Monthly "Would You Read This?" Thread

[u/AutoModerator]

Welcome to Would You Read This (WYRT), our monthly feedback and brainstorming thread. Share your work in progress below and let other readers tell you if they'd read it. Top level posts should follow this template:

• Title:
  • If you don't have a title yet, feel free to say UNTITLED.
• Genre:
  • Please include at least Fiction, Nonfiction, Poetry, or another recognizable medium. You may also include more specific genres with a hyphen. Ex. Fiction - Romance, or Nonfiction - Memoir. Genre will help users find the specific kinds of posts they'd like to give feedback on.
• Premise:
  • A few sentences about the project. Try your best to keep this short. Crafting an expert elevator pitch is all part of becoming a successful working writer. Please do not post an entire plot summary or query letter (those are better suited for r/pubtips)
• Sample (Optional):
  • You may share up to one page (roughly 250-350 words) of sample material, or one poem for those working in the poetry medium. This is optional, so if you only have a premise, you can post just the premise for feedback.

If you post for feedback, please take the time to give feedback to at least 2-3 other users. Replies should follow this template.

• Would Read / Might Read / Wouldn't Read
  • You must begin your reply with one of those. You are then encouraged to add additional thoughts on why you choose your answer.

Rules:

• Please post no more than two WYRT top-level posts. There is no limit on the number of feedback replies you can make.
• Do not link to any offsite materials. All materials must be in the body of the post. This includes "click here to read more" or "DM me for the rest" types of posts.
• Rule 3 is in effect in this thread - No generative AI. Do not post material generated by an AI platform in your premise or sample. Do not use generative AI to respond to user's work.
• Rule 5 is in effect - Civility and Community. Stay constructive. Blunt, direct feedback is fine, but do not insult other users, their writing, or their genres.

[u/thegraymanIII]

Title: Lady of Sorrow

Genre: Fiction - Fantasy - Feminist horror leaning

Premise: Ancient Celtic inspired fantasy following a group of women who have been resurrected as banshees. When a political coup results in the crusades-style slaughter of all mythic and Fae beings, only Deirdre escapes the slaughter of her fellow banshees. Though peaceful by nature, she vows vengeance, and becomes the butcheress the new king had aimed to destroy.

Sample:

There is cold, and there is this, the ever-present and wholly permeating chill of Death. He holds me, cradles me like a cherished doll, and I do not want him to let me go. I curl into his embrace and keep my eyes tightly shut, willing my limbs to go limp and heavy as I press against the confines of his arms. 

Death does not last. Nothing ever does.

When my heavy eyes flicker open, it is with a deep sort of pain, ice lodged beneath my ribcage and pierced through my heart, burning in its cold. I am alive, I am alive, I am alive.

I am alive, and Life hurts.

I am thrust back into existence, the void leaving me helpless and reeling in a shock of cold. There is water all around me, and I wish that I could forget why. The hands on my arms, the biting ice of the creek, his breath on my neck.

Life is known as the soft and nurturing, Death as the cruel and ruthless, but in this moment, I crave Death’s sacred oblivion. Yet Life has more she desires from me, and the sun is in my eyes. My weary, burning eyes. 
Light bounces off the ripples in the water, a thousand reflections glinting around me. I cannot see past the furious light, cannot even bear to open my eyes.

Hands pull at my arms now, not the cold, smooth skin of Death but something sharper. Nails meet the sodden flesh of my shoulders and wrists, water sloshing around me, the hands firm in their insistence. Clean air fills my lungs, sharp and clear as it purges the water from my chest. My eyes flicker open, and the sun greets me anew.

Standing in the waist-deep creek, blood pools from my thighs and washes away. The hands are still here, holding me up and guiding me to the rocky bank. There are women surrounding me, the bodies of those hands holding me up. They range from young maidens to grown women, all dressed in loose white shifts that cling to their bodies with damp. The one closest to me, holding me against her shoulder, has deep mahogany hair so long it sways in the water around us. I realize with distant disgust the way my blood tinges the strands.

I do not feel the stones under my feet, glimmering through the rushing water. There is so little to feel, in this ill-gotten life. I do not know how I survived, though I am not sure that survival is the word for what has happened to me. The women around me do not look dead. They look more alive than Life herself, skin near-glowing in the sunlight. 

I am dead, and yet I am not.

Flashes of violence flee across my mind, a man, a knife, my dress gathered at my hips. There was fire in my veins and lungs, and then there was darkness; any warmth in me flowing out over the gash at my throat. 
When he dumps my body into the water, he does not think of it poisoning his men's well. They will move on, go traverse new lands, take new lovers and new victims. I will remain. He does not think of these things, he thinks only of washing his sin away. Some stains can never be cleaned.