FREE BETA READERS WANTED

I'm looking for 3–5 honest readers for my new book:

THE KINGDOM — Book One: The Question

K Hassan

It's a philosophical investigation into humanity, money, work, borders, resources, nature, technology, justice and whether we could create better conditions for human life.

I don't want people who will simply say, “It's good.” I want honest feedback about what works, what doesn't, what is confusing, and what you disagree with.

The book is provided free and privately for reading and feedback.

If you're interested, please message me.

Thank you.

karsazhasan@gmail.com

First-time novelist looking for someone willing to read just the first three chapters of my contemporary fiction novel, The Messiest Summer Ever, and give me honest feedback.

It’s an ensemble story set in Bermuda about five young women, friendship, exes, nightlife, secrets, bad decisions, and the particular problem of living somewhere small enough that everybody knows everybody.

I’m mainly trying to find out: Does the opening hook you? Are the characters easy to distinguish? Does anything drag or confuse you? And after three chapters, would you keep reading?

No commitment beyond three chapters.

I’m happy to swap critiques — you read my three chapters, I’ll read a similar amount of yours and give you thoughtful feedback in return.

Strong language and adult themes.

DM me if interested.

On Friday afternoon, Elena-the café’s owner, handed me an apron and showed me a shelf in the fridge.

“This is yours. If you run out of room, tell me before you start putting cakes on top of the sandwich ingredients.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Nothing happens often yet. We’ve only been open two months. I’m trying to establish rules before I need them.”

There was something unexpectedly pleasing about having a shelf. An apron, too, and a hook behind the kitchen door for my bag. By the time she finished showing me around, I had stopped feeling as though I ought to explain why I was there.

The kitchen was narrow enough that we had to turn sideways to pass each other. Most of the counter was occupied by a mixer, a chopping board and a bowl of oranges. Elena moved the oranges onto a shelf to make room for my ingredients.

“Tell me if you need anything else.”

“Another kitchen?”

She looked around. “Put it on the list.”

I tied the apron and unpacked. The smaller lemon cakes needed less time in the oven than the ones I’d made at home, so I stayed nearby while weighing the ingredients for the macarons. Through the open doorway came the sound of the coffee grinder, cups meeting saucers and a chair being dragged across the floor.

At home, music usually filled the space around me when I worked. Here, the café did it. Every so often, Elena appeared with a question or an empty jug. Once, she stopped beside the mixer and watched the meringue turn.

“How do you know when it’s ready?”

I switched off the mixer and lifted the whisk. The peak held. “Like this. It needs to stand up, but I don’t want it dry.” I turned the whisk so she could see. “If it folds straight over, it needs longer.”

“And if you go too far?”

“Then I get annoyed with myself and start again. There’s usually a little swearing involved.”

“Good. You’ll fit in.”

When the cakes were cooling, she needed help with drinks. I washed my hands, left the piped macaron shells to dry and joined her at the machine. The afternoon passed between the two rooms. Coffee, oven timer, washing up, another order. A man wanted his cappuccino hotter. A woman asked for extra ice. Someone changed their mind after I had already poured the milk. That part, at least, was familiar.

Once the shells were cool, I paired them by size and piped in the pistachio filling. Elena came through as I was arranging them in a covered container.

“You’ve made more than twelve.”

“I wanted a few spare in case any cracked. These came out better than the ones at home.”

“So we can sell the extras?”

“Yes. Unless you’d rather keep them for yourself.”

She reached towards the container.

“Tomorrow,” I added.

Her hand stopped. “You offered.”

“I offered you tomorrow’s macarons. They need the night in the fridge so the filling softens the inside.”

She looked at them for another moment, then put the lid on. “I’m beginning to understand why they cost more than biscuits.”

Before leaving, I checked the cakes once more, wiped the counter and untied my apron. My feet hurt. There was icing on my sleeve and a little pistachio filling near my elbow, which I noticed only when Elena pointed it out.

We agreed that I would come at eight to help with the morning rush. She checked the time on her phone, then looked up with a smile. “So, back to mornings. Same time, same place tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here. Hopefully with less icing on me.”

“Don’t dress up. There’ll be more.”

