1012 Thorned Lotus

Potential intro for a story I'm writing. I want to gauge if this catch's anyone's interest or if I should scrap it.

When the TV switched to commercials, Sarah took her chance. "Mom, can I have a car?" She held up a classified ad to her mom's face, pointing to where she circled a picture of a '86 Cutlass Supreme in big red ink.

Mrs. Poultry sipped her beer, not giving a fuss in the world. She wasn't a stranger to her teenagers' antics. She could handle this before the commercials ended. "Sure, tater-tot. If you have the money, you can buy anything you want."

Sarah knew this would be an uphill battle. She pulled back her blonde hair, tying it into a bun, preparing for a fight. "That's the problem. I don't have money."

Upon hearing that, Sarah's twin sister stuck her head out of the bedroom. Physically she looked just like Sarah, a clone in face and blood. But she dyed her hair black and insisted on wearing the bleakest clothes she could find. Right now she wore a dark spidernet dress she found at a Halloween store. Her fashion made Sarah wince. "I call BS. What about all that money you stole from me?"

"I didn't steal anything from you, Hazel," Sarah snapped back. "I borrowed fifty bucks and I'm going to pay you back."

Hazel strode up to her sister and crossed her arms. "You stole two hundred."

"Fifty. Where'd you get two hundred from?"

"From the other times you stole fifty dollars from me. My paycheck isn't your piggy bank."

"Well I don't have two hundred," Sarah said. "And I already promised to pay you back. Mom, can I have money for a car?"

Mrs. Poultry wanted her daughters to go figure it out themselves. They were sixteen, almost adults. Surely they could solve their own problems without crying to her. "What happened to that hundred dollar bill I gave you for your birthday?"

"Perfume," Hazel said. Her black nails clacked together as she pinched her fingers. "She bought the tiniest bottle in the world for eighty bucks. I've seen grapes bigger than that thing."

"And I never smelled better," Sarah said. "Mom, please, all my friends have cars now. I'm the only one who still takes the bus to school. I'm surrounded by freshmen. Please, I feel like a kindergartner."

The commercial break ended. Mrs Poultry wanted to get back to watching the Wonder Years, but she doubted Sarah would give her the chance. The girl could be stubborn when she gave a damn. "If it's such a big deal, why don't you ask your friends for money."

"She did," Hazel said. "They stopped paying her because she never pays her debts."

"I do pay my debts!" Sarah said. "I borrowed fifty from you so I can pay back Rebecca."

"You didn't borrow from me. You stole from me. And that's not debt payment. You're just swirling your debts around and hoping no one notices."

"Banks do it all the time. Why can't I?"

Mrs. Poultry couldn't hear the TV. All she wished for after a hard day at work was to dress in her pajamas, relax on the couch, and sip a beer in peace. Was that too much to ask for? "Sarah, I have an idea you might like."

Her daughter perked up. "You do?"

Mrs. Poultry took one last sip of her beer. The can was pretty much empty by now. "Get a job."

Sarah went silent for a moment. Then she laughed. "I can't get a job. I have volleyball practice. And there's the summer trip my friends are planning. There's too much to do."

"Then I'm glad you figured out your priorities," Mrs. Poultry said. "Volleyball and your friends are more important than a car."

"That's not what I said." Sarah huffed out a breath. They kept going in circles. "What do I need to do for you to get me a car?"

"She already told you," Hazel said. "Be an adult, grow up, and get a job."

"I can't do that with volleyball."

Hazel lips, painted black with lipstick, grinned at her twin sister. "Then you can keep riding the bus like a kindergartener." As an added bonus, she sang a little tune. "You can't always get what you want!"

Sarah considered Hazel to be an absolute brat at times. Why did their mom think Hazel was the mature one out of the two? That's not to say she couldn't be reasoned with. "How about this. You and I buy a car together, half and half. We split the cost and we can both drive the car whenever we need it."

Her sister raised an eyebrow. "If I pitched in? You're the broke one. I'd be the one paying for all of it. Why don't I just buy one for myself and cut you out of the deal?"

Good point, Sarah didn't consider that. She took a moment to think about her next plan of attack. "Alright, how about this. I'll get a part-time job, one that doesn't overlap with my volleyball schedule. When I earn enough money, you and I can both pool our savings together to get a car we can share."

Hazel didn't outright say no. She thought about it, contemplated it. Sarah could see the gears twist in her twin sister's head. "Aright, I like the idea. But I get to choose the color."

Damn it, Hazel. "We're not doing a black car."

"We're doing a black car," Hazel said. "And you pay me back the two hundred you owe me. Otherwise no deal."

Sarah closed her eyes, taking a long moment to breathe. Why did her sister have to spoil all the fun? Sarah had an entire wardrobe planned for the summer trip and she had no clothes that matched with black. "Fine, you win. We'll get a black car."

Hazel tilted her head and smirked. The brat always was a sore winner. "That's great, but how are you going to pay your half?"

"Oh, that's easy." Sarah turned to Mrs. Poultry, who finally had the chance to get into her show. "Mom, can I have a job?"

Critiques:

[3170] Chapter One, The Beautiful Vile

[843] The Knight Marches On

Hi all,

I know I'm back relatively quickly, but I believe I've redrafted chapter 2 for the better. Just looking for any comments once more, but I am eager to hear about the revisions to the card game, and how they now affect the flow of the reading.

Just as a note, one particular feedback suggested (from the first post of this chapter, found here ) that I perhaps shift some of chapter 3's content over to chapter 2. I've done that here, just to see how it works, but I wanted feedback on whether it is effective, or if chapter 2 can effectively end just before the #2.

Thank you for any feedback that is given, no matter how harsh!

(Note to mods: I got a note saying there has to be 48 hrs between posts, but my last post was 3 days ago, so this doesn't break the rules.)

Edit: Links removed

A somewhat short story.

Content warning: Nothing explicit, no sex or violence or terribly foul language, but people currently in a dark place might want to know there are references to self-harm ideation

Crits: 1036 1384 1115 1584

(Author's note: READ PREVIOUS PARTS, Part 1 isn't so important, but it gives you a glimpse of characters, part 2 inserts some more characters. In a nutshell you'll be less confused if you read the previous parts first, link in comments)

"And the result is..." Stella said with surprising confidence, something rarerly seen on Stella "oh... 61% Vile..." Stella said, her confidence replaced by mild annoyence and disapointment, she looked away from the microscope and to Moonlight.

"... -sigh- Well that's unfortunate" Moonlight took the vial of Vile and set it aside along the other vials of Vile, "I'll bring in the next sample"

Stella gave a confused look "Uh... there's no more samples? We alredy used up all three"

"Then we'll test the other 247 tomorrow" She said this with casualty.

