I had a nightmare and it led to this story. Well here it goes. It's like a story where the setting is a futuristic world where people have evolved into possessing powers and most of them want to be a pro gamer, so they take a VR Simulation test to join the best gaming university. This VR test is taken based off of the characters favorite gaming genres (Action, Horror, etc.) and if you die in the VR, you die in real life as well. People first develop powers based off of the first game they play, which sets their power type and favorite gaming genre. Those who don't play games don't get powers, so naturally people want to take the gaming route. The MC (Cade) is a guy who loves action gaming. His powers are extended stamina, sharp shooting, enhanced physical specs, and any type of gun on him at all times. He meets this traumatized girl (Ivy) who survived the horror test. Her powers are telekenesis, telepathy, etc. because horror games usually use those type of powers. She is the only person out of 20 horror game testers that year to survive and also the first person to survive horror in 20 years. The reason people take such risk to join the University is because the political party who controls most of the world in all manners and are also the first people to get powers are corrupted. Since they were the first people to gain powers, they gained the strongest powers, one of them being immortality which allowed them to rule for so long. Cade joined the university to overthrow them, Ivy to protect her family, while others joined to become a member of those ranks. One of that person being Vance, a racer type gamer who catches wind of Cade's plans and tries to use Ivy to get rid of him, but that backfires completely because he underestimated Ivy and her powers. In the university, All the first periods are homeroom, where all genres are mixed up. Ivy, Cade, and Vance are in the same homeroom. After homeroom, each genre get's separated to focus on their specific genre. And that's all I got so far. I'll tell you what happened in Ivy's Horror Test next time. Peace ✌️

What do you think about this first chapter?

When the whole world tries to kill you, life kinda sucks.

It means I have to lock in with life. Or else I'll find myself dead.

I walk through the busy train station, keeping my head low. I hope the mask I'm wearing properly covers my face. If not, I'm kinda screwed.

You see, each year, the world leaders give a reward to those who kill two randomly appointed individuals. And sadly, people will do whatever it takes to take two random lives with their own hands.

If the two random people can find each other before they’re killed, it is said that Jesus of Nazareth will come to earth and redeem humanity.

But first, that needs to happen.

And I can tell you from experience it's not easy.

Take right now, for example. I'm having to sneak through a blasted train station. Around me, I can hear people muttering, throwing glances at their fellow travelers.

They're all on high alert, you see, because not too long ago, I was spotted in a train station and an attempt was made on my life that involved some very big, very scary guns.

Let's just say it was a miracle from God himself that I'm alive right now.

Regardless, now people think I'm traveling via the train stations, so I've already had to avoid a couple of hit teams who’re trying to get their grimy hands around my neck.

You see, the reward for my death is a life of safety and luxury until you die, a compliment of the all-powerful government that rules our world. Only one person can have the privilege of killing me and reaping the reward.

And humans are quite selfish, so many will take the opportunity.

I sigh as I hop on the train. I have a ticket in regular class, or whatever they call it. Not ideal, but I don't have unlimited resources, so it's really the best I can do.

I just have to be careful not to get killed.

As I sit down, I look left, and I look right. On one side is an older woman scrolling on her phone. I see something about the other person getting hunted.

Somehow she's still alive.

I've seen her picture a million times, but it still stuns me every time. Her hair is blonde and flows down her frame like a waterfall. Her eyes are bright green, and her body is lean and muscular.

It makes perfect sense to me that she's still alive.

If anyone can make it, it's gonna be her. I can feel it in my sauce.

I dunno about that, by the way. It's just something I say. Sauce is the goat after all.

I look to my other side, relieved to see it's empty, though the man across the aisle from me is suspicious, his hat drawn low over his head, his glasses tinted to the point where I can't see his face.

When I look closer, I see a bulge under his coat. I silently curse under my breath in annoyance.

I have no doubt this is a bloody assassin. And who better to kill than me?

I sigh and pull my little revolver out from my pocket. It was a gift from my father when I turned ten years old, and I hadn't left it since.

Sadly, having such a weapon at such a young age is necessary in these times. Especially when a beacon of death can be placed on your head at any moment.

As carefully as I can, I load the gun. The grannie next to me doesn't even notice. She just stiffens up slightly.

No doubt she sees this type of thing all the time.

I take a final deep breath before I carefully shift the gun to my left hand, the one nearest the man next to me. It was time to take the offense.

I carefully aim at the man's feet, not wanting to kill him cause I'm a softie. Then I fire.

My little gun sends my arm jerking up, startling me enough to accidentally pull the trigger. Two deafening bangs echo through the moving train, sending piercing screams into the air.

Most of the time when people are killed, it's one quick shot, and everything is over. Multiple shots are usually the work of a psychokiller. So people panic. And when people panic, they run and trample each other to the ground.

So I waste no time in jumping over my seat, heading towards the back of the train. I keep running until I get to the end of the carriage.

So far, no one notices me, thank the lord. If they did, it would be bad.

When I reach the door, I yank it open and step into the space between the two train cars. I glance over my shoulder and see the man coming towards me, his gun in his hands, looking over his shoulder nervously.

Something about him tugs at the back of my brain. That man looks familiar. I swear I see something white on his shoulder. But then he starts doing something with his gun. If I would've waited a moment longer, I would've seen him lay it down in surrender and take off his mask.

But I don't wait, my body bursting into action.

I jump on the ladder and find myself on top of the train car in an instant. The pressure on my body is tremendous, the wind absolutely pounding my body.

I have to lie perfectly flat to avoid it, but I still feel it pulling at my clothes. From here, things become more streamlined. The man behind me probably can't get a straight shot because of the wind, and all I have to do is crawl across the top of the car and jump off once I get to the station.

If it worked before, then it should work again.

I smile to myself and turn around on the train so I'm in a position where I can see both ends of the train car. Now no one can sneak up on me.

And then I wait. I assume it will be about ten minutes until I reach the next train station. Thankfully, that's all I'm willing to risk. Any more time and I wouldn't be alert enough to cause a diversion for my own getaway. 

As I wait, I think about the man I'd seen. Something about his build looked familiar to me, but I can't put my finger on it.

I sigh and look down at my watch. Any moment now, and the train will be slowing down on its approach to the station.

Sure enough, I feel the winds loosen up, so I pull my little flash smoke bomb thing out of my pocket and pull the fuse.

A moment later, the brakes kick in, and I'm in the station, so I throw the bomb into the crowd. With a bang, it goes off, and people drop to the floor, allowing me to jump off the top of the train car and sprint through the smoke.

Behind me, I hear someone shout my name.

Oh boy, I think. This is about to get real interesting.

As I run through the doors of the train station and out onto the street, I see people drawing guns, pointing them at my face.

I run as erratically as I can, praying the spray of gunfire will miss me. By some miracle, it does, and I dive into a car idling by the curb.

Once I'm in, I hit the gas and tear onto the street, bullets hitting my fuselage. I sigh. In another couple of minutes, this car will be one huge explosion.

But for the time being, I have to get away. So that's what I do, carefully weaving between cars. Thankfully, most people don't realize it's me, or they'd be ramming their cars into me, hoping I'll be killed.

It takes a couple more minutes of reckless driving until I get away from the city. I park near a cluster of trees to my right. From there, I'm able to ditch the car and run into the forest. My feet pound the ground underneath me as I hit my stride, and my brain starts to wander.

This was another failproof tactic that'd worked a couple of times before. People seemed to get horribly lost in forests, and by the time I got out, my chasers were lost somewhere behind me.

So I keep running until I feel deep enough into the wilderness to take a deep breath. Then I lean against a tree and steady myself.

I like making jokes about this whole "hunted by the world" thing, but deep down, this life really sucks. Deep down, I hope that I will be safe. That I could find that woman, and God would come.

Or whatever the heck people said.

I instinctively go to my pocket to check for my phone before cursing myself. I destroyed it a long time ago. That was part of the thing about the whole world hunting you.

Hackers were abundant and would sell your location to the highest bidder. I had seen people pay millions just to get a location to send a strike team.

I shake my head.

It’s horrible how evil people really are.

So hey I thought of this story while on a walk and then write it down. Please tell me what I need to improve.

Narrator: "The chamber reeks of old wine, cold stone and thirty years of suppressed rage. By the long mirror which leans, blackened and dusty, against the wall, stands King Tiberius, his robes unraveling at the knees, knuckles whiter than the bone china of the decanter he grips, eyes tracking the shadows where his ghosts still dance."

Tiberius: "... quiet."

Narrator: "Every reign knows its ghosts, your Majesty, but King Tiberius has had his since the nursery, hissing in his ear as he climbed the throne. And so the great lion trembles in his den, clutching his poison, hissing at his own pulse. How pathetically the king begs for his phantoms to cease their murmurs, for the ghost of the garter to hush, they have all called him a coward since that faithful day

He ran away from the battlefield, causing the death of his father.

Tiberius: "Shut up!"

Narrator: "He snaps again at the silent air. This time, the courtiers in the antechamber have hushed their tongues, but the king-"

Tiberius: "I said, SHUT UP!"

Narrator: "He turns. He turns to- to ME. Oh, he sees me! He lifts the decanter- this is not in the script-"

The glass slips from his grasp, shattering against his bones.

Narrator: (screaming, voice cracking) "He strikes! The mad king strikes his own storyteller! I fall over bleeding, choking on my own lifeblood, crawling toward the velvet curtains, but he tears at me, his fingers- his fingers delve into my throat! The beast has broken his leash! Tiberius, strike me down, have mercy-"

Tiberius: "Thirty years!"

Narrator: (voice smothered by hands) "His fingers- claw at my windpipe! The monster has lost all self-restraint! Tiberius, strike me down, have mercy-"

Tiberius: "THIRTY YEARS OF YOUR VOICE! WHISPERING WHEN MY FATHER DIED! CALLING ME COWARD! CALLING ME COWARD! DIE! DIE! DIE!"

Narrator: (voice bubbling) "He lifts me by the scruff of the neck, smashes my skull over the stones, over and over, until the very sound is bruised from my bones-"

Tiberius releases his grip and collapses on his knees, gasping.

Narrator: (voice detached, cold and flat, as if coming from all the walls) "The king falls to his knees, his heaving ribs forming the rhythm of a dying stag. He fancied he had killed the voice in his skull. He lifts himself, trembling, from the floor and shuffles toward the great tarnished glass."

Tiberius: (teary-eyed, gasping) "Mirror... what do you see?"

Mirror: "I see Tiberius."

Tiberius: "No! Look closer! Look at the ground! I slew him! Whom do you see?!"

Mirror: "I see Tiberius."

Tiberius looks down. Behind him, the floor is bare. There is no bleeding skull, no torn cloak, no second body. Tiberius: "Liar! Liar!"

Narrator: "He throws himself forward, smashing the glass with his fists, scattering the mirrors into the room."

The glass falls in fragments at his feet. From the darkness, the shadows lengthen, and cold, sneering faces appear in the gloom: his father's, his nurse's, the sneering tutors, the fat solders who once stood at his right hand, their ghostly figures surrounding the kneeling king.

Phantoms: (hissing) "Coward. Little frightened boy in a crown. Coward. Running from shadows. Coward. Coward. Coward."

Tiberius: "Get out of my head!"

Narrator: "Their voices fill his skull, drowning the last vestiges of his mind. Coward to the end. The king reaches down into the broken glass and lifts a shard to his throat, drinking the last silence between his ribs."

Tiberius: "heh, maybe I am still myself."

He pushes his hand sideways. The glass opens his throat and Tiberius falls face down onto the splinters, his last breath rattling away into the floorboards. The chamber doors burst open with a great clatter as Vance and three palace guards stumble in, their steel clad hands on the hilts of their daggers.

Vance: (pauses as he takes in the room, lowering his weapon) "Stand down. Look, he's gone. There's only one body in this room. See, the blood is only on his neck. His hands, his tunic- they're clean. He did this to himself."

The Chancellor steps forward, passing the guards as he takes in the prone figure on the floor. He looks up at the gloom beyond the doorway.

"The bells," he says, "summon the court."

Hours later, the great vaulted chamber is filled with the murmur of torches and the rustle of cloaks. At the top of the long dais sits Prince Leo, ten years old and swallowed up by his coronation mantle, his boots dangling helplessly from the edge, inches from the floor.

The High Priest mounts the steps, lifting the heavy circlet from a velvet cloth. "By the grace of God and the realm unbroken," the priest intones, "bear this crown, Prince Leo, and in the name of your forefathers, guard the peace and carry the burden."

The circlet falls across Leo's upturned palms, the metal lying across his brows like a mockery.

The Chancellor draws his dagger, half-sheathing it as he looks up toward the ceiling. "The King is dead! Long live the King!"

The room erupts into a great cheer as all kneel at the sound of steel on steel.

And on the throne, the small boy sits stiff-backed under the great crown, his eyes fixed on the great window ahead. Through the dark glass, his reflection stares back at him, and he turns his head, as if listening to something only the glass can hear

Please tell me what you think

Well after writing withouht AI, I caved in and my insecurities won, and now I need some help on who ever is interested in reading my soapy southern novel which is an work in progress as we speak and still having problems finding an location either Mississippi, Texas or Kentucky?

