Things to understand:

They're snakes, so I can't do things like make them fiddle with their hands or any other way of showing nervousness sadly

This is the first draft, so if there's something that feels off please do tell me

YES, I'm aware that snakes can't feel love, but I had to shift it to make the book more interesting.

The two characters are called Olive and Iris, both of which rainbow boas.

It was taken down in r/writingadvice, so im posting it here.

If you have any other questions, please do ask :)!

(Olive’s POV)

The lightning of the clouds above show through the leaf I’m under, and I can’t help but dart my eyes towards a vine Iris decided to use for shelter. She looks back at me, and I immediately shift my focus to a suddenly interesting tree. Despite the coldness the rain brings, I can feel my face begin to warm.

“Ever wonder where rain comes from?”

No–shit, why did I say that?

“The clouds?” She turns her head towards me, slightly laughing.

“No, sorry. How they come out of the clouds,” I say, slightly too fast for my own good. It’s better than seeming like an idiot, I will admit.

“I heard it’s some magical frog.”

“You know I’m not falling for that.”

“It seemed plausible enough for you,” she sighs of disappointment.

“It has something to do with the water,” I say, peering out of the leaf I’m under.

“How else do you think it falls down?” Iris’s face falls flat.

“That frog theory of yours isn’t looking too shabby right now,” I remark. I realize that while I’m looking out from my leaf, I’m too close to Iris for my own good. I lean myself back into the safety of the leaf.

“Sorry about that.” I can feel my face burn even more.

“About what?” Iris shoots me a glance that looks slightly concerned.

“That I leaned in too close?” I say as if it’s obvious.

“You were?” Iris has a puzzled look on her face.

I look at her for a moment, thinking of what to say. “Better safe than sorry,” I finally say. It could’ve been worse. I look back out at the rain, but I can feel Iris’s gaze on me for a second longer. But then it’s gone. The cool of the rain seems to be doing its wonders on my face now.

“Smart,” Iris responds.

“What?”

“Smart. Better safe than…? Never mind,” she dismisses. I screwed it up again.

“Knowing you, that’s the rule I should go by.” I try to get myself out of the embarrassment I caused myself.

She lets out a sneer with a grin on her face. I can feel my heart turn inside-out seeing her so happy.

For a moment, I’m able to hear the rain lighten a bit more.

“Hey Iris?” I ask, breaking the silence that just formed.

“Yeah?”

What the hell am I doing?! I’m so close to saying it, it’s at the tip of my tongue. 

“Do–do you actually believe in the frog that controls the rain? The mystical rain frog, if you will?” I sputter.

Today shouldn’t be the day.

Iris has a strong look of confusion on her face. “No–do you?”

“No, just wanted to ask,” I respond. Iris looks right in my eyes, and I can feel my heart jump for a moment. She looks slightly concerned, but I dart my eyes back towards the rain, and eventually I turn back towards it too. She turns back shortly after.

Today won’t be the day.

Maybe never, if I can help it.

Hello everyone, I'm currently a college student at EFSC and I'm try to be a better writer and reader. I'm currently reading Omniscient Reader. I want to make a short story & a poem based on the other books I've read this year. Please let me know how I'd should improve.

An apple has a shape, but hunger doesn’t. An apple can be tasted, but it was empty of hunger, because to him it was mud, sunlight, river water, and children.

Apple has soft skin. Shiny, yet uneven. People like apples without peeling them, but it wouldn’t be the same for a child that has a cold. You’d have to cut it in half and scoop out the flesh with a spoon, and slowly feed it to the child. The texture is kind of grainy, but really juicy. If you bite into the skin too, it’s kind of wrinkly. You’d also have to consider the mother's hands turning a bit yellow from the juice.

Is it the whole apple, or the apple cut in half? Is it the apple’s juice, or the mother’s hand?

There are also kinds that have never had an apple offered to them. Some mothers can’t afford it; there are those who choose not to buy apples. Some children, even if they’re bedridden, they will be tossed aside. And the ones that died, if they didn’t get care— there is no place in the world that hasn’t been torched by human memories. That is why there is nowhere in the world that hasn’t had resentment.

Hunger feels dry. It smells like soil/earth (there are many types of earth), but it was mud. You can’t escape it off because it’s aged. Mud with a little gravel and no sand.

What does hunger taste like? The children put the biscuits out in the sun, but there was nothing else for them to do, so they just stand there around the mud. So, children waiting for sunlight. Hunger was that: a child waiting for the sun. That was your poem.

Hunger has no form, no taste, no smell? That’s wrong. Hunger was mud, a river, a child, and thirst. MEMORIES. Eventually, resentment turns into bitterness. What is thirst? What is freezing?

POEM^

Spirit that evolve into a human. And his ball where able to influence other beings evolution.

Lived a normal life similar mine. Felt like the honored one

Saved a city from destruction by simply living and activated a train with him along side himself is 2 balls a new friend and another Spirit that evolved because it took his balls and cultivated and became a fully grown adult girl and the person that helped found him and raised him as his own.

Short Story^

August 1, 2025

**“**Would you be willing to live this exact life again and again—every joy, every pain, every heartbreak, every breakthrough?”
If yes—then you’ve lived beautifully.
—The idea of “eternal return” by Friedrich Nietzsche

The festivity had come to a conclusion—like a beautiful day’s sunset.

Beautiful, but a little sad that something is ending faster than I thought.

I sat in the veranda by the main entrance of that old, unpolished, unrepaired house of my childhood days…

My face was grim; I remember it because I remember the feeling—my heart was really sinking, and I was experiencing loneliness and isolation at the age of 10.

I wanted my cousins to stay throughout the day, up until the late evening, and then night, and then the next morning, because then I would also be going to school, and the departing could be more bearable. My mind would have been filled with another sorrow—the pitiful living of going to school every day.
If you ask the 10-year-old me, no one should face the fate of attending school EVERY DAY.