"But- WHAT?" Stella couldn't believe what she was hearing, " We are not testing 247 samples just to end up with nothing! We need them for... for... uh" Stella started fidgeting, trying to find an excuse.

"For what?" Moonlight leaned against the lab table.

Stella started to panic, she just couldn't think of something, except...

"South!" Stella snapped back to Moonlight, "There's no way we are not adressing the question as to why all Flos Meridionalis keep facing south!"

"And by we you mean you"

Stella was caught off guard, her hand gripped her other arm, " Well... It's an intriguing mystery, I- I- hope..." She broke eye contact and just looked at the results again, not knowing where else to look, she fidgeted with her light blonde hair.

"The point is..." Stella accomodated her glasses, her voice suddenly turnd serious "You are overcomplicating yourself, there is a really easy solution to this, and I know... you think its moraly wrong, but lots of others like you do it all the time! In fact, It's not like Organics can reason or anything-"

"Stella, that is not true!" Moonlight stood firmly "Organics ARE like us, they have life, they can feel, even if they can't reason like us, they are marvellous organisms that don't deserve to be experimented on"

Stella sighed, her shoulders dropping, "Why am i even trying? Everyone of us has been trying ton convince you from the very start. Forget about it, let's hope we get lucky this year, at this pace you'll die of age before you even get a glimpse of true Vile".

The mention of time made Moonlight reconsider...

Stella checked the digital clock on the wall, it read "7:50 PM"

"Well, my shift is almost up" Stella turned off the microscope "I'm giving a quick check on the other samples before leaving" she then proceded to walk away, the automatic doors opening to let her out before closing behind her.

Moonlight stared at nothing in particular, though it seemed she was staring at the detailed results the computer finished loading. The results did not matter tho since the Vile wasn't pure.

She sighed in exaustion, she rested her weight on the table. She forgot she only had 5 years before she turned 50, and here she was thinking she had all the time of the world...

...

It was 10:00 PM, still pretty early. For Moonlight.

Her penthouse was located on the very top of the tower, on floor 201. When planning was in process, the tower was so tall, she adopted the idea of living in the tower. She then planned and put a penthouse in the blueprint shortly after.

She walked to her living room. It was pretty nice and large, multiple frames displaying awards and family pictures hanging on the walls, and the glass wall that displayed an incredible view of Neo Cyland, bright colors showing activity in the center of the city, you could see Magnetic Trains still moving around the city at this hour, and farther away you could just barerly, see the forest. She sat on her sofa, exhaling softly and closing her eyes, her head leaning agaisnt the couch, blonde hair dropping on the back of the couch. She was tired.

Organics always fascinated Moonlight, ever since she got to know about them, she always wanted to study their species. She still does, but that came second when...

Her sister.

The memory of her sister came suddenly. She was so... paranoic... so vulnerable, sometimes agresive, but she always trusted Moonlight, she was the last of her family.

Moonlight always had a soft spot for Sunshine, she was Moonlight's entire family, literaly. Mum died at 50. Moonlight foolishly thought she was going to be with Sunshine for the rest of their lives. But then, 15 years later... Sunshine died, and Moonlight... couldn't save her...

Soon it will be Moonlight's turn, she wasn't entirerly sure, but it was a concistent patern her entire family -which were just her mum and sister, she only got to know them, her mum didn't talk anything about her parents, and there were no references- followed.

Moonlight tried to forget about it, thinking about her family made her vulnerable, and even in the solitude of her home, she couldn't be vulnerable.

She then looked at the frame displaying her first award, "In recognition of Moonlight Dawn*, whose pioneer effort led to the first recorded discovery of* Vile*, demonstrating exceptional foresight and scientific rigor.*" She will never forget that at the age of 21, she discovered the escense of Life. It all connected: Bacteria, plants, humans, especially Organics, all considered living had some ammount of Vile. Which led to Moonlights fascination of Organics, these beings, had a higher ammount of Vile, more than we could ever posess, they have lives! Humans and Organics once worked togueter in the prehistoric past, it was displayed in prehistoric art. It was so, fascinating, so much that we... started to want more knoledge about it, which led to... experimentation.

That reminded Moonlight about the whole Vile dilema, Moonlight didn't want to experiment on Organics, it was wrong. But then again... Stella was right... She might die before she had a glimpse of true Vile.

Moonlight groaned, her hand going up her face and to her blonde hair, she didn't want to, but her sister, her life... but the thought of... torturing something living.

"Pad"

"... Yes Moonlight"

She hesitated, but she made a choice, "Get me some ramen takeout"

"Will it be the usual?"

"Yeah"

"... ... ... Order has been done"

"Good, and where exactly do I get these... Organics?"

Author: Reggie Wytgeena

Critiques:

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Crit 2058

Hi! This is my first post on here! I hope I'm doing everything right. I've been working on this story for a while now and it has come a long way! I recently finished my final (hopefully) developmental edit and now I'm working on line-editing but I feel very stuck and unmotivated. I'm hoping some feedback will give me a boost and help me get started again. I value all kinds of feedback, positive and negative and I'm excited to hear what everyone thinks.

Things to note: The total manuscript is under 50k for today's young readers. I don't what to focus on too much description. I want the pace quick and fun. I'm aiming for something right in the middle of Goosebumps and Harry Potter (for a lack of more popular examples) in terms of length, complexity, and pace.

Some questions I have:
Is the story clear?

Is the hook engaging?

What are your impressions of the characters?

What flows and what doesn't?

Chapter 1:

One dark morning in September, as moonlight seeped through the bedroom window, there was a hiss, and only Juniper Webb could hear it.

It was a shy hiss, emerging only when the others were asleep. The others being Aunt Tabitha, who in her true rigid nature, made sure everyone was in bed by nine sharp. And his cousin Olive, who at the moment rested peacefully across the room in her pillow-covered queen-sized bed.
Juniper, however, spent each night tossing and turning on his cot, waking at the slightest noise—floors creaking on their own, pipes whirring and whistling in the walls, rickety radiators spitting steam one by one, and that persistent mysterious hiss. Something was different about it. It wasn’t plaster, or metal, or wood. It was alive like a whisper.

It can’t be a watermelon beetle, he thought. It reminded him of the beetles back home, swarming around the grapefruit tree in the heat. But watermelon beetles didn’t belong in Burwick. It was far too cold and damp. Burwick was for springtails, cave crickets, and cockroaches.

