The Wyrm

The flames burned hot that night. Crackling and kicking up in high spirits, they bathed the meat with their labor and gave respite to the long journeyed. The orange flare from the campfire gave contrast to the ever-clawing shades of the encroaching maw.

“Boy, fetch the water from the costrel. Best if you get off your feet right after. The road is long from here,”

Yes, Syr Isaac. Think we’ll see some elves within the fortnight?”

“Aye, we might. Fae in the woods will be better than that dastardly fortress, under siege by the sun for months.

With the sea of pinewood watching from above, they surrendered to the night. Their fire grew cold as they clutched tightly to cloth and roll.

And like most nights, the boy’s mind wasn’t quiet. But full of the screams of sinew and steel. With the winds to his back he was there yet again. Those heavy wooden doors shattering under foreign axes, as men clad with the light of the lord flew to the door in defense. Shouting and roaring as they held the great oaks. They were men fighting under the same colours, but all men of different tongues. 

“Dieu est avec nous! Ne laissez pas entrer les hérétiques!”

“Sie haben die Mauern erklommen!”

The sand drank its full that day. A deep crimson wine for the dunes. Bled dry were the knights and the furusiyyas. Blades sang, but all groped for air as they sank to the depths below. As darkness took each of them they clutched for their comrades boots. Hands wrapping around the shins as they tried to pull each other out, to no avail. As death is a jealous god, and he does not share.

“Boy, boy, get up. Take this cloth with you to the river down the hill. Cold water helps to wash away old spirits,”

“Aye, Syr Isaac,” said the boy. His sweat still clinging cold to his body, gripping with tight claws. With a few moments to recollect himself, he aided in collecting their materials and made haste due north. Syr Isaac had told him why they didn’t travel with the rest of the company home. The boy thought little of it, Syr Isaac said it was a faster route anyhow. He just wished to bring back the jewel of the south to his beloved. The boy never asked about the jewel, and whilst he knew where it lay wrapped, he had never once seen it.

The road took them through the Mountains of Aeger. A quick cut through the northern lands, oft called the frontier beyond the world. Through those crags they climbed, past wolves, swine, and few a traveler. Wild men roamed these mountains. Outcasts and marauders they were. Quick to the blade, and with bellies full of coin they ruled the rugged outlands. Syr Isaac’s lord had no power over these lands, for his realm is over the turn of the mountain in the valley below. And this fact came to the front when along the mountain road were three rugged outlanders. Dastards dressed in hides with crude blades, giving the justice of their chief to their captives. One woman already lay dead, a child whimpered at the corpse as another young woman was being beaten.

“Our laws mean nothing here, we pass on as we never saw it,” muttered Syr Isaac, making sure the boy heard. The boy’s gaze kept to the road, staying by the knights side.

One of the men looked up at Syr Isaac. His unruly beard tangled with spit and mud flew in the autumn wind as he spoke.

“Aye, best you keep moving. Lest you wish to pay the mountain lords tax,”  Syr Isaac only nodded in response as he kept his pace. Only six strides later did the woman’s screams begin to burn his ears. Her pleas for help, for the gods to save her. As she was battered and bloody, her blouse ripped as she tried to crawl away.

“Remember boy, we act accordance to our laws. And our laws have no knowledge of the world beyond their borders. It isn’t your concern what another Duke may do in his realm. That’s what they say. But boy, I want you to remember one thing, the only thing that matters is our oath. Our oath is to no liege, but to the people. Grab my swyrd,”

Those heaving bandits hunched over the woman, pulling her back to face her stomach to the blade. Many parts of a maiden could fetch quite the high price. Even the blood of one pulsing with adrenaline was of much desire. For it was said to give youth to those who drank of it.

With steel in hand Syr Isaac flew at them. His speed showed only experience under that grey sky. Coming overhead his blade cut from shoulder to waist to one of the bandits. The blade would continue its song as it feasted on the fresh red nectar. Syr Isaac pulled the blade up from his side, rising towards the clouds, only the change on the whim of the wind to come slashing across the neck.   

Content warning: suicide attempt, overdose, and references to self-harm.

This is a fictional short story. I’d appreciate feedback on the atmosphere, dialogue, and ending—especially whether the ambiguity of the encounter comes through.

The man sat there as the empty bottle of NyQuil, and his hand lay empty of the pills he had just consumed. He lay in his bed, and his neck ached from the awkward angle at which he had been having his head lie on the pillow. He pulled up the soft blanket over him and then, awkwardly shifting his body to not have the first blanket come loose, pulled the comforter over his body, creating the familiar sense of warmth he provided himself before he went to sleep. He threw the empty bottle onto the carpeted floor, making a simple thump, as the other noises from the bottle as it bounced away were too quiet to be heard. Five minutes had passed as he quietly lay there, not going on his phone, which was his normal nightly routine. He thought about sending a message, but at this point he was too tired to do it. Another minute passed as he closed his eyes, but when he tried to open them, he felt as if the weight of the world was holding them down. He felt his heart beating faster as thoughts raced through his head, and then he couldn’t feel his heart beating at all.

He opened his eyes and found himself lying in his bed still. The clock read midnight. Strangely, he didn't feel tired at all, and it seemed around four hours had passed. He rubbed his scar-covered wrist and forearms, a habit that had forced him into always wearing long sleeves. He thought to himself why he was awake, but every thought he made became a word out of his mouth. He tried thinking in his head, but it was no use, as each thought led to his words leaving his mouth into the dark room- the very dark room, which was strange for the moonless night, he said aloud, as he couldn’t think it to himself.

“Must be a dream,” he thought aloud. He then noticed a shadowy figure in the corner, causing his skin to crawl. “What the fuck,” he said aloud, meaning to say these words. The silhouette of a man with a trimmed, silvery beard walked out. The shadow outstretched his hand in a way only a dream-like state could comprehend. The man kept talking, and the thoughts raced through his head, unable to control his speech, keeping the room from silence. The shadow spoke in a voice which sounded clearer and more real than his own and asked the man where he was. The man replied instantly with thought before he could make his own crafted words out.

“Your room,” the shadow said in reply, stating what the man had claimed as an answer in an almost sad voice. “You spend a lot of time here.”

The man's thoughts replied yes for him, saying he spent most of his life here now. The shadow asked why he didn’t spend more time outside with his friends, who would constantly ask him to go.

“It doesn't matter,” the man thought. “I'd just be sad again.”

“Are you sad now?” the shadow asked.

“I'm afraid,” the man thought in return.

The shadow asked, “Of what?”

The man's thoughts answered him instantly, “Of being alone.”

“Then why do you force yourself to be?”

“I don't know,” the man thought aloud, and then, in his own voice, said, “It’s just hard.”

The shadow's hand raised up, causing the man to flinch in fear, wincing as it came closer to him as his thoughts screamed out how scared he was, and then the sound of his own uncontrollable voice ceased, and a sense of calm washed over him. He felt the shadow's hand on his shoulder as the room was finally quiet from his voice for once, and his mind became an empty void. And then a thought came, a quiet one that he could keep to himself. “You're okay.”

The shadow smiled at him; he couldn't see it but could feel that it was smiling.

“Who are you?” the man said as the shadow lifted his hand from the man's shoulder.

The shadow gestured to the bed which the man sat on, and the shadow sat behind him.

“Just a dream.”

The man paused for a moment.

“So this isn’t real?”

There was a long pause in the room before the shadow spoke.

“Go to bed, Michal,” the shadow said sincerely, which caused a sadness to wash over him.

Michal slowly made his way to the front of the bed, dreading every movement he was making, and laid himself down as the shadow tucked him in.

“I'm gonna die,” Michal said as his eyes teared up.

There was a long pause. The bed felt like nothing: no warmth, no pain in his neck, no beating of his heart, no relief from every breath, no pain from holding it. It felt like maybe a couple of minutes had passed before the shadow spoke again.

“It’s just a dream, Michal,” the shadow said calmly.

“Are you sure?” Michal said, crying now, not realizing, as he couldn’t feel the tears on his cheek. “And what will happen when the dream ends? Will I die?” Michal said.

“Why are you so afraid of dying?” said the shadow calmly, standing up from the bed to more directly face Michal.

“I don’t know… I just don’t know what's going to happen.”

The shadow smiled again, which calmed Michal.

“Michal, what usually happens when we die in our dreams?”

Michal paused for a moment and shakily responded, “I don't know.”

And in a smooth manner, without skipping a beat, the shadow said to Michal, “We wake up.”

Michal opened his eyes to the sound of a phone vibrating on his nightstand and his hands tightly clenching the full bottle of NyQuil, and the pills he had once had in his hand scattered around his bed near where his other hand lay. He sat up a little as he tried to rub his sore neck, which caused some relief, but not much. The room was silent besides the buzzing sound of his phone vibrating as someone was trying to call him. He looked to his right at the window, saw the moonlight floating in, and the clock reading 8:23 p.m. He felt his hand loosening on the bottle of NyQuil in his hand, which caused him to tighten his grip once more as he then explosively, while lying down, awkwardly threw it as hard as he could at the wall. The bottle exploded across the wall easily, as the cap had already been loosened and was barely sitting on the top of the bottle. He felt his adrenaline spike as he did it and the feeling of his beating heart. And with the same hand he threw the bottle with, he picked up the phone, and with the other, he began wiping the old tears off his face as new ones began to form.

so, recently, my brain has been thinking about making a mystery story similar to the one book I read called: This Book Kills. it’s literally the only mystery book I’ve read. yet somehow, I was inspired to make a mystery, detective novel that follows Leo Western, who lost his sister Libby. The book I’m making is called: Fly high…Libby.

here’s the first 3 chapters. (chapter 1 is short asf)

Chapter 1:

I like quiet. I also like cookies. But I like quiet more. Oh yes, I also like chocolate, milk only. Cookies and chocolate and quiet are perfect. 

Though, I should’ve  realized that quiet has its Darkside. Maybe if I had paid attention, Libby would still be here, tickling, teasing and poking me. 

She’s not here. Anymore. 

Chapter 2: 

I didn’t really like the stares I got when I walked into the cafeteria. Everyone was talking, whispering about me and even though I had my earbuds in, parts of conversations floated into my ears. 

Is he okay?

That’s Leo….. His sister… Sad

Hear me out, he’s kinda hot. 

I blushed at the last one. 

I sat down at my table and stared at my sad apple and potato salad. I picked up my fork and stabbed it in the bowl. It made a weird squelch sound, and I was reminded of Libby. The way she applied lipstick like she would die without it. The way her lipstick sounded on her already wet lips. Squelch Squelch Squelch

I quickly shoved the food into my mouth to stop myself from crying. Just chew Leo. 

Tears prickled my eyes as the food refused to go down my throat. 

Just chew—

I spat it out. 

I sniffed and grabbed a tissue pack from my pocket. Took one out and wiped my eyes with it. If Libby could see me now…

I crumpled up the tissue paper and pushed my tray away. I laid my head down on the table, my arms covered my face, and I cried. 

-+-+-+-

I usually like English literature, when Libby was being loud in the front corner, near the teacher’s desk and I in the back, writing. 

But it’s not the same anymore. It’s quiet where it shouldn’t be. I pulled up my hoodie and took out my pen and notebook. Page one: Libby

I love my sister. She’s loud, she’s funny and she’s the light at the end of my tunnel. 

She-

And that was it. That was all I wrote of my sister. I click my pen and start writing as the teacher begins his lesson.

She gives me strength 

“Poetry is the most precious gift to humans” Mr. Fey said

She’s the sun, we orbit around her and she gives us warmth.

“Let’s look at this poem…”

And she loved me. 

“Leo, what are you doing?” My head snaps up at the sound of my name. Mr. Fey was staring at me, one eyebrow raised and lips pursed. Everyone’s head was turned to me. I swallowed and slowly pulled down my hoodie off my head. “Nothing,” I said. 

Mr. Fey looked like he wanted to argue, to give me detention. Not that I would go, but a girl suddenly raised her hand. “Mr. Fey, what’s anathema mean?” He turned to her, to answer her question, and I breathed a sigh of relief. 

