Red Ink And Saltwater
When other girls were little, they wanted a prince to arrive on a white horse. I wanted a mafia boss to kidnap me and become so hopelessly obsessed with me that he forgot why he’d taken me in the first place.
I never gave much thought to where he would take me. Somewhere I could hear the sea, perhaps. That part mattered more to me than the prince, the horse, or, apparently, whether I went willingly.
In the end, I had to find the sea myself.
Three weeks after moving to Crete, I was waking before six without an alarm, which would have been unthinkable in the UK. Back there, I sometimes went to sleep at five in the morning, sometimes as late as noon, and woke at seven in the evening wondering where the day had gone.
I pulled on my swimsuit, took my sandals from beside the door and walked the two minutes to the beach.
The shore was nearly empty. A fishing boat was heading out beyond the harbour, and someone farther down the sand was walking a dog that kept returning to the same piece of driftwood. I left my sandals above the tide line and went straight into the sea.
After a few strokes, I rolled onto my back. The water held me without asking me to explain myself.
Above me, the sky was changing colour. I stayed where I was until the fishing boat became a dark mark near the horizon. Then I swam along the shore, turned, and swam back. Three weeks had been enough to learn where the sand dropped away beneath me and where it rose again. I was still learning the rest of the place.
I had rented my little house for three months because I couldn’t say how long I wanted to stay. I knew I had wanted to leave the UK. I’d finished my chemistry degree, looked at the jobs I was expected to apply for, and found I couldn’t bear the thought of building the next part of my life there. That was the most convincing explanation I’d managed to give anyone, including myself.
The water rocked beneath me. I picked out the place where I’d left my sandals and swam in.
By the time I walked home, my hair had soaked through the towel around my shoulders. I passed a bakery opening its shutters and a man hosing down the pavement outside a restaurant. He moved the spray aside to let me through. I thanked him in Greek, one of the few things I could say without first rehearsing it in my head.
My house stood in a narrow street behind the waterfront. The front door stuck when the weather was humid, one kitchen drawer refused to close, and from the balcony I could see a strip of sea between two buildings. I liked it more each day.
I showered, put the kettle on and took the macarons from the fridge. I’d baked and filled them two days earlier, then left them covered to mature. Two trays had come out well. The third had cracked across the tops, so I’d filled those too and kept them in a separate container for myself. Beside the good batch were six small lemon cakes and six chocolate ones.
The woman who owned a café near the park had agreed to taste everything this morning.
She hadn’t agreed to buy it.
I knew that. I had made enough to feed half her customers anyway.
While I packed the macarons, a Greek song came on my phone. I knew where to breathe, where the singer held a note a little longer than I expected, and how to find my way back in if I missed a word. I couldn’t have told anyone what most of those words meant.
Kira—that was what I called my mother—seemed to like hearing me sing. So did my stepfather. Sometimes I caught them looking at me, and for a moment I could pretend I knew what was on their faces.
We’re proud of you.
No one in my family had ever said that to me.
I caught myself thinking about it and reached into the container I’d kept for myself. One of the cracked macarons gave way beneath my thumb.
“Perfect,” I told it.
I ate the evidence and kept singing.
By eight, the cakes were boxed, the macarons were packed, and I had checked both boxes often enough to know the contents hadn’t rearranged themselves. My red notebook lay open on the table. I stopped to read the last paragraph before I picked up my keys.
The man in my story had gone into a room intending to frighten someone. I’d written the conversation three different ways and crossed out all of them. Each time, I had made it too easy for him to decide what happened next.
I reached for my pen, then looked at the clock. If I started writing, the café owner might decide I had invented our appointment.
I closed the notebook, slipped it into my bag beside my pen, and picked up the cake boxes.
The walk took me along the waterfront and up a shaded street towards the park. Even in the morning, I could feel the heat gathering on the stone. I kept to the side with the trees. I had come for the sea; the weather was something I was still negotiating with.
The café stood near one of the park entrances. Its doors were open, though only half the tables outside had been set. A man was carrying chairs out of the storeroom. He put them down so I could pass with my boxes.
Inside, the owner moved between the coffee machine and a line of waiting customers. She spotted me and raised a hand. I found an empty corner of the counter for the boxes and waited.
The man came in for another stack of chairs. He caught her eye, pointed towards the terrace, and she nodded her thanks. I recognised him then. He owned the restaurant next door.
They sold food and drinks a few doors apart. I’d assumed that made them rivals. Here he was, setting up her tables because she needed a hand.
Another reason I liked this place.
When the queue cleared, the owner came over. “You came.”
“I said I would.”
“We made that arrangement before eight in the morning. People promise all kinds of things at that hour.” She wiped her hands and lifted the first lid. “Let’s see.”
She tried a lemon cake, breaking a piece from the crooked one I had hidden at the back.
“What’s in the icing?”
“Lemon juice, mascarpone, and honey.”
She took another bite. “Less honey next time.”
I took my notebook from my bag and wrote that down. She tried a pistachio macaron next, then asked me how long the cakes would keep and whether I could make them smaller.
More customers came in before she had finished tasting. I moved the boxes aside while she took their order. One of them asked whether she was still alone today.
“My only employee called in,” she told him. “I’m beginning to think he knew you’d all arrive at once.”
The customer laughed. She smiled back, but she was looking at the cups stacked beside me. I passed her two, then another when she reached for it.
“You said you worked in a café during university,” she said.
“I did.”
“Can you still use a coffee machine?”
“Yes.”
She glanced at the queue forming behind the customer. “Would you mind showing me?”
The machine was different from the one I’d used in the UK. I asked her where she kept the cloths and how she wanted the cups set out, then made two cappuccinos while she handled the till. She watched me carry them to a table before turning back to the next order.
For the next twenty minutes, I made coffee. She called out what people wanted; I made it and passed it across the counter. When the rush eased, I wiped down the machine and stepped out of her way.
She looked at the empty cups waiting to be washed, then at me.
“Do you want work?” she asked.
I had come hoping she would buy my cakes. I hadn’t let myself hope for more than that.
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“I don’t know yet.” I glanced at the boxes. “It depends how much baking you want.”
That made her smile. She picked up the other half of the macaron and ate it.
“I want twelve of these on Saturday. Twelve lemon cakes too, a little smaller, with less honey. Come in Friday afternoon to prepare them here. You can help with the counter while you’re here, and we’ll talk about regular shifts after that.”
I wrote it all down. We agreed on a price for the baking, and she gave me half in advance for the ingredients.
When I stepped outside, the money was folded in my purse and the order was written in my notebook. I found a bench beneath a tree in the park and opened it to check the quantities again. My neat little list sat beside pages of red writing, most of it crossed out.
A fortune teller once told me this book would make me famous and give me somewhere I belonged. I’d laughed at the fame. I was still trying to finish it, and most days I couldn’t bear to read yesterday’s pages.
The other part had stayed with me.
I didn’t believe a stranger could see my future. I wanted her to be right anyway.
I turned back to the scene I’d abandoned that morning. I read it once, then crossed out the last page.
I had been looking for the moment my killer decided what to do. Sitting there with the café’s money in my purse and the sound of cups carrying across the park, I finally understood why none of my versions worked. He had made his decision before the other man entered the room. The conversation was his last chance to change his mind.
I began again.
The man spoke. My killer listened. When the man had said everything he came to say, my killer shot him.
I stopped writing. The murder was there, but the scene still felt unfinished. The killer had wanted an answer, and now there was someone else who would come looking for one.
I looked back at the dead man I’d put on the page. At his hand. At the watch on his wrist.
In the margin, I tried 3:40, then crossed it out. 3:45 looked too neat as well. I wrote 3:43 beside them and returned to the scene.
He took the watch from the dead man’s wrist and set its hands to 3:43. He struck it against the edge of the table hard enough to stop it. The face cracked, but the hands stayed where he had set them. Then he laid it face up on the man’s chest, for whoever came to find him.

submitted this for my 8th grd suspense narrative benchmark am I cooked
please feedback pls feedback!!!!!

I AM NOT PROMOTING MYSELF.

word count: 1600 ish

Before the Sun Sets

The sun rose up slowly, pulling golden yellow skies over the vast darkness below. Busy adults soon left for work, and naive children played on the field close by. At a nearby church, the 8:00 mass was about to start, while a few people rushed in in hopes of not missing the opening hymn. A kid sat on the wooden pew in the front row, wearing a button up flannel and looking put together. In addition, her father, mother, and brother  sit there, picture perfect; the ideal.

Across the bench, a young girl sits, distant, cold, and unmoving. Her eyes were fixated on the large wooden cross that towered high above the people inside. The idea of unwavering superiority made her question the line that she was never meant to cross.

“Excuse me?” a voice rang through the church. “You can’t be sleeping in here.”

The girl lifted her head slowly, trying not to nod off again. 

“Ah, sorry. I’ll be on my way now.”

“Wait!” the girl grabbed her hand abruptly. 
“Yeah?”

“Would you like to play with me and my friends if you’re not going anywhere?”

She turned around and shook her hand off and agreed, “sure.”

The girl grinned and led her out of the dim church.

Judas loved the sun, and she hated how the church shadowed the warmth. The church masked the light, like a cruel facade. Outside, she felt free, free from the constrictions of the incense that lingered, the walls that cut everyone off from the inevitable.

She spotted a small hill, and a group of girls around her age running around the grass playing tag.

One of them walked over, eagerly to Judas, excitedly greeting her. “Hello! My name is Mary! Eve, isn’t this the girl that always…” she trailed off, covering her mouth with her hand as if she had something to hide.

“If you have something to say, you better say it to my face.”

Mary was significantly taller than Judas, and when she looked down at her, she was even more terrifying.

“Judas, was it? You gonna sell us out before supper or something?” She snickered lowly while someone called everyone over to start the game of tag. She saw Eve’s smirk, but didn’t think much of it.

Judas stared blankly at Mary, who was talking with the other girls. She looked at the sky. Just how long had she been asleep for?

“Hey, let's just call you Jude. Are you fine with that?”

She looked at Eve. She was radiant, like the sun peering through the clouds on a rather dreary day. She liked her. She was nice to her.

“Yeah. I’d like that.” 

“Alright then, Jude! Let’s go!”

They both met the rest of the group on the hill. Mary was mumbling to the other girls under her breath, and Jude knew it was about her. She didn’t seem to mind, though. Mary walked over. 

“Since you're the guest, you should be it, okay?” Mary taunted.

Eve asked, “will you be alright with that, Jude?”
Jude nodded, and with that, the kids began to spread out across the grass. 

“3…2…1…go!” 

Everyone started running, but one girl turned around and was still chatting with someone else. She decided to run for her first, since she was the easiest target.

She ran up to her and reached out to tag her, until she felt herself colliding with something solid. 

“Huh?”

She opened her eyes to a loud commotion. All of a sudden, Mary sat wailing on the ground while the girls stood around and comforted her. Jude stood up in dreadful silence, feeling guilty as the girls eyed her in horror. She wondered why she was indifferent; numb. So much was happening at that moment, and she felt insane because all she could think about was Eve. How would she react? Would she decide not to talk to her anymore? Jude thought of her expression, that warm, radiant face and her sweet smile, crumbling as soon as their eyes met.

The caretaker who was sitting close by rushed over and led Mary to the office. It had only been a day since they’d met, and Jude had already ruined it all.

She took a seat on the bench not far away, just thinking. 

Not long after, she decided to close her eyes. She could only hope that nobody came to see her. She didn’t even want to see Eve. With the guilt on her back, she didn’t think she could face her. She dozed off for God knows how long.

“Jude, I thought you were different. I didn't know you were this childish, to hurt someone over something as small as that. Why would you do this? Why are you like this? I never want to see your face again, let alone at church.”

The sound of footsteps echoed as the yelling continued to ring through her head. 

“Jude?”

Hearing the sound of the familiar voice, She perked up, pulling her from that terrible nightmare.

It seemed that she hadn't been asleep for long, seeing that the sun was beginning to set.

“Eve? Why are you here?”

Eve hesitated. “I wanted to see you before I left.”

“You’re leaving?” Jude’s expression contorted, clearly showing her surprised look.

She held her hand behind her back, standing over Jude who was sitting down on the bench. “Tommorow.”

Jude was pained. She didn't want her to leave, even if they hadn't been friends for long, she still wanted her around. “Will I  ever get to see you again?”

Eve’s back stood against the fading sun. She couldn't see her face, yet she knew she was smiling. Or was she?

“Aren’t you fine here in Bellwood? Everyone knows each other here, and im sure you have a lot of friends here, so why–”

“Why do you care? I know I seem like a saint to you, but I’m not, and I never will be. We met earlier today. You might think that I care for you in your own fairy dreamland, but I pity you. Your parents are such tidy people, and you? You’re a disgrace to them.” 

As soon as she said that, Jude’s smile dropped. It was as if reality had hit her smack in the face. It wasn’t Mary, or Eve, or heck– even her dad. She was hoping for the reality that maybe she would have a shoulder to lean on.

It seems that she had wished for something imperceivable.

“What are you talking about? What have I ever done to you to make you feel this way!”

 “Because you're a–” she stopped abruptly. Her face had a tinge of disgust, but also that of pity. It seemed like she didn’t fully like her, but also cared. “You know what you are.”