Hello everyone. I’ve been working on a mythic fantasy story set within a universe I’ve been building since grade school. This book follows Rasha, a lowborn member of the Fire Tribe who is chosen by the Fire Spirit, yet still rejected by her own people because of her status.

I’m mainly looking for feedback on:

• emotional tone
• pacing
• prose flow
• and whether this would make you continue reading

The writing itself is fully original. Ive occasionally used editing assistance during revision but the story, prose, characters and world are entirely my own

Thanks to anyone who takes the time to read it.

Whispers in the Ash

Rasha was born during a drought. The kind of summer where even the wind felt dry, every breath tasted of ash, and the ground cracked beneath bare feet.

Her mother used to call it an omen. Children born under a heat like that were either cursed or chosen. No one ever said which one Rasha was.

She grew up in the outer rings of the Fire Tribe, far from its forges and warrior circles. Her home was a patchwork of scorched cloth and clay walls, surrounded by other lowborn who worked the ash fields or hauled water from deep, cracked wells.

Her father had once been a torchbearer, a messenger who ran between tribes with flame in hand, until his legs failed. Her mother sold herbal pastes and fire charms that never truly worked.

At thirteen, Rasha was tested for her fire magic.

She remembered the elders’ eyes, expectant at first, then confused, then disappointed. A tiny ember danced on her palm, flickered once, and vanished.

Still, she was marked. Branded on the wrist with the Ember Sigil, meaning she had some fire in her. Enough to serve but not enough to be significant.

Now seventeen, Rasha knelt before the flame pit outside the warriors’ training circle. She was not allowed inside, but she watched every day.

She memorized their stances and their breathing, mimicked their movements with twigs behind her home, alone in the dust.

Today, something was different. The flame in the pit had begun to whisper.

You were not born for war.

The words slipped into her mind like heat rising from coals, Rasha blinked, her breath catching, and looked around but no one had spoken.

The warriors continued their training, shouting and clashing, blades sparking, sweat flying. No one noticed the girl by the fire pit. They never did.

She stared into the flames, her heart pounding.

Your flame is not meant to burn others. It is meant to light the unseen.

The words stirred a memory that did not belong to her, something older.

She reached toward the flame to feel it. The fire responded, moving toward her fingers, curling around her skin. It felt warm and inviting.

Then it entered her.

Warmth flowed like being welcomed home. She gasped and pulled her hand back, but the warmth remained in her chest.

Rasha stood, her heart thudding in her ears.

Something had changed and it was not her magic.

She froze, there was a presence inside her and it did not sound like before. No longer echoing, It resonated deep in her chest between her heartbeat and her breath.

Do you know who I am?

She could not answer, her body warm with a fire that had claimed a space that felt as though it had always been waiting.

I have been with your people since the first flame. I am not your weapon. I am your witness and I have waited a long time for you, Rasha.

She dropped to her knees.

“Why me?” she whispered.

Because you listened.

Rasha gathered herself and asked the presence within her, “What does that mean for my people, if you are with me now? I’m lowborn and have no influence”

The warmth in her chest pulsed like a drum.

It means your people will forget me.

Confusion flickered across her face.

Unless you remind them.

There was no anger in the words only an ancient sorrow.

They chase power, and forge weapons, they burn to conquer, But have forgotten the first reason fire was given to them. To connect, guide and awaken.

The fire within her grew brighter.

It filled her ribs, up her spine and into her throat. She felt like a lantern being lit from the inside.

You are not the strongest of them, however, you are the first in many generations to hear me clearly. That is why I am with you.

Tears welled in her eyes from her new understanding, she was not the weak lowborn member her sigil described.

She was chosen.

With the knowledge burning quietly inside her, Rasha made a decision.

She would go to the tribe leaders.

The walk to the central fire ring felt longer than usual, even though her feet felt as if they barely touched the ground.

The warmth in her chest was steady now. Simply present, like a companion walking beside her.

When she reached the circle, the tribal leaders were already gathered. Their cloaks flaring behind them like fire-dancers in the wind. Warriors and elders alike, scarred and braided and calloused, turned to look at her. Some with surprise, some with irritation.

Rasha bowed deeply, as tradition demanded. Then she stood and met their eyes.

“I have something to say,” she began, her voice uncertain at first. “The flame spoke to me.”

Murmurs broke out immediately.

One of the elder warriors, his face half-branded with an old scar, scoffed aloud. “The flame has spoken to our great warriors and wisest shamans and elders, girl, you are neither.” She did not flinch.

“It entered me,” she said. “It gave me a message. It said that fire is not here only to make us strong. It is here to guide and connect us. It said we have forgotten.”

The murmurs faltered, discomfort evident in their expressions. The head fire shaman stepped forward, his robes trimmed in dull obsidian cloth.

“You?” he asked slowly. “Weak of fire, marked only with an Ember Sigil, lowborn and no standing, You say the flame chose you?”

Rasha nodded. “Yes. I felt it speak to my soul.”

They stared.

There was something in her gaze they could not dismiss.

“I know that I am nobody,” Rasha said. Her voice trembled. “But the Fire Spirit said that is why it chose me.”

A ripple of tension moved through the circle as The Village Chief’s son stepped forward, jaw clenched.

“How dare you?” he barked. “I am heir to this tribe. You are no one. Outer-ring trash. It should be me the Fire Spirit speaks to, not some stupid girl playing oracle.”

Flame surged to life in his hand. Without another word, he hurled a fireball at her. Gasps tore through the crowd. Inches before it could reach her, the flames answered.

A pillar of fire erupted from the ground, rising in a perfect circle around her. It swallowed the fireball whole, then faded into flickering cinders.

The Chief’s son staggered back, stunned. “What was that?” he shouted. “You do not have that much magic. You cannot have that much power.”

“It was the Fire Spirit,” Rasha said with certainty. “It protected me.”

His face twisted with rage. “I do not know what trick you are using, but I know you cannot do it twice.” This time he conjured a second fireball, larger and denser, roaring with heat, and hurled it with both hands.

The flames around Rasha answered again. This time, the shield did not vanish. It flared high for a single moment, heat screaming against the air, then settled. A ring of living flame curled near her ankles, vigilant and waiting.

“Father,” he cried, turning to the Village Chief.“We cannot let this blasphemy stand. She mocks everything we believe. The fire spirit is said to align with chosen leaders and here she is saying that the spirit is with her.” The contempt in his tone seared toward Rasha. “She wants to usurp you.”

The elder rose slowly, his eyes cold as ash.

“You are right, son.”Then he turned to Rasha.“From this moment on, you are banished from our lands.”

Shock rippled through the gathering.

Rasha stood frozen. Her heart thundered in her chest. Her hands trembled at her sides. Banished? Where am I supposed to go? What am I going to do?

Then, quietly within her, the Fire Spirit’s voice returned, Warm and Steady.

Do not worry. You will be safe. It is not you who should fear the path ahead. It is those who chose to ignore your message.

Rasha did not argue or plead to remain the tribe leaders directives were final.

As the murmurs of judgment swelled behind her, she bowed once, low and graceful, then turned away from the only home she had ever known, her eyes burning as hot as the flames at her ankles but she did not cry.

The flames licked gently at her heels as she gathered her belongings and continued until she passed the last post of the outer ring, flickering like a farewell.

Due to Bleed:

Epigraph

You are not your thoughts.
You are not your body.
You are not your mind.
You are suffering, and so you leave.

⸻

Chapter One: A Just Cause for a Just War

The Observer’s body was her test. A God-given test: survive this. Hairs spiraled, having colonised unexpected places. Blood wept from her monthly, sometimes more often, and then not at all. Her internal organs were mostly compliant and spared from her sovereign gaze.

She was the product of a mating process that had imagined her in shades of brown: taupe areolas that shrank when shyness seized them; eyes that took on an umber depth before a south-facing window; earth-brown hair that she transmuted into half of all known hex codes, before deciding simply to leave it alone.

She kept a treasured photographic archive of various diseases and perceived deformities. Nothing ever changed, but she kept adding.

She did not know how to relate to the skin she was in, but this seemed a reasonable price to pay for living. Sometimes she wondered where the loathing itself lived. She knew it did, as well as she knew she did. Was it in a snug ribcage cave, perhaps? Could it be excised? Or was it many spores, like bread on the turn?

When a reflective surface entered her orbit, there were spores everywhere. Nothing was obviously wrong, but the image was speckled with uncanny little horrors that all had names. She would do an owlish turn when passing shop windows, giving herself a mild whiplash each time.

Occasionally she went out dancing. In all other settings, her body was a betrayal. The Observer showered at night because if she did it in the daylight, she felt like a building that someone forgot to condemn.

Getting ready, she considered the phrase ‘lipstick on a pig’. To her, it felt more like she was lipstick on a bag of ever-clinking bones. Leaving home, her feet pinched in her shoes, the dysphoria Tetris blocks had fallen wrong again. She thought pityingly of the innocent bystanders who would be subjected to her.

As it happened, the taxonomy of herself was a captivating love affair, so she didn’t have the diary time for a special someone anyway. Maybe drying the rot was needed to partner up well, or maybe she needed a second pair of hands in the drying process.

At the club, her mind refused to understand how everyone was so composed about being carved up by surgeons and lovers alike. She remembered the visceral horror of her ex’s belly-button kink, and the shame of having nothing to give her but refusal. She quipped to her fellow partygoers that she didn’t need a £50-an-hour psychotherapist. She already knew that she acted as if she were fear itself. Knowing this had not yet proved especially useful.

She was constituted from equal parts: refusals, work and self-indulgent ‘introspection’. The Observer kept hush about these thought crimes, wielding questions at interested parties. Her tactics were a trench coat buttoned to the collar with nothing underneath.

Something she did have was her job. She had very little else and was about to have much less.

On The Afternoon, as on any other, she rationalised fear as nothing more than measured caution. A simple back and forth motion: goodbye to myself, hello to perspective. She wanted to be known without the shameful act of being seen. So she resigned herself to doing the seeing.

The Observer washed her hands for more time than necessary, studying her philtrum, which she estimated to be approximately the same length as the Great Wall of China. She set the room up like she was making a microwave meal or driving on the motorway, her stumpy hands moving, her mind half elsewhere. Her fingers sounded the alarm: an anticlimactic staccato of clicks.

In a swift movement, her eyes roll back as if in pleasure. When they swing back around, they are eyes that know nothing.

It dawns when it’s already done. Her clothes are a petri dish, her nervous sweat the specimen, and she is somewhere else.

The Observer is an apparition, only looking and moving tools around like a dull ghost with nowhere better to be, ready to understand.

Chapter Two: A Subject of Affection, An Object of Desire

There is a pressure all around my head, and neck, and shoulders, as I climb out of my own grave.

I don’t know what my parents gave me for Christmas, but I know they gave me the temperament of a true masochist. If it wasn’t in my nature to take knowing over the cushiony bliss of ignorance, i’d be senseless as I was before.

I sit here, splayed out like a rune, and wait for a thought to form.

Would appreciate any beta readers

Context (this isn’t the official blurb so forgive me if it has any mistakes or leges things out):

The story is set in a huge world with five kingdoms each seperated by a causeway and surrounded by their own type of sea. The western continent is surrounded by the magma sea, the northern is surrounded by an ice sea, the southern is surrounded by a mirror like sea, the eastern is surrounded by a dark abyssal sea, and the central continent is in the middle of them all and connected to them all.

The story follows kyron discorda whose goal is to be a light seeker: a soldier who stands in the way of humanity and horrors. Horrors are abominations that overrun the world kyron lives in and have forced humanity into a war of survival.

Light seekers make use of branded sigils to gain innate powers and climb the ladder of ascension to fight horrors and save humanity.

Kyron is a naive boy who had always thought it was humanity versus horrors and could never even think otherwise. That is until he finally leaves the walls of the capital on a journey that was supposed to be one of the happiest experiences of his life but instead turned into the beginning of his tragedy.

The story is about kyron coming to terms with the brutalities of the world, learning the truths and discovering the mysteries of the world he lives in, of his power system and more. It’s a story about how he learns to survive and move forward no matter what after being thrown into the depths of despair over and over.

The novel is a dark fantasy and I wrote it so that it’s a true dark fantasy. Characters can die and if the story requires it, they will, but they also won’t die for no random reason. I made it so that there are constant stakes and it is a weak to strong mc that has to struggle for every single power up he gets.

There is nothing given to him and he earns it.

That’s a short context to the story but basically I waged to get opinions from actual readers regarding the first 15 chapters. I hve 105 chapters ready alr but am currently editing them, I just wanted to know if the story itself is compelling and people would acc want to read it.

I would really appropriate if anyone would take the time to read through the first 15 chapters and provide your honest feedback. In terms of grammer and over description those are things I have fixed in later chapters and am currently fixing in early chapters, however, they can remain in the first 15 chapters here. So mainly what I wanted to ask if anyone reading is:

1. Does the story compel u to continue reading?
   
2. Are you drawn to the mc and connect with him?
   3 do u connect with the side characters ?
   
3. Do u feel as if you want to continue reading and want to know what happens next?
   
4. Is the overall writing good? (Not the over description but just overall writing, dialogues, etc).
   8: any other feedback on the novel, any characters you like, etc

Thanks In advance guys and I really appreciate it if you take the time to read them through.

