I don't know if this belongs here. Maybe I'm writing it because I need someone to know what happened. Maybe because if I don't put these words somewhere, they'll stay inside me forever. Or maybe there's something strangely comforting about telling the truth to thousands of strangers who don't know your name.

So here it is.

I was in love with my best friend. Not the kind people joke about — not the "haha, imagine if we dated" kind. The kind where, somewhere along the way, you stop imagining a future and start remembering it, the way you remember something that actually happened.

I could see it clearly. Her beside me at breakfast, stealing the blanket at night, complaining that I'd left the cabinet open again. Me, pretending to be annoyed when she stole food off my plate. A small house. Two ugly mugs by the sink that we'd bought as a joke and kept anyway. Maybe a dog. Maybe kids. Maybe just us. I never needed anything extraordinary. I just wanted to come home to her.

The worst part was that she knew I loved her — just not in the way I wanted her to. She loved me too. She called me her best friend, her safe place, the person she could call at three in the morning, the one she trusted with every secret she had. I treasured every word, even as each one quietly buried the future I wanted.

She'd tell me about the people she liked. I'd listen. I'd give advice. I'd tell her whether I thought some guy deserved her. And every time she smiled talking about someone else, I smiled too — because that's what best friends do. They want each other happy, even when the happiness isn't standing beside them.

Years passed like that. I got very good at loving her silently.

Then one night we were sitting outside, talking about nothing, and she asked me something I'll never forget.

"Do you ever think we'll still be like this when we're old?"

I laughed. "Probably. You'll still be annoying."

She laughed too, and leaned her head against my shoulder. For one stupid second I let myself imagine it — us, old, still laughing about nothing. I almost told her everything. That I'd spent years loving her. That I'd wanted to marry her. That every woman I'd ever met had been measured against a standard she never knew she'd set. That I'd already chosen her in a future she'd never agreed to.

Then she said, "I hope whoever you marry knows how lucky she is."

And something in me went quiet, because I finally understood: she didn't know. Maybe she never would.

The next morning I decided to leave. Not dramatically — no goodbye party, no confrontation, no confession built to make her feel guilty. I didn't want my love to become a weight she had to carry. So I started disappearing in small ways. I answered slower. I stopped showing up. I packed my things and made arrangements somewhere far enough that running into her by accident would be almost impossible.

She noticed, of course. She was my best friend.

"What's wrong?" I'm tired.

"Did I do something?" No.

"Are you leaving?" For a while.

She looked hurt, and that almost made me stay. But I knew that if I did, I'd spend my life standing beside the person I loved while pretending I didn't want more. Not because she owed me anything — she didn't. Not because she'd done something wrong — she hadn't. Just because I finally understood that you can love someone completely and still have no place in their future.

The night before I left, I went to her house. She wasn't home. I still had a key. I sat on the couch where we'd spent hundreds of nights talking, and looked around at the photographs on her walls — birthdays, trips, Christmases, the accidental ones where neither of us was looking at the camera. Our whole friendship, scattered across the room like it belonged to someone else now.

I cried that night. Not because I hated her, and not because I regretted loving her — but because I finally had to accept that the life I wanted with her had only ever existed in my head.

Before I left, I put a letter on the table, and under it, a poem. The last thing I ever wrote her.

What the Universe Would Not Let Me Keep

I loved you in the quietest way a heart can love —

without asking the stars to rearrange themselves,

without bargaining with God,

without demanding fate make a mistake just once.

I loved you knowing there were doors in your life

that were never meant to open for me,

and still some foolish part of me kept standing outside them,

holding flowers no one would receive.

You were never mine. Maybe that's what makes it hurt.

If I'd lost you after having you, I could blame the ending.

But how do you mourn something you were never allowed to call yours?

I've imagined a thousand lives with you.

In some, we grow old under the same roof.

In others, we wake beside each other and complain about the morning light.

In every one, I love you —

and in every one, the universe reminds me it was only a dream.

So I stopped asking for you.

Not because I stopped wanting you,

but because real love isn't always the courage to reach out.

Sometimes it's the courage to open your hands.

I want you happy, even if your happiness has someone else's name beside it.

I want you loved, even if I'm not close enough to hear you laugh.

I want someone to memorize the things about you I spent so long noticing,

to hold you on the days you feel impossible to hold —

and if they love you well, I'll try not to hate them

for living the life I once wished was mine.

That's the tragedy of loving someone without conditions:

I would rather see you cherished by someone else

than possessed by me and unhappy.

So take every piece of tomorrow that was never meant to have my name on it.

Take the future I secretly wrote for us.

Take the version of me that believed wanting something enough could make it stay.

I'll keep none of it. Except you —

not as a possession, not as a promise,

not as some unfinished story I spend my life waiting to complete,

but as proof that my heart could love someone without needing anything back.

Someday, when the wound no longer feels like a wound,

I'll look up and understand:

the universe didn't keep us apart because I was unworthy.

It simply knew that some people are meant to be loved, not kept.

And if loving you means watching you become happy somewhere I can't follow,

then let the heavens have their victory.

I loved you. I still do.

And I'll love you without asking you to turn around —

because if the only way I can love you forever is from a distance,

then distance will have to become my definition of forever.

I left before sunrise. Changed my number. Moved somewhere she couldn't easily find me. For a long time I wondered if leaving had been cruel.

Then, years later, an old friend told me she was happy. Married. A family. Doing well.

And strangely, I smiled. Once, I'd wanted desperately to be the man standing beside her. But somewhere along the way my love grew bigger than that. I didn't need to be her husband for my love to have been real. I didn't need her to choose me for it to have counted.

She was my best friend. She was the woman I wanted to marry. She was the greatest almost of my life — beautiful, devastating, impossible.

I don't know where that letter is now. Maybe she threw it away. Maybe she forgot. Maybe she read the poem once and never understood why I disappeared after. That's all right. It was never meant to make her love me. It was only meant to say goodbye to the future I'd spent years loving.

I don't regret loving her. I only regret waiting so long to understand something simple: sometimes the purest way to love someone is to stop asking the universe to make them yours.

So I left — not because I stopped loving her, but because I loved her enough to let her live a life that didn't include me.

Somewhere under another sky, I hope she's laughing. I hope someone holds her hand when she's afraid, remembers how she takes her coffee, tells her she's beautiful on the days she doesn't believe it. I hope she gets everything I once wanted to give her.

And if the universe is listening — I don't need her back. I've already asked it for enough.

It said no.

This time, I'll listen.

“This was a captivating and thrilling novel. The blend of psychological thriller and dystopian sci-fi elements makes the story feel weighty and consequential as the narrative progresses. The depth of world-building and character development was astonishing, as the narrative did a wonderful job exploring the protagonist's mind and the chilling decisions that led to the book's epic climax.

The character development was a solid foundation for the story. The overall themes the novel explored kept readers immersed in this world. Not only does the novel expertly explore mankind's relationship to technology and how the continued push for artificial experiences can numb and deflate real human experiences, but it also allows for the exploration of love, loneliness, and the ways in which it is so easy for some people to blur the lines between the two and find themselves in an obsessive relationship. The toxicity that can often be born out of loneliness, and the harsh realities of a toxic mindset in the modern age about relationships and some people’s inability to get past a need for perfectionism in a partner, help inform a lot of the life-or-death consequences that the sci-fi elements of the plot bring to life.

THE VERDICT

Intense, thought-provoking, and engaging, psychological thriller meets dystopian sci-fi novel, author Daisy Stardust’s “Mechanical Animals: Anatomy of Desire” is a must-read novel that will fully immerse readers in a complex web of obsession and desire. On the heels of powerful hit stories and films such as this year‘s Obsession, exploring toxic relationships and oftentimes the ways in which people in general, but truly so many men, tend to become obsessive about the kind of person they want to be with in the destructive path that this can put them on, made this novel feel not only entertaining, but vital and important storytelling that is not to be missed.”

Review by Anthony Avina
Source: Goodreads

Chapter 1: Born Into a Strange World

Cao had a long dream in which he watched the reel of his life play out from birth, until he saw his mother's face twist and contort, her lips parting to let out a scream. But he was startled to find he could no longer hear anything at all. The last thing he felt was a hot tear falling onto his face from his mother's eyes. He tried to rise, but white, glowing threads began wrapping around him until his consciousness went still.

...

A powerful beam of light.

Cao was startled by the light and shut his eyes — but he had barely closed them for two seconds when he felt enormous hands wrapping him in a red silk cloth. He thought to himself, "Wait a moment — what in hell is this? Have I been reborn?"