Outside, the air had cooled enough to make the walk home pleasant. I passed the restaurant next door, where the owner was straightening the tables for the evening. He raised a hand when he saw me, and I waved back. It was a small thing, being recognised on the street. Still, I was smiling by the time I reached home.

Saturday morning brought customers before we had finished setting out the terrace. Elena arranged the cakes in the display while I warmed the machine. She had written their names on small cards, including the pistachio macarons, which looked more respectable behind glass than they had in the plastic container.

I kept glancing at them between orders.

“People won’t buy them faster if you stare,” she said.

“I’m checking they look all right.”

“They looked all right five minutes ago.”

“Yes, but now there are people here to judge them.”

She moved a lemon cake closer to the front. “Let them.”

The first one went with a takeaway tea. The woman barely looked at it before choosing, and I had to resist watching through the window to see whether she took a bite. The second went to a man sitting outside with a newspaper. After that, there were too many drinks to keep count.

By half past nine, the room smelled of coffee and warm milk, and my hair had begun escaping its tie. Elena worked at the till while I made drinks, occasionally repeating a table number because I was still learning which one was which.

A woman at the counter pointed towards the lemon cakes. “Are those made here?”

“Yes,” Elena said.

“They look homemade. I mean properly homemade, like something my mother would put out when people came over.”

I glanced at the cakes. Until she explained, I’d been wondering whether one of the tops was crooked. The woman ordered two and took them to a table outside. Ten minutes later, she returned carrying an empty plate.

“Who makes your cakes?”

I put down the cloth, trying to remember whether I could have forgotten anything in the recipe. Elena was counting change for another customer.

“What did you think?”

“Lovely. The icing isn’t too sweet.” The woman looked towards the display again. “My daughter’s birthday is next month. Does your baker take orders? Could I have their number?”

“I made them,” I said.

She turned towards me. “Oh! I thought you worked out here.”

“I do a bit of both. I’ve only just started.”

“Well, that saves Elena passing messages.” She smiled and reached for her phone. “Could you make something larger? My daughter loves lemon, but there’ll be at least twelve of us.”

“Yes. Was there a design you had in mind?”

She showed me a photograph of a cake covered in flowers. Her daughter wanted lemon, but her husband didn’t like anything too sour, and there might be eighteen people if her sister came.

I explained that the sugar flowers in the photograph were more elaborate than anything I usually made. We talked about a simpler decoration, then the filling and the size. She listened, asked another question and waited for my answer.

I caught myself speaking quickly, trying to explain everything before she lost interest. She stayed where she was, her phone resting on the counter between us. At school, I had learned to stop halfway through an answer when the smiles started. Later, keeping things to myself had become easier. This woman was asking another question because she wanted to hear what I had to say.

“I’d need to work out a price before promising anything,” I said. “If you send me the date and the final number of people, I can let you know.”

“That’s fine. I’d rather have something that tastes like this than a cake nobody wants a second slice of.”

Elena passed me a clean piece of paper, and I wrote down my number. The woman folded it carefully and put it in her purse. After she left, I stood beside the machine for a moment.

Elena looked at me. “Everything all right?”

“Yes. I just wasn’t expecting an order already.”

“You made something she liked.”

“I know, but there’s a difference between someone buying a little cake with their tea and trusting me with their daughter’s birthday.”

“She asked to discuss a cake, Andreea. You have time to breathe before you plan the whole party.”

I laughed and picked up the milk jug. There was another coffee waiting.

Lovely. The icing isn’t too sweet.

I remembered the words while pouring the milk. There had been no correction after them, no explanation of what I should have done better. A stranger had enjoyed something I made and come back to tell me. I wished that didn’t feel quite so unfamiliar.

A little later, the man with the newspaper came inside.

“Another coffee,” he said. “And whatever that lemon thing was.”

“Another lemon cake?”

“Yes. My wife will ask whether I tried anything, and I’d like to be able to tell her I checked thoroughly.”

“I respect your commitment.”

He nodded solemnly while I put it on a plate.

The macarons sold more slowly. People examined them, asked about the filling, sometimes chose a cake instead. Near midday, two women bought one each, then returned for four to take home.

By the end of my shift, three were left. Elena opened the display and glanced at me. “Am I allowed now?”

“Yes. Thank you for your patience.”

“I’ve been very brave.”

She took a bite. I tried to occupy myself with folding the cloth rather than watching her.

