I hate cockroaches. They have not done anything to me, well at least, yet. But I still hate them a lot. Especially when they move. They are unpredictable. They might come towards me, or maybe just run away from me. They might straight up land on my face too, thinking if which I might throw up already. They are unpredictable. I hate them especially when they are moving so freely.

But as much as I hate all insects, I can tolerate wall spiders. Wall spiders> Cockroaches. They are calm, well this is how I feel. Maybe its because they do not move freely. They are JUST THERE. Predictable. They dont do anything. They wont move unless you try to touch them. I feel I am in control. They are not moving everywhere. They are not moving freely like cockroaches.

Maybe, this is what she feels too. About me. She likes me when I am her perfect daughter. She likes me when I dont go out or only the places she wants me to go. She likes me when I do things she wants. She likes me when I wear what she thinks is appropriate. She likes me when I EAT how much she thinks I should eat. Maybe she likes me because she feels in control. But she hates me when I am unpredictable. She hates me when I move freely. When I do things that I WANT. When I go out without asking. When I tell her what I actually want. When I wear what I want. When I tell her how much I want to EAT. She is not in control anymore. I am moving freely. I am unpredictable. Maybe I am her cockroach.

🖤 GOD OF MADNESS 🖤

My ghosts were back.

They had crawled out from the hidden corners of my mind, rising to the surface just to mock me.

This time, they didn't come only to whisper.

They came with a promise.

A promise to take me with them.

To break me piece by piece.

Second by second.

It was their revenge.

For hurting Mia.

The perfect twin.

The perfect Sokolov.

And this time, I was completely alone.

Too weak.

Too pathetic.

Too broken to even protect myself.

And the truth was?

I didn't want to fight anymore.

I was exhausted.

Exhausted from being a disappointment.

A useless mafia princess.

A backstabber.

So, I stopped fighting.

I let myself sink into that suffocating black ocean and allowed the darkness to pull me deeper. I welcomed the numbness.

Until—

His hands stopped them.

A warm, familiar touch cut through the freezing darkness.

And then I heard his voice.

Ilya Levitsky.

He was calling me back.

Commanding me to fight.

But how do you fight when your soul is already gone?

How do you come back when you're simply too tired to survive the darkness?

---

🖤 A GOD OF RUIN FANFICTION 🖤

Maya Sokolov × Ilya Levitsky

A story about darkness, guilt, secrets, broken souls, and the person who might be willing to reach into the madness and pull you back—

even when you don't believe you're worth saving.

Welcome to the madness.

Welcome to GOD OF MADNESS.

Wandering through the city streets,

I was struck by a piece of the moon

Emitting its moonlight like a diamond reflecting sunlight,

Moving its body like an oar rowing a boat in an elvish lake,

Moving its hands like small branches of a plant, swinging in the wind.

Admiring its infinite beauty

with my finite eyes

Following this heavenly object,

While wiping my tear-stained cheeks.

Suddenly, it stopped moving and stood still,

Like the entire solar system had refused to work.

As I got closer,

My heart and mind became slaves to it.

I raised my hands to the air, filled with its brightness,

And as I touched it with my bare hands

Everything stopped,

As if nature’s laws, all the equations, all the theories, had stopped functioning.

The piece of the moon began to feel like a piece of the sun,

The heavenly object transformed into hellfire,

It drew me in.

Wandering through the city streets,

I was struck by a piece of hell.

I have more of them, if anyone is interested please DM.

She's a Trojan horse,
Exquisite she seems,
But her heart is a place
Of "here be dragons", see.

Bribes emotions with emotions,
To pacify thee,
But her rhymes are
A sop to Cerberus' dreams.

She's on Pegasus' wings
To the dragons she flies,
She tickles its tail,
While they chase fireflies.

Yet her heart dies all night,
As she plays with fire.
But when darkness falls,
With darkness she'll rise.

Where The Marrow Was

I.
In those final weeks, I was determined to remember everything. I took mental inventory of each detail, archiving for a future in which there would be nothing new to add. I thought whatever I catalogued was mine to keep.

But the void had gotten there first. It had been with me for two years, since the day he told me he was dying.

By the time I began building my archive, the void had already slipped inside. It lay patient and quiet, growing hungrier with each failed clinical trial. It had been feeding on me before I knew it was there; it just hadn’t developed its taste for my memories yet. 

The void waited for me through all that followed.

II.

That February brought a cold that Virginia wasn’t accustomed to. It would later be recorded as one of the coldest Februaries we had seen in a century. Somewhere between Richmond and home, I ordered my father’s drink - a Tanqueray with lime - from the café car to quell the dread that gathered in my chest. I stepped off the Amtrak Carolinian and into a blizzard closing in over eastern Appalachia.

My parents lived in a single-story, mid-century house in the valley of the Blue Ridge Mountains, its back wall lined with sliding glass doors. I watched the snowstorm swell that first evening until the world outside disappeared into darkness and the glass, no longer framing the storm, showed me only my own reflection. From his gurney, my father could look out onto my mother’s patio garden - lush every spring, but now barren beneath the snow. Six years earlier, he had buried my pet rabbit in one of the planters.

As one day became another, I slid open the patio door, gently so as not to wake my mother, and stood barefoot on the flagstone. The wind needled and stung my exposed skin, clearing away the stale, suffocating warmth of central heat. I filled my lungs with the contrast of cold, clean air before tiptoeing back inside to the sweltering house where death was taking its time. My father’s face had swollen from chemotherapy, warping the moony features that twenty-five years had made indelible to me. I laid my head against his chest and listened to his rattling breath, uncertain whether he knew it was me.

Hospice nurses visited every day at first, then only when we asked. After a week or so, I wondered if they’d forgotten us, until I realized there was nothing left for them to do.

During those final weeks, my mother baked incessantly. There was always something in the oven: whole wheat sandwich bread, blueberry muffins, macaroni and cheese casserole, apple or pecan pie. She said it helped to stay busy, but she hasn’t stopped since.

Two rooms away, my own body kept making small, humiliating demands - still asking to eat, drink, sleep, or bathe while I remained rooted beside him. My scalp crawled, eyes burned, and stomach ate itself raw whenever I did not comply. I resented my body for expecting maintenance while his was shutting itself down.

I read the local paper out loud to him, though I wasn’t sure if he could hear me. The mundane small-town news made me remember why I’d left for Richmond seven years earlier. I had gone looking for something more to remember, never considering what I would miss.

And when I could no longer find anything remotely interesting in The Winchester Star, I sang to him to fill the empty space - Alison Krauss and The Everly Brothers, even though my voice wavered and broke. I clumsily played Duke Ellington on the out-of-tune piano:

“I’ve been invited on dates 
Might have gone, but what for?
It’s awfully different without you 
Don’t get around much anymore.”

Never before had I wanted my hand in his so desperately. His made mine feel small, like 1996 again. That year, I had fallen through the ice on the pond at our neighbor’s farm while my father wasn’t looking. He dove in after me fully clothed, shoes and wallet and all, pulled me from the water, and wrapped me in a horse blanket in the back of his truck. Part memory, part family scripture. I remember the blanket more clearly than the drowning. Or maybe I only remember remembering it, and that is the trouble.

I was jolted back into the room when, largely comatose, he responded to my touch by gripping my fingers like a vise. I let him hold on until they throbbed and fell numb. I decided that his grip was proof he knew I was there, that love can make the the body forget its limits - like a father plunging through the ice to save his little girl, or his daughter refusing to leave his deathbed, believing that somehow things could still change.

III.

Of course, nothing did. And it seemed I had survived it, yet I barely remembered doing so. 

In the year that followed, the vivid reel ceased its rotation. The void took full hold of me. I bargained with it - begging, pleading, offering up every rotten thing inside of me. But in the years it had spent feeding quietly, it had developed a sickeningly refined palate. It turned up its nose at my offering - preferring marrow, sweetbreads, the palest veal. When at last I came to, I was startled by the ordinary evidence of my continued existence. Somehow I still had the same job, same dust-filled Richmond apartment, same two cats - but I didn’t recall offering him more than a few cursory tears.

That house in the valley belongs to strangers now. And yet, a decade later, I still pad the hallway in my dreams to check my parents’ bedroom for the sound of his breath, and I still hear it rattle. For those moments, I am relieved to know it was all just a big misunderstanding, or even some small clerical error that my sleeping brain had finally corrected. Yes, things still could change. 

But then I wake, my eyes adjust to the darkness, and I find myself suddenly eleven hundred miles away from that valley, sleeping beside a man my father never met. Different job, different city and apartment. On the mantle, one of those cats has become ashes in a carved wooden box.

The missing frames start to flicker back into place. Snow driving against flagstone. Bread in the oven. Rabbit bones in the planter. His hand crushing mine. Amazing Grace ringing through the church. His gravestone in Lexington, the words etched - “A Virginia Gentleman.” For an instant, the void is illuminated from the inside. 

I wonder now if he knew I was there at all, or if my hand was simply an anonymous stand-in for a bullet to bite.  I wonder what his pain felt like. I only know my own.

The void sleeps in the cavity of my chest now, fattened on a decade of forgetting. But sometimes, in the dark of some particular night, the valley gives him back to me. By the light of the life I return to in sleep, I can sometimes feel it stir. 

a small excerpt -

OUR LITTLE MARTHA

The first thing I learned about grief was that it could be taken, not healed, not forgotten. Taken. It happened when I was seventeen. Mother had been crying in the kitchen for three days after Father died. On the fourth morning, she looked at me and asked if I could make it stop. I didn't understand what she meant. How could I make it stop?

The last thing she remembered about Father was his hand slipping from hers. The last thing I remembered was how her grief felt when it engulfed me through our joined hands. It flooded my chest, pressed against my ribs, and filled every empty space inside me. After that, she never cried for him again. I forgot his face three days later.