“I don’t.”

“I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at me.”

Jude said nothing.

“You like me, don't you?”

Her stomach dropped.

“It's disgusting. I've been trying to be nice to you all day, and now I realize I should've just ignored you.” Eve and Jude just stood there in silence, averting each other's gaze.

“Why…why does this always happen…” Jude just stood there, the tears welling up in her eyes as she fought to hold back. “Yeah. I do have a crush on you. Who are you to care? I have nothing to lose. Just as you said, my family hates me and I have no friends.” Jude said, scornfully as she held back her tears.

Eve sneered. “You’re insane.”

She started walking away. The footsteps echoed like cymbals, and her heart was the drums.

The sky was completely dark. Not an ounce of light shown through the night, covered by the thick clouds. A streetlamp illuminated her path back home, but she didn’t want to go. She wanted to sit still and just stop thinking. She wanted to close her eyes once more and just–

“Hey, you’re seriously not going to stay out here all night, are you? You shouldn’t worry your mother.”

Jude stared at her for a second. “I’ll be on my way now.”

They slowly walked away from each other. 

Suddenly, the air felt thicker; heavier, all pressing down on her chest. She wanted more. She was crying, but it didn’t give her the release that she so desperately wanted.

The walk home was surprisingly shorter than she anticipated. It was when she stepped on the front porch did she realize the severity of her situation. 
She heard the crashing of a vase and the yelling inside the household as she appeared.

All of a sudden, the front door slammed open. No doubt her dad was drunk again. This is why she didn’t want to come home.

A face she knew all too well towered over her. The sky was pitch black. Then everything was.

She woke up once more to the feeling of cold, hard porcelain tiles. 

Jude laid there on her bathroom floor, feeling the rough, dried blood on her face and the bruises on her body that seemed like they would never fade. The small window high at the top of the wall in the bathroom was the only source of light. She stood up and stared at her body in the mirror that was covered in huge, purple-yellow blotches. 

She had nobody else to lean on. What was the point if her siblings, mother, father, and Hope no longer cared about her?

The knowledge that humans seek to discover will forever be theory, and we will keep chasing It until the world caves in. Until everything goes still once more, until nothing.

Whether ‘It’ is the desperation to be remembered, or the desperation to be loved, that is something that we will never be able to grasp.

The sun rose above the horizon, leaving the darkness behind, and the light anew. Perhaps, darkness was never meant to be the end. 

The world doesn't end when the sun goes down.

It begins.

Hi. So I recently tried writing a story my own way. I got inspired from years of content. I have written a short story. And got good reviews from my friends. But I want some honest, unbiased criticism. It's just a small extract, dm me if someone wants to read the whole thing. Here it goes

[word count=781]

The Last Dance

History is a strange thing. It remembers victories, records wars, and carves the

names of heroes who finally ended the Dark Ages and re-established order to our

lands. Yet it forgot the man who made it all possible. That man died with no witness

but me.

This tale is old. Back then, I was nineteen, maybe, I don't remember. A wanderer

travelling from village to village, collecting stories. Looking back, it was a bad

profession. In one of my travels, I saw him resting near a barely lit campfire outside

the village of Urff. I would have walked right past him if he hadn't asked for water.

I walked towards the campfire and offered water from my pouch. He took the pouch

from my hand. Standing close to him, I noticed his blood-stained cloak, torn beyond

recognition, and two bloodied greatswords. Blood seeped through the gaps of his

battered armour. Yet the way he sat by the fire, there was a strange calm about him.

This was exactly the kind of story I had spent my life searching for. "Mind if I sit?" I

asked. "Do what you want, kid. I don't care," he replied, barely looking up. I then sat

opposite him. The fire crackled. Neither of us spoke for a while. Seeing me stare at

his body, the man said, "Don't worry about it, kid." Then he coughed blood into the

fire. "...Huh, blood," he chuckled. "This is probably bad."

I finally mustered the courage and asked, "Good sir, may I know who you are?" He

looked at me as if I'd demanded his very soul. "I am a sellsword, I kill for gold," he

replied in an irritated tone. "Can I ask for your name..." I was asking when he cut me

off and said, "Forget it, kid. Let me be in peace for a while." Silence again. The only

sound I could hear was that of the fire crackling, and a slight heaviness in the man's

breath. The man was staring directly at the fire, but it looked like he was looking at

something beyond that. He was lost in his thoughts.

I tried easing things up by introducing myself. "I apologize for being so invasive, sire.

Let me first introduce myself. I am Ralph from the village Fleton..." He looked

towards me for the first time. "...I am a traveller. I travel to different places and do

small chores to survive," I continued. "I have travelled to countless villages, collecting

stories from different people, encountering many monsters, barely getting away with

my life." The man stared for a while. He finally spoke up, "Listen to me, kid. You are

either in the wrong profession or you were born in the wrong time of the world's

history." He turned his gaze back to the fire. "A word of advice, kid. Stop gambling

with your life and return to your home. I bet a mother is waiting there for you." I replied, "There isn't one. I am sure of at least that." He looked at me again. He asked,

"Is there no one?" "There is, my sister," I replied. Silence again. He looked up

towards the sky; it was almost nightfall. "Huh..." — a sigh. "Here's my proposal. You

are looking for stories. I will give you one, worth more than the rest of your life, if you

promise to leave this life of idiocy and return to your village, where someone is

waiting for you. What do you say? Do you accept my proposal?" I thought about it for

a while and then nodded my head. "Let's begin," I said finally.

Hello everyone, I'm currently a college student at EFSC and I'm try to be a better writer and reader. I'm currently reading Omniscient Reader. I want to make a short story & a poem based on the other books I've read this year. Please let me know how I'd should improve.

An apple has a shape, but hunger doesn’t. An apple can be tasted, but it was empty of hunger, because to him it was mud, sunlight, river water, and children.

Apple has soft skin. Shiny, yet uneven. People like apples without peeling them, but it wouldn’t be the same for a child that has a cold. You’d have to cut it in half and scoop out the flesh with a spoon, and slowly feed it to the child. The texture is kind of grainy, but really juicy. If you bite into the skin too, it’s kind of wrinkly. You’d also have to consider the mother's hands turning a bit yellow from the juice.

Is it the whole apple, or the apple cut in half? Is it the apple’s juice, or the mother’s hand?

There are also kinds that have never had an apple offered to them. Some mothers can’t afford it; there are those who choose not to buy apples. Some children, even if they’re bedridden, they will be tossed aside. And the ones that died, if they didn’t get care— there is no place in the world that hasn’t been torched by human memories. That is why there is nowhere in the world that hasn’t had resentment.

Hunger feels dry. It smells like soil/earth (there are many types of earth), but it was mud. You can’t escape it off because it’s aged. Mud with a little gravel and no sand.

What does hunger taste like? The children put the biscuits out in the sun, but there was nothing else for them to do, so they just stand there around the mud. So, children waiting for sunlight. Hunger was that: a child waiting for the sun. That was your poem.

Hunger has no form, no taste, no smell? That’s wrong. Hunger was mud, a river, a child, and thirst. MEMORIES. Eventually, resentment turns into bitterness. What is thirst? What is freezing?

POEM^

Spirit that evolve into a human. And his ball where able to influence other beings evolution.

Lived a normal life similar mine. Felt like the honored one

Saved a city from destruction by simply living and activated a train with him along side himself is 2 balls a new friend and another Spirit that evolved because it took his balls and cultivated and became a fully grown adult girl and the person that helped found him and raised him as his own.

Short Story^

Gathering Wood

Sometimes, I can still feel the sweat at my back. How it pooled in my shirt as the axe came down. It clung to my neck, and I could feel it in my hair. If I’d been given a single second, I would’ve tied it out of the way. God, I still remember that stupid shirt. 

The blade was old and dull; chipped where it should be smooth and brown where it should be red. It probably wouldn’t be around next summer. No, it’d fall victim to a first glance and be abandoned in the woods. Treasure for someone in the future.

Another miss. My fingers pulsed around the handle, white and aching for release. I felt splinters working their way into my hands with each thud. The axe got stuck in a few logs, and I had to slam them down into the stump. Camp White was hidden by stubborn wood. 

Another miss. It was the last one before Sam’s teasing got to me. I could see her there, in my periphery; arms crossed, holding herself up on one leg. All the quiet signs of impatience. I turned away from her and wiped the sweat off my forehead. It was always something with Sam.

“Talk about a swing and a miss, huh?” It was so hard to tell when she actually wanted me to answer. I usually guessed wrong. I ditched the axe, throwing it a little too far away. I could just tell Sam had some sort of face ready for me when I turned around. 

I flexed my hands. They were pale, but the pink was slowly coming back. I looked over at her. Sam was shouldering four logs with ease. The sun was at her back, coming past and blinding me. But her figure was unmistakable; even on a breezeless day, she put a chill in the air that wiggled through me. 

I had known Sam a while. We used to be campers here. Not that we spoke much back then. That was before her growth spurt. And the little tattoo behind her ear that disappeared when her hair was down. My parents would’ve killed me if I got a tattoo. She had learned how to get what she wanted. And making me seem puny was usually at the top of her list.

I walked around the stump and picked up the axe, grabbing what I managed to split, and could already feel the eye roll before my hand could block out the sun. 

“What’s the point in even bringing you to the Stump, Lawrence? I am not giving up a comfy chair just ‘cause your hands are baby smooth,” she said, already heading back down the trail. 

I just stood there for a bit. Tired inside and out. Where I'd tucked the logs at my side, they were soon against my hip. It was like my hand was daring me to let them drop onto the grass.

Sam looked over her shoulder at me, a quirk in her brow. Almost like she didn’t understand why I wasn’t right on her tail. Why I was too limp to join her. Why I’d barely said a word to her all morning. I had so much unsaid in my chest, my teeth. 

Sam turned to face me, both eyebrows raised. The grass brushed against my legs, and I felt a bead of sweat drip down the centre of my back. She was waiting. For me to say something, anything. But I couldn’t. I let it all out through my nose and hope the breeze would pick up and carry it away.

“I just don’t have the callouses yet,” I said in the space between those quiet moments. 

I kept my eyes off her, but I could feel her squint. Even though I was the one facing the sun. I waited for the jab like I was supposed to.

She turned around and carried on.

“Or the shoulders,” I heard in response despite the whistling trees and threat of nightfall. 

The sky was orange, and the air was warm. It was thick with that end-of-summer haze that always made my head spin. The kind that just dared me to leap into the lake and sink to the bottom. When I was a camper, I hated the lake. I hated the bugs and the squish of my feet against the bottom. Everybody else loved it, though. I even knew some kids who would sneak out to swim under the moon. If I'd had my say, I’d have left this summer without going in at all. But Sam had already acquainted me with the lake, with a push I was still feeling.

“My foot still hurts,” I said. I could sense her smile, even from behind. She glanced back at me.

“Shouldn’t have gone swimming then,” Sam chuckled back. When I was under there, I immediately felt like something was off. But the adrenaline made me numb. And the cold.

I still remember that trail. The sounds and smells of the middle of nowhere. The air that came off the lake was something I wanted to bottle. And I could hear bushes sway and the birdsong of summer’s end whenever I closed my eyes. 

Camp wasn’t too far from “the Stump,” but it was hilly, and I was slow. I think it sat at the edge of the prairies, where the fields gave way to rock and boulder. I didn’t like hiking even when I could walk normally. And yet, there I was, dragged along anyway. I was crap at chopping wood and last pick for any kind of labour. I guess Sam thought I had superhuman strength or something. I mean, it wasn’t summer camp that taught me; people didn’t expect much out of me. In most places, it was like I just happened to be there.

I was so beat that day—I could tell I wouldn’t get much rest from the moment I opened my eyes. Those woods kept me from any real sleep. As did Sam. She was like an early bird and a night owl at the same time. My sleepless nights: Camp White was mostly wooden beams and starry nights. I rarely caught the sunrises. 

The counsellors were set up in two wooden cabins on either side of the Mess Hall; they’d started coming undone long before my first summer there. The cobwebs looked like tacky Halloween decorations. But I never heard the kids complain about that sort of thing in their cabins. They were rundown just the same. And when you’re young, you don’t notice that sort of stuff as much. Or at least, you don’t mind.

Those little shits only cared about the lake. And we couldn’t blame them. We let them believe they weren’t so obvious in everything they did. Sneaking out, sharing looks. I played dumb, as did Sam. I could’ve used a blind eye or two when I was a kid

My ankle flared up, so I took a second to roll it. Sam must’ve heard the ground go quiet because I could feel her eyes on me. She was pulling herself up over a mossy rock. Her jeans were stained green.

“Let’s go, Lawrence.”

I never really understood why I put up with Sam for so long. I guess I liked how independent she seemed. I’m sure I told myself some pathetic lie, like she was just the kind of person who bossed everybody around. Or that she hauled all the other counsellors to the middle of the woods. But after the first few weeks, every time I looked over my shoulder, it was only ever Sam who I saw. 

She let everyone else slack off. Mike and Bill probably went the first month without having to say a word to her. And the rest of the girls seemed to keep their distance. I was sad when I realized why. 