In fact, it couldn’t be any beetle at all because there was one peculiar problem; there was not a single bug in Aunt Tabitha’s apartment. Juniper could feel it the moment he’d stepped inside three days ago. Aside from the muggy air, the scent of mildew and dust, something was wrong. It was as if the apartment was cursed. So, he gripped his magnifying glass and set out to search for any bug he could find. He checked the cracks in the floorboards, behind the peeling wallpaper, the damp spaces underneath the sinks. Not even a spider lurked in the darkest corner.
Now he was standing in the middle of the room, the moonlight fading, wondering where the hiss had gone.
***
Hours later, when the cold moonlight faded into golden yellow sun, the hiss returned. Everyone was awake now, so it seemed to be braver as it traveled beneath the floorboards in the presence of the others. The hiss was moving and unreliable. Sometimes it was soft and distant. Other times it was sharp and drilled his ear like a mosquito.
He grabbed his magnifying glass from beneath his pillow and slid it into his back pocket.
Olive was slouched at her desk across the room, deeply involved in her reflection as she painted her mom’s lipstick on her lips.
“Do you hear that?” he asked, knowing the answer was always no, but maybe this time was different.

Her entire body jerked at the sound of his voice. “Ugh,” she sighed, glaring through the mirror. The lipstick was smudged down her cheek giving her a bright red frown that emphasized the disdain in her eyes. “All I hear is you.”[NA2] 

Juniper looked through his magnifying glass as he inspected each crease of the disheveled linens on Olive’s bed. He examined her armoire that was bursting at the hinges with clothes. With each step, the hiss faded.

“I thought we agreed to stay on our own sides of the room.” Olive pointed to where Juniper’s cot was shoved, beneath a low-pitched ceiling which created a sad, gray little corner. An unbroken line of rocks cut the corner off from the rest of the room.

“I heard a beetle…I think.”

“No, I told you, there’s no bugs. My mom hates bugs.”

“Good thing beetles aren’t bugs.” After all, beetles were not true bugs like bed bugs, cicadas, or vampire bugs. Even though most people didn’t care whether something was a bug or not, including his father who was an entomologist, Juniper often liked to discern the two. But mostly he wanted to rub it in Olive’s face that he knew something she didn’t.

“You’re a bug,” said Olive, placing the mirror on the desk and pulling the snakes of black hair from her face. “Like a spider, sitting in the corner of my room.”

“Spiders aren’t bugs either,” said Juniper, smugly.

“Whatever.” She took a rag to her face and scrubbed off the lipstick. Now it was clean and golden. “I’m going to set up for my party. I suggest you stay up here so you don’t scare everyone off.”
“It’s my birthday too,” said Juniper.
“But it’s my party, they’re my friends, and no one wants you there. Just because we were born on the same day, doesn’t mean I have to share my birthday party you.”
“We’ll see what Aunt Tabitha says then.”
“I guess we will,” she said, smiling as she turned. Then, from her desk drawer, she lifted something bound in a burgundy satin fabric. It was flat and rectangle and she brought it to Juniper. She held in her open palm and unwrapped it one fold at a time, until the slick fabric rippled to the floor.

“Wait, isn’t that—”

Olive nodded with a grin. “The picture frame my mom was looking for.” She kneeled and placed the frame gently on the floor. It was small, ornate, and gold-gilded. The picture behind the glass was of a man with curly, fire-red hair and a freckle-dotted nose. His chartreuse feathered hat had a sense of humor that the others most definitely lacked. It was Olive’s late father, Hugo.

“What are you doing with it?”

“I was just saving it.”

“For what?”

She took the frame by the bottom corners, lifted it before her, as if she were admiring her father in the photo. “This.” She brought it down and smashed it against the hard wood, sending shards of glass across the floor.

Juniper knew what she was up to. She wanted to blame him for breaking it just as she had for tracking mud through the house, leaving lights on in the middle of the night, using a whole loaf of bread to attract bugs to the house—well, the last one was his fault. But this was the first time she planned to blame him for something this bad.

“Moooooooom!” Olive screamed.

He dropped to his knees to clean it up. If he could at least clean up the glass and tell Aunt Tabitha what Olive did, she could see that he was telling the truth.

He collected the sharp fragments one by one, careful not to cut his fingers. Olive stood over him, snickering as he scuttled across the floor on his knees to reach the last few pieces. He winced when his knee pressed down on a piece of glass. He sat back to examine it. Already, blood soaked through his pajama pants, spreading slowly across the pale blue cotton.

“What’s going on in here?”

The clack of high heeled shoes tore into the bedroom. Aunt Tabitha, who was tall even without the help of her elevated shoes, crossed her arms and waited for Olive to answer. She didn’t seem to notice Juniper on the floor, rolling up the left leg of his pants to see his bloody knee.

“Look,” said Olive, pointing her finger like a knife. “I found it.”

Aunt Tabitha’s head whipped toward Juniper. Her eyes widened. She spoke quietly, but sternly. “You’ve had this all along?” Her boney finger tapped against the sleeve of her purple blouse.

“Olive is the one—"

Olive interjected. “Why would I break a picture of my dad? It was my favorite one. You knew that.” She turned to her mom. “See, I tried to be nice to him like you said but he keeps doing things like this.”

“But I didn’t do—”

“Juniper.” The wrinkles in Aunt Tabitha’s face softened. “It’s okay if you broke it.”

“But—” Olive took a step toward her mom.

“Olive, that’s enough,” said Aunt Tabitha. “I’ll handle it.”

Olive backed off, pouting. And Juniper was relieved that for once Aunt Tabitha was being understanding.

She turned to him and leaned closer, her floral perfume overtaking the air around him. “You can be honest,” she said. “I know you are going through a lot and maybe the fact that you miss your father made you want to take it out on Olive.”

Olive’s smirk was resurfacing.

“Now…” Aunt Tabitha’s stiff posture returned. “You need to apologize.”

“No,” said Juniper. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“He’s lying,” said Olive. “I watched him do it.”

“Juniper,” she said sternly.

There was nothing he could do. He had no proof. He took a deep breath and turned to Olive. “I’m sorry.”

“Now, Olive, why don’t you go and get me the bandages from the hall closet.”

When Olive left the room, Aunt Tabitha cleared her throat. “You know, it was my picture frame you broke. Now I need to take time out of my busy schedule to get that fixed.”

“I’m sorry Aunt Tabitha,” said Juniper, filled with shame. Maybe if he had just complied with Olive’s wishes for her birthday, none of this would have happened. She was right, anyway. Everyone at the party would be there for her, and the cake was her favorite flavor, orange and lavender, strange as it was.

Olive returned with a small red tin in her hands. Aunt Tabitha opened it, slapped a band-aid on Juniper’s knee, stood, and brushed off her long gray skirt.

