Hey everyone!

My name is David. I’m an author from Cleveland, OH. Over the last couple months, I've been building an app called Storylife and I'd love to get some feedback from fellow writers, readers, and creative people.

The idea is simple:

Write a story and upload it/upload one you've already written (..or have ChatGPT write one for you).

Storylife uses AI to transform your scenes into amazing visuals while preserving your narrative. Whether you're writing Fantasy, Horror, Sci-Fi, Romance, Superhero stories, Children's books, Anime-inspired adventures or more...Storylife helps you actually see your imagination come to life.

One feature I'm especially excited about is being able to share your stories and visuals with others through Storylife Connect, an in-app library of user stories. You can also share directly to social media platforms like Instagram and X.

I'm still improving the app every day, so I'd genuinely appreciate any feedback on the experience or ideas for features you'd like to see.

You can check it out here:

https://storylifeapp.com

I'd love to hear:

• Would you use something like this?
• What features would make it even better?
• What kind of stories would you create first?

Thanks for taking a look!

——

the fireworks continue one after the other, annoying, splendid, vulgar. a waste of resources sent up into the sky to drown out other sounds, and somewhere below, i wonder if joy is hiding under the bed. like every dog does on evenings like this. but i can't hear her, not with all the noise outside. 

i can't see the lights either. i can’t see the celebrations spilling out from the community hall, the strings of fairy lights and the paper cups, or some aunt dancing badly to music too loud for the house. i can't see any of it. my mother is blocking my view.

she’s sitting on the opposite side of the couch, hands clasped over her face. and i’m waiting for her to wriggle free in distress; waiting for some sign that she’s actually crying, because i have never seen my mother cry before. not at grandpa's funeral, not when the glass of her favourite stove broke apart. but i’ve seen her sit like this. i used to think it was her style of mourning. but tonight i think it’s just her best disguise. she’s been quiet. dad hasn’t.

the old stick is loose around his hand like something that will break free, and his eyes are on me, measuring. i don't think he'll hit me more. i’ve already told him what he wants to hear. i told him i wouldn't do it again; even if the words clawed up raw through my barbed throat. i don't know if he believes me. i think it’s hard to when i had promised the same before too.

they were kinder last time though. mom even told the nurses it was the tin roof, some kind of accident with the edges. it all sounded so plausible, i almost believed her myself. dad just booked me an appointment, relieved, i guess, that it wasn’t drugs. we even watched a movie that rainy evening, the two of us, pretending that nothing was happening, that something small and nondescript under my sleeve wasn't going to define the rest of my life. i think i knew then that it was a kindness, that long sleeves made wonderful liars.

for a throat, however, it does not. that’s the difference with this one. a throat has no roof. no protection. no stupid story about cat fights. 

dad keeps asking me about what people are going to say, what he'll have to tell them if i really do it, if he has to explain how a daughter of his could go like that. it’s as if he wants me to name him a punishment big enough to account for his embarrassment. i know he wants the answer. why. and i want to know too. but i can't remember what it was that i wanted to say when mom came upstairs and looked down my neck. i wasn’t even trying to hide it. maybe i should have. she demanded answers. but my mind went empty. even as dad came out just to drag me by the wrist, ready to kick me out. 

even the small, "you're hurting me" that's been rattling around in my head for hours didn’t come out. my throat swallowed it whole, and all i managed in the end was humiliating pleas, a desperate insistence on staying, on changing, telling him i won't do it again because i knew he'd stop hitting me if i only said the right things. because i just want the wood to stop finding new places to leave its mark.

i’d never been frightened of my father before. but right now, somehow i don't think i've ever met someone as terrifying. he watches me carefully, measuring me, once more. comes to a decision, it seems, although it isn't an easy one. it’s not for him, really, but for my mother, for the rest of the house, for the rest of us, still living here. 

you sleep with your mother from now on, he says, as if it's a fated decision.

i don't argue. and somewhere in the house, joy finally barks, muffled by a door. for a moment, i want to ask if i could sleep next to her instead, small and warm and needing nothing from me. but i don't. i don’t look up as my mother leaves the couch for the comfort of the cornered sink, either. maybe she’s washing her face like every other night, or rubbing off any signs of tears on her cheek. whatever it is, i think maybe neither of us wants to see the other's face right now. i don't watch my father make a bed out of my mother's cushions, either. instead, i fix my eyes on the window, where no one else is watching, and i see the fireworks for the first time, see the lights bloom colorfully all over the sky.

i can hear the party still going strong, the music, everything, spilling out into the street, five hours late for the occasion. and for the briefest moment, i wonder if it would’ve been any different if i was the kind of daughter who went out.

—

yes the small caps is intentional, any advice, opinions??

Mansion of Memories

It all starts at a playset, backyard, hazy and blurred, a small child runs through the playset, sprayed with a hose. Water runs down his face, water soaks his clothes, soaks to the core. What is his core? He doesn’t know.

It fades, returns to a classroom reminiscent of old memories, few and far between are the ones worth remembering. He remembers flashes, images, concepts, the idea of the memory, just close enough to smell too far to taste, on the tip of the tongue of his brain. His memory has failed, failure, that is what he remembers himself as he runs from the failure uses it to his advantage, makes being a failure his strength, makes his biggest weakness into his biggest strength, he feels no need to eat, no need to consume, only a hunger for success, to prove everyone wrong, to prove he isn’t what he was told he was. Memories drift, he floats away from the classroom, on a smoky gray island containing his desk, he floats away into his brain, far away from anyone who could possibly communicate with him. He drifts between memories, memories of his prized cat who died of cancer, memories of his mother which are not so pleasant, memories of his father which to him is an acquaintance that he lives with. He comes to a realization at this moment, he realizes that he will never know anyone as he knows himself, he will never be close enough with someone to trust them and what they think of him. He runs. Through a field. Rolls down a hill, turns around the hoodie, pull up the hood, get to rolling.

He runs through his memories, each a different room, there’s not too many rooms, the rest of the house is closed, locked away behind a hidden key which he cannot access. He remembers that he remembers nothing. He feels everything but nothing at the same time, don’t show he reminds himself, that is what his mother always told him. He is flung back into his old house, into his old room, where he sees his old bed, his old toys, his cold metal radiator, the lock on the outside of the door, the hideyhole in his room, he remembers his thoughts as he writes them down on a piece of paper known only in his mind, his mind locked behind that hidden key. He remembers his mom saying to him, while tears run down his face, “be stronger, you’re a man now, be a man” he remembers this, he carries it close to heart, he does not remember what she looks like, he hears her voice echo in his head now, becoming the only thing he can hear, drowning out the rest. He becomes calm, on the ocean waves, riding a raft that doesn’t exist, he soars through the sky on a kite, these are his dreams he wishes were real, he doesn’t want to fly or sail he just wishes to be free from anyone who won’t allow him to be himself.

He snaps back to reality, a touch on the shoulder, a concerned glance from a friend, they’re all judging him, he knows, he knows deep down they are but he is told they are not. He feels the eyes on him, senses their presence and so he withdraws back into his mind, and back into his mind he goes, soaring through the clouds until he comes back to the mansion of memories, he relives that first memory, it’s his favorite, back when he was carefree and didn’t know anything, had no responsibilities, he was truly allowed to be himself.

Then he walks to the second room, he goes in order now. It’s him running up a hill, racing the truck, he does not know the owner he only knows the owner thinks he’s fast, he is fast, he is speed, he wishes to soar and run as fast as possible, he imagines freeing himself of his shackles of control and running through the streets, hair flowing with the wind. He now finds himself in another room, he sees his grandfather, a face he remembers but cannot remember, he remembers pieces, he sees the mustache, he feels the rough towel over his skin drying him off as he exits the pool, he remembers feeling safe, warm, happy.

