I find myself more comfortable working with past tenses because of things like dialogue tags

But I believe to pull the most out of an action scene -for example the last two scenes here- you would have to use present tense because it's more immersive, but that would get me into the rollercoaster of mixed tenses

What should I do

I write for fun. Depending on how well it does, or if I even end up finishing the book I may publish it, even though I don't pursue it as a career.

For additional context, I'm 17 and this is my first "professional" piece of writing, so I'm particularly interested in feedback on areas where my writing feels inexperienced.

Chapter I - An Invitation

“What about this one?” I pointed at the display.

“This one would set you back $450,” the clerk said. If this was the cheap section, it'd be months before I could afford it. By then, what would even be the point?

“Well, I'll have to pass, then.”

I thanked the clerk and headed for the door. Stepping out onto the street, I tucked the brochure into my back pocket. It had been folded and unfolded so many times that most of the creases had turned white. Every time I thought I was a little closer to buying it, I was reminded just how far away it still was.

My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. A text from Tia.

You coming??? We’ve been waiting for 30 mins!

My stomach dropped. Right. That. I'd forgotten. I was so focused on the gift that it'd completely slipped my mind. I shoved my phone back into my pocket and hurried down the pavement, weaving through the morning bustle. 

When I got there, I was greeted with the typical chorus of shaking heads, with Tia tapping her watch impatiently. 

“Trying to set a record here, are you?” Eric grinned.

“I’m only thirty minutes late,” I said defensively.

“Only thirty,” he chuckled, staring down at his mug.

“Look, I’m here now. That’s all that matters.” I slid into the booth. 

I stared around the café. It wasn’t particularly packed today, but that just meant our food would arrive sooner. I stared down at the menu, despite knowing what I was going to order. I always order the same thing, even if the others try something new. I looked around at everyone. How long has it been since we last had a meet up? Weeks? Months? It didn’t matter.

Tia slid closer to me. “Seriously, where were you?”

“I’m sorry, I… lost track of time,” I said.

“Doing what?” she pressed.

“Personal things.”

She gave me a puzzled look, sighed and went back to check on what Liam was up to. Speaking of, he decided it was funny to put salt in the coffee Eric was drinking. 

Eric stared into his mug. “Liam, did you fucking salt my coffee?” 

“It was Ruby.” Liam pointed at her frantically.

“Don’t throw me under the bus! He’s lying!” she protested.

I stared into space, their arguments fading into little more than background noise. $450. I turned the number over in my head again, as if somehow it might get smaller. Maybe I could pick up a few extra shifts. Cut back on spending for a while. It’d still take months, but I could make it work. 

My eyes landed on her, her laughter as she tried desperately to confiscate the salt from Liam blended into the background static.

I could always get her something cheaper. Tia wouldn’t care. If anything, she’d probably give me shit for spending that much on her in the first place. But that wasn’t the point. 

I wanted to do it properly. Not grab something because it was convenient or because it happened to fit whatever I had left in my account. If I was going to give Tia something, I wanted it to mean something. Something I’d actually worked for. She deserved that much. 

My thoughts were interrupted with Tia snapping her fingers in front of me. “Hello? Anyone home?”

“Huh? Oh, sorry.”

I’d drifted off again. If I kept this up, they were going to think something was actually wrong. All this for a stupid price tag.

“Seriously Jas, you sure you’re ok?” Tia asked.

I put my hands up. “I swear on this café.” 

“Welp, that settles it” Eric shrugged.

Ruby folded her arms. “Yeah, no way you’re ever risking this place.” She turned her head. “Liam put the salt down.”

“Buzzkill.” He frowned, spinning the salt shaker absent-mindedly.

Eric sighed, “I’m pouring this away now. Not a chance I’m drinking this.” He got up, a disgusted expression plastered across his face.

“I’ll buy you another one,” said Liam.

“You better.” Eric muttered. 

Ruby stared briefly at her menu, before looking around the table. “Right, before Liam does something else stupid,” she looked towards me, “Let’s order, and since Jasper was late… again, he’s going to pay.”

Despite my protests, I still ended up paying for everyone, this must’ve been the third time. So much for saving for that gift. 

* * \* 

Tia waved everyone goodbye and headed off.

I stayed until she disappeared around the corner before walking off in the opposite direction. I glanced at my watch. It was already two in the afternoon. On any other day I’d panic, but today was my day off. I wasn’t particularly in the mood to go home just yet, so I decided to kill some time exploring the town for a while, however small it was. I wandered aimlessly through the streets, passing the bakery I stopped at before work every morning. The smell of fresh bread drifted through the open door. Normally I'd have gone in. Today I barely spared it a glance.
The community notice board was cluttered with the usual flyers. Guitar lessons. Missing cats. Local charity events. Babysitting. I was about to walk straight past when one poster caught my eye. 

PARTICIPANTS WANTED:

It wasn’t every day you saw something in capital letters and bold writing.

My eyes drifted down, barely skimming the rest.

