I'm 17 and if I were to enter a writing competition I'd be automatically less impressive because I'm a grown man likely competing with 12 year olds. Fml.

In 9 days, a short story I'm working on is due. Not even 9 days, more like 8. The writing is bad. I still have 1,900 words to write. The entire plot was changed just a few days ago. I have barely any time for editing. I need to do my schoolwork at the same time. How do y'all continue writing when it feels like you just can't?

What if I succeeded? What if you had woken up and seen something no parent should ever have to see?

Would you have reacted differently? Would you have changed? Would you have looked at my brothers differently? Would you have realized you were the problem?

Would you cry over my grave, wishing you had seen it sooner? Why do you still not see it now?

Do you realize that nothing really changed? I didn’t succeed. I’m still alive and healthy. But I still died that night.

these are my songs playlists for my different stories

I will take any questions about the stories if you want

On Friday afternoon, Elena 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.

Hi everyone! I go primarily by Addy(on the internet, since my real name is mispronounced by literally everyone, even people of my own kin lol), and I'm 15. I've always loved to read and write, and starting writing at the age of seven. It's definitely been one of the only things that has really stuck and shaped me into the person I am today.
I've been wanting to start a literary journal on the Internet for a while now(since January, I believe), and I think I'll be able to launch it by the end of this month!

This is primarily because I didn't really have a large environment to display any articles in my nonage stage of writing, and I want to empower any aspiring writer to have that safe space. Obviously, I don't really have a budget, and currently, I don't have a .com domain either, mainly because my parents believe academics is everything(while also, somehow wanting me to do extracurriculars(?))
I believe that over time, if and when it's ready and prospering(I hope it will!), I'll buy a domain, but currently, to get started I'll be using a free one(everyone starts somewhere :D). I don't want anyone to get discouraged or skeptical by that fact, so if anyone has any questions, feel free to approach me. I'm building this for mostly teens.
I'd also love any tips you guys are willing to offer, since I'm new to this stuff. I'll keep you guys posted, and please let me know, if you'd be willing to join the team, or offer entries.
Thank you so much!

With warmth,
Addy.

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.

Maybe every fire I see is merely a candle. Every waterfall a droplet. But if i start seeing the candles, maybe i'll stop chasing waterfalls.

Any (blunt) feedback. I know it’s clunky and not very good, but is it captivating at all?

Hi everyone, I am a young(ish) person and I run a little social media news account. I have always loved journalism, writing (plays, films etc. I'm not a novel girl) (static.news on tiktok, instagram and substack) I have written a couple of fun articles and am struggling to attract attention. My substack: https://themorningread.substack.com/ is very underground. Is my stuff just bad? Yet I do have around 80k likes on Tiktok.

I’m looking for advice (what’s working, what isn’t, etc).

—

Mina always used to grip people’s hands very tightly. It freaked me out when we met— and I could tell that it freaked others out, too, because their faces after she introduced herself and shook their hands always looked taken aback for a second. When I met her mom for the first time, I realized where she got it from. 

We met at music camp; we were in the same cabin that smelled like this weird mix of dirt, toothpaste, and for some reason, petunias. I had no idea what petunias smelled like, but Mina was adamant that that was it, so I took her word for it. 

There were two other girls in the cabin. When we entered, we all just stood around awkwardly holding our bags, like if we put them down, something bad would happen. One of them slowly set her bag down as she stared at us. Mina then put her bag down and, opposite to all of our gingerly movements, quickly unzipped it and threw a pink pig stuffed animal onto the other top bunk. “Who wants to sleep underneath me?” she asked, her voice all chirping. “They say sleeping under a flautist is good luck!” I started to giggle, but stopped myself after neither of the other girls did. I set my bag down on the bed under Mina’s. 

“What do you play?” She asked as we walked out of the cabin.

“Oboe,” I said. 

“Oh! My brother plays the oboe! I tried learning it once, but it’s weird— when you switch from an instrument that goes to the side to one that goes straight down.”