Thanks. I thought. Whoever you are.

Almost as if she heard my thoughts, she caught my eye and gave me a small smile. I tried to smile back, but I swear it looked like a grimace. 

Chapter 3:

I don’t know who found Libby. I don’t really care. I know I should, but I don’t want to. 

I started walking to my room. Every classroom had a memory of her, tucked in the crevices, waiting to jump out and get me. I couldn’t do this. After math, I had gone to the office to file an ‘early leave’, and got approved instantly. 

I shared a room with a guy called Octavian. He’s loud, annoying as hell, but he’s the one who hugged me when the headmaster told me. Octavian wasn’t on his bed when I walked in, but I heard humming from our bathroom. 

I threw down my bag on my bed and closed the door with my foot. I got under my covers, and curled into a ball. 

Life. Sucks. 

The shower stopped, and I heard the door open. I peeked out, and saw Octavian still humming as he walked to his closet. He hadn’t noticed me. Which would have been fine, if it didn’t mean I was too small for him to notice me. 

Libby did use to try and force me to eat vegetables. “You’re so skinny!” She used to say. I squeezed my eyes shut and my nails dug into my palm. Stop crying. 

I still sniffed though. I hate that I can’t keep my emotions in check. 

Octavian stopped humming. “Hello? Leo?” He asked. I poked my head from my blanket. “Hi…”I said. Octavian eyes softened and he shuffled towards me, one hand desperately trying to hold his towel on his waist. 

The tip of my ears reddened. Why am I noticing that? 

He sat on my bed, his free hand running through his hair. “You okay?” He asked. I nodded, my eyes still attached to his waistline. 

I pinched my leg to turn my gaze away. “I’m okay,” I answered. Octavian’s lips turned slightly. “I see you staring at something, Leo.”

I wanted to crawl into a ditch and go see Jesus. I couldn’t though, because at that moment, the door flew open with a bang and two police officers ran into the room, one holding handcuffs. 

“Leo Western. You’re under arrest for the murder of Libby Western.”

…What

that’s it 👍

It was a dusty and grey Arizona day
And my birthday was tomorrow
I remember this as I pass by the perfect girls in the bookstores entrance.
Their heavy vanilla air engulfing me
I briefly look up at the tallest one
She has long dark hair and a greasy pink lipgloss that reaches just barely above her top lip, It’s beautiful. I walk under the warm bright lights taking the place in. What looks like a father and a son are browsing the legos while a nutty looking girl with wired glasses pulls Dostoyevsky from a shelf.
It’s a strange day. I feel like it should be more than what it is so I resort to finding hidden meaning in the way a worker sorts a table of books or in what stickers another has on their name tag. But this doesn’t satisfy me for long so after idly browsing classics I had no interest in reading, I finally sat down on the closest wooden bench. What did girls normally do close to their birthday? Was there some significant feminine tradition I was unaware of?

This is the first story in a collection. I would be grateful for any constructive criticism. Thank you.

The carousel at the Domestic Flights Terminal turns with the patience of something that has given up expecting to produce anything interesting. So, when the bag completed its fourth circuit, it caught my eye the way a lit window catches you on a dark street — not because it's yours, but because it seems to be reaching out to you.

It was a good bag. Soft leather, the kind that is born into money and gets more expensive with age, the opposite of everything else I owned. No tag. No name. Just a bag going round and round, unloved, the luggage equivalent of a dog at a shelter that's stopped wagging its tail at new people.

I stood by the belt for seven long minutes, which seemed at the time, like more than enough due diligence, but which I now understand was simply the length of time it takes for envy to get dressed up as entitlement.

No one came to pick up the bag.

So I did.

If I was asked about it, I had prepared my alibi while I was pretending to read the airport signs and like many such alibis, its birthplace was guilt and its final resting place would be credence.

A cleaning lady passed by as I scooped it off the carousel. "I’ve been wondering whose bag that was," she said. “Yes, I forgot it earlier,” I lied. Somewhere in the small, tired part of me that still kept score, I knew that needlessly lying to an underpaid cleaning lady at a regional airport at eight o’clock at night was not, on the great ledger, my finest hour.

I opened the bag on the train home, alone in the carriage, the way a man opens a letter he already suspects is bad news but reads anyway, because not knowing is somehow even worse.

Inside was a neatly folded note on top of a piece of cloth under which was something I can only describe, with surprise bordering on maniacal fear, as movement.

The note read: Thank you for taking care of him. Please do not take him out until you are in a safe environment.

I did not open the bag again.

I carried it off the train holding it a little way from my body, the way you carry something that could at any moment remind you why you shouldn't have picked it up in the first place. I deposited it, gently and discreetly, on a wooden bench, under a sign that read, not unhelpfully, Unattended Items Will Be Collected.

I took comfort by telling myself that this is what the owner would have wanted.

The story of a girl who spent her whole life wondering if she was ever enough.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who didn't understand why the world seemed to dislike her so much.

She wasn't born wanting to be different. She wasn't born wanting attention, nor did she know how to be the kind of girl everyone seemed to like. She was just a child, trying to understand a world that never seemed to understand her.

Since childhood, her body had given her reasons to worry.

Health issues became a part of her life before she was even old enough to understand what it meant to be unwell. While other children were busy enjoying their childhood, she was already learning what it felt like to be different. But being physically unwell wasn't the hardest part.

The hardest part was discovering that people could be cruel to a child for things she had never chosen.

At school, she was bullied for her appearance, her behaviour, the way she spoke, and the things she did without understanding why they seemed so strange to everyone else. In an all-girls school, where she should have found friendship, belonging, and the comfort of growing up alongside other girls, she found herself becoming the subject of ridicule.

People called her abnormal.

Some were children who didn't know the weight of their words. Others were adults who should have known better. Even teachers, the very people who were supposed to protect her, sometimes became part of the reason she felt so small.

She struggled with social anxiety, ADHD, autism, carrying experiences and difficulties that made navigating the world even harder. She didn't always understand social situations. She didn't always know why people reacted to her the way they did. Sometimes, she couldn't understand what she had done wrong.

She would look at other children and wonder what they knew that she didn't.

Why could they make friends so easily?

Why did people laugh when she spoke?

Why was her way of behaving considered strange?

Why did being herself seem to bother everyone?

She had a thousand questions and so few answers.

And perhaps the saddest thing about that little girl was that she didn't hate the people who hurt her.

She was afraid of them, yes. She cried because of them. Their words stayed with her long after the laughter had faded.

But somewhere inside her innocent little heart, she still wanted to be their friend. She thought that perhaps if she tried a little harder, smiled a little more, spoke a little differently, or became a little more like them, they might finally accept her.

She didn't understand that she was trying to earn something she should never have had to earn in the first place: basic kindness.

When her family tried to protect her, she felt embarrassed.

Not because she didn't want protection, but because she wanted acceptance more. She didn't want people to know that someone had to defend her. She didn't want to be the girl everyone pitied. She wanted to walk into a room and be welcomed without anyone having to ask others to be nice to her.

She wanted friends who chose her naturally.

She wanted to belong.

She wanted, more than anything, to feel normal.

But how could a little girl feel normal when the world kept reminding her that she wasn't?

Any feedback would be appreciated on this story! I wrote this yesterday in one sitting and I want to see what people think.

The Stretches [739 words]

I was about 30 minutes late when the phone rang. He wanted to know what the hell I was up to. I told him exactly what happened. Exactly.

Since my house was built, the stairs were always creaky. I had the place put together about 13 years ago and the stairs creaked the first day. And the second. And the third. But, it didn't really matter. You see, *I* don't really need the stairs. The stairs need *me*.

No matter whether they were creaky or not I always kept to the sides. Keeping to the sides either reduced the creak or made it go away entirely. That was nice.

Eventually, I got used to it. My muscle memory wrapped around this new habit and it set. I was content with how my stairs were, as long as I got to keep going up and down them, my legs halfway to a splits at all times. It was fun.

Not really. I got aches. And pains. And The Stretches. The Stretches only ever occur when you Stretch too much, too often, too many times. I had to Stretch to get up the stairs, so naturally I developed The Stretches.

So this left me with a decision. Do I get someone to fix my stairs, or not? I wasn't sure. On one hand, The Stretches eventually led to The Tears (as in The Rips, but we don't call it that anymore), and on the other hand they hurt like hell, but on the other-other hand why should I bother?

It's not like I'll be torn. I'll just have The Tears. Putting in effort to bring a guy out here and all just seems silly. It's like what a child would do when something minor doesn't go their way; scream and shout and cry until an adult comes along to soothe and calm and console. And I'm not a child.

Not anymore. I, as an adult, will be able to deal with this. I'm supposed to. Only stupid people who don't know about The Stretches get The Stretches, and only even stupider people who don't know about The Tears get The Tears. At this point, I'm used to it. Why should I have to change?

Going up and down the stairs while Stretching does have some other side effects, however. Like always having the edges worn down; it looks terrible, honestly. Going up and down the stairs while Stretching does of course wears down the wood's finish. It wears me down too, but I've adjusted. Going up and down the stairs while Stretching isn't all bad. Not as much as people make it out to be.

My stairs were never the problem, to be honest. It's the fact that when you know about The Stretches, The Stretches know about you. So really it's not my fault. After all, anyone could have creaky stairs. Just because I *Stretch* doesn't mean I'll *Tear*.

But I've heard things about Tearing. Many, many things about The Tears Tearing through you, running through your body like spilt ink on a page. Flooding you with The Feeling. The Feeling is unlike anything else you've ever experienced. The Feeling Feels like something… like something extraordinary. I've never Felt.

But I'm working on it! Soon, I'll Stretch and Stretch and Stretch so much I'll Tear and Tear and Tear so much I'll finally Feel. I'll Feel like I've never felt before.

So, with such a high reward, and little risk (besides The Tears), what reason is there not to Stretch? Stretching is what I've been doing for years. Years and years and years I've been Stretching and Stretching and Stretching and soon I'll finally, finally, finally Feel.

And, not to excite you too much, but I'm already feeling some Tears. They tingle and burn and above all they hurt like hell. But I know, if I keep Stretching then I'll Tear and then I'll *Feel*. I'll finally, finally, *finally* Feel.

So that's why I'm late. That's why he called. Because I've been undergoing The Stretching. 3 times a day, 30 minutes each, for the last 13 years. And even though he doesn't understand, and even though they don't understand, and even though you mightn't understand, I do. I will, I will, I will understand. So I just have to keep Stretching and Stretching and Stretching and keep Tearing and Tearing and Tearing until I finally, finally, finally

Feel.

I am new to this subreddit and I was looking for advice on how I can improve...

my goal is not at all to become a serious writer, just to be able to translate my feelings into words and perhaps invoke feelings in other people too?

I wrote this about forgetting all the things that made child me, me. I apologize in advance for the slightly cringe structure... however any feedback is greatly appreciated. thanks so much

The Graveyard

 “Keep on going, never give up” reads the message etched on the cover of a red book. Inside the pages, under mountains of dust, lies my bestie's note, random school doodles, the annotated tag from a birthday gift; Two blank pages carry the weight of everyone I've ever loved, the mere ink that remains from the words of people I once saw every day. 

 The death of my best memories leaves a graveyard of connection.

 The pages are miscellaneous. First network fundamentals followed by go-to recipes then, after an interlude of random sketches and calligraphy song lyrics, the Hindi alphabet, materializing the desire for literacy and connection. Tucked away between grimy pages, forgotten, lies the heart of an eclectic, and the mind of an eccentric.

 The death of a plethora of passions leaves a graveyard of knowledge.

 A wobbly, rusted music stand, once shiny and new, holds a repertoire of scores. I trace my fingers over the pieces, revealing winding paths in the years. It reveals all my markings: the “gentle” reminders, the frustrated scribbles, the dynamic directions. Memories rush through, they're fond. The first time I shifted to third, my first double stop, the ‘proper’ vibrato after years of a pathetic wiggle all of which interrogated me in unison. After years of being forgotten, betrayed. As if they never existed.