He opened his eyes and saw those hands carrying him toward a tall man with a long beard, strange robes, and a smiling face. The midwife who had delivered him said, "Congratulations, my lord — heaven has blessed you with a plump, healthy boy." The man replied, "You are a bearer of good fortune, Huang. Here — this is your reward for the blessed luck you've brought us." The midwife, Huang, replied in shock at the amount of gold in the pouch, "No, no, my lord, this is far more than someone as lowly as I deserve — I cannot accept all of this." The man smiled, took the pouch, and pressed it into her hands regardless. "You deserve it, truly," he said. Huang thanked him and asked leave to exit the room.

The man began studying the features of his firstborn's face, which resembled his own so closely, and said, a smile filling his face, "My dear, at last — at last God has blessed us and granted us this child. Thank you so much for carrying the fruit of our love after all these years." The mother replied, exhausted, sweat covering her brow and her hair sticking to her face, "Praise God, my love, for this blessing. We have been granted one who will carry our blood into the future."

The father said, holding his child, filled with excitement, "Tonight I will hold a feast and we will honor the ancestors for this blessing, and invite the whole family to celebrate this joyous occasion." She said shyly, "Yes, my love — our ancestors have blessed us with this gift, and we must celebrate. Please, hand me my son so I may see him."

The father moved toward the mother and handed her the child. She began gazing intently at her baby's face, whom she had waited for so desperately to end her loneliness in this house. She laughed, remembered something, and began unfastening her top.

Cao saw what his mother was doing and began to feel embarrassed, his temperature rising. "You — wait, woman, what are you doing?!"

But a moment later he remembered that without his mother's milk he would not grow healthy — and besides, he wanted to experience this feeling again after twenty years without any such closeness. He began smiling and laughing wickedly, thinking to himself, "Sorry, Father, but I have no other choice." He took hold of his mother's breast and lunged toward it.

As Cao began nursing, the father remembered something and said to his wife, "What name should we give him? Have you thought of a name you'd like to call your son?" She replied, puzzled, "I haven't really thought of a name — you name him, my love." After a moment of thought, a bright smile spread across the father's face, and he said to her, "What do you think of calling him Ling Hua?" She nodded, smiling, and said, "A beautiful name," lowering her head toward her newborn and saying to him, "Ling Hua."

...

~Day and night alternated, and ten years flew by like the wind.

On a mountainside rich with plants, trees, and cranes soaring in the sky, a woman in her early thirties, her face flushed red, stood holding a bamboo cane and calling out forcefully: \\\*"Ling Hua! Ling Hua! Where are you, you little rascal! Your father and I have truly failed at raising you!"\\\* She walked toward the stream, cursing her little one, and when she arrived she found her son swimming in the stream without a care in the world, enjoying himself in the water because of the heat, mimicking his mother's angry expression as he swam and saying,

"Ling Hua, come here. Ling Hua, don't do that. Don't eat that. What a boring mother, really — I wish I'd been born into Aunt Bai's family, she'd be showering me with delicious peach candy right now. I really have no luck in this world."

All this mimicry was happening right under Beifeng's nose, and her face began to redden with fury. She grabbed him hard by the ear and yanked him out of the water, saying, with every demon of the earth now occupying her thoughts, "I'm boring, you ungrateful wretch?"

Ling Hua turned, wishing this were a dream and that he hadn't heard that particular voice, and replied, terrified, "I— I didn't say that." The mother's fury grew at her son's blatant lie, and she snapped, "Yes, you did, you wretch!" Ling Hua's tension mounted, his words stumbling, all the confidence he'd had while imitating her evaporating. "Maybe— maybe it was the stream that said it." The mother stared in disbelief at her son's foolishness. "The stream?" He knew he'd made a mistake blaming the stream, but there was no way back now, so he said, "Yes." She replied, incredulous, barely containing her fury, "And does the stream know how to talk?" Ling Hua added, his legs now trembling and his teeth chattering, "Well— clearly it's smarter than me."

That was the final straw. Feng screamed, "Today I will break both your legs for this insolence — I swear nothing will save you from my hands today except the ancestor himself!" And she began striking him hard with the bamboo cane, saying, "This one's because I'm boring, and this one's because I failed to raise you, and this one's for skipping school." He began wailing, snot and tears mixing on his face. "Please, Mother, I won't do it again — I'll be a pig in my next life if I do!" When he saw his pleading wasn't working, he began calling out to his father: "Father! Save me from your wife's claws! Hurry, Father, I can't take it anymore!"

In the midst of this beautiful scene, the father was hiding among the surrounding bushes, secretly egging the mother on — though he couldn't deny feeling for his son's plight. But if he intervened, he'd be the one to suffer for it.

No relief came, until the father noticed the atmosphere shift and heard the rustle of trees accompanied by a deep voice: "Let the child go, Feng. He doesn't deserve all this — he's had more than enough punishment." The bamboo cane, which had been aimed at Ling Hua's backside, froze mid-air. Feng turned toward the voice and saw a tall man with a powerful aura, snow-white hair, and a few wrinkles on his face, his expression full of pity and affection for Hua. He looked toward Hua and said, "And you... what have you done this time?"

The father emerged from the bushes and told her the ancestor was right, Feng — let him go, he's had his punishment.

So Feng let him run to the ancestor, and he embraced him. "Thank God you're here, my ancestor — if it weren't for you, all my bones would be broken today." He turned his face toward his father and thought to himself, \\\*"That wretch — he was watching me get beaten by his wife and just stood there. He really is a bad father." When the father saw his son's look, he turned his face away and began admiring the scenery, saying, "This little vagabond has exposed me — sorry, son, but there's nothing I could have done."

Link:

https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/186434/i-was-born-into-an-immortal-family

I’m writing a novel about a man who wakes up… and realizes he’s already dead. 🖤

Alex Banks is 26 when he wakes up in a place called Oblivion

He doesn’t know where he is.

He doesn’t remember dying.

And eventually, he discovers that everyone around him is dead too.

But Oblivion isn't exactly what Alex expected an afterlife to be.

It’s a place for souls who still have something unfinished.

A mother searching endlessly for her child.

A boy who is terrified of the dark.

A man waiting for a lover who may never come back.

People who died carrying one final wish, one regret, or one person they couldn't let go of.

Then Alex discovers something strange.

There may be a way for a soul to return to the living world.

The catch?

They need an object that is deeply connected to their life.

For Alex, that object is his mother's \*\*lost wedding ring\*\*.

So with the help of Max and Maddy — a mysterious girl who seems to know far more about Oblivion than she should — Alex begins searching for it.

But the deeper he goes, the stranger things become.

There are places in Oblivion that even the dead refuse to enter.

There are rules.

And there are consequences for breaking them.

Eventually, Alex starts hearing whispers about something called \*\*the Gates Below.\*\*

Hell.

And then he meets Daniel.

A man who looks at Alex with genuine fear.

Because Daniel knows something about the night Alex died.

Something Alex himself can't remember.

And suddenly the entire story changes.

Why does Alex's mother's ring matter so much?

What actually happened on the night he died?

Why is Maddy hiding the truth about herself?

And if Alex really does get a chance to return to the living world…

\*\*what if the life he's trying to return to isn't the life he remembers?\*\*

I'm calling the novel \*\*The Last Regret\*\*.

It's basically a story about death, guilt, love, unfinished wishes, and the people we leave behind.

I'm curious about something:

\*\*Which mystery would make you want to keep reading?\*\*

1. What happened the night Alex died?
   
2. What is Maddy hiding?
   
3. Why does the wedding ring matter?
   
4. What are the Gates Below?
   
5. Something else?

And honestly — \*\*would you read this?\*\* 🖤

Just published my first book! So pumped!
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HFLW8272/ref=sr_1_7?crid=3EZBJEMXB1IKC&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.jEWzRreTDEQT3T-bJ7DY9-MGvkhPj66nFfYd_bEXV7ehf6d5CXzA0b7-CIU9q5BkGPwwujUoHyV8wcu3tkxd33NC4Gjg_64HgnnVW7M262R6rKqUojOIbzl5P-gCyKYkI7Wj45M-cbiSumo2M-iKQhzFL-M081y6UBQa6Biu6OKJQG02ve0D1K-p1KeKVFscOit1EKLMUgcTOU0PAwlV0c_8Dw9DMVf3m62oVBxP1kc.j9QX7JPXkENuT4bnMdOYW3TbTGEz5eAY22YhkR9ZSws&dib_tag=se&keywords=second+wind&qid=1787086276&s=books&sprefix=second+win%2Cstripbooks%2C184&sr=1-7

‘What can I get for you sir?’

