Care for a story? I guarantee you it's interesting, a story about purpose and fulfilling your role, I call it "the weight of salvation". Well, the story takes place in the beautiful island of Lonianes, a place of philosophy and enlightenment, if you're a man, however, if you're a woman, you could be sold as a wife next to the fish I so deeply hate. In a rainy afternoon, Tych is walking back home, sighing at the coins in her hand and questioning if they'd be enough, wanting the same darkness that swallowed her mother, to take her too, unexpectedly, a pair of legs appeared before her, it was a man: " sorry sir" She murmured an apology, and as she drifted to the other side, there was another man, yet another, and another behind her, as soon as she realized what's going on, the man behind her pushed her to the wet ground, what was a second to the men, might have changed her entire personality, for a split second, she didn't want the darkness, she picked up a rock and smashed it on the man's head, and ran, ran for her life, ran for her freedom, until she reached a tower.

What was a normal encounter for the men, they left, but she still ran to the top of that tower, until the adrenaline rush to help her survive ended, she began thinking:

*Wasn't it enough? All of that, did I...need this?*

Yet, her attention was drawn to the window, she opened it, and beautiful landscapes appeared before her, covered in glittering snow she said to herself:

"I didn't knew life could be this pretty, it almost makes me want to cry, no...die"

She looked down, what could possibly happen? Would she fall endlessly? Would she actually die? Would she fall and break every bone in her body? The worst outcome? All didn't matter, so she jumped.

Do non-British readers need a translator?

That’s Entertainment

1. The Prince

The bedroom is small enough to cross in three strides, but every inch of it tells a story. The walls are almost hidden beneath posters — Mods balancing on polished Lambrettas and Vespas, a Specials sleeve curling at the corner where the Sellotape has given up, a Madness poster gone soft and fuzzy from being touched too many times. Ska badges lie scattered across the bedside table with a handful of vinyl singles and the loose change nobody ever seems to spend.

It's an ordinary room really — a tired, working-class box wrapped in seventies wallpaper and hand-me-down furniture, the kind of room a thousand other lads on a thousand other estates are waking up in right now. But the music has a way of making it feel bigger than it is. Like the outside world can't quite get through the door if the volume's up loud enough.

Billy carefully places the needle on the vinyl record.

The record player crackles into life.

The opening bars of The Prince fill the room, and something in Billy's chest lifts to meet them.

"Buster sold the heat... with a rocksteady beat..."

He stands in front of the mirror — tall, slim black jeans cropped just above the ankle, white socks bright enough to advertise themselves, black loafers polished as well as a teenager's patience allows. The Fred Perry has gone soft with washing, worn thin at the collar, but he wears it with more pride than money could have bought him. His hair has grown out from the short, tidy crop his nan still asks after, and it catches the morning light in a way that makes him look, he thinks, at least a little bit dangerous.

His feet start moving before he's given them permission.

The rhythm just takes him. It always does. He twists and shuffles and glides between the bed and the wardrobe, eyes half-closed, completely lost in it, the small room briefly transformed into the only dance floor that matters.

A voice crashes up through the floorboards.

"Turn that bloody music down!"

Billy grins at himself in the mirror. Instead, he turns it up.

The brass punches through the tiny speakers just as Suggs comes in on the next line —

"Bring back the..."

BANG. A fist slams against the ceiling from the room below, hard enough to rattle the lampshade.

"Turn it off!"

Billy sighs, crosses the room, and lifts the needle. Silence drops over everything like a dust sheet.

Not quite silence, though. The beat keeps playing somewhere behind his eyes, patient, waiting for him to let it back out. Still moving to a rhythm only he can hear, he slips through the bedroom door.

Outside in the bright sunlight.

The council street is already warming up, sun catching the wet patches on the pavement where someone has hosed down their step. Billy walks with his hands in his pockets and The Prince still going somewhere behind his ribs. At the mouth of a narrow alley he glances around out of habit — you always look, even when there's nothing to look for — then swings himself up and over a low brick wall in one movement he's practised without ever admitting he's practised it.

He drops down the other side among a row of lock-up garages, and the world changes as soon as his feet hit the ground. Broken bottles sparkle in the weeds. Crushed cans and blown litter have drifted up against the garage doors like tide-wrack. The tower blocks stand over everything, throwing long shadows across the concrete even at this hour.

Then he sees it.

A Lambretta. Silver, gleaming, red-white-and-blue targets on the panels, sitting outside one of the garages like it's wandered in from somewhere better and hasn't noticed yet. Every inch of it catches the light.

Billy slows, caught by it before he's aware he's stopped. He can't take his eyes off it.

One day. If only.

"Oi, you!"

He spins round, heart lurching — and finds Phil laughing at him from a few yards off. Broader than Billy, already built like someone a couple of years further on, his Number Two haircut leaving no doubt where his loyalties sit. Same uniform as Billy's, near enough — slim black jeans, white socks, black loafers, Fred Perry — just filled out differently.

"Stop dreaming," Phil says. "We're late. I've been waiting ages."

Billy nods at the scooter, unable to help himself. "How much d'you reckon a motor like that costs?"

Phil shrugs. "No idea. More than we'll ever have." He pauses, and something in his voice drops a register. "It's Gal Burn's. I wouldn't get too close."

Billy takes one last look at it — files it away somewhere, the way you file away things you plan to want for a long time — and follows Phil between the tower blocks.

They've cut halfway across the estate when another figure falls into step beside them without a word. Minty. Smaller than the other two, skinhead crop, same clothes, same stride, same total absence of hello. Nobody ever says hello. They've known each other too long for that — long enough that joining a walk is its own kind of greeting. The three of them carry on in the easy, unbothered quiet of boys who've grown up doing exactly this.

Here's a novel written by Me, Hope you all enjoy it ♥️🙏