 I skim through the Suzuki books, all neatly kept in a flip file I had lovingly decorated, volume 1, volume 2, and an incomplete volume 3. They preserve etudes and well-known rhymes, all of which I could once play with my eyes closed, all of which awarded me with new skills, all of which shaped me into the musician I am.

 well, was... 

A collection of triumphs and ovations, a collection of sorrows, and slip ups. The death of melodies leaves the graveyard of a performer.

 And I write this with google open in the next tab. Reminiscing upon when the words once flowed like gushing rivers of water, when my fingers recognized the keyboard like an old friend. Time has axed away at the diction of a once ‘poet’, time has forsaken the bond between fingers and keyboard, time has rendered a writer half literate, only able to read. A collection of abandoned pieces laments in google docs, deprived, robbed of an ending. Now the feelings behind them are long faded, like a friend you once knew, like a smell you once recognized. The death of poems and prose leaves the graveyard of a writer.

 Who thought a day like this would come? Where passions, ambitions and interests all gather dust. The once integral parts of us, the things that we once looked forward to after school and on weekends reduced to meaningless ornaments that sit and watch us, waiting to be noticed, waiting to be important, waiting to be seen.

 It is said that growing up is merely aging, but to me it was the death of my childhood self. It was the death of my hopes and dreams, of colours and light, of melody and diction. It was the greying of my soul. And it left behind a graveyard; the graveyard of love, the graveyard of joy, the graveyard of myself.

Part 1

We had just moved to the house on Fraise Street. It was not unlike any other street in the French part of the city. We thought it was a nice sized house for Tim—my husband—and I to start a family.

     We formally moved into the house when I was four months pregnant. I couldn’t wait to be a mother. 

    A couple days before,we had some friends help us move the furniture in.The house seemed perfect at first. It was two stories,three bedrooms and two bathrooms. Tim decided to rent it because of the quaint den. He said he could see himself typing on his typewriter by the window. I could see it too with his brown eyes focused intently on his writing while every so often he’d run his fingers through his slick brown hair.I could seed us waltzing in the living room to a record together and I could see myself cooking in the kitchen.I didn't pay much attention to what the realtor said because I was so enamored with the house but Tim said “we'll take it”.

      Eventually these became our reality.Our first day in the house was nice and involved what we had envisioned. As soon as Tim got back from work, I put on my makeup and we drove to the house. Tim immediately went to type on his typewriter—he was an aspiring author and was working on a manuscript. I went out back to listen to the birds singing. About an hour later,Tim came out back,stood behind me,putting his hands on my shoulders”Come inside darling” he said”let's put on a record”. I stood up and followed him inside. 

      When we got to the phonograph,I looked for a record. I decided to put on something smooth. We danced gracefully through the entire song. 

      Afterwards,the sun was setting and it was time for dinner. I boiled fusilli while Tim read the newspaper. After fifteen minutes,the pasta was ready. I buttered it up and gave a plate to my husband before serving myself. During dinner we talked about his work.

     Then I went upstairs to brush my teeth. After brushing my teeth,I took a shower and then went to bed. It was hard falling asleep as it was a new house. Timmy on the other hand found it easy to fall asleep. 

      After what had seemed to be an hour I heard something—a fast \*tapping\* noise. I immediately sprung up.I got out of bed, opened the door and walked out of my room. I walked through the hallway and into another bedroom that had a window overlooking the street and I heard a \*honking\* noise accompanying the tapping. I pulled the curtains open and was taken aback.

      Marching down the street were skeletons playing drums! I was taken aback.Alongside the drumming I still heard the honking noise.I pinched myself to see if I was dreaming—the pinch hurt.Behind the skeletons playing drums came more skeletons. These skeletons were playing wind instruments. I saw trumpets,tubas and french horns getting played by the skeletons.The tune was eerie and offbeat.

      Then came horse skeletons,that had chains on them. The chains made a clanking cacophony. I soon saw that the skeletal horses with the chains on were pulling a giant float.On the float, I could see two figures—ballroom dancing on the float. Next to them—on the float— was a skeletal violin player who played along with the eerie tune.

    After the float passed by, I saw skeletal acrobats flipping away in pursuit of the rest of the procession. It felt as if I were dreaming but my pinch test indicated otherwise.The tune became more disordered the more I watched the bones rattling away to the music. My husband had to see this. 

   I ran back to our bedroom and woke Tim up.”Tim,wake up” I said to him as I jostled him awake.

   “What is it Clarice?” he asked in a confused manner.

   “There’s a parade of skeletons out front—come look”I said in a rushed voice.

   “What the hell are you yapping about?” he asked in a frustrated voice as he got out of bed slowly.I grabbed his hand and sort of pulled him along. I rushed him to the window overlooking the street and opened the curtains to see that the procession was no longer there..

   “That is so strange”I said”there’s no trace of the skeletons anywhere”

    My husband sighed”Darling,this is ridiculous” he said.”I’m concerned that you might be seeing things”

    “No way” I said”I’ve never had an issue with delusions before”

    “I know”he said”but this could be related to your pregnancy”

   I never considered having peripartum psychosis but I had no proof to say it was anything else.The skeleton procession seemed way to surreal so it could have just been a delusion.”Should we take a trip to the hospital?” I asked.

  “I think we should” he said.I followed him downstairs. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I opened the door to the closet underneath the staircase and got my coat. My husband opened the same door to pull out his coat. Then I walked to the front door and put on my shoes. Afterwards he put on his.I unlocked the door and opened it,then we stepped into the brisk night air.

   We shivered to the car before my husband unlocked the doors. As I got into the front passenger seat and closed the door I was less cold but I still had goosebumps from what I had just seen just a few minutes before. My husband started up the car and we drove off.My husband took a left as that was the direction to take towards the hospital.

  The drive was a simple drive. There was no trace of the skeleton parade on the way to the hospital—maybe it \*was\* just a hallucination.When we arrived at the hospital, I opened the car door—shivering into the night breeze.I waited for Tim to close his door and walk around the car to meet me.Tim and I walked up to the hospital door and my husband opened the door before I walked inside.

   “Hello ma’am” the secretary greeted me “what brings you here?” she asked.

  “Well,”I said “I had a hallucination”

   “Do you have a history of hallucinations?” the secretary asked.

   “Not to my knowledge” I told her truthfully. 

   “When did this happen? she asked in a concerned tone of voice.

   “Just this night,maybe—20 minutes ago” I said.

  “What is your name?” she asked.

  “Clarice Margot Hawkins” I told her.

  “Okay” the secretary said “You can take a seat in the waiting room—the doctor will be seeing you shortly. Timmy and I walked over to the chairs and we took our seats. 

  After watching the clock for seven minutes,the door opened “Clarice Hawkins?” A nurse called out.Tim and I stood up and approached her. The nurse closed the door behind us “Follow me” she said. We followed her down the hall as her heels clacked against the tile floor. She then positioned her hand out towards room 12. We walked in to see the gown on the gurney. “The psychiatrist will be in shortly” she said before closing the curtains. I stripped down and got into the gown.

       I then looked at the clock,seeing four minutes pass by until the curtain opened to reveal a man with salt and pepper hair,beard and mustache.”Hello Mrs. Hawkins”.A gray haired woman with a board clip and a mask walked in after him”I’m Dr. Stanton and this is my scribe Katherine”he said “so what seems to be the problem.” he asked. 

      “Well” I said “my husband Tim and I just moved into our new house yesterday” Dr. Stanton got the stool next to him and sat down on it.

      “I see” he said as he looked back at me, his hand grasping his chin and his elbow on his knees.

        I continued. “The day was very calm” I said “Timmy typed his story as I sat outside. Then he brought me in for us to dance. Later we had dinner, I brushed my teeth,showered and then we went to bed.”I looked to Katherine who was writing away on a piece of paper.

   “Then,after trying to sleep I heard a noise” I said. I went to investigate. Out of the window I saw skeletons — with instruments!”

   The doctor opened his eyes wider as his pupils shrunk“Wait a minute” the doctor said “Are you four months pregnant?

   “Yes I am!” I yelled. 

   The doctor leaned forward “Is your house on Fraise Street?” This question was unnerving.

  “W-why yes,it is” I replied.

  Dr. Stanton put his hands over his eyes and shook his head.”I’m sorry Mrs. Hawkins,but I don’t think you’re dealing with psychosis.”

   This sent shivers down my spine.”Are-are you claiming that I didn’t hallucinate the skeleton parade?”I asked as Katherine stopped writing.

  “Well Mrs. Hawkins”,he said”there's someone you should discuss this with”

   I looked over to Katherine who looked at the doctor confused.”Dr.Stanton,what are you talking about?”she asked.

   “It’s difficult to explain, Katherine, but this is the fourth time I’ve heard a story similar to this.”Dr.Stanton said in a raspy voice.I looked over to Timmy.

    “This—can’t be true”Timmy said wide eyed.

    “I get where you’re coming from Mr. Hawkins,”Dr.Stanton said” I couldn’t believe the first patient who told me what they had seen but there’s help for this—and it’s not the psychiatric kind”

     “Who are you referring to?” Clarice asked.

      “I’m referring to—a historian.”Dr.Stanton said,”Katherine,write down this number:555-555-1313”Katherine wrote on her piece of paper.Dr.Stanton then stood up and looked at the board clip “Give me that” Dr. Stanton demanded. After she gave him the board clip, he ripped a piece of paper off and gave it to me”Mrs. Hawkins,I wish I could be of more help,but at least you have Dr. Rousseau to help you”       

      I looked at the piece of paper”Thank you Dr. Stanton” I said.

      “You are very welcome Mrs. Hawkins”Dr. Stanton said”now get out of that robe and into your regular clothes,we will be waiting by the door”he and Katherine left the room.I could hear Katherine talking in a worried and doubtful voice out of the room as I took off my robe.The doctor was replying back in a hushed but reassuring voice.I then put my regular clothes on before telling Timmy we should leave.

      As we walked out of the door where Dr. Stanton and Katherine were,they started walking back to the waiting room so we followed them. Dr. Stanton opened the door and we said our goodbyes.Timmy and I then walked outside,with the piece of paper in my hand.

      As I got in the car I felt as if I were dreaming. Nothing seemingly paranormal happened on our drive back home but I was in shock.

      When we got back home I still had goosebumps. As soon as Timmy opened the door I pushed inside past him and immediately ran to the telephone.I turned on the kitchen light, I looked at the number and moved my finger around the rotary dial:1-555-555-1313.I picked up the handset and put it to my ear.Then I heard a voice”Hello”

      “Hello”I replied”Is this Dr.Roudeau?Rouneau?”

       “I’m Dr. Jeanette Rousseau.”she said.

       “Well,my name is Clarice Hawkins.”I said.”I’m four months pregnant,married to my husband Timmy and I saw something very interesting.”

       “Yes?”she asked in a way that implied she knew what I was about to say.

       “Well”I replied”As I was trying to sleep tonight I woke up and went to the window to check out a fast tapping noise.It was there that I saw a parade of skeletons marching and playing music on the street before me, I”

       “Is your house on Fraise street?” she asked.

        Dr. Rousseau cleared her throat”Have you ever heard of Danse Macabre?”she asked me.

        “Y-yes,I remember what that is” I replied.

        “My goosebumps multiplied”Yes!”

       “Well Clarice what you just saw is called \*Defile Macabre,\* which is based on Danse Macabre”

        “Dance of death right?So it represents how death is widespread?” I asked.

        “Yes,exactly”Dr.Rousseau said.”so \*Defile Macabre\* loosely translates to ‘procession of death‘ and I must warn you,every woman who witnesses the Defile Macabre,suffers a miscarriage.”

        This sent shivers down my spine and brought tears to my eyes”H-how d-did this start?”

        “I’m sorry Clarice but it’s late now”Dr.Rousseau said.”Can I come over to see you tomorrow?” 

