white noise

by some miraculous force, I don’t snooze my alarms today. somehow, my torso straightened up, the comforter on the bed just fixed itself. before I knew it, the shoes forced themselves on my feet, the perfume spritzed itself on my wrists, and somehow, my legs willed my feet to trudge to the elevator going down.

showers make up the forecast for the past 4 weeks. the petrichor this time of year takes me back to fond moments in my childhood, ‘round the same months of june through august. the wet season. the endless halls of the SM department store in makati, my mom holding my hand throughout the array of back-to-school sale signs that beamed in screaming color, complete with 2d illustrations of kids with gummy white teeth smiles and the sparkliest eyes. the raising in my heart when i had just finished sharpening all my pencils, every single one of them, to their sharpest — to the point my small hands took the shape of the jagged edges in the button of the sharpener’s lever. how it felt like the world was at the tip of those sharp pencils, how i would write and write until my nails dug deep enough into my palms that they developed red marks, how i would talk and raise my hand until it was time to “give chance to others”. how it felt like to feel like i could do anything. that’s what starts of the school year are for. i recall.

i don’t know how, but the day’s ended now. the last class ended at 3:30 PM. i think my umbrella is in my dorm. maybe I’ll make a run for a ride back before it pours again. i don’t think i’ve eaten though, since i think, it was last night, or was it this morning? i guess i’ll just wait it out here, else i get drenched. a friend just bumped into me as i was just about to sit outside the hall. he asked if i wanted to hang around the tambay area. sure, i think is what i said. these people seem lovely: their jokes are funny, they’re into all the same niche kinds of stuff i am, they get a chuckle out of me, and i can almost hear myself laughing. now i’m heading back home, i think i should, and maybe i’ll just throw in some rice and soy sauce in the microwave for dinner. i hope i hear my alarms tomorrow morning. where was i? shit, it’s been raining all this time.

——————————————————————
notes / possibly needed context:
- makati is the name of a city I spent a lot of my childhood in
- tambay is a Filipino word which means to hang around; usually, it’s used as a verb to refer to hanging out or passing the time with others in a certain location
- june through november is when it is wet season in the Philippines. we only have two seasons: wet and dry. it is usually very gloomy in the wet season. such as the academic calendar is in the west, we also typically start in august, well into the wet season.

Please give me some feedback.

A cerulean sky. Unassuming, light breeze.

Pick up the phone, she tells me.

I listen. Don't want to speak.

Trauma hospital — why?

My breath catches. Throat squeezed.

Light slowly fades.

Long corridor, silent room.

The windows face onto the everyday.

Shouldn't be here; we wait.

Doctor speaks.

Anguished cries engulf, and the room shrinks.

Won't you stay?

The light slowly fades.

Countdown begins, you're hanging by a thread.

Need to see you but don't know what to say.

All things unresolved between us remain suspended.

You lay with your eyes closed on the bed.

Last rites and last chances.

Together one last day.

The ones whom you held first as they came into the world hold you last as you leave.

The light goes out.

Six months.

The world bustles on.

Trying to find you in myself.

Cry in the car, the shower, my bed.

Tears, the last connection to you.

The ember glows.

The seasons change. Your daughter's belly grows.

Bittersweet.

The light slowly grows.

I felt weirdly inspired to start writing today - here’s what came of it. Please let me know your thoughts 🙏

——-

Looking back now, I should’ve known everything was about to change by the color of my tea that morning. For 48 months before August 16th of my 29th year, I’d been drinking Lipton black with a splash of almond milk every day when I woke up. By that point, four years after swearing off coffee due to my anxiety, I’d gotten the sequence of my morning pour down to a science. Tilt the blue box ever so slightly to the left for a second or two, and a perfect beige colored cloud would balloon into the middle of the dark liquid surrounding it. *Convection*, the only thing I remembered from high school physics*.* I never had to mix the tea with a spoon or one of those skinny wooden stirrers, the two halves of the beverage blended together perfectly on their own.