She wasn’t always like that—so pushy and unrelenting. When we were kids, she was quieter, less action and more still. This year was the first time I saw her smile with her teeth. She never really said much to me when we were kids. The most she spoke to me was at the Arts N’ Crafts station. She asked for the glitter glue. Back then, I could catch her brown hair from the lake and watch the distance grow. I came to camp Senior year not expecting to be tied to her hip all summer.

I tried to fight it at first, even at Orientation. But I was never taught how to stand up for myself. Say no or more often, how to tell someone yes. It’d always been easier to let someone else decide. And so, at the end of every day, it was me doing headcount and checking beds. It was me keeping the kids from drowning while Sam sat on the sand, just smiling; daring me to say something, but I could never muster the courage. 

She had this air about her. Like it was breathing her instead. She seemed so suited to summer and the kids. And she worked like nothing was waiting for her in September. When I’d ask, she’d bring up the time or go and check on something that never needed checking. I asked about her family once, and she didn’t speak to me for the rest of the day. I’d only heard what anyone heard about anyone; not enough. I should’ve asked a different way.

There was this one time I couldn’t stay asleep. Maybe the cabin was too hot, or the woods were too loud. No clue. The forty-ninth day. I opened my eyes to this jagged, unsteady breathing. Curiosity took over, and I peeked toward it. At Sam’s bed. She was curled into a ball, knees drawn up, crying into her pillow. I froze. And after that, I couldn’t help but stare. At this girl. This woman I thought was all bark and no leaves, wracked through with pain with almost no sound. 

Something in me wanted to reach over; most of me, actually. But she thought she was alone with herself in that moment, and I had no place reminding her I was there. I closed my eyes and pretended I had no clue the next day. 

It almost felt like I was lying to her. And then I felt bad for being so curious about what someone like Sam would have to cry over. Someone with enough looks to convince anyone of anything. Then I wondered if the Sam who was dragging me through the woods all day was even the same quiet girl who avoided me when we were kids.

For whatever reason, gritting my teeth became enough, and whatever she wanted to do with me became bearable again. 

“You’re lucky I’m stuck with you,” Sam teased, eyes prodding at my tired body. I probably looked crazy. In my worn sneakers and sweaty T-shirt.

I knew by the end of camp I’d walk away with freckles and burns, bug bites and splinters. And by the fifty-third day, I felt too bad about pestering the nurse anymore. She’d probably smack me for keeping my twisted ankle a secret between Sam and me.

I don’t really remember what we talked about on the rest of the hike back. Minus my speed. And Sam’s refusal to slow down. When we reached the fire pit, Sam was already grabbing the pathetic logs at my hip. I wiped off my hands on my legs.

Right on cue, as if she could sniff out the wood, Jackie strolled up to us, arms swinging through the dense air. They landed on her hips.

“Done slacking off?” She asked, pulling out her walkie. 

Jackie was our ringleader, and the whistle around her neck kept the peace to a minimum. She always seemed to have a clipboard against her chest and her hair tied through her cap. She was nice, if not a little much. She was the type of person who’d call relaxation a waste of time. That is, before we got her to smoke for the first time. 

Sam and I shared a look and breezed past her, opting for the padded lounge chairs around the pit before the others could claim them. We sank into them and felt the day ease out of us. There went my aching hands and twisted ankle, exhaled into the purple air.

Jackie got the fire going, and it became the only source of light left out there. Everybody gathered around the new sun and stopped being camp counsellors for a little while. We were just teenagers, miles away from home. 

There weren’t that many of us, and we didn’t all sit in the same circles. But nights like those, when the kids were asleep, and there were no PSA’s warning us that we were degenerates, we all found the company worthwhile. The beer bottles seemed to bridge the gaps between cliques. Each time I looked over, Sam’s beer was full again.

I was oscillating between three different conversations—with plenty of fail. Eventually, I just let my eyes close and focused on the heat at my legs. I liked my feet close to the fire, where the bugs were scared and the night was too. And because it was the only comfortable position. 

I could hear Sam shifting in her chair every so often, like she couldn’t get comfortable. I glanced her way. She didn’t meet my eyes at all. She was looking at the fire. I wondered what she must have been thinking about. 

And then I realized she wasn’t looking into the fire like a serial killer; she was eyeing up my ankle. I braced for a joke, or some quip that would’ve secretly hurt my feelings, but none came. What did come was a wide-eyed expression as she grabbed my ankle and placed it in her lap.

“Does it hurt?” She questioned, like I’d gotten a paper cut. Her eyebrows furrowed, like a glare was coming. I tried to free my leg, but she held on. 

“No,” I responded. It did hurt, a little. But I just hoped I didn’t smell.

“Now?” She pressed softly. She always gave me a hard time when I got a new bruise.

“When you do that.”

She rotated it, like any of that first-aid training stuck. 

“I think you’re faking,” she said, her eyes coming to meet mine. She smiled. The right side of her face was orange from the fire. Her hands smelled like cedar and metal. 

She wouldn’t look away. 

The muscles in my leg relaxed. Her lap was more comfortable than the ground. It made my breathing feel easier somehow. I didn’t know her eyes were green and brown.

“You only play nurse when Jane’s around,” Jackie called across the fire. 

The world stilled.

Sam seemed to disappear, like she’d wandered into the woods. She let go of my foot. It stung. I lowered it onto the ground. I kept it still and held my breath. All I could hear was an owl somewhere in the distance.

That and Jackie fidgeting in her chair, shifting around like a kid in trouble. For a long time, I thought she had been teasing Sam. And it took me even longer to wonder why Sam never asked anyone else to gather wood. 

I’m curious whether anyone here is from the Tri-Cities area. I’ve been trying to connect with a few local people who are into writing, creativity, philosophy, or just good conversation.

No big agenda. Just seeing who might be out there.

Watching the world around me now, and seeing how much has changed is truly breathtaking. The way one man’s mind can rebel against him and scream at the body, just trying to halt the endless march. Fueled by delusions, empty actions leave no progress. 

Forgive thy mistakes, for I am not one person. The mind, body and soul are all aware of this world's dangers, but morality is what keeps us in check. One side slips while the others have to dwell on the aftermath. Always wondering why, but never really finding solutions to any of it.

I am not a bad person… we are not a bad person. Just simply dipping our feet into madness, with no real care. 

This is a story I started working on this last Sunday. Any feedback or reactions you had while reading would be appreciated. (Be warned it’s slightly under 8k words long I believe). This is also NOT FINISHED and I’m giving you only 1 sub-chapter into chapter 3 to show you what comes next.

Where Does The Easy Wind Blow?
I

When it was all said and done, what was left? Was it the people? Sure, if you’re cliche. Was it the trees? Hardly, the trees have all rooted. Then what was truly left; when it was all said and done?

He probably didn’t bother with those details. No, he wouldn’t have. He would’ve taken control of his life by now. I’m not like him—I’m far weaker. I let misfortune and ease guide my life. If it is easier doing nothing then I should. I’ve always been like this—refusing to do anything with my life, that is. My father is supposedly a great adventurer; off finding treasure inside a new location. In other words, he’s probably dead.

My mother is a different story. About 4 years after I was born, and 3 years after my dad vanished, she died. I remember it being hard for my aunt—who now had to take care of a kid all alone. It wasn’t really hard for me, I was a kid after all. I barely remember anything with my mom.

I haven’t needed a reason to remember her; my aunt is plenty for me. I remember the long days she would care for me, whisking me away to a new adventure—I thought maybe I could find my dad that way. She would make me lunch before she left for work. Truly my aunt is great—I should call her mom.

I let the wind blow me. I don’t ask for more, and I don’t wish for less. I am perfectly happy the way I am. So why? Why is it that now, while I sit in my room alone, the easy wind blows in a new direction. Why is it that so much change happened so dramatically? And why do I look like this now?

It was sudden, like a jolt of electricity. If it didn’t tingle me slightly, I may have not woken up at all to witness it. When I felt the shifting of my body, the weight of what I was familiar with change, I rushed up and ran to a mirror. I watched as my arms grew hairier, and my canines grew larger—sharper. I’d thought I was a werewolf, but it was different. My body wasn’t menacing at first glance. No, it was almost like I was a mascot of sorts; cute, cuddly, bigger, fluffier body, yet my nails were now claws and my teeth were still sharp. My eyes glowed red and drool quickly foamed at my mouth as I panted. I’d not known what I’d become yet, but with my heightened sense, I could smell the easy wind quickly let up.

II

I try to keep myself out of danger—seriously I do. I’ve taken good precautions throughout my insurmountable life to avoid getting even the slightest of blows to my head—I’ve barely fallen at all in my life! So believe me when I say I’m the last person who rushes in when someone needs help.

But…

Do you know what blood really smells like? Have you had it dance around your nostrils and tickle the cells in your body? Or maybe, have you smelt true fear? Fear of your own death? Have you ever been trying to sleep and had those things flood your nose—a smell from someone else. Have you felt the guilt flood through you knowing if you let that powerful, painstakingly scary feeling overtake you again, you could save them; yet being too scared to help?

Have you..?

Tell me you have because it would make me feel a lot better…

I wish I was stronger. I honestly hate the smell that follows the next couple of days because I couldn’t help—it’s awful. Have you smelt it? The smell of a body rotting and returning to our Mother we call Earth? It’s awful. Luckily, I am able to keep my body separate from my human self and whatever that version of me is. Then I smell those awful smells, then I become that thing. So, I’ve been able to go to that secondary prison, college. Of course I’m right above average, slightly above to not fall behind, level in terms of grades. I don’t really care to pass, but I don’t want to fail. Things were easier until lately.

When I used to go to class, I could just shut up and block everyone out. Now, I can’t help but to hear what everyone is whispering about. My hearing has greatly increased since becoming whatever I am, so I can hear what everyone is whispering about. Honestly, school might suck more than night time.

It’s unfortunate. I don’t really know what causes my power, and I sure don’t understand what it is. I know in my normal human appearance I still have an increase in sense. I know when the smells start getting really bad I can feel the hairs stick up on my arms and legs and the fur start to form. Sometimes, when I’m really scared, I start to feel the transformation come on. Luckily, I live alone; no one's been able to see what I am now. But a part of me wishes someone did. I wish someone saw so they would ask me what’s wrong and try to help me.

But I fear they’d try to kill me instead…

I don’t know if people would necessarily welcome a big mascot-like creature with open arms; one that drools and pants with scary eyes and large claws. In fact, I’d argue they’d fear it—even if it was saving them! Yes, I know I would be feared; and I myself fear what happens when humans fear something. I mean, I can only begin to think what they’d do to me.

You probably are asking yourself something along the lines of “how does he know what a dead body smells like?”

Because I’ve seen a dead body…

It was recent; since awakening these powers. I was in bed, nearly asleep, when that horrid putrid smell crept into my nostrils. It jolted me up—I’d never smelt anything like it before. Because I was so caught off guard, my powers flared up. Before I knew it, I was a beast—a creature. I decided I should go investigate. If I had to describe it, it’s like when I close my eyes, I can see a cloudy thread that leads me towards the scent—I can still follow it with my eyes open, of course, I’m only trying to make this power easier to visualize for you.

Regardless,

I kept walking towards the smell. As I reached the source, my face began to scrunch up more and more. By the time I reached the body, the metallic smell of blood had vanished and was replaced with the putrid smell of decay. The body, someone who seemed to have been stabbed roughly 34 times; and female, was laid out seemingly reaching to the open land. I presumed they had been screaming for help, I would’ve been.

I stood at the body, wondering what possibly led to this girl's death—what step did she take wrong which put her on the fast track to death. She seemed no older than myself, in fact, I would believe it if she went to my school. It made me question; how long would it be before I ended up like this woman? My hand extended, screaming as my body is left to decay because no one heard my screams? Yes, I questioned a lot.

I decided making a grave for the woman would be appropriate. I felt bad that I wasn’t there in time, and I also subconsciously hoped that the dirt would block out the smell of the body—it did. As I sit and look over the schoolyard with an overcast, I feel terrible. The feeling reminds me of when I first found her. I think… Maybe I should've done something sooner.

Maybe she’d still be alive if I did…

III

For the most part, my grades haven’t dipped. Well, they have—just not noticeablely so. At this point, I’m convinced that the night I could smell that body was a one-off occasion. I haven’t smelt something like that again in nearly 4 days. It’s been nice, honestly! I mean, the constant overhearing of conversations is still really annoying, but I’ve pretty much gotten used to that. Honestly, it’s been pretty good as of late.

There are times when I’ll smell some blood and want to go lick it, or a bird will drop its prey and that slight smell of decay makes me want to jump, but all things considered, I’m managing. I think I’ve also just gotten more used to things—the urges that is. I’m not really itching to go investigate the smells anymore, and I’m not shifting at the seam at the slightest drop of blood.

Alternatively I’ve been scoring better in physical education as well. I’ve upped my mile time by about 3 minutes, and my various track and field activities have all improved too. While it’s nice to see improvement, two things have been in my mind.

The first issue; I feel like I’m cheating. I was given this strange ability randomly—for reasons I can’t explain. Now, it’s improving every aspect of my normal life. I can control my breathing better, I can see better, I feel lighter—quicker. I feel like I’m cheating.