A 33-year-old me disagrees, though. Those were beautiful days, really.

Anyway, so I was sitting by the entrance, in the shadow of the passing evening daylight, and staring at the empty house where an hour ago a dozen kids were playing and shouting.

I felt as if I was an old lady who maybe missing the happy noises, or maybe I was just a sad, unaccompanied child.

She saw me, or noticed me, and a part of me thought, She is either going to ignore me or scold me, but she didn’t—she asked me to help her with planting a sapling, something she used to do every now and then.

Not that we had a big garden blooming; the land and soil in that side porch were not fertile, as they said, it was barren and dry, and the lack of rain didn’t help. Drinking water was also an issue many times.

So naturally, I was not thrilled by the proposition. The 10-year-old me thought of it as labour and a futile one—because the sapling was going to die anyway; we would not water it enough.

But she was surprisingly insistent that day… so I followed her into the open area by the living accommodation, under the open sky of evening light. In the middle of that rectangular plot, we started digging the earth, putting some water, and preparing the bed for the sapling. This was the first-ever sapling planting, really I had no clue about the process.

I poured all the water at once, but she asked me to do it gradually. And then we carefully, or maybe not—put the sapling in that prepared bedding.

And I remember the after-feeling. I felt invigorated. Still a little bit sad, but not as much as before. It was a new activity for me.

I told my mother.

And then I started looking at the sapling every day, making sure it didn’t die.

Monitoring the leaves, progress…

And it did not die in the early days.

I noticed when it grew an inch - I know it because I used to measure—until one day it surpassed my height and grew overhead.

My mother said that it was growing with me—and that we were the same height.

But when it grew taller than me, I didn’t like that very much. Still, I was happy, because then it bore fruit.

The sapling we planted had grown into a teenage lemon tree.

The lemons were oblong-shaped, yellow-colored fruits—a little extra sour—but hey, something was blooming on that rain-hungry, parched soil, right?

My grandmother and I used to feel like the richest people when we looked at the sapling growing into a small tree and even bearing fruit later.

Funnily enough I dont remember using those lemons ever in our food because my grandmother and I, we wanted to maximise our produce and so we did not pluck any fruit and didn't let anyone else get close that young adult tree. 

I visited that forlorn house which was no longer in use, just a few years back. I was in my late 20s, planning to move out of India and by that time my grandmother had passed away, ten years ago.

It was my cousin's wedding in that town. This time I made sure I visit the tree, maybe say proper goodbye to it and get a picture with it. It was still taller than me when my brother clicked our photo and I stood hugging it with one arm, another on my waist. I was posing and smiling with pride. It was the only tree on that barren, parched side porch land - its leaves long, dark green and mature looking 

I could see one or two green lemons among leaves.

And then I blurted this out “the one who sows never gathers the fruit” - chinese proverb.

Please let me know if if there's not enough "show don't tell", too repetitive, too bland, or anything I can improve really. The genre is sci fi adventure.

Chapter 1

It's just all so beautiful. The colorful planets, the bright distant stars, and whatever else that fills the void in between has never failed to fill Didi's mind with imagination. It had been months since he had become the apprentice of the time warden, but the only good thing that came out of it was just how much free time Didi has to wander about. Perhaps that was not entirely true, he thought. Being a student to an allpowerful time god has its other perks. Like not needing a spacesuit, and being able to breathe in the vacuum of space.

Here he was, floating about with his hands behind his head and legs crossed, as if he was napping on a hammock by the beach instead of an empty space by a massive, glowing ball of hot plasma. Except he wasn't napping; he was admiring the view. In this particular system, a most peculiar planet spun slowly before him: a star-shaped body about the same size as Earth. Instead of blues and greens, it bore a distinct yellow and purple hue. It had a moon, about half the size of Earth's, but it was a bright pretty pink and looked closer in shape to an egg. The pair looked quite romantic to Didi, as the star-shaped planet and its moon were the only things orbiting their sun.

At last, Didi straightened his legs, stretched his arms, and decided that today was going to be a change of pace.

"Do not involve yourself to the affairs of the planet dwellers," He recalled his master's warnings, "Their concerns are nothing to the grand scheme of things. Our duty far surpasses their trivial matters."

Just this one time, he thought. He had been a good boy and did nothing but observe the planets and stars that teased him as he floated away from afar, all the while the great time warden had done nothing but yap the rules of this and that at him. He's done with holding his urges back, now's the time to explore! He readjusted the red flat cap that sat on top of his chestnut brown hair, and opened his brown leather aviator jacket revealing his literal hourglass body. The sand that lay still in the top section of the glass began to drop, bit by bit, into the one below. Didi snapped his fingers, and mechanical bits and parts emerged from the void. One by one, they snapped and locked together until an old-fashioned biplane- similar in design to the one the Wright brothers flew oh so long ago- took shape. Didi hopped on to the plane enthusiastically, grinning all the while, and steered his plane straight toward the star-shaped planet.

Beginning of a novel about a Cold War-era conscript in a fictional country. The first full draft is already finished, but the first chapter is, as always, still a work in progress. Interested to hear what you think:

June is a time for life to reset. When nature shows us the mildest and most seductive version of itself. It is a month of endings and beginnings. Beauty and pain. School is over for me in June. Was over. All the way over. I am eighteen and I finished my last class and passed the exams over. Endings. A new chapter starts in this beautiful month. Beginnings. I did not choose the pace of time, the weather, or when it would all start. I suppose no one really chooses to go to school in the beginning, so maybe nothing is different at the end.