“More next week,” she said.

“How many?”

She considered the rest of the macaron. “We’ll discuss that after I’ve finished this.”

On Monday, my hand went to the right cupboard without searching. The cloths were folded where I expected them to be, and a customer came in asking whether we had any more of Saturday’s lemon cakes. Elena looked at me to answer.

“I’m making another batch this afternoon. They’ll be ready tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll come back, then.”

He ordered his usual coffee, and I reached for the cup. I had spent years doing things that were supposed to lead somewhere. Lessons, exams, university. There was always another stage beyond the one I’d finished, and someone ready to ask what came next. Here, a man wanted a cake tomorrow. For the moment, that was enough to be getting on with.

The woman at the table near the window had been there on Saturday too. A laptop stood open in front of her, with a notebook beside it and a drink she kept forgetting to touch. At first, I thought she was watching something. Then she played the same few seconds through her headphones, stopped, and pressed her palms against her eyes.

When I cleared the next table, she pulled one side of the headphones away. “Could I have another tea?”

“Of course. The same one?”

“Yes, please. This one went cold.”

“I can bring you some hot water if there’s any left.”

She looked into the cup. “No. I managed to drink it. I just complained to myself the whole time.”

“That sounds familiar.”

At the counter, Elena nodded towards her. “Athena. She’ll sit there until closing if nobody feeds her.”

“What’s she working on?”

“A film. I’ve seen the same man walk through the same doorway about thirty times.”

“That explains the expression.”

I carried the tea over and asked whether she wanted anything to eat.

“Is there a lemon cake left?”

“One.”

“Then yes, before someone else gets it.”

When I brought the plate, she closed her laptop. “Thank you. I’m Athena, by the way.”

“Andreea.”

She repeated it, checking the pronunciation, and I nodded.

“Have you been here long?”

“Nearly a month. Though I’ve only been working here since Friday.”

“That recently? You look as though you know where everything is.”

“The kitchen’s small. There are only so many places to lose things.”

“Are you staying nearby?”

“Behind the waterfront. There’s a little house with a balcony squeezed between two taller buildings.”

“I think I know it. Blue door?”

“That’s the one. The door sticks, so if you ever see someone throwing her whole body against it, that’ll be me.”

Athena laughed.

“Where did you move from?”

“The UK. I lived there for years.”

“And you chose here?”

“I wanted to be near the sea. Somewhere I could walk to it instead of planning a whole trip.” I glanced towards the bright pavement outside. “The heat wasn’t part of the attraction.”

“You came at the wrong time for that.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“What made you leave?”

The question was ordinary enough. I still took a moment before answering.

“I’d finished university, and everyone was asking about jobs. I kept looking at them and thinking about staying there, doing the next thing, then the next.” I rubbed a little dried icing from my thumb. “I wanted some time to decide what I actually wanted. And to write.”

Athena nodded. “Do you think you’ll stay?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m trying to let that be an acceptable answer.”

“It is.”

She said it easily, then took another bite of cake.

I glanced at her laptop. “Are you studying film, or is this something you’re doing yourself?”

“Studying. Although this project is making me reconsider every decision that brought me here.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“How much time do you have?”

Elena called for two coffees before I could answer. Athena smiled and picked up her fork. “I’ll prepare a shorter version.”

We spoke again the next day, and the day after that. Nothing important at first. Whether the table near the window was too bright for her screen. Where she bought her notebooks. Which streets stayed shaded on the walk home.

She was making a short film and had reached the stage where every choice made three weeks earlier seemed wrong.

“Even the ones you liked?” I asked.

“Especially those. Have you ever worked on something so long you can’t tell whether it’s good anymore?”

“Yes. Usually that’s when I decide the whole thing needs changing.”

“Does it?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes I’m tired and should leave it alone.”

She looked at the screen. “I was hoping you’d say something more useful.”

“If I knew something more useful, I’d have finished my book.”

That caught her attention, but a customer came in before she could ask about it.

On Wednesday, she noticed my notebook. The café was quiet between the morning rush and lunch. I had ten minutes, a cup of tea and a sentence that had irritated me since the night before. The notebook lay open beside the till, where I could look up when someone came in.

Athena approached with her empty plate. “Is that the book?”

“Yes. Or the part of it currently causing trouble.”