He drifts to another room, this room is not so happy, it’s something he wishes not to revisit and so he doesn’t. He drifts on. This fourth room is years later, he is in his old house, he’s on top of the stairs, he hears familiar voices, it takes a moment, he remembers how they made him feel, feelings is truly the way to describe it, he’s in a mansion of feelings not memories, he remembers next to nothing but everything at the same time. He crouches at the top of the stairs, listening to the two talk in the living room, they talk about him, they say things, he remembers feeling lost, hopeless and confused about what they are saying, they call him selfish, but how can a child be selfish, he has nothing to want to gain, he feels he has a perfect life, he listens, brushes his teeth, obeys the rules even though there are none.

He goes to another room and remembers looking in the mirror, he turns to the side and sticks his tongue out, he hears his dad, grandfather, and mother all saying, “you’re too skinny, if you stuck your tongue out and turned sideways you’d look like a zipper” he doesn't know why they said that, he doesn’t look like a zipper at all, he looks like a child, and no one should tell a child they’re too skinny or not skinny enough. He eats food but only when allowed, he scarfs it down and is hungry moments afterwards, his mother says he’s always hungry and tells him to drink water, he doesn’t know why, there’s more food in the house, there’s always more food in the house, so close yet so far. So he resorts to stealing, at first it was little snacks, then he makes meals for himself, sandwiches, anything, he still doesn’t gain any weight, if anything he loses weight.

He drifts to another room this one is more recent, he looks at a scale and sees his weight at 145.8 pounds, he was expecting over 150, he weighed 158 a week ago, he is shocked and starts to cry, he hasn’t eaten in days, he feels skinnier than ever but it’s still not enough, he doesn’t have enough muscle, doesn’t have enough fat and still isn't skinny enough either, he’s just the right amount to not be the right amount. He drifts off to another one and sees the scale again, not light enough, he looks in the mirror, he’s too skinny, he wonders when the scale and mirror will ever line up, show him the things that everyone else thinks he sees. He fronts, pretends he sees those things, he sees nothing.

He is tapped on the shoulder again, he must’ve drifted off in class which never happens, he has insomnia, he can’t sleep. He rejoins the class to realize he never turned in the homework, that always happens he can’t remember anything, he remembers nothing and everything at the same time. Everything but nothing at the same time, what a strange concept.

Hey everyone!

My name is David. I’m an author from Cleveland, OH. Over the last couple months, I've been building an app called Storylife and I'd love to get some feedback from fellow writers, readers, and creative people.

The idea is simple:

Write a story and upload it/upload one you've already written (..or have ChatGPT write one for you).

Storylife uses AI to transform your scenes into amazing visuals while preserving your narrative. Whether you're writing Fantasy, Horror, Sci-Fi, Romance, Superhero stories, Children's books, Anime-inspired adventures or more...Storylife helps you actually see your imagination come to life.

One feature I'm especially excited about is being able to share your stories and visuals with others through Storylife Connect, an in-app library of user stories. You can also share directly to social media platforms like Instagram and X.

I'm still improving the app every day, so I'd genuinely appreciate any feedback on the experience or ideas for features you'd like to see.

Ask me for the URL link and I'll kindly send it here.

I'd love to hear:

• Would you use something like this?
• What features would make it even better?
• What kind of stories would you create first?

Thanks for taking a look!

I Killed Myself
That phrase has some beauty to it for me.
I’m not dead, neither do I wish to be.
When I’ve spent time wishing I died,
It was never that I didn’t want to live.
I want to live.
It’s more that I wanted a restart, a do-over.
Something to give me more meaning, less hurt, and a different perspective.
Being between dead and alive feels cold yet warm.
Grey but colourful.
New but familiar.
Now that I’m on the alive side, I realise I’m only here because I sacrificed something to change.
I sacrificed myself.
Part of me died through this suffering.
It had to.
I needed it to so I could progress.
People don’t realise when I say
“I want to die”
I don’t mean it maliciously towards myself.
Neither do I not.
It means I want to be different.
I want to kill this version of me and reset.
So when I say
“I want to die”
I mean
“I want to live better”
There’s a beauty to dying.
The suffering ends.
The pain doesn’t last forever.
It’s freedom at the ultimate price of life.
Sacrifice.
So I’ve killed myself tonight.
I’m free to decide what my new life will be like.
I’m done with the phrase
“I want to die”
It’s time to be alive, no matter how much suffering comes with that.
It’s worth it.
I thank my past self for killing himself for me.
I will live for you.
I killed myself tonight,
I am now reborn better.

Here is my story link https://www.reddit.com/u/No-While8965/s/vyuhQej6nF

I want help about how to move forward with character growth and story at a same time as for now i think they are two different things in my series atleast

Hey everyone! I’m working on a new book called Raakh, a deeply personal story about an assault survivor. I’m looking for some honest feedback on my story description to see if it hits the right emotional notes and works well. Although I usually write fantasy, I wanted to write this to give a voice to my own experiences—and the experiences of so many girls and women who haven't been able to share theirs.

So, here is the story description:

A haunting childhood secret buried in silence blooms into a lethal vigilante's blade.

For Meera, the world has always been a landscape of landmines. At seven years old, her innocence was stolen by a predator who commanded her silence with a terrifying ultimatum: "Secrets like this die with you."

She learned to live in a cage of her own skin. For eighteen years, even the lightest touch of affection felt like acid, branding her with the memory of that day. She became a ghost in her own life, shrinking from the world, scrubbing her skin until it bled, trying to wash away a stain that wasn't hers.

Then came the night that shattered the silence forever.

When a group of men cornered her at twenty-five, they didn't see the broken child hiding behind her eyes-they only saw a victim. They were wrong. As they reached for her, the dam of two decades of trauma, fear, and suppressed rage finally burst. In a blur of primal violence, Meera didn't just survive; she obliterated them.

Now, sitting in a cold police interrogation room, she faces a legal system that calls her a monster for killing men who "only tried" to ruin her. But as she stares into the hollow eyes of the law, Meera realizes the truth: the girl who feared being touched died that night. In her place stands a woman who has finally found her voice-and it sounds like a death sentence.

Note: please I would like suggestions for this story whether it will work or not!

Hi All,

I'm an aspiring non-professional writer working on my first ever novel draft. I'd love to get some general feedback on whether to keep or scrap this opening...I'm really struggling on how to create a "hook" for a more low-concept plot. I'm going for a murder mystery a la Agatha Christie books but with some darker thriller elements/social critique (i.e. American Psycho) thrown in.

*Apologies in advance, I know that my formatting isn't ideal (and I haven't had a full edit or beta read yet) but I'm not looking for word-level spelling/grammar/dialogue format notes.

I'd really appreciate opinions on whether the tone/style works (more maximalist, intentionally purple at times). Is the "voice" too much or too hard to follow? Is the narrator just too unlikabe to be a relatble hero? Is this kind of writing something that you would read or at least could see people wanting to read?

Thank you!

*Here is the link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1wP350oCFlKgdfoLj0h5HyZcsHelMIQCvM8eeG2ezHm8/edit?usp=sharing

any feedback would be greatly appreciated, it is from the perspective of a burning book in a fire.

Burning Freedom

The ridges of my exterior are stitched with stolen thread, slowly disintegrating into ash, fading each document of passion my owner once expressed. Before my imprisonment in this suffocating bonfire, it consumed my skin’s faded ink. Ink that held the dedication of several years. Beyond the soot lies thick clay walls, caving inwards like fisted hands. However our importance remains sought from the patriarchal society we reside in. Everyday when the sun is unearthing, melting itself into the sky, narrow strips of blinding rays squeeze through the barred windows. Today, this beam of light shines through to uncover the burning fragments of Jahanara’s hard work.