        “Yes,you can”I said “do you have a pencil nearby?”

         “Yes, I have one right here” she said”can you tell me your address?”I gave her my address and we said good night to each other.

         I went to my bedroom and laid down next to Timmy in our bed.It must have been hours before I got to sleep.

         As I slept I had a nightmare. In the nightmare, I was in the front yard.I walked up to the front door which was locked.Then,I heard the music—if you could even call it that.I then turned around to see the Défilé macabre marching down the road.This time—instead of it going past the house,it turned towards me.I ran to the window, climbed on the bush and rammed against it—then the dream ended and I woke up.

         After that I found it hard to sleep. That's when I went to the medicine cabinet and found some  bromide salts. I took them and it knocked me out. I don't remember the dreams I had until I woke up around 8:20 in the morning. When I woke up I was hungry. I decided to cook myself some bacon. After I finished the bacon I put the plate in the sink and heard the doorbell ring. I rushed to the door.

         As I opened the door,I saw a read headed woman with a black dress,black leather shoes,red purse and black stockings turned around”Dr. Rousseau?” I asked. She turned around .

       “Hello Clarice” she said with a touch of frenchiness to her voice”would you allow me to come in?” I found it interesting that she didn't ask me \*if\* I was Clarice —she just assumed and walked right in.

      “Of course “ I said as I opened the door wider.

     “Merci” she said as she walked through the door.

     “Follow me,” I said as I walked her to the living room. She sat down on the leather couch and crossed her stocking legs. She picked up her pale hand with red polished nails and twirled her left pointer finger in her dark orange locks. I went to sit down in the chair catty cornered to her as she turned her pale face towards me.

      “So,” she said”should I tell you the backstory of the \*Défilé Macabre\*?”

      “Yes” I said as I nodded”I've been waiting all night to hear about why this \*thing\* came to be!”

    “Well,” Dr. Rousseau said ,”could I give you some pieces of paper telling you the backstory instead? I'm not confident in my English enough to talk about it”

     “Sure,” I replied. 

       She stopped twirling her hair and opened up her red leather purse. She searched in her purse frantically for about a minute but nothing turned up.

        “It might be in my car,” she said,let me get up and look. She then stood up, left the room,walked through the hall,opened the door  and walked outside—presumably to her car.I heard a door slamming and footsteps coming up to the door. She opened it.”Here it is,” she said. “A history of \*Défilé Macabre.”\*

        “Thank you,” I said.

        “Uh,Clarice,” she said.

         “Yes?,” I replied.

         “I haven't had breakfast,” she said,”do you have anything I could eat?” She asked.

        “Sure,” I said. There are some Bananas on the dining table—help yourself”

        I then sat down on the couch and started reading. This is what I read:



        \*The Défilé Macabre has a very intricate history.It has exclusively affected pregnant,middle-class or well-to-do white women for the past 120 years or so on what is now Fraise Street. As of 1921, 17 women have seen it pass by their windows at night. Every single one of them has had a miscarriage.\*

     Reading this sent a chill down my spine. This paper was only apparently written last year. I wondered how 17 pregnant women could have lived on Fraise street over the past 120 years. I returned to reading: 

      \*Le Danse Macabre has a murky history. It is thought to have popped up during the medieval times. More specifically, it seems to have appeared in response to the bubonic plague pandemics or the ‘Black death'.\*

     \*Le Danse Macabre had appeared in both poetry and illustrations throughout the Renaissance. Representations of Le Danse Macabre remind us that death can even affect those who don't think of mortality much.\*

   I thought about mortality when the Spanish flu hit—and more so when I was infected,but ever since meeting Tim in 1920,I hadn't thought about it. I continued reading:

Post Body:

Hey everyone,

I’ve been writing an original dark shonen / action-fantasy story called VALDEA, centered around ancient broken pacts, fallen cosmic guardians, and ruthless ideological clashes.

Here are the signature confrontation lines for my 4 main characters. I’d love to know which character's presence and delivery gives you the strongest chills!

1. ⚔️ HUSSAIN — Kaali Dhaal & Nafrat Ki Talwar

(The Fallen 4th Guardian: Betrayed by the gods, standing with a shattered shield and nothing left to lose)

"Kaanp uthegi dharti jab haath mein aayegi yeh kaali dhaal,

Mera ek-ek kadam ab banega is zamane ke liye kaal!

Dosti ko tyag kar uthayi thi maine nafrat ki wo talwar,

Valdea ke badalon par aaj bhi taaza hai MERA har ek vaar!

HAHAHAHAHAHA!"

(The earth will tremble when this black shield locks into my grip,

Every single stride of mine will become the doom of this era!

Casting aside friendship, I drew this blade of pure wrath,

Upon the storm-clouds of Valdea, every single strike of MINE still burns fresh!

HAHAHAHAHAHA!)

1. ⚡ HYPER — Jung Ka Elaan

(The Young Prodigy: A 14-year-old warrior holding onto brotherhood and pure fire in a world consumed by bloodshed)

"Nafrat ko karunga tyag...

Badhaunga main dosti ka haath...

Jalake apni dil ki aag...

Bataunga kiska waar hai taaza aur tez dhaar!

YEH HAI... JUNG KA ELAAN!"

(I shall renounce hatred to extend the hand of brotherhood...

Igniting the unrelenting fire within my chest...

I will prove whose strike cuts the freshest and the deepest!

THIS IS... MY DECLARATION OF WAR!)

1. 🩸 SYREX — The Vampire Emperor

(The Ruthless King: An emperor who watched his kingdom burn, marching to settle a blood-debt)

"Khoon ke badle khoon mangegi yeh kaali raat,

Khatm karunga wahi se jahan se shuru hui thi yeh baat!

Banke ek vampire... khada kiya hai ye EMPIRE!

Na dosti ki aag bachegi, na chalegi kisi ki dhaal,

Syrex ke kadam jahan padenge, wahi likha jayega sabka kaal!"

(Blood for blood shall this black night demand,

I will tear it all down right where this bloodline began!

Rising as a vampire... I forged this entire EMPIRE!

Neither the flame of friendship will survive, nor any shield stand tall,

Wherever Syrex sets foot, the demise of all shall be carved!)

1. 🔥 LUCIFER THE FIRE — The Return of Kaal

(The Ancient Demon: Clawing his way back from the grave to butcher the one who sealed him in history)

"Khoon se likha jo tune mera itihas,

Usi khoon ki ban ke laash...

Phaad ke panne, tode bandhan,

Laut ke aaya tera kaal!

Taaza tha tera waar agar,

Toh zinda khada hai tera shikaar idhar!

Na bachega Hussain, na bachega Empire...

Khamoshi cheer ke aag lagane aaya,

LUCIFER THE FIRE!"

(The history you carved in my own blood,

Rising as a vengeful corpse from that very gore...

Tearing through the parchment, shattering every chain,

Your doom has clawed its way back!

If your strike was fresh back then,

Then standing right before you is your living prey!

Neither Hussain shall draw breath, nor the Empire stand...

Ripping through the silence to ignite the pyre:

LUCIFER THE FIRE!)

Which character's energy and delivery grabs you the most? Drop your thoughts below!

I am mostly looking for feedback on whether the horror and scare elements are hitting.

"If you don't open the door, they can't get in," That was the rule carved above the broken mantle in what could charitably be called a farmhouse. Dry, brittle crops surround the building, wilting in the sun's amber light. "I wonder whose trial and error it was that taught that lesson," Will it be my turn to learn soon?

My shoulder burns as I crank the old iron pump in the middle of the room, sweat coats my body. I purse my lips at the effort of achieving a few more drops before the day's end when the well ceases to produce any more water until the morning. I squint up at where you sit, silhouetted in the window by the last of the sun's light. Empty eyes staring through my attempt at humor, it stings more than I care to admit. Intermittent drops of water accompany the syncopated tapping of my heel. Time for a final pump remains. I flinch at the prospect in the face of my exhaustion.

Lifting the handle is the most difficult step. "I sense your judgement in your posture," I say as you slouch forward at my sad attempt at perseverance and conversation, straining as I lift. "So long as a drop remains so shall I," I declare. With the lever raised I place both hands upon it and allow my weight to force it down towards the Earth in a pitiable triumph undercut by the absence of the anticipated final drop of the day. Bent and sighing I peer at you sitting across the room and try to meet your head's amused tilt with a dignity that scarcely exists.

The final rays of the day drip into the room. Taking the light but leaving the heat, the horizon swallows the sun. I feel my skin begin to itch in anticipation of what comes next. The darkness is total and undeniable once present, only my memory of the space allows me to navigate it. The scuttling of too many feet scampers outside the walls shorting out my frayed nerves. While the day saps the life from your body, the night does the same to your mind in this place. A rat-tat-tat-tat-tat bounces from the direction of the door.

“Cheers,” I declare to your skeleton as I arduously lift the too light pail to my lips.

It tastes metallic, bitter, and dirty.

Hi I’m very new to this stuff don’t really write. I lowkey have a learning disability involving it so I don’t really do the regular writting so I’ve been doing I guess rap and adjacent writing and just wanted some feedback.

Man in the mirror
Sometimes it feels like I’m staring inna fractured mirror
Warped perspective like I hammered back a thousand beers
Now when I take a peek all I see’s a grown man with a thousand yard stare
We got matching scars yet he seems somehow unfamiliar

I recognize the fear though admittedly he’s better at hiding it than I was
Fear never really disappears though you’ll still flinch
at every hand that comes near you
Only thing you can do is dress up distress till your loving
family and friends can’t no longer detect it
Not so good at hiding fatigue though eye bags from sleepless nights
Hard to hide those especially in bathroom lighting
Fatigues as deep seated as deceit is my minds ripe with these diseases

Trained my whole life to make sure nobody would see em
Built up lead curtains not even Superman’s x-ray vision could peep through em
Now I’m secluded connection has never felt so illusive
I know where the gaps are but this mirror seems to shield them
Maybe that’s why this stranger is so unidentifiable
Maybe my memory is just yet again unreliable
Maybe it’s my anxiety
Maybe just another trial gods getting off too
Why is he so old feels like hardly a day away I was fleeing another ass beating during recess
Never could quite manage to get away always ended the same no matter what I’d say
Kids had no courtesy remember one day I was
Begging the bullies please just not in the face on the counna tomorrows picture day
They hit me anyway came home with a fat lip n a bruise under my left eye

As I reminisce the man in the mirror grows only more familiar
My history is his explanation it’s funny though he almost looks like he wants to say something
I guess we’re both to strained to say it or maybe pain just keeps it at bay
Maybe the years of restraint make the flood gates nearly unbreakable

Sometimes I envy those who can play their tiny violins
While I grew acclimatized to all this violence
My two fists became the instrument
Like I was playing a theremin when I look at him his fists are balled too but knuckles with no bruises
Looks like physical stature caught up used to wish I’d be as big as my old man
That way no man would make me ever feel helpless again
Maybe he’s living proof some wishes come true he’s also proof
the past will always haunt you

seemingly got alot to live for I’ve grown up have the body id always wished for
But eyes don’t lie that tiny spark is gone somewhere in the frenzy
that final bitta hope must’ve up and just left us that’s one thing I can’t envy
Never convince yourself hope is the enemy the end of a rope never gets closer
maybe I really am him
If that’s the case his restraint is in my hands
So maybe it’s just time that I said it

We didn’t deserve the live grenade we were handed at 8
Dad was throwing grown man’s temper tantrums that doesn’t excuse his child abuse
However mom deserved a lot better
And it’s okay to still ache cause of it
They say you can’t fix a broken mirror but I just put my reflection back together

Dr. Elias Voss

“There exists a peculiar cruelty in the conscience of man: it demands repentance long after it has forgotten the crime”

Dr. Elias Voss had never considered himself an innocent man. Innocence, he believed, was merely the privilege of those who had not yet been made to remember. There were, of course, certain inconsistencies in this conviction. He could recall no crime sufficiently monstrous to warrant the peculiar anguish that accompanied his every waking hour, nor could he identify the precise moment at which his existence had become an exercise in perpetual atonement. Nevertheless, the absence of evidence had never persuaded him of his innocence. On the contrary, he regarded it as perhaps the most damning evidence of all.