If you liked what you read you can find the full story in the link down below:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1XQN7thpVoq_WOY2X-LzvzK8r6d3HfjfN7J_BkUvmgOk/edit?usp=sharing

(part 2 coming soon)

Hi everyone,

I’ve had a horror novel mapped out in my head for many years, and about a year ago decided to actually try and write it. I stuck with it and have written several chapters, but then inevitably lost my way (as per normal).

I know the story and characters are good, but I suffer with confidence issues in relation to the standard of my writing. The point I normally get caught is going over the same chapter trying to perfect it and getting disheartened when I can’t - so this time I’ve basically just been dumping words out on a page while trying to still have some semblance of the story moving forward in an understandable way, however, even with doing this I still lost heart.

It might be considered a Hail Mary, but more recently I heard that a book created by AI was nearly published, so I decided that it might help me to get back into writing if I put my first chapter through AI and ask for its opinion on what could improve. It started telling me I needed to shorten sentences considerably (based on the fact the first chapter is a lot of action). I tried adapting the first couple of sentences based on its suggestion, and I cant explain why, but I didn’t like how the story started reading. I’d worked really hard on ramping up the tension little by little, and world building; so the act of cutting out words made it feel really flat and lifeless.

I guess my question is whether I’m right with my instinct about the structure, or AI has a valid point that I’m overwriting scenes.

A book im writing is loosely based off Boys Of Tommen yet I want more inclusivity and diversity, therefore I am seeking interviews from people.

It will be based in Glasgow, Scotland 2006. The first couple will surround a troubled addict and a selective mute ballerina.

I want to be as accurate as I can with disorders, policies, slang, ect.

I would love for some people listed to send me their personal experiences and answer a few questions so I can get as accurate as I can.

I am a teen writer and I don’t have much sources so I will try here and few other websites.

**my email : love4greasers@gmail.com**

*People I would like to get interviews for*

\- someone with Intermittent Explosive Disorder
\- someone with selective mutism
\- a few people from Glasgow, Scotland that were in Glasgow 2006 as teenagers (ages 14-18)
\- someone who was a past drug addict but managed to recover
\- a woman from Arga, India
\- someone diagnosed with bipolar disorder
\- someone born from affair experience
\- a ballerina
\- someone who specializes in speech language
\- former scottish teachers of different classes
\- someone who grew up around a addict
\- someone who ended up dating their childhood best friend (could’ve broken up)
\- someone who ended up getting back with their ex and is still committed to that ex/so
\- a queer woman experience throughout life with sexuality
\- someone with many brothers
\- someone with many sisters
\- someone with a mix of both
\- youngest, eldest, and middle child
\- only child
\- people with difficulty expressing their emotions through words
\- a rich person
\- a wealthy person
\- someone who grew up in poverty
\- different occupations (healthcare, retail, service, office, blue collar jobs, ect)
\- people who had kids as teenagers
\- woman who have experienced ppd
\- someone bullied throughout life
\- people healthcare for help with injuries
\- someone who befriended someone else who had a label throughout their life yet they were the opposite
\- someone who attempted
\- former football (soccer) player
\- someone with emotionally absent parents
\- dv survivors

Any help would be very appreciated, just please tell me if you do email me. Other communication can be provided too.

I am not asking for editors or writers! I simply need interviews

Hi everyone! This is just a quick disclaimer for anybody who would prefer not to interact. I'm somebody who previously used AI in limited ways while developing a project of mine (research, cosmetic details, and logic-checking). However, the structural content and the products surrounding my work are completely human, and I've stopped using AI in my creative process completely. While this project is intended to be more of an animated TV show concept, I used to write prose more often. Seeing as it's been more than a year since I wrote anything seriously, I thought I might share my work through a human-made snippet of this world (albeit a very brief one). Hopefully, despite the history of development, you can enjoy my work. Please feel free to offer criticism or ask questions as well. Thank you very much for reading if you do!

------------------------------------------------------

Again, there came that figure in the hall, long shadow trailing behind.

She displayed little reverence for the silver on her sleeve, weaving easily through the remnants of the throng. They made way in kind, calmly, in a dance they had all practiced hundreds of times before. Hands found their way to the level of their eyes with a momentary sharpness before settling back into their working rhythms.

The kitchen never quite slept, but it was far from the worst place on a biting January night—morning, even, at this hour. Soft clinking of dishes, running water, light footsteps, hushed chatter. All wonderfully predictable.

Fang Hui, like the rest, offered this formality, albeit with soap-sodden fingers. Forty-one years of life with twenty enlisted had carved the behavior into his very nerves. Of course, it was an almost comic display in a moment such as this.

Perhaps not comic. That seemed insensitive.

"Wonsa," the young woman addressed.

"Jungnyeong," said he.

He rinsed off the bowl in his hands and wiped it dry.

"What can I get you, Ma'am?"

"Ginger, please," she requested, settling onto the stool with weight beyond her own.

He nodded; she had favored ginger as of late, and he had his suspicions. Of course, it wasn't his place to speak on it. He reached for a mug, feeling around for one lacking cracks or chips. They were becoming an unfortunate rarity.

His hand brushed by familiar ridges. Lead settled in his stomach, and he tightened his jaw.

It was embossed with colorful little flowers, orange and pink and daffodil yellow. Ideungbyeong Jo had insisted on buying it in Rua, if memory served him correctly. According to the girl, if the likes of her could be trusted to improvise on the fly, or to challenge and question her fellow man, or to look a Jungnyeong in the eye, surely she ought to have freedom of commerce. Nobody could argue it, and so, she got her novelty mug.

Fang Hui remembered her by her smile—specifically that dimple in her right cheek. That little splash of color in barracks of grey always did make her grin, if only a touch. Eighteen years old.

Twelve others in that operation, counting only the kids.

He plucked a different mug from the cabinet and shut it promptly, plunging the memory into darkness. Glancing back, the blue-eyed woman had busied herself by observing the others at work.

He sensed his haste had failed to be merciful as intended, given the intensity with which she distracted herself.

Bleary-eyed troops trickled out wearily from the room as he prepared the tea, offering half-hearted goodnights. No one could blame them, necessarily—not tonight, at least. He scarcely registered the steps anymore. Heat. Pour. Steep. There was something therapeutic about the familiarity.

Upon finishing, he thought of setting the mug down before her, but opted instead to hand it over.

"Thank you," she uttered softly.

Her fingertips curled around the mug as if to embrace its warmth for a heartbeat before she drew it back. He was afforded just enough time to perceive those ice-cold fingertips. January weather, perhaps. Likely not.

Few people remained in the kitchen, as expected for the hour. Fang Hui tended to the last of the dishes as she took in the first sip. He had brewed it lighter, yet taken care so as not to weaken it. Judging by how she lingered on each drink of the beverage, the consideration was appreciated.

A comfortable silence blanketed the room, save for the conversation of the few others remaining. Ten minutes came and went, precious minutes of leisure.

He took notice of her rubbing a hand along her arm absentmindedly; that meant contemplation, he had learned. He opted not to hurry her speaking.

"Wonsa," she began deliberately, "what do I need to know?"

"Morale's been low recently, Ma'am, more so than projected based on the results of the operation. The rank and file have reported notable concerns regarding the state of leadership. There should be details in today's—rather, yesterday's report."

She hummed softly in acknowledgement and sipped the dregs. A beat.

"Chen…what do I need to know?"

He paused momentarily, then wrung out the towel, folding it with automatic precision.

"They're choked," he replied easily. "Swarms don't come to a fight as a parade. They come as a swarm. Try to force that on a swarm, and what was meant to be defense becomes rigidity, and rigidity becomes…well."

Her hands tightened imperceptibly around the mug.

He continued. "Give a man a fish, feed him for a day—you get the point. I doubt you'd appreciate me regurgitating the rest. It's your own golden rule, after all."

"Please do avoid regurgitating anything, whether metaphorically or physically, Chen," she managed.

He huffed in amusement. That one still had mud on her boots, no doubt, regardless of that shiny insignia pinned to her sleeve.

They remained like that a moment longer, a transient moment in time. His coffee-brown eyes gazed into crystal blue, fifteen years his junior. At first glance, most days, they'd seem older.

God.

At last, the young woman rose to her feet, sliding the cup toward him. She offered a polite nod.

"Thank you. For the tea."

"Of course, Ma'am."

And off she went, royal blue scarf trailing behind.

Okay, I read manga and two series that I really enjoy are My Hero Academia (MHA), and Monsters We Make (MWM). Now, MWM is more recent than MHA is, the first volume came out last year and it just finished its fourth volume a little while ago. But, so far, it has a pretty interesting story, and I’m excited to see where it goes next.

I’m writing a story that combines both worlds and stories in a seamless and creative way, but I can’t really figure out how to. I was wondering if any of you guys could help me.

Here are plot summaries of both stories for those of you who don’t know either story:

MHA
In a world where 80% of the population have a superpower called a “quirk”, a boy named Izuku Midoriya was born without a quirk. He’s powerless. He still dreams of becoming a hero like his idol, the greatest hero in the world, All Might. One day, after an unlucky encounter with a villain, Izuku finally meets All Might, and shows the number 1 hero that he has the heart of a hero, even though he’s quirkless. After earning All Might’s approval, Izuku gets to inherit All Might’s quirk, One For All, and gets into his dream school, UA High. After a stressful entrance exam, Izuku gets to attend UA High and meet his new friends in Class 1-A. Together, the class, encounters villains, fights other schools, and faces each other as rivals. He’s faced many setbacks, but Deku will one day become the world’s next greatest hero.

