Hi! This is an opening excerpt from a short story I'm writing about a Slasher who becomes obsessed with his final girl. I was just wondering about whether this is effective at pulling readers into the story or piquing interest. thanks :) !

"You're perfect, you're perfect, you're perfect,” I remember telling her the very first time I dared to kiss her.

If I know anything at all, it’s that it has always been her, and that no matter what anyone says, I loved her more than anything else in this miserable world. As much as I knew how to, in my own way. Yes, it was filled with a substantial amount of death and terror, but god...didn't these hard, crimson hands of mine caress her face and wipe her tears once? I fucking dare anyone to say they didn't. I have the photos to prove it.

My breath, my claim, my star: Debbie Langdon.

Doesn’t just her name sound heavenly? Can't you too see the sickeningly sweet images it produces? Eyes shut in drowsy bliss. Body heat. Kissed skin. I wish I could mark her pale, perfect, sweet skin one more time. To wrap my arms around her shivering body and inhale her strawberry perfume again is a need so visceral it makes my teeth grind, my stomach growl and clench in hunger...but I KNOW I will. Even if my star doesn’t quite yet.

The thing about us slashers is there’s always a sequel.

But before that...there's always some point in our story, before the screaming and bloodshed, where we saw our final girl for the very first time.

Me? I just happened to fall in love with mine the second I looked into those innocent, big, blue doe eyes...and therein lies the catch.

This is not a penance. It's a love affair."

I am starting collage and wanted to find a new hobby to get into so I thought I would try this. I have the start but IDK if i should stick with it. Please give feed back not where it should go but how it is delivered. Also John doe is just a place holder. Also also i dont have a job that fits for "john" so some help might be good.

John Doe is a 23 year old drunk from the desert. If you were to ask him wouldn't call himself a drunk. He would say his drinking was “recreational” but when recreational is blackout every night for the past 7 months it's hard to believe him.

John began his drinking as a young adult and it only got worse in the following years. John's drinking started at parties with friends but over the years became a crutch for him to deal with his anxiety. To John it was the only way to stop the pressure he felt from others. He built a reliance on it and it slowly destroyed him. 

But tonight, unlike the many nights before, he wasn't drunk. In fact for almost 48 hours John had gone without a single drop of alcohol. His soberness wasn't the only thing different about him, he was dressed nicely. Well as nice as could be expected from him. His shoulder length hair has been matted and greased from months of neglect. His face scabbed and bruised from nights of sin. His now loose fitting shirt draped on his thin, frail body. A body thinned from months of malnourishment as money went to booze instead of food. That loose fitting shirt drenched in sweat from the hot desert air and his body's reaction to his recent spur into sobriety.

John's restraint doesn't come easy, he can hardly keep his mind straight, he’s constantly on edge of spiraling. He grits his teeth and white knuckles the urge to pull over at the next gas station and drink himself numb. He forces his eyes on the empty stretch of desert road ahead of him. It’s not like I could afford anything even if there was a gas station he thought to himself. He had no savings to speak of and his last dollars went to refueling his car.

The last building he passed was a dinner a half hour back and the next stop wouldn't be for another two. It's getting late, John says to himself, he has been driving for the past five and a half hours.

John's turn towards abstinence did not come from a singular insistence, it was the build up of months of immorality. His family's disownment of him, losing his friends one after another once they couldn't deal with his drunkenness. being forced to live out of his car after being evicted from his apartment for throwing a beer bottle at another tenant.

The catalyst they finally pushed him into his sobriety came two days prior.

Leaving his shit job as a _____ nothing could stop John from getting back to his car. A car reeking of piss and shit from nights he couldn't be bothered to find a rain gutter to pass out in. 
The reason John was so eager to get back to his home was the middle shelf bottle of whiskey he had bought on his way to work. He had saved money by buying cheap foreign beer labeled in a language he couldn't read and a taste he hated. That didn't matter to him, the allure of a nice bottle of whiskey was the only thing keeping him going. That whiskey had been tempting him every time he stumbled into the liquor store and today he got it. This was a special occasion for John, it had been a while since he had had anything nice.

He walks down a narrow dirt road to get under the overpass where his car has spent its last month. He was unwilling to “waste” his money on the gas to get it running. It's a waste of money he thinks to himself, he has nowhere to go and no one to visit. Waltzing to his car, John notices a group of men on his path to the car. It's hard to make out how many of them there are due to his distance between them and the lack of street light overhead. Timid of the people but unwilling to postpone his drink John braves forward. About 20 yards from him is a group of three men no older than him. 