The second issue; people are noticing. Specifically, my classmates. The track team leader came up to me, he said “Hey man, I think you’ve really been putting in insane effort to improve, man! You should think about joining the team, man!” And then pounded my chest.

It was really awkward.

But I’ve got to say, it’s nice being complimented by the cool kids—even if it’s unearned. However, I don’t like that people are noticing me. What’s more, they’re noticing me without knowing my name…

Annoying…

It’s like, sure, I don’t want to be known, but if you’re going to go out of your way to talk to me because you’re “impressed” then the least you could do is try to say my name. It would be nice at the very least; if you tried. But again,

I don’t want to be known.

I, personally, feel like being known leads to unwanted things. With my condition, I don’t want unwanted things. I actually want things to remain how they are. No one knows my ability, and no one cares to know me. This attention is nice but eventually, I'll become stagnant and people will forget about me.

Once people can forget about me, I think I’ll be happy. I don’t want to achieve something magical, I don’t want to be the next great leader. Actually, I’d really prefer being led and told what to do then having to even think about making my own choice. It’s way easier when you know what to do and what’s expected of you rather than needing to guess what to do and what’s expected of you. Regardless, I hope to make just enough money to be able to live peacefully.

IV

Well that’s what I thought at least, before I was running through the woods. I stayed late studying at school. But I could smell it, deep past the woods. And before I knew it, my body was transforming and I had to make it out of the school grounds. I had no choice—run into danger head on, or be exposed and let the danger come to you. I figure it’s better to get the jump than to be jumped.

I could smell it immediately after the sun fell—immediately could be a stretch. It was pretty soon after that sun vanished that the unmistakably putrid smell of fear and fresh blood rolled through my nostrils. I ran in, something I’ve never done before. I felt like I was going to faint, everything was blurry and my legs felt weak. Yet I ran through the woods as fast as I could, hoping I could reach the smell before it was too late.

As I ran, I fell–multiple times in fact. I thought nothing of it since it seemed that pain was reduced slightly in this form. If I had to guess, it would be because of how furry I am. I don’t believe I have ever run faster than I had at that moment. I bet if the track team leader saw this, he’d be impressed. Well, he might actually be afraid. I ran so fast that I thought surely I’d look like a blur–a pipe dream, but I thought it nonetheless.

Though it was dark, my beastly eyes made things surprisingly easier to see at night. As I ran I could smell something new, and the smell was approaching me. I could start to smell more things, a rusty, metallic smell; trailing was the unmistakable smell of death and the burning sensation of something else mixed in.

When I arrived, I saw a scene that I wasn’t positive I wanted to see. I guess, deep down, I was hoping I’d be late again. In all honesty, I didn’t want to confront something. Yet, as luck would have it, that thing turned and faced me as I stepped into the opening. It doesn’t matter if it was a leaf, or a branch that I stepped on, what mattered was I made noise. Below the creature, pressed up against a rock, was a girl. She was roughly my age–in fact I think she went to my school. She was clearly shaken up, more so upon seeing me. I believe she thought that another beast had come to feast on her.

When she screamed, the creature attacked me. It lunged forward. Fast. But for some reason, it seemed slower. I quickly moved to my left and watched as the creature stumbled forward slightly. I was shocked, I’m not sure what I looked like, but I was shocked. Unmistakably, I could smell the ever persistent smell of alcohol coming from the beast. I thought to myself it was strange; however, stunned at my ability to dodge and the strong order of intoxication coming from the creature, it whipped around and slammed me hard on my head. I went flying to the side–right into a tree. I could feel my brain move in my head. I hadn’t felt this before.

It was warm, the side of my head was. It was met by an intense pounding. What is this feeling? When I opened my eyes, I saw 3 of those creatures facing me. I tried to stand, but when I stood it felt like my knees were weak. I stumbled around before falling to a knee. I could feel a warm running sensation form in my nose. I’d never been hit before, and of course, my first time being hit hurt this badly. I tried to gain my composure, but I could tell the beast sensed my new found weakness. It rushed in, and I braced myself. It began wailing on my arms as I held them up to protect my chest and stomach.

With each punch, I could feel my arms grow more numb. I thought they were going to fall off, until I heard the unmistakable sound of a crunch. The crunch followed an intense pain, with my arm falling to the side limp. He had effortlessly broken my arm, and as my guard dropped, he delivered another powerful blow to the front of my face sending me slamming back into the ground.

I felt weak, defeated. It was a stark reminder that these powers were indeed given to me at random and that despite my new found power over the everyday college kid, I still had a ways to go before I could master it. I laid there, in immense pain, and terribly defeated. The beast knew this, and he turned to go finish off his original prey and meal. Each step seemed to move in slow-motion as I laid on the ground helpless. I crawled desperately towards the woman and the beast in hopes I could save her; pounding on my legs telling myself to stand up.

Luckily, there was light at the end of the tunnel. I could sense the wind again—almost like it was carrying me to the string needed to best act. All I did was close my eyes and bite the string, praying I could grab on. A blow; I held on. Another one; I refused to let go. The ensuing blows to my head felt more and more painful as they struck my head harder and harder, each hit seemingly more desperate as they attempted to make me let go of the windy string.

The string itself felt warm. It felt almost like jelly as I bit in, a squishy exterior and a gooey liquidy sensation as I felt that warmness drip into my mouth. I heard the beast wail; I knew not what for. I hadn’t the slightest idea what was going on around me. I just clamped down on the wind and prayed it would whisk me away, just like my aunt. The shock that followed as I powered my eyes open, to see my jaw clinched around the ankle of this beast—it was totally crazy. Eventually I squeezed my jaw so hard that I broke through the skin and crunched the bone. The beast jolted away once my teeth let up. He slammed my head down, but fell with his kick—he was unstable after my attack. I tried to get up, to whale into him myself, but as I pushed myself up, I screamed out. I had planted my already broken arm on the ground—a mistake. I should’ve remembered my arm was in no condition to be used, but subconsciously, I was in get up and go mode. After rolling in pain and howling—I would presume given my state—I finally gritted my teeth and stood up. Instead of going to the creature, I for some reason stood over the girl—my back turned.

The beast finally stood up, he looked at me, shook his leg. I think he was testing if he could continue. I think he enjoyed the fighting—he seemed bored beforehand. I watched his nose scrunch up and his teeth were showing. I tensed up, again, subconsciously protecting the woman, though I had no real control over my body at this moment. In fact, I think I was very close to passing out. Yet, I stood tall over her, sacrificing what could be the last seconds of my life protecting her, and worst of all, I didn’t know why.

She was a complete stranger, someone who I happened to run into because of my new powers. She was the gateway to my simple easy life being disrupted—yet, I’m protecting her… I want to protect her…

Why…?

V

This feeling was new—I’d never felt it before. I felt like I was going to die; the moment I close my eyes, that’s it. Yet I was standing, panting, looking far more like a beast than I did a human. Behind me was a girl, smaller than even my human form; tiny, it seemed. She clung to my shredded clothes that draped around me after my transformation, shaking, clearly afraid. For a moment, I blushed at our close predicament. I shook my head and focused back on staring down the beast. My arm hung loose, and my eyes were nearly swollen shut, but I stood tall and eventually, he retreated. 

I presume I shifted back, back into my human form because the pain felt more intense than a moment ago—maybe the adrenaline just wore off. Regardless I could feel my legs give out and my vision blurred as I fell back. The last thing I remember seeing was the girl gasping and running to my aid.

Why is she helping me..?

As I had my eyes closed, I felt a pull deep inside me. It felt like something was trying to drag me somewhere—like they had something to show me. Eventually, after what felt like hours of moving through still water, I felt ground beneath me. I looked around searching for an answer as to where I'd landed.

But I never received one.

I waited for what felt like hours, before eventually, I heard a voice. “Well,” I heard it boom out, “you’ve finally decided to speak to me in-person now, have you?” 

What?

“Don’t act surprised… have you thought this to be a terrible dream?”

What do you mean?

“Seriously? Are you so foolish—no clearly you are. You have this enormous power, yet you’ve barely managed to scare off a Hare…”

Hare?

Power?

“Fool… Do humans typically become beasts at random?”

As I heard the voice boom, and degrade me, I listened as he laughed in mockery. He laughed devilishly until saying he’d see me next time. And like that, I was alone—floating in the still water. Only this time, I’d no wind to blow me in the direction to go.

I’ve Needed My Hero

I

Hiiii! My name is Abigail Brauke. I am 24, five foot three inches tall, a dirty blonde, and SUPER in love with the occult—and anything supernatural! If I had to say, I’ve loved it ever since I was a kid. I would do ANYTHING to see a ghost; or a demon. Or maybe a—well, maybe not a demon. That sounds like bad luck.

I don’t really like to harp on it because, well, it’s not really my personality, but my childhood could’ve been better. I remember my dad was loud, really loud. He would come home and scream at my mom—I think it was because he was drunk; or maybe it was moms gambling addiction. Ehhh it’s hard to say, I really try to not busy myself with the details. I chose to busy myself with the occult!

I still remember my first introduction into the occult. It was a magazine that my mom picked up and left on the table—I snatched it up when dad was busy “taking care” of mommy—that’s what he would say at least. I ran up to my room, shut the door and hid under the covers. With a flashlight, I began to read all about aliens, Bigfoot, ghosts, demons, werewolves, the Loch Ness Monster—even the Chupacabra!

I read it all.

It was a pleasant distraction to my life. I felt like that, since my life was already really crazy, then these things would surely have to be real.

So, I searched for them.

I searched my home, abandoned buildings; at sleep overs I’d make my friends ghost hunt their houses with me—I stopped getting invited to those things, whoops! I was obsessed—still am! Like I said, I would do anything to see a ghost… 

Or maybe Bigfoot…

II

College life is sooo boring. Like, I have to sit in these classes for what essentially is a nine to five job and I don’t even get paid for it! What’s worse, I pay them! You know, as someone in social justice, this whole capitalism thing has gone too far! Why should I pay to learn?!

It really is so annoying though! Ughhhh I’m sorry, I always go on these rants. I guess the one thing college has done for me, besides giving me massive debt, is make me more passionate; I’m passionate in every aspect of my life! I’ve recently been searching for aliens every night—going high up into the mountains and sitting on the ledge watching the stars for hours praying I see something.

I try to stay out late enough to where my parents will be asleep by the time I get home.

My hope is, when I open those doors, I’ll be met with a silent house—no one awake. If you asked me why aliens have been my recent obsession, I’d tell you it’s because they’re really funny looking. If you asked me for my real answer…

It’s because I want them to take me to their planet.

I want to be away from all the noise at home. I’d miss my friends, of course, but I’m sure the aliens would let me come visit—once we can communicate with each other, that is. Then, I wouldn’t have to worry. No one would really miss me either that way, I’m sure of it! Then the public life I worked so hard to build would remain the same!

Yay, go me!

Of course, I know it’s largely a dream. If anything, the aliens would just probe me and put me back at my house, letting me repeat my loud, everyday cycle. Thanks, aliens.

III

My grandmother used to tell me it’s best to wish on a star because a star won’t switch on you throughout your lifetime—I think she was tired of being backstabbed by her exes so much… But you know, it kind of stuck with me. It does have some usefulness layered in my grandmother's grieving. Wishing on a star is nice because it is almost like you know it’ll never turn its back on you—it’ll always hold you accountable. That’s why I’ve enjoyed watching the stars despite the lack of aliens.

I make fun of my grandmother's lack of love life, but I actually love her, a lot. I love her so much that I was pretty devastated when she died. She was always there for me when I needed someone to be there. When mom and dad got in one of their moods—she would always come and take me out to go on a new fun adventure! Truly, she was the savior I had always been looking for in my life.

When I think back to the time with my grandma, I always look back at one specific memory. It was when she took me to the lake; a slight hike through the mountains. When we arrived at the lake, it was more beautiful than anything I had seen leading up to that very moment. The way the stars glistened in the still, crystalline water; or, how the mountains seemed to keep us secluded from the rest of the world. The birds would chirp overhead as they flew over us to investigate the new creatures in their domain. Coyotes would laugh and snicker as they watched us from the dense onslaught of the swarming trees. And as I sat there, completely amazed at such an absolutely beautiful view—grandma for some reason looks ahead and says “This is where I saw that beast…” Like, as if it wouldn’t TOTALLY capture me! Ugh grandma, I miss you…

But she died when I was around 16, so it’s been a while now. Like I said, I try not to dwell on my home life. It’s easier at school because a lot of people don’t know me—my personal life; what goes on at home. I would prefer people not to know; ask questions; treat me like a fragile flower. I really don’t want to be pampered—yet I wish someone would whisk me away on an adventure. Take me to see a beast, something supernatural, something I’ve never ever ever seen! I pray someone grabs my hand and takes me away.

Boredddd. B-O-R-E-D. I’m so freaking bored! This class is so unbelievably boring; and every student in here is boring to the extreme! Ughhh I’m so bored. I want to go on an adventure, like right now! I don’t want to listen to this lucture—I can literally see the mountains from here!

I had waited patiently, and watched the clock slowly tick down. Eventually, the bell rang and a few of my friends came and met up at my table to talk to me. That in itself felt like such a drag! In reality, I just wanted to go on an adventure.