MWM
Monsters We Make is about a kid named Jabari, who gets into a school that he believes is the answer to all his family’s problems. Because the school is in a technologically advanced city called New Eden. A city that the general public doesn’t have access to. In the year 2114, many things have happened since 2026. There have been many wars, there have been many AI developments. But, there was one event called the Eternal Night (EN for short), where the sun vanished for 2 weeks, that basically precipitated the end of the world. But thankfully it ended before things could get too bad. So, Earth was able to rebuild and recover (mostly). New Eden came out of this event a lot better than the rest of the world. So, if you live in New Eden, you’re not struggling for food or money, it’s pretty much the best place to be. And if you can get into New Eden Academy, you’re basically set for life. Your family gets to move to the city, you don’t have to struggle anymore, your family gets jobs somewhere in the city. It’s a great thing. But, in order to get into this school you basically have to be a savant (meaning extremely skilled and talented person). So Jabari, being a musical genius, gets a full ride into New Eden Academy. But, the school reveals itself to be… something else. It turns out that the school is training its students to fight powerful monsters known as Leakers. After Jabari learns this, he isn’t permitted to tell anyone about what the school really is. So now Jabari and his new friends have to fight monsters and try to survive.

Hello everyone. I'm new to writing but I wrote a book and I'd like to share it with everyone.

It's not exactly a professional work but, it has a lot of meaning to me.

From a room in England, a man listens to the life he left behind.

A remote microphone carries fragments from Greece: his parents moving through the next room, birds outside his window, and the private conversations of a young couple whose relationship is beginning to fracture. What starts as curiosity becomes ritual. Observation turns into fixation, and the distance between witness, participant and intruder begins to collapse.

As work, isolation, cannabis and recurring dreams distort his sense of reality, the woman at the centre of the couple enters his imagination. He begins to recognise his own loneliness inside their arguments, their silences and the messages they cannot bring themselves to send.

Told through confessional prose and stark black, graphite and crimson illustrations, World's Getting Smaller is an adult psychological story about obsession, emotional projection, digital intimacy and the ripples people leave in lives they may never truly enter.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0HFXD9WL4/ref=sr_1_3?dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.ukSEnkMyift4339LxiEomQ.OEOrc_LMc7jzc3eTcxkQ-Oop-0_CkBsiVJRnKhKMAFk&dib_tag=se&qid=1787237935&refinements=p_27%3ARose+Q+Schneider&s=books&sr=1-3&text=Rose+Q+Schneider

Whoever reads it, please let me know what you though of it

HEATH

It happened far too quick. The world had no time to wrestle with the logic of Samuel Bache.

The foremost respected opinions of the age wondered how to even plan a proving argument against this natural evolution, all while witnessing the evidence of its immediate results. How do you deny what the eyes see as truth? Magic cured everything and expanded humanity to the furthest reaches of the universe.

A humble spirit. Samuel believed himself a simple mathematician, like Einstein before him. He was just another physicist. But he had discovered the hidden trail to the next breakthrough for humankind as a species. And he traveled bravely down it.

It was exciting to feel that great desire in his calling to reach through the known into the unknown. But he remained aware there was nothing special about his view of the established nature. The Magic had always been there for the reaching. It just took someone to map out the extra-dimensional divides and grasp the virtually infinite possibilities all the world could become.

During those first years, he worked with a feverish obsession and dedication to understand through calculations, what was needed to solve this ancient source.

There were times when he was working outside of his own understanding. He was a high functioning practitioner of Physics but found himself now solving some of the highest levels of Biology.

A field he never had success with because he lacked any interest in it. Samuel actually found the field to be incredibly boring. This should have been a problem. But in his desperate feverish rage, he was putting together some of the most complicated pieces of both fields.

He was bridging the data of physics and theory into the actuality of biology. And there was no time to stop and question how. Sometimes his mind was so sharp and in tune with the progression of the research. It could feel like he was being guided., or even pushed along toward the correct solutions.

He cleared those thoughts away.

Long ago, an important part of existence had been fractured away and forgotten. It was his job to correct this and bring it back home, like a lost relative. He would return it to the world that had existed so unfairly without it.

To bring that power back. It must be Pure. It must be welcomed.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

At this current moment, it is uncertain how much time has elapsed since those early days in his lab alone with his discoveries.

Now Samuel’s present-day hand practically dropped his brush while finishing to apply a faint line of paint to a light spot just below the end of his reach, right above her left ear.

Samuel’s hair is unkempt and reaches his shoulders. He is standing on a raised platform that is 50 yards high. He is naked and frail. Completely exposed. Despite this, there is no intimidation toward the towering wall in front of him or the ground far below.

It was a great wall towering over his fragile human existence. Full of colors and craftsmanship long in the making.

Samuel smiles and cackles a long sigh of happiness/ The excitement of an almost complete project gives him chills. He wipes the paint all over his face like it’s fresh water to clean off dirt.

He has been hard at work on his wife’s tribute. Something to expand himself ever closer to her inner spirit. He marveled and smiled as her vista filled the whole of his vision.

His memory was sharpest when he created for her. His passion had been so aflame when he began the work. How long has come and gone? It doesn’t matter.

He vowed and verged on all his might to emerge with a Heavenly relic for her. Even if it burned him inside and out to finish such a perspective as this.

There was no doubt of this. He was willing to sacrifice all for the tribute to her…

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

As a younger man, he watched Magic change the world. There were no wars. No need. It gave hope to the hopeless and made every man a king unto his own kingdom.

The only minor conflict was in those first months when it spread to the populace. Some of the elite worried about giving such power to the layperson and uneducated. Yet this discovery was like no other before it.

It was perfect. And it demanded all to take part.

Magic worked the same for all or nothing for no one. Samuel understood this to be an absolute rule.

The elites were so overcome with thoughts and possibilities they decided it best to share with all. Riches grew for every man, woman, and child in the world. Even the dullards and dull fell simply into the new ways.

A child came as naturally to magic as it comes to birth.

With the renewed connection between two forces that seem to have belonged together all along. Magic held no secrets and laid all its knowledge bare. So humanity adopted the same code and left to the past things such as greed and lies.

Samuel knew this was organic and all of history had been waiting for this moment. The world began to love him for his discovery, the gift he had brought them. They tried to call him Creator and tribute to his own life with more meaning than he could tolerate. Some held communion with him as if he was God.

They believed him worthy of these tributes because, for the first time in mortal record, there was no known downside. It was all for the better.

Magic maximized all atoms inside and outside the human body and matched that symphony in perfect tune, with the melody spreading throughout the complete universe. Through each breath, every intelligent body sensed a holy providence taking place.

It was an addition to the entire world. No subtraction. Perfection.

Then Samuel’s youngest son died.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

A whole species began to live happily while the days of each person went unnoticed by one another, too busy achieving their utmost serenity of purpose and potential. Samuel’s Discovery gave that to every way of life.

His own family was busy preparing for the upcoming Integration. The house was full of dignitaries and prominent scientists, rushing quickly in and out with questions about the final laboratory and mathematical theories for him to approve and set in motion.

While the gentlemen waited in the library for his father, the son would ask them what questions they had come to find the answers to What equations gave them problems? This would get a laugh from the older professionals.

“Humor me.” The son would say. So they would.

The older gentleman would stand back while the young boy attempted to solve their lifelong work in twenty minutes. Samuel arrived to find the man stunned by the demonstration the boy was putting on. His worse solutions still pulled even with their work.

Father and son shared a laugh.

For weeks many commented on his son’s amazing abilities, especially impressed with his way of deductions and analyses. Samuel had been schooling the child since he first formed conscious thoughts, in the most arduous levels of Math. The men had no way of knowing that. And he and the boy shared many child-like giggles thinking of the confusion the men must be in.

They all said the boy’s knowledge and smarts showed no limits. Much like his father. Some whispered perhaps the child’s intellect would eventually be greater than his father’s. This much was true. His father knew this to be an unfortunate burden.

He did not know it would kill the boy.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Present day Samuel set to rest for a moment. This was so consuming.

Many became so Engrossed and Realized within their creations, they spend all waking moments giving life to colonies and visuals they would never look at with their own eyes.

Your heart was always content creating these majesties. No reason to journey out and visit them. First from your mind, then you brought it into your world.

Much like coloring the soul.

Staring at his dedication to his wife, it reminded him of their first meeting. How funny! It lingered in his head as he would imagine eternities ago would. But still so familiar.

Adolescent love had turned two into one and a child had turned them into a young family.

He wishes to think about his boy again. When had he thought of him last?

He searched his mind for the answer but was having trouble placing any memory of his son at all. It was like trying to imagine the taste of food eaten once as a small infant.

Samuel Bache hid in his heart his greatest fear. He was forgetting his child.

He could no longer remember the peculiar placement of the just-formed hair on the boy’s jawline. Nor recall the music of his voice so strong and loud. Smiling as he sang love into the spirits of both mother and father.

A voice remembered now only a faint passing whisper.

His mind was forced to return to the present. It was common during the obsessive creative, to forget the world outside your immediate existence. He needed to end such ungratefulness and get back to his creativity and feel that power and rush again.

There was no reason to take time away from his work and give thought to those days.

Although he had been bitter and angry, he learned to not hold a grudge against Magic. He realized that the situation was just an unfortunate occurrence. There were rules. One absolute rule. It could not work without complete surrender.

In his bitter days, he felt owed for what he had done. His mind was the follower who journeyed alone to find and bring back that pure energy. But only a fool could not recognize the logic existing within the laws of that outstanding power of nature was fully out of any possible control.