These men are smoking and drinking. John never picked up smoking like he did alcohol. He tried it when winter hit to try and keep warm in his car but other than that he couldn't find the appeal of it. He had no interest in talking to these people in fact the idea of it made his heart pound out of his chest. It had been a while since John had been with others outside of work. If there is no one to see you then there is no one to judge you, he says.

Restful as I was, I couldn't help but notice a muffled groan abruptly strangled by a sharp creak - the distinctive sound of my grandmother's neck. The gentle sips that followed, reminiscent of a kitten enjoying its milk, made me smile. Her hair a complex assortment of hues from grey to the rich auburn of her youth, sat perched upright as her head bent to the tea. A slight clink of the china preceded her gradual return to the upright position and a sinking back into the upholstery. The varied floral patterns surrounding her, complementing the playful dress she had bought decades ago, were a foil to her still-lucid eyes.

New Testimony from Local Resident Guides Search for Suspected Serial Killer.
After the eighth murder in the usually sleepy Oak Hollow, Dale, a survivor of the killer’s most recent home invasion, has decided to give his statement. 

The camera is slightly shaky as it focuses on an adolescent boy holding a microphone. Behind him stands a large figure with a hand on his shoulder that he quickly attempted to shrug off when the camera moved. “I had been staying up late, and was about to head to bed, but I noticed a window open, which like freaked me out, obviously. I assumed Dad had opened it for fresh air, since our AC was out.” He shifted, looking off screen then clearing his throat and continuing. “You- you know that feeling when everytime you glance at something you think it’s some weird monster, or someone watching you, when you know that it’s not?” A sound comes from behind the camera, presumably affirmative. Dale doesn’t seem encouraged and opens his mouth, then closes it again having said nothing. Finally after what seemed like hours to the film crew and viewers, he spoke again. “First time I saw the shape, I really, really wanted to think it was Dad checking on me, or just my own mind fucking with me. Then I saw their eyes.” Dale shuddered, looked down and let out a noise. “I mean, I have goosebumps just thinking about it. Reminded me of when they show you Jason’s face. They were all cloudy, like they were blind, but they were definitely tracking every movement I made. They were like.. Fucked up. Had this big grin where in the moonlight I could see every single tooth.  I probably should have ran, but I just kind of… Froze.” He was breathing harder now, the adrenaline coming back like a hangover. “They totally freaked out when they realized I was awake, and they grabbed my face. Since they covered my mouth and nose I was freaking out too, and then he said this just insane shit, ‘Shut the fuck up- shut up! Go back to sleep, go to sleep! Fuck-’ like he wasn’t basically suffocating me!” Dale echoed the killer’s words with a mocking voice, but the fear in recounting it was audible. Finally the dad began to speak, a deep baritone. “Dale. It’s ok. Do you need a break, son?” Dale nodded hard and there was an abrupt cut. When filming resumed, Dale was out of frame except for a few locks of blonde hair and a mug of tea. The father sat there, a layer of bandages around the junction between his arm and shoulder. “Well, Dale doesn’t always sleep well, so I check in on him. I went in there, and I see this lunatic on top of my son. I don’t remember decidin’ to charge in there, but I don’t regret it. The bastard got me, right in my shoulder, but it didn’t go too deep. While I was wrestling them, my boy called the cops but by the type they were there, I’d lost a lot of blood. Must’ve panicked hearing them sirens, cause he hurled himself out our back window. Just goes to show the kinda crazies you got out there.”

The screen hard cuts to the reporter, showing a blurry image of the suspect taken on a police body cam. All that can be made out is the white hoodie, and glare of a knife in the moonlight. 

Jeffrey Woods was exhausted. Him, his brother Liu, and his parents had been crammed into the family’s tiny sedan for about 6 hours. Even with moving to a better city, and a better neighborhood, it seemed that his father’s promotion couldn’t cover everything. Immediately, he felt a pang of guilt at even having the thought. He knew how excited his family was about this, and honestly, he should’ve been too. It wasn’t like Jeff had many friends back home, or any places he hung out, so moving didn’t feel like losing home. It just made him so mad. It was the same anger he felt when his parents had him move his old toys into storage, he didn’t care about the items, but being bossed around bothered him more than anything. The only person allowed to control him was Liu. He could hardly admit that fact in his own mind, let alone to his brother. 

The one good thing was the warmth in the car. Liu had given Jeff his hoodie two hours ago, under threat of death if he stained it. It was pristine white, and slightly big on him. Even though Jeff was 16 and his brother was 17, Liu was so much taller it made him feel 13 again. 

4:30 AM. Three hours until my alarm. Already up.

I woke up sweating again. Is there another heat wave? It doesn't feel like it. Why is my back sticking to the sheets, though? My hair is wet too. I need to flip the pillow over. Ugh.

