all cuddly as a kitten, or maybe make a nice winter hat at least. Instead, it’s a venomous fuck that makes your arm, foot, whatever it bit swell up so much the skin rips, makes the muscle twist and grow tumors so fast it tears itself apart, and melts whatever fat you got on your bones right off while you try to run away screaming. Then the little fuck just wanders behind lapping up what you left on the ground like a carefree bunny munching on dandelions. That’s what Tarfin said was the truth at least, and his brother’s neighbor’s uncle is in the 109^th. Boric pissed in Tarf’s shoe that night for the horse shit story. That was the funny part.

Tarfin is a dick.

Dick or not, based on the way Boric’s blood and fat was seeping out the seams on his suit while he flopped around and tried to bend his bloated arms up to pull off his hood, I’d say Tarf’s brother’s neighbor’s uncle had good scuttlebutt. So I suppose Tarfin is also a dick with a fatter coinpurse.

I quieted Boric, for his sake. His smell was in the air now and it wouldn’t be long until the kirns were here. So I guess it was for all our sake. It definitely wasn’t because I couldn’t take the screaming, or the flailing limbs throwing reflections on the edges of my mask even when I wasn’t looking, or the constant squeeking of his suit. It wasn’t just for my sake. I’m a hardened Lineman of the Torch Corps. Just don’t ask my boots if they agree with that.

“Mekin, Ideth! You’n get up with Tamm at Thumb. They’ll come through the thinner trees there, bet my balls on it. Light up as soon as you hear ‘em. Do. Not. Wait! The fuckers here haven’t learned to fake their calls yet. Okay? I said got it?! Now, go!” I was shouting as loud as I could by the end, shoved Mekin to get his attention or start him moving, wasn’t sure which, but they had to go, and go now.

I really hoped they were at least half listening before I got their eyes off Boric. They tripped over each other trying to run off to the left flank of the unit and meet up with Tamm, so it occurred to me that I probably should’ve moved away from the expanding corpse before barking orders. Maybe put my ditch shovel away, or at least wiped it off. I could forgive their distraction, especially considering how fast they got over it.

Mekin and Ideth found their feet and crossed behind the burn line as fast as I’d seen anyone move. They posted up next to Tamm at the left-most position of our group and lit up their Torches as soon as I heard that warbling kirn shriek, maybe half a beat after Ideth planted feet. They were damn good Torches. Most of them at least.

All of them, if I'm honest.

Just, you know, some of them could've been really something.

Anyway¹ they always reminded me of a mix between a goose and the bay of those little round nosed hunting dogs, kirns did, their call I mean. Either way it was a sound that had no business coming out the throat of something tall as a horse. The official Blightlands Expeditionary Force Guide to Blightbeasts say kirns used to be some sort of wolf. It didn’t really matter what they used to be. They don’t look like wolves anymore and the only thing that matters is that now kirns are basically the rank and file of the Blightlands, so far as most of us can tell, all sorts of mobile active death to make up for the stationary nature of the plants. The distinction in descent came as a result of rumors that kirns were just people swept up in the first waves of the Burning, that’s what necessitated an official statement, so wolves it was. So much else out here was some twisted memory of all that mess, the ‘kirns were people’ thing made as much sense as anything else, not that you’d catch me saying it out loud. I don’t need my people thinking things like that, and I certainly don’t need an Auditor catching wind. No, I try to remind myself it doesn’t matter, I’m not BEF so it’s not my job to speculate. Leave that to the good boys in the 109^th.

In either case, maybe a dozen kirns streamed through the gap in the trees, trying their best to jump over the flames burning up the underbrush from our first pass. They rushed out only to meet a twin gout of liquid fire that dropped them down writhing and honk-baying into curled up straws of ash before the last one even cleared the bushes. When I heard the little triumphant whoop from Mekin, I even caught a proud grin myself for a moment. It went damn sight better than I expected, burnt up faster than any kirn I’d seen before.

So maybe C-38 is bad for people, but in the right mix for our Torches it’s damn effective on all manner of beasty. Sorry, Blightbeast. Best use the proper Hand-approved term. Torches -both the job and the eponymous tool- have a very singular purpose, and that shouldn’t be muddied. Plenty of mud already in this line of work, and using Torch fuel was strictly forbidden on anything outside of the blight.

I looked down at Boric’s body, a reminder that it was a shit day with plenty more room to be worse. Now that he was mostly limb but for the rigor of bloating his corpse had sort of filled out the natural shape of the suit. It looked like the pressure-test I saw during initiation. They take a suit, seal it to specs, fill it up to prove it doesn’t leak, that the Blight can’t get to you so long as you do proper de-com protocol when you come back from the field. It was right about then that the side seam on Boric’s suit gave way, and the yellow-pink ooze of his liquefied fat burst out, pressurized from whatever rampant cancerous growth was still taking place on his corpse. Lit from the fires all around us as it was, it made me suddenly think of a candle tipping over and spilling wax everywhere. Boric wasn’t wax cooling and hardening on a table though. Boric continued to ooze and bubble and spurt in ways a dead body shouldn’t be oozing and bubbling and spurting – nor a live one I suppose.

A little mental pat on the back for being so wise, what with knowing things would get worse. As I separated myself the minimum three meters required from the burn target, I took the moment to cinch my belt tighter around my waist in an effort to block some of the smells. Then I turned, squared up my trusty Mark 7 on Boric, adjusted the fuel mix a bit so it’d burn through his suit quicker, tightened the nozzle and pulled the trigger.