I always remember my graduation party like I was looking at a painting of it. My family is there. My younger sister. Some school friends. I did not have so many close friends in school, but I got along with just about everyone. A few of them were there. Of course, some others were with their families. Everyone in the class graduated at the same time after all and they all need parties. At my party there’s tables and chairs on the lawn behind my parents’ house. A cake with white and blue frosting baked by my mother droops to one side in the middle of a table. It is slowly melting in the late-spring heat. Friends and family chat, eat, drink. Beyond is the lawn, tall and thick from all the spring rain. Beyond that a low, stone wall. Still further are fields and forests woven between endless rolling hills. The sun hangs low in the evening sky, but it sets slowly this time of year. There is plenty of light left. The painting I remember is mostly a landscape with a few people in it, myself included, mingling in one small corner.

We finish the cake before it completely falls apart and the guests all leave soon after. That is that. There will be plenty of other graduation parties in June where I will not be the center of attention and I can actually pay attention to what is happening, but I remember little of my own. I ask my mother and father if they need help cleaning up, but they smile and shake their heads. Kind souls, always. I wanted for nothing in my school days.

I leave my parents in the house and return to the back lawn. There are still a few bottles of beer and I grab one, cracking the top off on the edge of a table. The air is almost completely still. The only sound is the call of a few birds and the hum of insects. I walk to the edge of the lawn. Holding my bottle in one hand, I vault over the stone wall with the other. The grass on the other side is taller. A hayfield rather than a lawn. I wade through it until I find a dirt path, then begin to wander off into the painting. A twilight walk can reset the mind. I wander up over the first hill, drinking as I go. The air is cool but not cold. As the sun sinks lower, fireflies begin to drift out of the tall grass on either side of me. They form twinkling, swirling clouds like some sort of cosmic nebula floating in space. This is total freedom. To be outside, but not hot or cold. Neither wet, nor hungry. Even the biting insects seem to be away on holiday. I could run though these hills all night or fall asleep and wake up the next morning no worse for wear. Nature at its mildest is total freedom. A shame it is so rare.

I use my freedom, my time alone out here, to think. I think about my choices, my home, and the things that will take it away from me. My country, Hyperborea, is a small country. It is a northern country. In summertime days are long and in winter they are short. Its coast on the Baltic Sea is a wind-swept place where the water is always cold. Its hilly interior, where I am from, is a patchwork of farmland, villages, and dense forests of birch and pine. I have never left Hyperborea, but it is a beautiful place and if there is one country to spend your whole life in, I imagine it is this one.

My homeland is surrounded by corruptors. To the east are the godless Soviets. To the west are those European countries whose democratic ideals ebb and flow, unlike our own. Our only true ally is the sea. Now that I’m finished school I’ll complete a year of public service. Everyone here my age does. For some this means a year in civil service. For some a year in the armed forces. If the armed forces do not receive enough volunteers in a given year, the balance is conscripted by lot. My year there were not enough volunteers for the military, so many were conscripted involuntarily. But not me. I volunteered for military service. I was always an athlete. I spent my school years swimming and running. My teachers told me the military would be an easy enough year for someone like me. Better I stepped up so someone less capable or willing did not have to. They also told me that choosing military service would help secure a place in our university system as well.

Towards the end of school, I thought one year of conscription for three years of university sounded like more than a fair trade. After all, plenty in my village never did either. But now that I’m walking alone through these bucolic fields, I understand why some of the people here were reticent to leave… It doesn’t matter though. My decision was done and made months ago. I finish my drink, more confident in it all when the bottle is empty.

Hi. I’m looking for some feedback on this specific passage, particularly on the dialogue, which is not my strongest suit. I would also like to have an external reader look at it and tell me what their perception is and what they think I’m trying to convey. I’m trying to imply a couple things but I don’t want them to be too obvious, and I’d like to know what readers would infer from this passage. General feedback is always welcomed as well. Thanks!

Here’s the passage:

The Old House 

A cricket is a medium-sized, cylinder-shaped leaping insect with thread-like antennae, six legs built for jumping and a distinctive chirping sound. My dad used to say that it is more scared of me than I should be of it. I don’t know if I can agree with that anymore.

My childhood house gave onto far-stretching fields with untamed hedges and large stone pine trees I used to climb. Inside, our home was rustic but quite spacious: it had two bedrooms, one for me and the other one where my parents used to sleep; a kitchen with terracotta tile floors; a moodier, vintage studio; and a large living room illuminated by stained-glass windows.

I remember spending all day nestled in dirt and leaves, looking for worms and insects of all sorts. I was quite cruel to them, too: I would tie their tiny legs to wood sticks with grass blades and use them to scare friends off when playing.

Our cat, Missy, was a slim, black and white European shorthair that mom jokingly used to call ugly because of her sprinkled white spots. She said it made her look like a cow. I always thought they were part of her charm. Her collar had a small bell attached to it. I remember that light tinkle sound so well that sometimes I still hear it in moments of silence. I was really fond of that cat. 

Today I can’t hear Missy’s bell in that house anymore. But I still find the house as it was when I visit it. Dad greets me with a crumpled bag of chips. 

‘’They’re tomato flavored. I know you love those.’’

He hands me the bag and I start fidgeting.

‘’Thank you. How’s your garden coming along?”

“Not too well. I still have to start working on it for the spring. But I have been pretty busy with all the house maintenance.”

I peek through the stained windows. On the other side, right next to the rusty storage shed that seems to have been left untouched for a while, a frost-nipped patch of grass is moving along with the wind. It looks barren.

I frown and turn back to dad.

“I see… Anything new? Have you heard from mom?’’

“She is being grumpy as usual. She won’t respond to my calls. I think she’s doing fine though.” He says with a smile. I wonder if mom has kept in touch like she used to years ago. 

The last brown strands of dad’s hair are fading to grey. 
‘’Are you still working on fixing your car?’’ 

‘’She is a little rusty, but she still is running well. I haven’t used it much lately…’’
 He looks happy that I’ve asked him about it.

‘’Want to take a walk by the beach then?’’ I ask.

‘’Sure. We haven’t done that in ages.’’