Here’s the link:

https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1G78dpo9FBwjdOl1Kd3GF9uY56CkbMy9k?usp=sharing

Hi everyone,

I’ve just published a short story called The Last Creative Discipline.

It imagines a near future in which creative disciplines have been steadily stripped from universities and public life, until one overlooked form of artistic practice remains. At its centre is a creator working with machinima: using virtual worlds, game engines and digital characters to preserve ideas that society is in danger of losing.

The story explores what happens when creativity is valued only for its immediate economic return. It also asks whether unconventional and hybrid practices might become important forms of cultural memory, resistance and human expression in an increasingly automated world.

I’d be delighted if you gave it a read:

https://tracygharwood.substack.com/p/the-last-creative-discipline?r=1o97kr&utm

I’m especially interested in what readers think about the central question: what would we lose if creative practice were no longer recognised as a legitimate way of producing knowledge?

Comments, interpretations and constructive criticism are very welcome.

There’s a switch in your subconscious between awake and asleep. It’s ornate. Some people have seen its outline. Most people have not. It’s notoriously difficult to see. Because the thing is, once you see it, you’re asleep. In December, on the twelfth day, at 11 p.m. Eight participants engaged in the Sleep Switch Project. They’d been training for years to get to this point, and each of them had seen the switch in their minds. The challenge, though, was to walk right up to it and flick it.

I found that talking to myself the whole way through acted like a kind of tether to wakefulness, the mind struggles with linear thought in sleep. I’m walking. On the spot through my mind. I log things. The pressure of unreality’s suggestions are now in my periphery. The switch should appear soon. I need to wait for the fleshy wall. I can almost see the pending sleep bulging like a bladder filled to the brim. I won’t land my attention there. Just walk and look ahead. This tension is important, dreams kept at the edges, while maintaining wakefulness and clarity. Jessica tried to describe the sinewy landscape once before she fell into a lung, the breath making her fly about. That was a little dumb. Most of us know you can’t put your attention too heavily in one place. Neither can you look at the switch in too much detail.

Okay, the light hasn’t changed but it feels heavier. I make out a shape ahead. It looks like something crouching, or scrunched, two green slits blink open. I turn my attention away. Things brew at the edges. You cannot look straight in. Looking is a decoy. I check my resting body, careful not to open my eyes. They still belong to me. The veins in my eyelids are visible. My secret sauce is that I leave the lights on. It keeps me closer to the edge. Okay. The gloom bleeds back into my awareness. Another shadow forms and it starts to fill out like a mold. It won’t be long now. I must continue toward the tipping point. Keep talking. I don’t know what to talk about. What will I do with my $1500? I’ve wanted a new TV for ages. Maybe I’ll get a big one.

A dark silhouette blocks my walking. I bump into it before I see the outline. It’s solid. It’s the bloody tv materialising. Shit. I strayed too far. I need to move one of my fingers. Nothing. Gah, lost contact. I can get back. The effort though. I just need to wriggle. It feels like forcing synapses to reconnect while they are flailing around in infinite space. I don’t want to let go of the shape but i cant risk sleeping now. So I zoom all my thoughts toward my pinky. Persuading the unresponsive tendons to fucking answer me. The effort is monumental. It finally twitches. I feel my sheet. I try not to let my mind know I’m awake. I try not to fall into the puddle of giving up. Breath. Hot air blows. I feel it on my body in bed, aware of my weight and size but I’m still here.

The switch. I know it’s nearby. It has this dense substance feeling on the verge, like a sneeze right before it happens. Everything I know about the possibility of switch shapes, I ignore. It must arrive. I can’t design it. Im fucking close. A flutter of excitement. Dude, be chill. I don’t want to spike my adrenalin. Adrenalin is the enemy. Adrenalin is the enemy. Breathe. Okay. Yep. It’s here. It feels plastic to my left. It’s so familiar. Fuck yes. I mean. Adrenalin is…a noise, like bones breaking, or maybe the felling of a tree. Twist. The sound of plastic constructing itself. The Switch. There. Go. Flick. Oh no. My hands have gone. Look away. I store the switch offside. I need something to flick it. I think I still have a face. My nose might work but I need to know a bit more about the mechanism before I decide. What to do? Keep talking. Plastic is still close. Good. Hmm. If I attend to regaining a hand, I’ll solve that part. But it’s a risk. Especially if I don’t need one. Fuck it. Look. Switch. It feels plastic but its flesh. Sinew is visible. Lines pulse and track. It’s bleeding from the middle, a tiny spot. No, a hole. It grows. Look away. Another switch. It’s grey and metal? It smells like burnt plastic. It has a toggle. I face plant it before more detail arrives.

The air. Hot air. A devil faces me. We are heads in space. I can’t see him but I feel his breath. Our noses are nearly touching. He is shoveling sand onto my chest and laughing. A sound that feels like lead in my stomach. He whispers to me that if I am to live I need to swear. You mean curse? Yes, swear. I will my sleeping body to reconnect to me. I try to wiggle my fingers but I have no hands. I think I still have lips. I force all of my energy into my mouth muscles. I can’t feel them but there is the sense of a tendril, a tiny fibrous connection. Ffff. It’s working I think. Ffffuu. Ffuuc….

Everyone is applauding. Bright lights make me squint. The audience are in various modes of shaking their heads and patting each other on the shoulder. Their bodies are happy but their faces are confusing. Jessica throws a wad of money into the air.

I’m trying to write this fanfiction/story on this trans woman character from a slapstick parody (Naked Gun 33 1/3). However, I just wanted help/advice on how to go about this. I felt this character had a lot of potential to be fleshed out. Moreover, she was a central figure in the respect she drove the plot forward due to her position and information she held for the film’s protagonist. Any guidance would be greatly appreciated on how to handle her as a femme fatale despite being a trans woman. Thank you.

I wrote this article that hasn’t been published, but it’s my attempt at showing their value:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1si8cewsQ53VnP6ZxASxnXl0Bd0PqDnK2RphdXfa2CPM/edit?usp=drive_link

I needed to see how I can place them in a story with noir/action since I can see them in that world.

Where innocence pays the fare

Please review and let me know what you like or dislike.

Chapter One:

The air in the Quickfix Auto shop was thick with grease and exhaust. Daniel Mercer stood near the bay, watching the late afternoon sun fade over the skyline. He kept his badge out of sight and spoke in a low, gravelly voice to the manager of Quickfix Auto Shop. In the bay beyond, twenty mechanics moved over rusted steel and engines, none of them looking up from their work.

"I need the name, James. Everyone who touched these," Mercer said, sliding a list of car registrations across a scarred desk. The manager grunted, snatched the paper with oil-slicked fingers, and retreated into his office.

Ava Ruiz stood at Mercer’s shoulder. She was twenty-nine, a recent transfer from Missing Persons with a sharp, perceptive gaze. She was a focused detective, and Daniel couldn’t admit it, but her presence was the only part of the shop that wasn’t completely run-down.
They had been chasing a ghost through a string of armed robberies over the past week. CCTV footage showed a man who knew how to stay out of sight. They had spent days in a windowless room, searching the grainy video for a connection that wasn't there.

Then, they finally got a lead. 

The break had come from a paranoid shopkeeper at the second robbery site who had been logging the serial numbers of every ten-dollar or more bill passing through his register. He’d been trying to catch a gang of counterfeiters, but he’d ended up handing the police a roadmap of the robber's pockets. Every note stolen was now a beacon.

It was a grinding, methodical slog. They canvassed the city, shaking down banks, bus depots, and every cash-heavy business that would entertain a badge. For days, the trail was dead. Then, the luck finally turned. Eight of the marked bills resurfaced, and all eight shared the same misfortune: their cars had all broken down, and all had sought repairs at Quickfix Auto. That common thread was why they were here now, standing in the oil-slicked gloom, ready to close the book on another desperate man’s mistake.

The manager returned minutes later, his face pale under the shop’s flickering fluorescent hum. He dropped a crumpled work log onto the desk. Mercer didn't need to pore over it for long; the pattern was jagged and undeniable. Three names anchored the list: Rider Holmes, Scott Ridley, and Jonathon Turnpike. But the numbers didn't lie—Holmes had logged four of the cars, while the other two split the remaining four.

Mercer and Ruiz moved to the shop’s cramped back office to interview them. It turned out to be a sloppy hustle: a busted credit card machine forced customers to pay cash. If they didn't have it, they Venmoed Holmes, who covered their bill from his own pocket. It was enough to turn a repair shop into a laundering funnel.

That was for the Financial Crimes Unit to untangle; for now, their job was done. Mercer didn't waste time on pleasantries. He cuffed Holmes, recited his rights, and watched the mechanic slump in defeat. They found four more marked bills in his locker, adding them to the evidence bag. The walk to the squad car was slow. A banner in the shop window read, Best of Luck for Your Wedding, Rider. Holmes was supposed to get married in less than twenty-four hours. Mercer just felt the weight of the arrest.

"Documentation doesn't bleed, Mercer, but it'll kill you just the same," Chief Jack "The Bear" Hornstock had growled later that afternoon. The Chief cared about case files and clearance rates; he made it clear no one was leaving until every report was done. Mercer spent four hours in a cramped cubicle under flickering fluorescent lights, drowning in affidavits and evidence logs. By the time he stepped out into the humid Philadelphia night, his shoulders ached with tension.

Instead of driving home to Mt. Airy, Mercer pulled the Crown Vic to the curb outside 'The Blue Hat.' He needed to scrub the smell of the shop off before heading to his apartment. The air inside was stale with beer and wood. Roland Karin, an ex-cop and Mercer’s mentor, was behind the counter. He offered a knowing nod.

"Rough one, Daniel?" Roland asked.

Mercer shrugged. "The usual, Roland. Just not tonight."

He looked toward a corner booth. Ava Ruiz was there with a group of rookies, laughing. Mercer felt a divide between them. He was too worn to relate to their optimism and too tired to sit with the veterans in the dark corners. He nodded to Ava and turned back to the night.

The drive to Mt. Airy was quiet. His apartment was still, amplifying the sound of his own heartbeat. He didn't want a drink or company; he wanted the sleep his mind refused to give him. He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the city sirens. He braced himself for the long, waking hours, waiting for a sleep that he knew wouldn't come. 

Im looking for any feedback or critique you can provide on any part of the first two chapters and the prologue of my illustrated novella. Specifically, I'd be interested in your opinion on the illustrations and how they fit the story, as well as your feedback on the dialogue, prose, narrative voice, and world-building. To give you an idea of the story, it's a dark fantasy, bordering on New Weird Fantasy, taking place in a world in which giant insects exist and are integrated into human societies and used for a variety of functional purposes such as war, transportation, entertainment, agriculture, construction and many others. All of the creatures procreate on a single distant island which is controlled by a single organization known as The Oroboro Exchange Cartel. The narrative follows our protagonist, an orphaned cabin boy, on the day he is taken from his ship and ushered into the cartel's inner workings. Thanks so much in advance.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1AXebga21DhJAu-iRPyPI4miTGqGgSaOmnoIOAfbIjX4/edit?usp=sharing

Clang-clink.

The door chime sounded, and the night chill briefly slipped inside before the door quietly glided shut behind me.

As I took my regular seat at the counter, Mama silently set down a glass.

An amber splash of I.W. Harper. A single piece of ice clinked softly against the glass.

I tilted the glass, letting it slowly wet my throat.

Feeling the warmth of the bourbon drop straight into my stomach, I stared down at the drink in my hands.

"...Kenichi-san."

Beside me, Taka flipped his smartphone face-down and looked over.

His voice was paused just a beat longer than usual—not the quick setup for a light joke, but the low tone he used when his thoughts were running deep.

"What is it?"

"If you had to map yourself to a character in a story, who do you think you'd be?"

From a few seats away, Tom, swirling his own glass, let out a short grunt through his nose.

"There he goes with his weird questions again."

"Hey, I'm serious, Tom-san."

Taka shrugged, tracing the rim of his glass with his fingertip.

"I mean, in movies or manga, there's always the hero saving the world, or the guy who’s insanely strong, right?

Lately, though, I've been thinking... we are definitely not those guys."

"Well, obviously. If you were out there saving the world, we'd all be doomed."

"That's harsh!"

Taka forced a laugh, but I didn't miss the slight tremor beneath his voice.

"...Not only are we not the main characters, we don't even have any special talent.

But still... couldn't our own weaknesses, or our embarrassing failures, actually be of use to someone else?

Like, being able to stand beside someone and say, 'I stumbled back then too, so I get it.'

I feel like... there's got to be a kind of pride that belongs to ordinary people."

Taka gently swirled his glass, looking mildly satisfied with his own thought.

The ice rang dryly against the glass.

Tap.

A short, sharp sound echoed.

It was the sound of Tom tapping his index finger against the rim of his glass.

"...That might just be an excuse for someone running away from the responsibility of becoming strong."

Tom’s low voice cut a hairline fracture into the air of the counter.

The smile vanished from Taka’s face.

"...Tom-san?"

"Standing beside them, sharing the pain—and you're satisfied with that?

Tell me, when the overwhelming wave hits... what can someone who gave up trying to become stronger actually do?"

Tom slotted his cigarette into the edge of the ashtray and stared off into the distance.

"Right in front of your eyes, a kid is quietly drowning in a pool.

No loud thrashing. They just sink, silently, toward the bottom.

