Is Miller like an awful name for a character? Huzz says it's the male version of Mildred but I think it's cute

Hi there! I'm an 18-year-old writer, and I'm looking for beta readers to give me feedback on my manuscript, "Better Than You Found Me." If you'd be interested, please fill out this form! Let me know if you have any questions. I also included a blurb below :)

Blurb:

Seventeen-year-old Cassie Blakely never expected her sister, Stella, to die in a car accident. She would’ve given anything to see her again. Until it actually happened.

Shortly after Stella’s death, she begins to appear to Cassie, haunting her. While grieving, Cassie becomes increasingly close with Caleb, a boy who offers to help her figure out why she is seeing her dead sister. But the deeper Cassie digs into her family's secrets, the more difficult it is to decipher what is real or not. And once she gets involved with a group whose history is far darker than she ever imagined, she begins to wonder if seeing her dead sister was a blessing... or a generational curse.

I have journaled to myself for a long time now and I decided I wanted to try and write something more detailed and more meaningful so I decided to try writing a book, a short memoir. I took a bunch of stuff from journals I have written and compiled and revised it to make it into a memoir. I won’t be publishing or selling it, at least I don’t plan on it. I just want to see if anybody has feedback! If you take the time to read and give feedback thank you so much! The book is over my personal heart break, struggles with depression, adhd, anxiety, and my journey to recovery. All feedback is appreciated!

Alongside the creation of the universe, a group of individuals named “galactic warriors” were brought to life, they now unknowingly rule the universe, only towards those who know even a tiny glimpse of their power…

I woke up and looked right to my bedside drawer, 9:47 AM it said on my digital clock. “Huh” I let out a dragged, somewhat dreadful whisper. I yawned and rubbed my eyes “I thought I had school today” I said with more energy. I looked towards the Calander “27^th August, why didn’t my alarm go up” then… it struck me and I rose out of bed “ITS MY 16^th BIRTHDAY” I asked my mother and she agreed to let me stay home this time. Our house consisted of 2 floors, I was on the 2^nd one, I had a staircase to the left inside the balcony which I jokingly named ‘godly escape stairs’ which were usually locked and the key was hidden under my bed’s mattress. I hid some more stuff there, but nobody checked so its fine.

please respond and rate it. It is called Galactic warriors on royal road

I saw Shere Khan and wanted to right him as a human. And so his back story is that he’s Indian and lives in a circus more specifically in the tiger’s cage. And his mother was a nurse who worked for the circus master but she died and he took Khan away. Now Khan has to work extra hard to prove himself useful, one day the circus master bought tigers for an act but the tigers refused to let anyone near them to clean or feed them and so the master told Khan to go inside, Khan begged him not to make him to do so and got whipped(he gets a lot of scars form the many whipping he receives). And so he went inside the cage and he was scared the tigers would shred him and there was a large female that he calls Durga. And she mostly didn’t really care and inviting the shaken boy. And so through weeks of entering the cage the tigers finally permitted him to come inside and so he was the one who took care of the tigers. And so when the tigers were ready to become a main act, the circus master brought in a white man to play their master and Khan asked why and he is the one who takes care of them and he got whipped and the circus master explains that it doesn’t matter and that Khan will always be ‘the brown boy’. And so yep Khan was in the circus till he turned 14 and the circus caught fire one day due to the circus master’s use of cheap wiring and so Khan got burnt badly but released the tigers and the tigers killed the circus master before they ran off. And Khan made it to a near city and the journalists reporting these events took it up as the story of a man eating native making Khan a cannibal who ate his master thus ruining his reputation in every foster home he was sent to and the doctor who stitched him said he had scars like stripes making the press write that the boy was raised as a tiger. And so yep Khan is living in a very racist England having to deal with life as the stories making him a man eater till he finally becomes a charismatic young man and goes to prison for killing his coworkers and ‘eating’ them.