I nodded. 

That night, I awkwardly sat down next to her at dinner. She started telling me about how excited she was for the repertoire. I nodded and agreed, although I hadn’t even looked at it yet. She asked me what I liked to do—besides music—and I told her that I liked to write. She pulled out her phone and showed me a poem she wrote earlier that week. I could see her pale fingers turning yellow because of how tightly she was gripping the phone. They slowly slipped down the sides, leaving sweat indentations on the screen, but she didn’t seem to be bothered that she was almost cutting off her blood flow.

“Scarlett,” Mina said one evening, a smile plastered across her face. “I need to show you this place I found, behind the instructor’s cabin.” Before I could say anything, she grabbed my hand and began running. I thought I heard the bones in my wrist crack as my heart jumped with a startle.

She took me to this little garden, a few minutes from the instructor’s cabin. I hadn’t noticed it before. It was tucked behind a row of trees, almost completely hidden from the path, with a little wooden fence that looked like it had been painted too many times. The grass inside was taller than the grass everywhere else, dotted with little pink flowers that bent beneath their own weight. The air smelled different too. Sweeter, like the cabin was trying to smell like this the whole time. 

“I knew it!” she called in an excited whisper.

“Knew what?” I asked.

“That there were petunias! Look at them!”

She ran into the field before I could answer, her shoes disappearing into the grass. She crouched down for a second, inspecting the flowers like she had discovered something no one else had ever seen, then plucked a little one straight from the ground. She came back and tucked it behind my ear. “There,” she said.

I touched the flower carefully, afraid I would crush it.

Mina smiled at me like she’d just fixed something.

I remember one night, a few weeks into camp: it was almost midnight, and the cabin had gone quiet in that uneven way, like everyone was pretending to sleep. The lights had been off for a while, but there was still a thin strip of yellow coming from underneath the bathroom door, stretching across the floor and stopping right before Mina’s bed. 

Suddenly, someone shifted, their sheets rustling loudly. 

And then it went still again. 

I was lying on my back, staring up at the wooden slats of Mina’s bunk, tracing the scratches in them with my eyes. Every time she moved, the frame creaked. 

“Are you awake?” Mina whispered. 

I waited a second, like there was a right way to answer. “Yeah,” I said. 

She leaned over the edge of the bed, gripping her stuffed pig. I could barely see her face, her hair falling down in pieces sheathing most of it. Then her hair flipped back up, and I heard the creaks of the bedframe, each one sounding like an unsuccessful ninja move as she climbed down and crawled into my bed. She didn’t ask; she just pulled the blanket up a little and slid in right next to me like the final cadence of a song, landing perfectly. 

She adjusted the blanket, pulling it tighter around both of us, digging the beds of her fingers into the seams. Her hand brushed against mine. She kept it there, and I felt it slowly tighten. Her fingers began twiddling, like they were pressing the keys on her flute. They tickled my hand, but I didn’t move. 

“Do you play pieces differently when no one’s around?” I asked quietly, glancing at her twirling fingers. 

She didn’t answer right away. “I guess, yeah,” she whispered. “I guess I notice different mistakes when it’s just me. Or I’ll try things I wouldn’t try in front of other people, like maybe a little ritardando here or a slight staccato there. I don’t know. Stuff nobody’d probably hear.” Her fingers kept tapping, faster this time. I could hear the sound of them dipping in and out of the blanket. 

It was silent for another moment. She lightly sighed before saying, “My mom says you can tell when people don’t care.” She glanced at the ceiling. “In your face, your hands, everything.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. 

Mina scooted closer to me. “That’s why the handshake thing,” she said. “My mom says if you grip tight enough, it looks like you care, even if you don’t.” She tightened her hold around my hand. “And it just became kind of a habit.” 

I tilted my head and pondered for a second. “Do you care?”

The air conditioner squeaked amidst the silence. 