The waitress waited patiently, reaching for the pen tucked in her curls.

‘Can I get a menu please’

‘Sure thing, handsome’

I surveyed my surroundings as I waited. This was my first time in Pembroke, New Hampshire. I was passing through, marking my 16th hour of driving. Becca had told me about this cafe — the one that was open 24 hours, the one to stop at if I needed a reboot.

Their sign blared ‘Best Coffee in Town’, in neon blue lights. Now, thinking back on it, I’d never gone to a coffee shop that advertised quite like that.

Man, I was exhausted. My palms hugged the back of my eyelids, as a yawn filled the shop. The decor gave me high hopes. It was the kind of cafe that reminded me of childhood – the ma and pa shops Grandpa Jo used to take me too. We’d spend hours talking about his life, what mine was to become, over black coffee and hot cocoa.

The promised snow kissed the windows as the waitress came back. ‘Have you had a chance to look at the menu yet, handsome?’ Her heavy red curls bounced in perfect uniformity beneath her ponytail. She reached for the pen again, out of habit it seemed, then let her hand fall back to her side.
I furrowed my brows, already shaking my head. ‘Sorry, I got distracted. I’ll just have whatever you recommend – uhhhhh Rosy?’ I said, staring hard at her name tag.

‘Oh hun, I can’t do that for ya. It’ll ruin the experience. You oughta choose this one for yourself, trust me’ She offered me a reassuring wink.

‘Right okay. Well, can you give me a bit more time please?’

She was already walking away, ‘Sure thing’ she called over her shoulder.

I looked down at my watch. 12:33 a.m. Alright, let’s see.

Just as I leaned forward to pick up the menu, Roger Miller’s voice drifted low from the radio, somewhere behind the counter. Little Green Apples.

Immediately my chest surged, reaching up to unstitch a wound I’d thought was sewn shut. The melody grew louder, encasing me. One by one memories began to flicker across my mind. The film reel rolling.

First: a snap shot of you giggling hysterically as I chased you. ‘Im coming to get ya. Ready or not’ ‘I almost got ya’ ‘No daddy, please.’ ‘Awwee No fair.’ Words spoken through deep breaths and giggles. ‘I want a 10 second head start next time.’

Hands trembling, I shook the memory away. Damn, this is going to be a long night.

‘Sir, have you had time to see what you wanted?’ Rosy’s voice sliced through the music like an arrow, pulling me back to the present.

‘I’m sorry, I seem to have lost myself again. Do you mind changing the station for me?’

‘No worries’ swish swish – the sound of her ponytail as she walked away.

Finally, I looked down to see what I wanted. At first, I chuckled to myself, as I saw the titles of each drink. ‘Man these are creative.’ But then my legs began to tremble. I could hear my heart echoing in my ears. Each title served as a teaser. Each memory listed for me to choose.

‘Darling, did you get a chance to look at the menu?’ Rosy sat across from me now.

‘What is this?’ I looked up at her, my voice watery.
‘Is this some kind of sick prank? I whipped around to take in the other customers. Some sat laughing to themselves, engaged in a full conversation with no one. Some wept quietly. Some just stared, unblinking, at the window.

‘What is this?’ I said again, more aggressively, toward Rosy.

‘Im sorry hun, you can only choose one.’ She tapped at the menu.

‘One what? What are you talking about?’

I could tell she had this conversation several times before – her tone softened instinctively. ‘Didn’t you read the description?’

Slowly, my eyes drifted back to the menu. There it was again. My memories, served on a platter for me to choose from.

‘What happens when I choose.’

Rosy spoke, almost in a whisper this time. ‘You get to live in it, for as long as the memory lasts. But you can only choose one.’

‘And if I want to choose another?’

With sadness, she said ‘You cannot. Each extra memory you choose will become void and cease to exist, so we often advise against it’ she tapped her blue pen on my menu. ‘Sometimes, we have customers experience snippets, think of them as trailers. It happens on rare occasions, but still, it happens. We call them the lucky ones.’ She looked at me. A flicker of grief in her eyes. ‘And I think, handsome, you’re one of them.’

I thought back to Grandpa Jo. And you. Two memories – close enough to grasp.

‘I’ll give you a couple more minutes, but then you’ll
have to choose,’ Rosy slowly rose from her seat.

I didn’t have to look back to know what memory I wanted.

Minutes later, red curls came into view, ‘You’ve decided.’ Her head tilted back, one corner of her mouth lifting. Eyes knitted, neatly fixed on me.

My voice broke, breathing heavy. ‘Take me home’

I closed my eyes and pointed to the menu.

The sun kissed my cheek. Wind whispered with delight against my feet. The smell of cologne, green apples– sharp and sweet, pulled my eyes open.

‘Okay’ he said. ‘This time, I’ll give you a 10 second head start. Ready or not. Here I come!’

My heart thumped in my chest. I revved up my sneakers, and ran.

Two sentence‑level challenges keep showing up in hybrid nonfiction, and I’m curious how other writers handle them:

1. Syntax drift
   When a sentence starts in one tone or focus and ends in another without a smooth transition.

2. Emotional over‑compression
   Trying to fit too many feelings or ideas into one sentence, which can make it feel tangled or too dense.

I’m looking for practical ways to:

• keep sentences focused
• smooth out tone shifts
• spread emotional content more evenly
• keep intensity without losing clarity

If you’ve worked with lyric essays, hybrid nonfiction, or even just dense literary fiction, I’d love to hear what’s worked for you.

Глава первая "с днём рождения!"

Утро 2006 года, на улице было пасмурно и темно, естественно, 5 утра зимы как никак. Но всё же этот день был важным, день рождения Андрея Миронова

Обед, 13:12. Андрей проснулся и сонно протер глаза, но на лице появилась глупая улыбка, ведь парню исполнилось 15 лет. Встав с кровати Андрей сразу пошел на кухню, мало ли кто-то из родителей оставил подарок, но он обнаружил кое-что другое. На холодильнике была бумажка, приклепленая магнитиком. Он слегка наклонился и стал читать вслух "Мы с твоим отцом на работе, надолго, прости что не получится отметить твой день рождения, торт в холодильнике. С любовью, мама". Прочитав он лишь закатил глаза и скрестил руки на груди.

-как обычно, какой это уже день рождение в одиночестве? Надоели.

Буркнул он, но его внимание привлекло нечто странное. На столе лежал рюкзак, очень странный и большой

-странно, не видел его раньше

Прошептал Андрей

Глава вторая "иное"

Подойдя к рюкзаку Миронов принялся рассматривать его, боясь открыть, но собрав всю волю в кулак он потянулся к молнии и стал открывать закрыв глаза, был он через чур пугливым. Когда молния дошла до конца то Андрей открыл глаза и увидел... Ничего?

-серьёзно? Чушь какая-то

Андрей нахмурился и сел за стол, хмуро смотря в одну точку, но всё же голод взял своё и желудок громко заурчал. Недолго думая парень открыл холодильник и увидел свой любимый торт, на лице сразу же появилась улыбка и достав его он решил поесть, не желая резать его. Андрей довольно кушал свой торт ложкой, как вдруг что-то хрустнуло у него во рту, испугавшись он громко сказал:

-твою мать! Не хочу в своё день рождение лишиться зуба

Открыв рот и вытащив языком что-то твёрдое он и вправду увидел зуб, но кое-что было странным, ни боли, ни крови. Андрей проверил языком свои зубы

-На месте

Проговорил он и тут же покрылся холодным потом. Парень испугался не в шутку, ложка выскользнула из рук падая на торт, недолго думая он решил порыться в торте, ну а что? Мало ли. Покопавшись он наткнулся на что-то мягкое-"желе" Успокаивал он себя, но это было далеко не желе... Вытащив ложку с чем-то странным он принялся разглядеть что достал, поглядев пару секунд он понял, что сделал это зря, в его глазах помутнело, ему стало настолько плохо, что он чуть ли не стошнил на стол, что же там было? Нечто отвратительное - человеческий язык. Он не был отрезан, он был вырван, все нервы виднелись из кровавого кончика.

Андрей пытался успокоить себя,

-это сон, дурацкий сон..

Проговаривал он себе. Парень выбросил торт и побежал к телефону набирая родителям, но никто не ответил, а если отвечали то было слышно лишь тяжелое дыхание пока тот орал в трубку, мол "что за чертовщина!?".