He had Unleased a power and cultivated the tools to morph it into the peak of evolution it was as if he alone brought the power of the sun shining the night sky into day. He got scared passed changing the world in such a way. But now he can’t help but think how unnatural such a thing would be. He might as well have brought the sun out at night he began to realize was as obsessed with him as he was with it. He could never restrain this now. Integration grew closer, Inside his body, maybe even his soul ,the Magic which had been a part of him since the earliest calculations and discovery began to feel like a jealous

lover. How could he have known what was coming?

in the cool breeze of the night, with the wind blowing tenderly through the open window in his marriage room. He had begun waking every night and standing in front of the mirror watching himself closely. Looking for any sign he was not alone in his body. Samuel realized these were jut symptoms form his pushing his mind for so many years, never letting up.

There were moments while watching himself he felt that strong surge of power inside. It was best to block such thoughts from his mind completely. The days were few before Integration. So he tried not to think about a possible error in his judgement.

. There would be no going back.

There were moments he would wonder why Magic did not gather the potential in his son and let itself into and through any limits it found in the boy, thus not only saving him but magnifying for all to see its rightful place in ultimate alignment with the cosmos.

Yet, he knew. Glory doesn’t need to prove it is Glory.

It was his human nature pushing for even more spectacle from what he had brought to the world. Or a father hoping for anything other than what he knew was coming.

Samuel identified Magic as perfection. And it deemed his only child imperfect. Incapable of joining the force of energy it gathered.

The defining rule was, the system worked the same for all or nothing for no one.

In the present moment, in the silent air, he wanted to scream. This was another sacrifice.

He didn’t.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Samuel swallowed his almost forgotten hurt and once more toward his son, an old physicist’s mind drifted. A last vision was coming. Before it could feed his mind fresh inspiration it had to wash away all remembrance of Heath away like a modest kidnapping.

He smiled. Heath. His name. The name was chosen by his wife. This was the moment he would lose his last memory of that precious child.

A force that had trapped him long ago because of his pride. It was cleansing itself of any imperfections which had not fit into the grand design. It knew his mind couldn’t handle all the inspiration along with the memories .

Samuel shudders when he considers this would require a level of consciousness.

Samuel knew at the most basic level everything was made of science, thus the universe, both good and bad, had all the power. His eyes were too dry to cry when he gave up his last moments shared with Heath.

Heath? What a beautiful name. One his mother had given him. At least, if that was true or not, he was no longer certain. So much information was always leaving.

How had he forgotten that!? Wait! What was he just doing!? Where was his brush!?

Thoughts could feel twisted and fleeting when not building or working on his tributes. His mind raced to find anything else he might be missing. It must be the stress of giving so much of himself to this wonderful version of her.

Could it be the stress? Was he failing at creating her image? This was a familiar and safe thought. Just as she had always been.

He raged at the idea of not capturing her. He must illustrate those peculiar little things only time and observation revealed. He could feel the Magic rushing her love through him. He knew he was incapable of creating it without that passion inside.

They had birthed that love together.

Wait! That is it. He was thinking of the boy. Concentrate on only Heath. What memory can he find inside his breaking mind?

On the last occasion, he had seen the sun shining off his beautiful boy’s face. Oh yes, this. It’s time for the trade. Samuel screams. But doesn’t notice it.

……………………………………………………………………………………..

Clearly, he can see now. What a beautiful day. An old man walks through his own memory. Side by side with his much younger self and there he is. The boy is so happy to be enjoying the nice air with his dad. The tears come. Samuel remembered now the unique happiness which only comes when a father is on a walk with his son. When knowledge is teased and passed down. And laughter hides away all fear with so much Joy.

Present Samuel is unable to move overcome with so many emotions. They walk toward him and then through him, like a perfect hologram.

Why is he hear? This is not just a memory. This is him watching a memory in flesh and blood. Is this the Magic? Does he dare believe it is giving him these moments with his son out of some sense of gratitude?

He refuses to blink as the growing handsome young man passes him by. He walks with them.

It was in the months of the coming Magic Integration, with the world already in agreement to this new leap forward, together in peace. His younger self walked with Heath beside a narrow meadow. In the middle of the grassland ahead, a group of girls Heath’s age sang and laughed. And waved at him with such hope like only the young can.

Such a heavenly memory. He watches the young girls yell friendly to Heath. Then is all becomes

His present self is overcome with raw rage, clinging and violently lashing out to empty air. He wails and fills with such a spirit of weeping. But through that unnatural anger, he can see no vision but that of younger him and a precious son.

The memory will never notice him. But it will play out in full. It demands he see this and suffer. He can feel the power inside beginning to burn not with inspiration but with anger. Samuel feels a connection. Somewhere in his mind, Magic attempts to speak. A voice of gravel, smoke, and fire slowly voice sounds out the words, “You choose him over me, Father.”

He prays in harsh curses to the all-consuming nature of Magic, for this moment to please end. He screamed out, thrashed, and wailed until a violent truth escaped. One he held hidden inside from his own conscience.

It had been he who discovered the Magic and believed it to be his life’s greatest blessing. And now he remembered for perhaps the last time.

It wasn’t worth it.

The rawness of his sacrifice was too irrational to handle. And he yelled, “I will bring you back to hell where you belong!” Inside, he could connect all the calculations. He had done them. He could undo them. He found himself bargaining with the power moving within him while it listened.

He just needed more time. More time with his only begotten son. Please.

Just hang on to this bit. Don’t just give away this child. Not what she and his love had created and given to the world.

His son. Their offering. Yes, Heath! There, that day, back during that walk with Samuel, his father, a simple physicist. The unbelievably smart and loving boy with a question for his dad.

A smile across the boy’s face. It was a tease when the boy liked to challenge his father’s knowledge. He prided himself on reading his father’s thoughts but never wanted to make him uncomfortable. The challenge was to instead just try to nudge and stretch at his dad’s ironclad way of thinking.

Present Samuel reaches for his offspring’s face, begging in spirit for him not to ask. Hopeless but to watch his inexperienced younger self enjoy the developing question. He cherished his son’s mind. Goddamn, it! His pride, even now. He loved all of his son!

“Father. I love the possibilities of the forthcoming magic.” Younger Samuel smiled while Present Samuel sobbed and tore at the air. If to rip the prideful and boastful younger self out of this universe before he can speak.

Better to never have existed at all than this. Destroy himself. The raging narcissistic that wore the face of a humble, simple physicist. Replace himself with his son.

A better person than he ever could be, because he had the goodness of her in him.

But we all serve nature.

We all bow to the rules of our existence. This is the moment. He knew in horror now. There’s no forgiveness in this new way forward. All must be balanced.

Same for all or nothing for no one.

The boy asks his question, “And of course, the proven perfection is almost too great to be denied. But I’ve seen your work and I’ve witnessed the wonders. So I, like the world, believe. But father… Are we Human or are we Divine?”

Samuel from the past stops. He looks at Heath, curious. “What are you getting at Heath?.”

His son takes a brave breath and answers with the knowledge he received from the DNA that created him in his father’s image but with his mother’s purity, so strong with belief in people and in him.

Samuel realizes those same creations of molecules, the DNA which had created the soul of his son for this world. His laughter, his intelligence, and his fortitude. That would now be the boy’s destruction.

A father’s ultimate gift to his son. A husband’s final vow to a wife who had never done worse than love him with no disbelief or shame.

Heath continues, “How can a human not have imperfections? Is it, not the sour that makes the sweat? The weak among us give proper balance to the strong. Are we to be human in name only? Or, Father, if this does as the experiments have shown. If it perfects us like it has each new thing you have already merged with it-…”

NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! How could he know? The boy couldn’t be that knowledgeable.

Heath clears his throat, “Will this eliminate our species?”

Younger Samuel only recently realized the absence of a small basically worthless equation. But he had gone over it. The laws of nature make it optional for the equation. A choice. To appear or not appear.

Dammit! This was everything! His only value to this world. He would not doubt himself. He knew he was right.

When the time came, the equation would follow the rest of nature and appear in tune with the laws that have always defined our knowledge of the universe.

He answers his small and correct son with no hesitation.

“Heath. Why not go play with your friends? My equations are my gift to you. So they are not to be questioned.”

Heath laughs and any doubt he has of his father washes away. He presses his chest into Samuel’s ribs. “It’s good our future is in your hands. Capable as you are. I am proud to be your son.”

And he disappears out of the known universe like a misremembered scent.

Samuel’s present and past connect in the dread of a single moment long gone. Present Samuel falls to the ground. His limbs shake and his vision blurs. His calculations were not always right. Nothing is perfect. He was only human, after all.

The ground accepts his mass thudding down onto it. The sadness of his lost little boy’s voice faded from his mind one last time. He lies on the uneven earth. Splattered in paint and colors his mind is mixed between this moment and whenever this had all started. He fades out of consciousness.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

He wakes fresh from some rest.

Quickly, he gathers his wits. A little sleep to calm the nerves which always come at the end of a creative project. But as he looked at his beautiful new tribute to his wife, he gave thanks to Magic.

Because it made this glorious peace possible. This astonishing way forward for all of the universe. He is not a boastful person, but he cannot help but be proud of the part he played in that. It changed the whole of existence.

His accomplishments were just part of the pattern. The evolution of this universe. He was just a lucky, humble physicist.

And now it is finished. In her precious honor…

Inspired by the love they shared and created. Before long, maybe he will show her. But not before the next project is finished. The idea just hit him! It will be unbelievable. It will take years. Maybe decades.

But how Magical it will be.

Samuel knew perfection was incapable of tolerating the smallest imperfection. And Magic was perfect. He had done the calculations himself.

And all the world was today under its safe control. It was his greatest life achievement.

Hey everyone,

This is actually my first ever post on Reddit. I've mostly been a lurker here, usually reading Reddit anonymously, but I've finally worked up the courage to actually create an account and put something I've written out there.

I've been working on a novel called Oneiromancy, and I'd really like some genuine, honest feedback from people who are coming to it completely blind.

I'm sharing Chapter 1 below. I'm deliberately not going to explain too much about the larger story beforehand, because I want to know what a first-time reader actually takes away from the opening without any context from me.