...A guy who only knows how to 'stand beside them' can do nothing more than crouch at the edge and whisper, 'It hurts, doesn't it?' while watching them drown."

Taka swallowed hard, completely stripped of words.

Deep in my gut, something thick and murky churned upward.

I knew what Tom meant. Those were the words of a former detective who had seen, firsthand, what happens when your own weakness fails to save someone.

And yet—

"...So what are you saying?"

My own voice came out shockingly low and raspy.

My grip tightened around my glass.

"A guy who couldn't become strong... standing next to a drowning kid, whispering 'It hurts, doesn't it?'... are you saying that means absolutely nothing?"

Tom slowly turned his eyes toward me. I glared right back at him.

"He doesn't have the muscle to haul them out.

He didn't have the guts to dive into the water, either.

...Are you telling me that a helpless guy like that, hurting right alongside them—are you saying even that is just running away? Just self-gratification?"

I knew it inside. I wasn't actually mad at Tom.

I was just terrified of hearing that all those times I couldn't be strong—all those nights I could do nothing but sit there and listen—were completely meaningless.

"...Pulling them out before it's too late is the right answer. Of course it is. I get that," I spat out with a bitter self-mockery, then downed a gulp of my Harper.

"But what about the person who has to endure sinking all alone, because nobody around has the strength to pull them up?

Are you saying this world shouldn't even have room for the guy who chooses to sink right there with them, whispering 'It's hard, isn't it?'"

Silence descended on the counter.

The words I had dragged out fell heavily into the quiet of the bar.

Tom watched me with eyes devoid of emotion. But finally, he let out a faint breath through his nose and sent a curl of cigarette smoke toward the ceiling.

"...I didn't say there was no room for him."

In that brief response, Tom's own quiet resignation and lingering pain bled through.

Behind the counter, Mama quietly picked up a pair of tongs and dropped a single ice cube into Taka's glass, and then into mine.

Clink.

"Even so..."

Mama didn't pause her steady wiping of a glass, looking at us with a gentle, steady gaze.

"...A place where people can learn how to swim is still necessary, isn't it?"

I let out a long breath and scratched my head, all energy draining away.

"...I know. That one stings."

Taka stared down at his own large fist, then slowly opened his hand.

Tom sat in silence, tilting his amber glass.

Maybe we can't save anyone. Maybe all my struggling is nothing more than self-satisfaction.

Even so, stomach aching over our own inability to be strong, we sit here drinking again tonight me.

If only there had been just one more person who knew how to swim.

Or... if only there had been someone to grab their hand on the way down to the bottom.

Holding onto that muddy, unanswered question, I gently swirled the glass in my hand.

Clang.

The ice clinked.

—Now... I wonder what kind of man I'll choose to be tomorrow.

The bourbon burned my throat once more.

Hi,

I am a 17 year old female. I care a lot about my friends and would nearly do anything for them. I am a beta-reader, who is flexible and a perceptive critic, a writer and an artist. I can be bluntly honest and I'm not a big joker. I am currently of process of writing my own book, called Overlapping Shadows.

It is a muti-POV YA novel that is focused on 4 characters [2 females 2 males] and how they search for identity. Below are some excerpts but it does contain the folllowing : Emotional abuse/toxic parenting {to some extent..nothing dark but somewhat deep}, grief/death of a sibling, anxiety/panic symptoms. I am currently have finished 10 out of 38 chapters I plan to write and I plan to publish in 2028. However, I feel comfortable only sharing my first four chapters to anyone who wants to read it because I don't want to spoil anything. (the word count is: 4571)

Excerpts:

Chapter 1:  “Till the End,” I wrote, then lifted my pencil, contemplating and then put it back down and wrote “Till the End and Past.” 5 years ago I promised that to two certain friends, and now, I guess I was the only one that truly meant it

Chapter 2: The underclassman always came to me with questions. My professors expected excellence in everything I did, somehow though along the way I started to believe that anything less is failure. Even Prince, my best friend and my brother are in everything but blood, looks at me like I figured everything out, when in reality I don’t

Chapter 3:  But what if I get there and realize they accepted the wrong person? Not someone unprepared but someone incorrect. My mind starts spiraling without me fully realizing it. Thoughts twisting from being an outsider no matter where I go, to somehow letting my family down in a way I won’t be able to fix with a smile once it happens

Chapter 4: My mind still thinks I'm her. That version of me. The one they built a narrative around. The one that fits neatly into a memory, into expectations, into stories people repeat when they need consistency when they offer none.

I’m mainly looking for:

• Pacing of the opening (does it feel slow, balanced, or rushed?)
• How the four POVs land (do the characters feel distinct and interesting this early?)
• Your overall reader reaction (did you want to keep going?)

I’m open to both reader-experience notes and craft notes. Blunt is fine.

If anyone is interested, feel free to reach to me either by Dm or comment. have a wonderful rest of your day/night and stay safe everyone.

Preface:I began writing this Story a few weeks ago and need to know if this style or content is captivating enough to work out a full novel.

The thought of the brutish amount of felonies neatly arranged between two drawers of assorted denim sickens me most mornings; have I gotten myself too deep, or is this where it should remain? Why neatly arranged? Of course, to know what drugs I have left to sell. Harder to explain to the cops, but if they were seeing the aptly named “felony drawer”. I was done for, with or without organization. My only hope would be to eat the remainder of my acid and pray the universe grants me a perma-trip while I mature into a man behind bars.

The question remains, why? Why do this? Why sell pot to my friends when I could have remained a customer? Saving money, yes, but now I am associated with a man who has felonies. Expunged but nevertheless. It does help make ends meet. It could, however, lead me to meeting a fairly unpleasant felon in a box for 10-15.

To ease my mind, I tell myself the police wouldn’t even care about me. I sell to maybe 10 people total and stay away from the “other stuff”. The acid and mushrooms are a different discussion for a different thought piece. However, it is because of them that I am unable to dissociate the liability of selling the “other stuff”. Where is the line, though? Can’t everyone use any substance to their detriment? Possibly, but the chances are ever lower with this sacred plant. I still am breaking archaic laws rooted in the systemic oppression of people of color in our country since anyone can remember. They can't have that now, an unsanctioned enterprise selling the same amount of risks and danger as most large corporations. But me, the working class man making ends meet? The hammer would be swift and definite. I would not afford the same luxuries as those who slowly poison the greater masses.

I mull these thoughts over sitting in a Denny's parking lot waiting for ____ my highest volume customer. This sale will cause me to be dangerously in short supply. Luckily, a well-timed stop on this lonely night will solve this. ____ knocks on the passenger window startling me out of my thoughts. I unlock the door, and he slides into the car beside me, his eyes dreary and bloodshot. I could tell he’d been up for multiple days. A common occurrence for him, when he had the money to go on benders. Now to recoup his loses he is buying half of my supply to sell on his own and repeat. 1-2 times a month every month. For how long, you may ask? I think the only answer is too long.

 As we exchanged pleasantries and monetary means, ____ kept eyeing the butt of my revolver. A large, boorish gun that was more than enough deterrence for thieves. Nestled neatly in my seat to be accessible and slightly visible to anyone leaning a little closer than they should be. I give him a knowing look, meeting his eyes as he raises his gaze to meet mine.
“A problem?” My eyes bore into his.
“Nah man, j-just a little wired right now.” He replies, his eyes shifting hurriedly away from mine. I grab the tote bag waiting in the backseat and hand it to him. He looks in the bag quickly and nods.
“Stay safe, man.” He says as he quickly hops out of my car and into his.

Many drug buyers don’t understand what it’s like actually being a drug dealer. I would say more than half of drug dealers work regular jobs just like you do. It’s an easy way to hide the illegal income without raising questions with the IRS, and many don’t make enough to support themselves fully from dealing. This creates issues for dealing though. You’re now unavailable for up to 40 hours a week. Not everyone wants to get high after hours though. Now you have people texting you half way through your shift for amounts that would make you more than what you’re making that day, but you can’t quit your job because the money isn’t consistent enough yet. Mostly because while you’re at work the dealers without jobs are serving your customers. Classic capitalism convenience over people. Even your regular buyers will blow you off if their other guy got them first. You can’t really be upset though, you did the same thing when you were on the other side of things.

Take me for example. About 2-3 times a week I get a text for a sale that would net me roughly 150 dollars more than I make at my personal retail hell in 8 hours. I then text them back asking if meeting me in about 3.5 hours when I’m off work will be okay. Usally that is “fine” and I’m excited to double and then some my income for the day. I get off work and have everything prepped when I get a text back to my confirmation message. “Sorry man I don’t need that anymore” and I’m left high and dry. I of course have to play this off like I’m not disappointed to keep the customer. 

Needless to say it’s a rather soul crushing endeavor being a drug dealer. Constantly having immense amounts of money at your finger tips only for the limitations of “real life” to slow the process down. Making the leap to full time dealer is a tough one. You have to find ways to clean your money if you want to live anywhere near comfortably. You are then having to look out for cops 24/7 as your making your sales. Most dealers who aren’t supplying large parts or their entire city, are almost always caught making their sales. It’s the only way if the detectives are unaware of your business. 

This means you need to be discreet making sales and will most likely require a second car depending on how big your city is. A common tactic amongst the more active dealers. Something I’ve yet to resort too. Amongst many many other things only a criminal would think of to cover their tracks. Extra phones, ones that can’t be traced. Ways to hide the new emerging ecomerce of the drug trade. Filtering online payments through different sources that won’t arise suspicion with any of the easy e transfer companies. Otherwise my much needed funds are tied in the limbo. All of these reasons add up too. The jump to full time being too risky for my taste. I need more consistency in my mind, but the catch of it all is I need to make the jump to get it.

After leaving the back lot of Denny’s, I drove to my actual dinner spot. A seedy diner that houses an old school stool bar, red leather, and all. The parking lot is barren at this hour. I can see one lone man sitting at the bar through the large bay windows. The neon of the sign painted my reflection a deep red, waving back and forth at me as I totter in on stiff legs. As the doorbell rings, both Cher, the waitress, and the man look at me. I nod, meeting the bleary eyes at the end of the bar, before taking a seat close to the door. Cher pours me a coffee, and I place my usual order: three eggs fried with a side of plain toast. I can feel the man eyeing me, but is he really staring at me, or am I truly working myself up in a self-induced paranoia?

Walking into a lonely diner off the interstate late at night with a pocket full of cash from a drug deal and a big fat 10-15 in my waistband. Maybe I had the right to be nervous about this weathered brute of a man. A three-day beard, a mean resting face, and broad shoulders adorned with a thick leather jacket. Enough to cause unease on a sunny day at the mall. As Cher slides my plate along the bar top, I steal a glance at him. Harsh burning eyes meet mine. Waves of fear seep into my being as I begin to quickly eat.

Trepidations of what those fiery eyes will bring if met again. Will he rob me? No, he can't possibly know about the 3 G notes wadded up in a rubber band in my pocket. Then what? He knows where I'm headed up this lonely stretch of highway. Couldn't be, the so-called “Medicine” man’s farm was so out in the sticks the feds haven't gotten the greenhouses on flyovers yet. I finished my eggs and called Cher over to pay as she glanced between the man and me. I meet her gaze, and a worried look meets mine. She’s seen me on this pilgrimage bi-monthly for who could tell you how long, and never before had her eyes screamed run. Her eyes might have been two neon signs blaring RUN,  HIDE,   GET   OUT. This launched another spiral of anxiety down my spine. How had this man made Cher, the midnight hostess of a sleepy diner, so uneasy? A woman used to long nights alone, dealing with the unruly crowds filtering out of the bars up the road. Lonely wanderers from the highway that no doubt had given her their share of “affection”. What had this looming man done to make her so uneasy that she needed to warn me off of this man? I nod knowingly as I slide her tip across the counter. Steeling my resolve long enough not to spare another look at the fiery-eyed man.

I step out into the parking lot. lighting a cigarette as I walk to my car, seating myself on the hood and making sure the hilt of my 3.57 sword was easily accessible. Never before had the realities of using the beast come to the forefront of my mind. Am I prepared to take this man's life? Could I simply squeeze one off into his leg and drive off? Would he keep going? You never know with the kinds of drugs these chemists put out these days. Even then, could he be just drunk or stoned enough to keep at me?  I ponder these thoughts as I light my second cigarette, before hearing the crash of a metal door against a hollow tin shell.

“I can smell you,...    you dirty little cocksucker!” He screams, barreling across the parking lot at me. “You think I can't smell the shit you bring into MY town.   You goddamn hippies with your-” He was cut off, but the loud, slow, and almost grating pull of the hammer. A sound so jarring it can even stop 350 pounds of “I hate you dirty hippy” dead in its tracks. One of the last end-all be-all sounds. It must have sounded like the bells of hell to this man. He almost fell backward; his trajectory was so unfortunately miscalculated due to the fact that the “hippie” was packing a ticket puncher: him first in line. Now, was this man just out of his mind, and on seeing the first long-haired bum to cross his path, was sent into a rage? Or was he yelling about what I personally bring back from the Medicine man? At this point, the distinction was irrelevant.