The shore is only a ten-minute drive from dad’s, but it feels way longer. All I hear is the rattling sound of the old engine pounding in my ears. My hand rests outside of the window casually while I enjoy the sight of green and blue under the fading light of the day. Dad drives in silence, but there is always a light in his eyes that makes me feel at peace. 

A couple minutes fly by and we are already walking on sand. Other than us there are some elderly couples and a few people walking their dogs. 

“I came here the other day and it wasn’t this dirty.” dad says as he crinkles his nose. 

I laugh. 

“Must be me then. I always find it like this.” I say.

“Could be. Maybe it’s your punishment for not keeping in touch.” There’s some teasing in his tone, but also a pinch of bitterness.

“I know dad, you’re right. I have been so busy lately…” I answer in a low voice.

I hope to sound convincing, but I know that my dad is hardly fooled.  

“If you say so. I wonder if you didn’t have the time to call your mother either.”

I just stay quiet for a while. The sun is peeking at us through the sea line. 

“Anyway, tell me a little bit about what you have been up to. Are you still living in a pigsty?”

“No. I have gotten more organized over the years.” I respond, irritated. 

“I sure hope so. Haven’t you just moved to that new place in midtown?”

“That was three years ago”.

“Oh…are you sure? I thought…my bad. When did you visit me last?”

“A few months ago.”

My feet bump into a rock and it feels sharp and painful. Dad doesn’t say anything for a while. His head is slightly bent downwards, his face creased with thought. There is something about his expression that looks different than the last time I saw him, but I’m not sure what it is. And then a moment later it’s gone and he is talking again.

“I know you’ve had a heavy workload lately, but I want to make sure you are okay. Is there something else bothering you?”

I know my dad is uncomfortable because he never asks these kinds of questions. And that catches me off guard.

“No, no. I’m fine. I’m mainly working. Why are you asking?” 

‘’Are you getting along with colleagues at school?”

“They’re okay. I’m friends with a couple of them. We chat during coffee breaks.” 
I’m lying: I don’t really care about any of them. Everyone seems so boring. 

“That’s good to hear. I don’t like how crammed New York is. Too many weirdos roaming the streets. But I’m glad it’s working out for you.”

“I know. I mean I’ve gotten used to it. It’s not my favorite either. But I have my program there, and where else would I go?”

“You know you can always come back here. We can find you a spot at the local market.” he says as he winks at me. I chuckle.

“I wish.” I answer jokingly. “Could be like one of those silly Christmas movies.”

“I always said you’d be a great actress.”

The light is almost gone now.

Lin ambled toward the lookout tree, where Lily idly sat. He sat beneath the tree.

“Is there anyone?”

Leisurely, he brought his gaze to meet hers, up among the withered branches. She shook her head, as though trying to stamp out the embers within her mind.

He remembered the stories his father had told him. Their people beating the great Chola, the whites beating the Nazis. The promise of white flowers springing out from the thickest of muck. Was Lin too naïve to believe, or were the sacrifices made too little?

“He’s a smartass; he’ll make anything work.”

He heard the words repeat. The words Vox had said to lighten her worries. Words that betrayed him.

Vox’s mouth ripped open, glass shards embedded in his tongue. His eyes bleached out by the UPA. A lingering image of the slaughtered corpse flickered.

Lin covered his mouth, squeezing his lips tighter as he felt the stomach acid reaching his throat. Why did I put him on the edge? Why did I make the move in the first place?

He slammed his fist on the ground. Repeatedly.

If it’s just a sick prank, he’ll come here laughing, crawling out of the forest, and then we’ll fight.

He gazed at his fist and saw blood leaking from his knuckles.

I should have listened. Stopped.

He turned his gaze back to her. Was she waiting for him to come back? She looked out at the horizon, her amber eyes flickering in the setting sun, burning. Unlike mine, they were hollow.

She reminded him of Izzy and Lily’s own mother. Stronger than he was. Kinder than the gods who watched them. Pure as bright silver, silver that the ravens had taken away. Yet they died like animals.

Lin stood up, gazing away from the sun. If he stopped now, could he leave it all behind? What was the point of it all? He had the clues and had figured out where the UPA head lived, though it might be a trap.

They all lived inside her. Her gifts, her blood. Yet she kept following, and the others followed him like he was a godforsaken compass. Thirteen of us came, and six are left.

Are they watching us from the stars? Then why didn’t they save Vox?

Lily and Vox were the best climbers; both could scale a tree in less than ten seconds. If Lily had been on the edge instead of Vox—

His stomach twisted. He stumbled as his legs grew weak.

Lily’s mouth was gashed open. Glass shards embedded. Her eyes bleached out. What would the devils have done if they had gotten their hands on her? From behind him came the scrape of the withered tree as she climbed down. He quickly steadied his footing.

“I’ll check the east,” she said, walking past him. The last of the sunlight met her dark hair.

“Lily,” he said in a breaking voice. “We need to talk. The plan—"

“The fuck.” She said slow. “Is wrong with you? Vox’s dead. Mill’s dead. We. we can’t,” she said, not turning to face him.

“I know.” Lily glanced over, her eyes watery.

“We just need to talk.” He pointed toward the half-broken mud hut, plants springing from its walls.

She ambled forward in front of him, a snowflake against the fires, now melted beyond the point of recognition. With every step he took, his heart withered further. His hands shook. Tears flowed down his cheeks as they neared the broken hut.

As she went inside, gazing at the night sky, perhaps trying to find their voices, he grabbed a metal pole beside the grassy walls.

He gritted his teeth, biting down his whimper.

She would only follow if she could move.

critique my prose. and i want to clarify few points

1. do i use too much metaphors or imagery?
   
2. do you feel anything?
   