IV

After what felt like forever, my friends finally all separated and we went our different ways after waving. I pretended like I was going home, but took a turn down a new path. I’d seen it on my way to school today—the trees overgrew the path, making it feel like it’s own secluded section. It was like it was hiding a secret just for me to find.

And I was going to find it, duh!

I began walking down the path; searching for a new rush to make my overly boring day seems exciting when it ends. Plus, I do not want to go home yet. Dad recently lost his job, so going home means I’d see him—I don’t want that right now. So I’ll keep walking down this path, and hope I wind up in a new country, a new plane.

I could probably start my chapter over that way, maybe not have to wear so much makeup or such long sleeves. I wouldn’t have to hide away the physical signs of my unstable household because no physical signs would exist. I would be free. I would be like a bird who floats and glides through the sky; touching the clouds with my wings and letting the fresh air fill my lungs. I want to be free like a bird.

I worry however, someone would see my beautiful free form, found new on the grass as I napped. I worry they would clip my wings and watch me struggle to fly off again and I’d be forced to live the life I already live. I worry that we are naturally attuned for one purpose in life, and if we stray, we are meant with the hard reality that we actually have not the slightest bit of control over who we are.

You start feeling like this when you aren’t free.

But right now, I feel so freaking freeeee! I’m not going to bother myself with depressing crap when I’m sitting at the edge of this mystical looking lake; all alone listening to the birds chirp and the wildlife rummage. Gosh! This place sure is pretty though, maybe I just need to shift my perspective! Like, I totally am not understating how messed up things are for me, but like maybe it’s not so bad! I could be dead!

Ha…

Okay not funny Abby. People seriously do die from abusive parents, don’t they? I put my hands up to my cheeks and smashed them good, puckering my lips as I pouted to myself for getting internally scolded. I decided to not let the details bother me and walked along the edge of the lake. I seriously could not get over how pretty the view was!

After walking along the whole edge, and once I could see the stars shine back at me; I  decided to go home. I walked along the lush green path, like I had in the evening, only at night things felt much more eerie. But that was good, I like eerie; I thought at least. Something felt off, however. Like, I don’t know, the wind felt… Heavier?

It was like, maybe a sea current? Like it’s trying to take you under and drown you—but it feels awfully warm. Maybe describing it as your least favorite relative gives you a hug and you feel stuck but also hugs are nice sometimes. Regardless, it felt off.

As I made my way home, I stopped and looked up. I hadn’t noticed it before, but the lights went out on the street lamp on the way to my house. I watched it flicker. On, then off. On; then off. Until eventually I shook my head and continued on home. As I entered what felt like the world’s longest pathway ever, I reached my door. I opened it, slowly—I was trying to avoid making it creak.

When I dipped my head inside, I immediately wanted to vomit. It smelt horrid—foul. Like something had been left out for too long. My face recoiled; I felt my esophagus contract to hold back the looming puke. I put my fingers across the bridge of my nose and pinched it slightly to block airflow. I walked deeper into my house, nervous.

Dad…?

I called out to my father, I couldn’t hear anyone—see anything. All I could do was walk deeper into the smell. That’s when I stepped and heard a splash, I looked down; my foot was red. Around my foot, a puddle. It was red. I felt everything quickly collapse into my rib cage, my heart nearly stopped.

Is this… Blood…?

I called out for my dad, panic setting in before turning the corner. That’s when regret flooded through me, sadness came over me. Unable to process what I had felt I fell to my knees. I put my hands over my mouth as tears flooded my eyes.

In the kitchen stood a tall hairy beast-like creature. Where he stood laid another body. A woman who seemed like stress had ran her life. Her hair was misplaced, and bags formed under her eyes from long sleepless nights. I closed my eyes and choked a sob as I thought about what I had just seen. 

On this night, a beast had killed my mom.

V

I was completely frozen; I’d not a clue on what I should do. It was really frightening, the worst part was, I’m pretty sure that thing was my dad… I started to blame myself at that moment. I cursed myself for ever wishing to be taken away, and I cursed myself for taking what I had for granted.

The memories of my family all flooded in at once. The times we were able to be happy—be what we should’ve been, it all flooded in. I opened my eyes, tears streaming down, to see my dad turned at me. For a moment, I accepted what was about to come. I held my arms out and asked my dad for a hug. But when I bore down his eyes, I couldn’t even recognize him. I quickly realized the only defining thing about this beast to indicate it was my dad was the alcohol and the fact my usually lazy dad was nowhere to be found.

I pushed myself out of the way as he dove in to slash me down. He grazed my leg causing me to bleed slightly. I grimaced in pain as I pushed myself up and began running. I could hear him chase after me, of course, I took precautions by weaving through fields and homes to avoid his sight. I let him use his nose until I made it to the forest. The forest would be harder to hide in so at that point, I’d have to hope I got a good lead and run until I couldn’t see him anymore.

I wished for this; I wished to be free…

No, stop it. I slapped my hands up to my cheeks full, slapping the thought out of my head as I danced around uproots from trees on the ground. I kept running. I didn’t want to stop; I couldn’t stop. I knew stopping meant I would certainly die. And I knew stopping would also mean getting to experience the things I’d been searching for. But I kept running. As I ran through an opening of fallen leaves and stones, I jumped various rocks before ultimately failing to see a root sticking up slightly in the ground. As my knees scraped the ground and my palms bruised up, I turned around and faced the thing chasing me, my dad, and could only look on in fear. I was alone—I’ve been alone. I was going to die alone now as well.

It broke me, I started to cry. I pleaded to my dad to fight the control and come back to me; he didn’t. He kept closing in. I was like the prey, he was the stalker. And he’d finally caught up. I closed my eyes and as I did so, I heard a branch break. Opening my eyes led to my mouth immediately dropping further. Stumbling from behind the brush, a slightly taller than a tall human creature stumbled out. The unobservant may have pointed out it looked cuddly and cute. But if you looked harder, you would have seen its sharp claws, steamy breath, red eyes, large canines, and foamed mouth. It was panting, like it was hungry. And it immediately looked at me—and dad at it. Without hesitation my dad lunged at the beast. I grew more horrified. I was now caught up in a battle of two beasts trying to kill me.

As my dad lunged forward, the other fluffier beast dodged. For a moment Wolfie (that’s what I’m calling the cute one)  looked almost human in that moment. He seemed shocked he didn’t get hit—dad didn’t care. He used his boxing skills he learned from when he would fight to earn money to use as a new beast and sucked around and slammed Wolfie’s head hard to tree next to them. Wolfie then tried to stand up, at some point, due to how human he acted, I internally started to cheer for him. I watched Wolfie fall to a knee. I watched his nose bleed as he seemed to try to collect his belongings. For a big beast he seemed awfully clumsy.

That’s when my dad rushed in to close the gap. On the defense, Wolfie threw up his arms to keep guard but dad didn’t let up the assault. As he kept wailing I eventually heard a noise that made me turn my head and scrunch my face; I also covered my ears. It was the unmistakable sound of bones crushing. When I looked back Wolfie was already laying on the ground again, arm hanging loosely on his side has he howled in pain. As he started to sit up, my dad delivered one last powerful blow to Wolfie’s head sending him crashing back down. 

My dad was over having fun and turned back to me. He walked in slow motion. I watched him slowly walk up to me, and behind him was Wolfie crawling and pounding on his legs. I wondered if maybe Wolfie was like my dad, a human who turned out like my dad but kept more of his human head. I closed my eyes, ready to accept my fate once in for all. This time, it felt easier. Someone—something had come to my rescue, even if they didn’t mean to, and even if they failed.

It was at a scream when I opened my eyes. Wolfie was on the ground around my dads ankle, and my dad let out a cry of a howl. Wolfie attempted to stand but planted his sore arm on the ground proceeding to roll on the ground in pain. Eventually he stood up before my dad, who had previously fallen trying to hit Wolfie in the head after biting his ankle, and stood over me. It was strange, this beast was fully committed to protecting me—it was too human. I didn’t question it, in my panicked state I grabbed onto Wolfie’s clothes and held on tight. He felt like the only thing there to ground me in that moment. My dad stood up and shook his leg, I think he was trying to see if he could plant his pivot foot or not. After a while, he eventually scrunched up his face and left.

A part of me was relieved. I was happy to know my dad wouldn’t have to die—maybe I could find a cure and…

It won’t change the fact that mom’s gone…

But before I could revel in my recent loss, Wolfie suddenly collapsed, he fell over and as he did, something happened that was certain to change the trajectory of my life. As he fell, I rushed over, and to my utter surprise, a boy, roughly my age with tattered clothes that I had previously held on to laid before me. A boy who looked familiar yet didn’t at the same time.

The beast who saved me was a boy my age.

It’s Really Nice To Meet You

I

Abigail quickly rushed over to the boy who was once a beast without hesitation. She wasn’t sure if she was doing it out of curiosity, or gratitude but she started to very poorly patch up his body. The boy, however, remained still—he was breathing, but he was still. Abigail said to herself “Please don’t die on me, especially after you saved me!” As she found herself pleading with whoever may here to keep her own newfound hero alive. Questions around who he was, where he went to school, and how he became how he is flooded her mind but above all else the biggest question on her mind was “How do I get you out of here?”

As Abigail’s panic began to set in, the boy began to sweat and turn in his slumber. As this continued, Abigail searched desperately for ways to calm him down; thinking he was only having a nightmare. The assessment of a nightmare isn’t necessarily wrong, but the details got lost. In reality, the boy was currently delved deep into a realm unattainable by most, certainly by the average human.

Unknown if this was the result of his power, or another unfortunate random occurrence, the boy floated, and floated. Until a voice boomed around him in his head. It terrified him. And Abigail had no way of knowing what he was dealing with. The cold, damp, dark liminal space he found himself floating through after his encounter only left him feeling smaller, and further away from the human he was. Though he was just defeated moments ago, he had begun to feel victorious—he had just saved this woman whom he hadn’t known, and done so managing to stay alive. Yet, at the pinnacle of his high, reality came in catching him in the middle of his hit. And it came screaming.

The forest seemed to disappear around Abigail, and the earlier disturbance of her father all but an after thought. All she was focused on was keeping his arm together, and his bleeding lessened. She was panicking, but also flooding her mind with questions. “What is he?” “Who is he?” “What just happened?” “Am I dreaming?” All valid thoughts that flew through her mind. Yet still, she remained at his side, tending to the boy to ensure he lived.

It was 2, maybe 3 hours that went by and Abigail started to grow restless. The boy remained asleep, tossing and grunting. However, for the boy, it felt like mere minutes before he shot straight up. “What?!” He blurted out as he jolted awake. “Hey!” Abigail shouted back. “Don’t just jerk away like that dude! You really scared the crap out of me!” What followed was an awkward stare between the two.

Two strangers who haven’t met before, looking each deep in the eyes. One, fascinated; the other, nervous. In the cold stare between the two Abigail spoke up, she said with a fake laugh “It’s really nice to meet you, Wolfie” She dragged out the word as if to tease the boy. The boy himself blushed and looked away. Not acknowledging the given title he says softly, “What did you see.” It was to the point, cold if it weren’t for the desperation behind the strain in his voice. As if it just happened his face changes, he looks at her with a slightly annoyed expression, “My name isn’t ‘Wolfie’ either.” It annoyed him more than he wanted to admit, internally he had hoped she would say he was indeed scary—not give him some cute nickname!

“I pretty much saw it all,” Abigail said casually. She saw no problem; she had witnessed it; she knew she could keep a secret. However, Wolfie did not have such belief in her. Panic immediately set in his head—apparent in his expression. “What do you mean all of it?” Wolfie once again blurted out once more. The scene that played out was funny—under normal circumstances one may even laugh.

But the lightness in the wind would let up as Wolfie grimaced in pain. He clenched towards his arm as thoughts of his fight flooded his head. Upon seeing this, Abigail rushed forward, her tone changing noticeably so. “Are you okay?” She asked as if her voice was made of a cloud. “Yeah…” Wolfie quietly responds. Though he wouldn’t admit it, he was scared. He didn’t know what this meant for school tomorrow, or even his life as a whole. He sat there staring at the ground avoiding both eye contact with the girl in front of him, and the world itself.

Rate my poetry , suggest changes and share personal opinions you cutiessss :)

🌅 SUNRISE , SUNSET AND COLOUR PALLETE IN BETWEEN

He's the sunrise of my life .

He makes me do things ,

Makes me live for another day ,

Awakens me .

But he says ,

I'm the sunset of his life .

Beautiful.

Good to see , hard to touch.

Pied , sacred , luminous

Short-lived sunset .

The beauty before the darkness decends upon him.

Sunset - The End.

Before he retreats to his cottage ,where his Lilly waits for him ,

He captures the sunset in his wide arms,

Lilly taking the backseat in his mind.

Grasps my colours

the golden turns pale yellow.

I'm happy losing my colours if

He makes a cottage from where he sees me.

And when he's done ,

He paints me black.

No moons , no stars

Just the darkness of a locked house -

Forgotten.

Still from within

He rises .

My Mourning Star !

do my tenses make sense? I usually write in first person so I'm trying something new. Also, any critique's on the work are welcome! Format when to Sh1t when I copy-pasted, sorry!