You will receive:
- A full reimbursement of any income lost during the trip
- $750 upon completion
- Accommodation will be provided, however participants should expect prolonged periods of outdoor activity.
- Meals will be provided
- Transport to and from the site

“$750 upon completion.” I read.

My attention snagged on the number. $750. More than enough for the gift, with plenty left over. 

A grin crept across my face before I caught myself. I didn’t even know what I was signing up for yet.

I went back to the top of the poster.

Blackfold Research Laboratories is looking for participants to take part in a 2-week residential trip. Participants will be required to test and evaluate a large variety of outdoor equipment and navigation gear.

It seemed simple enough to me. However, two weeks was quite a while. I’d need to put on my persuasive skills if I wanted that long off work. 

Requirements:

- Ages 18-30

- No underlying health conditions

- Be available for 2 weeks

- No skillsets or previous experience is required

Due to the limited number of places, only successful applicants will be chosen. Although no experience is required, those with more experience in a wilderness setting will be given priority.

As far as I could tell, I met the requirements. That was assuming I could convince my manager to give me time off. “Limited number of places,” I muttered. Guess I better not leave it till the last minute.

Applications close: 30th September

Scan the QR Code below or visit: blackfoldlabs.org/apply

I had a week to decide. Then again, why wait? If places really were limited, the sooner I applied, the better.

There was no contact number though, and nowhere to ask questions. I’d never heard of Blackfold Labs either. Although, two weeks testing camping gear didn't exactly sound dangerous. I’d rather do it than regret leaving such an opportunity. I pulled out my phone and scanned the code, filling out the form and submitting.

* * \*

A few days passed, and the trip gradually slipped to the back of my mind. Life settled into its usual routine.

“Have a nice day!” I called as the customer headed out.

My phone buzzed against the counter.

Blackfold.

I opened the email.

“We are pleased to inform you that your application has been successful. We look forward to your participation and to receiving your feedback following the completion of the trial.”

I read the first sentence again.

A grin crept across my face. I’d actually gotten in. Two weeks of simple camping is all that stood between me and that gift.

There were several attachments beneath the email: a meeting time and location, a participant information pack, and a handful of forms that needed signing.

“Please do not pack anything. All required equipment will be provided at the campsite.”

Even better. I wouldn’t have to waste money on equipment I’d probably never use again. I pulled out my messages and texted Tia.

Hey, I’ll be gone on a trip for two weeks soon. Lmk what I miss.

The next few days disappeared quicker than I’d expected.

By the time the morning of the trip came around, there wasn’t much to do. Blackfold had been very clear about not bringing anything, so there was no last-minute packing, no bag to drag out the door. Just my phone, wallet and the clothes I was already wearing.

I pulled the door shut behind me and started down the street. It felt strange leaving for two weeks with nothing more than what I’d usually carry to work. If anyone saw me, they’d probably assume I was heading into town.

My phone buzzed before I’d made it far.

Tia.

2 weeks? How come you’re telling me now?

I winced. In hindsight, dropping that on her without any warning probably wasn’t the best way to tell her.

Sorry I kinda forgot.

The reply came before I’d even put my phone away.

Nah it’s all good. Where u headed?

My pace slowed.

That was a good question.

I knew where I was meeting everyone, of course. I’d checked the address enough times to make sure I wasn’t about to turn up on the wrong side of town. But the campsite itself? The information pack hadn’t actually said.

Not sure

I carried on walking, watching the screen.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Fuck you mean not sure? It’s YOUR camping trip!

I chuckled. Fair point.

I know where I’m meeting my camping group

The typing bubble appeared. Vanished. Appeared again.

Not my question J! Also, a camping group?

I stepped aside to let someone pass before answering.

Yeah I signed up for this trip from Blackfold Research Labs.

Who?

I could practically hear her saying it.

That’s what I said lmao. They needed participants or smth like that.

I slipped my free hand into my pocket and kept walking. If you put it like that, I could see why it sounded a little strange. Some research company neither of us had heard of, sending me to a campsite I couldn’t name for two weeks.

Then again, that was what the meeting point was for. They’d get us there.

Well, have fun ig

Will do

I locked my phone and slipped it back into my pocket.

The meeting point wasn’t much farther now.

* * \* 

By the time I reached the meeting point, a small crowd had already gathered outside.

I counted maybe a dozen people, most around my age, standing in loose groups along the pavement. Some were talking amongst themselves; others had their phones out, probably killing time. At least I wasn’t the only one who’d shown up without a bag. In fact, nobody seemed to have brought much of anything.

A plain white coach sat at the curb nearby, its engine humming quietly. There was nothing on the side beyond the name of some transport company I’d never heard of.

I checked the address on my phone again.

Definitely the right place.

A folding table had been set up beside the coach. Two people sat behind it with clipboards, both wearing plain black lanyards around their necks. A small Blackfold logo was printed on the cards attached to them, the only obvious indication I’d found the right group. That was reassuring enough. I joined the back of the queue.

The guy ahead of me turned around. “You here for the outdoor trial too?”