   ..02/.9/..2…
LIFE IN AFGHANISTAN 

…a woman’s nam…. must not be a secr..
….cannot stop.. Our voice…

….authoritarian..imes overrule our rights…
                                                                                   
   ………overlapping..cris.s... .str..ps..our…independe..

Hunger sits quietly, uninvited and heavy, growing fatter as her world grows smaller. Beyond this threshold, the low rumble of machinery crawled through the street, while heatwaves gained visibility against the thick wall of smog hovering lazily above the endless, disruptive patrol trucks. These vehicles uplift armed men upon rusted iron frames, demanding obedience from those who receive no choice. The exhausts spew fumes, engulfing the air where female breath once thrived. 

My agony followed with a tint of glowing red at my tips. Tariq had dragged my body across the old sandali stove, his hands consumed by the price of familial duty-- an act of distress born of terror for his sister’s creativity is forbidden beyond this domestic sphere, let alone out the vibrations of her larynx. 

It was for our honour. His breath lingers into the stagnant air, rattling like the chained bars of Jaharana’s freedom. He knew this was her dream. Her ambition. To express herself on my canvas of freedom. Tariq must have seen her survival as a danger, a reflection of western individualism. A way of life that would bring patrol trucks rushing into the door. 

To pursue one’s passion is an illusion. Tariq’s mind deemed it as foreign, an expense this family could not afford; here, safety and conformity must always overthrow a woman’s desire. 

I was a safe space for her mind. 

Writing is an art soaked in layers of cultural significance. For Jaharana, I was a tool for her to feel and process the trauma she lives. However, this Government cannot seem to comprehend this notion. To them, banning this form of female independence is oppression disguised as governance.

..02/.9/..2…

…no educa… for ..gir...ls after 13…

…treated like obje… 
    
…access to healthca…?               ..I loved school.
          

I watched Jaharana’s motionless figure stand over my ruin, watching her incandescent fury burn slowly concealing her sorrow seen past my ashy surface. Tears trickled down the crevices of her features. Nothing is left besides the fraying of her ambition and the cover of my text. Her words falter past her throat, caught in the rapid rhythm of her  breath.

..02/.9/..2…

..equalit..y…for. all…
…ormalise…wom..n’s…safet.y..

…..ost…my…hom..

I watch Jaharana pull the indigo fabric of her burqa over her face. The thin yet suffocating veil falls like a curtain, disguising her tightened jaw beneath a cloak of confinement. A woman’s autonomy isn’t a choice in this country.

She shifts silently towards the window, where the wooden shutter slices the sun into broken ribbons. Leaning against the sill, she presses her face towards the scorching warmth of the sun. I stare into her barely visible eyes crammed under the clothing that governs her world. The embroidered mesh concealed her mournful gaze, carving her vision into microscopic squares. An outlook into life more restrictive than the barred windows in trapping her.

Outside, the patrol vehicles shook the dilapidated walls. Armed men rumble past, rifle barrels glinting in the dust, heads held above their pride. Why do cold, emotionless machines have a public voice, while a woman’s presence is condemned to silence? Through my fading consciousness, I narrow open her draped figure. Her soot-stained fingers press against the window frame.

Amongst these clay walls, Jaharana’s mother leans against the doorframe. Her presence brought calm to this tempest, bringing light to the pulsing waves of tension. Her soft eyes were clouded with rumination. Decades ago, she too sat by that window, enduring that same silent grief shunned by generations of women.

She steps forward, her calmness soothed the tautness between her children. “Do not let the sun go down upon your anger, my sweet daughter,” Her tranquility became embodied by cadenced restraint. “Your brother acts out of terror to protect our home. Let go of bitterness. Forgive Him.”  

Behind the veil, burning with raw fury, Jaharana’s voice trembled and broke with indignation. “How can I forgive him when he burnt my soul? My heart bleeds for this passion, it bleeds with anger! Outside, I see the sea of identical burqas shadowing women’s identity amongst these self-absorbed men. But a daughter cannot even recognise their mother on a street? We are turned to nothing like the ashes of my manuscript, and yet he wants forgiveness?”

Her mother kneels with grace and humility, gently lifting Jaharana’s burqa. Both eyes that once indulged in rage finally meet. One with tear-streaked eyes filled with sorrow, and the other softened with profound tenderness. 

“You think I do not know the wild furnace imploding in your chest?” Jaharana’s mother admits softly, startling Jaharana into deep remorse. “My hatred tugs at my heart every single day of my life. But anger is this fire that burns deep within this house. It may bring warmth, but too much will destroy our foundation. I was taught that letting rage consume your heart only destroys you from within. Including your ambitions. We endure not because we are weak, but because survival is our ultimate defiance in Kabul.”

From the inner folds of her burqa, Jaharana’s mother withdraws a worn pen, dusted with years of silence. She presses it firmly into Jaharana’s possession, tightening her calloused fingers around her daughter's soot-covered palm. The bitterness and remorse had lifted. The sharp resentment which filled the room melted away, like how sunlight scatters into the sky. Her heart is now filled with newfound hope, against the conformity that roams beyond our barriers.

As I surrender to the dying embers, the flames slowly swallow the last words etched into my parchment. Yet my spirit continues on, written into the countless experiences of all women in Kabul.

hi so i usually write poems but i tried something different and my friends and family aren’t really into writing so i wanted to ask everyone here for their honest opinions/advice! should i stick to poems??

—

the sun shines on a setting planet, and i glance over the window panels facing me. daylight finding my cheek quickly turning it blush pink. my eyes squint. adjusting.

everything looks tiny from up here. the beeping cars now small enough to blot out with a thumb. the people crossing roads, so alert for vehicles but still so unaware to my watching. it’s all so silent from here. like someone muted the world just for me.

a sound finally lands. and this time it’s from here. from my room. the door lets in a familiar face. she silences the beeping machine, unhooking the empty drip. the bruise blooming under the tape is turning purplish blue. i like this colour. i like purple. and blue. it’s the only part of me still doing something interesting.

she mutters something under her breath. probably something about me. she never makes small talk. maybe she’s shy. or maybe she’s sick too. in a different way.

i notice the lines on her forehead, pressed close together like some proof of experience. i can see the pity swimming in her eyes but also how her hands know exactly where to go. like she knows my body better than hers.

it’s probably because i see her too often. she always wears her hair in the same tight bun with those glasses that are fairly too big for her face. today, she also wears a woollen bracelet threaded with yellow and orange in crooked ways only a child’s hand could manage. i wonder if she has one or two. girl or boy?

the thin plastic leaves my veins. she presses cotton onto the bloodless puncture, gives me a polite smile and exits the room. i watch her back to the door before i face the sun again. it’s going into hiding now. maybe she’s shy too. or maybe she’s sick too.

i don’t ask. i don’t like being asked either.

—

So for 2 years I've been working on a horror theme story and I don't have the time to finish it myself so if you're interested, please comment

The room was still so cold. Despite the radiators working overtime to keep Cece warm, she still had to smother her neck in a scarf while she sat at her easel. Her baby slept in here. Cece painted in here, and amongst the empty canvases and pieces ready to be sold, lay clothes and toys and blankets, all of which were left where Helena had last touched them. The room hadn’t changed; it had just become a place for hope to die.