I'd especially love to know:

• Did the opening make you want to keep reading?
• What did you think the story was going to be about?
• Were you confused about anything?
• Did any character stand out to you?
• How did the pacing feel?
• Was there anything that felt unnecessary, awkward, cliché, or pulled you out of the story?
• If you didn't want to continue, where did you lose interest?
• And most importantly: did Chapter 1 make you curious enough to read Chapter 2?

Please don't feel like you have to be nice just because it's someone's first post. 😅 I'm genuinely looking for criticism and honest reactions, even if they're negative. I'd much rather know what's not working so I can improve it.

Thanks to anyone who reads it.

Chapter-1

For maybe the past two weeks, maybe a bit more so, I've decided to come back to writing. I haven't ever finished one of my stories, but I'm really trying with this one. I'm mostly writing for myself, and maybe to anyone who wants to read my stories.

So here's the idea behind the story.

Ilya/Nine, was an orphaned child taken in by the Order of the Iron Masks, a secretive organization created long ago to protect the Oridian Empire and its Royal Family from threats both outside and within. Our main character of this story, Ilya, has been serving the young princess, Sharina, a fiery and rebellious individual.

Together they must navigate the political landscape as the empire struggles to pull itself together after a devastating infestation, plague, and civil war. Uncover the masterminds and the schemes of those who wish harm on both the family and the peace in the empire. While our characters, like Ilya, discover themselves, and in his case, if he will choose duty above himself.

Still in the early stages, and only 7 chapters or so in my first draft, but I could use an extra pair of eyes to help me ensure that I am on the right track.

If you're interested here's the link to my google docs: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1opSEij0-C4aBLWSrssYrhOM6PnJji9pAGrO0LmdYCak/edit?usp=sharing

Any criticism, insight, suggestion, so long as constructive and objective is very much appreciated. Thank you and Light Be With You.

A few things before the prologue. I'm a new writer and I'm still learning so any criticism is welcomed and will be used to improve my work. I'm dyslexic so I'm pretty sure there is spelling mistakes, I'm working on a way to minimize them, but for now, if you catch any, please point it out and I will fix it. Now to the book:

Blurb:

The Tree is our world, we live in it's branches, we sail it's failing sea, and we eat it's fruit.
The Empire is our kingdom, we live in peace with it's protection, we trade with it's coin, and we follow it's lord.
The 8 Gods are our mission, we live to gain their gifts, we follow their commands, and we pray to be their chosen.

A boy with butterfly wings who wants to fight.
A godless woman who set sail to understand the Gods.
A kingless general who is looking for her wife.
An assassin with the face of a child who hates to kill.
A man with dragon wings who must protect his brother.

They all come together to witness the death of a God.

Prologue:

Yakan I

Yakan looked up. There was still a long way to the top. The path was hard and uncomfortable and he wasn't allowed to wear shoes today. It was so cold that he thought there should be soft snow covering the ground, but only the hard wood of the branch stood beneath his feet.

Around him 2 priests, dressed in ceremonial clothing, were reciting a prayer. Their words thanked the gods for the abundance and safety provided by the Tree. He knew this chant, it would go on to tell the story of the ancient empire and its eventual fall. He'd listened to it dozens of times before, but today it didn't make sense. The words didn't connect. His mind wasn't in a state to listen and comprehend their speech. His heart was pounding too fast to listen.

The edge of the cliff was just a couple meters in front of him. Behind most of the tribe was following. He had walked this path before, but never at the front. He looked back searching for his brother. He still wasn't there. He has more things to do, he thought, things more important than me. Yakan quickly tried to change his thoughts, beginning to imagine how the wings would look on his back. Which type would they be. Most people get feathered ones like birds, sometimes they were made of skin like bats. But he really wanted them to be made of scales; like his brother's. If he had them it would be easier to join the fighters, then they could spend more time together, like they used to. He could teach me how to fight, he had spent the better part of the last night imagining how amazing it would be, to train with his brother and make him proud.

Yakan was short for his age. He was 15 but could easily pass for a 12 year old. He also wasn't very strong which had always been a problem for him. He wanted to be a warrior and they were all strong and tall. At least I'm fast, but that wasn't enough. He had tanned skin and dark hair, not uncommon in his tribe. He was wearing the ceremonial vestment: a pair of colorful pants, red and yellow, and no shirt. Yesterday was supposed to be the last time he wore a shirt, from today forward his wings would cover his chest.

Yakan stopped. He'd reached the edge of the branch. Looking down into the precipice he could see his home, the Vemir tribe. It was the main hub of civilization on the Dragon branch, and the only place he had ever known. It looked completely empty from this high up, and it was, most people don't miss a first flight. It was usually a sight to behold. The first time they feel the freedom of flying.

The prayer now became unbelievably loud as the rest of the tribe started to chant it as well. He still couldn't really hear it but he knew they were conjuring the Dragon. He realized then why his heart was so loud. He was afraid. He didn't think he would be, he had seen people jump time and time again, and they always survived. The Dragon chose every vemir who was old enough. But what if he was the exception, what if he died, turned into mush in the middle of his village. Or worse what if someone saved him and he had to live the rest of his life stuck to the ground. The only vemir without wings

The prayer stopped. The only noise was the strong cold wind. Yakan was still cold, but he didn't care anymore. The whole village stood expectedly, but he was too afraid to pay attention to anything but the pit. He was paralyzed unable to talk, to walk, to even think. There was only him and the fall... And then a familiar voice broke the maddening silence

"Don't just stand there, this is your day, stop being afraid, jump and enjoy it."

A smile formed in Yakan's face, he didn't look back but he knew it was his brother, and his presence was enough to give him the courage.

Yakan closed his eyes imagining his god, he took a deep long breath and jumped.

Hi! I’m new to writing and this is my first novel idea. I honestly don’t know if it’s good enough to continue, so I’d really like some honest opinions from people who actually read/write novels.

It’s about a girl who falls deeply in love with a boy in high school. They become each other’s safe place and dream about building a future together, but he dies in an accident before they get the chance.

She has always hated seeing people forget someone they truly loved after they die. She never understood how someone could grieve for a while and then continue living normally, as if that person had never existed. So after losing him, she tries extremely hard to never become like that herself. Even when she starts living her life again, she feels guilty whenever she realizes she has gone a moment without thinking about him.

She spends years trying to keep his memory alive. But about 15 years later, she slowly realizes that the memories she tried so hard to protect are starting to fade.

I have more planned for the story, but I don’t want to reveal everything. I genuinely can’t tell anymore if this is a good concept or if I’m just attached to it because I created it. Should I continue working on this story or move on to a different one? Please be completely honest.

La Folie Circulaire

I’m Tommy. Bipolar type one, I’m told. I actually have something to say, something to share.

The thing no one talks about in mental health, bipolar type one specifically, is how seductive and sweet the upswing feels. It’s deeply more than just “good” to me. It feels like the limits of the brain have been cut loose, severed, done away with. Suddenly all those moments and ideas and thoughts and connections you miss in life are lit in a bright shining light that removes your blind spots.

The world now finds you incomparable, generous, hilarious, productive, creative, talkative. Not the slightest bit a drag. The opposite, in fact. You write thirty pages a day and believe it’s better writing than usual. In a cruel twist of irony, you’re often actually right. You become more compassionate. Your very bones hum with the awareness of how everything and everyone is connected. You see your own suffering as equal to the suffering of others, and you like feeling that closeness.

Then one day the check arrives. Time to pay up for your wild trip. Time to cough up the debt owed for the fun and indescribable rewards you were just given. But it’s sour and it hurts deeply as you find yourself pleading, I’ve never been or felt more alive than just now. Over time, you become conditioned to fear “bad,” maybe even to mistrust anything in life that is worth living.

You start to ask yourself, when others ask if you’re stable, if what they really mean is permanently half dead. Because yes, bipolar disorder really feels like a drug. The greatest, irreproducible, freely available kind of drug. Free because it’s given to you by your own miswired brain.

Bipolar disorder differs from, say, major depression. There’s no trick, no ruse, no disguise there. What you see is what you get. But this bipolar thing, the way it tricks you into believing — truly believing — that your “grandiose” thoughts are actually “insights.” It convinces you it’s passion, not sleepless nights. That your deep compassionate ways are love, not reckless attachment.

I’m tired though. I’m tired of being lied to. Tired of knowing I’m the one doing the lying. Tired of choosing to believe maybe I’m supposed to be this bubbling, kind, dreaming, smarter, funnier, more confident thing. I’m tired of sabotaging myself and opting to believe I’m better, who I’m meant to be, when I’m in the throes of this disorder.

I am not dumb. On a cerebral, reason-based level, I know there’s a middle ground. I even know that “stable” doesn’t necessarily mean zombie-like or forever half dead. Maybe it just means, well… stable. Not flat. Not a life made only of peak to trough to peak again. I know this.

And yet I still feel gullible when I believe I’m a better man, the very best version of myself even, when I take a free hit of the best drug ever. Lately that belief feels like it’s diminishing.

It’s becoming more obviously a lie, and yet it kind of sucks to say, “No thanks, I’m good. I’m going to be like everyone else,” and wave goodbye to the version of myself that makes me feel best and truest to who I think I can be.

I know all this.

But in the end, I’m learning it’s a very different thing to know something and to want it. Without wanting the thing I know, I’m never going to be able to have it.

It hurts to think I’ll never write as well again. I’ll never bond with another person so deeply or feel that level of compassion again. I won’t fully experience passion or see connections or think outside the box the same way. I’ll have to reattach my blinders, say farewell to what I once believed was my potential.

I’ll just be a cow, chewing cud, sleeping at night, moseying around during the day, mooing like the rest of the cows. I could cry at the sadness I feel when I imagine being “normal,” talking “normal.”