For what was forgetfulness, if not the final refuge of the guilty?

He had often contemplated whether remorse preceded wrongdoing or whether wrongdoing merely furnished remorse with an object upon which to fasten itself. The distinction, though apparently trivial, had come to occupy him with an almost pathological intensity. If a man suffered for a crime he could not remember, was his suffering proof of guilt? And if the crime had never occurred, what, precisely, had he been punished for?

Such questions ordinarily visited him in the hours preceding dawn, when the distinction between memory and imagination became sufficiently tenuous that he could no longer determine which of the two had first betrayed him.

Dr. Elias Voss had long regarded affection as a peculiar form of human negligence. To love another was, in his estimation, to overlook the innumerable deficiencies of their character, to forgive what ought not to be forgiven, and to place one's happiness in the custody of another's inevitable failures.

It was for this reason that he had never understood his parents.

They were good people. This, Elias knew with a certainty that bordered on resentment. They had taken him into their modest Chicago home when he had been little more than a stranger, and had offered him a tenderness so unconditional that he came, in time, to regard it as an injustice. For what had he done to deserve such devotion? What conceivable virtue could he have possessed that warranted the affection of two people whose goodness so plainly exceeded his own?

He had spent much of his adult life attempting to answer these questions. Eventually, he arrived at the conclusion that there was no answer, and that their love was consequently a mistake.

His visits became infrequent. His telephone calls are shorter. He excused his absences with the demands of his profession, although he privately considered this explanation another small addition to the vast catalogue of his dishonesty.

He did not avoid his parents because he disliked their company. On the contrary, their presence was among the few things in the world capable of momentarily quieting the incessant accusations of his conscience. It was precisely this comfort that frightened him. He had come to believe that anything which afforded him happiness must eventually suffer for having done so.

And he could not bear the thought of making them suffer.

There was, of course, a considerable irony in the profession he had chosen.

Elias was a neurologist of considerable distinction, a man whose competence had earned him the admiration of colleagues and the gratitude of patients. He possessed an almost unnatural capacity for remaining composed in the presence of catastrophe. His diagnoses were precise, his judgment rarely questioned, and his professional reputation such that strangers occasionally traveled considerable distances merely to obtain his opinion.

He despised every aspect of it.

Medicine, to Elias, had never been a vocation in the ordinary sense. It was neither a passion nor an expression of some benevolent impulse toward mankind. Rather, it was a sentence he had imposed upon himself, an indefinite obligation to preserve lives in compensation for those he believed himself responsible for destroying.

He did not count the people he saved.

He counted the ones he could not.

And although the latter were comparatively few, they occupied a disproportionate portion of his existence.

It was shortly after seven in the morning when the telephone rang.

Elias regarded the instrument with an expression of mild apprehension. He had developed an instinctive aversion to telephone calls, having discovered that they seldom delivered anything which could not be postponed and frequently demanded emotional responses he felt incapable of providing.

Nevertheless, he answered.

"Dr. Voss speaking."

"Elias?"

He closed his eyes.

"Hello, Mother."

"Have you been eating properly?"

There was no greeting, no preliminary inquiry into the condition of his day. His mother had long since abandoned such formalities, having apparently concluded that her son's continued existence required more immediate verification.

"Yes, Mother."

"And sleeping?"

"When I can."

"That isn't an answer."

A silence followed.

He imagined her seated beside the kitchen window, one hand wrapped around the telephone cord, her expression arranged into that familiar mixture of tenderness and suspicion which he had come to recognize as maternal concern.

"Elias, are you all right?"

He glanced toward the window of his office. Chicago lay beneath a colorless morning sky, its buildings appearing almost indistinguishable through the pale October mist.

"I'm all right, Mom. I swear."

The lie emerged with such practiced ease that he scarcely recognized it as one.

For several years, Elias had entertained recurring thoughts of ending his life. He regarded death neither as a terror nor as a particularly unfortunate conclusion to his existence. On the contrary, he had sometimes imagined it as the only conceivable interruption to the relentless prosecution occurring within his own mind.

Yet whenever the thought approached something resembling a decision, he recoiled. Not from fear.

From the belief that death would constitute an undeserved acquittal.

A man who had committed an unforgivable offense, he reasoned, ought not to be permitted the luxury of escaping its consequences. To cease suffering would be to abandon the very punishment that made his continued existence tolerable.

And so he lived.

Not because he believed himself worthy of life, but because he believed himself unworthy of release.

"Elias?"

"Yes, Mother?"

"How has your memory been? Have you been taking your medicine? They told you consistency was important."

His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the receiver.

"My memory is perfectly fine."

"You said that last time."

"And I was correct last time."

"Your doctor said—"

"I am a doctor, Mother."

There was a brief pause.

"I know what you are, Elias."

Something in her voice troubled him.

It was not anger. Nor disappointment. It was the quiet exhaustion of someone who had spent years attempting to reach a person determined to remain inaccessible.

"Just promise me you're taking care of yourself."

"I promise."

He wondered whether his mother recognized the ease with which he manufactured these assurances, and whether she accepted them because she believed him or because she had grown weary of questioning him.

They exchanged a few more words, none of particular significance, and eventually said goodbye.

Elias hung the phone.

For some time, he remained motionless.

His life was strangely cruel, he thought, he was loved by those whose affection he could neither comprehend nor adequately return. Their goodness did not diminish his guilt. It magnified it. Every expression of concern became another obligation he was certain to disappoint.

On the morning of October seventeenth, however, such considerations were interrupted by the death of a child.

A hurried knock sounded against his office door.

"Dr. Voss?"

He turned.

A young nurse stood in the doorway, her face pale, her breathing uneven.

"It's the boy. Benjamin."

Elias rose.

"What about him?"

"Dr. Clariss tried everything. There were complications, and—"

"What complications?"

"The malformation ruptured. Dr. Clariss took him into surgery, but the hemorrhage was extensive. They couldn't control the bleeding."

For several seconds Elias said nothing. 

"No."

The word escaped him with a strange, almost childish disbelief.

"No, I told Clariss to call me if his condition deteriorated. I specifically told him—"

"I'm sorry, Doctor."

"Why wasn't I informed?"

The nurse lowered her eyes.

Elias was already moving toward the door. Then he stopped, took a knee and covered his eyes. 

The boy was eight years old.

His name was Benjamin.

And Elias, who had never met him before that morning, would spend the remainder of his life believing he had murdered him. Along with many others.

Does anybody have any idea about where to publish my poems and how??

CHAPTER ONE

Strangers

Nobody notices strangers.

Adrian Cole had spent years believing that. Every morning, the plaza outside the subway entrance in downtown Westbridge filled with people rushing to work, most too busy to pay attention to anyone around them. Adrian sat on a metal bench near the intersection, watching the crowd move past while a small black notebook rested on his knee. He had been there for fifty-three minutes, and the only person who had looked at him for more than a second was a child being pulled along by his mother.

He opened the notebook and turned to a fresh line.

Observation #217

People remember what catches their attention, not necessarily what happens in front of them.

He read the sentence again. It wasn’t a new idea. He had spent years watching people in places like this, noticing how little they seemed to remember about the strangers they passed. But lately, he had started wondering whether being overlooked was as useful as he had always believed. There was a difference between going unnoticed and knowing what people had failed to notice, and Adrian wasn’t sure he understood that difference as well as he thought.

Across the intersection, a security camera turned toward the subway entrance. Adrian followed its movement until it reached the end of its sweep, then watched as it slowly returned. He had seen the same pattern many times before. The camera covered the crossing, the pavement outside a row of shops, and part of the road, but a narrow section beside a building remained outside its view for several seconds at a time.

He looked down at his notebook and added another line beneath the observation.

People trust what they can see. They rarely question what they can’t.

A bus passed between him and the camera, blocking his view for a moment. When it moved on, a man in a dark coat was standing near the building, looking toward the intersection. Adrian hadn’t noticed him arrive. The man checked his watch, glanced at the camera, then walked away without crossing the road.

Adrian watched him disappear around the corner. Perhaps he was waiting for someone. Perhaps he had simply changed his mind about where he was going. There was no way to know from a few seconds of watching, and Adrian knew better than to mistake a guess for a fact.

He wrote nothing about the man.

Instead, he closed the notebook and stood. The crowd carried him across the intersection, past a woman hurrying to catch a train and a cyclist arguing with a driver who had stopped too far into the crossing. Adrian moved around them and continued toward a newspaper stand at the corner.

A television behind the glass was showing the morning news. He might have walked past without paying attention, but the reporter’s words made him stop.

“…Westbridge police are investigating after a body was discovered late last night near Riverside District.”

The screen showed a stretch of road beside the river, with police lights flashing behind yellow tape. The reporter stood near the edge of the walking path, speaking over the sound of passing traffic.

“The body was discovered shortly after midnight, just two blocks from Central Plaza. Police have not yet released the victim’s identity, and investigators are asking anyone who was in the area last night to come forward.”

Adrian stared at the screen. He knew Riverside District. He had walked along the river the night before, past the streetlights and the metal railing that separated the path from the water. He could remember the cold air against his face and the sound of cars moving along the road behind him.

What he couldn’t remember was leaving.

He tried to picture the journey home, but his thoughts stopped somewhere between the river and his apartment. He couldn’t recall unlocking his front door, turning on the lights, or getting ready for bed. At first, he told himself he had simply been tired. People forgot ordinary details all the time, and a missing part of an evening didn’t automatically mean something was wrong.

Then he checked the time on his phone and realised he had been awake for hours without once questioning how he had got home.

Adrian had always trusted his memory. He kept his notebook because he liked having a record of things he might otherwise forget, not because he struggled to remember his own life. The small details usually stayed with him long after other people had moved on. Yet when he tried to fill in the missing hours, the harder he concentrated, the less certain he became.

The television changed to a shot of a police car parked beside the river.

“…investigators are reviewing security footage from nearby streets as they work to establish the victim’s final movements.”

Adrian looked toward the camera above the intersection. He had no reason to believe he had anything to do with the death. He hadn’t even seen the victim, and being near Riverside the night before didn’t make him a suspect. Still, the mention of security footage made him think about every camera along the route he had taken.

If he had walked past one, there might be a record of him being there. If he had gone somewhere else afterward, there might be a record of that too. For the first time, Adrian found himself hoping the cameras had captured something useful, even if he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what it was.

He turned away from the television and started toward the subway entrance. As he walked, he pushed back his sleeve to check the time again, and noticed a thin scratch just below his wrist. The skin around it was red, and the mark looked recent. He turned his hand beneath the light, trying to remember catching it on the railing beside the river, but nothing came to him.

He might have scratched himself without noticing. That was possible. What bothered him was that he couldn’t remember enough about the night to decide whether that explanation made sense.

By the time he reached the subway stairs, he had taken out his phone and opened his recent calls. There was nothing unusual. He checked his messages, then his calendar, looking for anything that might help him piece the evening together. Most of it was ordinary, the kind of information he could have checked on any morning, but there was no sign of where he had been after Riverside.

He was about to put the phone away when it vibrated in his hand.

An unknown number had sent him a message.

Did you sleep well?

Adrian read it twice. The words were ordinary enough, but the timing made them feel different. He looked at the number, hoping he might recognise it, then opened the sender’s details. There was no name or profile picture, and nothing to suggest who might be contacting him.

He typed a reply.

Who is this?

The message was delivered, but no answer came.

A train rumbled beneath the pavement as people began descending the stairs around him. Adrian stepped aside to let them pass, still staring at the screen. It could have been a wrong number or a prank. Someone might have sent the message without knowing anything about his night, and he was already looking for connections because the news had unsettled him.

He knew that was possible. He also knew that the message had arrived just after he discovered he couldn’t account for several hours of his life.