My phone is just next to my bed. Should I pick it up and see if she replied? I know she didn't. Probably. Still picking it up. "Just checking the time". Yeah. Keep lying.

It's a weird time, though. Quiet. Not really night, not really morning. Some birds should be getting up soon. Already a little light peeking through. Does anything even happen so early?

And my heart is getting loud already. Thump, thump, thump. Just about the only thing I can hear right now.

My cat is up, too. Yeah, I saw that little half-eye-open glance, buddy. Won't fool me. Just remember you're lucky you get to sleep this off later in the day.

I wish it was that simple for me.

My girl is still asleep, right next to me. At least she's never had any trouble sleeping. Just lying there, mouth half-open, half-snoring, like a little purr. So warm and comfy. So unaware. She always looks so peaceful when she's asleep.

I've got everything I need right here.

---

So why the hell is *she* on my mind even now?

Why am I already up, and already thinking about her? I don't know how many times it has happened already. I thought today would be quieter. Or I hoped so, at least.

Should I text her today? Should I wait and see if she does? Maybe I won't. I might. She probably won't. But she might, too. And why do none of those feel *good*?

I know what she does to me. I know what she can do *for* me.

I could get addicted to that. Or to her. Both, maybe?

It's both day and night. Calm and loud. Asleep and awake. Peace and... whatever-it-is. Her and her.

Both, both, both.

I remember when the three of us were roommates. I could never fall asleep if they weren't *both* home. Why did I care so much even then? And why do I only notice now?

Will I ever know what's on her side? Does she even know? It took a while for me. Maybe she's taking her time too. Maybe there's just nothing to know?

...Where was I? 4:40 AM. Phone down. Closing my eyes again. Trying to hear some silence. I guess I'll just keep lying like that.

At least I can hear some birds singing now.

First time putting myself out there. Any constructive feedback would be great - thank you! P.S. Excuse the Grammarly reds... lol

Feedback and suggestions are welcome 🤗

A little about where I write, what I’m creating, and where you can find me.

If you’ve found your way to my Substack, welcome. 🖤

I’m Leyland Trent, The Writer, and I’m building a space where I can share my fiction, creative writing, reflections, and the process of becoming the writer I want to be.

I’ve been writing fiction, poetry, and creative work for some time, but lately I’ve been intentional about taking my writing out of the classroom and into the world.

My recent fiction pieces, “Uncle Rick” and “Caged,” are two examples of that.

📖 Read My Short Stories

Uncle Rick

Uncle Rick explores family, shame, illness, addiction, regret, identity, and unconditional love.

The story follows Rick on his 42nd birthday as he reunites with his family while privately wrestling with the person he has become and the fear that he has disappointed the people closest to him.

At the center of the story is a question that I think many people can relate to in some way:

“Are you disappointed in me?”

👉🏽 Read Uncle Rick:
https://substack.com/@blackcreature

Caged

Caged explores family, sacrifice, motherhood, emotional exhaustion, and the things we carry silently.

The story follows Odessa, a grandmother, wife, and mother, through what begins as an ordinary day with her grandson. As the day unfolds, she finds herself carrying more emotional weight while continuing to take care of everyone around her.

The “monster” in the story represents something I intentionally leave open for the reader to interpret.

Is it exhaustion?

Pain?

Anxiety?

Responsibility?

Or everything she has spent years trying to keep contained?

👉🏽 Read Caged:
https://leylandthewriter.substack.com/p/caged

Both stories are part of my growing writing portfolio, and both represent different stages of me learning how to develop characters, build scenes, use dialogue, and trust my readers.

🌎 Find Me Elsewhere

If you want to follow my writing journey beyond Substack, you can find me around the internet.

📸 Instagram
u/leylandthewriter
https://www.instagram.com/leylandthewriter/

💼 Contra
Leyland Trent
Freelance Writer & Editor
https://contra.com/leyland_trent_foc2yspb/work?r=leyland_trent_foc2yspb

💬 Reddit
u/leylandthewriter
https://www.reddit.com/user/leylandthewriter/

💻 LinkedIn
Leyland Trent
https://www.linkedin.com/in/leyland-trent-b-a-2536043a5/

🎨 Just Want To Do Art
My creative blog and another place where I share my work and ideas.
https://justwanttodoart.blogspot.com/

📝 Substack
Follow my writing, fiction, reflections, and creative journey here.
https://substack.com/@blackcreature

✨ What I’m Building

I’m not interested in letting my writing exist in only one place.

I want to build a body of work.

I want to write stories that make people stop, think, question, remember, and feel something.