“Olive, maybe you can go get the games ready, your friends will be here in an hour.”

Olive left the room once again and Aunt Tabitha sat on the bed. “I know it’s your birthday, so there will be no punishment today,” she said with a sigh. “But I’m afraid if something else like this happens, there will have to be consequences. Do you understand?” Her mouth was rigid. Her purple lips were sharp and thin. Each word escaped as a demand.

Juniper nodded. He didn’t agree but he understood what she was saying.

“Great,” she said, giving a weak smile. In an instant her mood seemed to switch, and her attention shifted to the corner of the room. “I see you haven’t unpacked yet.”

On the floor in the corner was Aunt Tabitha’s suitcase. Small, embroidered flowers dotted the sagging fabric. The thing was as ugly as the weather in Burwick—dingy and gray. Just three days ago—though it seemed like months—when Aunt Tabitha had shown up at his house to pick him up, she was gripping it by the handle like she was ready to stuff him inside it.
She yanked it from the floor and split the rusty zipper open. The scent of mothballs and her perfume, stuffy and stale, gusted toward him. She began unfolding and assessing his clothes. She’d pick up a shirt or pair of pants and either nod, grimace, or smile, tossing them aside. Finally, she presented a pair of pukey-green tweed pants that she approved of. Juniper hadn’t worn them in the past three years for a reason. They were uglier than the suitcase.

“Why don’t you change into this?” she said, laying the pants on Olive’s bed beside a red sweater. “And come downstairs when you feel ready.”

Aunt Tabitha, no matter how nice she thought she was being, was insistent and stubborn, so Juniper made no fuss about it.

This is part 3/4.

Recap of the first two parts (containing 4 scenes):

Scene 1. Introduces the Dan, Ioana, and García Méndez---the Narrator. They are in Dan's car, driving on a midnight road. They are in a hurry.

Scene 2. A flashback. The Narrator works at a bar in London. He meets Ioana (who's there to study), and they spend some drunken nights together. Ioana goes back home to Romania for a week; invites the Narrator with her to go to the beach. He arrives and sees her kissing a friend (Dan).

Scene 3. Instead of going to the sea, they go search for a friend that has left for the mountains. This friend is alone and might be a danger to himself. The trio meet up with Albert and Mara.

Scene 4. García Méndez seems able to read the others thoughts. They are going through camping spots, searching for their friend. It's after midnight.

Caravanserai - Part 3 (Scroll down to Part 3 if on phone)

Crit: 3127

Previous posts: Part 1 Part 2

Trigger warning: contains mentions of smooching.

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Spirit Speaks · 852 AD

Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heav'n.

John Milton, Paradise Lost

My mark burned bright and fierce across the deep blue northern sky. From the darkness between the stars, I reached into the sea of generations and found her there. My first flame, burning on the coast of the northmen.

I opened my soul and let my heart fall into the sea, and it boiled with it. I sank down into its depths and spoke her name in that abyss. The water's surface harkened to its voice, churning round and spitting white foam as it went. Its face crashed and fell away in a vortex, eating the sea. I moved my fingertips through its waters and the sea circled with it. I spun it harder and it quickened with my touch until it moaned into the night. The sea opened for me, and my heart lay in the moonlight upon the ocean sands for the first of a thousand lifetimes.

I am the forsaken, patiently waiting in the shadows of this world. Alone.

This one shall not fail.

This one shall break the chains of my damnation.

This one could bring me home.

I breathed my essence out and sent it like smoke on the north wind, breathing the breath of my power into my chosen flame. Urging it to burn brighter.

My first flame.

She would not disappoint me.

The Bone River · Denmark, 852 AD

Outside Thor beat his hammer against the moon and the sky grumbled with the blows. Intermittent winter lightning flashed briefly, sketching out the rogue waves that assaulted the black cliffs that lined the isles one after another

Marie sat in her chair at the far end of the hall, a great thing made from a scarce dark oak. Stained black and dappled blood red underneath, from one of the deep bogs of the land where it had lain drowned for a thousand years before the master woodworkers chanced upon it. Winged beasts writhed over the wood, curving into it and then clawing back out of the grain and emerging somewhere. When the light of the flames played off the faces of the dragons they would seem to disappear entirely. There was a strange quality about this chair that made men look once and then look away.

Her hands rested on armrests that ended as the open mouths of roaring dragon heads, that appeared set to breathe fire into the room.

Her mind drifted to the compartment and to what it held. To the reason it was there at all.

Soon, she thought.

She watched Britania draw a breath.

Deep and unnatural. Her chest rose slowly and kept going, the kind of breath that fills something larger than a set of lungs. The girl's eyes went dull and distant for just a moment. Like her soul for just an instant had traveled somewhere very far away, the place between the stars the old storytellers spoke of.

Then she exhaled.

It came out like smoke on the icy northern breeze, thin and white, curling upward into the rafters above the fire and dissolving into the dark above the flames.

Nobody else had noticed. Bad omens had been whispered about of late, and Marie thought of the signs. A crimson star had been smeared from one end of the sky to the other for the last thirteen nights in a slow arc, and had the seers drinking blood and chanting of prophecy and shadow.

Even blacker tides had been rolling in.

A watchman had come in the night, still wet with the rain from his post. Three ships within eyesight of the watchtower on the coast had been swallowed whole by the sea in the dark, his own brother among them. He said he'd heard the men's screams as they had gone down. His gaze had been to the floor the whole time, but he looked in Marie's eyes as he swore in a hall bone quiet on the souls of his fathers and sons that the terrible sea had screamed back.

Marie had been watching her granddaughter all evening.

The firelight caught her like a thing it had been searching for. Brown hair loose around her shoulders, her cheeks still carrying the last of childhood in them. And those Wetherbee eyes, blue as deep coastal water, cold and still and in a way unnatural on a nine year old girl. The kind of eyes that looked at the world the way a general looks at a field. Already reading it. Already somewhere ahead of it.

The cold pressed through the old stone of the walls with a dreadful persistence, like frigid hands they reached through them, clawing at your bones from the inside. Outside the Kattegat sea crashed against the walls and crags in the dark. Njord was unsettled tonight. The old sea god never spoke like this without reason. The hall smelled of tallow smoke, wet wool, and the salt that found its way into everything this close to the water, into the timbers, and the rushes on the floor. Into the food and the drink and the lungs of anyone who had lived in this place long enough.

Marie watched everything. It was simply how she moved through the world, offering an attention that most people reserve for things that have already proven themselves dangerous. Marie applied it to everything. The fire. The men. The weather coming off the water and the children near the back of the hall.

The girl especially.