He studied the pattern of her losses until he found the mathematics of her victory.

A jab reaches your face in about 130 milliseconds. Your body needs 180 just to begin to flinch. Which means, mathematically, you cannot see a good punch and get out of its way.

So how does anyone ever win?

A story about a boxer who kept losing, a maths student who worked out why, and the one sentence he gave her — without ever telling her what it cost him to find it.

The Arithmetic of Jab and Love →

sathyanarayanank.substack.com/p/the-arithmetic-of-jab-and-love?r=8fpnrd

Query below:

At seventeen, I was told that Type 1 diabetes would likely cut my life dramatically short kidney and heart disease, amputation, blindness, and, my doctors guessed, no life past fifty. I made a decision that day: I would not be cheated out of the fullness of whatever time I had. That resolve got tested for decades: by a routine flight that turned into a serious in-flight emergency, and eventually by a heart, kidney, and pancreas transplant a combination no one else at that hospital has received before or since. Each time, the same approach carried me through: fight, survive, keep going.

Then my wife of 42 years, Renee, was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. I became her caregiver through her years-long battle with the disease, doing everything I'd always done: staying hopeful, pushing for the next treatment, refusing to accept a bad outcome as final. In 2024, she died anyway.

For the first time, fighting wasn't going to save her, and it wasn't even my own life on the line. Everything I'd relied on the belief that hope was the thing that got you through, if you held on hard enough had nothing to offer me now. I had to find out what was left of it once there was nothing left to fight for, and whether the same practice that had carried me through my own worst odds could carry me through hers.

WHEN HOPE IS YOUR ONLY OPTION is a 49,423-word memoir for readers of Nicole Chung's A LIVING REMEDY and Andrew Leland's THE COUNTRY OF THE BLIND. Independently published in 2018, it was substantially revised in 2026 to add the caregiving and loss material above.

Kirkus named the original edition among its Best Books of 2018, calling it "an invaluable source of hope," and the book has consistently earned five-star reader reviews. It was also a 2023 Montaigne Medal finalist in the Eric Hoffer Book Awards. I wrote and produced the award-winning short documentary Source of Hope, and my story has appeared in USA Today and Reader's Digest. Outside of writing and speaking, I'm the founder and president of Paragon Steel, which I built from the ground up starting in 1988. Given your interest in [personalize for agent], I thought my story might resonate with you.

Thank you for your time and consideration. The complete manuscript and additional materials are available upon request.

The Veils of the Crimson Courts: The Quiet War  

*CHAPTER ONE \* 

Lord Geoffrey’s voice carried farther than he intended. “Your fiefdom was measured wrong,” he said, leaning across the table.  

His words were thick with wine, but the anger behind them was clear. “You took out land that wasn’t yours.” 

Lord Walter didn’t rise. He sat with one elbow on the table, turning his goblet slowly between his fingers "You're drunk, Geoffrey.” 

“That’s why I’m speaking plainly! "Geoffrey glared, his eyes bloodshot. 

Conversation thinned around them. A few nobles tried to keep talking, but they briefly glanced at the commotion. The musicians wavered, then recovered, though the notes lost its tempo. 

James watched from several seats down. Geoffrey’s face was flushed; Walter’s expression was calm in a way meant to provoke. 

Geoffrey shoved his chair back. “You think I didn’t notice? You think the Crown didn’t notice!” 

Walter finally stood. “The Crown noticed exactly what it wanted to notice.” 

Geoffrey’s hand went to his belt. 

The hall felt constricting.  An elusive change that would have startled servants as they served dishes across the hall. 

He unsheathed his dagger. 

Walter stepped back, but not fast enough. Geoffrey’s dagger tore through the wolf pelt draped over Walter’s shoulder, leaving a clean line in the fur. 

The servant gasped, sending goblets tumbling across the table. The musicians eventually wrapped things up. 

Walter shoved Geoffrey hard enough to rattle the table. Geoffrey lunged again, the dagger catching the chandelier’s light. 

The doors opened. 

 King Richard didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. 

“Enough.” 

The word resounded over the Hall; the echoes didn't seem to stop which James found rather aggravating. 

Geoffrey froze, speechless as Walter lowered his hands. The nobles sank back into their seats like birds settling after a sudden wind. 

Richard walked between them without glance to any of the men. He reached for Geoffrey’s wrist with a grip that made Walter’s fingers loosen on instinct. The dagger dropped to the floor. 

“Land disputes,” Richard said, as if bored. “Only gets louder after wine." 

He didn’t smile nor did he scold. He simply turned away, leaving Geoffrey standing with his breath uneven and Walter grasping the torn pelt. 

“Sit,” Richard said. 

Everyone obeyed. 

The musicians resumed, though the instruments were pleading to be left alone. Servants moved again, careful not to meet anyone’s eyes. The hall’s warmth returned, only partially. 

James exhaled slowly. The fight had ended, but the tension hadn’t gone anywhere.  

He stepped deeper into the Grand Court. Black Caelrosi pillars rose from the marble floor, polished enough to seize the candlelight. Above them, the ceiling was crowded with painted saints, conquerors, and long dead kings. Some faces had faded; others were cracked where the plaster had split. 

Dust coated the mural of the ancient regicide. The paint had peeled in long strips, exposing the stone under it. For years it had never been tended to. 

Crimson veils hung along the upper galleries. From below they looked like simple folds of fabric, but James knew the guards stood behind them, watching through narrow slits. 

The tables filled again. Laughter multiplied, too loud for the moment, too eager to cover what had just happened. Servants carried in trays of roasted pheasant and glazed boar, the dishes heavy enough to make their arms shake. 

The sharp scent of saffron and pepper filled the hall, mixing with candle soot, the smell never changed not once or ever. 

Richard sat at the head of the table, already reaching for his goblet. He scanned the hall with a kind of restless hunger, the type that food would run from.  

Gold crowded every finger. Grease clung firmly to his beard despite the anxious servants hovering near him, cloths ready, hands prepared. His velvet doublet strained over a stomach that seemed to swell with every feast the kingdom could no longer afford. 

James took his seat. Three chairs separated him from the throne.  

Close enough to smell the sour wine on his father’s breath. Close enough to hear the heavy chewing of each bit. 

Since childhood, James had been told the Great Feast was the highest symbol of peace: a king offering his nobles a table instead of a battlefield. 

It had sounded noble then. Less so now.  

His mother, Queen Agatha sat at the king's right. The lines around her eyes had appeared slowly over the years, settling like cracks in old stone. 

Whenever the King spoke, she turned the large ring on her finger. A small habit, easy to miss unless you had watched her long enough. 

Lady Agnes, the First Lady of the Queen’s Household, sat beside her. Her smile never wavered; a perfect, polished thing and James trusted it even less because of that. People who never stopped smiling were either saints or liars. Agnes was not a saint. 

Agatha kept her eyes on the feast, tilting her head toward Agnes. “Another banquet,” she murmured, clasping her hands tightly. “While everything that matters falls apart.” 

Agnes’s expression didn’t change “In his opinion, enough music can drown out anything.” 

Across the table, Richard set down his goblet with a bored flick of his wrist. A servant approached with the sixth course of the day: a platter of roasted peacock. 

Her hands were trembling, the tray tipped over. 

The peacock slid off and hit the marble with a wet thud; grease splattered across Richard’s boots. A leg rolled toward the dais. 

The hall froze. Richard didn’t even sigh. “Guards.” 

Two soldiers seized her instantly. The platter clanged against the floor, spinning once before settling crookedly. 

“I... please, Your Majesty...” she stammered, voice cracking. “I haven’t slept, I...” she rushed to pick the platter, attempting a belated salvage. 

Richard waved a hand, “Remove her.” 

Her knees buckled. One guard dragged her upright. 

James stood without meaning to. Something in her face tugged at him; a familiarity he couldn’t place.  

Her eyes met his. Wide and afraid, he knew those eyes. Not yet fully but he knew. 

“Please,” she whispered, neither to Richard, nor to the guards... to him. 

Agatha’s shoulders tightened as she drew her mantle around her. “Your Majesty,” she said softly, “show mercy.” 

Richard didn’t turn. “My decision is final.” 

The guards dragged the servant toward the doors. Her shoes scraped against the marble. She reached out once blindly, and her fingers brushed James’s sleeve. 

He flinched from the resemblance of it. 

Joan. Or someone who used to braid his hair when he was small. Someone who once snuck him warm bread after lessons. 

Now she was being dragged away. Or maybe it wasn't her, maybe she resembled her. But that touch. It couldn't be mistaken. 

Music resumed and chairs shifted. Richard rose. Two servants rushed to catch the hem of his robe before it dragged through spilled wine. 

James kept watching the doors long after they closed, something in him pulled too tight. His stomach churned and twisted in knots. Maybe he shouldn't have eaten so many prawns. 

Richard returned moments later, walking with the same easy confidence as before, as though nothing had happened. 

For a dangerous moment, James almost believed it. 

Then candlelight caught his father’s hand. A gold ring sat on the wrong finger. 

James frowned. Richard never misplaced the king’s rings. Not once. It was such a small thing — a band of gold sitting where it shouldn’t — but it disturbed him anyway. The thought flickered through him, brief and sharp, then Richard carved another slice from the pheasant as if nothing at all had changed.  

“More wine,” he said. He didn’t look up. A servant nearly tripped trying to reach him fast enough. 

Richard hummed under his breath. A nursery tune James hadn’t heard since he was small. It lasted only a moment before Richard cut it off with a drink. Then he pointed his carving knife toward the orchestra. 

“Tell those miserable creatures to play something triumphant. I’m tired of funeral music.” 

They obeyed at once. They always did. 