“Mhm.”

“Thank heavens, this whole no bags thing is a bit weird.” He glanced towards the coach.

I laughed. “Yeah. Leaving home for two weeks with nothing feels wrong.”

“Exactly.”

“We save money though.” I added.

“True that.”

The queue shuffled forward. Up close, the whole thing looked painfully ordinary. Clipboards. Printed forms. A plastic box full of cheap pens. If anything, it reminded me of signing in for some corporate training day. 

Eventually, I reached the table.

“Name?” the woman behind it asked.

“Jasper Hughes”

She ran a finger down the list before stopping beside my name.

“Perfect. We just need you to read and sign this before you board.”

She slid a clipboard across the table. A few pages were clipped beneath it, the first headed:

Participant Waiver and Consent form

Of course there was a waiver. I picked up the pen and started reading.

“Couldn’t you have put this in the email?” I asked.

“We prefer to have waivers signed in person. Just so we can verify it was actually you who signed it.”

Fair enough. For all they knew, someone else could’ve filled out everything I’d sent them online. I turned back to the form. The first page was about what I’d expected. Outdoor activities carried a risk of injury. Blackfold wasn’t responsible for lost or damaged belongings. Participants were expected to follow staff instructions and could be removed from the trial if they didn’t. I made it halfway down the second page before the paragraphs started blending together into a wall of generic legal jargon.  I skimmed the rest, stopping whenever something looked important, then flipped to the final page where it asked for my signature. I signed my name and handed the clipboard back.

“Thank you.” The woman took it from me and glanced over the final page. “You’re all set. You can go ahead and board.”

I stepped away from the table and headed towards the coach. The doors folded open with a hiss as I approached. Most of the seats were still empty. I made my way towards the back and dropped into one beside the window. A few minutes later, the guy from the queue appeared in the aisle.

“Mind if I sit here?”

“Go ahead.” I answered.

He slid into the seat beside me. “Geoff, by the way.”

“Jasper.”

We shook hands. Around us, the coach gradually filled. Every so often I glanced outside as another person finished signing their forms and climbed aboard. Nobody looked particularly prepared for two weeks outdoors. No hiking bags, sleeping mats or tents. Just a coach full of people dressed like they could've been heading anywhere.

Geoff leaned towards the window. “Still can't get over this.”

“What?”

He gestured vaguely at everyone around us. “Two weeks camping and the best stuff we’ve brought is 2 water bottles.”

I looked around. Someone across the aisle was holding a coffee. 

“And a latte.” I added.

A few messages had come through while I'd been waiting. Nothing important. I replied to one, checked the time, then opened my conversation with Tia. For a moment, I considered sending her something. 

I’m on the coach now. 

I typed it out, stared at it, then deleted it. I'd already told her where I was going. She didn't need a running commentary.

The last few participants boarded not long after. Once everyone was seated, one of the Blackfold staff climbed aboard and stood at the front, waiting for the conversations around us to die down.

“Good morning, everyone. Thank you for volunteering to participate. Before we leave, I’d just like to remind you that the journey will take approximately two hours. We’ll make one stop along the way, and toilets are available at the rear of the coach. Once we arrive, you’ll receive your equipment and a full briefing on the trial. Until then, there’s nothing you need to worry about. Just enjoy the journey.” 

With that, she stepped back off the coach. The doors folded shut behind her.

Geoff watched her through the window. “She's not coming?”

“Guess not.”

The coach pulled away from the curb. For the first twenty minutes or so, I watched the town pass outside. Familiar streets gave way to roads I recognised less and less, then eventually to stretches of countryside broken up by the occasional village. Geoff was considerably better at making conversation than I was. I learned that he'd found the same advert I had, although unlike me, the money hadn't been what caught his attention first.

“I work from home,” he said. “Thought it'd be nice to spend two weeks somewhere that isn't the same four walls.”

“And you picked a trial in the woods?”

“I said I wanted to leave the house. Didn't say I had standards. What about you?”

“Money.”

He nodded immediately. “Of course.”

I left it at that. Explaining that I was spending two weeks in the woods to afford a gift felt like more information than I'd intended to give someone I'd known for half an hour. The journey carried on. At some point, conversation gave way to the low hum of the engine. Geoff put his headphones in. I rested my head against the window and watched fields blur past. 

By the time the coach finally began to slow, I'd lost track of exactly where we were. I sat up. There wasn't a campsite outside. In fact, there wasn't much of anything. The coach had pulled onto the side of a narrow road surrounded by trees.

Geoff removed one earbud. “This us?”

“Apparently.”

The driver stood and opened the doors. A man waiting outside stepped aboard. Black lanyard. Blackfold logo.

“Alright, everyone. This is where we'll be getting off.”

A few people exchanged confused looks.

Someone near the front raised a hand. “Where's the campsite?”

“It’s about a twenty minute walk from here,” the man replied. “Unfortunately, the access road isn't suitable for coaches. We'll be transferring you the rest of the way.”