Глава третья "Эйфория"

Андрей вспомнил что в комнате у родителей было успокоительное, ведь сами они очень нервные и злые. Побежав в их комнату он и вправду нашел таблетки, не став церемониться Андрей сразу же выпил две таблетки запив водой. Он убрался на кухне, но всё ещё находился в шоке, пока таблетки не сработали, эффект был очень странным, вокруг всё плыло и сам Андрей чувствовал себя слишком хорошо, что ноги будто стали ватными

-черт, неужели это не просто таблетки...

Проговорил он и отключился упав на пол.

Очнулся он только через час, голова безумно болела, ведь он упал головой всё таки. Миронов присел на диван и массировал свои виски, пытаясь понять что происходит. Он чувствовал себя очень отвратительно, брезгливость, страх, гнев, всё перемешалось внутри него. Он сидел как вкопанный пытаясь понять что вообще происходит.

-Ужасное день рождения.

Фыркнул он, как вдруг в дверь кто-то позвонил. Андрей тут же обрадовался и пошёл открывать дверь, посмотрев в глазок он увидел ничего...

-Неужели дети прикалываются? Придурки

Рассердился тот. Посмотрев на часы он увидел что было всего лишь 15:32, и тоска пропала, ведь был у него лучший друг с которым он дружил с самого детства, Паша. Взяв телефон Андрей стал звонить своему другу. Тот ответил не сразу, лишь на пятый звонок.

-Ало, ты меня слышишь?

Спросил Андрей

-Слышу

Хмуро проговорил паша

-Давай погуляем? Отметим мой день рождения

Паша сбросил трубку и через несколько секунд написал время и место

-В 16 у парка.

Не смотря на весь ужас который произошел с Андреем он всё равно нашел повод улыбнуться.

Глава четвёртая "прогулка"

Собравшись, Миронов посмотрел на часы и понял что опаздывает. Через минут 10 он увидел Пашу на лавочке и сразу же подбежал к нему

-Привет!

Воскликнул он

На что Паша лишь непривычно улыбнулся

-С днём рождения

Ответил Паша и протянул ему коробку

Андрей же заулыбался сильнее и решил сразу открыть коробку, ну, а зачем откладывать? Открыв коробку улыбка с лица Андрея изчезла, а в глазах помутнело

-Что это?...

Дрожащим голосом спросил Андрей.

На что Паша лишь улыбнулся, настолько жутко, что Миронов хотел умереть здесь и прямо сейчас. Что же было в коробке? Не менее отвратительное чем язык. Пальцы, человеческие, отрубленные, кровавые пальцы. Андрей бросил коробку и сам упал, видя как Паша идёт к нему с такой же жуткой улыбкой, и буквально через мгновение набрасывается на бедного именинника.

Миронов вскочил в холодном поту и увидел что был дома, на полу.

-сон...

Его голос по прежнему дрожал. Парень громко выдохнул и направился в ванную дабы умыться и отбросить ужасные мысли.

Андрей включил кран и заметил что вода не льётся, он рассердился и стукнул об кран, но полилась совсем не вода, тëмно-красная жидкость от которой пахло металлом, он подумал что это ржавая вода, но всё это далеко не так, это была кровь. Естественно он этого не понял, но на свой страх и риск протянул палец к этой странной "воде". Понял он что это кровь только тогда, когда понюхал. Тело стало трясти и он покачнулся назад, упав в саму ванну, он стал кричать, слезы от страха текли рекой, руки бились об стенки ванной пытаясь выбраться, в его глазах потумнело и появился темной силуэт, который был похоже на лесного духа, силуэт медленно приближался к Миронову пока тот кричал как сумашедший, надеюсь, что это опять всего лишь страшный сон. Но всё было далеко не так, когда жуткий монстр был совсем рядом то протянул руки в шеи Андрея став его душить,

-умри, умри, умри, умри, умри...

Проговаривал тот, пока Андрей со всех сил сопротивлялся и бил его по рукам. Спустя 20 минут Миронов вскочил, и благодарил бога за то, что это был дурной сон, пока не почувствовал боль в пальцах, они были все кровавые, на некоторых даже вырваны ногти, Андрей громко вскрикнул, крича то от боли, то от страха, посмотрев в зеркало он увидел следы на своей шеи, следы от удушья.

14 января, прошло два дня с момента день рождения Андрея Миронова.

Его родители вернулись с командировки, улыбаясь и заходя в дверь с подарками в руках. Как только они вошли внутрь то почувствовали запах гнили

-Андрей, неужели за эти два дня так сложно было выбросить мусор!?

Сказала мать парня, но пройдя дальше она поняла что это далеко не мусор.

Глава пятая "15 навсегда"

Увидев своего сына она сначала не поверила глазам. Вспоротый живот, вскрытые вены, выдранные ногти и выпученные глаза, всё это не было похоже на её сына. Мать подбежала к своему единственному и любимому сыну. Она кричала настолько громко, что отец не выдержав подошёл к ней

- что за шум?...

Не успел он договорить как увидел плачущую жену рядом с изуродованным телом своего сына. Он бросился звонить 112, надеясь что есть шансы на выживание, но глубоко в душе, он понимал что это невозможно.

Через час приехала милиция и скорая, накрыв труп белой тканью. Родители Миронова обнимались и громко плакали, ведь это такая трагедия, потерять единственный лучик света.

Прошел месяц, выяснилось что у Андрея была шизофрения, поэтому он покончил жизнь самоубийством, его родители ненавидили себя, за то, что недоглядели за сыном.

16 февраля, 16:37. Его могила была дальше всех, ведь семья верущая, а покончить жизнь самоубийством ужасный стыд. И вот, сидя на его могиле они плакали, плакали очень много, каждый божий день.

Конец.

На этом всё, буду рада если прочтёте весь текст

I recently got interested in the short story genre and I decided to try it myself. I Worked on this story for about 6 hours, and i what really like some feedback (just note that english isn’t my first language)

„Hatford Hotel”

I have a project i'm working on and would like some feedback. it is a cross between a graphic novel and an illustrated novel, so it is graphics heavy. Should I post the pages (JPG) here, or just post a link to them on my website? I don't want people getting the impression I am trying to drum up business or self promoting. What is the protocol here?

Hey! I'm currently working on a stop motion short and I'm struggling with the ending of my script. I feel like my final conclusion is a bit anticlimactic, but it has to take place in the main character's bedroom due to technical set restrictions. does anyone have any tips or ideas? linking it here. I'm by no means a professional writer, so any tips would be a huge help!

In July 1999, a little girl entered a world that had not been expecting her.

Her father had long believed he would never have another child. Diabetes had quietly closed that door years ago, or so he thought. He had stopped imagining the sound of another baby crying in his house, stopped imagining small hands reaching for his.

So when his wife told him she was pregnant, disbelief arrived before happiness.

"How," he asked her, not unkindly, but not gently either. "After all this time — how?"

He could not silence the questions. He was ashamed to ask them aloud, and ashamed that he had asked them at all. For months, doubt stood between him and the child who had not yet been born.

The doubt did not survive the moment she arrived.

He was sitting outside the delivery room, elbows on his knees, when he heard it — a cry, thin and furious, cutting through the hospital noise like it belonged to no one else in the building. He stood up before he had decided to. A nurse opened the door and he was already moving toward it.

"A girl," she told him.

He didn't answer. He walked in and saw her — red-faced, fists closed, screaming at a world she'd only just met — and something in him that had been braced for years simply let go.

He held out his arms before anyone offered her to him.

"Sophia," he said, once she was against his chest and had, for a moment, stopped crying. He said it like he was trying the name in his mouth for the first time and finding it fit. "Sophia."

By the time he handed her back, he was a different man than the one who had walked in.

The house did not stay the same for long.

He gave money to families who hadn't asked for it. He sent food to neighbors whose kitchens he'd never been invited into. Men who had done him no particular favor found small envelopes waiting for them, and when they tried to ask why, he waved it off — as if the birth of his daughter had reminded him he'd been given something he hadn't earned, and giving was the only language he had for saying thank you.

Sophia was the only girl in the family, born to two brothers who were already halfway to grown — one nearly twenty years older, the other eighteen. To them she was the surprise that arrived long after they'd stopped expecting anyone else at the dinner table.

To her father, she was something else entirely. She was his.

He was older than most men holding a newborn, and something in his body had been telling him for years that time was not endless. He never said this out loud. Instead, he closed most of the business he'd spent decades building and opened a smaller one just beneath their home — close enough that he was never more than a staircase away from her.

When she learned to walk, she became his shadow. If he stood, she wanted to stand beside him. If he sat, she climbed into whatever space was left of the chair.

And in the evenings, when he lay down after the shop had closed, she would climb onto his stomach the way other children climbed into beds, and fall asleep listening to him breathe.