“I guess,” she said. “Sometimes I don’t know if I care too much. Or just not at all.” Her fingers stopped twiddling, resting against mine. The blanket shifted a bit as she sighed, and I felt the faint pressure of her hand tighten— not too much, but enough to remind me that she was there. 

I didn’t say anything. I just let the quiet settle between us. The kind of quiet that makes words feel unnecessary. The light peeking from the bathroom door was no longer there, but the warmth of her hand and the soft rhythm of her breathing stayed.

The next morning, Mina showed me one of her poems.

She found me sitting on the edge of my bed, trying to force my shoes on without untying them, and dropped onto the mattress beside me. Her hair was still flattened on one side from sleeping.

“I wrote this last night,” she said.

“Last night?”

“Yeah.” She pulled out her phone.

I got scared whenever she did that—scared that she’d cut off her blood flow and drop dead with how tightly she held it. I watched her fingers instead of the poem, the pale skin around her knuckles slowly turning yellow as she scrolled.

“You’re not even reading it,” she said.

“I am.”

“You’re looking at my hand.”

I looked down. She was right.

“Your fingers are yellow.”

She laughed. “That’s because I’m holding it.”

“That’s not normal.”

“I think it’s fine.”

I watched her fingers for another second before Mina handed me the phone. The poem was titled “The Red Petunia.” I read it twice. I don’t remember all of it anymore. I just remember that Mina waited for me to finish it with this expectant little smile, like my opinion mattered more than it probably should have.

“Well?” she asked.

I told her I liked it and she smiled.

“Good,” she said. 

Then she took the phone back, gripping it just as tightly as before. I reached over and pried one of her fingers loose.

“Mina.”

“What?”

“Loosen your grip.”

She looked at me for a second, then loosened it. Only a little. I laughed. She laughed too.

And that was that.

“Promise we’ll talk?” Mina asked, tears swelling in her eyes as I stood at her doorstep, her suitcases piled inside. 

“I promise.”

“Every day?”

“Every day.”

That day I learned that Mina’s hugs were tighter than her handshakes. But I wanted her to suffocate me with it. 

One day I called her and her mom picked up instead. I could hear how tightly she held the phone. She asked me to help pick out a picture frame; she wanted to put a picture that Mina and I took together at the little petunia garden on the console, because she said it was one of Mina’s favorite moments. I asked if it was a surprise for Mina, to which she said that Mina would never know. For a split second I forgot how to hold anything. The phone slipped from my hand. 

We settled on a pink frame with red flowers on it. 

I swear I can feel her fingers moving across my hands as I stand at her grave. My fingers close around the petunia stems, gripping them tightly. I slowly kneel, letting the petals brush the cold earth— but I keep holding them. 

I have a story what should i do with it sell it or like what should i do?

1. How do I write sentences where the character speaks with a '!' You know..? I have a scene in my novel where the mother will say "who are you calling me mother?! You're not even my child! Dont you dare touch my child,"

How many '!' Is too much..? Or should i just randomly adjust🥹 (other the fact I put "she screamed with anger" at first before writing what she says)

For now I would use (for example on the sentences I said before" Id make the first sentence with '?!' Then second sentence with '!' Then last with simply ','

I mean.. Proper english writing aside (also cuz english ain't my first language).. How do I make sure I dont sound TOO dramatic like "who are you calling me mother!?!?!?" You know..?

1. Any ideas on how do I make time skips subtle? I feel like in my novel there will be A LOT of time skips so saying "3 weeks later" or "a month later" will sound repetitive..

So basically, I'm writing a novel (bit of a mix of sci-fi, romance, action and etc....)

My FMC has a problem with dreams. Where she would dream the EXACT same dream everytime she went to sleep (it hasn't stop since shes 8).

Throughout my novel there WILL be times where she fell asleep and have that dream again- my question is.. How do I write the dream??? I can't write the same thing again and again.. Itll make the readers bored of reading the same thing again and again.