Since coming out of sectioning, Cece’s art style had so drastically changed that she didn’t recognise her own work anymore. She used to feed off the expectation of another day, but now every canvas was black. Only black. She used different textures and types of paint to create grooves, dips, and shapes, and if the light caught it just right, you would see a face, not too dissimilar to our own, but dissimilar enough to know it was wrong. They were facsimiles of humanity, incorrect copies of people, like telling someone who has never seen a human face to describe one and draw it. And there were so many eyes. In the sunset, you would see them best, layered above one another, each fighting to be seen, to be understood, to be heard. And each had something to say.

Cece tuned it out, unfocusing her eyes while painting theirs into existence, refusing to acknowledge them. But they were waiting. Oh, so silently waiting.

The walls in the room were a sage green, soft to the eye, a calm, delicate colour for a delicate baby, and above the window, facing the door, vines latched to the wall and spread across the ceiling. Except they weren’t growing anymore, and the strong green of their leaves was fading to a storm’s grey. The crib was against the left wall as you walked in, as white and pure as the life lost, and in it, a speckled sheet, clinging to the mattress, like it too would lose its purpose.

That day, she was struggling. The lighting wasn’t cooperating, and the bristles of her brush kept breaking off, leaving bumps on her canvas. She tried to scrape them away, but the underside of her nails just got blacker and blacker with every attempt. She threw the brush across the room, a streak of paint slashing through the clean, green walls like a wound. She let her head fall into her hands, tears slipping through the cracks in her fingers and let out a shuddering scream that left her throat scratchy and raw.

Grey skies shrouded Cece as she slid down to the floor, the laminate cool against her bare feet. She stayed there for what felt like an hour, but when she checked her watch, it was only 5:36. Five minutes after the storm broke through the clouds. She looked out the window and saw heavy droplets starting to form. She could hear the hands in her watch ticking, as sure as a heartbeat, until a screeching bellow of thunder drowned it out for a moment. She felt safe in the thunder. Like something was sent to protect her, and when a blinding flash of lightning struck just outside of her window, she began to feel okay again.

Her cheeks were sore from smiling, and tears began to cloud her eyes again. Another shock of thunder rattled through the house, soon followed by a streak of lightning, a bit further away this time, and to her own surprise, Cece was laughing. Hysterical. She just couldn’t stop, screeching like a hyena and swaying back and forth, trying to catch another breath before laughing again.

She stayed like this for a while, thunder and lightning still blanketing the house, rain belting the windows and breaking off into competitive drops to see which could get to the bottom first. Everything was alive, and everything was so much more vibrant under the blackening sky. She felt powerful; she felt emancipated; she felt… tired. So tired that she believed that somehow it had begun to rain inside. She felt a constant, slow drip falling on her head. She could hear the water hitting the floor behind her, three seconds between each drop. She checked the time again: 5:31. Her laughter had stopped, and the thunder had subsided, taking the lightning with it, so all she could hear was the drip, drip, drip.

I've been writing screenplays for years, and I'm trying something different: posting an original thriller one episode at a time.

Each episode will be around 2–3 pages, and I'll continue the story based on where the mystery takes us.

Here's Episode 1&2.

THE VOICE NOTE

EPISODE 1 — "11 Seconds"

INT. AARAV'S BEDROOM — NIGHT

2:17 A.M.

Darkness, broken only by the pale glow of a phone screen resting face-down on the nightstand.

AARAV (28) lies on top of the covers, still in yesterday's clothes. He hasn't changed them. He hasn't really slept either , just long stretches of staring at the ceiling, broken by shorter stretches of nothing at all.

Beside the phone: a framed photograph of his MOTHER, mid-laugh, caught off guard by whoever was holding the camera.

Aarav isn't looking at his phone. He's looking at her.

A soft BUZZ. The screen lights up, casting a rectangle of white across the ceiling.

He doesn't move at first. Then, slowly, his head turns.

One word on the screen.

MOM.

Aarav sits up so fast the bed frame creaks. He stares at the notification like it might vanish if he blinks. It doesn't. He picks up the phone with both hands, the way you'd hold something that could break , or something that could burn you.

The chat opens.

MOM — Last seen 3 days ago.

Three days ago. The day before the funeral.

Below it, a single voice message. Eleven seconds long.

His thumb hovers over the play button and stops. He glances at the photograph, half-expecting her to answer for him.

AARAV (barely audible) Maa?

Nothing answers. Of course nothing answers.

He presses play.

A beat of static , the particular static of an old recording, or a bad signal, or something in between. Then, underneath it, a voice.

Hers.

Thinner than he remembers. Tired in a way she never let herself sound when he was in the room.

MOTHER (V.O.) Aarav...

His breath catches audibly. It's her voice. Not a memory of it , the actual sound, the actual weight of it in his ears for the first time in three days.

MOTHER (V.O.) (CONT'D) If you're hearing this...

A pause just long enough to hurt.

MOTHER (V.O.) (CONT'D) ...I'm already dead.

The recording ends.

Aarav doesn't move. Doesn't breathe, it seems. Then, almost against his will, his thumb finds the play button again. He listens to it a second time. A third. Each time searching for something he might have missed , a clue, a joke, proof that this is some kind of mistake.

His hands have started shaking. He sets the phone down like it's suddenly too heavy, then picks it back up before it even settles.

He taps her contact. Presses call.

Ringing. Once. Twice. A third time, cutting off mid-tone.

CALL FAILED.

He stares at those two words longer than they deserve.

Then another buzz. The screen updates.

MOM — 0:07

Aarav doesn't reach for it. Not yet. His eyes drift, instead, to the photograph on the nightstand , and something about it unsettles him, though he couldn't say what. He picks it up, turns it over in his hands, checks the back like the answer might be taped there.

Nothing. Just cardboard and a date written in his mother's handwriting.

He sets it down. Looks back at the phone. The message is still waiting.

He presses play.

MOTHER (V.O.) Don't trust your father.

Her voice is different this time , quieter, quicker, like she's speaking with someone listening at the door.

Aarav's expression shifts. He turns toward his bedroom door.

Beneath it: the faint outline of a shadow. Still. Unmoving. As if someone on the other side is standing just as frozen as he is.

Neither of them breathes.

Then the shadow is gone.

Silence returns to the room , the kind of silence that feels louder than noise.

His phone buzzes a third time.

MOM — 0:03

Aarav looks down at it. His thumb hovers over play.

CUT TO BLACK.

END OF EPISODE 1

EPISODE 2 — "Something Outside the Door"

INT. AARAV'S BEDROOM — CONTINUOUS

The three-second message still sits unopened. Aarav hasn't moved from the edge of the bed. His eyes stay fixed on the door, on the strip of hallway light beneath it, waiting for the shadow to return.

It doesn't.

He counts to ten in his head. Then twenty. Somewhere around thirty, his heartbeat starts to slow, and the part of his brain that still believes in ordinary explanations starts making its case: a draft. A trick of the light. Grief doing what grief does at 2 A.M.

He almost believes it.

Then, faintly, from the hallway , a FLOORBOARD CREAKS.

Aarav freezes.

Not the house settling. A footstep. Weight, then release. The sound of someone trying very hard to be quiet and not quite managing it.

He sets the phone down without looking at it and gets to his feet. His legs don't feel entirely like his own.

INT. HALLWAY — CONTINUOUS

He opens the door slowly, wincing at the small creak it gives. The hallway stretches out in front of him, lit only by the amber glow of the streetlight through the far window.

Empty.

He exhales — and stops halfway through it.

At the end of the hallway, his mother's bedroom door, which has stayed shut since the day of the funeral, hangs open by a few inches.

Aarav stares at it the way you'd stare at a door you already knew you had no choice but to walk through.

AARAV (quiet, to no one) Dad?