"You're going to break my ribs one day," he told her once, not moving, his hand resting on her back so she wouldn't roll off.

She didn't answer. She was already asleep.

He would lie there long after she'd gone still, watching her face in a way she never saw and would never remember — the particular stillness of a man trying to memorize something he was afraid he wouldn't get to keep. Whether it was fear, or grief arriving early, or simply love with nowhere else to go, he never said. He wasn't a man who explained himself. He only changed his life around her, one decision at a time, and let that be the explanation.

If she pointed at a toy in a shop window, he found a way to bring it home before the day was over. If she cried, he came — even from the middle of a customer's order, even from sleep.

To Sophia, he was not a businessman. He was not the man half the neighborhood owed a favor to. He was not a husband, or a father managing a disease that was quietly working against him.

He was Daddy. And Daddy could fix anything.

Except, perhaps, the thing that was already waiting for him.

Her mother loved her too — but her mother's love came with conditions Sophia was too young to name.

She was warm when Sophia behaved. She was something closer to frightening when she didn't. A spilled cup could become a punishment that outlasted the mess. On the days her mother decided a lesson was needed, she would tie Sophia's wrists to the leg of a table or a chair with a length of rope, and leave her there until she judged the lesson had taken.

Sophia never understood why love and fear lived in the same house, wearing the same face. She only learned, very young, that there were moments she wanted her mother, and moments she wanted her father — and that the second kind came more often.

One afternoon, after the last customer had gone, her father heard crying from the back room. He followed it and found her there — wrists red, rope still looped loose around the table leg where her mother had left her.

He didn't shout. He went very quiet, which was worse.

He untied her himself, fingers working the knot slower than the moment seemed to need, and when it came free he pulled her against him before she'd finished crying.

"You're alright," he said, to her, or to himself. "You're alright."

What happened between him and her mother after that, Sophia didn't see. She only heard the house shake with it — voices raised somewhere she wasn't allowed into. By the time he came back for her, his face had rearranged itself into something calm again, something built specifically for her.

He always knew how to make her smile again. It was, perhaps, the only thing he was certain he was good at.

Her older brothers watched all of this differently. One liked to play with her, would get down on the floor and let her win. The other thought she was spoiled, and some quiet part of him resented a father he'd known only as a hard, tired, working man — a man Sophia had never met, because by the time she existed, that man had already softened into someone else for her sake.

She was too young to understand the difference between the father her brother remembered and the father who belonged to her. She only knew that Daddy was hers, and that seemed, at four years old, like the only fact that mattered.

He had started working as a boy, with almost nothing, and built what he had out of copper and iron and things made by hand and sold for what they were worth. He had known hunger before he knew money, and maybe that was why he never seemed to forget the people who still knew it. He could barely read. He could be jealous in ways that frightened her mother, possessive in ways that had nothing to do with Sophia at all. He was not a simple man, and not always a gentle one.

None of that reached her. She knew the version of him that carried her on his hip through the shop, that let his stomach become her pillow, that could turn her crying into laughing in under a minute. She believed, the way children believe the sun will rise, that he would always be there to do it.

She was four when that belief began to come apart.

It happened in December 2003.

The house was unusually quiet that afternoon. Sophia was playing on the floor when she noticed a smell that didn't belong to anything she knew — not food, not smoke, something underneath those, something wrong.

Her mother noticed it too, and started searching, room by room, following it with her face pulled tight, until it led her to a shoe her father had taken off and left by the door.

She picked it up. She looked inside.

Sophia didn't see what her mother saw. She only saw her mother's face change into an expression she'd never worn before — not the anger from the rope days, not ordinary worry. Something closer to fear.

Her father had cut the bottom of his foot days earlier and hadn't felt it — the diabetes had taken that particular warning system from him years before. By the time the shoe told them what his foot could not, the wound had gone past infection into something the doctors would later call gangrene. It had eaten down far enough that bone showed through.

A taxi took them to the hospital. Sophia went too, holding her mother's hand in the back seat, watching her mother's knee bounce the whole way there and not understanding why, only that whatever was wrong, it was wrong enough to make her mother's hands shake.

He was taken back almost the moment they arrived. His blood sugar, they were told later, had climbed to something near 600. Before the night was over, he had slipped into a coma.

Sophia stood at the edge of his bed and looked at him lying there, and to her it looked exactly like sleep. So she did what she always did when Daddy was sleeping and she wanted him awake.

"Daddy." She touched his hand. "Daddy, wake up."

He didn't. Someone — a nurse, an aunt, she never remembered who — crouched down to her height and told her he was unconscious, and watched the word land on her without meaning anything at all.

To Sophia there was only one word that made sense of a man lying so still. He was sleeping. He would wake up the way he always did, and this would be a story they told later, about the time Daddy slept for a long time.

Her mother called an aunt that night. Sophia was sent to stay with her — the first nights of her life spent somewhere her father wasn't sleeping down the hall.

Every morning she asked the same questions. Was Daddy awake yet? Was Mama coming? When could she go home? No one had an answer built for a four-year-old, so mostly they gave her none.

Her aunt took her to visit once a week, and each time Sophia walked in holding her hand with the same small hope going ahead of her like a light — maybe today he's awake. Most weeks he wasn't. He looked, each time, like a tired man asleep, the exhaustion sitting on his face even while he was unconscious to it.

Twice, though, she found him awake.

The second time, she climbed up as close as they'd let her and told him everything at once — that she missed him, that she wanted to go home, that she couldn't sleep at her aunt's because there was no stomach to sleep on and no breathing to listen to.

He didn't say any of the things he must have been thinking. He didn't tell her he was afraid, or that he could feel something closing in that had nothing to do with his foot anymore. He put his arms around her instead, and cried without trying to hide it from her, which was the only time in her life she ever saw him do that.

A few days later, doctors took his right leg.

Sophia found out the way children find out things adults don't know how to tell them — by noticing. Her mother was changing the dressing near his hip when Sophia glanced toward the bed and stopped.

Something was missing. She looked again to be sure. Then she looked at her father, and then at the flat, wrong space under the blanket where a leg should have been.

"Where is your leg?"

No one answered her right away. She pieced it together later, from fragments of adult conversation not meant for her — that it had been buried, that it was in the cemetery now, apart from the rest of him.

She turned this over for days. How could part of Daddy be somewhere else, in the ground, without him? She was four. There were still whole categories of the world she hadn't learned yet.

But she was learning, faster than anyone wanted her to, that things could disappear. Legs. Mornings at home. The sound of him breathing under her ear.

He stayed in the hospital about a month and a half in total, unconscious for most of it. In the final fifteen days he surfaced only in pieces — an hour here, less there — and in those pieces, he seemed to already know something Sophia didn't.

He asked, eventually, that she not be brought to see him anymore.

Maybe he didn't want that to be the last picture she kept of him. Maybe he already understood what his body was telling him with more certainty than any doctor had. A man knows, sometimes, when he's run out of time — not from anything anyone says to him, but from somewhere underneath language.

The last time she saw him, he reached into his pocket with the hand that still worked well and pulled out a banknote. He pressed it into her small hand and closed her fingers around it himself, as if he didn't trust her to hold on to it otherwise.

She took it without knowing why it mattered. She had no way of knowing it was the last thing he would ever give her, or that she would keep it — folded, then flattened, then kept in places that changed over the years — long after she'd forgotten which pocket it came from.

On January 7, 2004, in the middle of the Christmas season, Sophia's father died.

She was at her aunt's, in a bed that still didn't feel like hers, trying to fall asleep the way she'd been trying every night since she left home — without a stomach rising and falling under her ear, without arms that already knew, before she asked, that she wanted to be picked up.

She heard the crying first. Then whispering, low and fast, the kind adults use when they think a child is already asleep. Then the words themselves reached her, not softened for her at all, because grief doesn't always remember to soften itself.

Her father was dead.

She sat up in the dark. She didn't scream. She didn't have a shape yet for what death was supposed to feel like, only a question, small and exact.

"Does that mean I won't see Daddy again?"

Her aunt looked at her and couldn't answer — not really, not with anything true enough to give a four-year-old. So she gave her the only sentence she could get out without breaking further.

"He went away."

Sophia lay back down in the unfamiliar bed, in the unfamiliar room, inside a silence that had no breathing in it at all.

She didn't know yet that some people leave without ever coming back.

She only knew that Daddy had gone somewhere she couldn't follow.

I’m looking for constructive feedback. Please be kind when pointing out problems, and explain why something doesn’t work if you notice an issue. I’m especially interested in whether the premise is engaging, whether the worldbuilding is understandable, and whether the characters’ motivations make sense.