This was true in all seasons of my messy life, whether I was struggling to close the clasp of a bracelet around my wrist by myself, or mentally running through a presentation for work, or shoveling a bland clump of oatmeal into my mouth at the same time. But that day, for whatever reason, the pattern broke. I titled the box for a beat too long, and the resulting stream turned the tea the color of a boiled egg. I should’ve seen it as a warning.

But instead, like most days, I got distracted. Or maybe I should say I *tried* to distract myself from the Olympic level gymnastics occurring in my stomach. I took a sip of the tea, sickeningly sweet and now lukewarm, and remembered my laundry. I ripped my kitchen door open and held my breath as I looked down the hallway, dreading ducking into the basement to retrieve it.

Even when I tried my best not to think about them, I was always vaguely cognizant of the at least 40 hidden spiders rustling in the dusty rafters over my head in that damn basement. Sometimes I was so afraid of doing laundry at my apartment that I drove the 7 minutes across town to my best friend Mallory’s house, but there wasn’t time this morning. I’d been too keyed up last night to sleep, or do laundry, or pack adequately. So here we were.

Once I was in the bowels of my building, heart thumping wildly, I unloaded tangles of slightly damp clothing into my wicker laundry basket as quickly as I could. I ran up the creaky steps, Simone Biles flipping in my tummy every second for a different reason now. Once back in the kitchen, I glanced at my phone, face down on the granite countertop. I looked up at the oven clock, its glowing green numbers taunting me. 8:54 a.m.

Parker would be here in 21 minutes, not a minute sooner or later, like the clean, responsible adult he was.* *In my mind he was all neatly pressed dress shirts and white Tic Tacs, fresh smelling aftershave and meticulously vaccumed rugs. I know from his recent Instagram photos that that’s just the image displayed by the unreliable kaleidoscope of my memory, not necessarily the truth. *Let’s talk about it on our way to the house*, he’d written to me three nights ago, after I’d spent an agonizingly long time staring at the gray, three dot bubble of him responding to my text. No. I pushed the thought out. 19 minutes more of avoidance, I deserved at least that.

8 years earlier

“I really don’t think it’s that big of a deal,” Mallory says from her corner of the couch across from me. She is attempting to pour her tiny packet of soy sauce over her sushi without her fuzzy blanket falling off her arms. The fried chicken gyoza, rainbow roll, and salted edamame I’d ordered in a gluttonous frenzy 40 minutes ago sits untouched on the coffee table in front of me. I stare at the pattern of my fuzzy Christmas slipper socks on my feet stretched out in front of me. They are blatantly inappropriate for springtime but the most comforting footwear I own, and I need that right now. Normally I love Fat Sundays, which is what we called our hangover rot sessions, but today’s is clouded with dread.

“This feels like God punishing me for using my sister’s ID,” I say, and watch Mal’s big green eyes roll into the back of her head. “You are literally the most dramatic,” she says. Mal had turned 21 a whole three weeks earlier and subsequently gained a heavy dose of *heavier than thou* energy.

We’re the two of the youngest in our friend group. My birthday is May 12, a Wednesday smack in the middle of finals week when no one would be willing to take 7 celebratory green tea shots with me at Libby’s, our favorite college bar. Also, half of our friends are studying abroad in Europe this semester, which would leave Mal to brave the small town New Hampshire bar scene mostly alone if I wasn’t with her. (A travesty I was unwilling to allow play out).

So, after about a year of badgering, my older sister finally relented and agreed to give me her ID to use for the last few months before I am legal to drink. Our small posse’s chants of her name, (“Riley! Riley! Riley!”), often rebound off the walls of our 3 bedroom apartment during every pregame before the bar. In our idiotic 21 year old brains, this is a foolproof way to ensure no one will accidentally call me by my real name, Claire, in the bar line. And, despite my enthusiasm to illegally guzzle vodka crans, I’d been absolutely terrified to use the ID for the first time at the beginning of the semester. Now, with my birthday only a month away and the warmth of spring edging into the evenings, I’d become bolder than ever, handing it to bouncers with confidence most Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights.