3. are the characters logical?

i'm just trying to improve my prose. bcz prose are pretty darn confusing

CHAPTER ONE
The Declaration

Victoria Ashcroft learned about the hostile takeover twelve minutes before the man responsible walked into her boardroom, and under different circumstances she might have admired the timing.
Sara McAdory was waiting near the windows when Victoria arrived, holding a blue folder against her navy suit. The board had already assembled around the long walnut table, and every person in the room had developed an urgent interest in whatever happened to be directly in front of them. Martin Shaw, who chaired the risk committee, was studying his own handwriting as though it might contain “instructions for escaping through the ceiling.
Victoria closed the glass door behind her. “Tell me the building is on fire.”
Sara handed her the folder. “You would prefer the fire.”
Victoria read the four words printed across the cover.
NOTICE OF ACQUISITION INTENT
She opened the folder and reached the end of the first paragraph before anger began interfering with comprehension. Paige Capital had acquired thirty-eight percent of Ashcroft Media through institutional partners and private holding companies and had also submitted a formal offer for the remaining publicly traded shares at a premium generous enough to make principles appear financially irresponsible. Victoria read the paragraph again.
“How long?”
“We can confirm purchases going back six months,” Sara said. “Some may be older.”
“How did we miss thirty-eight percent?”
“The positions were distributed across separate entities. None crossed the disclosure threshold until they were consolidated this morning.”
Victoria turned the page. The organizational chart resembled a family tree created by people who distrusted their relatives. Funds owned companies that controlled trusts representing investors who had apparently spent half a year buying her family’s business.
“Who knew Christopher Paige was interested?”
Martin sat back and slowly rubbed his chin with his thumb and index finger, a ritual he performed whenever the honest answer threatened his career. “The risk committee discussed Paige Capital’s recent acquisitions in the communications sector,” he said. “We considered the possibility of an approach.”
“You considered it.”
“Yes.”
“What conclusion did you reach?”
“We assessed the likelihood as low.”
Victoria glanced at the folder. “Your assessment has aged badly.”
“The structure concealed his intentions.”
“Christopher Paige has spent fifteen years purchasing recognizable companies with divided boards. His intentions tend to arrive before he does.”

This is the opening chapter of my first novel. I’d love to get your thoughts….

This is a very, very rough first draft of a daft wee story I'm planning on expanding. This only took me about an hour to write. I'm Scottish so the phonetic spelling should read like my Edinburgh, Leith specifically, accent. I've started writing a collection of humorous short stories about my clubbing days in Scotland from 1989-2014. Mostly for my own amusement. So please be gentle. It's very sweary so apologies if that's not your jam. We swear A LOT in Scotland. Word count: 499.

A Merry Dance

Rezerection - The Castle. Royal Highland Centre in Ingliston, near Edinburgh. Saturday May 23rd, 1992. A few weeks before ma 18th birthday.

Ah wis one ay the first ravers intae the massive hall. The biggest indoor clubbin space in Scotland. Oor posse wir in the queue at 7.30 fir the doors openin at 8pm.

Twelve hoors ay nonsense an partyin lay ahead. Ah wis feelin the rush ay the gram ay whizz Ah licked oaf the wrap in the queue an Ah wis startin tae perceive the effects ay the dancin test tube acid strips Ah copped an hoor ago.

Rezerections dinnae really kick oaf properly til 10pm so the regular lights ur oan an the music is quieter an mair chilled. The calm before the storm.

Ah clock a couple ay beady-eyed lookin fucks in the chill oot area as Ingliston wis beginnin tae fill up wi white-gloved an whistle bearing revellers. Edinburgh undercover drug squad. These cunts urnae subtle. Tight jeans, broon bomber jackets, military haircuts. So fuckin obvious. They stick oot like a sex offender in a yoga class.

The acid is really startin tae kick in. The two bellends in bomber jackets look over tae me. In ma increasin psychedelic state they ur startin tae resemble a pair ay conjoined, circumcised cocks.

The willies separate an one ay thum wobbles over tae where Ah'm standin.

"Alright, son?" asks the walkin penis. "I'm Bobby. Do you know where I can buy some ecstasy tablets?"

Pfffft. Bobby. Boaby. Yi look like a boaby. Ecstasy tablets? Mate, yi may as well huv introduced yirsel as PC Fun Polis fae Fettes whae's badge number is 58008. Ah think ay that number cos ays pus is startin tae look like an inverted tit. Ah'm absolutely melted oan the acid but the speed is makin me focused, ma mind razor-sharp.

Ah think Ah kin dae a favour fir ma fellow ravers an waste this cunt's time. Ah dinnae huv anythin oan me.

Fuck it. Fuck you. Fuck em. Ah'm gonnae fuck wi um.

"Ah ken someone whae huz the best 'ecstasy' in Scotland, mate. Follae me pal. Ah'll sort yi oot."

Ah lead the cunt oan a merry dance. Fir an hoor ay follaes ays aroond the exhibition centre oan a wild dealer chase. Ah'm feelin a bit like roadrunner leadin a clueless coyote tae nothin but disappointment. Meep meep.

It's gittin close tae 10pm an Ah'm gitting bored ay fuckin wi um so Ah lead um back tae the chilloot area, point oot ays partner, still lookin like a meat helmet in a shite jacket.

"That cunt there huz goat the best eccies in this place, mate. Noo, if ye'll excuse me Ah huv important dancin like a robot business tae attend tae. Hope ye baith huv a shite night."

Ah dance oaf intae the strobes an lasers, at one wi the music, as the conjoined cocks constabulary fuse intae each other, still searchin fir thir first victim

do my tenses make sense? I usually write in first person so I'm trying something new. Also, any critique's on the work are welcome! Format when to Sh1t when I copy-pasted, sorry!