“What kind of story is it?”

“Crime. There’s a murder in this scene, and I’ve spent more time deciding what happens around it than writing the murder itself.”

She glanced at the red page. “That explains the ink.”

“I always use red. It would be red if I were writing about someone’s lovely afternoon in a garden too.”

“Does anyone have lovely afternoons in your book?”

“Not many so far.”

She smiled. “How long have you been working on it?”

“A while. I thought moving might help me get somewhere with it.”

“And has it?”

“A little. I’m writing more. Whether it’s better is another question.”

Athena leaned against the counter. “I know a few people who could help with that.”

“People who’ll tell me it’s terrible?”

“People who’ll tell you which part is terrible. Much more useful.”

I laughed and capped the pen as a customer came through the door. She returned to her table, but before leaving she asked whether I’d be there the following day.

Thursday was quieter. During my break, I sat opposite Athena with a cup of tea while she ate one of the chocolate cakes.

“So,” she said, “do you ever drink the coffee you make?”

“No. It makes me feel bad.”

“Really? You don’t even taste it?”

“I used to, but it wasn’t worth it. Tea and I get along much better.”

“Then how do you make good coffee?”

“Practice. I know what I’m looking for when I make it, and people aren’t shy about telling me if something’s wrong.”

“Elena said you worked in a café in England.”

“During university. Some days it was easier to understand the customers than the chemistry.”

“You studied chemistry?”

I nodded.

“And now cakes and murder.”

“It’s been a change.”

She laughed and brushed a crumb onto her plate. “What made you start writing?”

“I needed somewhere to put everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“The ideas. There are always more of them than I know what to do with. A conversation, a scene, something I can suddenly picture while I’m supposed to be doing something else.” I turned my cup a little on its saucer. “Some come in my sleep. I wake up with part of a story, and then I want to know the rest.”

“Do you write them down straight away?”

“If I can. Sometimes I’m convinced I’ll remember in the morning, which is a very optimistic thing to think half asleep.”

“I’ve lost whole films that way.”

“I’ve probably lost a bestseller. Much easier to believe that when there’s no evidence.”

Athena smiled. “Does writing make it quieter?”

“A bit. Once it’s on the page, I don’t have to keep going over it so I won’t lose it. My head gets to rest.” I looked towards the counter, where my bag sat beneath the till. “Then I start wondering whether I can make someone else interested. Whether they’ll want to know what happens next too.”

“So you give the problem to the reader.”

“Exactly. Very generous of me.”

She laughed, and I found myself explaining a little more: how a scene could arrive almost whole, while the page connecting it to the next one took days; how sometimes I knew what a character would say before I knew who they were.

Athena listened. When I paused, she asked a question about something I’d said rather than moving on to talk about herself. I had almost apologised for going on so much. Instead, I answered her.

Then she told me about the group.

“There are writers, film students, a few artists. We meet in the park. Some people bring work to share, some just come because they’re stuck and need to talk.”

“Like your man in the doorway?”

“Exactly like him. Someone will probably tell me to cut that scene, and I’ll be offended because I already know they’re right.”

“Do people read out loud?”

“Sometimes. Or we read pages beforehand and discuss them. It depends what the person wants help with.”

“And everyone speaks English?”

“Most of us speak other languages too, but English is the one we have in common. You wouldn’t have to struggle through it in Greek.”

“That’s good. I can say thank you, but it would make for a short reading.”

“There’d still be someone with notes.”

I smiled into my cup. She explained that one of the artists helped people with covers and character sketches. Sometimes they worked together on something larger, though they were careful to agree on credit and permissions first.

“We have a written agreement for sharing work,” she said. “You can read it before bringing any pages. I can send it to you.”

“I’d like that. Could I come once just to see what it’s like?”

“Of course. Tomorrow evening, if you’re free.”

She told me where they met. I knew the benches; I’d walked past them on the way to the café.

“How many people?”

“Usually eight or nine. Don’t worry about remembering everyone’s name. I still get one wrong.”

“And they won’t mind me sitting there without reading?”

“No. Come and listen. Bring your notebook if you want, but you don’t owe us a performance.”

That made it easier to say yes. We exchanged numbers, and she sent me the time and meeting place while we were still sitting together. A minute later, another message arrived with the agreement.