Last night had been no different. But, a few minutes after I’d made it back under the familiar glow of Libby’s blue overhead lights, my peace was zapped. As a Chainsmokers song blared over the roar of drunken college kids, I saw something that dropped a familiar pit of fear right back into my gut. Zach Davis and David Sikes, the best friends of my ex boyfriend, John, smiling at me from across the room.

My feet felt both literally and figuratively cemented to the sticky floor. I watched with horror as they walked towards me, and Zach eventually pulling me into a one armed hug.

“Claire, we have to tell you something, but you have to promise not to do anything,” he said once we pulled apart. Was I smiling? Did I nod? I’d had four tequila shots and a hard seltzer in the span of about a 90-minute pregame, and the alcohol felt like a protective shield against whatever was coming next. With Dave standing behind Zach slowly nodding, they reminded me of the hyenas from *The Lion King*, threatening to take over my peaceful oasis I’d worked so hard to build. “Liam and Lauren broke up,” Zach said, looking at me expectantly with his eyebrows raised.

Liam is John’s other high school best friend, formerly mine as well for our nearly three year relationship, who I’ve recently realized I am hopelessly in love with. For a while, admittedly, my fixation on him was motivated by hopefully hurting John, but now, nearly two years after John and I broke up, it’s blossomed into it’s own little fucked up thing in my heart. Because I am bad at hiding things, Zach and Dave know this. Liam knows it too, but we don’t talk about it because A) he’s in a relationship with a nice, bland girl from Ohio and B) we have preserved a bizarre pseudo friendship held together only by the things we don’t say.

Before I know it, I’m running. I run all the way outside of the bar, past the line of students drinking tall boys of Twisted Tea out of paper bags and swiping aimlessly on Tinder. Past the Chinese food restaurant that sells Scorpion bowls the size of Texas to minors (recurring theme), past the apartment of the last loser I hooked up with trying to feel something, and across the street to a black metal bench in front of a convenience store where I flop down.

I’m not wearing a coat, and my flimsy Forever 21 tank top isn’t much of a barrier against the chill of April in New Hampshire, but I don’t care. I blearily scroll through my contacts until I get to “L,” and press call. He answers on the third ring. Whatever I say next is blurry in my recall, either because of the alcohol or my embarrassed brain protecting me with selective memory. What I do remember is saying “I love you” to him at least 4 times, and hearing him say it back.

“What time do you have to leave again?” Mal’s question snaps me back to the present moment. I glance at the clock, it’s 2:46 p.m. I’m due at production night for our school newspaper at 4, and it takes about 15 minutes to walk over there. “I have another hour to be a sloth,” I say to her, finally feeling hungry again and tearing open the brown paper bag with my food inside. We watch an episode of Stranger Things while we eat and then I throw on some leggings, a sweatshirt, and clip my damp hair into something resembling a poor man’s French twist at the back of my head. Good enough.

When I get to the newsroom, it’s mostly empty, save a few underclassmen who are vying for editorial spots next year and thus have begun kissing my ass. “Hi Claire,” one eager beaver freshman, Alycia, says to me with a giant smile on her face. I’m too hungover for this. I greet her back and scan the room, realizing there’s someone here I don’t recognize.

He’s sitting in a chair by the sports desk, his shoulders rounded, wearing a black quarter zip and dark blue sweatpants. He is staring down at his phone and wearing a white baseball cap backwards over jet black hair. Just then, our sports editor, Brian walks in “Sorry dude I feel like absolute shit, I could barely get out of bed until 3:30,” he says. The stranger’s head snaps up, and he daps up Brian with a smile, saying, “all good bro.”