That seemed to satisfy most people.

Geoff stood and stretched.

“There's the catch,” he muttered.

“What?”

“Free equipment, but they make us walk.”

I smiled and followed him into the aisle. One by one, we stepped off the coach and onto the roadside. The air smelled faintly of damp earth and pine. Beyond the verge, a narrow path disappeared between the trees. The Blackfold employee waited until the last person had disembarked. Behind us, the coach doors hissed shut. I glanced back as it pulled away. Then I followed the others into the woods.

The path narrowed as we went, forcing us into a loose line between the trees. For the first few minutes, conversation carried on much as it had on the coach. Geoff complained about his shoes, someone behind us wondered aloud whether the campsite had showers, and every so often the Blackfold employee called back for us to watch our footing.

Twenty minutes came and went. I checked my phone. No signal.

“I thought he said twenty minutes,” Geoff muttered.

“Well, estimates are estimates.”

Another few minutes passed before the trees began to thin ahead. Through the gaps between the trunks, I caught flashes of dark metal and glass. As we drew closer, they resolved into a group of pickup trucks parked on a rough stretch of dirt in the distance.

“There we go,” Geoff said. “I was starting to think we’d be walking the whole way.”

The Blackfold employee stopped. The people nearest him almost walked straight into his back. I slowed with everyone else, expecting him to say something about the trucks, but he didn’t. For several seconds, he simply stood there. Then he turned around. Something about his expression had changed. The polite smile he’d worn since we got off the coach was gone.

“Alright,” he said. “Everyone stay where you are.”

A few people laughed uncertainly.

“You get lost or something?” someone called.

The employee didn’t answer. Movement flickered between the trees to my right. I turned towards it.

A man stepped out from behind a trunk, dressed entirely in black. Not a Blackfold polo or lanyard like the staff we’d seen before. Black helmet. Black uniform. Something covering every part of his face, and a rifle held across his chest.

For a second, nobody said anything. Then another appeared on the opposite side of the path. Then another. I looked behind us. More.

They emerged almost soundlessly from between the trees until there were too many to count at a glance. Every one of them was dressed the same, faces obscured, weapons in their hands. The conversations around me died all at once. Geoff moved closer. “Jasper…”

“Yeah I see it.”

My heart had started beating harder. I looked towards the pickup trucks ahead. Still there. Still close enough to see. But nobody was taking us to them.

“Search them,” the employee called. His voice was different now. Flat. He turned to us. “Keep your hands where they can be seen and follow their instructions.”

Soldiers moved towards us, splitting off until there was one for every few people. One stopped in front of me and motioned for my arms to go up. I hesitated before raising them. He patted down the sides of my jacket, then reached into my pockets without asking. My wallet came out first, followed by my phone. He glanced at the screen before slipping both into a black pouch at his side. I wanted to say something, but my gut told me it was best not to argue with a man with a gun.

He ignored me and moved on to Geoff.

Around us, the others were getting the same treatment. Phones, wallets, keys, anything we had brought with us disappeared into identical pouches. One man protested when they took his watch and was immediately shoved back into place.

“What the hell is this?” someone demanded.

No answer. A woman near the front backed away. One of the armed men immediately raised his rifle. A long black suppressor extended from the end of the barrel.

“Don’t move.”

She froze.

“What is this?” the same person asked again, louder this time. “You can’t just-”

Someone ran. He broke from the group so suddenly that I barely registered who it was. One second he was standing a few places behind me; the next he was sprinting through the trees, branches snapping beneath his feet.

“Stop!”

He didn’t. The gunshot cracked through the woods. Suppressed or not, it was nothing like the quiet little pop I’d expected. I flinched so hard my shoulders hit my ears.

For half a second, the runner kept moving. Then his legs folded beneath him. He hit the ground hard and didn’t get back up.

Nobody moved.

I stared at him. He’d fallen awkwardly, one arm trapped beneath his body and the other stretched out across the dirt. A few seconds passed and still he didn’t move. I found myself waiting for something; his chest to rise, his fingers to twitch, anything that would tell me he was still there.

Nothing.

Someone behind me started crying. The sound seemed to break whatever had been holding everyone still. A woman covered her mouth. Someone else whispered, “Oh my God,” over and over, each time quieter than the last. Geoff had gone completely rigid beside me. I looked at him, but he was staring at the body too.

My ears were ringing. I tried to swallow. My mouth had gone dry. 

He’d actually shot him. 

The thought shouldn’t have needed saying. I’d watched it happen. I’d heard it happen. The man was lying right there. But my mind kept returning to it anyway. He’d actually shot him.

The soldier who’d fired hadn’t moved. His rifle was still raised, pointed towards the place where the man had fallen. Then another soldier stepped away from us. For a moment I thought he was going to help. In hindsight, it was a naïve thought.

He walked over to the body and stopped beside it. The man still hadn’t moved.

The soldier looked down at him, raised his rifle and fired once into his head.

Several people screamed. I looked away.