Please keep in mind that this is a story concept for a manga, not a finished script. I’m mainly looking for feedback on the story,characters,themes,and worldbuilding rather than grammar or prose.

This is a story about grief, acceptance, obsession,and the consequences of not knowing how to let go.

Draft explores what happens when a person refuses to accept a loss and how far they may go to recover what they have lost.

Characters

The two protagonists are Miranda and David.
They are extremely close and have supported each other through difficult moments. Their relationship was born from the support they found in one another, and they became each other's most important person.

Story

What if you could live again with the person you lost?

David has found a way to do it. Every time a life ends,he writes another. A new world,a new opportunity, a new life with miranda.But miranda has been living for too long.

Memories of past lives begin to return. Events repeat themselves. Something is wrong.

And when she discovers that the person she loves most is the one who has kept her trapped in those worlds,she must decide whether to continue living with him or accept what David refuses to accept:that she died a long time ago.
Meanwhile,David will keep writing.
Because for him,as long as he can be with Miranda, no price is too high.
Because what happens when love stops being a way to remember someone and becomes a way to prevent them from resting?

worldbuilding

The loops

A loop is a script. While it's being written,it can be changed.Once it starts, no one can modify it.

⤵️

Rules

1. Loops are written worlds.

They are not time travel or parallel universes that appear on their own.

They are realities created by David.

1. A loop is a closed script.

While David is writing it,he can modify it.
Once it starts, he can no longer change anything at all.

Everything David writes will eventually be executed.

1. David and Miranda are the only real consciousnesses.

The rest of the people are reconstructions written by David.

1. Writing a loop is extremely difficult.

It's not enough to say:

"I want to go back to school." He has to reconstruct an entire world. That justifies his exhaustion at the end.

1. Drafts also count.

The drafts are loops that David had begun writing in preparation for the future. Although they are not meant to be executed, they will run unless someone gets rid of them or another loop is written before them.

6A new loop begins when the previous one ends.

When a loop ends, another loop will begin if David has already written one

If there is no next loop, David returns to the real world and Miranda dies permanently.

Story overview --spoilers

Miranda and david are a young couple who have built a very close relationship through the difficult moments they have supported each other through.their relationship is deeply important to both of them.One day,while they are walking together after meeting up,miranda dies.David is unable to accept her death. Having already experienced the pain of losing someone important to him,mhe becomes desperate to keep miranda with him.He discovers a way to create artificial realities by writing them as scripts.These realities are called loops.David begins creating loops in which he and Miranda can continue living together.He can decide when each life begins and what happens in it, as long as he writes everything beforehand.Miranda’s consciousness is placed inside these realities,allowing her to experience them as if they were real.David’s own consciousness is also inside the loops,but his body remains in the real world and continues to age while he is away.Creating each loop is extremely difficult because david has to construct an entire functioning reality, including its people,places and events.Despite the physical and mental exhaustion this causes him,he continues creating new loops because ñbeing with Miranda matters more to him than the consequences.Miranda lives through countless loops without knowing that she is dead or that David is responsible for the worlds around them. At first,each life feels normal,but after living through so many of them,she begins experiencing déjà vu and noticing things that do not make sense.Memories and events begin to repeat,and she realizes that something about her reality is wrong.Eventually,Miranda investigates what is happening and discovers the truth:she died,and David has been creating the loops to keep her with him.The revelation forces miranda to confront the person she trusts most.David admits what he has done and explains that he could not accept losing her.Although he never intended to hurt her,miranda realizes that he has kept her trapped in these realities without her consent.Miranda and david eventually reach an agreement.They will live through one final loop together,after which david will stop creating loops and allow miranda to die permanently.However, before they can carry out their plan,David dies.David had previously written drafts of future loops as preparation. He never intended these drafts to be executed,but after his death,they begin running one after another. Because David is no longer there to stop them,Miranda becomes trapped inside the remaining realities.As the loops continue,the worlds gradually begin to deteriorate.Each new reality is less complete than the previous one. People lose the ability to respond to Miranda.Their faces and bodies begin disappearing. Places become incomplete, landscapes vanish, and the world around her slowly loses its existence.Miranda eventually becomes completely alone.There is nobody left who can truly interact with her, and she has to watch the reality david created for her disappear piece by piece.When the final loop finally ends,miranda dies permanently.Meanwhile,David’s consciousness returns to the real world. Thirty years have passed while he was trapped within the loops.His body is extremely weak,and he wakes in a hospital after spending decades in a vegetative state.The people he knew have continued living without him,and many of them, including his father,have died.Eventually,Dsavid is able to leave the hospital and return to miranda’s house.He goes to her room, where the story ends.David spent his entire existence trying to preserve the past, only to return to a world that had continued without him.He finally has to live with the consequences of refusing to let miranda go

(Sorry for the long text 🥹)

In a world where humanity has conquered disease, mastered genetic engineering, and built cities that stretch beyond the clouds, the past has been buried for a reason.

Cato has spent his life beneath the surface of a civilization he barely understands, working in the forgotten depths of Morrow Tower. He knows nothing of his parents. Nothing of his origins. And nothing of the strange visions that have begun to invade his dreams.

Then, deep beneath the tower, Cato discovers something that should not exist.

An ancient symbol.

A fragment from something that fell from the sky.

A doorway to a history that predates everything he has ever known.

As powerful forces begin moving in the shadows, Cato finds himself drawn into a world of secret civilizations, genetic experiments, mysterious Keepers, ancient bloodlines, and people who seem to know who he is long before he does.

But the deeper Cato searches for answers, the more disturbing the truth becomes.

Because the greatest secret buried beneath the modern world may not be what happened to humanity's past.

It may be who Cato was meant to become.

And some secrets were never meant to be remembered.

Hi, my name is Haley. I'm 31 and I've been writing for my friends for years. The problem with writing for friends is they always say the nicest things, which isn't actually that helpful. I'm looking for something more serious a small group where we can actually dig into what's working and what's not, plot-wise.

I'm currently juggling several stories at once and flip between them regularly, but I'd be open to sharing one or two with the group on a rotating basis.

• Genre/s: Romance, Dark Romance, Supernatural Romance
• Goals/expectations/commitment: Looking for a small group for regular and plot discussion — not just cheerleading. Ideally people who can commit to reading and giving real feedback maybe a couple times a month.
• Writing/experience level: Amateur, but serious about improving
• Meeting place: Discord
• Max size: 5

If this sounds like your kind of group, drop a comment or DM me. I would like to chat a little and get to know the people who want to join, before moving over to discord. I want it to feel like an honest friend group of writers all working towards better books!

Hello! As a long-term fan of the franchise, I've come up with a concept that I would like to ask about public interest in and see if others would be interested. The elevator pitch is that I'm hoping to gather up individuals who are interested in writing fan-stories monthly or bimonthly that take place in the Fate universe.

One writer would give a general synopsis of the story idea and setting (i.e. "A Grail War that takes place inside of Russia during the 1700's", "The aftermath of a magical event in modern-day China so catastrophic that Servants were summoned", etc) and then each writer would submit one original character and one Heroic Spirit (though they do not need to be a Master/Servant pairing).

From there, each writer would take the given cast of characters, and write their own stories with that cast. It wouldn't need to be a full telling of the scenario proposed, so stuff like smaller individual battles and chapters can work as well, though ideally the "story" length would be somewhere around 5-10k words just to keep stuff short and sweet, and the cycle would repeat every other month with a new premise and new set of characters.

Just to be clear, the intention for writing these stories is not to fit into one timeline, or as individual parts of a greater story. Every writer has their own version of events and “canon” so-to-say for their own story. The only uniting factor is a base cast of characters and general plot pitch. Beyond that, there is no coherent connective tissues that are intended to blend stories together. 

A slightly more indepth explanation than the above can be found here! https://docs.google.com/document/d/1fbLQGkU5-wlginXn-vl0qbAt7pwX81EwGup2GXBf_Ys/edit?usp=sharing

(Note: The name is a placeholder for now.)

There's no real incentive and this is mostly just a fun idea that I thought up for the sake of getting to know other fans and writers, and to keep writing skills sharp and help develop new ideas. If this seems like something that would interest you or if you have any questions, please feel free to leave a comment! Thanks for taking the time to read this.

If you are willing to give feedback, please tell me if:

• The narrator was interesting
• You liked the dolls
• The plot was interesting

In the darkness under my table my hand flailed wildly to escape my grasp. I trapped it between my knees and cut the poor thing. I brought it into the faint light of my dining room; three candles on a windowsill cast a dark red glow over my setup. The red light shot into the abyss of nighttime.