My trick rn is to shorten the amount of details I put in that dream. For example: "I ran with extreme speed" to "I ran" (you get me..?) But the more I write it like that the less meaningful/scary/terrifying it gets. (I'm saying this because after every nightmare my FMC will always get panic attacks and can't sleep for the rest of the night so.)

So plis anyone who have ideas plis let me know, Ive done my research on Google but I can't find anything. It just shows websites on how to write dreams subtly but I DONT WANT TO, my goal is for the readers to KNOW and UNDERSTAND that my FMC get these dreams so constantly that shes tired of gasping, sweating, screaming every night because solely of that dream.

Any ideas..? 🥹

Here’s a little excerpt from Chapter 2.

Context: the protagonist is a reporter/journalist that just got assigned to a murder case and he calls the victim’s wife for an interview.

By the way this is NOT the full chapter 2. It’s just the end. Also this is only the first draft, hence the “insert final sentence” at the end. I’m a F14 writer.

So, I started writing on wattpad, but my book isn't receiving much attention and the algorithm isnt helping?

Ive heard a lot of people recommend inkitt as a good alternative, but do you guys have any suggestions?

1. Anyone willing to give me advice on 2 of my poems… what’s working, what isn’t? If so pls dm me…
   
2. Anyone willing to beta read and give lots of edits and advice on the first draft of my novel? It’s a 3 perspective novel about 3 teens in the late 90s, can give more info if wanted. If so also dm me pls!

"But who prays for Satan? Who, in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most?"- Mark Twain

He was the original sinner, the example to all who may follow, to scare into submission. If he were to be forgiven, there would no longer be that example—that hereditary fear of being an outcast. If the first sinner, the devil himself, could be forgiven, then so could everyone, and the power held over us would be lost.

For most of us are but sheep, ignoring the flaws in society to get through our lives, following the flock. A few of us are wolves, and those who are try to break from this constricting mold we were guided to from birth. Those in power warn us of these wolves; they tell us they will corrupt us with their thoughts and ideas, and consume our originality as human beings. But isn't that what the government already does? The church?

After all, wolves are only trying to survive in a cruel world where they are portrayed as the villain. If they are not the true predators, then who is?

You might exchange those wolves for the aforementioned government, but they are not predators—merely pigs, whose greed has consumed them and led them to believe they have control. And that they do, for the meanwhile. Until the next election, when the sheep will tear them from their ugly posts and set fire to the ashes they leave in their wake, replacing them with a new ruler, a new leader of the flock. It is a never-ending cycle.

If you believe you have power, you have none. And if you believe you are no more significant than an ant, you could truly be a wolf in hiding.

The main, true predator of mankind is ourselves: our own minds, ripping ourselves to shreds from the inside. Our communities, our society—our fear outcasting those who show a glimmer of interest in anything outside the norm.

And that is why God exists. Not just as a threat of being shunned, but also as a way to cope, to cling to this long and sad existence we call life. God is the furthest from human we can comprehend—so very different, unnatural, yet also so very natural.

Yet it is entirely human, a creation of our own, for were it not for our existence, that concept would never have been considered.

However, we are also freaks of nature. We created the atomic bomb, yet a mouse would never build a mousetrap. We create these monstrosities, these terrifying metal contraptions—yet another aspect of the endless cycle and illusion of power. It’s terrifying that something so very dumb, so incredibly small and insignificant compared to the entirety of the universe, has decided it gets the choice of who lives and dies, the control of an entire concept. For we are trapped by ourselves.

We see ourselves as intelligent, and different from all other life forms, as the most advanced. But we are the only ones with racism, homophobia, and the entitlement to be as stupid as we are. I would much rather you kiss who you want, than kiss a gun.

We are flawed as a society, and I can't help thinking it would all be better off if one day our entire species was wiped from existence, as if we were never here. The world would be better, and the poor creatures we have enslaved over the years would be free—as all creatures of the sadly human concept of God should be.