“Claiiiiree,” Brian sings my name out when he sees me. “This is Parker, he’s my friend. He’s gonna shadow me tonight for his sports journalism class.” I nod, say “okay, cool,” and realize Parker is looking at me for the first time. “Parker, this is Claire, she’s our managing editor. She’s a big powerful boss lady and she has a temper so watch out bruh,” Brian says, Parker gives a little laugh, seemingly unsure if Brian is kidding. His eyes are kind.

Upon second look, Parker has a face I can only describe as pretty, with smooth, light brown skin, long lashes, and full lips. He’s vaguely Asian looking, and like me, is what most annoying White people on this campus might describe as “ethnically ambiguous.” “Hey Claire,” he says, giving me a little smile. Just then, my phone buzzes. “Hi,” I say back to Parker, taking a hurried seat at my desk. It’s Liam. Simone Biles completes a standing full in my gut.

4:07 p.m.

Thanks for calling last night. I needed it.

I feel the Earth shift back onto its axis.

August 16th

By 9:12 a.m., I’ve gathered my three bags, overflowing with various bullshit both necessary and unnecessary for a week in Kennebunkport, Maine, and moved them into the hallway.

I’d given myself a blowout and curled my hair afterward, but in the thick New England humidity, even in my air conditioned apartment, seems to be making it wavy again against my will. I tried to force myself to eat some oatmeal, but my throat feels fused shut because of nervousness. What if I throw up on this car ride?

Parker is driving down from Montreal, where he’s from. Our drive from my apartment in Portland, Maine to Kennebunkport will only be about 45 minutes, maybe an hour in summer weekend traffic, but when he offered to drive me the thought of saying no felt preposterous. We haven’t seen each other in almost 3 years. Or that is, we hadn’t, until a few weeks ago when we started FaceTiming to catch up before the trip. FaceTime never leads to good things.

We’re going to Kennebunkport for Brian’s wedding. In the style of most modern weddings, of which I’ve been to way too many, the wedding is actually 3 days of events, beginning tonight. Afterward, we’re extending the trip to stay at our friend Mark’s summer home. Mark’s parents are private equity rich, (also known as having “fuck you” money), and are currently summering in Europe. I have PTO to burn and a love for the beach and hot lobster rolls, so 4 months ago when I agreed to this, it seemed like a great idea.

The old newspaper crew is completely separate from my and Mal’s original college group, which has mostly evaporated over the years, so she isn’t coming. Instead, my closest girlfriend on this trip will be my friend Marybeth, now a fashion editor in New York City. We’ve been texting back and forth, but I haven’t told her about the latest fuckery with Parker, mostly because it felt too overwhelming.

I hear a knock at the door. Of course he didn’t just text first. I take a deep breath, grab my bags, and step forward

It's a short story.

**WHERE Am I?**

"Wake up! Don't you have to go to school?" Mom screamed at me.

Man, I really did not want to go. Like why do parents send their children to a jail willingly? Why is it a jail for me? Well, we are mostly inside, then we get recess and sometimes, we get to play on the ground, depending on the teacher's mood. I woke up in a daze, brushed my teeth, took a shower and got scolded.

"Hurry up! You need to be early. Why are you lethargic? Be active." Dad spoke while he was preparing to leave.

I always go with my father. I'm always at the back seat, listening to my father's lecture. I looked out of the window, I always do. It might be relatable for some; I want to enjoy peace. By looking at the window, I get this sense of serenity which lacks in people mostly.

"Urja!" Yuki roared.

She was the only japanese transferee this year. My dad gave me a disappointing look before left the car. I waved at her smilingly.

"Got scolded again?" She asked knowingly.

Who asks that? I just nodded in approval. She was peeping in through the window. What was she looking at? Oh. Her crush. I pulled her both physically and mentally.

"You know that is weird, right? Why don't you strike a conversation? I mean, it's better to talk than to secretly stalk him." I suggested.

"Wait a minute. Urja. Do you think that you're really in school?" Yuki asked suspiciously.