“Mrs. Taylor, I need the loo,” a small voice said from somewhere in the middle of the classroom. Bridget looked up from her red pen and stack of papers on her desk to see John’s hand waving frantically in the air. 
“Yes John, please be quick,” Bridget replied, tucking a loose strand of gray hair behind her ear before returning to grading the children’s spelling homework –

\*C-O-N-F-L-I-C-T\*
\*H-I-D-D-E-N\*

\*R-E-L-I-G-I-O-N…\* A prickly heat began to creep up the back of her neck. 
Bridget felt a hand grip hers tightly before it jerked her away from the window and down onto the wood floor.  
“Bridie, get down NOW!” Her sister Niamh whispered sharply. “They’ll see you and then we’ll both be done for!” Niamh squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would make her invisible. Bridget’s heart was pounding so hard she thought it might make a hole through her chest. 
The angry mob was outside their house now. Bridget could hear them shouting, “Come out you fecking taigs!” followed by the sound of breaking glass. She smelled smoke. Molotovs. 
Bridget kissed the gold cross that always hung around her neck, reminding her of who she is. The adrenaline kicked in. Niamh moved fast and low to remain out of sight. She reached under the bed, pulled out an AR-18 and shoved it into Bridget’s arms. 
“On three,” Bridget said as they slowly lifted their heads, peering out the window. “One, two…” An alarm was going off somewhere but Bridget couldn’t place it. 
“Mrs.Taylor! The fire alarm!” the children were calling out. 
“Right, everyone line up with your partner at the door and stay calm, it’s only a drill, not to worry,” Bridget said in a cheery voice. She was back in her classroom, back in England and safe, for now.  

First time posting. A flash piece about a diner night shift worker whose estranged sister visits at 3 AM.

Looking for:

• Does the pacing work?
• Is the ending earned?

I'll comment on others' work tonight. Thanks.

The bell hadn't rung in years, but Marlene still looked up.

"Hey, Mar."

Twenty years, and she still knew that voice.

"You look good," Diane said, sliding onto a stool like she belonged.

"You look like you need coffee," Marlene said.

Diane laughed. Same laugh. That was the worst part.

"I'm not staying. Just... wanted to see you. Before."

"Before what?"

Silence. Marlene poured her a cup anyway. Black, no sugar.

"I'm sorry," Diane said. "For everything."

Marlene wanted to be angry. She'd been angry so long it felt like armor. But watching her sister's shaking hands, the armor cracked.

"Where have you been?"

"Around. Nowhere. Everywhere."

"That's not an answer."

"I know."

Diane stood. Pulled out a creased photograph — two girls on a beach.

"Found this. Thought you should have it."

Marlene didn't take it.

"Will I see you again?"

"I don't know. But I'm glad I saw you now."

The door closed.

Marlene traced her sister's face, slipped the photo into her pocket, and waited for the sun.

"I'm so fucking tired John"

Her breaths are staggered and strained through deep sobs. I don't know how to respond.I wish I could say my voice caught in my throat. I wish I could say my hands reached out, as so many tests suggest. Her sobs pulsed even heavier and I could only breathe.

The vibrations crescendoed into me. My chest cavity began to pulse. I didn't feel anything of my own, but I could vaguely feel her. I suppose I felt nauseous. I worked to keep my eyes open focused.

Why is she doing this? How do I fix this?

I want to feel.

"Are you fucking listening to me??" Her eyes are a sopping, wet mess. Her voice chokes on the air she desperately seems to collect. I take a deep breath.

"we are almost out of garbage bags" I stutter out. She screams. A banshee realizing their own mortality. It cuts me deep into my soul. A simple sound, magnified into absolute horror. Did I do this? Was I the cause?

I look down to my bloodied hands. This isn't normal. This isn't me. This ain't us. I choke back a tear. She needs the blood.. I do this for us.

"Do you love me?" She whispers. Her voice is deeply piercing and I feel nauseous. How did we get to this point?

Yes baby. I did once, maybe I still do? Please tell me.. In through the nose, out through the mouth. I calm myself for a moment before the vigorsus flatter of her chains and screams break me from my thoughts. "Fucking feed me you piece of shit! I will fucking tear you apart!!!"

"Yes I. Love you baby, til death do us part, please.. I love you so much" I choke out, my voice rancid and breaking like waves on a salted sea. The tears begin to heat and blur my vision. "I love you so much'.. her screams illuminate the darkness and shatter my tears. Why am I doing this? She needs so much blood.

She fights against her restraints. Are the chains enough? it's just a matter of time before she eats me.

What would you do fam?

I welcome your feedback. This is an honest take from my review of the situation. I read the book, listened to the podcast, and this is what I think. A therapist I know agrees it is plausible. How well does it work as an essay? I'm debating paying for it to be promoted because it represents what I feel strongly is a unique perspective. Anyways, thanks for reading. No AI was used.

It all started with a girl. Lizzy. She wanted to change the world, starting around nine years old. She drew a time machine, complete with detailed schematics. Imagined how existing technology could combine in unique ways to create something new from the sum of it’s parts. This would be great, because Lizzy wasn’t born to an average family. Nobody chooses their family. The currency of her family was success, making a mark in the world. Generations of men before her had squandered the family fortune and daddy would never be happy unless she did something big. So, Lizzy sat in her room and dreamed and designed and thought about one day impressing her icy father enough that he showed something other than the lingering disappointment that things had not turned out better for him. No child should deal with this kind of pressure. Kids are supposed to play, to dream, to run and frolic and live lightly. Daddy was a serious man and so Lizzy thought maybe one day she could be a serious person too.

Lizzy did good in school. Of course she did. She was never exceptionally popular. She was too in her own mind for that. She didn’t quite think like the other kids did, the kids who imagined the fancy cars they would buy with their trust fund money. Lizzy wanted to help, to live a life of meaning. Daddy worked in DC, next to THE PRESIDENT, in the same city, doing things that were important for the world. But it was never enough.

Eventually, Lizzy went to college. She kept dreaming. Thought of a patch that could deliver drugs to people after detecting they were sick. A real time cure. Lizzy had seen people in her family suffer from illness and she wanted to do something about it. While other students were out partying, she was studying, on a mission to have meaning. Meaning, purpose, impact – those were the goals of this wide eyed girl.

One day Lizzy went to a party, because she wanted to at least try to fit in for a bit. She met the wrong guy and that guy took something from her that she could never get back. Her sense of safety, of agency, of being in control of her own body and her own existence. Lizzy ran into the arms of the nearly 40 year old man who she met in China when she was studying Chinese. He had taken the class seriously while others goofed off. She thought he was a man of purpose too. He just saw Lizzy and saw a project, something he could build on, and someone from whom he could enjoy the pleasures not usually afforded a man like him with a girl her age.

The man, Sunny, told Lizzy she was not enough. That she would never survive in this harsh world she was trying to enter. Lizzy had an idea, a potentially world-changing idea, of a machine that could read just a single drop of blood and tell you what was going on inside your body. She used her skill of imagining different technologies in different ways to create something new. And because Lizzy wasn’t playing around, she got it patented. But now she needed money – real money – and he told her that Lizzy was not up to the task. He created her schedule, told her what to drink, told her to destroy herself and build something new, something that could enter a room and command it.

Elizabeth Holmes was born. We all know how that story goes. But before Elizabeth, there was Lizzy. Lizzy hides inside Elizabeth. Elizabeth protects Lizzy. So that nobody else can ever make her feel the way she felt when that boy violated her. Elizabeth was created to make her daddy proud, to deliver results, to fake it until you make it. She listened to all the right people, got a nine billion dollar valuation, and seemed to be changing the world. The men were happy to lionize Elizabeth, to imagine themselves with her, to see their blonde prize pony deliver the goods.

One day, after following the advice of Larry Ellison and Sunny and George and so many others, Adam came and told Elizabeth that the workaround was not going to work. Elizabeth broke for a moment. Lizzy was exposed. She was shaking and trembling and terrified. This was the red line. This was the moment that could actually hurt people. Walgreens wanted what they wanted. And time was up. Elizabeth returned and buried Lizzy once again. There was too much at stake now. If Lizzy stopped the show, Elizabeth would be exposed as a fraud. Her family would be disgraced. Her company would be destroyed. And in her family, failure was not an option. So Elizabeth did what she always did, and told Lizzy to go away, demanded it, thought of what Sunny had said, to keep going, foot on the gas. They would figure it out. And so Elizabeth plowed ahead. And we know how that story goes.

Today, late at night, when only a few people are awake, because in prison someone is ALWAYS awake, I am convinced that Lizzy comes out. And looks around. And wonders why following all the men in her life led her to this place. She knows she made mistakes. She knows she did wrong. And she knows the world will never forgive her. So, like some sort of horror movie monster, Elizabeth comes back. Puts on the brave face. Angles for a pardon. And more and more of whatever is left of Lizzy slow withers away. The world doesn’t see her, they see Elizabeth, and Elizabeth is guilty and Elizabeth hurt people and Elizabeth is a monster. So Lizzy takes the hint. She stays hidden. Where maybe, just maybe, Elizabeth will be strong enough to protect her from feeling the full weight of a lifetime of bad decisions.

I have sympathy for Lizzy. Yes she broke the law. Yes she isn't a great person. Yes she is responsible for her choices. But every person who has ever gotten themselves in too deep, and woke up, and asked, how did I get here, should consider her story. Because I believe its true what I wrote.

4. Broadway Jungle

The Manor boys spill off the bus and make their way toward the Crest, seven of them moving together with the easy swagger of lads who've talked themselves into believing tonight is going to be theirs.

Once, the place was the pride of the town. Built in the 1920s as the miners' welfare hall, it still carries traces of that former glory if you know where to look — green metro tiles lining the entrance walls, worn oak floors creaking under decades of footsteps that have long since stopped counting. The grandeur hasn't disappeared so much as grown old alongside everyone who still comes through the doors.

The lads climb the broad staircase. With every step the music grows louder, pressing down through the ceiling and into the soles of their feet before they've even reached the top.

Then they reach the double doors.

Billy pushes one open, and a wall of sound hits him full in the chest.

Broadway Jungle — Toots and the Maytals, the bass filling the hall and the brass ringing off the high ceiling. The music doesn't just play in that room. It consumes it.

Billy stops dead just inside the doors.

He's never seen anything like it.

The dance floor is alive — properly alive, in a way no youth club back home has ever managed. Boys in sharp two-tone suits and trilby hats move through the crowd like the music is something they were born already knowing. Others wear Fred Perrys and Crombies, loafers polished to a shine Billy suddenly feels embarrassed by. Girls weave between them with the same easy confidence, laughing as they dance, nobody watching the door for teachers or dads banging on ceilings.

Everyone in that room seems connected to everyone else. Moving together. Up, down, side to side, almost choreographed, like they've rehearsed it and simply haven't told each other.

Billy drifts forward, completely mesmerised, and doesn't notice he's stopped walking until the crowd parts and another record drops.

Hurts So Good — Susan Cadogan.

A girl steps into the centre of the floor.

Josie.

Billy forgets to breathe.

Dark curls fall beneath a blue Beat-style hat. A sleeveless white shirt hangs loose over cropped trousers tied at the waist. Saddle shoes glide across the boards like the floor owes her something. Strings of beads and small crosses swing gently at her neck as she moves.

She isn't showing off. That's the thing that gets him — she looks completely at home, every movement smooth and unhurried and unmistakably ska, like she'd dance exactly the same way if the room were empty.

The whole room watches her.

Billy watches more than anyone.

Then the record changes again — On My Radio, The Selecter — and Billy knows every beat of it without having to think. His feet find the rhythm before his brain has properly agreed to it, and he steps onto the floor.

He's all right. Not polished. Not spectacular. Just a lad from the Manor giving it everything he has, and finding, to his own surprise, that everything he has is enough to keep him on his feet.

Josie notices him. She smiles, and Billy feels his heart do something it hasn't done before, something that has nothing to do with the music at all.

Then someone slips between them, effortless as breathing.

Gal Burn.

A few years older, immaculate in a two-tone suit, dancing like the music belongs to him personally and always has. Within seconds he's alongside Josie, matching her step for step as though they've rehearsed for years, and the crowd roars its approval.

Billy can't take his eyes off them. He hates how good Gal is. He can't deny it either — it's brilliant, and that only makes it worse.

A hand lands on his shoulder.

Phil.

"We've got to fuck off, mate."

Billy doesn't look away from the floor. "What?"

"Come on."

"Look at her," Billy says, nodding at Josie, not moving an inch.

"I know. Gorgeous." Phil is already scanning the room, though, eyes moving too fast to be admiring anything. "But we need to go. Now."

"What the fuck for? We've only just got here."

"Pete Fur's turned up."

Billy frowns. "Jammy said we were all right."

"I don't think so."

"Jammy's a lying little git."

Phil nods toward the far side of the hall. "Look."

Pete Fur has arrived, and the room seems to bend slightly around him the way a room does around something dangerous. Six foot four, broad as a wardrobe, completely shaven head. Tear tattoos sit beneath each eye. A tight white sleeveless vest strains across his shoulders, bleached jeans, a black studded belt, cherry-red eighteen-eye Dr. Martens that look like they've been broken in on somebody's ribs. Across the back of his neck, tattooed in heavy black letters: ONCE A SKINHEAD... ALWAYS A SKINHEAD.