He looked at the scratch on his wrist, then back at the phone. Something about the words bothered him more than it should have. The sender hadn’t asked where he had been or what he was doing. They had asked whether he had slept well, as though they already knew he had gone to bed.

Adrian opened the message again and began typing another reply, but stopped before he could finish. He wasn’t sure what to ask. If the sender was a stranger, demanding an explanation might tell him nothing. If it was someone he knew, he didn’t want to reveal how little he remembered.

He locked the screen and slipped the phone into his pocket.

For years, Adrian had believed that paying attention gave him an advantage. He could notice a change in someone’s behaviour, remember a face from a crowd, or spot a detail that others had overlooked. But he had never considered what would happen if he missed something important himself.

The missing hours were no longer just an inconvenience. Someone might know where he had been, what he had done, and why he couldn’t remember it. Until he found out who had sent the message, he had no way of knowing whether he was being warned, threatened, or simply frightened by a coincidence.

Adrian descended the subway stairs, joining the crowd on its way underground. Above him, the security cameras continued their slow sweep across the plaza, recording the people who passed beneath them.

He had spent years studying what people failed to notice.

Now he had to find out what he had missed.

Hi everyone, I'm working on a dark supernatural thriller about an Englishman living in New York City, hitting rock bottom before taking a remote caretaker job up state. Looking for quick feedback on the dialogue, pacing, and whether this opening scene hooks you!

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The heavy, rhythmic thud of boots in the hallway cut through his thoughts. Three sharp knocks rattled the thin plywood of his front door. Doug didn't need to look through the peephole to know who it was.

Mr. Anderson, the landlord, stood in the threshold before Doug could even fully swing the door open. Anderson was a short, thickset man whose breath always smelled faintly of peppermint and cheap cigars. He carried a clipboard like a shield.

"I heard about the plant, Mr. Williams," Anderson said, not bothering with a greeting. He didn't look Doug in the eye; instead, his gaze wandered past Doug's shoulder, assessing the state of the apartment's carpet. "Bad business, truly. But the first of the month is three days away."

"I know, Mr. Anderson," Doug said, his voice dropping into a low, defensive register. "I’m looking. I actually just found something up north. A caretaker gig. I just need a little time to get the first check, maybe a two-week grace period on the—"

"If you don't pay, you don't stay," Anderson interrupted, his tone shifting from professional indifference to cold finality. "That’s the rule of the house, Douglas. I’ve got a waiting list of kids from the community college who can pay three months upfront with their parents' money. I can’t do charity. You need to vacate the apartment by tomorrow morning. If the keys aren't on the counter by noon, I’m changing the locks and putting the furniture on the curb."

The only person who ever called him Douglas was his Mum.

Doug looked at the man’s polished leather shoes, then up at his greasy forehead. There was no anger left in him, no spark of righteous indignation. Just a profound, crushing exhaustion.

"Understood," Doug said quietly.

He closed the door, listening to the landlord's heavy boots retreat down the hallway until the building fell silent again.

With you I'm a puzzle that is solved

Without you, I'm a heart that's never learned to love

All of the cubes matched when I met you

The prettiest butterfly chose a milkweed that was falling

My fingers face withdrawal when your fingers sway somewhere alone

My eyes fade to black when there's no silhouette made of a lavender

When you speak, I listen and I want to store your melody in my seventh sense

With you, there's peace whispering a prayer

Without you, I'm a civilian of their world and demon is the mayor

When I found you, I found the missing piece

I was forbidden from seeing Autum, then I found June

I’m a hobby writer working on my first literary fiction novel. This is the opening paragraph of chapter one, roughly 180 words. I’ve rewritten it five times, but I’m unsure if the opening hook lands.

My main worry: Is the main character’s internal conflict clear enough too quickly? Or is it too vague, leaving readers confused about what’s at stake? I’d also love feedback on pacing and whether the dialogue feels natural, not forced.

The old café smelled like burnt bread and rain. Clara stared at the chipped mug in her hands, watching steam curl thin and vanish before it reached her face. She’d come here every Tuesday for three years, but today the quiet felt different, heavy. The man sitting across hadn’t spoken in ten minutes. He pushed a folded photograph across the table. “You don’t have to forgive them,” he said. “But you do have to stop running.”
Clara’s fingers hovered above the photo. She knew what it showed. The house she left behind, the sister she abandoned. For a second she considered sliding it back, standing up and walking out like she always did. But her hands shook. She didn’t move.

That’s the excerpt. I’m trying to hint at family trauma without info-dumping everything in chapter one.
What parts feel flat? Does this make you curious about Clara’s past? Any sentences I should cut or rewrite? Thank you for any honest feedback.

A draft of the final fight scene for a suspense thrill novel I'm working on. I don't want it to sound too "Hollywoodish" or "unrealistic. What do you think? Also, it involves the physics of an MRI suite --- does it seem plausible? Feedback and suggestions are welcomed.

THE FINAL SCENE

It took 22 minutes for Tonya to complete Frank Mancusio’s scan. Not bad.
 Now she removed Frank from the scanner, Frank sat up and hopped off the motorized bed, stretching, and they headed out the room. “How are you?”
“I’m good, not as bad as I thought. I still prefer spelunking though.” he and Tonya chuckled. “Well, How’s my brain? Did it look…you know….cancerous?”

“I can’t give a diagnosis, but the doctor will contact you and you did a good job.” He smiled and she patted his arm. “Remember what you said? God is in control.”

“Exactly,” he grinned. “Gotta take my own advice as a pastor, huh?” 

She smiled at him. “We’re all human,” they stepped out of the  control room and turned left down the short hallway before rounding right. 

“It’s quiet. Where is everyone?”

“You’re the last patient. We’re actually closing up,” she said, pointing toward the changing room. “Go ahead and get dressed. I’m gonna start cleaning up in the scanner room and I’ll come get you to let you out in a few minutes.” 

Frank smiled, waving as he turned into the changing room. Tonya pivoted and walked back to the scanner room where she moved the motorized bed and began her closing duties; sanitizing the bed and front bore, disposing the linens in the hamper, wiping down counter and any other items before returning to the control room to scan the results of Frank’s scans into Dr. Gupta.

–wait, what was that noise?

No, maybe nothing. She needed to let Frank out through the lobby. She could return and finish powering down the system and the computer monitors.  Reclipping her badge on the scrubs pants, Tonya disposed of her gloves and her mask and  headed out of the control room, down the short hallway —

 “CODE SILVER. CODE SILVER” the PA system announced overhead, stopping Tonya dead in her tracks.

Wait–what? Cold Silver. Oh shoot, that meant someone with a weapon—
“TONYA, YOU SKANK!” someone screamed. 
She jerked back, gasping.

And then she screamed. 

Because right in front of her, stood Derrick. 

A pissed-off Derrick with a face contorted in anger. Baggy jeans held up with an iron belt buckle, a white tank top stained with someone’s blood, a stainless steel chain roped around his neck.

And he held a butterfly knife to the neck of a terrified Frank Mancusio.

It’s amazing the dozens of thoughts that zip through your head in just a few seconds, and for Tonya, they came like lightning; I’m dreaming. He’s not standing there. He found me. Frank. What is happening? This can’t be. Lord I — 

“Did you miss me, boo?” Derrick hissed wickedly, yanking Frank back more. 

Tonya blinked, holding her breath. Come on girl, move, run, do something—

“Did you?!” he roared, and she flinched, gasping loudly. 
She closed her eyes, heart pounding. Calm him down. Make peace. No, wait. No. It didn’t work–

“Oh you’re scared, aren’t you?” She opened her eyes when he said this, and he looked at her with fury…and elation. 

He’s not just angry. He’s enjoying this. 
 “Yeah, you should be,” he said. 
She squeezed her eyes shut. This was the moment to face her fear. 
Lord, I need your help

She opened her eyes.  “What are you doing here?” she asked coolly. 

“I always know where you are!” He screamed.

She looked at Frank briefly and then Derrick.
“Let him go,” she ordered him. 
“Shut-up skank!”
“Let him go, Derrick!” she hissed, fists clinched.

“YOU RUINED ME, SKANK!”

“You ruined yourself!” Tonya shot back boldly.  “Let him go now!”
His eyes widened, surprised at her,  surprised at her tenacity, and he momentarily lowered his arm —
—-and suddenly yanked  Frank backward and slashed his neck.

Tonya reacted instinctively, medical training finally kicking in, and she bolted for Frank as he sank to one knee, gasping. She yanked off her scrubs top and jammed it into Frank’s neck as he fell forward.  “Stay with me,” she held it to his throat, blood oozing through the material, and he put his own hand there.  “We’lll get you h—”

Derrick’s foot smashed into Tonya’s nose from the side, hard.

She fell backwards while momentary pain and blinding light pierced through her nasal cavity. Tonya struggled to sit up, shaking her head, stinging tears blotting her vision, tasting blood that dripped from her nose. 
Derrick stepped over Frank, who’d collapsed completely on the floor. She climbed toward Frank, but Derrick suddenly grabbed her fiercely by her African braids, yanking her to her feet and jamming the knife under her jaw, eyes of fury and thrill boring into her, his other head digging into her scalp. 
“He’s dead, skank,” Derrick snarled. “And I’m the last person you’ll see.” He chuckled gleefully, scraping the knife across her painfully bleeding nose before licking the blood-stained knife with a chuckle.

In that split second, something switched in Tonya's mind, and she mentally replaced the pain with adrenaline-fueled resolve to survive, to fight.

Yes, fight, the small voice echoed in her soul. You’ll survive this.

She proprioceptively knew her right knee was between his legs, right in that perfect spot. Aw yes, eyes, throat, groin.  

—she rammed her knee into his groin. Hard. “BASTARD!” 

Derrick doubled over in pain, releasing her as he clutched his jewels. But he wouldn’t remain down and out for long. Tonya turned, ignoring the blood dripping from her nose, dashing erratically for the emergency exit next to the equipment room. 
“You WITCH!” his voice echoed down the corridor. 
She slammed her body into the door, the impact vibrating through her injured nose. 
But the door held firm. What?
Tonya threw her weight into the door again, wincing in pain.
Nothing. The electronic lock had failed. 
Not this again! She jumped backward, holding her nose, panning the area quickly for another way—
Derrick rushed at her, knife poised to shank. 
She screamed and dove for the ground and into a barrel roll, staggering to her feet just as Derrick twisted around and swiped the knife at her, the blade’s tip slashing the skin of her back briefly as she fled back down the corridor. The other emergency exit, the one by the CT scanner  room, if she could just –
Derrick slammed into her. She’d barely run 15 feet. 
They crashed to the ground. Tonya’s nose and shoulder smacking the floor, while Derrick landed on her briefly before bouncing off her and falling to the right. 
Pain shot through her face and shoulder and Tonya pushed herself up, disoriented but only for a moment. She turned her to her right to see Derrick lunging for her, knife raised.
She instinctively pulled herself into a ball as he landed on her, knife swinging.
But Tonya shielded her neck and torso, blocking the blows with her arms, writhing on the floor and kicking at him while screaming. With her erratic movement he only managed to inflict superficial cuts and gashes to her arms, hands and side as she feverishly pushed back. She saw his chained neck through the gap of her raised arms.  Throat. 
Just as she jabbed her bloody knuckles against his throat, the Adam’s apple, Derrick plowed the knife deep into her right shoulder. He jerked back, yanking the knife out and clutching his throat, and Tonya fell backward, screaming in pain—
—and someone whacked a broomstick against Derrick's back and head.
Marisa
Derrick fell forward against Tonya  and she rolled away from him, pain shooting through her right shoulder from where he stabbed her.  She looked up to see Marisa bring the broomstick down on Derrick’s back again just as he cursed and jerked upward to his feet, clutching the knife.  
Tonya staggered to her feet haphazardly, pushing through the pain and dizziness, and Marisa lifted the broomstick a third time.
Derrick whirled around, jamming the knife into Marisa’s abdomen before she could swing  down.
“NO!” Tonya rushed forward with a burst of adrenaline as Marisa collapsed to the ground, the broomstick falling out of her hand. Derrick pounced on Marisa, crouching to stab her once more. 
Tonya kicked Derrick in his side before he could. 
He recoiled, cussing,  and Tonya seized fallen broomstick with both hands, raising it over her head to bash his head—
Pain ripped through her right shoulder and down her arm, which seized up, and she dropped the stick, doubling over and grabbing her arm.
That’s when Derrick backhanded her, hard. 
She stumbled back, blinding pain in her face mingling with her nose pain. “Darnit!” she managed. Once more disorientation took over, and she swayed a bit  as Derrick towered over her with furious eyes and a look of delight.
Her nose and face throbbed and she groaned in pain and tried to study her gait. OK, OK, focus–focus.
She looked up to see  Derrick standing before her, arms spread, the knife firm in one hand, his body poised to attack if she tried to run past him.
“Go ahead. I dare you.” 
Another bout of disorientation.  Focus, she thought. Lord, help me focus.
The other emergency exit. She lunged toward her left. 
He blocked her, swiping at her with the knife. 
She jumped back, the blade narrowly missing her face. She lunged for her right.
He slashed the blade across her chest, the blade tearing tank top fabric and nicking her skin underneath. She shrieked in pain and anguish, staggering back more.
In that moment time slowed. Endless thoughts in mere milliseconds. 