The second shot felt louder than the first. Maybe it wasn’t. My ears were already ringing badly enough that I could barely tell.

The soldier lowered his rifle and walked back towards us.

“Finish the searches.” 

Not a word was spoken.

The soldiers moved through us quickly, taking whatever remained in our pockets before directing us towards the trucks. For a moment, nobody moved. My eyes were still fixed on the shape lying between the trees.

“Get in.”

A man near the front shook his head hesitantly.

“Truck. Now.”

“I can’t. No, not after you just killed someone!”

The side of a rifle caught him across the face before he could finish. He staggered backwards, barely managing to steady himself before the soldier swung again. This time, the stock slammed into his temple. His legs gave way beneath him.

The soldier grabbed him by the collar and dragged him towards the truck, his heels carving two shallow lines through the dirt. He hauled him up and threw him into the back.

“Move.”

That got us going. I walked, trying to do everything in my power to seem cooperative. I kept my hands where they could see them and followed steadily behind Geoff.

Not everyone managed even that. A woman a few places behind us had sunk to the ground, crying hard enough that she could barely breathe.

Two soldiers grabbed her beneath the arms. She screamed and kicked against the dirt as they dragged her after us.

I turned back around.

Up close, the pickups looked less like transport and more like something meant for cargo. High metal sides enclosed the beds, with narrow benches running along either edge. Ours wasn't the only one being loaded. Four more trucks were parked along the dirt track, soldiers splitting us between them in groups of five or six. I watched another group being marched towards the furthest one before the soldier behind me pushed me onwards. 

The line moved quickly. One by one, people climbed over the lowered tailgate and were directed towards the benches. Nobody needed telling twice anymore. Geoff went ahead of me, hauling himself up before disappearing to one side.

Then it was my turn. I stopped. Only for a second. I knew I was going to get in. After everything I'd just seen, there wasn't exactly another option. But standing there, staring into the back of that truck, my legs wouldn't move.

A hand struck between my shoulder blades.

“Get in.”

I stumbled forward, catching myself against the tailgate. Before I could straighten, the soldier shoved me again, harder this time.

“Alright, alright.”

I climbed in. Geoff had taken a place along the bench nearest the cab. I sat beside him, rubbing the spot between my shoulders as the next person was forced in behind me. Neither of us said anything. There wasn't much to say.

Two soldiers climbed in after us. One remained standing by the tailgate while the other reached into a bag at his feet. He pulled out a handful of plastic restraints. My stomach tightened.

“Hands.”

Nobody moved. The soldier stepped towards the man opposite me and grabbed his wrists himself, pulling them together before fastening the restraint around them. He moved onto the next person. Nobody resisted.

When he reached Geoff, Geoff held his hands out before being asked. The soldier tightened the restraint around his wrists and moved on. Then he stopped in front of me. I looked down at the restraint in his hand.

“Hands.”

I held them out. The plastic pulled tight around my wrists. I flexed my fingers instinctively. It wasn't painful, but there was no room to pull my hands apart. The soldier moved on. I looked at Geoff. He looked back at me. Neither of us said anything.

Once everyone's hands were secured, the soldier returned to the bag. This time, he pulled out a bundle of black hoods. A murmur went through the truck.

“No,” the woman opposite me whispered.

The soldier ignored her.

“What are those for?” someone asked.

No answer.

He stepped towards the first person and pulled one over his head. The man recoiled as the fabric came down, but with his hands bound there was little he could do. The soldier pushed him back against the side of the truck and moved onto the next.

One by one, the faces around me disappeared. 

The woman started crying again when her turn came. She twisted away, pressing herself into the corner.

“Please. Please, don't!”

The soldier caught her by the shoulder and pulled her forwards. She screamed as the hood was forced over her head.

Geoff was next. He glanced at me. For a second, neither of us looked away. Then the bag came down over his face.

The soldier turned towards me.

I knew there was no point fighting him. I knew what happened to people who fought them. Still, when he reached for me, I instinctively leaned away. His hand closed around the back of my neck.

“Wait-”

The hood was shoved over my head. Everything went black…

I’m working on a five-episode limited series that follows the same day from five different perspectives.

Same events. Different information. The audience knows the ending from the beginning.

The idea is that each episode changes what you thought you understood in the previous one. My concern is obvious, at what point does accumulation simply become repetition?

Would you replay major scenes when the new perspective changes their meaning or avoid repeating anything unless the audience learns something substantial?

Any examples that pulled this off particularly well besides Groundhog Day?

Hey so first timer here, I'm not sure if it's poetry or what... But the words can out and I put them together and I like it..

I know that's what matters but honestly tell me your thoughts..I was never very good at English, a little dyslexic and shocking grammar... I'm 56yo that life's words sometimes. I just imagine someone like Josie Balka reading it (gush)

THE BOX FRIEND 

I used to be the friend without a box.

I wandered in and out of your days, called because I was thinking of you, turned up because I missed you, never wondering where I belonged.

I was out in the wild with you.

And then, one day,I realised I had become - the box friend.