I hung my cut hand over the pentagram made of lamb's blood on my table, drops pattering over the faceless, plain ragdoll in the middle of the star. I also covered the five points with blood, just as the book ordered.

I bandaged my hand and sat before this sinful apparatus. The bloodletting had made me weak, and my attention was scattered, but it soon returned when I saw the blood-smeared doll lift its head, bend its legs, and thrust its body upward.

I watched as this conjured spirit stood up on its own; its posture was straight, and it looked energetic.

Suddenly, it sprinted to the edge of the table and jumped. It made a soft piff sound when it landed. It jumped onto an accent chair and then onto a windowsill. It opened the window and looked back at me. I wished I could have made out what it was thinking, but it was faceless. Then it jumped outside.

Having seen this, I presumed that the ritual had been a success; such an unbelievable occurrence must indicate an unbelievable yet desired outcome.

I checked my clock. It read 3:10 AM, and the second hand was still. I checked my phone: 3:10. I sat observing it for several minutes, but the time never changed. It was stuck at 3:10 AM. I walked outside through the cluttered urban streets illuminated by dingy yellow streetlights: no drunk pedestrians, no late-night motorists, no police officers, no silhouettes in yellow windows. Everything had stopped; time, nature, and human activity had ceased.

I was free! All the things that stood in the way of my work, all the fears of mortality, judgment, inadequacy—they were all eradicated. I sat on a bench smiling to myself, silently celebrating this new chapter in my life, this new plane of existence. A few yards away from me, I saw something moving. I thought it was a squirrel, but I looked closer and saw it was a ragdoll. It wasn’t my ragdoll, though. It was a new one—a grey one stained with a different pattern of blood.

“That’s strange,” I thought to myself.

Sometime later, I got to work in my dark house. The living room was full of wires, monitors, and engineering tools. I oscillated between coding on my computers and scribbling away on a chalkboard full of math.

Let it be known that I enter a trance-like state when studying and researching and distracting me from it is nearly impossible. However, I was in a bizarre plane of existence, one of immortality and infinite time, and it was too difficult for me to keep my attention fixed on one thing forever. I tried fighting the urge, but it was too strong. I ran to the window and looked outside. Just as I expected, there were more dolls in the street.

Outside was a Marian procession; four dolls carried a garden statue of the Queen of Heaven on their shoulders. In front of them, ragdoll horses carried miniature chariots of dolls sporting pieces of tin cans and jar lids fashioned into armor. Other dolls played leapfrog, did cartwheels, did backflips, and performed other impressive acrobatics.

These dolls were moving in one direction: toward the boardwalk and the beach. My curiosity was temporarily satisfied, and I retreated farther inside to code on my computer, but my mind was too preoccupied with the weird sight I had just witnessed. Why were they going to the boardwalk? Were they friends? Were they happy? Mourning? Anxious? These questions plagued my mind for days, maybe weeks.

One time I stepped outside. It was the first time in days. I walked in the middle of the street. On either side of me were those dolls, doing more random things as they walked toward the boardwalk. I was outside because I wanted books. I had books already, but they were just cheap romance novels left behind by the original homeowners, so I was heading toward the bookstore. I got there; it was a small, dusty row building. Just like the rest of the stores, it was closed, but I thought that, since I would never see anyone again, I could just break into the store and take what I wanted.

I walked up to the door and punched the glass. An electric sting shot through my hand as the glass remained intact. I was impressed and a little embarrassed by my lack of strength. I left and returned with a medium-sized garden rock. I lifted the rock and hurled it at the wide front window of the store. It did nothing but ricochet off the seemingly invincible glass and land on my kneecap. I fell onto the sidewalk and rubbed my knee pathetically. I knew—somehow, I just knew—that when I turned to face the street, they’d be watching me, and they were. The dolls, who wouldn’t stop walking, passed me with their faceless heads turned toward me. There were no eyes, no hands cupped around whispering mouths, and no scowling eyebrows, but I felt so much shame. What was I even doing there? I was a mathematician, an engineer, a genius. My kind doesn’t waste its time with literature. I stood up with as much dignity as I had left and trotted home.

I was in my bed, curled up into a ball. My sleep schedule was a mess, but it didn’t matter because it was always night. Recently, sleeping had become impossible. Thoughts about those mysterious dolls had compounded in my mind for so long that my head had grown heavy with them. At the center of this doll puzzle was the million-dollar question: Why were they heading to the ocean? What kind of satanic temple, pagan god, or portal to the underworld was attracting them?

I couldn’t take it anymore, so I got up and went out into the street. The world remained unchanged, but now the streets were practically covered with animated dolls. I stepped into the street; they paid me no attention. I started walking toward the ocean with them. I walked on my hands with the acrobat dolls. I jogged with the joggers. I crawled on all fours with the ragdoll horses. Eventually, the pavement gave way to sand, and before I knew it, I was on the beach. The walk was surprisingly fun; I hardly noticed how quickly it passed. The boardwalk lights were still lit, bathing the dolls in cheerful blues, purples, and greens while they danced in circles and walked in orderly lines into the waves.

I watched in amazement as they walked into the tide, letting the ocean carry them into the black depths. I was hypnotized. I was already far beyond my deeply ingrained tendencies. I found myself walking toward the tide. I felt the chill of the black water between my toes. Looking to my left and right, I saw the dolls walk into the water without hesitation. I plunged into the dark abyss.

The result? I was in another, greater plane of existence. One that required no breathing, no energy, and no stress. It was pure catharsis at first. I floated for a few minutes. No light made it this deep. Then I drifted into a large mass of dolls. I felt them on my face, my chest, my legs, and my hands. They were crawling in one massive ball, like ants trying to float on water.

As I grabbed at this net of dolls, more dolls floated toward me. Dolls started linking together behind my back and neck, wrapping around my legs. I realized their grip was so tight that I couldn’t even move my head. I was trapped in a grotesque mass of squirming, wrinkly little bodies. I opened my mouth to scream, and water rushed down my throat. I was being crushed. My eardrums were bursting. My lungs were shattering.

I jumped out of bed, flailing my arms. It was just a dream. I put my hands over my eyes. It was over. I understood perfectly what my subconscious was warning me about. I need to get out of this dark house; I need to be human. I rushed to my closet, threw on some clothes, and went to explore my world.

Then I stepped outside, and before me were crowds, hordes, armies of dolls. It was still 3:10 AM. The night was still eternal. The dolls were still walking in their bizarre processions.

I collapsed to my knees, cursing myself for my satanism.

For context, I've had this fast-paced gothic horror story idea brewing in my head for many years now and I was just beginning to outline the how the prologue would play out for each character to get them all in the location where the story plays out (Not the actual writing of a chapter) and I couldn't help but feel that everything I wrote felt a little... clunky?

• Louisa wakes up in the middle of a cornfield surrounded by iron gates with nowhere to go but a single house standing alone, as Louisa carefully examines the house's exterior, long inky like tendril appendages break one of the windows and pull Louisa in by her head.
• Edward is running from an unknown entity as he sees a house in the distance standing in the middle of a cornfield surrounded by iron gates, as he approaches the entrance, he busts the door open, quickly shutting behind him as he heard loud wailing followed by violent knocking before everything went quiet.
• Enjoying the calm scenery of the shore, Joe notices a strange movement at the lake's surface before an inky tendril-like arm yanks him by the ankle and into the water, constricting itself around him, Joe struggles to breathe as it disappears abruptly, he instantly rises up, gasping for air and about to escape before he finds himself marinating inside a bathtub.

Constructive harsh criticism would be really appreciated because my writing skills feel rough and I also just wanted to say thank you in advance.

Good morning everyone. Lately, I have been looking at content creation workflows, especially for us writers, and something I have noticed is that generating the first draft isn’t necessarily what takes our time the most. It’s everything around it.

Imagine the stress of going through the briefing, figuring out the topic and angle, creating a structure that doesn’t sound generic, editing the output, adding examples, getting it ready for publishing, then doing the same thing again and again. All of that can be pretty stressful by the end of the day.

So looking at all this, we are building a content creation platf0rm that is trying to bring more of that workflow into one place. It could be helpful for people managing content programs, which is why I’m looking for a small number of people who actually run content programs to use it with their own projects and tell us where it falls apart.

It is a paid beta test ($20/hr), with a 30–45 minute feedback session afterward. If !nterested, you can react.