Marisa lay crumpled in a ball, behind Derrick, possibly dead. Goodness no. Frank, further down, also lay motionless and most likely dead. Please no. The first useless emergency exit to her right down the corridor. Derrick’s swift moves blocking her from the other exit. The MRI suite just a few feet behind her. Her nose and shoulder possibly broken and tendons torn. Derrick viciously taunting her before —

--Wait—.

The MRI suite is right behind me.

The chrome steel chain around his neck.

His iron belt buckle.

That stupid knife he’s holding.
Ferromagnetic.
A walking magnet attraction. A way to stop him. 
But he’s quick, too quick. 
Take a chance, the small voice said.

“OK, Jesus,” she muttered thickly.  “Let’s do it.”

“Your God can’t help you!” He screamed, hearing her mumble this.

And with that, Tonya pivoted and sprinted at the suite door, slamming into it with her good side. 

He charged right after her.

“Police! Grab him!” Marisa suddenly screamed, her voice strained but explosive enough to stop Derrick, who whipped around.  
It bought Tonya time to slap her badge against the panel– beep!
She tumbled into the room quickly, just as Derrick, cursing at the distraction, dashed forward and slammed his body into the door, swiping the knife at her. 
Tonya ducked, grabbed a rolling chair with her hand and shoved it in his direction as he  pushed through the doorway.
He fell over their chair, allowing her to stumble to the airlock RF shielding door and pull down the handle.
Cussing, he rammed the chair to the side. 
She yanked the RF door open with all her weight.  
He charged forward. 
She threw herself into the scanner room, the thump-hiss of the machine greeting her—
---Derrick plowed his knife  into her upper right back, hard, with a shhk sound, penetrating deep into muscle and dermis, and -- 
  —Tonya jerked forward, falling to her knees, the knife sliding out of her flesh.  Tonya dragged herself desperately toward the scanner using her good arm and her knees.
Derrick clamored after her, snatching the cloth of her tank top from the back with his left hand, briefly noting he couldn’t hold the knife steadily with his right, unaware of the magnetic force pulling it. In his rage and lust, he’d already ignored  the warning signs, the thump-hiss of the machine, and the light on the doors that had screamed “DANGER! MAGNET IS ALWAYS ON.” 
Despite his grip on her tank top, Tonya yanked herself forward, falling against the bore’s front near the scanner bed, well within the missile projectile effect area.
But Derrick didn’t care, he threw his weight forward to ram the knife into her back —
While Tonya threw herself to the right at the same time, crashing onto her already-injured right arm and shoulder, narrowing missing his aim —
--just as the magnetic force suddenly seized the knife and ripped it out of Derrick’s grip violently. 
“What th—”
CLANG! CLANG! -
--and had he not thrown his weight into his knife-stabbing, the invisible force would have just simply yanked the knife out of his hand and nothing more. But with his body in motion, coupled with the magnetic pull’s torque, Derrick lurched forward and crashed against the upper part just inside the bore–
—and the invisible force snatched his thick chrome steel necklace chain like a tightrope, yanking it to the surface, and taking him with it–
“AAAAH SHIIII—”
While the knife, after clanking back and forth from its attempt to align with the isocenter, had settled on the bottom part just inside the bore, blade facing upward  – 
TWHUMMP THUMP!

–where his body thudded against the inside, the blade piercing his chest.

SCHKK 
Then, silence.

Well, except for the thump-hiss, or the heartbeat of the magnet.

I am working on a historical fiction piece. Some feedback would be great. What's working? Do you get the premise? The full draft is here: https://greerjacksonbooks.substack.com/p/e691c664-6b41-4b5e-91a8-2905eceba422

You are a dive-bar kinda person. So you want to eat at Helping Hands because you know that’s where the good food is.

By good, I’m talking neck bones so juicy that they can only be eaten indelicately. They must be sucked and slurped in a way that would shock your mother--she is a no-elbows-on-the-table kinda woman.

But there is no shame allowed at Helping Hands. You are free to eat your rice smothered in neck bone gravy with a spoon, a tablespoon no less. And you can use that same spoon to tear off a chunk of your pound cake when it’s time.

Anyone and all interested in the common pursuit of a full belly are welcome. You are welcome even if you don’t have two nickels to rub together, as your prudent mother likes to say. Some people eat for free. Some people pay seven nickels to eat. Others donate more because the food is just that good.

In the Free Press, Kay Savage said a man paid three dollars for a cup of coffee at Helping Hands. That’s what you paid for the two white dress shirts you own--one of which you are wearing to go over there and eat today.

3700 Gratiot, Gratiot and Mount Elliot is not a pressed white shirt part of town. It’s where you go to pick up a job for the day. It’s more of a neighborhood coveralls. But you also heard that Mother Waddles puts a fresh white tablecloth on each table over there at Helping Hands, and even a few flowers. And since you are your mother’s child, a crisp white shirt just seems appropriate somehow.

You can see the line before you even get off the bus. But it’s not windy today, so you’ll survive a 30-minute wait to get inside, even though it’s October. And they are handing out their famous coffee to the people waiting.

When it’s your turn, the lady in front says welcome and points you to a table with an empty chair. She doesn’t mention the donation can in her hand. But you put in your dime and quarter anyway.

The table is a bit small for six people. But two of them are little kids, so that helps. The adults look up and nod at you, friendlier than you were expecting for Skid Row. But the kids keep eating.

Mother Waddles is pouring coffee and touching shoulders on the other side of the room. But except for the coffee instead of booze, it feels like a dive bar in here, you think--small, cozy, you could say cramped. These people know each other. And there is a literal bar with stools where people are eating. The gossiping that must go down over there!

Today’s meal is oxtail soup, not neckbones and rice like you were hoping. But soup makes sense for October, and it is good--sweet from carrots, spicy from a bit of black pepper. It makes your nose run a bit. It’s the kind of soup that keeps you from getting sick.

And there’s cornbread too. Well, it’s a corn pone, a hoecake. But it’s hot. It’s got those crispy edges. And the inside is creamy and soft, almost like cornmeal porridge. There is nothing better for sopping up oxtail juice.

A few pieces fall on your crisp white shirt with each bite and make a yellowish grease stain. But still, it’s not a bad meal for 35 cents. And there are flowers and white tablecloths, just like you read about. But they have glass tops over them to keep stains down.

I am writing a small anthology for my daughter's birthday gift this year. I plan to have it printed as a hardcover book with illustrations. It features funny, fantastical retellings of real events, as well as more thematic short stories. I would love feedback on one to see if it is any good. I am not a writer by a long shot, so I'm hoping some of the more qualified people here can give me some notes! [4458]

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1MHNjmQGC9e1xju9CcsvWx6tY0i2zJp3ly6EK4xzmcPI/edit?usp=sharing

The Softened Hours
Plants came before mammals.
The first land plants appeared 470 million years ago, greening a world in slow, patient increments. Mammals wouldn't arrive until 200 million years ago—latecomers to a world shaped by root and leaf. We, like to think ourselves central to the story, barely present at all.

A few hundred thousand years of human breath against a backdrop so vast it resists comprehension.
Plainly: the world did not begin with us. It learned to live long before we learned how to name it.

Daytime belongs to edges—tables, doorways, borders and the hard outlines of things insisting on being known. But there are other hours, softer ones, the world loosens its grip on certainty. In those hours, something older seems nearer. Not visible, — but waiting, seemingly always.

The first time, I was drinking.
That is a fact I neither excuse nor lean upon. It simply is. And matters less now, because what came did not remain confined to that condition. It followed me—into sobriety, into ordinary sleep, into the unremarkable nights that make up most of a life.

They are here.
Not strangers in the usual sense, not familiar either. They appear as older middle-aged folk—not frail, not diminished, but settled. As if they've long outlived the need to hurry. Their movements are measured. Each gesture seems to carry weight, as though time itself were something handled carefully, not spent carelessly as we do.

They take form slowly, as though gathering themselves from the room. A figure near a chair, another by the doorway. Not intruding—never that—but present in a way that feels prearranged, like the air had been holding a place for them long before I noticed it.

There are few words.
I cannot say with certainty there are any words. Communication gathers around them like pressure—as meaning that has not yet decided to become language. It is felt first. Understood only as much as I am able to.

And then, always, the same moment.

I begin to follow.
I try to ask.
And everything stops.
Not fades. Not leaves. Stops.

The room holds itself in suspension so complete it feels arranged—like a photograph just taken, or a thought just lost. Sound and motion ceases. My own sense of time seems to hesitate, as though unsure whether it is permitted to continue.

Then the trepidation.
Not fear. Not panic. Something quieter, a discernment. The awareness that I've crossed into something that does not behave according to the rules I know.

My hand rises. Always the same gesture: palm outward, as though asking someone to wait—or to stop. I have never decided which. In that stillness, I understood something I cannot fully explain. These are not people, the thought did not come as language. It arrived whole, already formed. They are trees.

Not in the literal sense—not bark and branch shaped into human likeness—but something deeper. Living cells, ancient beyond reckoning, taking on a form I can bear to witness. A translation perhaps. A kindness. An acceptable way for me to receive what they are.

After that realization, they did not disappear. If anything, they seemed to settle firmly into presence. As though something had been acknowledged—some quiet agreement reached without words.

I do not know what they want.
I do not know if “want” is even the right word. But there is intention. That much I am certain.

And once— at the very beginning—there was more.
There was a hierarchy among them, not imposed, but recognized. Two presences standing apart without separating themselves.

In human terms, I recognized a king and a queen, though the words feel insufficient and slightly wrong.
With them came something else. A rhythm.

Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.

Not heard with the ears, but perceived—steady, inevitable, indifferent to understanding. Time, not as we measure it, but as something that measures us. With that rhythm came images.
Not shown, Impressed.

A world undone. Not in fire or spectacle, but in utter failure. Systems collapsing not with violence, but with exhaustion. The long unraveling of things that once held. Afterward—care.

Hands, or something like hands, tending to what remained. Seeds. The last of them. Guarded not with urgency, but with certainty. As though this, too, had always been part of the design.

An ending.
A keeping.
A beginning.

I didn't ask for these things.
I wouldn't know how.
But they were given nonetheless.
And since, I have had the distinct and unsettling sense that I am not the only one being shown.

Somewhere, in softened hours across the world, others sit in quiet rooms and feel that same pressure of meaning gathering just beyond language.

I cannot prove this. I cannot even defend it.
But I know the feeling of it. And I have learned, at least, this much: When they come, it is better not to ask. It is better simply to witness.

Because whatever they are, they have been waiting far longer than we have been capable of noticing.

And they do not hurry.

Hey everyone! I’m a new writer, and I’ve recently started working on my first psychological thriller, The Observer.