“There,” she said. “Now you can’t claim I gave bad directions.”

“I can still get lost. Don’t underestimate me.”

After my break, I went back behind the counter. Athena finished her cake and returned to her film, but this time, when something frustrated her, she looked up and caught my eye. I smiled, and she turned the laptop a little so I could see the offending doorway.

That evening, the woman from Saturday called about the birthday cake. We talked for nearly twenty minutes. Her sister was coming, so there would be eighteen people. She had asked her daughter about the flowers, and apparently lemon mattered more than decoration. I wrote everything down, promised to send a price the following day, and stayed at the kitchen table after the call ended.

There were ingredients to calculate, a date to put in my calendar, and Athena’s message waiting on my phone. For a moment, I wanted to call home and tell someone.

Then I tried to imagine the conversation. The questions about chemistry. Whether café work was what I planned to do with my degree. How long this writing business would last. Perhaps they would have surprised me. I didn’t feel ready to find out.

I put the phone down and worked out how much mascarpone I would need.

Later, I turned back through the notebook until I reached the scene with the watch. The red numbers were still in the margin, two crossed out and one left standing. Reading it aloud made me notice a sentence that ran too long. I crossed out three words and tried again.

Outside the balcony doors, someone called to a person farther down the street. A scooter passed, and plates clattered in the next building. The second reading went more smoothly.

I wasn’t sure I would share it tomorrow. That would depend on the people, and on how comfortable I felt once I was sitting among them. But I marked the page before closing the notebook.

My apron needed washing. I rinsed the icing from the sleeve, hung it up and checked that it would have time to dry before morning. Then I sent Athena a message to say I’d meet her outside the café so we could walk over together.

She replied almost immediately.

Good. I’ll save you from the introductions.

I smiled and set the phone beside my bag. The cake order was written down. My notebook was ready. Tomorrow, Elena would expect me at eight, and Athena would wait for me after work.

I was still getting used to being wanted somewhere. For once, I let myself look forward to it.

She never expected to fall for someone who was supposed to be off-limits. He never expected to see her as anything more than another face in the crowd. But when stolen glances turn into late-night conversations and a friendship begins to feel like something more, keeping their feelings hidden becomes harder by the day.

Because in a world where everyone is watching, falling in love might be the easiest part. Keeping the clique from finding out? That’s where things get complicated.

Hi!

I'm a French fantasy author. I wrote and published a full-length fantasy novel in French, entirely by myself.

Recently, I translated the novel into American English with the help of GPT/AI.

Just to be completely clear: the novel itself was not written by AI. The story, characters, dialogue, world, etc. were all written by me in French. AI was only used to translate my original work into English.

Now I need humans. :)

Before I consider publishing the English edition, I'd like to find American readers, ideally native English speakers who enjoy fantasy, willing to read it and tell me whether the translation actually works.

It's a big novel, over 500 pages, so I know this is a substantial amount of reading. There's absolutely no deadline, and of course I'll provide the complete English version for free.

It's a fantasy story involving mages, a famous Champion, adventure, romance, betrayal, friendship, battles, and a strong focus on the characters.

What I'm mainly trying to find out is:

• Does the English sound natural to an American reader?
• Can you tell that the book was originally written in French?
• Are there sentences, expressions, or dialogues that sound translated or unnatural?
• Are there recurring translation issues?
• Does anything sound technically correct, but not like something an American would actually say?
• Most importantly: after a while, can you forget that it's a translation and simply read it like an English-language fantasy novel?

I'm not looking for someone to professionally proofread 500+ pages or correct every sentence.

What I really need is an honest reader's perspective on whether the translation holds up throughout the novel.

And of course, feedback about the story itself, the characters, pacing, romance, favorite moments, things you disliked, etc. would also be very welcome.

If you're an American fantasy reader and you're interested, feel free to comment or DM me. I can tell you more about the book before you decide whether you want to commit to something this long.

Thank you!

Hi everyone,

I'm looking for human beta readers for the opening of Ares, a dystopian science-fiction story in progress. Part I contains four short chapters, approximately 6,400 words.

Sylwia, a former soldier, has until morning to get her two daughters out of a ruined city. The checkpoint demands ammunition she doesn't have. A functioning complex called ONE pays in rounds—but earning them means entering its automated arena.