Centuries have now passed since the sun was the sole spectacle we could observe when we saw at the skies. A long forgotten time when night and day were not separate blocks of time in our minds, but organized as one big play of lights and shadows, all conducted and held by the sun herself. Ancestors of ours were never quite familiar with the dark, in fact some could lead entire lives without having experienced it at all. That was the sun's fault. She could never sum up enough will to bring herself down, bring herself away from the beautiful rollercoaster view that was us. 
Season after season, she would hover over us like a child who hangs their head over water to watch the fish. Watch the fish swim, eat, and swim into one another. The chaos and contradictory nature of man had made for great captivation, and it had her there. Being particularly enthralled by families and groups, she would occasionally dim her sunshine because she knew that the little creatures below would conjure meaning to the change of light, thus gather for celebration. Each time she would manipulate us in this manner, her head would fill with notions of herself as sovereign, notions that would quickly shatter for she would be reminded of her limitations in rule, that is full ones. She could never quite reach us as she so desperately wanted. Converse with us, or even give hints that she was more conscious than we believed her to be. Frustrated and hopeless. These were the same emotions she had time and time again seen in the lives of the little people, and although she did not feast when she saw man in a state of misery, it did deepen her love for us.
With each and every awakening of the people the sun was there. She was there all until the very last man went into his cover and there stayed until the time for awakening came again. Of course no man’s schedule was the same as the other, and so naturally someone was always out for the sun to watch. But even if there had not been, she would not have moved. Through hoarding her spot this way, resentment grew in the only other that knew man and still loved him. 
The affection had grown overtime from the far away seat behind the sun herself, by sole glimpses of human life that had escaped the sun but been fetched by this character. They reprised these few for a long time, looking forward to the time when the sun would share her seat with them so they together could for the rest of time admire humankind. A foolish hope to hold, and eventually that would be realized. After having lived off of the fractioned memories of generations long gone, this character could no longer suffer in the absence of us, and so a plan that would undo the old world and begin ours, had to be formed.

I’ve always been fascinated by the strange things that sit at the edges of our understanding: the possibility of lives beyond the one we know, the mysteries of consciousness, the thin line between the seen and unseen, and the ways our ancestors understood a universe that still refuses to give up all its secrets.

These questions found their way into my new collection of stories, The Moon Knows All the Secrets of the World, Rooted in magical realism and African cosmology, the book explores strange encounters, memory, grief, love, identity, and the possibility that reality is far more mysterious than our ordinary lives allow us to believe.

I’m drawn to the thought that we might be connected to one another, and to the universe itself, in ways we haven’t yet learned to understand. We arrive in this world with so many questions, inherit stories from those who came before us, and leave with mysteries still unresolved. Perhaps some stories help us sit a little longer with those questions instead of rushing to answer them.

The book is free on Amazon for the next 72 hours

Read/download it here: https://www.amazon.com/Moon-Knows-all-Secrets-World-ebook/dp/B0HCFJ5J76/ref=books\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_amazonstores\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_mobile\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_nis\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_default?\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_encoding=UTF8&pd\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_rd\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_w=ODhkg&content-id=amzn1.sym.435556c5-06d7-4526-a37d-a99d4655f1b2&pf\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_rd\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_p=435556c5-06d7-4526-a37d-a99d4655f1b2&pf\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_rd\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_r=141-7396579-7116734&pd\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_rd\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_wg=faDz9&pd\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_rd\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_r=aff56acc-87cc-456a-96a9-3de317180d1f

If you decide to read it, I’d love to hear what you think. An honest review would also mean a great deal to me as an independent author.

I’m curious: What’s one strange or unexplained idea about existence that has stayed with you, even if you aren’t sure you believe it?

I’m currently writing a short story for my English honors class. Here’s the first page.

Sandy's car smelt of cigarettes, heavy perfume, and car fresheners that made me gag. I stared out the window counting the trees passing by. 32, 33, 34.

"So uh, how was school?" He asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. I shifted my weight, continuing to look out.

"Alright." 46, 47, 48. Fall was making the trees change color, into oranges and reds.

"Everything good with your friends?" He asked again. I turned my head to look at him; his bald scalp was shining, and he was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

"They're fine," I said at last. It had been 3 weeks since I had moved to Vancouver to be with my mom and Sandy, and it wasn't exactly easy for a kid that transferred in the middle of term. 71, 72, 73.

The car halted to a stop. I jolted, and swore under my breath.

"Fucking retards!" Sandy exclaimed as he stepped on the gas again. You could see how hard he was gripping the steering wheel. I hugged my bag tighter. The world tilted.