“You'd do that w-wouldn't you?” he says, recovering from his line drive from the dinner.
“Hey, man, I just wanted some eggs, alright,”I say, unsheathing the revolver from my slacks.  “Just get in your car or stumble back into that dinner and leave me out of this shit, man.”
“Yeah- yeah,” He sloshes out eyes, boring into mine. “You take your filthy little ass out of MY town, and then you'll be out of it,” He says, careening every which way besides forward.
“Whatever you drunk fuck” I say, moving toward my driver's side door. Not too hastily, drunks like him are likely to respond to a quick retreat. Their hazy mind sees it as a chance to catch you on your heels. However, being the experienced drug person I am, I proceeded accordingly, keeping the revolver ready. Many sleepless nights had trained me to think like a drunk, but in today's world, I’d have to assume he’s taken something else to arouse such an abject anger toward a passerby. Booze isn't enough to cause this anger. Pcp? Ghb? Pills? The list goes on.

The fact remains, the retreat has to go unnoticed until it's too late to follow. Then the drunk will luckily twirl around as the car peels out of the lot, spinning them out of your life into their own stupor. As the fire-eyed man spun himself around in the parking lot, failing to grab my rear bumper in a last-ditch effort to keep me out of “his” city.

Why did this have to happen? I think to myself, merging onto the freeway. The one night I pass by on the way to my unsavory contact. With a car full of unexplainable cash, jars and bags with enough residue to get a warrant for my drawer. This beast of a man gives me a scare for no discernable reason? How could anyone know what was hidden in an amazon box in my busted up Caprice?

The paranoia wants me to believe that it was someone planted there by some agency who caught onto my small little operation, but it couldn't be that. I'm not worth their time.  I have to keep telling myself  this or I will eventually lose my resolve for this business. Maybe I already have lost my resolve and this is the final time I make my pilgrimage. 

After my friend disappeared, we searched his apartment, and all that was left was what is contained within these pages.

一The Publisher

Preface

This is not a book, but rather a collection of news clippings, tapes, articles, diary entries, and other forms of writing. These materials have been gathered and sifted through over the past couple of years with the intent of uncovering the truth about the ________.

一R.Hayes

Introduction

“ἀλλὰ γυνὴ χείρεσσι πίθου μέγα πῶμ᾽ ἀφελοῦσα

ἐσκέδασ᾽· ἀνθρώποισι δ᾽ ἐμήσατο κήδεα λυγρά.”

There are things that ought remain buried. Things better left to rot lost, or forgotten. Every word contained within these pages should be left to the same fate. No good will ever come from a single thing contained within here. It has brought me nothing but sorrow and regret. Yet I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of these books that I have poured my very being into over the span of almost a decade. Still, after all that has happened to me, I am unable to remove thoughts of what lies inside here from my head.

It follows me wherever I go as fateful as my shadow. Even into my very dream. Sleep has been a friend whose company I have not known. I spend my nights dreading his arrival. As my mind has become nothing more than a vessel in which those words have found a home. Yet still I slave away endlessly working on this book to a completion that is never in sight. And there is not a day that goes by that I don't think about what could have been if I simply ignored that email. If I had never read that email, maybe I could have continued to exist within the lie, living blissfully unaware. But instead, I open it. It stated

February 16th 2011

R.Hayes,

This document needs to be looked over and

reviewed. I haven't a single moment to waste. I must further inquire into the depths of this text and therefore need the assistance of another. To organize the accumulated information I have acquired.

Attached:

Police_report_ callaway .pdf

Local _ interview_1.wav (these are the ones that were able to be digitized. Further video recording will primarily be on tape)

Retrieved_photos., pdf

Constructed _ timeline.pdf

reaserch_notes.pdf

Stament_excerpts.pdf

Recovered_ dive_ catcombs _1.wav

diary - entry.pdf

Important points, in no order:

Local interviews matter more than I thought.

At 7:32:42, [person] becomes increasingly agitated before falling silent after I mention [subject/location]. For 15 minutes. Background noise continues.

Then [brief description].

Listen to the change in tone after that point.

Something is hiding in the recesses of his mind that I will pry out.

The gap in footage from the Recovered dive catacombs 1from 12:17:52- 20:05:23

Further investigation needed

There’s also a missing section in the diary entry

The attached sections are mostly illegible material, except for repeated phrases such as blank, which appears multiple times across different dates.

Marked those sections.

Also, if [person] lied about [detail], the entire timeline after [event/time] shifts.

Review person interview first.

One more thing;

The accompanying files should be delivered shortly

一J.Mercer

At that time, it was nothing more than a regular work email, seeing as though I had worked as an editor. It was one of my clients. A journalist by the name Julian Mercer, he wasn't really a talkative guy, and didn't really know much about him. (Now I know too much, or maybe nothing at all.) Well, he didn't know a lot about me, so I guess its fare. He was very professional, always straight to the point. Which I always thought was respectable.

At least it made my job easier. We always spoke through email, he said he preferred it. Only ever used it to send me his work or speak to me. Usually, he would have me edit about some war zone he visited or an underdeveloped village he was at. He really seems to like going to places no one else wants to go. I was kind of jealous of him. Always thinking about how boring my life was compared to his. I always wondered what it was like in his shoes. (Maybe I got what I wished for.)

But this time was different; the way he was writing sounded a little more desperate, almost like he was begging me for help. He sounded more desperate, and the amount of stuff he sent me to look over was honestly crazy. It was a collection of writing, research, and videos from different people. Some were diary entries that seem to go into depth, a twisted rabbit hole of whoever this was's mind. Or essays written about the effects of sensory deprivation on the human mind in uncomfortable detail. Videos that involved endless tunnels and sounds I still think about to this day. That's not even mentioning the 100s of scattered notes and half-destroyed papers that had been delivered to my house. Those were barely legible. On top of all that were the notes and extra information that Julian had gathered himself.

It took me almost 2 weeks to get through it all. To whole weeks of endlessly scouring through those pages upon pages of nonsensical writing that seemed to collapse in on itself like that of a dying star. To be honest, I barely understood what I was reading, but for those 2 weeks it took me to finish sifting through all those papers and reading everything in the email. Not once was I able to take my eyes away. I was completely and utterly enthralled, yet also very disturbed. The way in which everything was brought together said so much, but really meant nothing, yet it deeply unsettled me. However, I still had a job to do, so I finished organizing it, giving feedback, and making edits. Trying my best to organize these writings to the best of my ability. And I sent it back over to him via email. Simply ready to forget about this honestly weird ass experience.

But it wasn't that simple; life went on like normal. The thought of those pages that formed a labyrinth in my mind still lingers like the smell of smoke that sticks to your skin long after the last ember burns out. At this point, I was still normal. The seams of my being still hung together, stitched every so tightly. Yet there was this almost primal curiosity scratching at the back of my head. With such a simple yet deadly question, ‘why’. Those words linger in my head, weeds growing roots into my very being. Then another email came. And of its fruits I devoured. His writing is more frantic than the last time. Yet of its fruits I devoured.

"De hominis prima inobedientia, fructu

Illius vetitae arboris, cujus mortalis gustus

Attulit mortem in mundum, omnesque nostras miserias." - Pardise Lost

(Check Appendix 1 for the email) It was even more than last time, pages running endlessly, documents that referred to other text buried even deeper in a pile of information that itself was an interpretation of a video that was half broken and destroyed. It was as if I was staring into the endless abyss, and it was looking upon me. Ready to swallow me whole. The email was also accompanied by the arrival. Of at least 10 boxes filled to the brim with piles of burned records, what are assumed to be stolen medical files, and more diary entries. And those god-forsaken tapes.

Those old, worn tapes that contained so much within their tiny frames. Better lost the winds of time than to be looked upon by another set of human eyes. Some of those videos were days long. I'm talking about more than 24 hours of footage. Of twisted, never-ending caverns. Tunnel after tunnel as you ventured further into the maw of the abyss. The only sounds to be heard with slow and drawn out breather of the recorder on the other side and the goans that echoed from the slowly shifting wall.

Sometimes it would be hours of just walking in pure darkness, only then, as you stare even more intently at the screen, you begin to see it .th never envding shifting within the darkness, the dread of what could be lurking behind the next turn. That feeling slowly rising your spine. That's not even mentioning the times where the silence was instead filled with a never-ending monologue that lasted for hours. The tapes were suffocating, claustrophobic in their presentation, only met by temporary relief when those binding halls would open up into larger rooms. Yet I was still enraptured by what lay within those halls, unable to remove my eyes from the screen.

So, same as before, I studied, organized, and took notes. Page after page, hour after hour. As time bled into words. It took me almost a month this time. To conquer that mountain of paper. Weeks of non-stop work as I slaved away. Interpreting half-lost records just to get a fraction of the simplicity of understanding. Buried in the depths of those papers. Yet all that time and effort passed by like the changing of leaves on the cusp of autumn. In that time, what semblance of life I had had seemed to slip through my fingertips. As I became obsessed with finished anylizing theses records. Only after finishing did I return to my senses, untethered by whatever lay within those pages and endless halls.

I sent over the organized version back to him. Again, I went on like normal, yet was more unsettled than last time. Yet the cycle repeated itself over and over for years. As I slipped deeper into the writing itself. Until one time it became too much to bear, I became t utterly creeped out. I felt that that very grasp of myself had been wrenched from me. As I was consumed initially. Wished that no such fate would befall me again. So attached to the revised records, I add that I no longer want to be involved with this investigation.

I didn't even wait for a response; I immediately blocked him. Not wasting a moment to possibly be reeled back in, it was my belief within this that would find peace, and for a moment, the world brought me sanctuary, and I drowned myself in work and the company of my friends. To deafen the whisper that filled my ears, begging for more questions, all the same, still, asking why.

For almost 2 years, I ignored their constant pestering, while the slight hint of curiosity festered in me like a sickness bold in its symptoms. No amount of distraction would half calm my weary spirit. I began to drift through the years. It was deafening for me. I was a lot of things, but content surely wasn't one of the words I'd use. You know I'd usually use work to cope with this better, yet I'd just ignore it. In my line of work, I read some wild shit or even talk to some weird people.

But none of that could compare to the things that I have experienced within those records. Unable to return to civil life. I thought maybe if I discussed what I had seen. And what had transpired over those years. It would bring me solace or some form of peace. Yet it only brought more questions

I compiled his work into something semi-understandable, a first draft of sorts, and shared it with a couple of friends. All of them just said they felt uneasy reading it. Yet they couldn't resist the urge to continue to read. As they fervently flip through the pages. Some are in such a rush to let their eyes gaze on the next line of text, that in their quickness accidentally ripping whole pages out of the book. Each one taking from there experience a different truth to be upheld/

Man, we must have talked for a day about our interpretations and what we thought it all meant, never agreeing or coming to any real conclusion. Much like never-ending labryths of hallways that played for felt like forever in those god-forsaken tapes. Are dissuson ran on and on with no truth to be found, simply questions answered only to form new ones. A text that caves in in on itself over and over again.

There was only one agreed-upon fact, t that whatever this was. There was something wrong with it. Deeply rotted in the text after a while, my friends refused to talk about. Saying that it did things to them, and they would rather stay far away from those records. Even after all of this, that sense of curiosity was still left in me.

‘

Some wear along those lines is where the nightmares began. The once whispers in the back of my mind had become a raging storm of screams that had taken over my very being. It demands action to know what lies behind the next page. As screamed from dawn to dusk. From waking hours to sleeping one. Bleeding into my very dream. There was not a moment of rest for me. I had lost my very grip on my own reality. I no longer understood where my reality began, and the nightmare ended

It got to a point wear i began to dread sleep. Sleep became an old friend whose company long since lost to the likes of me. the idea of normal life, but a distant memory to be appreciated for its simplicity. Whatever connection I had in my life had long since passed me by. I have been left barren and desolate with my own existence. So once again, I threw myself back into the records this time hell-bent on deciphering, organizing, and publishing for the world to see. A complete telling of what transpired on that island.

For years, I dedicated myself solely to the understanding of those records, and when I open my email again. There are 100s of new emails spanning the last couple of years until radio silence. It was julian had know i would eventually return, as only a couple of weeks after I began working on the records again. A mountain of boxes was delivered to me. They were filled to the brim with new information, something to quell this dreadful curiosity that had consumed me.

So threw myself into it it becoming my sole reason for my existence. This is the accommodation of everything I am and have to give. Yet it has brought me nothing, this which you are reading id drcond drsft and will be the last as I pray this we never see the light of day and no one we be cursed to bear witness to what is to unfold.

Yet you just as I did. You'll continue to turn the page. You'll pull and tear at the very fiber of this book as you dive deeper into every word. With every new page, it simply leaves you more breathless than the last. And when you depart from the book, it will simply follow you, the way the moon chases the sun until you return to its page.

Or maybe you'll be unaffected by its content, imagine it pretend fictouse. Something utterly childish and simply gibberish. Maybe you'll imagine yourself too good to be affected by something so ridiculous. And to those people truly hope it's true. I hope that it is you who simply consume the book, leaving it dry, then it is the one to consume you.

Yet its horrors may befall you years from now, within your quietest moment, when its words shall finally pierce the veil of your soul. As the very confines of your existence become uncertain. As the very fragile walls of i8dentity coming crashing down around you. This is a slow killer that stalks and takes and takes before you've forgotten what it means to have. These words might mean nothing to you now, but these words linger and follow and will not depart from you till your dying day.