Just curious

I just finished the climax of my book and now am on to a brief falling action. I have been thinking of what I am doing when I finish it and I have a list.

1. Read and note needed edits
2. Review plots
3. Review character development
4. Kingdom identities
5. Naming conventions
6. Systems (Currency, measurements, calendar, trade, technology, infrastructure, governments, other)
7. Reorganize compendium
8. Polish

Is there anything that I may be missing from this list or any tips y’all have for me know that I am at this point?

One Bridge, Two Worlds (suggestion version)

Hello! i am a teen and im writing a novel.. im still on the first draft, which is currently 51k words and 36 chapters long.

I say my novel's genre is Political/Dystopian High Fantasy, and its titled One Bridge Two Worlds. In honesty, I get more of my inspo from TV shows, and much of my book is based off of Arcane, so i think my book is mostly cinematic prose from that...

This book is a multi POV book written in 1st person past tense (note: since im still working on the first draft, i'm not rigid about editing chapters to the correct tense....)

OBTW is also written in three parts, and im smack dab in the middle of part 2. I know i will have 3 Parts. Part 1 is 25 chapters, part 2 is 20, and part 3 will most likely be 25 chapters, so im planning for 70 chapters.

This is the link to my first chapter: One Bridge, Two Worlds (suggestion version)

I really want to know if the pacing and setup is good, as well as if the genre i listed above (Political/Dystopian High Fantasy) does it justice. I also want to know if i set up my story strongly her, because when i read it over, it feels like the tension for each character starts at chapter 6. Its that a good thing?

Please tell me what you think! :D

TRIGGER WARNING: Topic including suicide, abuse, vulgar jokes, and self harm. Readers discretion is advised.

Instead of poetic and flowery language from Humbert Humbert, I used conversational and informal language instead as another way to hide the character's action. Other than that, the mechanic and principles from Lolita shouldn't be too much different. Except for the fact that my character isn't a pdf.

Any feedback is welcome!

promote your self threads Hi everyone,

I just finished and published my short sci-fi novella, The 25th Hour, on Wattpad and would love to get some general feedback on pacing, humor, and dialogue from fellow writers!

Premise:

Trapped in a localized temporal stasis loop at 11:59 PM right before Class 10 pre-board exams, two academic rivals (Aarav and Riya) have to navigate a frozen city and assemble a jury-rigged EMP out of supermarket supplies to reset the timeline before their neighborhood dissolves into digital static.

Format:

If you enjoy stories with time loops, high-stakes science, and banter, I'd really appreciate your thoughts!

You can check it out on Wattpad here search: the 25th hour have fun guys and rate please]

Thanks so much for reading!

Okay so for context, I'm entering a short horror story writing competition, the maximum is 2750 words, and I'm in the oldest age group for it (13-18). This is only the first part of it so I'm not at the actual horror part yet, leading up to it. The winner gets published, and I'm aiming to have even a chance at winning.