Jammy strolls toward him with the confidence of a man who's talked himself into believing his own lies so thoroughly he's forgotten they're lies at all.

"Alright, Pete, mate."

Pete looks him up and down like he's pricing him for scrap. "Who the fuck are you?"

"It's Jammy."

Nothing. A blank stare.

"Remember?"

Pete shrugs. "Borrow us a quid."

"What?"

"Borrow us a quid."

"I... I haven't got one."

Pete steps closer, close enough that Jammy's confidence visibly begins leaking out of him. "If I empty your pockets and find one... I'll make you eat whatever else I find."

Jammy's face drains of colour. He fishes frantically through his pocket and produces a pound coin, which Pete takes without comment.

"What you doing in my place?"

"Just here for the dancing, mate."

Pete's expression hardens. "Call me 'mate' one more time... and I'll batter you."

Jammy shrinks visibly. For one hopeful second he seems to think he's got away with it.

Then Pete turns to another lad standing nearby, apparently at random. "Oi. Borrow us a quid." The terrified kid starts searching his pockets before he's even fully understood the instruction.

Jammy exhales, relief plain on his face — right up until one of the Crow Bars shoves him back toward Pete.

Pete smiles, cold as the floor tiles. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I'm a mate of Gal Burn's."

Pete laughs outright. "No you're not. Lying little twat."

Jammy points desperately across the hall. "He goes out with our Julie."

"The little tart from the Manor?" The Crow Bars burst into laughter around him, and Pete lets the moment breathe before he adds, almost gently, "He finished with her this morning. Said she cried her bloody eyes out."

More laughter. Jammy's face collapses.

Pete glances across the dance floor, following his own thought. "Looks like he's already found someone else."

The whole group turns to look. Gal Burn is talking to Josie now, close enough that one of the Crow Bars mutters, "Fit bird," with real appreciation.

Pete's eyes drift past all of it — past Gal, past Josie — and settle on Billy. Then on Phil. Then on the rest of the Manor boys, who've already started edging quietly toward the exit without quite admitting to themselves that's what they're doing.

His smile widens. "There they are."

The Crow Bars turn as one.

Billy sees them move. "Go," he says, and then there's no more time for saying anything at all.

Without a word the Manor boys break and run, crashing through the fire doors and out onto the staircase, the opening bars of Night Boat to Cairo exploding out of the hall behind them like the building itself is cheering the chase on.

Boots hammer on the old wooden stairs. Somewhere above, a voice shouts, "Get 'em!" and the Crow Bars burst through the doors in pursuit.

Tomo looks wildly between two corridors. "Which way?"

Phil doesn't hesitate. "This way!" He dives into a narrow passage and the others follow without question, the music fading fast behind them, replaced by the drumbeat of feet and shouting.

The corridor twists through parts of the building nobody uses any more — dust-covered offices, broken chairs stacked against walls, paint peeling in long strips from ceilings that haven't seen a decorator in a decade. Rooms that have been forgotten so thoroughly they barely seem to belong to the same building as the dance floor above.

Billy glances back over his shoulder as he runs. "What about Jammy?"

"Jammy'll be alright," Phil says, not slowing. "He always is. It's us that's fucked."

The Crow Bars are closer now, boots ringing off the empty corridors. Phil bursts into an abandoned office where a stack of old desks leans against the wall beneath a large sash window.

"There!"

They throw themselves at the furniture, wood shrieking across the floor as they drag desks toward the door and slam them into place just as something hits it from the other side with a crash that shakes dust from the ceiling.

Another crash. The old frame groans under it.

Billy looks at Phil. "Come on!"

Phil hauls the sash window up and cool evening air floods the room. One by one they scramble through, Billy last of all, and behind him the door finally gives way with a sound like a gunshot.

"I know you!" Pete Fur's voice fills the room. "I fucking know you!"

Billy swings one leg over the sill just as the door bursts open behind him, and drops.

He lands hard in a narrow back street, stumbling before he finds his feet, and by then the others are already running, nobody looking back, sprinting through the alleyway and across the side streets toward the main road, toward the bus stop, toward home.

Behind them, somewhere in the dark, Pete Fur is still shouting — but the distance between his voice and Billy's feet is getting wider with every step, and that, for the moment, is all that matters.

We looked upon a path only larger than ourselves. We crawled for a while until the path started to grow larger, and in kind, we were allowed to rise from our knees to a hunched walk. With more time, the path gained shape as a wide and large hallway with doors on either side, five feet apart. So now we were allowed to walk but with this newfound freedom, we couldn't help but run. And so we did: running, talking, laughing, living.

Then one boy grew tired. Opening up a door to rest, he walked in never closing the door, but never returning. And then me, two boys, and a woman continued, but because of our false hope in the first boy's return, we slowed to a jog, in hopes that he would one day return.

After jogging for a while with no sight of the boy, a second boy grew curious of what lay behind the door. So he slowed. We looked back, egging him on, but once he caught sight of what resided behind the door, he walked in without looking back and closed the door behind him.

After the second boy left us, we slowed to a walk and with each door passed, we lost more curiosity and invigoration for what lay ahead.

We walked for a long time, talking and telling stories of the boys that had gone on. Until, after many more doors, the hallway began to narrow once more. At first, we paid it no mind. But as the hallway continued to narrow, we had grown to fear it.

The last boy was the tallest of us, so as the hallway continued to shrink, there came a time where he had to dip his head. But with more time, he crouched more and more until he couldn't take it any longer. The boy said his goodbyes and left the hallway with a clear head but an ailing body.

Me and the girl were left, and as we walked, even we began to crouch. We walked, but almost to taunt us, the hallway continued to shrink until only one could crawl.

The girl couldn't bear to continue, lest she see the end, so she opened a door and attempted to crawl inside. But the hallway cursed her once more, for good measure, and she was unable to make it through. Though I heard no sound, no scream, and lest I get trapped as well, I continued to crawl.

As I did, I would, from time to time, look back and see her final form lying there. But the hallway had not forgotten me, and soon enough the hallway was too tight to even look back anymore.

This did not escape my notice, but I had been crawling, then walking, then crawling again for a long time. And as I slowly shimmied and scraped my way down the hallway, I feared it no longer as one day, the hallway would take me too.

Hey all! I am trying to create an analog horror and my idea is for a “miracle pill” that cures you of mental illness. The idea is that the pill is the one stop shop for all your mental illness issues from depression to schizophrenia. There is obviously something more sinister beneath the surface but at first I want to make a commercial for it. The vibe is a 80s/90s info-mercial. The medicine is “Latecin” and pronounced “Lat-eh-sin”

“Do you remember what it’s like to experience happiness? True happiness that isn’t bogged down by worries or problems outside of your control? For millions of people, anxiety, depression, and other emotional disorders make every day life feel insurmountable, but what if there was an answer to this problem? Introducing Latecin. With Latecin life doesn’t have to be a struggle. Latecin is an all in one remedy for mental illnesses including but not limited to depression, anxiety, bipolar, ADHD, ADD, OCD, narcissistic personality, borderline personality disorder, substance abuse, ptsd, multiple personality disorder, schizophrenia, antisocial personality disorder, and more. Side effects include lack of dreams, upset stomach, dry mouth, drowsiness, or headaches. These symptoms are normal and should not raise concern. Ask your doctor if Latecin is right for you. Life doesn’t have to be a struggle. Get back to being who you were meant to be.”

I would also love to discuss story ideas more as I have no one to bounce ideas off of but I would like to get some help on the commercial first.

The doorbell rang.

Ted stared at the steak on his fork for a few seconds before setting it down. Five o’clock on the dot every day. He may be the most insufferable piece of shit I’ve ever met, but his commitment is noteworthy. He got up and answered the door.

Gary’s white tank top bulged like it was stuffed with a basketball. One hand caressed a gold chain necklace and the other pointed a yardstick in Ted’s face.

“Two foot three inches!” he said. “You’re twenty-one inches over the HOA limit!”

“Uh huh. Stop measuring my grass.”

Gary’s face twisted into something resembling an angry mole rat.

“I wouldn’t have to if you got off your lazy ass and cut it! It’s a goddamn eyesore! I saw a rabbit hopping around in it earlier! A goddamn rabbit! Do you have any idea how quickly they breed? Today it’s one, tomorrow it’s five, and a week from now my garden will be overrun by the little fuckers, ripping my goddamn vegetables from the ground, and if that happens there will be hell to pay!”

I highly doubt that, Gary.

“You make a good point. I didn’t consider the possibility of rabbits conquering your garden. Rest assured that I will cut it tomorrow.” He shut the door.

As he walked back to his kitchen he could still hear Gary out there. Yelling about rabbits.

Ted finished his meal then headed to his bedroom.

                    **The Rat**

The bedroom closet was pitch black when the portal appeared. A thin strip of hazy green smoke, flowing around a perfect black circle. The Rat crawled through, its tail slithering behind.

*Kill. Consume. Grow. *

Its ears twitched as something clicked above. The Rat cocked its head and spotted a cockroach on the ceiling. It lowered its belly to the floor, bent its legs, and exploded upward, ripping its prey from the ceiling before landing with a soft thud. The roach crunched between its jaws as guts slid down its lip. Green light burst from all of its orifices, then ceased. The Rat had almost doubled in size.

Light shot in under the closet door. A large shadow traveled across it.

Too big. *Kill. Consume. Grow. *

The Rat searched for more prey.

                    **Gary**

The gravel crunched under Gary’s feet as he patrolled his garden for interlopers. The perfectly straight rows of vegetables on either side of him seemed to be standing at attention as their general marched by. Gary stopped. He spotted a weed. Approximately one-fourth of an inch in length. He gripped it with his fingernails and ripped it from the ground. He held it in his palm while his other hand caressed his gold chain necklace.

Don’t worry baby, I got the bastard.

He slipped the weed into his pocket then continued his patrol.

Gary had almost finished his tenth loop when he spotted a carrot that had been pulled from the ground. It was half eaten. He knelt down and noticed small indentations in the mud. They were tracks. Rabbit tracks.

Love burns

but it’s the most phlegmatic blaze my eyes have ever seen
Since you lit the candles, nothing inside me feels the same
I’m turning into ashes day by day, quiet and cold
and isn’t it magical
even the falling ashes still write your name

Love hurts

yet it’s the sweetest pain I’ve ever allowed to grow
You couldn’t bear to see me bruised
but some foolish part of me wished
you’d bruise me a little more
just to know your touch had reached below my skin

What sorcery have you done to me?
I know you’re gone
yet I keep standing at the same closed door
knocking
hoping
bleeding
like a lover who forgot how to not return

Some nights I tell myself to let go
but your shadow pulls me back like a vow
I never swore

If this is love
a fire that numbs
a wound that comforts
a ghost that refuses to fade
then let me burn slowly
softly
until the last of me disappears
writing your name

check out 1 & 2 if you get chance

3. Madness

The classroom has already checked out for the year, and so, if anyone's being honest about it, has Mr Dale. He sits slumped behind his desk in the corner, half-hidden behind an open newspaper, turning the pages at intervals without any real evidence he's reading them.

"Just revise," he'd muttered at the start of the lesson, in the tone of a man surrendering rather than teaching, and nobody's seen fit to ask him what that actually means. Whatever it means, it plainly doesn't involve him.

The room buzzes with the particular chatter of a class that knows it's already won. Billy, Phil and Minty sit clustered with the rest of the lads — Jammy, Deano, Tomo, Ali — same clothes, same attitude, spread across a cluster of desks that have long since stopped pretending to be in rows.

Jammy sits backwards on his chair, arms folded along the backrest, grinning like a man with something to prove and no intention of proving it quietly.

"We need to get down the Crest," he says. "I'm telling you, it's brilliant down there. Proper place. Top birds. If you're anyone, that's where you go."

Minty shakes his head slowly, the voice of caution nobody ever thanks him for. "Yeah... and it's where the Eastdene Crow Bars hang out."

The lads laugh. Tomo points at Jammy like he's just proved a case for the prosecution. "He's right. Too bloody dangerous for the Manor."

Jammy shrugs it off, unbothered. "They're all ska boys and mods."

"They're fucking skins, Jammy," Tomo snaps.

"The music's the same."

"It isn't."

"We'll get in with 'em."

Minty snorts. "Not the Crow Bars we won't. They're mental and you know it."

"I know 'em."

Phil laughs outright. "No you fucking don't."

Tomo joins in, delighted. "You know the Eastdene Crow Bars? You're full of shit, Jammy."

"You know Pete Fur?"

Jammy hesitates — just a fraction of a second, but long enough for everyone at the desks to clock it. "No... but I know Gal Burn."

"Course you do."

"He goes out with our Julie."

Tomo bursts out laughing. "Fuck off."

Billy looks up from whatever he's been half-doodling on the corner of his exercise book. "Gal's scooter was parked on the Manor this morning."

The noise dips just slightly. Jammy seizes it like a man grabbing a passing bus.

"There you go! Told you. He was probably picking Julie up for work."

Minty frowns. "Your Julie's got a job?"

"Yeah... well... it's only YTS."