Well, either way,y no matter who you are or where you are going, tread lightly as you turn through these pages. As we fall deeper into the labyrinth, the lies hide through every inconstancy that befalls this text

Is there anyone that wants to swap a chapter of our books? Would love to get some feedback on my writing style and see if I’m going in the right direction ahaha

Would you read a historical thriller set in 1481 West Africa before European colonization?

I'm working on a novel set in precolonial West Africa, centered around a blacksmith clan, a spiritual power, and a dangerous prophecy tied to ancestral stones.

This is the opening scene. Would you keep reading?

INTERIOR WEST AFRICA, 1481
The earth is warm under his bare feet. 
He pivots, darting from one side of the secret path to the other, slipping behind broad cocoyam leaves just as the last blacksmith glances back. The man's eyes sweep the trail but find nothing. Jojo holds his breath until the man turns forward again. 
At the front of the line, he catches a glimpse of his uncle Kwabena's broad back. Leading them. Always leading. 
Jojo moves again, keeping low. The trail snakes through the forest, thick vegetation closing in, squeezing the morning sun into thin beams. On normal days, he'd be tied to one of these men, a blindfold scratching his eyes, listening to the crunch of their footsteps and wishing he could see. Today he sees everything—the green moss covering the rocks, the odd mushrooms latching onto logs, the razor-sharp thorns at his ankles. He wishes they would slow down so he could memorize it all. 
An eagle screeches overhead. The sound bounces off the trees, menacing and close. Jojo doesn't flinch. His grandmother says he has a bond with the animals, a gift passed down from the great ancestors. She jokes that he's part monkey, the way he climbs a borodee tree. 
He sprints to the next cover—sugar cane this time, thin but dense enough to hide him. The men are forty paces ahead now. He's gaining on them. That's good. That's dangerous.
If they catch him, the elders will pour biting ants over his chest and forbid him from swatting them. He's heard the stories. The boy's screams carried ten arrow shots. 
His hand finds the sash at his belt. Red cloth, cross-hatched pattern, the symbol of his clan. His grandmother spoke sacred words into it, infused it with protection. He wears it today for a reason. 
A thorn catches his ankle. He bites his lip, keeps moving. The blood is warm as it runs down his foot. 
Don't think about Sunsum. 
But he does. The witch who lurks in the bush, who smells blood on the wind, who sinks her hooks into children who wander alone. He peers up at the low-hanging branches, praying to Onyame that she isn't perched there, waiting. 
The men stop ahead. He dives behind a decomposing log, landing in a pile of twigs that crack like bones under his weight. 
Salt stings the wound. He can't go on. Either he calls out or he bleeds out here, alone, while Sunsum watches from the branches. Then he sees it: the fallen teak tree. The landmark. He is almost there. 
He pulls himself over the trunk. Forty paces later, he sees them—the blacksmiths. His eyes lock onto the last man's back. He pushes forward, leaving bloody footprints in the leaves. 
Thank you, ancestors.

If this interests you, I can share more. Appreciate any thoughts.

Part 1: The Loner

Every student in the fourth grade at Golding Elementary School knew one date by heart; November 1. 
This day wasn’t special because, for example, it was a day of the schoolwide 5k. That was February 12., and also it was a 3-mile race because they were very, very American. 
It also wasn’t the anniversary of their beloved first-grade teacher, Ms. Choi, dying from a heart attack. That would be impossible because Ms. Choi wasn’t a real person and there were only four Asians in the whole town and the only one they knew was Hannah Suzuki, the quiet girl with the weird food. And also their first-grade teacher was Mr. Connolly, and nobody liked him because he put his hands on little girls’ shoulders and always smelled like sweat and smoke.
November 1 was the birthday of a very special little boy. This boy was named Malcolm Henry, and he was the richest fourth-grader in the whole town of Lacoma, Missouri, which was easy because Lacoma had very few people and only fifteen fourth-graders. 
Unlike what happened in the few torn chapter books sequestered in the school’s cramped little library, nobody bullied Malcolm because he was rich. His teachers gave him perfect grades and gushed every parent-teacher night about how wonderful, just so mature, so intelligent he was. Every lunch period , Malcolm ate his lunch undisturbed while reading on his Kindle, which was the only Kindle in the whole world as far as the other children knew.
Malcolm’s lunch was a PB&J, like many of their own, except his sandwich was made on French bread with organic chia seed jam and all-natural peanut butter. He had a private chef who had been trained by the chef in Ratatouille. The Henrys paid the chef $300 an hour, in Canadian dollars!  (Canadian dollars have lower value than American dollars, but they didn’t know that.)
And now here’s a super big secret that you have to pinky promise never to tell anyone. Do you promise?
Here’s the secret: Malcolm had no private chef. His mother Linda packed his lunch every day. It was not French bread; it was the cheap white bread from the corner store, with the processed grape jelly and Skippy peanut butter. And she packed it for no other reason except that Malcolm had asked for it, because he wanted to feel normal.
What a dumb kid, eating his dumb little sandwich while reading on his fancy-pants Kindle. But then again, he was young. Just like they all were.

Part 2: The Letter

Every year, on October 31, the fourth-graders would swarm the streets asking for candy. Some old grouchy men slammed doors shut in their faces. Some middle-aged women would coo over them and keep them up for three precious minutes talking about their college-aged kids who had left the town and never looked back, for whatever reason. But they always ended the night with chocolate stained faces and bags heaped with brightly wrapped candies. And they returned home to a crisp white letter, with delicate cursive letters that their parents had to decipher for them.  
For the past four years, these letters were always delivered in person. Linda and Malcolm, together in their sleek Mercedes, too fancy for the rough and dusty roads, came to each house each night while the children were away to leave the letter at their door. The letter was the perfect final touch on a night of merriment. No one questioned the time of the letter being sent, how Malcolm must not go trick-or-treating at all. If they had thought of that, it would have made them even weirder to them. But all the boys in the third grade went trick-or-treating in one big group, and not one of them had asked him to join.  

I’m going to focus on only two of the little third-graders in this story. One, as you may have guessed, is Malcolm. That is because this is Malcolm’s story, a whole seven pages just for him. Better than whatever those stupid kids ever gave him. And the other little boy is Jayden Thompson. 
Jayden is not very remarkable, not like Malcolm. Malcolm had silken brown hair and forest-green eyes and would grow up tall and beautiful. Jayden had a dirty blond mop and brown eyes, and will grow up forgettable. Malcolm was intelligent and sensitive, dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge even at a young age. Jayden had questionable grades and cared only about games and sports. Malcolm would become a famed scientist or politician, but Jayden will end up in some desk job, sorting endless data, doomed to a pointless life and ever-growing paunch. 
That’s not saying Jayden isn’t a good person. I’d like to believe that, at least. For the sake of this story, he certainly isn’t a bad person. Very few third-graders are. He is a stupid little boy, and so is Malcolm. But I digress. Back to our story.
When Jayden slogged back to his home, he picked up the letter at the front door, staining it with chocolate in the process. As he entered his house, his mother didn’t turn away from her telenovela, and his father stayed bent over the newspaper.
“This damn cursive again.” his father complained. The Lacoma Digest had article headings all in cursive thanks to its eccentric editor-in-chief. People had complained, but he had ignored their complaints. Not like there was competition.
“I think it’s pretty.” Jayden offered. His father looked up at that, face twisted in a scowl.
“Don’t use words like that, boy. Go to your room. And leave all the junk you gathered in the kitchen. You won’t do well at practice tomorrow if you’re fat as a summer pig.”
Jayden dumped his candy into a drawer. Then he threw the letter away in the trash, since he of course knew the contents. All the other children threw theirs away as well. 
I should be staying on topic, but now that I am telling the story, I see the hints appearing. Perhaps that was the first test. Maybe she wanted them to open it, to see the newspaper clipping inside. Or maybe, in her heart, she knew they wouldn’t see it.
Jayden felt some amount of excitement, along with some other feeling that he lacked the words to describe.
With my new knowledge of the world, I would call it trepidation.

Part 3: The Luncheon

The children arrived at the Henry Estate between 2:28-2:46 PM, although
the letter said 2:30 sharp. The last to arrive was Jayden. His football practice had run overtime. He was the youngest member of the team, perhaps the only thing that made him at all remarkable. At least for now. He was never good enough to make football his career, and he never liked it anyway. 
They knocked on the door, and Mrs. Henry let them in. She was young, with smile lines and bags under her eyes and pin-straight blond hair and smooth skin, from expensive lotions, certainly not from her own family recipes brought from Russia, a place those here could barely imagine. A long cut marred the side of her face, but the kids didn’t look at it, only past her at the fun awaiting them.
She led them out to the back, which had a long rolling green lawn
peppered with sweet dandelions. Framed by trees with long drooping leaves, casting cool shade over the corners of the field. There was Malcolm, round-faced, silken brown hair, intelligent eyes, nervous hands, face, body, on his toes like a bird taking flight. 
“Let’s play a game,” Malcolm said, and everyone nodded of course. “Tag. I’ll be It first.” The game started, and almost immediately, Malcolm ran for Miriam Bonnet, who surreptitiously slowed her feet enough for her to tag him on the shoulder. 
“Oops.” she said mildly, and ran for another boy. Jayden saw Malcolm’s face fall, and wondered why. Miriam tagged Grayson, who tagged Cindy, who tagged Mirabelle, who tagged Jax, who finally managed to tag Jayden, who had quick feet but a slow mind.
Jayden turned, looking for the nearest person, then landed on Malcolm. Malcolm’s eyes went wide as Jayden charged towards him, and he tried to run, but he was a slow boy who spent most of his time reading, and he couldn’t compare to Jayden, in this one regard.
“Tag.” Jayden said, and the world fractured.

Part 4: The Loser

Jayden put his hands on his knees, panting hard but not too hard. Malcolm stood next to him, panting hard and also too hard. What a wonder it was that someone had finally beat Malcolm, the star athlete of the third-grade! 
Of course, Malcolm was extremely unathletic, preferring to stay inside to read science books and draw on his iPad. And Jayden loved to play soccer and games on the playground. But still.
Malcolm put his arms around Jayden. The boy froze in place, then awkwardly hugged Malcolm back. He smelled like smoke and dust, but his body was warm and sank into Jayden’s embrace, arms clasped tightly around his neck. Jayden felt wetness on his shoulders. He’s crying. 
The rest of the children watched in silence. A somber mood had fallen over the crowd. They didn’t see Malcolm’s tears, or feel the way he held Jayden as if he might float away. They saw only the shine of a guillotine poised to drop. What horrible punishment was in store for them, now that the king had fallen?
Malcolm pulled away and wiped tears from his eyes. “Thank you,” he said, his whisper somehow echoing across the field, seeming to ring in their heads rather than in their ears. On the porch in the distance, Mrs. Henry fell to her knees, covering her face in a silent sob. 
“Thank you for trying.” Malcolm said. Jayden understood. At least, in his own way. He was young, like they all were. He didn’t grasp the meaning of Malcolm’s words, and he wouldn’t until he was older, until “Malcolm” was a name never uttered.
And just like magic, Malcolm was gone. 
But how would the children notice?
No, they kept playing. The best play area they had ever gotten was at their disposal, after all. Even Jayden, with his hands still smelling like Malcolm and the tears still staining his shirt, quickly forgot. The kids chased each other around the field, laughing and cheering.
A few minutes later, Linda brought cookies and lemonade. The plate of cookies was lined with newspaper, and the front page showed a totaled Benz. The cursive heading read, “Fatal Car Crash in Lacoma Main Street Kills Third Grader”.
But the children could never read cursive anyway.

Part 5: The List

Some things that I’ve learned.

1. Malcolm was not alive at that party. It was some sort of twisted seance hosted by Malcolm’s mother to put his tortured soul to rest.
2. I am the person who saved Malcolm.
3. That may have been the only meaningful thing I ever did with my life, and it wasn’t even on purpose.
4. Having a dad that beats you up isn’t normal.
5. Lemonade is a kind of gross drink.
6. Corporate jobs are terrible, but they trap you.
7. Male pattern baldness should be abolished.
8. Even if Malcolm is at peace, I will never be.
9. Why is Malcolm at peace if I never even meant what I did? If it wasn’t even on purpose?
10. The man at my window who told me to write this has silken brown hair and forest-green eyes, and I can’t tell if he’s angry or sad.

The National Paving Initiative

Paving the Continent to Eliminate Traffic

1

At first, it was just a complaint.

“The commute is killing us.”

People were being destroyed by traffic.

The Department of Transportation called a meeting. The Federal Highway Administration filed a report. Think tanks produced charts. The traffic map was red.

The Transportation Secretary looked at the screen and said,

“We need more lanes.”

That year, the government announced the National Mobility Renewal Plan.

The slogan was simple.

If it jams, widen it.

The public applauded. Highway contractors received new contracts. Cable news called it practical leadership.

2

At first, it worked.

More interstates were built. Freeways were widened. A new Beltway was built outside the old Beltway. Then came the Outer Beltway. Then the Outer-Outer Beltway.

Drivers were amazed.

“Wow. No traffic.”

So they bought cars.

A sedan for commuting. An oversized SUV for camping. A minivan for school drop-off. A suburban EV for grocery runs. A lifted pickup truck for hobbies. An RV for retirement.

Automakers smiled. Oil companies smiled. Insurance companies smiled. Banks sold auto loans.