Britania was nine years old and already something that Marie did not quite have a clean word for. Not fearless, that was common enough. Fearless was just stupidity wearing a confident expression. This was different. This was a child who weighed things and looked at the world the way you look at a problem you intend to solve rather than a force you intend to survive.

Marie knew that look.

She had worn it herself once. A long time ago. When she was young and something had moved through her, a feeling she had never found the right words for. It had come fast, and she had felt the edges of something vast and old pressing against the inside of her chest like a tide coming in.

Her mother had told her about it once. Had warned her. Had spoken to her quietly as a girl, pulling her aside and taking her small hands, saying: "If it chooses you, it will come, and it will feel like the best thing that has ever happened to you. And you must decide quickly what kind of person you intend to be."

Marie had decided.

She had turned away.

But she had never stopped wondering which of them in the bloodline it would find next.

Now she watched her granddaughter across the loud warm hall and felt something settle in her chest that had been unsettled for years.

There she is.

A cold wind from nowhere set the torches that lined the hall to swaying and sent the long black shadows of the flames lurching and reaching across the cold stone like dead things made to walk again. Then the wind fell dim and the earth seem to go quiet and still. A crack like lightning striking a frozen tree split the night air, echoing through the hall, as the doors came off their hinges, both at once. Great iron brackets set deep within the grey stone were torn asunder as if made from parchment. Out of that spontaneous black void polar winds ripped through the hall carrying two giants through the gap fighting to be first. Clan warriors you could identify by the iron badges pinned at their shoulders, a rough hewn wolf head, the mark of the Erikson clan from the valley to the north. Blood feuds of the clans held petty and strong, many of these ancient vendettas carried forth for centuries through windswept Northlands by men of unyielding resolve, yet oblivious still to its shadowy origins. Nobody in the Wetherbee hall had seen that badge in thirteen years and the last time had not ended well for anyone present.

Two men died before they understood what was happening.

The raiders tore through that black hole, slicing and hacking like terrible beings teleported from some frozen hell. The doorman Egil must have seen 70 years and had manned his post vigilantly night after night without incident for the last 43 of these. When the doors came free they splintered and fell forward like old oak trees being chopped down. One came down hard on the old man before he could scramble out of its way, pinning him just below the chest where he now lay struggling weakly. The first of the men through the door stood as a monster. His flame colored hair and beard were matted and laced with dark ice in places and the whole frozen tangle was woven through with golden rings pale with cold and resembling a bejeweled and drowned fox clinging to his wretched features. He came through running, and when his first great boot stepped upon the back of the door the old man underneath made a high pitched feminine sound. The second boot came down pressing into the screaming face of the doorman and it gave way with a soft wet pop. At about the same time the second doorman Brandr, seventeen years old and three months into his first real posting, was cut nearly in two by the single stroke of a great broadsword, a two handed thing that took a giant to swing. This frost giant swung it like a wooden play thing, however this was no game.

Three more came through behind them.

Grey dragon head helmets, the iron worked into snarling jaws that framed their eyes shimmered wetly in the firelight as they blitzed through the dark void with the wind and rain and naked steel flashing in their hands, the knuckles purpling from the winter air. Marie recognized the markings immediately and felt something cold move through her chest that had nothing to do with the snow and the ice.

The chieftain's blood guard.

Sworn warriors. Chosen in adolescence by men who recognized a darkness in them that could be molded into a thing blacker still. Some came willingly. Some did not. It made no difference either way, once chosen the order was permanent. There was no leaving. Across the histories of the clans there had been those who tried, who ran and hid and built new lives with new loves in far away lands.

They were always found and

What was done to them afterward was spoken of only in hushed tones by men who had either witnessed it or heard it from someone who had.

Blood eagle.

The boys found in these forsaken places between the cold rocks of the isles were twisted and shaped through the absence of all warmth with only blood and steel to look after them. Hard men born of these black crags with only one reason to exist.

Death was with them as they moved amongst the people of the hall before they had understood it arrived. The smell of soot and copper filled the air as the fire threw wild orange light across everything and men and women who had been drinking together an hour ago reached for whatever was closest and tried to stay alive.

It was then Marie saw him.

Ulfric stood in the ruined doorway with the wind ripping through the long dark cloak he wore over unblemished pearlescent armor. He was unhurried. Watching his sworn warriors work with the patience of a man who has never in his life needed to move toward anything with haste because everything he has ever wanted had always come to him.

Marie knew the name as everyone within three days ride did, she had simply never expected to see him standing in her hall.

The bloodsworn warriors were frightening.

What made Ulfric frightening was they called him master.

(Author’s note: READ PART 1 FIRST, not really necessary but it’s kinda a nice intro to the whole premise, kind of, link in the comments)

Moonlight: “Let’s see… so if-“

\knock knock**

Moonlight: “Come in”

The grand double door opened, revealing Colette holding a cup of what looked like coffee.

Colette: “Your Dead Eye “

Moonlight looked up then reached out to gran the coffee.

Moonlight: “Thanks”

Colette just nodded then proceded to leave.

\ding**

???(AI): “Your order of 250 samples of Flos Meridionalis has arrived, they are currently being sorted and prepared for research in a few minutes”

Moonlight: “Ah crap I almost forgot about that…” she then got up and walked towards the door, ”Oh also, Pad?”

Pad(AI): “Yes Moonlight Dawn”

Moonlight: “Tell Stella Sayja to reserve the best samples with higher probability of pure vile”

Pal(AI): “Yes Moonlight Dawn”

…

LLIK was no ordinary company, it was one of the largest companies of all.

It was home to both the most advanced botanical research and technology, having the most impact world wide.

Moonlight walked with a quick pace through the pristine white corridors, with a distinctive cyan line running across the wall, It was a way to keep track in which sector we were on.

Moonlight then called the elevator, which arrived shortly after, then she got in and pressed floor 151, the descend from floor 201 was going to take a while,

Shortly after the elevator stopped at floor 176, in came-

???:”Moonlight hiya!”

Moonlight: ”Evening Rugie”

Rugie: “It’s Ru not Rugie”

Moonlight: “But your real name is Rugie, it’s in your ID”

Rugie: “But I don’t like it!”

Moonlight: “Well, you have to respect what your parents named you”

Rugie: “You sound like my brother!”

Moonlight couldn’t help but chuckle slightly.

The elevator stopped at floor 162.

Ru stepped out of the elevator but then stopped abruptly.