The story follows Adrian Cole, a man who’s spent most of his life being overlooked by the people around him. He’s always been observant, noticing the little things others miss. But when he starts losing hours of his memory and finds himself connected to a series of murders, he begins to question what’s real and what he can trust.
I’m going for a psychological thriller with mystery, suspense, and twists that make you look back at everything you’ve read differently.

I’ve just finished the first chapter, “Strangers,” and I’d really appreciate it if some of you could read it and give me your honest thoughts.

A few things I’d love feedback on:
Does the opening grab your attention?
Does it make you curious about what happens next?
Does the writing feel natural and easy to follow?
Is there anything that feels confusing, boring, or needs improvement?

I’m genuinely open to criticism, so don’t feel like you have to be nice just for the sake of it. I’m still learning, and I’d rather know what isn’t working so I can improve.

I’ll paste the first chapter below. Thanks to anyone who takes the time to read it. I appreciate it.
_________________________________________

Chapter One: Strangers

Nobody notices strangers.

Adrian Cole had spent years proving it.

Every morning, the same crowd filled the plaza outside the subway entrance in downtown Westbridge. People rushed through the intersection with coffee cups in their hands and their eyes fixed on their phones. Cars moved slowly through the traffic, horns sounded in the distance, and footsteps echoed against the pavement.

Everyone seemed to be going somewhere.

And yet, nobody really looked at anyone.

Adrian sat on a metal bench across from the intersection, a small black notebook resting on his knee. From there, he could see four crosswalks, two security cameras, and hundreds of people moving through the plaza.

He had been sitting there for fifty-three minutes.

In that time, exactly one person had looked directly at him.

A child.

Adults rarely looked. They glanced at faces as they passed, but their eyes moved on before they had a chance to remember anything.

Adrian opened his notebook and uncapped his pen.

Observation #217

In crowded places, people rarely remember unfamiliar faces, even moments after passing them.

He tapped the pen against the page.

This wasn't a guess. He had tested it dozens of times over the past year. Subway platforms, grocery stores, busy streets. Different places, different people, the same result.

People noticed movement. They noticed obstacles. They noticed anything that interrupted their routine.

But a stranger sitting quietly on a bench?

Most people would forget he was there before they had even walked away.

Adrian knew because he had spent most of his life being that stranger.

At school, he had been the boy in the corner. He had few friends and rarely spoke unless somebody spoke to him first. He wasn't bullied, and nobody hated him. Most people simply didn't think about him at all.

When classmates made plans, they rarely remembered to include him. When teachers called attendance, his name was just another name on the list.

After a while, Adrian stopped expecting people to notice him.

Instead, he started noticing them.

He paid attention to the little things people did without thinking. The way someone's mood changed when a certain person entered a room. The way a smile disappeared when nobody was looking. The way people sometimes said one thing but did another.

Nobody had taught him to observe. It had happened naturally, over years of sitting quietly while life unfolded around him.

By the time he was older, observing had become second nature. He listened more than he spoke, watched before he acted, and remembered details other people overlooked.

He never felt the need to tell anyone what he noticed.

It was simply how he experienced the world.

Now, he had turned that habit into something he could test.

Adrian looked up at the security camera mounted above the intersection.

It was slowly turning from one side of the street to the other.

Then he smiled.

Because he knew something most people in Westbridge didn't.

Even the cameras missed things.

He had spent months watching the cameras around the plaza. They followed the same patterns, turning from one side to the other before returning to where they had started.

People trusted cameras because they believed cameras saw everything.

Adrian knew better.

A camera could record a street without recording every detail that mattered. A person could pass through a busy intersection and leave almost nothing behind in the minds of the people around them.

And sometimes, even a camera could miss the moment that mattered.

He checked the time on his phone.

The camera turned again.

Adrian closed his notebook and stood.

No one noticed.

He stepped into the morning crowd, moving with the people crossing the street. A woman hurried past with her eyes fixed on her phone. Two teenagers brushed shoulders while laughing at something on a screen. A man nearly walked into Adrian before muttering a quick apology and continuing without looking back.

Adrian watched him disappear into the crowd.

Ten seconds later, the man probably couldn't have described what Adrian looked like.

Adrian crossed the street and stopped beside a newspaper stand.

Behind the glass, a television played the morning news. The sound was low, almost lost beneath the traffic.

He opened his notebook again.

Observation #218

An individual can move through dozens of strangers without leaving a lasting memory.

He paused before writing another line.

The safest place to disappear is in plain sight.

Adrian looked at the sentence for a moment, then closed the notebook.

Behind him, the television grew louder.

"...Westbridge police are investigating after a body was discovered late last night near Riverside District."

Adrian stopped.

He turned toward the television.

The reporter stood in front of a stretch of road near the river. Police lights flashed behind her, and yellow tape blocked off part of the pavement.

"...the identity of the victim has not yet been released. Investigators are asking anyone who was in the area last night to come forward."

The vendor inside the stand reached for the remote and turned up the volume.

"...the body was discovered shortly after midnight, along the Riverside walking path, just two blocks from Central Plaza."

Two blocks.

Adrian slowly closed his notebook.

He knew Riverside District.

He had walked there the night before.

He could remember the streetlights reflecting off the water. He could remember the metal railing that ran along the path and the sound of cars passing on the road behind him.

He remembered being there.

But when he tried to picture what had happened afterward, his mind went blank.

Adrian stood still, staring at the television.

Maybe he had gone straight home. Maybe he had stopped somewhere along the way. There were plenty of ordinary explanations for a night he couldn't remember clearly.

But then he tried to picture himself arriving at his apartment.

Nothing.

He couldn't remember unlocking his front door. He couldn't remember taking off his coat or going to bed.

He couldn't remember getting home at all.

Adrian took out his phone and checked the time.

8:17 a.m.

He tried once more to picture the walk from Riverside to his apartment.

The road. The streetlights. The buildings.

Then nothing.

It wasn't like trying to remember a dream that faded the harder he chased it. The memories before that point were clear. He could recall the smallest details of the walk.

But the hours that followed were missing.

He rubbed the back of his neck.

Adrian had always trusted his memory. Remembering small details was part of what made his observations useful. He could recall conversations from weeks earlier and recognize changes in people's behavior that others never noticed.

Yet now, there was a blank space where an entire part of his night should have been.

Behind him, the news continued.

"...police have not confirmed whether the death is being treated as suspicious. Security footage from nearby streets is now being reviewed."

Security footage.

Adrian looked up at the camera above the intersection.

For a moment, he watched it turn from one side of the street to the other.

Then he looked away.

He had no reason to believe the body had anything to do with him. He hadn't even heard the victim's name. Being near Riverside the night before didn't make him guilty of anything.

Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

He slipped his notebook into his coat pocket and started walking.

The morning crowd moved around him, adjusting their paths without giving him much thought. People passed on either side, already busy with their own lives.

Just like always.

Halfway down the block, Adrian glanced at his hand.

A thin scratch ran across the skin just below his wrist.

He stopped walking.

The mark was small, but the skin around it was red. It looked fresh.

He turned his hand toward the light, studying it.

It could have come from anything. A rough wall. A loose nail. The metal railing beside the river.

He tried to remember catching his hand on something the night before.

Nothing came to mind.

Adrian lowered his arm.

He was certain the scratch hadn't been there when he left his apartment yesterday.

Or at least, he thought he was certain.

That was the problem.

He could no longer trust what he remembered about the night before.

He looked back toward the newspaper stand. The television was still showing the report, with the same stretch of road and the same flashing police lights.

Then he looked toward Riverside District.

For the first time that morning, he wondered whether he should be worried about the missing hours.

Not because he had proof that he had done something wrong.

But because he had no proof that he hadn't.

Adrian started walking again, faster this time.

He needed to get home. He needed to check his apartment, look through his messages, and work out what he had done the night before.

There had to be something he could use to fill in the missing hours.

A receipt. A message. A call. Anything.

As he approached the subway entrance, his phone vibrated.

A message from an unknown number.

Did you sleep well?

Adrian stopped.

He read it again, then looked at the number. There was no name attached to it, no profile picture, nothing that told him who had sent it.

He typed a reply.

Who is this?

He waited.

No answer came.

A train rumbled beneath the pavement, and the crowd began moving toward the entrance. Someone brushed past his shoulder. Another person stepped around him without looking up.

Adrian barely noticed them.

His attention was fixed on the screen.

The message didn't prove anything. It could have been a wrong number, a prank, or someone he knew trying to get a reaction out of him.

But whoever had sent it had contacted him on the same morning he had discovered he couldn't account for part of the previous night.

He looked down at the scratch on his wrist.

Then back at the message.

He had spent years watching people, studying their habits, and learning how easily someone could go unnoticed.

He had always believed that if something important happened in front of him, he would notice.

But what if something important had happened while he wasn't paying attention?

What if it had happened while he was somewhere he couldn't remember being?

Adrian put his phone away and descended the subway stairs.

Above him, the morning crowd continued through Westbridge as if nothing had happened.

The cameras kept turning.

The strangers kept walking.

And somewhere in the city, someone knew exactly what Adrian had done the night before.

Even if Adrian didn't.

She's born in June and he's born in December

A tale that'll be chanted for ages was written by a lost man

Written by the man who never met November

It was me and him when he was counting his last breath

He told me to burn this poem into ashes after his death

There was a red flower I once saw from my windowsill

I knew she was my Autumn, so I reopened the same page

Which had the smell of smoke

lines I've never read before

I never let his immortal kiss the grains of sand

I wrote a line which made me a poet of his kind which was unplanned

Rain

Oh rain

Don't you cry when monsoon is gone

Beautiful things are never meant to stay forever

I cry

I must

Sweetheart

I cannot abandon the love of my life

He taught me how to love

How to live

How to fall

How to feel

Our emotions have been expressed from centuries

Does that mean we will always meet again?

If there's a thing called reincarnation, then let me be your every single time

I want to know if I actually have any skills or if I'm just delusional; I've been thinking about finishing and publishing this over the next few years.

It follows a love philosophy story between two people named Andrew and Elizabeth; it opens on a page of him losing his mind, possibly about to kill himself, and then flashes backwards to when they first meet.

Loving Nothing But Her.

"I have been broken, my soul sworn in agony. I feel as if there is nobody better than her. Maybe I feel like it's over?. There's no point without her, she was my everything after all. I say, while my hand is down on a sharp, talkative trigger about to blow the already faded memories away. As I'm feeling these thoughts, I think to myself about her. About how she treated me. About how real the love I’m feeling actually is. I'm thinking about whether she's worth my life. But I was going to spend my entire life with her, right? How can I continue breathing knowing that we were supposed to spend our last breaths together? Is this what she wanted? She knew this would do this to me. “Why would she do this to me?”. I whisper into my pillow, anger leaking out of me uncontrollably. A voidless feeling overwhelms my body, I don't know how to process these feelings. I start to think if my love was real. I start to wonder if love is even real. I feel myself descend into a world where fear is ruled by love. Even the fear of death is trumped and stomped by love, but is it really?. “If she loved me enough she would've fixed what was wrong. She wouldn't have pushed me away.” I silently whisper to the banshees with broken hearts, who did wipe their memories clean. If love was real, you wouldn't be able to throw it away. The intense feeling I have isn't the feeling of losing a loved one. It's the feeling of losing love. “If love was objective, how is it also chosen?”. Well it's not. From all my experiences with love I don't think love can be objective, or even real at all. From the cruel screech of an angry mother, or the loud shout from a stressed father. People do not show love unconditionally, only when they can or want to. I think to myself that there will never be another, but how do I know this, I'm young, I have lots of life left. I haven't experienced love more than once so why do I feel like this is the end?. I try to rationalize why I feel the way I do but to no avail am I successful. I cannot escape the rapid thoughts of a bliss feeling of lifelessness. I think in these moments it's worth it, but I try to think realistically. In 10 years I will not feel the same about her. I will be a different person. I will think differently; that is what I think now. At least…"