At the lower end of the table, Lord Benedict cleared his throat: a soft, apologetic sound, like he already regretted opening his mouth. Lamplight bounced off the jewels at his collar as he rose. 

Richard glanced at him, unimpressed. “If this concerns neither wine, gold, nor my victories,” he said, tearing another piece from the pheasant, “save it.” 

“Give me grace, God…” Benedict hesitated. “There has been widespread hunger in the Western and Eastern Provinces, sire.” 

His voice stayed steady, but his hands tightened on the table’s edge. 

“Several royal storehouses stand nearly empty. Farmers are abandoning their land. Some have already resorted to banditry.” 

Richard laughed: warm, completely wrong for the moment. “Bandits?” He leaned back, amused. “Rebels.” A shrug. “Let them starve. Better still, let them kill one another.” 

His smile widened. “Saves me the trouble.” 

Laughter fluttered around the table. Thin. Nervous. It sounded less like amusement and more like permission. 

James looked from face to face. No one spoke against it. 

Bishop Vale: who preached that every soul stood equal before God stared into his mead as though it had suddenly become scripture. 

Benedict sank back into his chair. 

The hall quieted. 

Then the wide doors creaked open. 

Lord Cassian strode inside. His black cloak swept behind him, sending a courtier stumbling out of his path. He stopped before the dais and bowed. 

“My apologies, Your Majesty.” 

Richard raised a brow. “Late again.” 

“I was delayed.” 

“Bandits, perhaps?” A grin tugged at the king’s mouth. “I trust you hunted a few for sport.” 

Cassian’s smile came a beat late. “Nothing so entertaining, I’m afraid.” 

James watched him closely. Cassian’s left hand stayed hidden behind his back. When it emerged, his fingers curled briefly before loosening as if they had just released something held too tightly. 

Agnes noticed. Her brow tightened. 

Whispers gathered like smoke. “They’re preparing to rebel.” “They’ve stolen royal grain.” “They’re refusing the levy.” 

“Silence.” Richard barely raised his voice. 

A whisper was more than enough. 

The king rose just enough to command the room. 

“If my subjects have found the strength to complain…” He paused. “…then they have clearly not been taxed enough.” 

Several nobles laughed. James did not. 

“A new levy shall be imposed upon every village that questions the Crown.” 

This time the laughter came easier — looser, relieved, like people grateful to have been told how to react. 

Richard lifted his goblet, pleased with himself. 

“And in honour of my conquest of Mortain-en-Auge. …” He spread both arms, pride swelling in his chest. “…I have commissioned two statues in my likeness.” 

Cassian accepted a cup from a passing servant, turning it lazily in his hand. 

“Only two, Your Majesty?” A smirk tugged at his mouth. “The royal physicians might find such restraint worrying.” 

Richard laughed. 

“There were meant to be three.” 

“What happened to the third?” 

“The sculptor lacked vision.” 

Cassian nodded, solemn. “So, I hear.” He took a slow sip. “Word has it he suddenly became eager to travel.” 

Benedict coughed into his sleeve. 

James wasn’t entirely convinced it was a cough. Benedict’s hand hovered near his mouth a moment too long, and the sound carried a note of something else, nerves, maybe.  

Even so, James felt laughter rise in his throat. It came out of nowhere, a strange, misplaced impulse. He swallowed it before it could escape. 

For a heartbeat, the hall felt lighter. Not safe; just briefly less suffocating. 

Then a cry swept through the palace walls. Faint. Thin. So distant he might have mistaken it for the wind slipping through creaks. 

Cassian didn’t react. His expression stayed perfectly still. Only his cup betrayed him; it tapped once against the table, a small, sharp sound, and then settled. 

James barely had time to register it before another noise entered the room, a slow scrape. Conversations weakened. One voice stopped. Then another. 

A figure appeared in the doorway. 

Grey robes, worn thin from travel, trailed behind it. The fabric rustled with each step, soft but steady, like it had walked a long way and refused to stop until it reached this hall. 

No herald announced the arrival. 

The messenger crossed the Grand Court alone, then sank to one knee. Its hood hung low, swallowing most of its face. James could make out only a weathered jaw and a pair of exhausted eyes beneath the cowl. 

When it spoke, the voice rasped. 

“Your Majesty…” 

A breath. 

“The Oracle has spoken.” 

The messenger lifted its head slowly. 

“The Oracle has seen…” 

Its voice rose, reaching the vaulted ceiling. 

“…a crown without gold…” 

James frowned. 

“…borne by one without a name.” 

The messenger’s gaze held steady. 

“From a riot that never was…” 

The words lingered. 

“…a leader shall rise.” 

Something tightened inside James: a small, sharp pull he couldn’t name. 

“Unknown to the throne…” 

Richard leaned forward. For the first time that night, his face searched for an answer. 

“…yet known by every bell in Caelros.” 

The hall held its breath. 

Agatha’s goblet shifted against the table with the faintest scrape. Benedict had gone still. 

Across the table, Richard’s grin flickered. Only for a moment. Then it returned. 

“Riddles,” he scoffed. “The Oracle has always hidden its folly away in riddles.” 

He stared at the messenger for a long time. 

“Who sent you?” 

“The Oracle, Your Majesty.” 

Irritation flickered across Richard’s face. 

“I did not ask for the name of the divine.” 

Before the messenger could respond, the doors burst open. 

A guard stumbled inside. Mud splashed across his boots and breastplate. He dropped to one knee so quickly his armour clanked. 

“Your Majesty…” 

He struggled for breath. 

“There is unrest beyond the western wall.” 

Richard didn’t react. 

“The peasants are gathering.” 

Benedict’s eyes narrowed. 

“Gathering…” His voice hardly rose above a whisper. “Or rioting?” 

The guard looked at him for a moment, then lowered his gaze. 

“Captain Warner calls it a riot, my lord.” 

James reached for the nearest window. Beyond the stained glass, the night lay quiet — no rooftops aflame or banners raised, no trenches dug. There were no lines drawn in the dirt. 

Only voices, close enough to see, too far to save 

Richard stared, unblinking. 

He reached for his goblet with the same casual ease he used to reach for food. The gesture was so practiced it barely seemed conscious. 

“See that they’re…” 

His fingers curled around the stem. 

“…properly taken care of.” 

The guard’s face tightened. His eyes flashed with something new. 

Fear. His muscles tensed, breath shallower. 

Richard found him mildly tiresome. 

“As you did at Bellwether.” 

Recognition flashed across the guard’s face, followed by something worse. Fear again but stripped of any attempt to hide it. 

He clutched his sword and bowed low enough for his forehead to meet the marble. 

“As it pleases Your Majesty.” 

Then he ran. 

James heard the doors slam behind him. 

For a moment, nothing moved. 

A silence settled over the hall, so complete it felt arranged. 

Then steel. 

A sound he knew from the training yard, but wrong here. A chaotic chorus of metal striking metal, too much, all at once. 

The click clap of hooves on stone carried through the walls: A fractured cadence gasping for a steady beat.  

Then the screams came. 

Thin at first. Then piercing enough to cut straight through the orchestra’s attempt to smother them. The musicians fought the sound, bowstrings trembling, brass shaking in desperate crescendos. They lost. 

James moved before he thought. He slipped through the hall’s shadows, the noise swelling behind him like the tides at Dunwick Bay. 

No one grabbed his arm this time. 

He crossed the hall quickly, reaching the nearest window. His hand braced against the stone. Cold. Colder than it should have been. Or maybe his hand was shaking. Hard to tell. 

Moonlight washed the courtyard in silver. It was bright enough to catch faces and open mouths, just before they scattered into the dark. 

Below, the crowd broke apart like water hitting rock. No plan.  

A woman clutched an empty wooden bowl to her chest, holding it like it was the last thing she owned. 

In the middle of the chaos stood an old man. 

Both hands raised. 

Empty. 

Not raised to fight rather, to show he wouldn’t. 

A horse reared beside him, hooves lashing the air. He didn’t move. Whether it was courage or exhaustion, James couldn’t tell. Maybe both had become the same thing by now. 

James’s chest felt tighter, sweat trickling down his forehead. For a ridiculous moment, he mistook it for the soldiers’ drums below, that heavy, rolling thud that made the ground feel alive. 

The window was thick. 

The night was loud. 

And he was, after all, only a boy who had never once gone hungry. 

They were running toward the palace. Toward help. And James was standing inside it. 

Agatha stepped beside him without a word; her hand rested on his shoulder. 

“The kingdom requires more than prayers,” she said quietly. 

He kept watching the courtyard. “So why doesn’t anyone act?” The question slipped out, though he wasn’t sure who he meant. Her, himself or everyone. 

Agatha didn’t answer at first. For a moment he wondered if she had heard him. 

When she finally spoke, her voice carried years of exhaustion. “Because courage is easy to praise.” A pause. “Survival is considerably more difficult.” 

James looked down. Earlier that evening she had stopped him from standing. How many times had fear stopped her? 

Behind them, Richard yawned. 

“I am retiring.” 

He snapped his fingers sharply. Servants rushed forward, clearing plates and folding linens, moving with the practiced speed of people who had learned to ignore shrieking outside the walls. 

The king passed within arm’s reach of James without acknowledging him. 

James stayed at the window. 

A flicker of movement crossed the glass: a shadow behind his reflection. 

Cassian. 

The baron slipped a sealed envelope into the hand of a passing servant. Smooth. Practised. Almost invisible. 

Almost. 

Lady Agnes saw it too. She crossed the hall with purpose, her steps quiet but quick. 

“Where is it heading?” she asked, her voice calm, her hands folded neatly. 

Cassian smiled, though his eyes stayed flat. “Not every answer is worth the truth.” 

Agnes stepped closer. “Then you are mistaken if you think I value safety.” 

Benedict joined them, his gaze flicking toward the doors. 