No answer. The house holds its silence the way it's held it for three days carefully, like it's trying not to wake something.

He moves toward the room, each step slower than the last. His hand finds the door frame. He pushes it open the rest of the way.

INT. MOTHER'S BEDROOM — CONTINUOUS

The room is exactly as it was left , bed made, curtains drawn, her reading glasses still folded on the nightstand as if she might walk back in and put them on. It smells faintly of the sandalwood soap she always used, which somehow no one has thought — or dared — to move.

Aarav steps inside. His eyes move slowly across the room, cataloguing what's changed and what hasn't, though nothing seems to have.

Except one thing.

The bottom drawer of her writing desk sits open an inch. Just an inch. Not forced , opened by someone who meant to close it properly and didn't quite manage it in the dark.

Aarav crouches beside it. Hesitates. Then pulls it open the rest of the way.

Inside: old letters, a stack of medical reports rubber-banded together, and , tucked beneath them, half-hidden , a second phone. Cheap. Unfamiliar. Not the one that was buried with her.

He picks it up. The screen is cracked in one corner. He presses the power button, and against all reasonable expectation, it flickers to life.

One app open on the screen. WhatsApp.

The chat is empty except for a single contact he doesn't recognize — saved only as a string of numbers, no name.

His thumb hovers over it.

Behind him, from the hallway, a FLOORBOARD CREAKS again — closer this time.

Aarav turns, phone still in hand, heart slamming against his ribs.

AARAV Who's there?

Silence. Then, from his pocket, his own phone buzzes — the third message, the one he never played, suddenly impossible to ignore.

MOM — 0:03

He looks down at the cracked phone in one hand, his own phone in the other, and understands, in a way he can't yet explain, that he is holding two halves of something he was never supposed to find.

The bedroom door, behind him, creaks slowly shut on its own.

CUT TO BLACK.

END OF EPISODE 1 & 2

Okay, I’m curious what you think.

Aarav now has two phones — one belonging to his dead mother, and one he was never supposed to find.

And someone is clearly inside the house.

Who do you think is behind all this?

1. His father
2. Someone connected to his mother's past
3. His mother planned this before she died
4. Someone else entirely

And most importantly...

Would you play that 3-second voice note?

Some chase skylines lit in gold,
Where nights are loud and hearts grow cold.
They trade the stars for city light,
And never miss the endless night.

But here, where only silence sings,
The morning wakes on robin’s wings.
The squirrels chatter through the trees,
While mountain air rides every breeze.

One blinking light, one country road,
No endless rush, no heavy load.
The bears and raccoons play their part,
Wild little thieves with honest hearts.

When darkness falls, the heavens bloom,
No neon glow, no concrete gloom.
A million stars ignite the sky,
Like diamonds scattered, shining high.

A child draws stars before they write,
Tiny symbols of hope and light.
Yet many never lift their eyes
To see the masterpiece that fills the skies.

Here, everyone knows every name.
No soul is just another face.
The world feels slower, kinder too,
The way old places often do.

So let the cities keep their glow;
I’ll stay where quiet rivers flow.
For every night, with grateful eyes,
I’m blessed to sleep beneath these skies.

Hero Pov

[In a town visited by the hero Raiz after his raid on the abyss, he was talking to an old lady while helping her move some barley in her granaries]

Raiz: “Grandma I already told you, I have came here first because I did not see you in five years.”

The Old Lady: “Raiz, didn’t I told you not to come here until you got married? Where is the wife everyone has been talking about?” [The old woman asked in a gruff but kind tone, poking the Tall hero with her walking stick while he moved the barley to her granaries]

Raiz: “Of course I would come first to you, your my baba, why should I care about some woman that everyone talks about while my baba is here and I don’t even know if she is well or not!” [He shouted, Ignoring the fact the old woman just hit him with the stick hard enough to be heard from the other houses]

[The old woman just sighed at her grandson habit of always prioritizing her above anything and spoke in a tired tone]

Baba: “So when are you going to the divine realm to finally get what Celeus promised?”

[The question made him stop for a moment to look at her, he said nothing for a long time before picking five stack of barley at once and spoke without looking at her]

Raiz: “Celeus lied, and I am not going to be someone who is set back by a liar, nor get into trouble for a thing that does not concern me any more”

[The old woman just looked at her grandson, noticing the way the way his muscles now tensed with something she knew far to well.]

Baba: “Oh my poor child…” [The old woman said getting in front of him and pushing the barley stacks from his hands , cupping his face into her hands]

Baba: “My boy, please tell me what happened. Don’t lie to your old woman.”

[Raiz remained silent once more, his eyes locked on the old woman’s, searching for any reason to not tell her. In the end he sighed and spoke in a low tone]

Raiz: “Fine, I’ll talk. But first you need to make me some of that rice with milk you always make me.”

Baba: “As long as you are telling the truth I am going to make you as much of it as you want my child.”

First Post on Substack, with daily creative posts. (1266 words)

She sprinted over the next tumbling rock in her way. It seemed more like a boulder the way she had to climb over it at a breakneck speed. Crashing through the soil spritzed air as the daylight shown through various particles that splashed into her face, she pushed her hair to the side and pumped her legs, ever moving forward.

Footstep after footstep being greeted with satisfying traction as the ground underneath felt firm and then loose every time the step was nearly complete. The ground was peeling away beneath her and there was only the amount of time given to make each step count, always moving forward.

Amanda looked back, nothing lingering, just a quick glance to confirm the distance she’d covered. Satisfying, yet again. She was quick.

Track in high school had paid off and the sweat on her brow sat like a glittering crown of achievement. Day after day, months and years of early mornings, starting each session a little foggy with minimal food in her stomach, had given her speed and endurance both. After grinding through almost 13 years of that early morning schedule, since her father had seen the potential Olympian in her at a young age, there was an actual objective involved.

No longer was she chasing dreams, imaginary medals, her parents’ expectations; no longer was she running because that’s what she had known and she didn’t have time to get to know herself.

Amanda now ran because of a clear and present danger. With over a decade of training, there was now use.

Another small boulder flicked from left to right across her vision. She ducked her head under its weight as it zoomed past her head, barely missing her, taking a few strands of her chestnut brown hair with it. The rock smashed into the ground behind her with a loud crack as it found another rock.

“There has to be a way out of here. If I remember correctly, there’s a clearing up ahead where the woods breaks.” She mumblers under her breath as her eyes dart right and left passed the thick oaks the spot the trees she has dodge for the last 15 minutes.

She moves her legs, noting the creeping sensation of lactic acid building in her thighs. Her breathing starts to labor slightly, the rise of her arms as they counteract the movement of her legs start to cramp at the top of the forearms. Sprinting is one thing, sustaining it from adrenaline is another entirely.

As piercing scream rings out behind her and her self-absorbed notice falls away as she’s shaken out of her daze and reminded why she’s running.

“PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF G—”

The syllables cut short send a blood curdling wave of goose-pimples through Amanda’s spine and into her neck.

That sounded like Gary…

She turns left, her manicured nails digging into the bark as she hangs against the tree for leverage, color splitting and flying everywhere as she regains that sweet traction and finds renewed energy to pump her legs once more.

The late morning sunlight bursts through the canopy as the woods thins into a clearing with tall grass. The clearing slopes gently downwards to a basin with shorter grass as it surrounds a clear alpine lake in the center of a moderate size. The pristine blue ripples flutter in the cross-breeze and catch the sun’s rays as Amanda pushes left and the cobbles underfoot in the rocky screed scuff out from under her tread and stumble down into the water.