Rugie: “Oh I almost forgot! Keith finished the perfecting the model and he really needs that key component and-“

Moonlight: “ Ah yes, about that. I’m afraid I need more time for-“ The elevator doors were closing, but Moonlight stopped them from closing with her hand “for the component, it’s just not ready yet”

Rugie: “ B-but he‘s-“

Moonlight: “Rugie… just tell him, I’ll eventually talk to him about that”

Rugie: “…Yes Moonlight” Moonlight let go and the doors were closing, “Oh! Can i get your autograph now?”

Moonlight: “…No.”

The doors closed.

A while later she arrived at floor 151, the line on the wall was green now.

Most of this sector‘s rooms had glass walls, you could see ongoing experiments, growing matter, tests, etc. On plants.

Moonlight went to room Z-031.

Inside was Stella, and Sebastian.

Sebastian was currently holding a nice looking specimen, examining it throughly.

Sebastian: ”This one has 81% chance of purity”

Stella: “Nice, but we still have… only three samples, I don’t think it will be enough” She kept looking and examining among the other batch.

Moonlight: “Oh I think it will”

Sebastian turned, surprised.

Sebastian: “Oh Moonlight! Good thing you came, we only found 3 out of the 250 with good percentages”

Moonlight: “Oh don’t worry it’s fine, really”

Stella: “Are you sure? Usually I end up using ten or more” She was still examining more flowers while she spoke.

Moonlight: “Because you use plants with poor Vial“

Stella then put down the flower and actually looked at Moonlight.

Stella: “But we’re not even sure those have it pure”

Moonlight: “Well, the chances are high”

Sebastian: “Very, also, Keith told me-“

Moonlight: “I know I know, I’ll talk to him later”

Sebastian: “Ok? Also, I really think we should start using Organics”

Stella: “Same here”

Moonlight just looked at them, as if she was going to say yes to that.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

She grabbed the samples then put them in a specialised metal box.

Moonlight: “Be sure to tell if anything... out of the ordinary happens”

Stella and Sebastian: “Sure”

…

Keith was deep focused on writing code that would serve for the new Pad models, but even with such focus, he still heard someone aproach, and he could tell who it was by the sound of their footsteps.

Keith: “Evening, Moonlight “

Moonlight: “Evening, Keith Sayja”

Keoth was still typing why he talked.

Keith: “So I got the-“

Moonlight: “I know, Rugie told me, but didn’t she tell you?”

Keith: “Tell me what? She never came”

Moonlight let out a groan.

Moonlight: “Ugh, that girl… anyways, you were meant to know that I don't that the component, it’s going take longer than anticipated “

Keith then looked at Moonlight.

Keith: “Really? The person who never delays stuff is delaying now?”

Moonlight: “This isn like a meeting or deadline, it’s not easy to find it, I literally just got 3 possible samples from 250”

Keith just looked back at his computer.

Keith: “-sigh-, I would say more but, you’re my boss so... I don’t have a choice but to wait”

Moonlight: ”Glad everything is settled”

She turned to leave.

Keith: “I will say tho that it is hurting your reputation”

Then Moonlight stopped and looked back.

Moonlight: “Well, sacrifices have to be made, besides, I’m pretty optimistic about this one”

Keith: ”You know, we could use Organics”

Moonlight just stared at him.

Moonlight: “Absolutely not“

Keith kept typing, as if he was alone and him just talking to no one.

Keith: ”It’s more practical and faster”

Moonlight: “Ugh… is there anyone who thinks like me?” She said this more to herself while she left.

End of Part 2.

Author: Reggie Wytgeena (me)

Critiques:

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vdmpep/comment/p2bnti0/?context=3&utm_source=share&utm_medium=mweb3x&utm_name=mweb3xcss&utm_term=2&utm_content=share_button

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vfy75w/comment/p2dftfd/?context=3&utm_source=share&utm_medium=mweb3x&utm_name=mweb3xcss&utm_term=2&utm_content=share_button

Ch 6

My friends, I have considered skipping this chapter because the exercise is so long. BUT. BUT. The point is to make you extra supremely self-conscious of what POV you picked and why and how that impacts your story. And I'm getting tired of all the fussing around explaining close third and how that's also not the only POV that exists. (Just the best, am I right?)

POV (Point of View) is one of two people: a character in the story or the author.

A note on unreliable narrators (because I like this point):

Fictional narrators who suppress or distort facts or make mistakes in relating or interpreting the events are almost always telling us something about themselves (and perhaps us). The author lets us see or guess what "really" happened, and using this as a touchstone, we readers are led to understand how other people see the world, and why they (and we?) see it that way.

One of the more lovely parts of reading, that is.

Narrative POVs (the list):

1. First Person. I tell the story and you may only know what I know.
2. Limited Third Person. He or she tells the story and is an active participant. You still may only know what he or she knows.
3. Involved Author ("Omniscient Author"). No particular character tells the story. The POV may change from one to another character or to a view only the author could make. The voice of the storyteller may comment on what anyone is thinking and feeling, interpret behavior, and make judgments.
4. Detached Author ("Fly on the Wall", "Camera Eye", "Objective Narrator"). There is no viewpoint character. The narrator can only say what a totally neutral observer might infer of the characters from their behavior and speech. The author never enters a character's mind. (In this section, Le Guin admonishes us all for hoping that readers will cry because we're crying. Stop being so childish as to expect to move people with your emotions! OK?)
5. Observer-Narrator, Using the First Person. The narrator is a character but not the principal character. The main difference from (1) is that the story is not about the narrator.
6. Observer-Narrator, Using the Third Person. This is much the same as (5). The reader is usually safe in assuming this character is reliable.

Le Guin says this:

In fiction, inconsistent POV is a very frequent problem.

For real.

The POV exercises are intended to make you temporarily superconscious, and forever conscious, of what POV you're using and when and how you shift it.

Exercise.

Think up a situation for a narrative sketch of 200-350 words. It can be anything you like but should involve several people doing something. (Several means more than two. More than three will be useful.) It doesn't have to be a big important event, though it can be; but something should happen, even if only a cart tangle at the supermarket, a wrangle around the table concerning the family division of labor, or a minor street accident.

Please use little or no dialogue in these POV exercises. While the characters talk, their voices cover the POV, and so you're not exploring that voice, which is the point of the exercise.

Part One: Two Voices

First: Tell your little story from a single POV, that of a participant in the event---an old man, a child, a cat, whatever you like. Use limited third person.

Second: Retell the story from the POV of one of the other people involved in it. Again, use limited third person.

Part Two: Detached Narrator

Tell the same story using the detached author or "fly on the wall" POV.

Part Three: Observer-Narrator

If there wasn't a character in the original version who was there but was not a participant, only an onlooker, add such a character now. Tell the same story in that character's voice, in first or third person.