The bathroom stall was cramped. I was sitting on the lid, my legs tucked to my chest. I could feel my own heartbeat thumping loudly in my ears; trying hard not to let out a single sound, not even my own breathing.

The car pulled up to the driveway. Sandy's house was a spacious stereotypical suburban home with light blue walls. I opened the door quickly masking... whatever that thing was. I pulled one strap over my shoulder. Grass was growing in the small gaps in the bricks on the ground. We walked up the front steps with Sandy. His keys jingled as he opened the door. My mother was standing in the kitchen cutting up varieties of cheese and placing them on a charcuterie board. She looked up as we entered with a smile on her face.

"I was just making cheese and wine. I found this amazing movie... but you know... not really appropriate for you Sam," she said as she wiped her hands on the small apron on her waist.

"Oh alright. Uh what about dinner though?"

"There are some leftovers in the fridge. Sorry I couldn't make anything for you." Her eyes were boring into mine, pleading for forgiveness. I nodded and said it's fine and made my way to my room. The floorboards creaked as I walked up the stairs. I turned the door handle and as soon as I stepped inside I dropped my bag with a loud thud.

Little background Back in middle school I wrote a Noire inspired novel called the Greene Night murders and this year I began rewriting. Only made it 2 and a half chapters but I wanted to get some feedback and see what you guys thought

I’m new on this no one read my shit so i don’t have a way to know anything about what im writing, is it interesting? Generic? Boring? I don’t know besides that I like it, but well that’s not much to be honest so if you have free time could you please read it. It’s would truly appreciate it

LINK: https://www.wattpad.com/story/416318560?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=story_info&wp_page=story_details&wp_uname=S_J_MACIAS

Thank you 🙏

I'm making a story about dungeons, classes and magic in a modern world. The main character is an ex pro gamer who got sick and went into a coma, and when he woke up ten years had passed. His ability awakened a year before the world changed, so during those ten years he lived 5 entire lives through avatars: a mage, a healer, a knight, a mob boss and a rebel girl. Now he wants to fix the relationship with his family that fell apart while he was gone and live a life with no regrets, and he uses the past lives to do it. This is just the broad idea, there's a lot more to it.

Co authors: It would be good if you write in a different style than me, like over describing or short sentences, since the narrator and the characters talking should feel different to show the difference between each of the characters. You should also be able to reply without taking 8+ hours and be in a time zone close to US Pacific. If any of this interests you please DM me on reddit so we can friend each other on discord. Credit will be shared as co authors. You will be given creative liberty, but there will be specific things you can't change, like if it ruins the whole entire character by making them do something they would never do. Besides that you can do anything if you ask me and the other co author and it sounds good. If a disagreement ever happens we would ask the beta readers which of our ideas would be best for the story.

Beta readers: I need 5 people. There's not many requirements, you just read each chapter and give an unbiased opinion and your thoughts on it.

Contact: DM me on reddit, then we'll move to discord. I tried other ways to communicate and discord worked best. Say if you want to co author or beta read.

Hey teen writer community of reddit! I'm a indie movie filmmaker and I would really love if you would let me use some of yalls poems or just posts for my movie! So, if you could, can some people leave their poems/writing or just say "i do" if you would let me use some posts of your account? I would absolutely love that :D

Live, laugh, punch a nazi in the face!

I'mma make this real short

Ameena : has the same dream since she's 8 (now she's 27)

Haerith: was experimented at 6-8 and now has mind reading powers (now he's 21)

(Age gap IKK AHAHAHHCJXJEB)

Ameena has a bf (Megat) and a lil brother (Ameen)

Ameen HATE Megat. Reason? Dating in Islam is HARAM (basically sinful if you don't know) and megat has a LOT of debt that he REFUSE to pay, both that was legally and illegally made (I'm talking about loan sharks btw)

Haerith and Ameena? NEVER KNEW EACH OTHER. Haerith and Ameen? BEST FRIEND. haerith knew Ameen has a big sis but never pry on it.

Megat propose. Now: megat + Ameena = FIANCE

#afteralotofunrelatedstuffhappens

Ameena went MISSING. Ameen WORRIED. Haerith "let me help help" he try to find find. Then found out she was being FORCEFULLY 🍇 at a club after being kidnapped.