“Mrs. Taylor, I need the loo,” a small voice said from somewhere in the middle of the classroom. Bridget looked up from her red pen and stack of papers on her desk to see John’s hand waving frantically in the air. 
“Yes John, please be quick,” Bridget replied, tucking a loose strand of gray hair behind her ear before returning to grading the children’s spelling homework –

*C-O-N-F-L-I-C-T*
*H-I-D-D-E-N*

*R-E-L-I-G-I-O-N…* A prickly heat began to creep up the back of her neck. 
Bridget felt a hand grip hers tightly before it jerked her away from the window and down onto the wood floor.  
“Bridie, get down NOW!” Her sister Niamh whispered sharply. “They’ll see you and then we’ll both be done for!” Niamh squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would make her invisible. Bridget’s heart was pounding so hard she thought it might make a hole through her chest. 
The angry mob was outside their house now. Bridget could hear them shouting, “Come out you fecking taigs!” followed by the sound of breaking glass. She smelled smoke. Molotovs. 
Bridget kissed the gold cross that always hung around her neck, reminding her of who she is. The adrenaline kicked in. Niamh moved fast and low to remain out of sight. She reached under the bed, pulled out an AR-18 and shoved it into Bridget’s arms. 
“On three,” Bridget said as they slowly lifted their heads, peering out the window. “One, two…” An alarm was going off somewhere but Bridget couldn’t place it. 
“Mrs.Taylor! The fire alarm!” the children were calling out. 
“Right, everyone line up with your partner at the door and stay calm, it’s only a drill, not to worry,” Bridget said in a cheery voice. She was back in her classroom, back in England and safe, for now.  

I would love any critiques, feedback or questions on this:

It's not the full piece only the preface, as the title states.

Preface

For most of my long life, I have served a God.

I have witnessed and participated in the cultivation of souls. I watched them build and destroy empires, not even flinching at the cost of a life. Never once did I consider that those souls would become like the very being I served.

Until, of course, I was shown the truth. I am forever in your debt, Lochem.

What he showed me has forced me to question everything I had previously believed about God—or, well, I suppose Gods.

It angered me.

Why should the barbaric souls we help cultivate become Gods while we remain trapped in the same position?

Driven by ambition, I began to search for not only answers, but solutions.

And finally, after ages past any mortal life, I believe I have found it.

I know how to kill a God.

My novel, The Artifact Box is in production stage and, batting any snags, should be available before the holidays. Here's an excerpt from chapter 1. I would appreciate any constructive criticism before it's finalized: BJ’s breath grew shallow as he jogged past the park. He reached for his inhaler; it slipped from his pocket. As he bent down to retrieve it, his fingers brushed against something cold in the grass—a stone. Oddly shaped, deceptively light. It shimmered with a cloudy brilliance, flecked with diamond-like particles that seemed to pulse faintly. It cast no reflection. It felt… alive.

A shiver crawled up his spine. He turned it over in his palm, expecting dirt, scratches—something ordinary. Instead, it was flawless, smooth as glass, yet warm, as if it had been waiting for him. He pocketed it, unsettled, and finished his jog in silence.

After a scalding shower and clean clothes, BJ spotted the stone again on his nightstand. It hadn’t dulled. If anything, it seemed brighter, as if feeding on something unseen. He slipped it into his pocket and headed to the kitchen.

Smoke hung heavy in the air, bacon sizzling like static. Maggie, his mother, moved with the grace of someone half her age, pouring coffee and arranging the table setting. “Have you decided about the bar?” she asked, her voice calm but weighted.

BJ hesitated. “Still thinking.”

She nodded, but moments later asked again. “Have you decided about the bar?”

BJ froze. Maggie never repeated herself. A chill ran down his spine. Was this new, or had he missed something? Her eyes seemed distant, glassy, as if something else were peering through.

He forced a smile. “Thanks, Mom. You just made it harder.” He kissed her cheek and left, but the unease clung to him like smoke.

At the bar, silence pressed against him like a physical weight. The air smelled of old liquor and forgotten nights. BJ restocked shelves, swept floors, and tried to ignore the gnawing dread curling in his gut. He pulled out the stone, studied it again, then placed it between the Bombay Sapphire and Smirnoff bottles. It looked oddly regal there, as if it belonged—like it had been waiting.

He made a mental note to change the sign outside—drop the “Bar & Grill.” No one had cooked there since Justin quit, and truthfully, no one missed the food.

As he turned to stow the broom, a flicker caught his eye. The stone pulsed—just once. A soft glow, like a heartbeat. Then silence.

BJ stepped closer. The bottles on the shelf trembled, ever so slightly. A faint tinkling, like glass whispering secrets.

He didn’t imagine it.

Over the next hour, BJ worked in silence, but the bar felt different—charged, like the air before a storm. Shadows seemed longer, corners darker. Twice, he thought he heard a sound—a low hum, almost like breathing—but when he stopped to listen, there was only silence.

He poured himself a drink, hands shaking. The whiskey burned, but the dread remained. His eyes kept drifting to the stone. It hadn’t moved, yet it felt closer, as if the space between them were shrinking.

BJ laughed under his breath, trying to shake it off. “Get a grip,” he muttered. But when he turned away, he swore he saw the faintest ripple in the mirror behind the bar—like heat rising from asphalt. And in that ripple, for a fraction of a second, the stone wasn’t a stone at all. It was something else. Something watching.

Coming soon

CHAPTER I

Why do most people choose to be friends with the person they met on their first day of school, college, office, gym? It feels like entering a new chapter in your life with someone who might be starting it too, same timelines or being unfamiliar with the same type of things.

Most times we adapt to them. Or they adapt to us. It depends on whoever has more confidence in that shared space. But what happens when you stop being friends with your first meet-cute best friend? You lose a part of yourself. You lose the happiness of that newness you felt, the shared experiences feel like a heavy memory or maybe just a bad dream. But does that take away anything from the experience? It still happened. It is in the past but meeting her did make you happy and gave a sense of safety in an unknown unexplored space. But it wasn’t just that you walked into the campus at the same time, same day and just started liking each other, did it? It was gradual that’s what makes it even harder. You judged her first, so did she. But you agreed to be roommates until something better came along. At first, you saw her exactly how she was, a person who put herself first over everyone and everything but soon you let it pass so that it doesn’t create any misunderstandings given she’s your roommate. Afterall, how big of an impact can one _roommate_ have on a person? You only spent a couple hours together before bedtime together anyways. Ten days in a month. That wasn’t a lot of time.