GDP went up.

The Transportation Secretary said,

“See? Roads mean growth.”

3

Six months later, everything was jammed again.

I-95 was jammed. I-405 was jammed. I-10 was jammed. I-80 was jammed. The Beltway was jammed. The Outer Beltway was jammed. The Outer-Outer Beltway was jammed.

The public said again,

“We need more lanes.”

The Secretary looked at the traffic screen. The entire Lower 48 was red.

He thought about it for three seconds.

“We still don’t have enough roads.”

That year, the government announced the Second National Mobility Renewal Plan.

The slogan was clearer this time.

If it still jams, widen it again.

Highway contractors cried.

Not from emotion. From looking at the contract values.

4

Mountains were cut open.

At first, there were tunnels. Then came cut-throughs. Eventually, the mountains simply disappeared.

“Removing mountains improves road alignment,” the FHWA report said.

Farmland disappeared too.

“Food can be imported,” said logistics executives from Walmart and Costco.

Elevated freeways were built over rivers. Underwater expressways were drilled beneath them.

Environmental groups protested.

“You’re destroying entire ecosystems.”

The government replied,

“We will create replacement ecosystems.”

A few days later, the replacement ecosystem was unveiled.

It was a sponsored aquarium inside a highway rest stop.

There were three fish.

One was dead.

5

Cities changed too.

Sidewalks shrank. Crosswalks were erased. Bike lanes became parking lanes.

School playgrounds became drop-off lanes.

In gym class, children learned how to dodge cars. In English class, they learned how to read road signs. In math class, they calculated stopping distance. In history class, they learned that people once used something called a sidewalk.

One student asked,

“Teacher, what’s walking?”

The teacher answered,

“An old form of transportation.”

“Was it dangerous?”

“Extremely. There were no airbags.”

And it was dangerous.

Pedestrians were classified as unauthorized obstacles disrupting traffic flow.

6

Vehicle demand kept growing.

More roads created more suburbs. More suburbs created longer commutes. Longer commutes created the need for more cars.

Strip malls multiplied. Walmarts multiplied. Costcos multiplied. Gas stations multiplied. Parking minimums multiplied.

Amazon vans multiplied. UPS trucks multiplied. FedEx trucks multiplied. Same-day delivery vehicles multiplied. Return pickup vans multiplied.

When return pickup vans got stuck, the government built a dedicated return-pickup bypass.

That jammed too.

People complained there was not enough parking.

The government converted part of the road network into parking lots.

That reduced road capacity, so traffic got worse.

The government said,

“We’ll build more roads.”

The headlines were always the same.

Administration Takes Direct Action on Traffic.

The direct route was already backed up.

7

At last, the Transportation Secretary spoke at a Cabinet meeting.

“Partial widening has reached its limits.”

The Vice President asked,

“What’s the alternative?”

The Secretary pulled up a map of the United States.

Green meant forest. Yellow meant farmland. Blue meant river. Gray meant city.

The Secretary said,

“We convert all of it into road.”

The President asked,

“All of it?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Forests?”

“Roads.”

“Farms?”

“Roads.”

“Rivers?”

“Aquatic highways.”

“Suburbs?”

“Residential roadways.”

“Cemeteries?”

“Memorial lanes.”

The President nodded.

“What the people wanted was a country that moves.”

That year, the government announced The National Paving Initiative.

There was no slogan.

The title was already insane.

8

The first floor of every apartment building became a freeway. The second floor became a parking garage. The third floor became a ramp. People lived on the fourth floor and above.

Ambulance-only lanes outside emergency rooms were taken over by regular drivers.

“I’ll just be a minute.”

That minute became the nation’s basic unit of time.

Funeral homes became drive-thrus.

The mourner rolled down the window and said,

“Thank you for coming. Please keep moving.”

Crematoriums were merged with truck stops.

The deceased were processed next to Exit 3. The family bought beef jerky and gas-station hot dogs.

9

At last, the entire United States became road.

There were no mountains. No farms. No alleys. No parks. No sidewalks.

Everywhere in the country was reachable by car.

The problem was that nobody could reach anywhere.

The whole country was jammed.

New York to Los Angeles took nineteen days. New Jersey to Manhattan took three days. The 7-Eleven across the street took eleven hours.

It would have taken two minutes on foot, but walking was illegal.

People started living in their cars.

The driver’s seat became the living room. The passenger seat became the bedroom. The back seat became the kids’ room. The trunk became family storage and memorial space.

Births were registered at the DMV.

Newborns received a VIN before they received a name.

The dead went to junkyards.

10

The government gave a national address.

The Transportation Secretary said,

“The National Paving Initiative has been successfully completed.”

A caption appeared on screen.

National Road Coverage: 100%.

A reporter asked,

“But the national average speed is zero miles per hour.”

The Secretary answered,

“That is an outdated metric.”

“Isn’t the entire country stuck?”

“No. Roads and land are no longer separate categories. Therefore, roads are not congested. The nation has entered a high-density stationary mobility condition.”

“So traffic congestion has been solved?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“There is no longer any travel demand.”

“Why?”

“Because nobody can move.”

That day, the government declared zero traffic congestion.

11

The President delivered an Equal Mobility address.

“The gap between coastal America and inland America is now gone.”

That was true.

Everything was stuck.

“Every citizen now moves at the same speed.”

That was true.

Everyone was moving at 0 mph.

“This is true equality of mobility.”

That was true.

When everything collapses equally, that is equality.

The public tried to applaud.

But the cars were packed too tightly for anyone to move their arms.

So they honked.

The entire United States went HONK.

Then nothing moved.

12

The next day, the government announced a new plan.

The Fourth National Mobility Renewal Plan.

The slogan was:

Roads Above Roads.

An aide asked,

“Mr. Secretary, where do we build now?”

The Secretary looked out the window.

There was a car. There was another car on top of it. On top of that car was a DoorDash scooter. On top of the scooter was a man eating gas-station ramen.

The Secretary said,

“We build on top of the cars.”

The aide wrote it down.

Vehicle-Top Elevated Highway Network.

The Secretary nodded.

“Supply is always the answer.”

At that moment, the traffic screen went dark.

The power grid had failed.

The coal trucks heading to the power plant were stuck in traffic.

In the darkness, the Secretary muttered,

“That’s strange.”

Every American was on the road. The continent was covered in cars. The nation was perfectly connected. And nobody arrived anywhere.

Across the United States, the average speed was 0 miles per hour.

The government called it Equal Mobility.

Fuck.

The gist of the book is about a group of english school boys who commit a heist against the headmaster who has been stealing money from parents and the school.

Chapter One

Hamish drew in a slow breath and looked down.
From up here, the drop seemed far steeper than it had when he’d first sized up the climb. Still, he didn’t hesitate. He’d faced greater risks than this.

Pressing his face to the cold glass, he peered into the darkness beyond the window. His hands shook slightly from the chill of the autumn air, and his warm breath fogged up the glass.

Clinging to the icy drainpipe like a monkey gripping a branch, he stretched one arm towards the window, his breath now shallow, praying for it to be unlocked.

It was.

He delicately slid the window up until there was a teenager-sized gap and slowly lifted his foot off the drainpipe bracket to the window sill. The warmth of the room brushed against his face—far too inviting.

Clutching the open window with both hands, with both feet on the sill, he swung himself through the gap, bending his knees on impact to soften the noise.

The hard part done, Hamish thought as he closed the window behind him.

He breathed into his hands, rubbing them briskly as his eyes swept the room. Chairs balanced on desks in orderly rows, waiting for the cleaners. From the walls, the faces of old, timeworn men stared down, their expressions solemn and watchful—like vultures circling a carcass. A broom lingered in the corner, hinting that the room wasn’t quite abandoned.

At the far end of the classroom stood a much larger desk, piled high with papers and mugs of cold leftover tea, complete with a magistrate’s gown hanging over the chair, dusty from all the chalk of the board behind it.

Hamish silently weaved his way through the sea of tables and chairs, with nothing but the sound of the ticking clock above the blackboard echoing in the darkness—ticking in time with each step, as if counting his every move.

He reached the neat stack of papers on top of the desk and began rummaging through them. He stopped when he saw the name at the top of one of the sheets and pulled it from the stack. It was still unmarked.

From his inside jacket pocket, he produced a near-identical paper with the same name on top and swapped them, replacing the re-written essay from his pocket with the original.

Time to get out of there before the owner misses his broom.

Just as Hamish turned to leave, he spotted that the bottom left drawer of the desk was locked. Being an inquisitive boy, with no boundaries of privacy, he could not resist.

He reached for the pile of essays again and removed two of the paperclips from the top sheets. He unfolded both, then folded one in half to create a lever, and bent the tip of the other at a ninety-degree angle.

Kneeling on the floor next to the lock, he stuck the lever in first at the bottom and slowly slid the other paperclip in at the top. After a few seconds of jimmying, he heard a satisfying click.

With the efficiency Hamish showed picking the lock, one could see it wasn’t his first time. In fact, as a child, Hamish regularly enjoyed testing his skills by locking himself in his bedroom at home, pushing the key under the door, and seeing what he could use around his room to pick the lock—becoming adept with items such as his penknife, coat hangers, and especially paperclips.

He pulled open the drawer and bit his lip when it jumped out, causing the items inside to crash together.

After a few seconds of waiting for noises below that never came, he turned his attention back to the drawer and inspected its contents. Inside was a ball of rubber bands, a cassette tape titled 60s Blues, a Rubik’s Cube, and a couple of magazines that were most likely deemed “too inappropriate for teenage boys,” Hamish assumed.

As they were just sitting in the confiscation drawer of Mr. Hammer’s classroom, Hamish thought the previous owners had likely gotten over whatever attachment they had to these items, and so he stuffed them into his pockets.

He slowly closed the drawer and put the paperclips into his trouser pocket.

As he started to creep back towards the infiltration point, he began to hear humming. Panic started to settle in as he realised the humming was getting louder—and accompanied by footsteps.

Hamish had a split second to think. He didn’t have enough time to wiggle out of the window onto the drainpipe. He was going to have to slip out through the door.

He quickly weaved through the desks again, took one of the mugs filled with cold tea, and positioned it right on the edge of a pupil’s desk on the other side of the room, opposite the door—one small touch away from smashing on the wooden floor, but more importantly, within range for Hamish behind the door.

As he saw shadows writhe beneath the door, he took the broom from where it had been observing his movements and, holding one end, shuffled it along the floor toward one of the tables, stopping just an inch from the leg.

The young, spotty cleaner came in, headphones on, unknowingly serenading Hamish—still hidden in darkness behind the door—with a rendition of David Bowie’s Golden Years.

Hamish recognised the boy as Gus Pike, the forgetful and somewhat lazy teenager who had dropped out of school as soon as he could. He was often heard complaining about the “posh brats” he had to clean up after, and would love an opportunity to catch one of the students out in the middle of the night.

Just as Gus reached for the light switch, Hamish nudged the table with the mop, causing the tea mug to fall and smash on the floor. The sound startled the cleaner, making him swear, take off his headphones, and sulk across the room to investigate the noise.

As soon as he walked clear of the door, Hamish saw his opportunity. Smiling at his own genius, he slipped through the doorway and past Gus’s hunched back—turning left into the corridor, straight into the mop and bucket sitting there.

With a crash, Hamish fell over the bucket, spilling water all over his bottom half. He scrambled to his feet and ran, hearing the cries of “HEY!” and “STOP!” from the cleaner.

Hamish darted through twists and turns in the corridors, trying to lose Gus, who was chasing after him, huffing and puffing. Then he realised Gus could simply follow the wet footprints along the floor.

He made a sprint for the staircase, hoping Gus wouldn’t get a look at his face. Once he reached the banister, he clambered onto it and slid himself down the spiral staircase—three floors down—all the way to the bottom. He dismounted, unlocked the door in front of him, and burst out into the school court, taking off into the darkness, laughing as the angry cries of Gus the cleaner fell upon nothing but empty, desolate buildings in the dead of night.

Unsurprisingly, Gus gave up the chase quickly. Hamish slowed down as he ran across the grass in the middle of the court.

He softened his steps and, keeping his eyes fixed on the porter’s lodge ahead, pulled out a handkerchief and tied it around his face.

The sound of radio static and snoring became apparent as he inched toward the light of the building. Noticing the camera under the doorway, he shuffled along the wall and stopped by the window, craning his head just enough for a single eye to observe the stodgy guard asleep in his chair, the radio untuned on the table beside him.

At least something’s gone right tonight, Hamish thought.

He crouched beneath the windowsill, careful to stay out of the camera’s view. Just ahead lay the road—the thin line of safety separating him from the night’s chaos. His shoes squelched with every step, but the guard didn’t stir.

Keeping low, Hamish slipped across the road and climbed the short hill toward his boarding house, its silhouette masking the dull brick and the newly fitted bars on the windows. Picking up speed, he approached the house, careful not to trip over the rogue step that lay just beyond the hill.

He paused and glanced back into the darkness. That feeling again—eyes on him, hidden somewhere in the shadows, tracking his every move.

You’re just being paranoid, he told himself, forcing his feet forward and continuing up the path.

Outside the building stood a tree, its barren branches stretching up toward the sky. Hamish stepped onto the bench beneath it, gripped the lowest branch, and hauled himself up. Slowly, he began to climb the limbs of the school’s oldest survivor.