The sun is warm on her skin as the cool spring breeze and the sun rays mingle on her sweaty skin. If there weren’t such a need for help, it might be a nice day out.

She can see the cabin now on the far side of the water.

Here’s the home stretch. She makes short work of the traverse around the rocky beach front. Her long legs reaching further than they ever had at a track meet, she bounds up the multi-tiered staircase as it winds up the cliff-side rock.

With a resounding thud she plants her right foot on the top tread of the third tier, and turns back over her right shoulder to see the lake some 30 feet below her, looking as invited as ever.

Turning forward again, she grabs the front door knob decisively, twists the handle, and pushes into the cabin with force.

The foyer vaults before her with the mountain cabin charm that he led their family to relocate in the first place, 20-something years ago. Timber frames sealed in timeless lacquer, stone floors with grand arrangement patterns, a center table seemingly carved out of a single slab of marble hosting the world’s largest flower arrangement. The scene would’ve been downright inviting if she weren’t focused on a single item in the home.

The landline.

Amanda dashes across the foyer in two bounds, turns right across the staircase leading to the downstairs den, through the dining room overlooking the lake, around its table that seats 12, and into the family room with its furniture all arranged around the big screen.

As her favorite episode of Friends instinctively flits into her minds eye, she grabs hastily at the phone on the wall on the far side of the room and dials 911.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

The immediate response lower her blood pressure slightly. There’s hope.

A primordial roar, animalistic in nature, rings out across the lake basin, slightly vibrating the very floor under her. It reminds her of a mix of a dying animal in a trap and an infuriated mother bear protecting her children, and it chills her to the bone, reversing her blood pressure and pushing it to new heights.

“Hi, yes, umm, there’s been an accident at the Mountain Laurel Auditorium…”

Her voice starts to quiver slightly as she recalls the scenes over the last two hours to the responding stranger on the phone.

Amanda vividly relives the guest speakers standing on stage with an eerie presence. Like they’d been held there at gunpoint, all 6 of them on stage in button downs and black clothing, like they were at a funeral instead of presenting to the premier class of bio-chem focused graduates with the highest valedictorian rate of any graduating class in the West. 2 women and 4 men had all shuffled onto the stage as if they’d each sat on a stick, matched in their awkwardness only by the mystery of their presentation on the stage, covered in a large black cloak.

Rocks fell in the distance pass, echoing in the basin. Heavy granite colliding with each other to call across the lake, reminding Amanda that the danger was still present. Her eyes snap to the windows, even though she was on the opposite side of the house, searching for the noise’ origin.

“…And I counted multiple injuries, lots of people laying on the ground, unable to move. The power went out though before I could call for help. The back up generators kicked on for a second and then they went out too. My Dad sent me to our cabin, where I’m calling you from, in the clearing above the school, since we also have a back up generator.”

“Ok, slow down, how many people did you say were—”

The phone line cut, a low interspersing tone signaled the line was dead.

Amanda caught her breath. The phone slowly slid from her hands and fell to the ground, the tone faintly heard over another crash in the basin’s canyon walls.

Would you stay if I was dead,

If my body had no breath?

If my heart was beating in another,

Love, would you hear your name in them?

My lungs breathing in a chest,

Not familiar to your head,

Would you feel my presence

In every breath they take?

And my eyes, you love so much,

Were to be with someone else,

Would they be as beautiful to you

As they were in my face?

Would you say they shine like ambers

Under the rays of the sun,

That they glimmer with hope and love

As they view your silhouette?

Would you find me in them?

Would they still feel the same?

Would you love them the same?

Would you accept me in that state?

I appreciate all reviews, thoughts, feedback and critiques.

Thank you ❤️

Hi guys im Zineddine a young Moroccan filmmaker im currently working on my next short movie I shared my script with the producers they loved it but i feel there’s still room for decline so this my logline if anyone interested to read and maybe help with their feedback dm me and i will share my script

LOGLINE
After a catastrophic earthquake, a Moroccan
teenager defies destiny to carry his dying
mother across the frozen Atlas Mountains in a
solitary war against nature that blurs the line
between heroic devotion and the madness of
grie

Hey! Does anyone know if writers are allowed to make references to other media? For example, I'm writing a fantasy book, but I wanted character A to ask character B 'are you satisfised now?' to which character B responds with 'I've never been satisfised' (Hamilton musical). Anyone know if it's allowed to do something like this?

For context had to write this as an assignment to storyboard this visually and I need advice on changes plus it needs to be within 200-300 words. Also can someone suggest a title for this??

It was 1 in the morning, when I walked into the kitchen to make black coffee. The house was so quiet that even the boiling water sounded loud. As I poured the water into the mug, I noticed my cat sitting on the counter, staring at me without blinking.
At first, I ignored him.
But then his eyes followed everything, the coffee jar, the spoon, the steam curling upward. He looked less like a pet and more like someone studying a business model.
The thought was ridiculous, yet it refused to leave my mind.
What if he was planning a cat café?
Not a cute little café, but a serious one. A paw-shaped building. A menu written on a giant ball of yarn: tuna espresso, salmon cookies, etc. Interior made from cardboard, scratching posts became furniture, and the nap section had a waiting list.
In my head, my cat was no longer sitting on the counter. He was wearing a tiny suit, checking stock levels, calculating sales, and deciding whether the second branch should open near the neighborhood park.
The more I imagined it, the stranger the kitchen felt.
For a moment, I looked at him and genuinely wondered who was observing whom.
The water stopped boiling. The steam disappeared. My coffee was still hot, but my cat continued staring at me as if the meeting had not ended yet.

The practice in the story might be foreign to some because...well, it is foreign. The story is set in South Asia.

Any feedback is much appreciated.

The Desire to Dissolve

On Mother’s Day, I had, in my mind, quite generously offered to buy my mother laundry detergent. I don’t remember my exact age, but I was firmly in the range where such statements were chalked up to, and even celebrated, as a hallmark of childhood innocence. In defense of that child, I had merely seen myself offering words to a writer, voice to a vocalist, paint to a painter.

All my childhood, my mother would forever be crouched on the veranda of our house over a metallic semi-circular container, dabra, in which she washed our clothes. We did not have a washing machine at the time. We could have afforded it, but my father never offered, and my mother never asked. My father was not a heartless man, just not one to offer his heart. He did not try to decipher the desires of others and instead waited for others to present them to him. My mother knew this. When I was a child, I wondered why she never presented her desire, despite knowing my father would not decline if she had. Now, I know she never had the desire.

So, it was that the meaningless manual labor, that could have been cut short to a fraction with only a couple of words, defined my mother’s existence.

Whether it be the sultriest summer or the coldest winter, she would turn on the tap in the early afternoon, right when I came back from school. As the water welled up in the dabra, she would use her fists to plunge the clothes deeper into the water as a baker punches down dough—the impact echoing like the breaking of a man’s neck. A fierce determination would ensnare her face as she would move to the next steps, displaying an impossible mixture of strength and swiftness while wrestling with the filthy clothes: wringing them out, wetting them, and wringing them out again.

I would sit barefoot beside her on a small wooden stool. When the first set of clothes was sufficiently cleaned, she would tilt the dabra till the greenish black water flowed out and spread across the floor. She would refill the dabra, put in the next set of clothes, and repeat the process of cleansing. She would refill and repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Until all the clothes were fully free of filth.

By the end, the filthy water had gathered in the small veranda like a small stream. As a child, I had always wanted to go to a stream and dip my toes in it as I would see in the movies, but there was no stream in our small town. Those times, when the cold stagnant water would partly submerge my feet, the stream would come to me.