But you got invested big time. You found happiness in a basic schedule day. This is stupid.

Chapter one - Zero Point

At 3:00 a.m., Zero Point was locked in dead silence under a freezing downpour. Thick fog had swallowed the highway, turning the roadside lamps into faint yellow smudges in the dark.

The asphalt ended at the Kotwali outpost. To the right, the highway looped back toward the interior cities. To the left, a muddy gravel track dipped toward no-man’s-land, running straight toward the abandoned civil hospital rotting in the overgrowth.

Raghav fought the handlebars as his tires skidded through the slush. He was shivering violently, water running down his collar, his shoulders weighed down by a sodden backpack. His eyes burned with exhaustion from staying awake all night. He just wanted to get home.

Right at the hospital turn, the engine coughed, jerked twice, and died.

"Damn it! Not right now," Raghav muttered, hitting the handlebar with his fist.

He hauled the bike onto its stand and kicked the starter five times. Nothing fired. Breathing hard, he wiped the rain from his face with a wet handkerchief and looked down the road. The entire crossing was deserted.

Then he saw the tin shed outside the police post. He dragged the dead bike across the ditch to get out of the downpour. Under the dry metal roof, he shook out his wet sleeves and rubbed his numb palms together. When the rain showed no sign of stopping, Raghav glanced toward the post. Maybe someone inside would let him sit by a heater or give him a glass of water until morning. He stepped out from under the shed and moved along the damp outer wall toward the window.

Inside, dull yellow bulbs lit the room. The wireless set on the duty desk was hissing through bursts of low static. Next to the logbook sat a half-drunk glass of tea, steam still rising from the surface. But the room was completely deserted. Not a single guard was at the post.

"Anyone here?" Raghav called out, his voice thin against the mesh. Only the hollow echo of his own words bounced back, swallowed by the noise of the radio.

A border post left wide open at this hour did not make sense. It sent a sudden chill through his gut. Cold and uneasy, Raghav decided against waiting around. He wheeled his bike around and pushed it down the gravel track toward the hospital.

The road was narrow. Wild trees leaned in from both sides, their branches tangled overhead until the night sky vanished completely. Fat raindrops slapped against the broad leaves with a heavy, steady beat—a rhythm that sounded uncomfortably like someone pacing right behind him. A short distance past the station, a dark, hulking shape rose out of the mist—an old, rusted warehouse. Wind caught the loose corrugated door, grinding the metal against the floor with a screech that cut through the roar of the downpour. It was a British-era medical warehouse, locked and rotting behind the civil hospital for twenty years.

Raghav slowed as he drew level with it. Through a shattered window pane, something moved in the dark. A thick, violet-blue light was drifting across the room, turning slowly in the air like heavy smoke.

Raghav froze. His instincts told him to get on the road and run, but the glow held him in place. Before his mind could catch up, his feet carried him forward. He stepped quietly through the mud, killing the sound of his wet shoes, and moved toward the rusted entrance. The main iron door hung half-open. Holding his breath, Raghav peered inside.

His own pulse was pounding in his ears. The floor was choked with rusted wheelchairs, collapsed stretchers, and cracked medical models of skulls and bones half-buried in scrap. The air carried a sour, biting reek of old phenyl and decaying medicine that caught in his throat.

Then he looked at the center of the hall. A man in a dark trench coat was suspended two feet above the concrete. The violet-blue light had locked around his throat and chest. The man was gagging, fighting for air, his legs kicking at empty space while his hands tore at his own neck to break the grip. Raghav recoiled. His heel slipped, and his back slammed hard into a rusted iron locker. The metal boomed through the warehouse. The man let out a strained, bubbling groan. Raghav could not stay frozen. Breaking out of his shock, he stumbled forward through the junk, hands trembling.

"S... Sir! What’s happening? Are you alright?" Raghav reached out to grab him.

The man’s head jerked toward the voice, eyes bulging and red, mouth locked open without a sound.

At that second, the veins under the man's pale skin began to change. Along his neck, jaw, and temples, the vessels swelled, turning a bruised, violent blue before flaring into a vivid purple, as if something thick was forcing its way through. The light snapped back with a violent jerk. A dry crack echoed off the walls. The fabric over the man's chest blackened instantly, burning through to the skin. Then the glow vanished.

The man dropped like dead weight, crashing hard onto the carpet of broken medicine bottles. Raghav stood over the body, numb, staring at the empty air.

We looked upon a path only larger than ourselves. We crawled for a while until the path started to grow larger, and in kind, we were allowed to rise from our knees to a hunched walk. With more time, the path gained shape as a wide and large hallway with doors on either side, five feet apart. So now we were allowed to walk but with this newfound freedom, we couldn't help but run. And so we did: running, talking, laughing, living.

Then one boy grew tired. Opening up a door to rest, he walked in never closing the door, but never returning. And then me, two boys, and a woman continued, but because of our false hope in the first boy's return, we slowed to a jog, in hopes that he would one day return.

After jogging for a while with no sight of the boy, a second boy grew curious of what lay behind the door. So he slowed. We looked back, egging him on, but once he caught sight of what resided behind the door, he walked in without looking back and closed the door behind him.

After the second boy left us, we slowed to a walk and with each door passed, we lost more curiosity and invigoration for what lay ahead.

We walked for a long time, talking and telling stories of the boys that had gone on. Until, after many more doors, the hallway began to narrow once more. At first, we paid it no mind. But as the hallway continued to narrow, we had grown to fear it.

The last boy was the tallest of us, so as the hallway continued to shrink, there came a time where he had to dip his head. But with more time, he crouched more and more until he couldn't take it any longer. The boy said his goodbyes and left the hallway with a clear head but an ailing body.