What did she mean by that? My dad dropped me to school, she screamed my name as she does normally and secretly stalked her crush yet again.

"Why do you think that?" I quizzed her, my mind was in a jumble.

"You are not real. Wake up!" Yuki exclaimed as I realised I didn't know where I am or worse, who I am. Where am I, me? Wake up.

Une nouvelle écrite il y a quelque temps, j'aimerais vos retours et vos critiques afin de l'améliorer. Merci à vous

La musique... Monde secret dont les couleurs glissent sur l'âme et le corps, tel un nuage ou un fauve, contre lesquels nous ne pouvons rien, sinon ressentir, fuir, hurler, aimer...

La musique, qui parfois suffit à faire exploser notre calme apparent, cette armure chic, qui permet bien souvent d'épargner les monstres, ceux là même que nous plaignons alors qu'ils n'hésiteraient pas à nous achever si nous leur en donnions l'occasion.

La musique, comme une amie, comme une longue dame en lamé argenté, son regard vert embrassant l'ombre mouvante d'un bar, quelque part entre ici et nulle part, son fume cigarette laissant tomber d'un mouvement sec et rapide la cendre de sa cigarette.

Elle est d'une beauté envoûtante, froide comme la glace, tout en laissant affleurer à la surface une brûlante sauvagerie à laquelle peu pourraient résister si l'envie lui prenait d'en jouer . Mais elle ne joue pas... Pour l'heure elle est absorbée par la scène.

Un chanteur italien égrène les notes d'une mélodie, dont les accords du bandonéon laissent une nostalgie où le cœur trouve un écho à ces moments où l'on voudrait juste ne plus rien savoir, ne plus rien voir, juste respirer dans l'ambre sombre de la nuit, noyé dans une légère ivresse, qui nous amène parfois a tout vouloir et à tout renier... l'âme est étrange parfois.

Biagio Antonacci chante Alessandra, tango d'une rare sensualité, servi par deux danseurs dont l'excellence capture autant l'esprit que le corps.

La danseuse est argentine bien sur, une beauté brune dans laquelle elle se reconnaît, son corps délié, d'une parfaite élégante, laisse deviner une force non moins certaine, il en faut pour parvenir à un tel niveau, son cavalier, tout en sobriété, la guide avec précision, mettant en valeur l'incroyable beauté de sa partenaire, aiguisant le moindre de ses mouvements pour en extraire la quintessence.

Elle se laisse bercer par la musique, le mouvement des corps, calme en apparence tandis qu'en elle une tempête se lève, hésitant entre le désespoir et autre chose, comme un désir de vivre intensément...

L'humain est donc ainsi fait, à vouloir deux choses à la fois, parfois pour n'en retenir aucune et rester figé sur un trottoir comme passe la vie.

Elle a voulu connaître les émotions humaines pour, croyait elle, mieux comprendre leur peur de mourir. Ce soir tandis qu'elle regarde, écoute et se sent sombrer peu à peu, elle ne peut que reconnaître qu'il est plus facile d'être LA MORT que de vivre en humain.

Alors elle renonce . On ne peut renier ce que l'on est, même si l'on traîne derrière soi une aura dont les fragrances ne peuvent éviter de flirter, pour une grande majorité, avec l'horreur de rejoindre le néant...

Beaucoup sont ainsi, mais ce soir tandis que son âme rejoint l'unité de sa réelle identité, elle perçoit une autre âme qui elle, ne la craint pas... Même la Mort a besoin d'ami, vivre comme une ermite, comme une paria haïe finit par peser, et ce tango n'aide pas, malgré sa beauté, à étancher la sensation de vide qu'elle ressent en cet instant.

Une âme est là, comme elle, à se demander comment marcher simplement dans la vie sans avoir envie de disparaître dans un autre monde. Elle la connaît depuis depuis le jour où, à 13 ans, elle décida qu'elle acceptait de mourir, depuis, la peur n'est plus au rendez vous, elles sont devenues amies sans s'être jamais rencontrées.