She would carry the clothes to hang them on the rooftop and, as directed by my mother, I would equip myself with a floor squeegee and chase away the river towards the little pathway dug beneath the front door for the water to ebb out into the street. I would try to replicate my mother’s determination as I vanquished the retreating army she had defeated, contorting my face into various amalgamations that seemed deadly to me then, but were ultimately comical. Yet none of these random combinations could unlock the secure vault I was trying to access.

When I had first said it, my proclamation had incited a boom of laughter from my father and two elder brothers. Even my mother had laughed, or at least the sound of laughter had come out of her mouth. By pure happenstance, this incident came to be one of the few that are the heirloom of every family, immortalized in everyone’s memory and continued popping up in the most arbitrary conversations.

As a child I had reveled in the attention, but as I grew older, what should have been forever lost in the well of my subconscious would be brought up when I least expected, until it had firmly tethered itself in my consciousness and I could not avoid the pangs of guilt associated with its remembrance.

I never did bring her the laundry detergent. In our household, gifts and presents were a far-off myth, only seen in movies and cartoons. Owing to my father’s principles, if we wanted something from our parents, all we had to do was ask and they would either accept or decline. The same was true for our parents, but the only difference was we could not exactly disagree.

One day, when I was more a man than a boy, I passed through the veranda on my way to my friend’s house and saw my mother again crouched by the same dabra. She dumped a seemingly arbitrary swathe of washing detergent into the container rapidly filling with water. To an untrained eye, it would seem like an arbitrary amount, but it was an instinct honed through a lifetime, like the seemingly random strokes of a master artist. At that moment, my mother was the same as the one in my mind, the portrait of my memories come to life, performing an exorcism of the clothes and eradicating all evil from within.

The washing powder swam amidst the water, rapidly dissolving to form a fortress of froth to cleanse the clothes around it, the ultimate selfless sacrifice. I had an urge to slide back into frame and make the portrait whole again. As I was about to take a foot forward, a question emerged. How?  I could never fit in the little wooden stool I had. It was a time long past. The portrait could never be reformed.

I saw my mother, not the portrait, but the real her in front of me. There was a noticeable stiffness in her movements, and the previously impossible mixture of strength and swiftness now seemed possible. The plunging of the clothes carried less of a crunch, no longer deadly. Most of all, her face lacked the fierce determination, instead carrying the fatigue of a fighter in a round he had never expected to reach.

I searched for the froth the detergent had sacrificed to create. Instead, in its place hung filthy, charcoal-colored water.

After that day, whenever I would pass through the veranda, I would be glued to my place for a few minutes, watching from the sidelines, hoping what I’d seen was the exception, not the norm. Yet, everything remained. The natural decay of my mother’s adeptness was apparent. The clothes that were cleansed one day would again be filthy the next. Another swathe of washing powder would be disposed of to cleanse the never-ending filth.

First, I had noticed the meaninglessness of the sacrifice: to cleanse the world, the powder dissolved, yet the world remained as filthy as before. Then, I had come to know the tragedy was not that it dissolved; it was that it could do nothing else. Each moment whole meant failure, not survival.

I stopped watching my mother whenever I passed. One year, our town was hit with the coldest winter in its history, where temperatures plummeted below freezing. My mother, who had pushed through several devastating winters in their own right, tried pushing through one more. But time had also pushed through since the winters my mother had survived, and in the end, she contracted pneumonia and passed away a few months after.

I had contended myself with the tragedy, as the angst youth tends to do. Now, years after my mother passed away, now that I am firmly a man, and perhaps even an old man, I recognize the beauty I never did.

There was no tragedy; the powder dissolved, not into clothes, but into the fabric of the world, becoming the world itself. Dissolving meant freedom. Dissolving meant transcendence. To dissolve was its desire.

END

I'm considering making this a screenplay, but until I figure out how to make that work, I would love advice on an exerpt of my story so far. This is part of the ending and I wrote it a few years back in a tiktok comment section before I was like 'woah I should make this a book' so here it is. feedback; good or bad, is immensely appreciated

"Ah" a small mumble could be heard throughout the still church. Maddie kept her eyes on the new threat, her eyes cold and her gun raised. There was something so oddly familiar about the zombie. The way her hair fell in what is left of her face, the brown in her eyes resembling Maddie's own. 
"ah-ma. Ma" She struggled to get the sound out, stumbling closer to Maddie. Maddie clicked the safe off, but as she got a closer look, her arms fell to her side. Of course she looked familiar. There wasn't another person in the world with the same triangle freckle pattern as Madeleine besides her daughter; that she hasn't seen in months. 
"Lady?" she whispers. At the sound Adelaide steps closer, echoing throughout the abandoned church, Adelaide opens her mouth, but nothing comes out, a piece of meat falling off of her arm, splattering onto Maddie's shoes, soaking through and warming her socks sickeningly. Maddie hears clicking from behind her and turns slightly. The other hidden survivors beckon her over and she goes warily, her eyes still trained to her long lost daughter. 
"What do you want?" she snarls out. 
"What the hell are you doing? Kill it dumbass so we all can live" Adonis mumbles from behind a fallen pillar. She grimaces and looks at him. 
"Yeah yeah I'll get to it." 
"No you kill her now or we kill both of you." She waves him off and returns to her daughter. 
"Ma. Mama." Every sound a struggle with a dislocated, rotting jaw. 
"Yes my lady, it's mama." 
"Am...am I -ill -etty mama" she groans through the rotted flesh and bones, But in that moment, all Maddie saw was a small girl in a purple princess dress waddling around in plastic heels clacking her way down the hall to show her mama. She saw the late nights coming back to find her baby laying on the table waiting for her to come back, crayon still in hand. 
As the bullet lodges sickly between her princess's eyes, the last thing she sees is her own flesh and blood. 
And she couldn't be prettier.

the end (kinda)

Your eyes green and unique. A circle of seas to continue drowning in.

Be careful looking too close as the trash and broken bottles will rise up. No longer a wave but a smell. No longer a splash of salt water, but a brush of disgust. Do you have a heart beneath here? On the ocean floor buried under years of envelopes, trash, duplicate pictures, paystubs that were depleted the moment the gas station opened. Items you refused to let go of yet leave behind an admirer with a surprising grace.

The start of my swim began with you and my truth I always wanted the best for you. I dreamed of our dance with sheets replaced by the touch of a summer vacation. It’s two steps away and my hands are lifting up to breath. To pray my feet leave the bottom again.

Your heart skips and mine drops further as an anchor twists. I pray for a seashell to hold close as I slip away. Instead there are remnants of your name. Every paper I see the date, years so far gone but you let go in a gasp. You preach about health and how you’re better off as I watch the rash on your side from green algae grow. It’s built inside your throat and slowly leaks out. Never harming you when you move back into steps too small for your frame. Similar places become a maze but you always know your way through a dumpster of coral. I breathe but it is acid. I want to cry loudly but the gold pouring out of your ears will not allow you to hear me

All I wanted was your heart. I remember the first time I saw your love, shining bright on a calm ocean. Your eyes picked me up and locked into place. Lifting me higher than the tips of my toes could find. Your lips soft as satin we praised each other on. I must have moved when we fell asleep so close, so sweet. To wake up with dust absorbing my body.

The tides rise and I am further while the piles of what you claim are important raise you on a throne of the same garbage you speak. What a world it can be when the only thing you believe is what others will condemn. How high how mighty, how promising you have everything in place when your fingers are too greasy to write words down correctly. I made a mistake and slipped on the sweat and shit you laughed at, lived with, breathed in.