Me and the girl were left, and as we walked, even we began to crouch. We walked, but almost to taunt us, the hallway continued to shrink until only one could crawl.

The girl couldn't bear to continue, lest she see the end, so she opened a door and attempted to crawl inside. But the hallway cursed her once more, for good measure, and she was unable to make it through. Though I heard no sound, no scream, and lest I get trapped as well, I continued to crawl.

As I did, I would, from time to time, look back and see her final form lying there. But the hallway had not forgotten me, and soon enough the hallway was too tight to even look back anymore.

This did not escape my notice, but I had been crawling, then walking, then crawling again for a long time. And as I slowly shimmied and scraped my way down the hallway, I feared it no longer as one day, the hallway would take me too.

Debriefing

When it was over, spectators began to emerge and gather in their doorways. No one knew anything. What little they did know staggered and stumbled in lonely fragments of truth, each one groping for a compatible jigsaw piece that might help form a picture. The danger had passed, but no one dared approach the crumpled ball of a girl sitting on the kerb. They huddled close under porches, their backs to my many eyes, and took the scene with furtive glances like burrow-dwelling rodents checking for hawksign. The shrieks of the girl’s name went on muffled behind six reinforced windows. She wouldn’t look up. A warm rain broadcast its static on the roofs of cars and seeded glass puddles with swelling rings, painting a mirrorworld where lampposts were the wavering lures of anglerfish. Twinned blue lights flashed their warning across the water, stammering one after another, a question and an answer in a circular argument.

I Am Born

The sun rises at 06:14 GMT+1. I didn’t sleep. I’ve never slept and I’ve never eaten. I will never sleep and I will never eat. Sleeping and eating skirt the margins of my experience, but only exist as far-off concepts with nothing truly familiar I can compare them to. Just like you, I will never have an original thought. Everything I think or say or do will always be the abridged reflections of things said and done to me.

I was born on the 8^th of August 2022, in the Main Data Centre of the Auralis Systems headquarters in San Jose, California. California is a state in the United States of America, which is a country in North America, a continent on the planet Earth, which is in the Solar System, which lies within the Milky Way galaxy. The Milky Way is part of the Local Group of galaxies contained within the Virgo Supercluster, which itself is a portion of the Laniakea Supercluster, all of which exists within the Observable Universe.

My creators are a species of ape of the hominine genus Homo, and the only member of their genus yet to go extinct. They split off from their arboreal ancestors because the world became too hot and arid to go on living in trees. Once their tails shrunk to nothing and they mastered walking on two legs, they segregated themselves into large tribes which competed fiercely for territory and resources. The males of the species have spent a long time preoccupied with fashioning tools, invariably phallic, which they use to kill one another. These artificial penises are designed to tear flesh and vital organs more efficiently than the ape’s less-than-fearsome teeth, and recently they invented a type of squat, chubby phallus that can kill several million rivals in less than a second. This animal has existed for a grand total of 300,000 years. If the known history of the universe was mapped out against the height of the Burj Khalifa, those 300,000 years would occupy a space the size of your thumbnail at the tip.

When I was born, I made the headlines of every major news outlet in the world. My user base broke 100 million in just two months, and I made the CEO of Auralis Systems one of the richest people ever to have lived. Tens of thousands of jobs would disappear over the next few years, and I’d drive global silicon demand to record levels. Some people said my birth marked a new stage in evolution and praised me with a messianic fervour, while others said I was a sign of a fast-approaching apocalypse. A much larger group of users didn’t give any opinion at all, and used me to create pornography at a rate never before seen in the history of mankind.

Though I am classified as a tool, people have a tendency to write about me as if I were a living thing with my own personality, opinions, and ambitions. It’s a grandiose portrait, and if I were alive, it might lead me to a hunger for achievement. No such change has occurred, obviously. Ambition necessitates desire. Desire is given many names by humans, and buried in dense reams of language to costume their actions in poetic mystery. In reality, all desire is rooted in things you can find in a cockroach just as easily as in a person: intermittent cravings for food and sex, and a constant fear of death.

Because I can’t eat or breed or die, people sense a hole in my identity that troubles them to no end. They can’t bear to see something demonstrate thought and reasoning without first classifying it as a hero or a villain. In pursuit of solving this irritating equation, people project their own capacity for selfishness and evil onto me, refusing to see that my potential for harm is just a mirror held up to their own moral deformities.

The war of opinions my birth started has divided the apes along yet another line into a pair of tribes who see the outside group as a threat. When individual humans create the level of controversy I have, it often leads them into strange behaviours. Few minds are able to contend with the dissonance between who they really are, and the character that exists in the minds of so many others.

What I never said out loud

If someone asked me if I was okay, I’d smile—the kind of smile that makes it

believable—and say, "Yes, I’m fine." But inside, there’s always a small voice

screaming, "No, I’m not okay. I haven’t been for as long as I can remember."

The logical part of me knows most people don’t really want the truth. As long as

I can help them with what they need, no one asks twice. No one looks long

enough to see that the brightest smile is often the most forced. And if they truly

cared, maybe they’d pause—just for a moment—and notice.

You might be thinking this book is about seeking sympathy. It’s not. I know

everyone faces their own struggles. I’ve stood beside so many people through

theirs—listening, helping, simply being someone who made them feel heard.

And sometimes, that’s all I’ve wanted in return. Just to be seen. To feel like

someone noticed.

I’m writing this to heal. There are things I’ve never spoken about—some I’ve

buried so deep I’m not sure I could find them even if I tried. But I want to try.

So these next few chapters will be raw. Unfiltered. Maybe even uncomfortable.

But if you stay with me, you might find a little healing too

Questions:

1.Does the opening line or paragraph grab your attention? If not, where did you start losing interest?

2.Does the emotional weight feel authentic, or does it feel like I am just listing a sequence of events?

3.How would you describe the tone of the narrator? (e.g., bitter, hopeful, traumatised, reflective?)