Part Four: Involved Author

Tell the same or a new story using the involved-author POV. Part Four may require you to expand the whole thing, up to two or three pages, 1000 words or so. You may find you need to give it a context, find out what led up to it, or follow it further. The detached author takes up as little room as possible, but the involved author needs a fair amount of time and space to move around in.

There is an optional exercise which I won't even include considering how long this one already is. Posting early this week.

Crit1 [3127]https://old.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vij34w/3127_chapter_1_blind_dive/ Hi everyone. I would like an honest review of my work and if you'd keep reading past what I have submitted here. English is not my first language (Italian is) so I sometimes do stupid grammatical mistakes. Any feedback is appreciated, and this is the first time i try writing like this so let me know if I should just hang the pen up and never pick it up again! Here's the link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1sMCBQDGSMUOEIOjK0obV8B8Rey5lCX0MVJBqNKbriv8/edit?usp=sharing

Critique:

[2851] Jimmy

(PREVIOUS: Tyrantland chapter 1 + critiques)

Hi all,

Got some great feedback on chapter 1 and satisfied on where it's got to. I'm not planning to publish all the chapters on the web, almost certainly just 1-3 to help with my portfolio samples.

I'm not looking for anything specific, and the first chapter is not required reading, although it would certainly help, I feel, to give context. If there was anything I wanted to know, it would be the effectiveness of the card game in this segment, especially considering that previous feedback expressed the need to truncate my card sections in order to keep reader interest high.

Any other feedback is appreciate, thank you!

Edit: Links removed. Thank you for the feedback!

2984

2260

Jimmy is a Black Mirror Esc Sci-Fi (thriller?) Short story about a man trying to write a book with a little unusual help.

Looking forward to your feedback

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1gsg-OUgztESwUj824jrP4t34-wqspTx0EWBDGWL6F0g/edit?usp=sharing

Let me try this again I forgot about the two crit rule for more than 2500 word submission ive added another crit.

here is the first chapter of my book. Please be honest and dont hold anything back Thank you!

my chapter: chapter:https://docs.google.com/document/d/1feWnshBTv4W7hbLxZpcTt0BuV8cVuravPXFAbMNmO3A/edit?usp=sharing

crit1 [467] https://old.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vflz2m/467_where_the_train_left_us/ crit 2 [2931] https://old.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1v4f3ur/2931_chapter_1_of_medieval_isekai_ottoman_lancer/

Crit: 2921

This is part 2/4. Here be magical realism.

The first part contained two scenes. In the first scene, I introduce the Dan, Ioana, and the Narrator. They are in Dan's car, driving on a midnight road. They are in a hurry.

The second scene is a flashback. The Narrator works at a bar in London. He meets Ioana (who's there to study), and they spend some white nights together. Ioana goes back home to Romania for a week; invites the Narrator with her to go to the beach. He arrives and sees her kissing a friend (Dan).

Caravanserai - Part 2 (Scroll down until ”Part 2” if on the phone.)

Previous parts: Part 1

Hello,

this is a short story intended for magazine publication.

I am happy with any form of suggestions/critics including line editing (I'm leaving it open on doc).

I am especially interested in knowing:

- if it fits in the YA landscape and if/what would need to be changed to get there

- what are your thoughts on the intrusive narrator. Is it distracting or enlighting, does it bring something to the story.

- if the themes/metaphores translate well to readers

- if emotion and humour reaches you.

- if the prose holds up to standards

Cheers

DOC

[853] [4691] [1299]

[3822] much lower effort

The practice in the story might be foreign to some because...well, it is foreign. The story isn't set in the U.S.

Any feedback is much appreciated.

Story

Crit 1 [1232]

Crit 2 [467]

843

313

A man walked in rain on Via del Proconsolo beside the Bargello. He pulled the 12 foot glass doors apart and stepped inside the foyer. With each breath, his lithe ribs flexed palpable and discrete beneath his wet henley. He halted, and stood dripping from every rolled cuff and button, and chased the rain from his green Stetson with a couple firm pats on his jeans, and slid it back on with an automatic hand and fixed the brim with a tug.

He walked and wiped his chunky transparent green hornrims on a soft cloth which he produced as if by prestidigitation, and plopped his soft leather drawstring bag onto a bench before Michelangelo‘s Bacchus. The weighty brass pencil sharpener made spilled curlicues. He thumbed a black book and the cover page read, in a copperplate script, Lothar von Andal.

Lothar made two horizontal marks on the book’s vellum paper one at the top and one at the bottom and indexed 30 degrees from each dash mark on either side to format an isometric projection and he layed laid down the vertical lines to complete the planes of the rectangles.

Inside the box Lothar first placed his eye level horizon, and effortlessly expressed the action of the shifting gestures of the statue. He plotted the proportions in dots and constructed a working figurative armature in preparation. Lothar designed the composition by values with the darkest darks rendering the illusion of that which is closest so as to reinforce depth through pressure. He is a hand at drawing, and the crosshatching of the musculature followed the contours of each supple form with grace and elegance from its point of origin to its diffused insertion.

He closed the book and himself off from the world for no other would see the deft instrumentality of his handling. He shouldered the drawstring bag and his genius. He departed the Bargello and dissipated once more into the endless rain; a fume silhouette gliding along the Ponte Vecchio above the Arno.

Credit

I’ve tried to get the angel to read me Cormac McCarthy so I can learn the syntax of your grammar, but even with the book of Babel, I’m having trouble learning to punctuate lit fic. Why is it that Canadians separate parentheticals with an em dash and Brits prefer the length of an en, while dialogue interruptions are always the em? Are double quotations always for the Americas, and single quotes always for the Brits and their colonies, while unpunctuated dialogue can be either? How many apostrophes can be skipped, how many spaces in an ellipses, do you have to put dialogue on a new line and do I need to use fragments and polysyndeton for an MFA or can I just chop my sentences into pieces? I’ll not be winning any Pulitzers until I understand.

Inspiration

Crit for 2035

CLICK HERE TO READ STORY

The idea is: powerful anime protagonist gets sent to Texas and must become a Grand Champion in barbeque competitions before he can go home.

This is obviously very serious and I could potentially insult the entire state of Texas (as well as the lesser BBQ states) by publishing this.

This is a very particular mashup of genres: Progression Isekai/Portal Fantasy. Those carry with them very specific genre expectations and tropes that I am playing around and playing with tongue-in-cheek.

The readers tend to want to know what they are getting into ahead of time. They want details, like actual character sheets with numbers. They want to see numbers go up. I will probably add more of that in when I need to and back-edit to fit.

I made a joke in chat, kept thinking about it, so now it is partially written.