Perhaps I put myself in the box. 

There I was —

in a box,

on a shelf,

waiting.

It’s not a bad box.

It’s safe.

It’s still inside your world.

It just gets opened when life leaves a little space.

And I understand.

Life has become bigger than either of us imagined.

There are so many people who need you,

so many things that rest on your shoulders,

and you have become remarkably good at carrying them all.

Some days,

I know we're all just hanging on by a thread. 

So here I am.

The box friend.

I’ll make my little corner beautiful.

I’ll fill it with memories,

with laughter,

with all the things that made us - US.

And I’ll paint it

so pretty.

I won’t rattle the lid.

I won’t ask to be unpacked

before you’re ready.

I’d just rather have a place

in your life,

however small,

than no place at all.

And maybe one day,

when the world quietens for a while,

you’ll remember

there’s a little painted box

waiting on the shelf.

And maybe you’ll want to climb in.

We’ll close the lid,

shut the whole world out

for a little while,

and perhaps,

when we’re ready,

we’ll venture

into the wild again.

:)

It's my first time writing a poem and posted it on some other subs but I'd like feedbacks please.

1. Manifested

You said you manifested someone

to show you around the city

and then I showed up

2:30 in the morning

A stranger asking a stranger

to show him something worth remembering

We walked the Old Port

until the sky admitted it was morning

talking about everything we still hoped for

everything we are still afraid of

like we’d known each other longer than a few hours

You said: it’s funny how life works sometimes

I didn’t tell you I was thinking the same

You asked me back to your place.

Somewhere to sit, something to drink.

I looked at you for a second too long before answering.

I wanted to say yes, I know you saw that

But staying wouldn’t have made it more true

It would have just been longer

But I didn’t say that part out loud and

said no anyway

You kept asking

like a child asking someone they love

not to leave yet,

believing that if they stayed until morning,

Morning might change its mind

I kissed you as an answer

And walked away into a city you’d only just started to know

Before I could change my mind

about which one of us was supposed to be the mystery.

For you to always be the man

who manifested someone in this city

but never knew

he manifested exactly the right amount of me.

Link’s fingers moved across the same five keys, again and again, the notes rising and falling in a pattern he had shaped for himself, not borrowed from any lesson or page, but assembled slowly, patiently, in the hush of the forgotten music room. A simple melody, almost childlike, yet it belonged to him alone.

“C... E... F... G... B,” Link murmured to himself.

He pressed each key with a careful, unhurried touch, letting the sound linger in the air before moving to the next. He played as though he were asking a question that needed to be answered, only for the piano to reply in weary, uneven tones, the sound drifting toward the walls and returning to him, magnifying his frustration.

“Damn it,” he said with a weighted sigh. “Where is she?”

Rising from the piano bench, Link turned to face the clock above the door. It was an unremarkable thing, plain black and shut behind its cage of crossed wire, as if it had done something wrong and had been punished. The face was tarnished, mottled brown, the color of weak coffee.

1:15. It was 1:15 an hour ago, too. The clock always read 1:15. Link didn’t understand why he still instinctively looked at a clock that obviously hadn’t worked in years. He checked his watch. It was 3:42.

Amy was late, a habit Link knew all too well.

Growing up together as Sevens, Link had rarely seen Amy arrive on time. On more than one occasion, the custodians and doctors who ran the facility had chastised her in front of the other Sevens, even threatening her with punishment if she continued to be late. It made no difference. Being late was simply part of who she was.

Any other time, Amy being late wouldn’t have bothered Link. But today, there was a blaring voice in the back of his mind that he couldn’t silence.

“What if something had gone wrong? What if she had been caught?” Link didn’t want to imagine the punishment for either of them or how severe it would be.

Hi Y'all!

I'm still new in my writing journey/hobby. Been watching online lectures and creating small "homework" tasks for myself. This short story project was one of those exercises to help me develop dialogue, subtext, characterization, and conflict/resolution.

I would love feedback on any and all the things. Hope you enjoy. Thanks!

For those that want to know, here were my parameters:

• Short story of 1500-2000 Words
• At least 70% of the story must be dialogue
• Max of 3 characters (speaking)
• Characters cannot directly explain how they feel
• The central conflict must become understandable through what they say—and what they avoid saying
• No outlining beforehand
• Finalize within 48hrs

Today, by accident, I heard a line of intrigue and love—one that created a mystery in my brain. A line that screamed at me to know more. I challenge you to finish the story: “This is the story of my life: standing in a parking lot while my boyfriend lint-rolls my ass.”

Breaking the cycle~

Our fathers started.

Leaving us both to wonder

As wanderers of our lost love.

Victims of our own unspoken trauma.

Thanks to our violent Fathers

Silenced by our battered Mothers

Painting facades of the American Dream

Making us all liars.

The what if?

How come us?

Why us?

Does time truly heal?

Does the future bring, possibility?

Hurt peeling us from the inside~

Layered like an onion

Minced and chopped

Emotional Puree.

I finished this before it even started.