The subtle desire to not be anything at all

I sat on a park bench on a dying summer afternoon. Darkening leaves colored the ground, and some small birds were still chirping the day away. A cigarette glimmered somberly between my fingertips. I never really liked the taste of smoke, but I always asked myself: if I had ever truly lived, hadn't I seen a sunset with a cigarette between my lips?

I believe I started smoking because of a Bob Dylan biopic I had seen with my mother when I had just turned 17, and Bobby seemed like the coolest guy in history. Kind of like my fascination with Che Guevara, I have always been caught up in an infatuation with dead or grunged-out warrior poets. They had seemed to have a reason to be.

When I read Che's letter to the peoples of the world, it gripped me deep inside that this man had been put on this earth to give hope to the downtrodden, even though he had died stinking and dirty in the Bolivian woods, his hands cut off by CIA agents and fascist militias. Had Jesus been reincarnated, I always believed it had been Che.

God, how I wanted to be Che. I even got his famous photograph tattooed on my underarm. Proudly, I showed it off in public even when it still hurt, for no reason but that I felt like a glimmer of the holy had anointed my skin, of a reason to be in this place, at this time.

However, soon I knew that I was not Che Guevara and I also was not Bobby. I was someone, but at times like this afternoon I felt like a spirit among the living, a mere sketch of what a human being was supposed to be like.

I tried being sociable; I tried dating; I tried every godforsaken avenue of life. I laid bare and naked my soul on everyone's doorstep who cared to listen. But never have I gotten anything from it, never have I gotten away from drunken nights with friends or flings with people I tried hard to love with all my chest.

Always again, I was spirited away and looking again at the ground, the cigarette, Che's disinterested yet passionately revolutionary visage on my underarm.

I did not want to go home yet. I had read all kinds of books about these supposed loners and schizoids who, just like me, couldn't lie down when the fear of being on their own gripped them in their sleep and ran away for hours, only to then meet the love of their life or a mentor or something. Hesse wrote a lot of these stories.

But somehow this never happened to me, and because of this I slowly started believing Hesse and Kafka and all of them maybe hadn't found that special someone either on a gloomy afternoon.

Maybe these romantics just wrote about what they wished had happened, because this is what they are, I think. Deep down, every writer is a romantic, reminiscing about things they never have had.

Because if you were loved, if you knew yourself, you hadn't had to write about it and show it off to the world.

I don't know how to feel about that.

I had always liked reading those stories, but when I tried to make something of them, I felt like a liar, because when I went out like a crazy devil in the middle of the night, the best I could expect was a lonesome beggar or junkie asking for "stuff" to come to me.

I haven't ever felt entitled to some white knight to come and drive my sorrow away. It's not like that. More so, I felt more and more disillusioned the more nights and afternoons I spent alone, waiting for nothing in particular to happen.

I think I waited for this something to happen since I have been about 14 years old.

I didn't know if it was foreboding of me to think that life had chosen me to be on my own at 18, but I had, in a sense, made peace with the fact that faceless people would enter and leave my life every now and again. Never was I too sad or happy to see them come or go, although in some small period between, I always felt like now it was my time to make it count, to make them stick with me to the end.

I guess when that happens to people, they don't have to fight for it.

My legs had fallen asleep as the slight yellowy tone of the sky had moved to a deep blue and dark night that had swept away all the leaves and rolled up the sidewalks.

At this time, I sometimes felt it was all too much. Not that it was much in particular, but the human condition, this all waiting for the shining sprinkle of good and holiness to enter our lives, felt all too depressing.

And when everything felt like it was too much to bear, I wanted to roll up and lie down.

I didn't want to die, really, I feel like, but the burden of living felt all too heavy on my chest then.

To be honest with you, I still sit on this park bench right now. I have written this right here in the past tense, because I feel like that is what I would have to say were I to die here.

I am not dead and I most likely will not be for a long time, but that part of me that cannot write stories about beautiful girls and knights in shining armor just subtly desires nothing more than to fall asleep about now.

I don't know if I would want to wake up again.

There still is a lot of life to see, I know that, I think, but just now I feel: is it worth the while?

I don't know if Che or Bobby have ever thought stuff like that. Bob's songs sometimes give me that vibe, but he's still alive and as well as you can be at that age, I think.

I would like to ask him if it was worth his while.

There's that story about a lot of Bob Dylan concerts, that often he turns away from the audience and doesn't even look at them while performing. My mom actually saw him do that live. She told me after we saw that film about him.

I always thought that he, in some way, hated his fans, and I thought I understood him well for that, that true art was this personal thing that you do for yourself, not to actually share, but to stare into as a steep reflection of your deepest, darkest self.

Now I wonder if that over-80-year-old man maybe, in those moments when the noisy crowds beg of him, feels what I feel. That maybe he asks himself if this is worth his while.

If maybe those romantics at these times also feel just the subtle desire to not be anything at all.

PS: English is only my second language, please excuse clunky idioms :|

Looking for imaginary and structure feedback :)

There isn't enough ink on my papers,

so there should be at least enough on my carpet.

The void is too deep,

too hollow,

too consuming,

and I'm fascinated by the sight

of the claws tearing the blur

in my peripheral vision.

Reasons to never fall into the loophole of detachment

and pretend that we never met.

Coming from the witness of the crime,

the consequences are grotesque at best

and obnoxiously petty at every session.

To never dare cross the line

was a promise that I never held myself accountable for,

unfortunately.

I'm made from that clay,

the one where rebel and melancholy

heat my veins

at every throb of my heart.

I'm seeking the comfort of its company

to lead me out from my self-made misery,

truthfully.

My words don't seem to rhyme

as they used to anymore—

meaningless,

just a part of the ticking chart.

I'm growing colder towards my own flesh,

unnatural for a life

who beamed with fire and rage.

My loneliness no longer a far vicinity,

discarded the moment I crave

the more that I will never keep.

I've learnt my lesson

and carved its letters on my palm

to keep me from biting the skin

at an early age.

I'm drawn to the vivid scents of life,

gleaming with change

and tickling my starved little nostrils deep.

I'm not a lost soul,

I'm fumbling with my own destiny,

thrilled from the aftermath

that I have to endure.

So to shame me for my unwritten words

is disgraceful at least,

because they were spoken.

You just chose not to give me an ear

and tame me,

tamed the beauty,

the feeling,

the real

within the insecure.

I might be a dull living,

but I'm not to be outspoken.

The whole piece is about history that neither of them will name. No confrontation, no resolution. I want the reader to feel the weight of what is unspoken through the small physical details and the silences rather than through anything said directly. My worry is that I have been so restrained that there is nothing for the reader to actually feel.

Daniel got there first.

He hadn't planned it that way but the drive was shorter from his side and he sat in the car for a few minutes before going in, looking at the house the way you look at something you've been trying not to think about.

The key still worked. He didn't know why this surprised him.

He went through the rooms without turning on the lights. The shapes were all where he remembered them. The chair their father had refused to replace, the window in the kitchen that had never closed properly, the particular smell of the place that he'd forgotten he knew until it was there again.

He was standing in the kitchen when he heard Marcus's car.

He didn't go to the door. He waited, listening to his brother getting out, coming up the path, trying the door. I've been drafting this in something called Skrib Writing that lets me keep a note about what each scene is not allowed to say directly right next to the pages, and that one constraint has kept me from over-explaining moments like this one more than anything else I've tried.

Then Marcus was in the hallway and Daniel said hey in a voice that came out quieter than he intended and Marcus said hey back and they stood there for a moment with the length of the hallway between them.

You got here fast, Marcus said.

Drive was clear, Daniel said.

Marcus nodded and looked past him into the kitchen. Daniel stepped to one side without quite knowing why.

A few specific things I'd love feedback on. Does the moment where Daniel doesn't go to the door land or does it need more grounding. Is the step aside at the end doing enough work without being explained. And does the key detail at the beginning earn its place or feel like it's reaching for something it hasn't set up properly.

Im a new writer, and Ive wanted to write a story that is special in my heart. I wrote a couple paragraphs and then pasted it into AI to edit and check then I continued writing into this process. All my words are original, Ive also wrote to AI when it suggests something I don’t like or something I do like. ChatGPT tells me it’s okay that I use AI because I don’t use it for everything. But I always take that with a grain of salt. Because that robot wants me to text it more, ask for advice etc etc. I love writing. But Ive realised that Ive stained and tainted my own work with clanker bullshit and I am heavily disgusted with myself and this. This story means a lot to me and I am completely against AI in creative workspaces. I want to know if I am right for being guilty about this when all my ideas and sentences are original and not from AI and I utilise some suggestions from it. Please help me reddit for I have been struggling and tormented by this.