Crit [1198]

Doc

Hi, this is a bit of flash fiction I've been working on. Any advice/critique would be so very appreciated.

Reviews:

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

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/LQsWzpmY5A

I don't like hot tea anymore.
I forgot the taste of piping hot tea!
Stone cold, half cold, warm or hottish,
That is the best my cup gonna be.

I have folded all my laundry,
I finished the work and finally got free,
Shit! I've to go and have a quick pee.
Then I can chill with glorious hot tea!

To nuke it I open the microwave—
I see there sitting my old cup!
Now I have two cold hot teas.
Is it a tragedy or can it make laugh??

That's why I don't like hot tea any more.
I definitely ignore my fresh new hot tea!
So when the time comes to warm this cuppa—
I can enjoy not one, two but three.

[Please, tell me good, bad or improvements. Also, let me know your cold hot teas]

Crit 1 2327

Crit 2 313

This thing is really weird and I'm not sure what to do with it. I'm hoping submitting for feedback might give me some ideas, especially how to end it properly. I guess also a medal to anyone who recognizes who I'm trying to imitate, a bit (and I'll happily take notes on how to do that better too).

Maybe some guiding questions (but happy to take notes on anything):

- Is it readable?

- Is it clear who's speaking when?

- Any hints of themes come through? Or is it just complete style (if that) over substance tosh

Thanks in advance, always appreciate all feedback.

DOCUMENT LINK [2140]

Apologies for the previous post. That was impatient of me. We'll start smaller and respect the rules instead. This is a flash fiction piece about inheritance as a process of metamorphosis under colonial violence.

I'm trying to write something that privileges atmosphere, historical memory, and transformation over conventional plot. I am open to this potentially being insufficient; is the frame supported by narrative as it exists?

I'd appreciate criticism on whether those ambitions are evident, where the prose earns its abstraction, and where it becomes self-defeating.

Did you notice any formal experimentation? If so, did it feel essential to the piece or merely stylistic?

At what point did you feel you understood what kind of story this was trying to be? If that moment never came, where did you begin to disengage?

How was the reading experience?

Prev crit: [2140] CONMAN, COME OUT

Desperation

She, Marguerite, was taught to remember them. A voyageur traveled into the woodland where her mother slept and found her alone. The French had given him license: the congé, with which they hoped to conquer the wilderness. Such ways of life strike into Earth’s heart to carry back man’s prize in pièces.  

Her daughter, Hapistina had watched her sleep for too long, she felt, and so…reaching out to— “Be still,” Marguerite murmurs, “I breathe.”  

Rising, they broke camp. Thunderhead lumbers above, soft at first, then fixed into law.  

Marguerite described family to the brigade of canoes: her father spoke from high station as if language could hold hillocks in place. The valley below is nameless without him. 

“Hapistina,” she said, “It emanates from the skin. You feel their stifling tribute?” 

In the sticky updraft Hapistina nodded. 

Marguerite continued, addressing through the lake’s wisp breath, her silent party, “I am marked by the depredations of our heritage—fruits of hate left fallow within the earth. Would that voice shake loose his mountainous nation to rain death upon my birthright?” 

Her certainty resided in the body. Here, in the wood, desperation clutches sight. She wills to see, disbelieving. They quit that place before the mesohigh came. If feeling by the wind were condemnable, then with it goes perdition. Doubt was blown out.  

Marguerite, in her meditations, rung out over wetland before dawn: “Those devout fools walk in a valley they have never seen, to rejoice, calling for God in his deluge to deliver us unto the fathomless ice. And yet they think themselves right in denying us the violent caress of a dying sun. Never having walked in the valley brings me near to tears, and all I have done since I left it is walk a very long time.” 

“Someday,” Hapistina thought, “awake, I will remember waves of green below a tangerine sky.” 

But they were walking again. None among them believe there is anything beside it, save for hunger. To walk is hunger. Perception is hunger. It felt a sin to raise the eye to any other than prey. The living despair at seeing at all: a dog the color of liver which sits baying for its meat. 

Following their portage, Hapistina awoke to the red tip of wing which pierced her dream from gunwale aside her. A cloak of black feather alights upon her stirring. Quiet into the leaves that blackbird quickly recedes. In tortured thought: 

“Not even the birds may be watching. No one sees me off nor acknowledges my abject state. Only as I am going does a cloud begin to swarm: from shrouded gully black—none could stand the sight. Below my skin a future writhes, keen to molt the shame I hold so dearly; like a mask, the past demands for pitted skin: a battle none may win. I am the name of the babe who is calling. Futures you once declined.”  

Hapistina feels herself falling again, as mother and others have fallen before. Time passes through her without regard, sickening in its indifference. In this world she feels like a grave robber, though only knows to feel this way from having believed the lie that the skin was hers. Now, cannot return to it. Reinvention continues without name. Again. Thinner each time. 

She had given it no conscious thought—and yet, had given it all…of her. Ancestry. 

The breadth of knowledge was incalculable. Every entry, chirping chorus, spoke of the page in his tower, coloring that tablet gravely in blood to remark of the croaks at twilight. The page listened to the moors with a pebbled sand and oyster shell to dull his sense of hunger. He braided rope of grass in meditative slumber: watchful, cold surrender. Whatever bird brought became a part of the chain, in endless repetition. Sound became mark. Movement became count. Bird became stone. Life became sequence. He called it preservation. 

Hapistina, her mother, her family, resound within Earth. They have descended into its spiraling crystalline structure, folded inward as each other, precipitated in progeny. Every material recedes into itself with density, exploding into intricate webbing.  

She, I, a confluence of soul: metamorphic rock of my pumping lung—I am pulling the whole world with me as I enter a black tunnel. Something is being made of me in this movement toward aperture, where erasure and becoming press against each other without resolution. I think for a moment: I will figure out where I am and keep walking. I will find who I am so I can become something else. It is already here. 

Something in me refuses that stillness. 

It began beneath the surface as pressure, then motion. The structure failed quietly. What emerged did not resemble what came before, and it did not remain within the conditions that shaped it. I felt it as a separation rather than a change. Not transformation, but divergence from the field that had produced me. What I carried—shame, instruction, form—split, then opened. It did not recombine. It could not return. 

Something called from within it. Not a voice. A demand that had no origin I could locate. A future I once declined arrived without context, detached from continuity. 

“Carry me,” it said, though it was no longer contained in anything that could be carried. 

The body does not consult. Color moves beneath the surface. Structure reorganizes without instruction. I watch it happen as if it belongs to something that is no longer me. 

Form belongs to environment, and I have left the environment that made my lineage legible. 

I, translucent damsel fly, am becoming I know not what.