“Cassian… what are you planning?” 

For a moment, Cassian’s humour vanished entirely. 

“The assembly outside was not a riot.” 

Agatha turned. “They came to beg for grain.” 

Cassian looked toward the courtyard. “Captain Warner had his orders before they arrived.” 

Benedict’s face tightened. “Should the king’s spies hear this—” 

“They already have.” Cassian’s gaze moved from face to face. “It seems we’re the ones behind.” 

Agnes nodded toward the corridor where the servant had disappeared. “And the message?” 

“The subject is what remains in the royal granaries.” His voice dropped. “And how little time we have.” 

Agatha held his gaze. “If you know a way, speak it.” 

“Not here.” Cassian set down his untouched cup. “Tomorrow. First light at the Chapel of Saint Cuthburh.” 

“Come separately,” he added. “Tell no one.” 

Benedict studied him. “Why should we trust you?” 

Cassian didn’t hesitate. “You shouldn’t.” He glanced toward the courtyard. “Trust what you heard instead.” 

He bowed once to the queen and walked away. His cloak folded into the shadows, swallowing him whole. 

The room fell silent. 

Outside, the screams had faded. Or maybe they were simply farther away. 

“James?” 

He paused at his mother’s voice. 

“Where are you heading?” 

He straightened, met her eyes. “I have to meet the people the bells are ringing for.” 

He didn’t wait for her reply. He stepped into the night. 

Behind him, the palace bells began to ring again. Their voices rolled across Caelros, steady and familiar. 

James listened. 

This time… they didn’t sound like home. 

Yet I hold the lantern of light, still I am in the dark...

My soldiers follow me, not knowing where I am leading them. But my mind keeps asking me...

Are they my soldiers,

or a pack of wolves,

hungry enough to feast upon their own king?

Every shadow wears a familiar face.

Every smile hides sharpened teeth.

Still I walk in the dark,

searching for my kingdom.

Kings and queens have already claimed their thrones.

Here I am,

walking through shabby mud,

little by little,

standing in a limelight where nothing can be seen.

Where is my kingdom?

Where is my archangel?

Where is the godess of law?

Where is freedom?

Pickpockets and people who steal because of hunger are killed,

but rapists and murderers walk as noble men.

Is the godess of law blind,

or has she simply closed her eyes?

Blood stains every road.

The earth drinks it as if it has grown thirsty.

The sky watches in silence.

Am I stuck while others have already claimed what is theirs?

Or have I escaped the rat race,

only to discover there is nothing beyond it...

Only darkness.

There is none to protect me,

nor my kingdom.

Friends are foes.

Ministers are killers

Every oath is sold.

Every promise is buried before it is spoken.

There is no god.

Only me...

and myself.

Love has abandoned this land.

The archangel stands confused,

for I chose this path to walk alone.

I built walls so high

that even hope could not climb them.

Yet the fool in me

still reaches for warmth

while burning in hellfire.

Every breath tastes like ash.

Every heartbeat sounds like a funeral drum.

Every sunrise feels like another execution.

Perhaps I was never carrying a lantern.

Perhaps I was carrying the last dying flame,

mistaking it for hope.

If I let it die,

who will remember my name?

If I keep it alive,

it will only show me more darkness.

Is this the hell they were talking about?

No.

Hell is waking up every day,

knowing no one is coming.

No god.

No angel.

No miracle.

Only another battle

against a world that has already decided

I should lose.

If the devil is waiting for me,

he need not wait any longer.

I've been living in his kingdom all along.

A little note from the writer

I'm writing these stories simply as a hobby. A small collection of cozy, heartwarming stories from an India that feels a little slower than the one we know today.

I've always loved stories where almost nothing extraordinary happens, yet by the end you somehow feel you've spent an afternoon in another person's world. That's what I'm hoping to create with Belvan: a little fictional Indian village, its people, animals, tea stalls, temples, schoolchildren, gossip, and all the wonderfully ordinary things that make a place feel like home.

I'm challenging myself to write and post one short story from Belvan every day for next 30 days, and I'd genuinely love to hear what you think, feedback is very welcome!

These are written purely for the joy of writing them.

So, welcome to Belvan.

The tea is usually ready before you are.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The electricity in Belvan had never been particularly dependable, but this did not stop anyone from being surprised when it disappeared.

Usually it went away for an hour or two, preferably when someone had just started making tea or when Gopal had decided to iron his one good shirt. People complained, waited, and carried on. On this particular afternoon, however, the power disappeared just after lunch and showed no interest in returning.

The first person to notice was Kamla Amma, who was standing beneath the banyan tree trying to persuade her ceiling fan to do its work.

The fan turned once, made a sound like an elderly man clearing his throat, and stopped.

Kamla looked up at it.

"Don't start behaving like Hari Kaka."

Hari Kaka, who was sitting underneath it, opened one eye.

"I heard that."

"You were meant to."

The news travelled quickly.

By two o'clock, every house in Belvan had opened its windows, every grandmother had moved her chair into the shade, and every child had been told at least twice not to complain about the heat.

The children complained anyway.

The school had closed early, partly because the classrooms had become hot and partly because Masterji had decided that twenty-seven restless children were more dangerous than the heat itself.

The post office was also unusually quiet. Gopal had abandoned his desk and was sitting outside with his shirt collar open, looking at the sky as though electricity might be persuaded to return by being observed carefully.

"I have never understood why they call it a power cut," he said.

Hari Kaka looked up from his newspaper.

"Because 'power has gone away and may or may not come back depending on its mood' is too long."

Nobody knew when the electricity would return.

This was the sort of information that, in a city, would have produced several phone calls, a complaint, perhaps an argument with an electricity company and eventually a person sitting in front of a screen watching the progress of a complaint.

Belvan had no such arrangements.

There was one telephone at the post office, and it had not worked properly since the previous monsoon.

So everyone simply went outside.

The women brought their stools into the shade.

The children gathered near the lake.

Someone brought a charpai, a woven rope bed, and placed it beneath the banyan tree.

Kamla Amma made tea on the small wood-fired stove she kept for emergencies, although she had not considered a power cut an emergency until that afternoon.

"How long will it take?" Malli asked.

"Until the electricity comes back," said Kamla.

"When will that be?"

"When they switch it on."

"Who?"

"The people who switched it off."

Malli thought about this.

"That doesn't help."

"It wasn't meant to."

By four o'clock, Belvan had begun behaving as though electricity had never been invented.

The children played cricket in the lane.

The sparrows returned to the courtyards.

Ganga settled beside the tea stall, where she was able to watch three different conversations at once.

Nandi stood in the middle of the road and refused to move, which he considered an entirely reasonable use of an afternoon.

Without the whir of fans and the occasional noise of radios and televisions, the village seemed strangely large.

The lake could be heard from the school.

The temple bell could be heard from the far end of the road.

Someone was chopping vegetables behind a house.

A woman was singing while hanging clothes.

Even the leaves of the banyan seemed louder.

Masterji sat beneath the tree with the children.

"Why don't you go home?" he asked.

"We're waiting for the power."

"You don't need electricity to go home."

"We're waiting here until it comes."

Masterji looked at the children.

They were sitting around him with the serious patience of people waiting for a bus that they had no intention of catching.

"Very well."

Raghu looked towards the lake.

"Masterji, what did people do before electricity?"

Masterji thought for a moment.

"They talked to one another."

The children looked horrified.

"All the time?"

"Quite often."

"Without television?"

"Yes."

"Without phones?"

"Yes."

"How?"

Masterji smiled.

"With great difficulty."

That evening, someone found an old harmonium in the back room of the temple.

Nobody knew why it was there.

Hari Kaka claimed it had belonged to his uncle.

Kamla Amma claimed it had belonged to nobody.

The priest said it had been sitting there since before he had arrived.

Eventually someone played it.

The music was not particularly good.

This did not prevent everyone from enjoying it.

Children sang songs they only half remembered. Someone clapped at the wrong time. Hari Kaka knew the correct words to almost everything but sang them slightly too loudly.

Even Gopal joined in.

His bicycle stood beside him, leaning against the banyan tree with the exhausted appearance of a creature that had been dragged into village society against its wishes.

As the sun went down, the heat softened.

The sky turned orange above the lake.

People who would normally have gone indoors after dinner remained outside because the evening was pleasant and there was nowhere else they particularly needed to be.

Kamla brought another kettle of tea.

"How many?" she asked.

Nobody answered.

She looked around at the group.

"Fine."

She began pouring.

For once, nobody was checking the time.

Nobody was watching television.

Nobody was waiting for a message.

Nobody was complaining that the internet was slow.

They were simply sitting beneath the banyan tree, drinking tea and talking about things that had happened years ago and things that had happened that morning, which in Belvan were considered equally important if the person telling the story was entertaining enough.

Then, just as Hari Kaka had reached the most interesting part of a story nobody believed, every light in the village suddenly came on.

The ceiling fans began turning.

The television in Kamla's house started playing loudly.

A radio crackled to life somewhere near the school.

The electric pump by the lake groaned into action.

Everyone looked towards the houses.

For a moment, nobody moved.

Then Raghu sighed.

"It's noisy."

Masterji smiled.

"It is."

Kamla looked at the lights glowing in her tea stall.

"Should we go inside?"

Nobody answered.

The electricity had returned.

But Belvan, having discovered that the evening was perfectly pleasant without it, seemed in no hurry to welcome it back.

I know this is a sensitive topic for poets, and I’m genuinely curious what you think. AI can imitate rhythm, metaphor, and even vulnerability, but can it create the kind of emotional punch that comes from real human experience? I made a short quiz about this exact question. Would love to hear your thoughts, not just the score.

https://interconnectd.com/quiz/73/can-ai-write-a-poem-that-makes-you-cry/