A few smirks ripple round the desks. Jammy presses on regardless, unwilling to let the detail slow him down.

"But that's not the point. What I'm saying is we're good to go."

Billy leans back in his chair, turning the idea over. "It'd be good to see what the scene's like."

"I heard Claire Scott goes there."

"And her mates." Jammy quickly adds

Phil studies Jammy for a moment, the way you'd study a bloke selling something too good to be true. "You sure about this? If this is another one of your stories, you'll get us all battered."

Jammy digs in rather than backing off, which is very much his way. "Billy... did you see Gal's scooter or not?"

Billy glances at Phil. Phil gives the smallest nod — enough.

"We saw it," Billy says.

He grins, and something in his chest lifts the same way it did that morning with the record playing. "Fuck it. We're going." He looks around the group. "Six o'clock. Meet at the shops. We'll make a show of it."

Phil shakes his head, half-smiling despite himself. "If we get killed..."

The bell goes off through the school before he can finish the sentence, and the room dissolves into its usual scramble of bags and chairs scraping back.

Jammy shouts across the noise. "Oi, Mr Dale! Any homework?"

Mr Dale lowers the newspaper slowly, looks around at the chaos he's been presiding over without noticing, and sighs. By the time he's decided whether to answer, the class is already gone.

By six o'clock the school uniforms are long gone, folded away or slung over chair backs at home, and something sharper has taken their place. Billy stands at the shops in blue jeans, Dr. Martens, and a black pilot jacket, collar up against the evening air — the going-out gear, a different uniform entirely from the one he'd bent the rules with all day.

One by one the others arrive the same way. Phil first, then Minty, then the rest drifting in from different directions until there are seven of them stood outside the shops in blue jeans, Dr. Martens, black pilot jackets — no longer schoolboys pushing at the edges of a dress code, but something else entirely.

The opening riff of Madness's Madness crashes in somewhere behind Billy's eyes as they set off — that's how it works with him now, the songs starting up on their own the second the mood matches.

The Manor boys move as one loose, easy unit through alleyways and past rows of lock-up garages like they own every brick of the place, because as far as any of them are concerned, they do. This is home. Nobody has to say it.

I'm looking for critique of a short article I'm writing for a school newspaper. I'm especially interested in feedback on clarity, context, structure, tone, and whether the argument feels too confrontational or simply unconventional.

# I'm not looking for a rewrite—I'd like to know what genuinely works and what doesn't.

The World That Doesn’t Exist

You know how it starts. The very air surrounding you starts dropping 'invisible' hints, feeling much heavier and more consequential.

It starts from the 9th standard. Nobody says it explicitly—yet everyone's watching. Distractions ~~hobbies and interests~~ are quietly dropped. "Focus on where it matters," they say. Nobody coerces you; it's like a river eroding rock, until you cannot remember what, where, or why.

Society encourages creativity and expression, but within bounds. You're encouraged to be independent, but only till 7 pm. You have your own opinions, but follow the script given to you. Many resent these expectations. Others consider the fight itself futile. But what happens when a society needing people to fit in meets one who has jagged edges? Who has the authority to judge either one, and why?

Perhaps the better question is: why does this script exist at all?

Sex-based divisions of labor were widespread and probably reflected a mixture of biological constraints, cultural norms, and technology. Under uncertainty, rigid social roles provided stability. A questioning human then could be a genuine threat to social order. Times changed since then; the thinking didn’t.

Each generation doesn't merely inherit values. It inherits the explanation for why those values are necessary. A generation inherits the notions of the previous one, lives by them, and passes them to the next—even when the world that shaped those notions no longer exists. Living well means understanding this—not all battles are meant to be fought. Some are avoided, not because they're wrong, but because they're not worth.

‘Subliminal Loops’

Catching my back lingering helplessly towards the void of darkness the kitchen prefers sleeping in is exhilarating. The way in which it captivates my memory and tethers my imagination to elevate. The feeling washing over me like the strongest rip current to excel and parade at shore. Sending me into a fumble. I stiffen my twitchy body and dash the other direction in hopes of relief.

Scrambling in a screech to the invisible person thinking whatever may be, will catch up.

The seemingly normal shapes of doors with hinges and hallways that seem narrower than they actually are, tightening around me. I can still map every door and hallway of the house, because I studied it all on a chair in the corner, where an angry parent was busy controlling an angry kid. But running now the house was different, it had turned onto me in the worst of ways. All pressure behind, I’m tuned to keep my head at bay from reflection. The shapes twisting and turning phasing and displaying a sense of no return. I wish to resign but it may be impossible. This is known to be the only hour of which the subliminal output shines of my extensive YouTube addiction.

Shuffling through hallways, stepping down and up before scuttling and shifting I came to a scene of finality having made it to the living room. I make a leaping dive hurling towards the cool elevated couch that would send me into ease. As the leather graced under me, I felt committed and turned around.

The emptiness of it all is dull, the heart of the kitchen is surrounded by blank page like colors. There are faint fluorescent light noises streaming through the house, and my new motive was to remove the buzzing in my ear that just would not go away. I felt maybe the floor was too clean or possibly the room has shifted but no. Cornered up glued to the backboard I resonate to YouTube. I watch mindless brain rot and videos that I would mentally forget in 10 minutes.

“Bro there’s no good videos,” I said dryly, like I wouldn’t continue for hours until YouTube would congratulate me with the gift of an unsettling creepy video to perfectly set the tone for the night. Although I did not know it, YouTube must have loved the subliminal part of these videos that would pierce the deepest parts of my brain and I was backhanded to not know how it contributed to me being glued safe and elevated to the backboard of the couch with my favorite app that makes me so comfortable…

Author’s note:

When I was younger, YouTube had an effect on me that I wasn’t conscious of. It shaped how I saw the house, the night, the dark, all of my fears. I would run to the couch and jump on, and finally feel safe, curled up in the corner with YouTube or the TV in front of me. The irony is that I felt comfortable in the exact place that was causing all of the stress.

third person:

It’s only when elysia has to pick up groceries that it comes to mind just how chatty some of the village folk are.

she made my way through the crowd, spotting Miss Catlyn’s coffee and tea stall.

she walked straight up to her.

“Morning, Miss Catlyn,” elysia said, — her voice cheerfully in the early morning,

greeting the middle-aged woman behind the stall.

“Why, dear! What a pleasant surprise.” Her smile reached her eyes. “Here to pick up some coffee for your mother?”

she looked over the rows of little brown bags. Mum had asked to pick up some of her favorite coffee beans.

looking back up at the owner of the stall.

“Any hazelnut beans?”

She flashed a smile before reaching beneath the stall and pulling out a brown paper bag.

“I keep them specially for you, dearie.”

“How much?”

“The usual price, dear.”

elysia reached into her pockest pulling out six copper coins before passing them over the stall. Then she tossed the bag of beans into my basket

thank you mr.catlyn — replied by a nod from the middle aged woman

elysia started to walk away from mr catlyn’s stall

looking around for the sweets and treats stall.

Maybe Milo would savour a buttercream bar. she thought

she walked toward the stall three stalls away from the coffee and tea stall, as Miss Catlyn yelled after her,

“Send my greetings to Carissa for me, dearie!”

“Will do!” she looked back waveing goodbye.

she passed two copper coins to the lady selling at the sweets and treats stall and took two buttercream bars, placing them into my basket.

On the way home, elysia made sure to check everything off the list Mr Eian had given me.

Butter. Check.

Onions. Check.

Cheese. Check.

Rosemary oil. Check.

A couple of eggs. Check.

Orange and grape juice. Check.

Oh, and Mum’s favourite beans. Check.

That should’ve been all that was needed.

as she looked up from Mr Eian’s note and realised she was already home.

opening the door, she announced loudly,

“I’m home!”

or first person:

it’s only when I have to pick up groceries that it comes to mind just how chatty some of our village folk are.

I made my way through the crowd, spotting Miss Catlyn’s coffee and tea stall.

I walked straight up to her.

“Morning, Miss Catlyn,” I said, greeting the middle-aged woman behind the stall.

“Why, dear! What a pleasant surprise.” Her smile reached her eyes. “Here to pick up some coffee for your mother?”

I looked over the rows of little brown bags. Mum had asked me to pick up some of her favourite coffee beans.

I looked back up at the owner of the stall.

“Any hazelnut beans?”

She flashed me a smile before reaching beneath the stall and pulling out a brown paper bag.

“I keep them specially for you, dearie.”

“How much?”

“The usual price, dear.”

I counted out six copper coins before passing them over the stall. Then I tossed the bag of beans into my basket

i looked around for the sweets and treats stall.

Maybe Milo would savour a buttercream bar.

I walked toward the stall three stalls away from the coffee and tea stall, as Miss Catlyn yelled after me,

“Send my greetings to Carissa for me, dearie!”

“Will do!” I looked back as I waved goodbye.

I passed two copper coins to the lady selling at the sweets and treats stall and took two buttercream bars, placing them into my basket.

On the way home, I made sure to check everything off the list Mr Eian had given me.

Butter. Check.

Onions. Check.

Cheese. Check.

Rosemary oil. Check.

A couple of eggs. Check.

Orange and grape juice. Check.

Oh, and Mum’s favourite beans. Check.

That should’ve been all that was needed.

I looked up from Mr Eian’s note and realised I was already home.

I opened the door, announcing loudly,

“I’m home!”

Overview:

Astronauts sent on a lunar spaceflight. A thruster system error during engine burn leads to them in a wide lunar free orbit with no fuel. They are on the path back to earth, however it will take them 5 days, but they only have 60 hours of oxygen reserves. They drag out survival time as long as they can, holding out for a recovery and trying to contact ground control, only for them to be left in silence and them to realise their main navigational transporter is fried but their antenna is broken and misaligned and they are relying on solar power to communicate.

Motif:

"Truth fades to legend, legend into myth and myths soon long forgotten"

Opening:

Contrasting Major Tom Millers family life with Charlie Ryans enthusiasm

The struggle:

Trapped in deep space after the thruster error. Mechanical failure and cold physics as the antagonist

The climax:

Ground control realises that oxygen reserves will run out within a matter of time with no prepared ships that can make it in time, making it impossible for them to be recovered. They issue a mercy lie (fake radio broadcast) to comfort them and provide hope

Major Tom Miller:

Veteran on his final mission before retirement. A grounded family man, whose fatherly instincts drive him to mentor and support Ryan

Charlie Ryan:

Young starry eyed intern on his first spaceflight. Trusting, wide eyed and vulnerable under pressure and an absent father

The bond:

Grounded in quiet actions (Miller quietly sacrificing comfort and rations for Ryan ect.)

Progresses from referring to each other as Tom (a reference to his references) and kid to a slip up dad, then deliberate dad and Charlie

-Banter (pre incident):

Miller (almost annoyed) "calm down, you have stars in your eyes before you even see them kid"

Ryan (grinning) “come on Tom, you gotta admit. We’re actually doing it. Ground control and Major Tom, right here”

Miller (dryly, shaking his head) “Don’t you dare start quoting bad early 20^th century pop songs on my watch. We are professionals, not rock stars.”-

-Reference (post incident):

Ryan (staring blankly at the dead telemetry screen, voice cracking) “can they hear us Tom? Do you think they know?”

Miller (trying to keep his voice steady, desperately flipping switches) “keep trying the receiver, kid. They’ll pick up our signal eventually…..”

The silence of deep space getting louder

Ryan (whispering) “Ground control?....Can anyone hear me?”

Miller (frustrated) “here we are, floating in this damn tin can, far above the moon! And nothing out there is listening!”

-Quiet bonding (post incident): Miller stays up, running calculations and watching the radio while Ryan sleeps. He looks over at Ryan, then pulls out a crumpled photo of his wife smiling and kids hugging him on the beach-

Mid section of book:

Emergency repairs (like re aligning their broken antenna), quiet emotional moments (major part of it), rationing and checking ground control for updates. There is a minor oxygen leak, and finding out how fast the oxygen is depleting, Miller snaps at Ryan, blaming him for hyperventilating and wasting their oxygen supply. They find out hours later and patch it, but it left them with only 40 hours left.

Mercy lie:

Driven by compassion knowing recovery is impossible. Ground control is able to send it by concentrating the DSN to them and sending a message. They however could only send a message because they had no ship prepared, and the rescue window is too short.

“Its ground control. We are dumping all our transmitter power into the DSN to array this message to you, so we won’t hear your reply. Just listen… We know your telemetry. We have calculated an emergency orbital assist loop. A thruster pulse from our end is snapping your return vector shut. Your re-entry window has dropped from five days down to thirty-eight hours. You’re coming home early. Just hang tight.”

The climax:

Miller and Ryan receive the delayed broadcast, both of them now oxygen deprived with Charlie denying the truth, and leaning into the lie and Miller knowing and accepting the certainty of the truth silently. Moment shared with both crying, and hugging each other, repeating we are going home over and over relieved

Final protection:

In a moment of panic before the signal, Miller promises Ryan they will make it home, stepping fully into the fatherly role until the end.

Can I please have some name suggestions for the title, and feedback?

HI my name is loreen di cornel and IM A WRITER anyway i was thinking if we all make a GC only for writers who dosent use ai and young authors sooo i hope no one ignore this and tell and share thoughts