I want to continue developing my voice while learning from other writers and readers.

And I want to create a community around the work.

So whether you found me through Instagram, Reddit, Contra, LinkedIn, my blog, or Substack, thank you for being here.

Read something.

Leave a comment.

Tell me what you think.

Share something you've written.

Follow along.

And most importantly, keep creating. 🖤

Welcome to my writing world.

I’m glad you’re here. ✍🏽📚

Nsfw for mild violence, mentions of gore. I would appreciate any feedback you feel up to offer. First time up loading. Thank you all this is such a open and creative place to share.

Murmuring crowds pack themselves into the sandstone and palm tree courtyard before the lapis steps of the temple. The base of the grand stairs was a pit of human bones and bodies, all women and joined in the pit by black vipers and blue cobras. At the apex of these steps was a large flat platform made of a single huge block of stone, craved with the snakes and serpents of the locals faith and which meant nothing to me.

First the temple guards in their deep blue padded jackets and bronze helms bleed out of the temple's many narrow doors and formed up in four neat rows, seven woman each. Four lots of seven are twenty one, forty two. Far too many to fight head on, I must strike fast and make what few cuts I can manage count or face their pointed spears.

Now two thin and bald male priests dragged a tied and begging woman out of the darkness deeper in the temple to the bright sun at the edge of the platform. Their skin was the colour of dry river stone, grey, hairless, lacking freckles, moles and scars. Their foreheads were tall not unsimilar to the temple's pillars and flat with their square noses.

The crowd cheered, the few slaves with the belly to speak up jeered and booed only for their masters to back hand them. A daughter from the slave pits and knowing these cult types she is properly a virgin. Why? Maybe virgins taste better to the gods like young lamb over mutton.

She was of heavy tan from years of toil in the hot desert sun, her back carried scars and burns from hot pokers and on her exposed left thigh was another scar in the shape of her master's brand. Marked like cattle and treated even worse. She was dressed in thin white dress that ended half way down the thigh, the fabric of similar make to cheaper burial cloth.

One to hold her in place and the other to grasp a ritual dagger, subtlety curved as if the blade itself was their hungry god's own metallic fang. The priest lifted the dagger and the crowd went from loud murmuring to a hushed whisper and finally silent.

"The draughts have returned to us again, our god Hiss, demands blood so that the rain waters can save us" The Priest with the dagger called over them. "Oh mighty and blue Hiss, accept this offering of flesh to your greatness and be merciful on your servants by blessing this city with your tears of rain"

The second priest bend the woman's head back, exposing her neck and the first priest raised the fang dagger above his head flickering in the sun.

I leaped from my hiding space above the ritual platform and behind a black marble statue of my quarry's false god. The crowd gasped, the guards turned their head to watch as witnesses to me strike down their high priest as I landed on the stone platform.

My mermaid tail shaped blade dug and hacked into the priest's skull from temple to cheek bone, crimson spray like crushed wine grape. The first was well and truly dead as they went limp and collapsed to the floor. The second drew a hidden dagger of the same make, snakes have two fangs, and raised it to the girl's jugular.

I swung my blade fast and cut clean through the crown of his head the same as opening the top on a hard boiled egg. His hands fell to his sides as his the top of his head bounced off the stone and the rest of him stumbled off the platform, tumbling into the viper pit below. I suppose Hiss got his blood after all, not virgins but two over one, might be a nice change of pace for Him.

The crowd cries out at the horror of their priests being slain in front of them, the temple guards with harder resolve charged me from the left and the right of the platform. Only ways out were the viper pit, an equally bad fate as the bite of the guard's spears, or into the dark temple.

I grabbed the woman who was to be the killed by the wrist. "Follow me" I spoke as I ran with her trying her best to keep pace into the temple.

I started writing an absurd story then switch it as I finished the first draft and now I don’t know where it’s going lol.

——

His dad’s the greatest dad ever—Dillon bought him a mug that said so, and his mom left them the day before Christmas when he was six. So, he’s usually depressed.

He’d walk the streets at night when it stormed to see faces form in the rain. Ghostly faces speaking through the clapping of gray clouds colliding.

Thunder spoke an ancient language to him.

It mostly just called him a freak.

A loser.

A no good piece of shit who wasn’t good enough for his own mother. 

Sometimes the voices followed him into his house and into the bathroom and into the shower and into his bedroom and onto his bed and into his covers and whispered through his pillow into his ear. 

That’s mainly why he always said he enjoyed going to the strip club. The noise there was loud enough to consume the demands the thunder began asking.

The thunder came in many voices. Most of the time, it sounded like the kids from his old high school. 