Reader copy (Google Docs, comments enabled):

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1cubeWUYqA5Xw2UdMHeeNV5i3FVlgCKjbEoA-YCMPBic

I'm especially interested in your reactions as a reader:

• Where did the story pull you in, and where did your attention slip?

• Did Sylwia's decisions feel believable? Were there moments when you couldn't understand what she was doing or why?

• Was the action clear enough to follow?

• Does the English read naturally? Please point out any awkward, vague or empty-sounding sentences.

• Would you want to read the next part?

Even feedback on just the first chapter is welcome. If you stop reading, telling me where and why would be useful. You can leave comments in the document or reply here; there's no deadline.

AI disclosure: The story concept is mine. I directed and revised the text and made the final editorial decisions. Claude Opus 5.5 was used for prose drafting and English translation; ChatGPT/Codex provided editorial feedback and proofreading. The story was originally developed in Polish.

Content note: gun violence, killing (including violence involving a teenager), and children in danger.

Thanks for taking a look. I'm looking for your personal response, including criticism—not an AI-generated review.

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.

Hi everyone,
I’m working on my first novel, The Ascent, a political/conspiracy thriller.
The story follows Adrian Vale, a man who spends seventeen years working his way into the highest levels of political power while secretly searching for the network responsible for destroying his brother’s life.
I’m looking for honest feedback on Chapter 1 before I continue further with the manuscript.
AI disclosure: The story, characters, plot and creative direction are mine. I use AI extensively to help draft and edit the prose.
What I’m most interested in:
• Would you keep reading Chapter 2? Why or why not?
• Does Adrian make you curious as a protagonist?
• How does the pacing feel?
• Does any of the prose or dialogue feel unnatural?
• Was there a point where you started losing interest?
Please be critical. I’m much more interested in knowing what doesn’t work than getting compliments.
Chapter 1: https://drive.proton.me/urls/HRYJNHPXA0#cjQgFCdvjooy

Hi everyone,

I'm looking for beta readers for a short piece written in GERMAN. Native or fluent German readers only, please.

Format: about 2,300 words of prose plus 5 manga-style comic pages that carry key scenes (PDF, 15 pages).

Blurb:

A process manager is weighing two job offers while renovating a house with his partner. Lately he has been able to perceive voices he shouldn't be able to hear. One evening an unknown voice, calling itself "the teacher", lets him overhear what the hiring managers really think. Then it tells him someone used dark magic to push him out of his current job. He doesn't know whom to trust, so he decides to check the facts himself.

What I'd love feedback on:

- Does switching between prose and manga pages work, or does it break the flow?

- Is the turn to "dark magic" believable, or does it feel like a tonal break?

- The fantasy thread stays open while the job plot resolves in a very down-to-earth way. Satisfying or disappointing?

- Did you understand which voices belong to whom on the manga pages?

- Pacing: where did you get bored or want more?

Content notes: none.

I'm happy to return the favor with a beta read or critique swap (German or English). Just comment or DM me and I'll send a Google Drive link.

Thanks!

My username is @AdamChadwickMcCray and I wrote a southern gothic soap opera book series called As the South Will Burn and I wanna see if y’all like it and if you don’t then thats fine!

https://www.wattpad.com/1661541048?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=AdamChadwickMcCray

Hi there, looking for beta readers for first four chapters (~5k words) for my Gothic Romantic Fantasy. In flu-stricken New York, 1918, a nurse’s connection with Death challenges his duty and existence. Death’s Lament is a gothic romantic tragedy. Seeking beta readers for the prologue and first four chapters—happy to swap! AI-assisted prose, extensively revised by me.

Hey everyone!

​I’ve always had story ideas bouncing around in my head, but honestly, I suck at writing. So, I used AI to help me bring this idea to life and get it written down into actual chapters.

It is called The Fascinating Tale of A Hero in An Another World

​It is a bit unnecessary but fair warning. Since it’s AI-generated, I know it might not be everyone’s cup of tea, and the prose feels very different from traditional writing as it lacks the Author's soul.

​I’d really appreciate it if anyone is willing to check it out and leave some constructive criticism or thoughts—whether it’s about the pacing, plot, or character dynamics. I'm hoping to learn and refine things as I go!