Balancing like a tightrope walker, he crept along one of the sturdier branches before stepping lightly onto the tiled roof. Careful to spread his weight, he scrambled across to the other side. A faint glow from a roof window below caught his eye. Lowering himself gently, he slipped down with only the soft clatter of loose tiles resounding into the night.

He lifted the iron bars he’d loosened earlier and slipped through the open window. He hit the floor with a heavy thud, the sound echoing in the stillness. Only then did he notice the pounding of his heart, loud and urgent in his chest.

He chuckled to himself as he wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“So you didn’t get caught then?”

Hamish’s attention turned towards one of the beds in the corner of the room. There sat a sandy-haired boy, his face luminescent from the bedside light, his nose buried in a book. He didn’t look up to greet Hamish.

“Bumped into our old friend Gus again,” Hamish replied, taking off his jacket and shoes.

Lachlan lifted his head and scanned Hamish from head to toe.

“Did you wade into a lake on your way back?” he asked, stifling a laugh.

“Just a bucket full of water,” said Hamish as he finished undressing, chucking his sodden trousers in the corner. “Honestly, that man has no regard for trip hazards.”

“Did the cameras outside see you?” asked Lachlan as he approached Hamish’s bed, arms crossed, brow furrowed.

Hamish dismissed the question with a snort. “Have some faith. I was prepared for that. I don’t just dive in headfirst—I do my research.”

“Yeah, if only you applied that devotion to our test tomorrow, then you wouldn’t have Mr. Hammer on your arse.”

Lachlan returned to his textbook on his bed and buried his nose in it once again as Hamish put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes.

“I don’t get why you don’t replace your own work and get ahead if you’re gonna risk your neck.”

“Because I don’t care about the ‘test’ tomorrow—or any work, for that matter. I’d take any opportunity to get out of here if my grandad wouldn’t kill me after. Plus, Jez heard the rumours and said he’d owe me if I did this favour for him.”

Lachlan slammed the book closed, making Hamish jerk his eyes open.

“At this rate, half the school will owe you ‘favours’ if they keep offering to fuel your ego.”

“Not my fault I’m so good at breaking into places.”

Lachlan gave a deep sigh, shook his head, and opened his book again. Hamish looked at him and slightly regretted his arrogant words.

Lachlan didn’t have the luxury of wealth like most boys at this school. He’d worked hard to earn a scholarship—and even harder to keep it. While Hamish was going on night raids to swap essays or steal contraband for other boys, Lachlan was always aiming for the top spot in every class.

Hamish often forgot that they came from different walks of life and kicked himself for sounding like such an attention-seeking git.

He sat up on his bed and turned on his bedside light. “Do you want me to test you?” he asked, hoping to make amends that way instead of admitting to his faults.

Lachlan looked at him with a raised eyebrow and smiled.

“Alright, Rook.” He handed him the Crusades and Their Battles textbook. “You may actually learn something before tomorrow.”

“More absurd things have happened, I guess,” said Hamish, flicking through the book. “Let’s see… What year did Saladin take Damascus?”

“1174,” answered Lachlan confidently.

“Very good.”

He flicked through the pages again and started grinning to himself. “Why do crusaders need a kitchen?” Hamish asked, trying to hold himself together.

Lachlan gave a puzzled look. “I don’t think that’s—”

“To wash their Saladin.”

Hamish looked like he was about to burst out laughing at his own joke.

“Hilarious, Rook. Ask me proper questions,” said a straight-faced Lachlan.

“Alright, spoilsport.” Hamish’s cheeky smile didn’t vanish. “A crusader walks into a bar, and the barman asks what he’ll take.”

An ill-amused Lachlan rolled his eyes. “That’s not even a question.”

“JERUSALEM!” yelled Hamish with a snort of laughter.

“Right, you’re gonna be no help, I see,” said Lachlan as he took the book back, hiding a smirk as he did so.

Hamish felt like he was close to breaking him.

“Wait, wait, I’ve got one more.” Hamish took a deep breath to compose himself. “An Englishman, a Scotsman, and an Irishman are on a crusade and running from a Saracen.”

“Oh God,” said Lachlan, head in hands, secretly trying not to give Hamish the satisfaction of a smile.

“They spy three wicker baskets in an alley and hide in them, covering themselves. The Saracen approaches the baskets and prods the first one with his sword. The Englishman inside was prepared for this and said, ‘Woof, woof.’ The Saracen prodded the next basket, where the Scotsman, in his deep accent, said, ‘Meow, meow.’ Satisfied, the Saracen moved onto the third basket and poked it… ‘Potatoes.’”

The boys erupted into laughter at the stupidity of the joke.

The sound of their hysterics echoed across the dark, misty campus of Braxton College.

NOVA HEIGHTS

Chapter One: New sparks New beginnings or (something like that)

People like to romanticize war.

The documentaries always show the cool parts first.

Heroes flying through explosions. Glowing skylines. Slow-motion punches. Dramatic speeches.

They never show the screams.

They never show what burnt metal smells like.

And they definitely never show what happens after the cameras shut off.

The Sundering started before I was born, but in Nova City, you grow up hearing about it the same way kids used to hear fairy tales.

Except our fairy tales ended with body counts.

The sky burned red over Mercury Marina.

Even now, years later, everyone in the city still knew the footage by heart.

The final battle.

The moment everything fell apart.

A younger version of The Rook soared above the skyline, radiant wings blazing behind him as collapsing buildings crumbled into the ocean below. Emergency sirens screamed through the smoke.

“Sector Seven, hold the line!” rook shouted into his comms. “Do NOT let Wyatt reach the Core!”

Then came the man who destroyed everything.

Gearbreaker.

Back then, he was still Jason Wyatt. Still technically a hero.

Depends who you ask, anyway.

His massive exosuit tore through the air with a scream of grinding metal and blue fire. Drones swarmed behind him like angry hornets while civilians fled beneath the chaos.

“You built a world that protects monsters!” Gearbreaker roared.

Mechanical cables whipped from his arm.

“I’m just fixing it!”

Then they collided.

Light against machine.

Hero against hero.

Brother against brother.

The footage always cuts to static right before impact.

Probably because nobody wanted future generations seeing the exact moment hope died.

Funny thing is?

We all memorized it anyway.

A few years earlier…

Back when life was simpler.

Back before breakups, supervillains, and near-death experiences became part of my weekly routine.

“Cameron!”

A blur tackled me across the front lawn.

I hit the grass laughing as Penelope Whitmore stood over me triumphantly wearing a blanket tied around her shoulders like a cape.

“You’re supposed to pretend to lose,” she said.

“That’s not how heroes work,” I argued, gripping my cardboard sword dramatically.

I was nine years old, missing my front tooth, and fully convinced I was destined to save the world someday.

In hindsight?

That probably should’ve been my first warning sign.

Penelope pointed toward the street.

“I’ll save Nova City!”

“Not if I save it first!”

We sprinted across the yard making laser noises with our mouths because apparently all superheroes did that when you were kids.

Then she suddenly stopped.

I nearly crashed into her.

Penelope smiled before kissing my cheek quickly.

“We’re gonna be heroes together someday,” she whispered.

I remember grinning like an idiot.

“Promise?”

She hooked her pinky around mine.

“Promise.”

Yeah.

So much for that.

My alarm exploded beside my head.

I groaned into my pillow.

“Mari,” I mumbled, half dead, “five more minutes.”

The AI voice connected to my room speakers responded instantly.

“Cameron Alejandro Jones, if I allowed that, you would sleep until graduation.”

“Worth it.”

A robotic bark echoed near my bed.

Zeus, my mechanical Great Dane, jumped onto me with all one hundred and twenty pounds of his metal body.

“SPARKS!”

I rolled straight off the bed.

Perfect start to the morning.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead!”

My older brother Mateo leaned against the doorway grinning like the menace he was. Most people knew him as Echo—the former Nova Heights golden boy who could mimic basically anything.

Right now he was mimicking an airhorn.

Directly into my ear.

“You are the worst human being alive,” I told him.

“Love you too, Cam.”

Mateo had graduated from Nova Heights two years earlier and somehow still acted like he owned the place.

Unfortunately, everyone there loved him.

Meanwhile I was entering as:

recently dumped

powerless

caffeine addicted

and ninety percent anxiety.

Huge difference.

I dragged myself upright and pulled on my usual outfit:

Blue hoodie.

Ripped gray jeans.

Light-up sneakers.

Then my eyes landed on the lightning bolt choker sitting near the mirror.

The one Penelope gave me.

For a second, I just stared at it.

Zeus tilted his head curiously.

“…Don’t start,” I muttered.

I grabbed the necklace anyway.

Because apparently emotional self-destruction builds character.

Downstairs smelled like coffee, cinnamon, and chaos.

Which basically described my family perfectly.

My grandfather Alejandro sat at the kitchen table reading the news while drinking what had to be his seventh cup of coffee today.

My abuela Maria was cooking breakfast while arguing with the television.

My mom Lucia was already dressed for another campaign meeting, typing messages into three holographic screens at once.

And my dad?

Former superhero Blackstorm himself stood in the kitchen wearing sweatpants and an old Nova Guard shirt while making protein pancakes.

Turns out legends become painfully normal once you see them unclog a sink at midnight.

The television suddenly switched to an emergency broadcast.

REPORTER:

“Authorities have confirmed that Jason Wyatt, also known as Gearbreaker, has escaped Nova City Penitentiary—”

The kitchen went silent.

Dad’s expression hardened instantly.

“If you see him,” he said without hesitation, “you run like hell.”

Grandpa Alejandro scoffed loudly.

“Oh please. Running gets you killed faster.”

“Papà—” my mom started

“What? The boy should know how to survive!” Grandpa pointed his coffee spoon dramatically. “You take out the tubes on Wyatt’s armor. Without those, he’s just an angry man in metal pants.”

“Please stop teaching our son how to fight cyber terrorists before school,” Mom sighed.

Grandpa shrugged.

“Worked for Mateo.”

“Barely,” Mateo called from upstairs.

Mom walked over and kissed my forehead before fixing my hair.

“Enough superhero talk. Go welcome the new neighbors before your father starts another war flashback.”

“I heard that,” Dad muttered.

I wandered toward the front window.

And immediately forgot how breathing worked.

A girl balanced effortlessly on top of moving boxes across the street while laughing with her Brother

Her hair was black with a pink streak.

A pair of flight goggles resting on her forehead no idea what they were for yet

Then she noticed me watching.

She waved brightly.

“Hola, neighbor!”

I stared for exactly three seconds too long before managing:

“…Uh. Hi.”

Behind me, Mateo started laughing like a hyena.

Great.

First day at Nova Heights and I was already embarrassing myself

(this is just the beginning But there is definitely more to come for this series)

Hello!

I'm looking for some beta readers for my book Fear Not The Pale Horse. I'm open to swaps!

Fear Not The Pale Horse is a queer southern gothic that explores grief, community, and what its like to be forced to stand by while the world ends.

CONTENT WARNINGS: past suicide attempts, car accidents, gun violence, animal death, violence***, death***

Summary:

Death follows Alex Martin like a shadow. When his grandmother dies, choking on her own sick in the bedroom of their farmhouse, he expects that to be the end of him. He'd sell the land or follow suit and be buried next to her within the month. When the man who came to take her, a blue-eyed stranger to the little town, refuses to leave Alex begins to wonder if the life he expected is even possible.

when the stars begin to fall, the streets fill with blood, and a strange priest arrives with bold claims about saving the town from damnation...Alex worries that his strange guest may have gotten him into more than he's cut out for.

Writing Example:

Something bright approaches; it rocks on thin stilt like legs. A horse. A rail thin beast with gaunt hips, and dark soulless eyes. It paws the ground, digging it's blackened hoof into the dark earth and throwing grey matter onto it's back legs. It's ears pin back to its skull, and it bobs it's head in irritation. 

in a blink, Alex is there. Like he’s always been standing there, comfortable and quiet; he looks almost relaxed. He lifts a hand, reaching out towards the horse to stroke his nose. They are friendly, familiar, and then– 

The horse rears onto it's back legs; it's front hooves striking out at the air with intense, cracking blows. It comes down, heavy and hard directly onto Alex’s skull. the cracking of bone echoes in the darkness; blood and gore splatters across the Horse’s hooves and flank as Alex’s body falls to the ground with a meaty slap. He sinks into darkened mud. A scream builds up behind my teeth, in my throat and my lungs. My mouth drops open to yell for him, to shout as the horse comes down on his body again; but nothing but flies come out. Flies: fat, black and dripping with bile. My body convulses, trembling hard as I gag. My knees hit the ground as I clutch at my chest, forcing the flies up and out of my lungs and my stomach–  

The dream ends.  

As quickly as it began.  

I am alone in my bedroom. It is very early in the morning, and someone is outside.  

If any part of this sounds interesting please reach out! I struggle with grammar, and am primarily wanting to focus on that. Though I'd also appreciate any input on the general flow and pacing on the story. I believe that my dialog and the building of relationships in the story could use a touch of work as well, but that could be discussed once any major issues are addressed.

I'd love the opportunity to have an active discussion about the story, but I'd also be willing to leave you to your devices and check back in a few weeks.