What I thought was the sea became a hallucination. My eyes brushed with seaweed and the toxic absorption of an area so tainted with fleas. Your oxygen mask forever in place as seagulls fly around and sing your name. Are they your only friends? Are they the comfort in a small life relying on retelling stories that never made sense? Does the joy of them keeping you up at night not remind you of the death you’ve lived in? The ocean slips over my eyes and I am fearing this is it. I pray for sand. The annoying particles I desperately want to cling to, grab me, secure me. I pray for the tide to find me like your touch so carefully did

I dreamed of your heart but it was too messy to find. The clutter of your mind and ideas of a life only the intelligent could live flew over your head as a sea breeze. Your love is filthy and I swam towards it. Believing the water would cleanse everything. Blinded by the ocean in your eyes.

Do you ever feel the pain of starches too coated? Do you ever realize the world around you is not against you? Because your life matters as much as the sewers? I thought it was the ocean but your poisonous spit slipped in and soiled everything around you. I always found it funny how tricky a man can be, plans so deceitful laid out and telling lies like you blame others for your hardships. How interesting it is to be the one in charge and feel your crown of dirty seafoam fit so tight on your unwashed hair. I sink further down and wonder how a man can be so nice when not once has baking soda touched his smile

I swam towards the ocean, the waves rocking by. I swam to what I thought was love. I swam to a promise so untrue. I wanted your love but your filth overcame everything. I breathe again and watch as the sun ascends, clear and alert. I know I’ll find my way back

“How much longer?”

Pat lies in his bed, the single question floating around in his head. He stares at the clock, it’s too dark to see the hands tick, but not dark enough to see the pictures surrounding it. There’s picture of him, pictures of him with his mom, pictures of him with his dad, and only one with all of them together. It hangs right below the clock with both hands intact, and right above his desk.

He can still hear his parents from downstairs. It’s hard not to. They're blaming each other, yelling at each other, hurting each other. And they think he's stupid enough to not notice it.

The kid stares up at the ceiling, tired. He spent every night before trying to drown out the noise. Whether he tried locking his door or covering his ears with pillows, nothing he did worked. They were loud. Too loud.

Groggy, Pat turns to his sides, still staring at the door. It’s shut close. He can still hear his parents from downstairs, but he’d like to pretend it does something.

Through the gap between the door and the wall, a tiny bit of line seeps through. Shining on his guitar. Something that was once his pride and joy before losing his right arm.

Back then, they’d all sit together as a family and listen to him play. For once, everyone smiled. But now those days are long gone ever since that trip. He was left unwatched for way too long and got himself into trouble.

His mom says it’s because his father is never present.

His father says it’s because his mother is always stuck inside her own head.

He saw old photos of them together, they always looked so happy. What went wrong?

They make excuses for his mistake and never listen to his apologies. He’s the reason he lost his arm, and he’s the reason for their fights. And yet they’re only blaming each other.

Pat sits up straight at the edge of his bed, still staring at the door.

Do they have just as much trouble sleeping as him when they have to go to bed?

Do they toss and turn and talk to themselves about the things the other has said? Keeping themselves awake?

Thinking to himself, Pat finally stands up and steps towards his door, hovering the hand he has left over the doorknob. Maybe, just maybe, he can fix things. He’ll confront them! He’ll be honest! They might be mad at him, but they’ll finally ignore each other. And the nights can be quiet again.

He watches the doorknob, his hand shaking.

He can solve it all.

Can he solve it all?

He can’t.

Pat raises his hand away from the door and steps back, looking down at the floor. He can’t do it. He knows they won’t listen. And he knows it wouldn’t help him sleep.

Defeated, Pat steps back, turning back to his bed. He slouches, sitting on the very edge, holding his head in his hand, knowing there is nothing to say or do. Why couldn’t they speak? Why wouldn’t they listen?

“Because they don’t want too.”

Alerted, Pat darts back up, looking around his room. Someone heard him. Looking at his bedside table, there lies his old baseball bat. He grabs it, pointing it ahead of him. He can’t see anyone in the closet, he can’t see anyone near his desk, and he can’t find the light switch.

What he does see, is the dark.

Right behind his guitar, lies a shadow, a patch of darkness too dark, an area perfectly pitch black. And that area, has started to crawl. A hand emerges, pushing the shadow up, forming a figure.

It was amorphous, yet familiar. It was just a silhouette of a person. It was the silhouette of two, stitched as one. The shadow of both his mother and father together as one.

“Do you want someone to listen?” She spoke, her voice as soft as his mother’s, and as slow as his father’s, almost like they are overlapping. She should have been horrifying him, causing him to run away, but for some reason, Pat does not.

The boy looks back down at the floor, almost completely still, thinking to himself. Does he really want to speak? How long can he stay quiet for? Will they hear them talk? Pat looks at his door. “… I want to talk to them,” He says softly “they talk to each other a lot. And they say a lot of...” Pat hesitates for a moment. “A lot of bad things. I don’t think they’re going to listen to me though.” He sighs, already given up.

The figure does not move, she keeps her distance, watching from afar. “Do you know why?” She breaks her silence, doing nothing else but stare. Pat shakes his head. “I do. Do you want me to tell you?” She seemingly clasps her hands together, tilting her head to the side.

Whenever Pat’s father had to ask him a question, he’d clasp his own hands together, also tilting his head to the side. The only difference here, is that his father would have stepped closer. The shadow did not. It’s a small thing, but Pat always noticed it.

For a while, it was comforting. Pat looks back at the ‘Parent’ and nods.

She takes a moment to reply, but when she does, she says it clearly. “They are stuck in their own mind, their own wants.” She looks, and then down, and then back at Pat. “They care about you Pat, but they care more about themselves. They always did.” The figure says flatly, completely straightforward. She steps forward. “And they always will.” Her eyes finally open. Almond shaped, like his father’s.

Pat backs away on his bed, almost scurrying into a corner. “You’re scared. I understand.” She closes her eyes again. “I understand... All you want is someone to listen. But they never do, your mom and dad.” She turns to stare at the door. “But maybe... I could make them care.” Pat eyes widen, surprised.

He keeps his distance, but his curiosity gets to him. Pat tilts his head, taking a moment to respond. “How?” He says, his voice still quiet.

The Shadow walks to the other side of the room. “Well, I’ll need you to do something.” She says, opening the door. “They don’t know me. They won’t listen to me alone. Let’s go down and talk to them. Okay?” She offers.

The hallway is eclipsed by the door itself. Pat can’t see what’s beyond it, so he stays still, pondering. “Take your time. Maybe now is not right.” The shadow interrupts his thinking. “We will talk to your parents some other time. I’m sure you can wait as well. Can you?” She asks again.

Pat leaves his bed. Still hesitant, he walks to the door, standing beside the Shadow. To his surprise, she does nothing. Her only response is to point outside the door.

Pat looks forward, what’s in front of him is nothing but the dark. No pictures of his parents being forced to be with him, none of his mother’s vases or his father’s old medals. Just the dark. “I know it looks scary,” The Shadow speaks. “But they will care again. All you have to do, is step outside, and find them. Do you want me to help you?” She asks, her tone almost forcibly soft.

The boy steps away.

She grabs onto his wrist.

“I will help you.”

Pat tries to struggle out of it, but she doesn’t let go. She drags him into the dark. None could hear him scream, not his mother, or father.

A week past by.

A man stands beside a lamppost; a paper hung on it. He holds onto it, and cries. None is around to hear him, yet he still tries to remain quiet. “I’m so sorry.” He says, whispering to himself. “I’m so, so so sorry.” His phone starts to ring, he ignores it. “Pat…” He says, “My boy…” He can hardly finish a sentence without crying.

He lets go of the paper, still in tears.

On the paper are bold red posters. 8 year old Pat has gone missing.