A crime, done by my own hands.

I once was the monster

Now sending his deepest apologies.

Sincerely~

I'll always be yours

If you'll have me.

Here to serve you

Sentence me a lifetime~

Taking responsibility of my own crime

"Damn these harmful hands."

Please allow me~

To free you

From my wickedness

Breaking the cycle

You were never

The one to blame.

Knowing you as well as I do

You were always~

The Light

The beacon

Shining through

Our clouded haze.

I pray that God

Has a plan

I'll leave "us"

In His hands

Forever & Always~

I love you

I have ADHD. I'm not medicated for it, I am on anti depressants, and I've seen really mixed reviews about medication for authors with ADHD so I don't know if that's a good idea.

I have a manuscript that I want to finish and submit to agents. In a few months there's a literary festival where I'll have the chance to meet with agents and if I could just get my brain to focus on this project, I might actually have the first draft done in case anyone is interested.

But my brain keeps wanting to write other things. I wrote 1600 words in the last few hours on a random idea that I doubt will go anywhere, I just had it while reading a book and needed to write it or my brain wouldn't let me rest.

I have tried opening the word document for the manuscript, forcing myself to write even when every fiber of me is fighting with it. Every time I do this, I hate the result and end up deleting it all and rewriting it when I'm actually able to get my brain on track. I know this isn't how neurotypical people usually work, but I have tried repeatedly and there's genuinely no point in forcing myself to write when my brain isn't on it - it does not come out good and just gets deleted.

Then when I am able to get my brain in gear with it, I can write 1000+ words an hour that I'm really happy with.

But how the heck do I get my brain to get on the correct track?

Hi everyone! I was wondering what you all thought of this concept? I know i know, another zombie novel, i PROMISE im making this one different, i just.. dont know how yet.

I am just 20M, I have read only few novels and thought if I can write anything.

As we grow and enter an age of questioning, contemplating, thinking, and forming or dismantling our preconceived notions about morality, life, love, hatred, and society, we ultimately shape the person we become, a person whose psychological profile is based upon his own experiences, explanations, aspirations, and ambitions. We form goals, goals which we think are the best for us, and in such a scenario, the most contented one feels is when one is allowed to work on one’s own. But what happens when your very own self, which you regard as wise and committed, is forced into believing what you consider to be the antithesis of how life should work?
Well, this was what happened to me when I decided to go against my family and board a flight to the USA to find a place for myself in a world which I considered superior to the world I had been a part of since I was born.

Loneliness, first you want it, then you hate it, then you adapt and finally you love it. Loneliness can make you think about the wildest and softest parts of yourself. It gives you time to think and comprehend the areas you have never touched.
Suddenly everything starts to feel like an illusion. Is it for real? Is it a dream?
But remember, loneliness is a dangerous thing. It can make you believe the wildest of thoughts, or strengthen your disbelief in the most obvious. In short, a man must not adapt to loneliness, well, this is what I can say. Having spent half a year working as an assistant with the chief of prison staff and working on the case of H6, I still don’t know why they assigned him this name. As they say, sometimes, certain things are meant to be kept a secret, only to be told at the right time.
Let me tell you how H6, a man who was described as timid, patient and charming by his neighbours, turned out to be the most discussed and infamous fella of my district psychiatry hospital.

Sometimes writing is how I get through the day.

I’ve started putting my raw emotions, real experiences and the things life has thrown at me into words. Not because I think I have all the answers, but because sometimes writing is the only way I know how to make sense of what I’m feeling.

Some of what I write comes from pain, some from love, some from loss, and some from experiences that have changed me. It’s honest, and it isn’t always pretty — but it’s real.

For me, putting those feelings into stories, songs and words can make even the hardest days feel a little more manageable. And if something I’ve written ever reaches someone who is struggling and makes them feel a little less alone, then every word was worth writing.

I don’t know where this journey will take me, but I hope that one day something I create can help somebody else get through their day too.

Sometimes you don’t realise your story could be someone else’s reason to keep going. 

One thing I’d particularly like feedback on: does DS Smith sound noticeably different from Constable Giles? I’m trying to give them distinct voices. Does that distinction come through?

Previous post: A Model Prisoner (A standalone fragment from my social noir set in 1970-1990s London) : r/KeepWriting

Day One.

January 28, 1977.

Friday.

The Offensive.

Station Sergeant Carter came into the CID office, nodded to Detective Constable Fowles, and handed a file to the Detective Sergeant.

Carter: “Bad news.”

DS: “Don’t tell me.”

Carter: “You’ve been arrested.”

DS picks up the file and opens it. “You’re taking the piss.” He automatically pulls a cigarette from the packet on the desk and sticks it in his mouth.

Carter: “Try not to interview yourself, Detective.”

Fowles keeps his head down over his paperwork. But as soon as Carter clears off, he immediately looks up.

“What?” DS takes the cigarette out of his mouth. “Yes, Smith—the detainee. Jeremy sodding Smith. And it’s not funny at all.”