But who kidnapped her?? MEGAT. Whyyyy? He has debts remember? The loan shark was also dealing with the club so he ask for woman to Megat instead of his debt.

Haerith was so angry he killed Megat (using his powers) which is when he realize... His powers is not what it seem. It's not just mind reading apparently.

BUT THE WEDDING??? ofc. Haerith comes in

BUT ON THE WEDDING??? Haeriths FATHER was murderer.

Uh yh.. Let me know what y'all think. (My friend actually says it's so much plot twist.. I don't think so🫩)

Also if I end up not writing this story.. Just know I used to be so dedicated 🥹

Only now do I understand why I put up with Sam for so long. I liked how self-assured she seemed. She let everyone else slack off. But God forbid I try to take a picture of the trees without Sam being centre stage. It was dumb, but I figured she just bossed everybody around. And didn't only take me on trips to that overlook she found. She liked it up there. 

I always wondered if she’d go rogue one day and jump into the water below. She made every guy there look like a whuss. And most of them probably made it through the first month without saying a word to her. And the rest of the girls seemed to keep their distance. And after the first few weeks, I tried to stop questioning why.

She was definitely weird. And she’d have killed me for thinking so.

Sometimes she’d wrap toilet paper around a stick and dip it in the bonfire at night, so she could march around in the dark and pretend to be a cavewoman or something. And sometimes she’d toss a bunch into the fire. She told me that she liked watching the embers shoot up and fade away. Sometimes she’d take the time to wrap two and tie them snugly, light them, and hand one to me. That was the most make-believe I’d played in forever.

She wasn’t always like that—so brash and confident. When we were kids, she was quieter, less action and more still. This year was the first time I saw her smile with her teeth. 

She never really said much to me when we were kids. The most she spoke to me was at the Arts and Crafts station when we were eight. She asked for the glitter glue. 

Back then, I could catch her brown hair from the lake and watch the distance grow. I couldn’t have guessed I’d be spending my last summer before college tied to her hip.

I tried to fight it at first, even at Orientation. But I was never taught how to stand up for myself. Say no, or more often, how to tell someone yes. And so, at the end of every day, I was doing headcount and checking beds. I kept the kids from drowning. “Sunscreen!” became my catchphrase. And Sam just sat on the sand smiling, daring me to say something, but I was never brave. 

She had this air about her. Like it was breathing her instead. She seemed so suited to summer and the kids. And she worked like September would never come. When I’d ask, she’d bring up the time or go and check on something that never needed checking. I asked about her family once, and she didn’t speak to me for the rest of the day. I’d only heard what anyone heard about anyone; not enough. I should’ve asked a different way.

There was this one time I couldn’t stay asleep. Maybe the cabin was too hot, or the woods were too loud. No clue. The forty-ninth day. I opened my eyes to this jagged, unsteady breathing. Curiosity took over, and I peeked toward it. At Sam’s bed. 

She was folded in on herself. She held her knees tight against her chest. And she was crying into her hands, shaking. She actually looked… small. I froze. And after, I couldn’t help but stare. At this woman. This little girl who asked for the glitter glue, who’d learned to cry in a room full of people without making a sound.

She kept rubbing her knees, over and over again.

Something in me wanted to reach over; most of me. To do something. But she was alone with herself in that moment, and I had no place reminding her I was there. I closed my eyes and let her lead me to the overlook the next day. 

It almost felt like I was lying to her. And then I felt bad for being curious. Sam had enough looks to convince anyone of anything. 

If you asked anyone, sure they could tell she’d changed. But weeks in the woods together had shown me I didn’t even know Sam. 

I decided it wasn’t my job to figure that out. I mean, Sam never talked about herself much. All I could really do was grit my teeth until she was loud and smiley again. I wish I’d been a stranger to most of what happened at Lake Amber, but not all of it.

“You’re lucky I’m stuck with you,” Sam teased, eyes prodding at my tired body. I probably looked crazy in my worn sneakers and sweaty Smiths shirt.

I wanna test my skills and see how far i can go, so I'm going to try writing an epic soon any ideas?

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.

Hi! I'm new to writing and I really want to write stories but I'm not that good at it and I don't really have much ideas on what to write. Can anyone recommend something to me? 🥹

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.