As me and my Mark 7 performed our singular purpose perfect to spec (aside from my fuel mix modifications), I watched the flames lick over Boric, burn up his suit, cook his meat and turn it to char within seconds. Even as he turned to ash, did my best to keep track of his left shoulder. There, the brown thread of the stick torch, and the grey of the Compound 2 bucket on his Torch Corps patch blackened, singed, but didn’t burn. It would never totally burn. When this was all done I’d have to come back from camp, sift through the ashes until I found the ever vibrant red thread of the hands holding that old torch and bucket. The patch was the only thing that’d remain of Boric. A physical reminder of the crueler truth of our motto, stitched in the same unburning red thread below the insignia of the Corps.

WHERE THERE IS BLIGHT
LEAVE ONLY ASH

I took a glance at my own patch. Boric was getting grease soot on it, should’ve stood upwind. That would be a nightmare to clean. That’s about the part of the day you try to stop being there, and start thinking instead about free beer and Letician women.

---

1. The preceding few lines were edited from the original post after feedback from comments.

Crits: [2377] , [953]

My story: Cartwheels on the soccer pitch

Hello! This is a standalone short story I wrote about the loss of girlhood and pressure to be like everyone else, etc. It's different from my typical writing, so I hope I pulled it off…

I would appreciate any general feedback and/or if you could specifically address the following:

• I worry at times the switching between the game and her inner reflection is too hectic. Does it feel like it strays too far from the rest of the story at points, and if so, where?
• ^ The gymnastics part I really want to keep but idk if it feels out of place.
• It's supposed to feel angsty and kind of overly pessimistic, as teens are, but does it come across as a well-developed voice or just annoying?
• Were there any parts that lost your attention or confused you?
• Does the ending feel rushed or too cliché?
• Do the paragraph breaks make sense? tbh idk the rules with them, but it just felt right to me…
• Does the horse analogy do too much/ is it confusing? I'm an equestrian, so idk if that's clouding my vision haha
• Overall thoughts, feelings, questions?

Thank you!!

One: Enter the Halloween Contest!

It is currently not that competitive, considering there are three whole entries. You have a strong chance to be top 3! Submit something! You have until the 23rd! That's like two whole weeks to perfect something!

Ok, ok. On to new topics.

Can we talk about pacing? How do you figure that out? What makes something work for one author but not for another?

I've read things I thought were slow and plodding that I absolutely hated. Some, I really like. Maybe it's the character...or a story that has a tighter focus so the plodding doesn't feel too slow.

Or on the reverse, I've read things that were too fast and had other people say they were glacially slow.

How do you figure out how to land that plane, so to speak? Thoughts?

My critique: 2377 (haha crazy, same word count as my story)

This is my first post here, and I'm relatively new to writing.

This is a heavily dialogue-driven short story. Not sure what genre to classify this as, perhaps literary or contemporary fiction?

Disclaimer: has themes on death and suicide

Any feedback is greatly appreciated! Some specifics I may want to know if possible, however:

- Does the story make sense throughout or are there parts that are too unclear? It can be a little bit abstract so I want to make sure it is conveying its ideas effectively.

- Does the prose and language style feel consistent across the story?

- Are there any places where the dialogue feels too stilted or essayistic or does it come across as natural?

- Are there any moments that feel pretentious or inauthentic? I want to ensure this story feels heartfelt and genuine.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1NNgKMM7LuoZnSETNtU3VPd9NZWrTPCUrFgM4UpHFAms/edit?usp=sharing

Posting my chapter 2 for feedback since it is a dual POV book and this is a kind of “twin” chapter to chapter 1 that I posted a couple days ago. I would love overall feedback, specifically feedback on voice. The main character has a very clipped, gritty, sometimes noire type narration style and I want to make sure it’s not coming off too hard to read ( there are some dropped subjects).

TW: There is suggestion of dv and also the MC stops a dv attack from happening.

Here are my critiques

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/D207hptRal

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/RmevvG1N4O

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/ojLpl2eIph

And the path to chapter 2

https://docs.google.com/document/d/10plE_4ZKUnVo3ODqqgvr_FdQAq36WzARpWJDAaYWK2w/edit?usp=drivesdk

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

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

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

Critique 1 (668), critique 2 (470)

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

Thanks in advance!

Hi! First post here, hopefully doing this correctly.

My Critiques:

3644 1300

My Writing:

Number 42

Horror Lit Fic Short story, light gore, An empathetic man.

What I'm looking for:

Anything really. I'll take critique on my voice, writing style, pacing, point of view, and overall plot. I'm worried about the ending going off the rails.

Thanks in advance!

Desperate for feedback!

Specific questions:
Would you keep reading? Is it a strong opening?
Where did you skim?

Here are my critiques!

Crit 1

Crit 2

Crit 3

Here is the link to my story!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-s7BxzUToCh5t_3aLJDUeHck44vs8ar1PS3VkyWy1So/edit?usp=drivesdk

Hello,

I have the urge to improve my writing again. I used previous feedback from posting on here before and I planned all Marth's feelings out, aiming for emotional impact. I thought I did a good job.

So I think I need some feedback :)

Could you tell me what I did well, and what I didn't do well please.

The story

Crit:
[5493] DragonKnight

(I hope my crit was ok)

Some backstory:

• Marth is Eric's butler, and Eric was previous known as Lady Erika.
• Joseph Farrow dumped Lady Erika because he got 'cursed', triggering Erika to stop lying about her identity.

I wonder if Kite is a believable 6 year old, and if the flash backs were confusing. I drank moderate amounts of wine whilst writing this chapter (ha ha ha). I also wonder if it captures some of the aspects of grief effectively...

I have a submission thread but if you have questions, here's the place for that.