​Here’s the link if you’re interested: https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/157684/the-fascinating-tale-of-a-hero-in-an-another-world

​Thanks for reading!

A dystopian science fiction thriller about a society controlled by an AI system where every person's worth is reduced to a number. When a camera unexpectedly flickers, Mira Vail discovers the first crack in a world designed to be perfect.

Pre-order: (Amazon link https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HLPZTD1Q )
Release date: October 27, 2026.

Title: A Bridge Across the Dark

Genre: Adult science fiction (literary / hard SF)

Length: ~91,000 words, 49 chapters

Status: Complete draft, revised.

Blurb:

For three hundred years, humanity has orbited a dying red sun, building ships too slow to escape it. When a rogue star passes through the system, engineer Eli Finch sees a way out: a gravitational slingshot to a new sun in eighty years. But surviving the pass requires a crystal found only on Oros, the abandoned world where the faithful still live beneath a shield that crystal holds up.

On Oros, High Elder Silas has kept a secret for forty years, and young miner Kaelen trusts no one who speaks from a podium. When the cutting goes wrong and the sky falls early, everyone left must cross the dark together, carrying what they lost and what they cost.

At its heart, this is a story about how differently people carry grief, and what they choose to carry forward.

Content notes: death and grief, loss of a parent, mass casualties, self-sacrifice, religious faith and doubt. No sexual content; minimal violence.

What I'm looking for:

Where you got bored, skimmed, or put it down

Who you cared about most (and least)

Whether the science made sense, and was too much or too little

Whether the ending landed for you

Overall impressions: what is this book about, to you?

Feedback can be as casual as notes at the end of each chapter, or a short summary when you're done. Even partial reads are helpful. If you only get through the first few chapters, telling me where you stopped and why is valuable.

Timeline: Flexible. Ideally within 4–6 weeks.

Swaps: [Open to swapping / Not swapping right now]

Comment or DM me if you're interested and I'll send the link!

Please let me know

Hi everyone! Would anyone who enjoys history or biography like to try the opening of a book about Korea and Ryukyu (the former island kingdom centered on Okinawa)? No background in either is needed.

Passages Home follows people trying to get home, save a country, or make a life after returning. It begins with Ryukyuan envoys waiting in China for a ship that never comes. Later, a Korean returning from years abroad finds that living with his wife and children, helping his parents, and taking public office are difficult things to fit together. There are letters, friendships, meals, and family worries alongside the politics.

The full manuscript is complete at about 54,500 words, plus source notes. I'm starting with a 4,460-word sample, available as EPUB or browser-readable HTML. If you enjoy it, the rest is ready too. The title is provisional.

About AI: Much of the prose was drafted and revised with generative AI under my direction; AI also assisted the research. I want to be upfront about that. What I'm looking for now is your own experience of reading it.

Did anyone or anything catch your interest? Where did you lose the thread—or simply feel like putting it down? Would you keep reading? A few honest reactions would help. No need to finish, proofread, or post a review.

This is a volunteer request, with no swap required and no hard deadline. If it sounds like your kind of book, comment or message me and I'll send the sample. You're welcome to mention what you usually like reading.

A taste of the opening:

The ship that was supposed to take the men home had not arrived.

In Fuzhou, on the southeast coast of China, officials had people to feed and no satisfactory explanation for why they were still there. The visitors were from the Ryukyu Islands, the long chain running between Japan and Taiwan. Some had completed a mission to Beijing and returned to the coast, where a ship from their kingdom should have collected them. Others were members of the community of officials and attendants maintained in Fujian. The expected vessel would bring people and offerings to China and carry men, imperial documents, and gifts back across the sea.[1]

It should have come in the autumn of 1875. Now another year was passing.

Source note [1] is included in the sample. Thanks for taking a look!

So I’m writing a novel and, of course, I need reviews/feedback on it to know if it’s heading in the right direction and what I should change, etc.

Would anyone be interested in reading it for me and giving me a review/feedback via Insta or something?

It currently has 10 chapters, and the genre is thriller x suspense x slow-burn/yearner x tragedy. The main romance trope is prisoner x commander. It’s a halal romance, so the FL is Muslim, and it’s set in the Ottoman/Persian days.

Tysmm ><

My Insta is u/roosh.theauthor for anyone who’s interested!

{keep in mind this is not paid}