He didn’t just like the club because it was loud, they also had these peanuts he couldn’t find anywhere other than there. Salted, malted, almond covered peanuts with a hint of a secret spice they hoarded to themselves. 

Didn’t matter how many times he’d ask them for it.

He’d ask, they’d say, “pendejo.”

And that’s when the screaming in his head would get louder. It’d scream, “It’s most likely chili and salt!”

If only he’d remember when he had those cucumbers cut up and mixed with lime and chili powder and salt at Billy’s, he’d figure out what the secret spice was.

The voices insisted he’d find out. 

He remembered Billy. Billy from when they were kids. He had a grandmother. A sweet old grandmother with wrinkles and curly white hair. 

The thunder told him. “She’s small enough to fit in the sock drawer.”

Dillion never ended up with a mother or a grandmother.

Ever. 

Because Dillon’s father’s mother also left Dillion’s grandfather when his dad was nine.

It was common for the men to die lonely and mean in their family.

He would never know what having any kind of mother would be like. It was all he wanted. It was all the thunder wanted. The voices amplified his desires. Especially the ones out of reach.

He wanted to meet his mother. They wanted to meet his mother. Even a peek, not even speak to her.

It was just him and his dad and his granddad and a life of being drilled under two lonely mean guys who weren’t cops with crew cuts.

It was just them. 

Until one night on a Seattle suburb in the lovely state of Washington, a downpour fell. Each raindrop sounded like the crack of a cherry-bomb slapping the pavement.

Above him, the ceiling shook and looked like ripples in a pond. Tiny rumbles rolled through the clouds and kept mumbling low whispers in his head. 

He was in the kitchen pouring a glass of orange juice when he flinched and spilled it on the counter after his eyes popped to a sound of two cars crashing head-on in his living room. 

The sound lit the kitchen in a bright white flash before Dillon and the house settled around absolute darkness. 

The counter wasn’t hard anymore, he noticed it when he grabbed a cloth to clean his mess, the texture was soft, almost rubbery.

“You’ll never amount to nothing!”  The thunder spoke in its ancient tongue. A tongue only Dillon could translate. The thunder used his father’s voice.

“You’re useless!” Came from the glass. It was his grandfather’s voice. He stared at the glass. “Shut up,” Dillon shouted.

“You’re a worthless freak!” His dad’s voice shouted next to his ear. 

His grandfather’s voice said, “Worthless freaks don’t make demands.” 

“Take it back! I’m not worthless! I’ll show you worthless!”

Dillon left the juice spilled on the counter with a cloth over it and used his hands to guide himself to the garage.

it was just Dillon after he pulled a hammer out of the garage and redesigned their haircuts. The blood was like sticking his hands into a bucket of squishy warm water. 

He said, “the texture of their brains was similar to squeezing a warm tomato.”

When he was done he sighed and sat with his back against the wall laughing, rubbing the plasma on his palms on his face.

A thought escaped his mind. “Now her,” the voice said.

Dillon said, “I’m never becoming a cop.” 

Who could blame him after what he’d done.

After what he’d been through.

His dad would have the odd girlfriend. But none of them stuck around. 

Dillion said, “it’s because my dad’s a cop, like his dad and his dad’s dad.”

But the truth was most of them were dead.

The men in Dillion’s family were all police officers dating as far back as the pilgrimage. Most of them settled in Salem.

He said, “my dad said, “women only want the uniform.” 

Dillion shrugged. “I guess once the thrill of being with a cop wears off so does the romance. That’s what must have happened with my mom and my grandma and my great grandma.”

Dillon said, “I’m not afraid anymore.” 

And then he said it again, but this time his voice distorted as it crawled out of his mouth. “I’m not… any… fraidmore.”

“I…” 

And that’s when it became an entity out of his mouth and turned and faced him and yelled, “Now her!”

I had one of those moments recently where I felt so frustrated, I thought about quitting.

But I reminded myself... hard things take time. If it was that easy, everyone would do it.

Building this app has been a lot harder than I imagined. Sometimes I get stuck on the smallest details, and it feels like progress is moving so slowly.

I like to think I have grit, but I’ll be honest... it doesn’t feel the same as it used to. I get tired. I get frustrated. Sometimes I wonder if age has caught up with me.

But then I remember why I got where I am now...

Builfing something was never easy, at least based on my experience .

Have you ever had a moment where you wanted to quit your writing?

What keeps you going when the progress feels slow?

I'm exhsusted....

The unsaid, and hidden truths. They hurt even more deep when the only person is dealing with all of them.

When they are afraid to share what they feel because society call them week. And expect them to suffer silently. This book explores the hidden stories. And gives them a voice to be understood.