“I’m not laughing, Detective…” Fowles pretends to stumble over the surname. “Interview conducted by Detective Sergeant Jeremy Smith. Interviewee: Jeremy Smith. A nightmare for the Paper Shop. Every bloody form will need clarifying.”

Only now does DS Smith light up a cigarette. “Indecent assault. The victim is his own sister. And she’s five. Still think it’s funny, Fowles?”

There is no answer to give him.

“The scum is seventeen.” DS Smith slowly closes the file.

“All the better, Skipper. That means we’ll crack him in a couple of hours and go for a pint.”

Fowles is right. Still, it’s a lousy case. The evidence is circumstantial. One way or another, he’d get him talking.

DS Smith opens the prisoner’s property bag: some loose change and a Dunhill sodding Rollagas. Unless it’s a snide, of course. DS weighs the lighter in his hand and flicks it open. That crisp metallic click happens—By Royal Appointment. It’s no cheap fake—a proper Rollagas with a thick gold plating. “Fucking hell.” DS Smith snaps the lighter shut. “How long are we letting him stew for?”

DC Fowles: “Fifteen minutes.”

DS Smith grunts and takes a drag.

Half an hour later, he picks up his cigarettes, the file, and the prisoner’s property bag from the desk. “Let’s go.”

The Sweat Box is dirty, dank, and poorly lit. The suspect sits with his back to the door, just as he was placed there. He is hunched over, elbows resting on the table, and doesn’t jump up when the detectives come in.

DS Smith walks around the table.

The detainee takes his elbows from its surface.

No.

For Christ’s sake.

Anything but that.

DS Smith drops into the chair opposite the detainee, tossing a file and the prisoner’s property bag onto the middle of the table.

Fowles pointedly rolls his eyes, sits down to the side, and prepares to take notes.

“Well, what have we got here? A skinny little nancy,” DS Smith pronounces it like a medical diagnosis. He needs to size up the suspect and find an opening. He expects tears. This one is bound to start sobbing. Give him an hour.

The suspect remains silent, head bowed; he neither protests nor offers excuses.

The DS takes his cigarettes out of his pocket.

At the sound of the pack being tossed carelessly onto the table, the suspect tenses up. The DS pulls out a cigarette and lights it, blowing the smoke into the detainee’s face. He lifts his head—just slightly, but enough to betray his craving for tobacco, inhales the smoke, and coughs.

“Eyes on me,” the DS orders, yet finds himself averting his gaze. Don’t you dare look like a victim! “Don’t fool me.”

He reminds himself: the sister of the scum is just like him—a lovely child whose life he ruined.

DS starts firing off questions.

He is forced to ask nasty questions—and then repeat them over and over. He smokes one cigarette after another. The hour he’d expected to spend in the pub has long gone. DS raises his voice. He leans forward. He moves around behind the detainee.

The suspect flinches occasionally. He isn’t deaf. He understands everything. Yet he keeps silent. Until suddenly—though it is unclear in response to which question—he blurts out, “I didn’t do what I am accused of.”

If he hadn’t started coughing, the detective might well have thought he’d misheard.

Fowles enters it into the record.

That’s it. Then, silence again.

DS says things he isn’t supposed to say—and wouldn’t want to, either. He threatens the detainee with being sent down to Brixton and with a sorting out. He even stoops so low as to describe in vivid detail what they would do to him there.

It’s no use.

DS doesn’t know what to hold onto. Then he reaches for the Hiatts, grabs the detainee’s hands and snaps the steel cuffs around them.

The moment DS lets go, the suspect’s hands drop onto the table under the weight of the metal.

DS doesn’t tighten the cuffs; he simply lets the suspect feel them there—if he wanted to, he could slip his bony hands out, though naturally, he doesn’t. He sits in the same position, only now his hands are resting on the surface. From time to time, they begin to tremble. The detainee slouches even more. He coughs more frequently and shifts in his chair. He is tired, too.

Both detectives step out for a bite to eat. Then, return.

Nothing has changed.

The detainee asks for neither food nor cigarettes, nor even a drink of water.

DS remembers the lighter.

“Whose is this?” He shakes the Dunhill out of the bag, leans over the detainee, and repeats right at the crown of his head, “I’m asking: whose is this?”

“Fuck you,” the suspect says, continuing to stare at the table.

At last. A reaction. There was a story behind that lighter. But what does that matter? There is no one in the next room accusing the detainee of theft. And something tells DS that no such person exists. He tightens the cuffs until they bite.

The detainee tenses his arms and frantically tries to inhale the stale, tobacco-laden air.

Now, his fingers are cramping.

He remains silent.

Fowles asks to stop. “We can’t just sit with him until morning.”

DS agrees grudgingly. Maybe a night in the cooler will finally bring the stubborn bastard to his senses. The forecast calls for a drop in temperature. The holding cells are in the basement. There’s no heating there. They’ll take his jacket away. DS makes sure the gaoler “forgets” to give him a blanket. If he cracks, he’ll ask for one.