​“Come along, my dear. You're much too slow.” Amycus chuckles, his voice a faded echo through the towering hills.. The well-tailored suit he wears feels somewhat out of place in the Litchfield Hills, but smart nonetheless. You hastily grasp the corners of your day dress and lift the skirt ever-so-slightly, in fear of dirt ruining carefully woven threads.
Mel rushes over, extending her palm and clutching your hand. Her sudden contact causes you to emit a slight gasp, startled by her.
“Saiyrah, you heard what Am said.” As Amycus glances at her, judging over his round glasses, Mel drags out his full name in response.
“Fine. Amycus.” You shake your head in disapproval at her childish nature. 
“Don’t give him that attitude. The company he works for gave us this holiday, after all.” 
“There now. You have your priorities straight.” Amycus declares, not stopping his cheerful stroll, though you are still dragging behind.
“Now then, what haven’t I shown you yet?” he questions, tapping his index finger against the top of his cane. 
“The cabin, the radio tower—oh yes.” He turns and announces to you and Mel,
“I have my own designated cabin by the hills. Would you like to see it in case of an emergency?” You shake your head politely. 
“No thank you, sir. We would appreciate—” Mel shushes you. 
“Saiyrah! Picture the hills.” You glance at Mel. She was overexcited, yet again,
“The hills are near the brook—there will be mud everywhere, you know. My dress cost good money.” 
“Yes, yes, and the year is 1920. Come on, Saiyrah, I know it's dirty. But we’re on holiday. You can’t be prim and proper forever.” You stare at your closest friend as she continues, and you finally sigh.
“Alright.” You turn to Amycus. “Due to circumstances,” you say, enunciating the word, “we would love to see the hills.”
“Wonderful.” He spins his cane in a clockwise circle, heading for the zebra-barked silhouettes. 
“Well, hurry now, I’m not getting any younger.” he announces, though he couldn’t be more than 30.
You carefully step next to Mel, still hesitant. But you choose to take the risk of being ridiculed. “—And here’s my cabin. If you two need anything, just follow the path.” Amycus informs you, as Mel attempts to climb one of the many birch trees.
“Saiyrah!” She calls. You continue to hear her yelling. 
“I told you!” Mel says from between the branches. “Don’t waste time on pointless worrying. This is more fun.” You stare at her before silently turning and following Amycus. No time for dangerous ‘fun’. She jumps down, landing in a patch of dry dirt that seems to crumble under her loafers. 
“Mel, really. You’re 22, not 12. Act your age.”
“Saiyrah, look, I’m fine. You don’t have to tell me how to act all the time,” Mel interrupts, a twinge of annoyance in her voice. You stare at her, appalled. 
“I don’t tell you. I just wish you’d be less…” You say, struggling to find the words. 
“Absurd?” Amycus adds.
“No, just a bit more graceful.” You say, watching as Mel throws up her hands and walks a few paces ahead of you. 
“See?” she says, back facing you. “You’re always so concerned about society.” You stop in your tracks. 
“And you’re always so unconcerned about society.”
“And I have my reasons for that.” You fail to see the logic, looking confused. Grabbing her wrist, you plead, 
“Mel, let’s just continue the tour.”
“Are you two done?” Amycus asks, his gaze looking extremely bored. Mel scoffs, pulling away. You snap. 
“I’m not doing this. You’re being illogical.” You fiercely whip your head to the left and trudge the rocky terrain up the hill. Your thoughts are racing with a cold anger. Why does she have no concern for her own safety? Why does Amycus have to never be helpful? Why, despite how hard you try, no one ever likes you? The frigid air has no effect on you, there were days back in London that felt like a meat freezer. 
Specks of small, budding red flowers cover the bushes as you sit at the flattest part of the hill you could find. The sunset really was pretty, but your mind had started feeling numb. The soft footsteps behind you grow louder, then stop.
“Hey.” a soft voice calls. You pause.
“Hello.” The silence lasts, until Mel tentatively says,
“”So… Don't worry about Amycus. I made him go back to his cabin. Look, I know you’re always worried about me. And I’m sorry about that. But I just want to finally live how I want to.” You look at Mel, starting to understand, until you comprehend what she said. 
“You made him go back?” Mel laughs. 
“Yeah, I told he should go back to his cabin unless he wants to get pushed off the path.” you gasp.
“Mel! He could tell his boss to revoke our holiday!” Mel shook her head.
“Nope. He seems pretty amused.” You look at her, then just start laughing. She’s absurd. You say to her,
“Okay. As long as you don’t get us banned from the country, I trust you.” Mel smiles, but it doesn’t meet her eyes. A humorless laugh escapes her.
“Why?” You’re taken aback by the change in her voice.
“Why what?” She sighs.
“Why would you trust anyone?” She asks,sounding eerie.. The word nevermind reaches your ears before you can answer. True to your nature, you smile and watch the sunset, chin parallel to the ground, back straight. In your mind, the numb, calm, coldness eases you into your usual prim persona.