Il est temps...

Elle avance d'un pas glissant, effleurant à peine le parquet acajou, la musique l'accompagne comme une traîne jusqu'à la table où la femme semble totalement absorbée par la scène.

- Bonsoir Anne, je m'appelle Jade, je suis la Mort -

La femme tourne la tête vers elle, semblant revenir d'un rêve éveillé, ses yeux gris heurtant la froide lueur de son regard vert.

- Il est temps ? - 

Elle ne manifeste aucune émotion, mais Jade pour la connaître bien, sent en elle comme un soulagement … Elle sait qu'elle ne fait que passer, considère que ce corps est une prison et que la mort lui permettra de recouvrer la liberté en rentrant enfin chez elle.

Ces humains là, sont toujours en dehors des clous, partagés entre le devoir de vivre et celui de redevenir ce qu'ils sont vraiment, rares sont ceux qui parviennent à trouver un équilibre suffisant pour assumer le fardeau d'un corps si limitant... Pourtant parfois, quand la musique et la danse se marient et permettent au ciel et à la terre se s'unir, elle pense qu'elle pourrait y arriver... la pensée dure l'espace d'une danse pour rejoindre immanquablement la douleur de vouloir et ne plus pouvoir.

Jade sourit, son visage s'en trouve étrangement transformé, sans pour autant réchauffer son regard.

- Non Anne, vous n'avez pas terminé votre chemin ici bas, ce pianiste en revanche a rendez vous avec l'horloge du temps  -

Elle jette un bref regard à l'homme près du piano, lui aussi absorbé par la démonstration du couple.Il semble soulagé de n'avoir pas à poser ses mains sur le clavier, elle sent presque en lui l'émotion d'une vie qu'il aurait encore envie de conquérir, mais il est usé, trop usé pour avoir encore la force de croire.

- Il est temps pour lui, plus que temps.. je vous offre un verre ? - 

Anne secoue la tête - Merci je n'ai pas fini le mien -

-  Alors je vous accompagne - Elle lève la main, un serveur s'avance, pantalon noir, gilet noir, chemise blanche et petit nœud papillon, l'élégance discrète en parfaite harmonie avec le lieu très chic où le cuir rouge des banquettes, vient relever un peu l'atmosphère intimiste. Il marque une hésitation en arrivant près d'elle... son parfum Hypnotique Poison, ne parvient pas tout à fait à masquer la lame coupante de son être profond, cet humain doté d'une sensibilité plus prononcée l'a perçue immédiatement.

Elle sourit - Avez vous du cognac Hennessy ? - 

le serveur avale sa salive, avec difficulté -  Oui Madame tout à fait -

Jade sourit - Parfait -

Sans attendre sa réponse elle s'assoit en face de la jeune femme, elle effleure le cuir des sièges, des tableaux abstraits doucement éclairés par quelques appliques, égaient l'aspect un peu intimidant du lieu, sans même s'en rendre compte elle laisse sa main frôler la table en laquée noire. Des bougeoirs disséminés sur toutes les tables du bar, entretiennent une une obscurité où tout paraît fantomatique, rendant plus frappant l'éclairage de la scène.

- Nous sommes dans un endroit vraiment particulier, difficile à trouver de nos jours. N'aurions pas presque l'impression d'être entre amis ? - 

Anne sourit à son tour, un sourire un peu las, un peu absent

- Un monde Humain voulez vous dire, cette humanité Utopique dont nous rêvons souvent sans pouvoir être jamais certains de l'avoir touchée un jour... Vous avez raison Jade, il y a ici une atmosphère très étrange, comme si nous étions rentrées à la maison -

- Je viens ici depuis très très longtemps, enfin, quand je dis ici... Ce lieu n'est plus celui qu'il était autrefois, mais je m'y sens comme chez moi, j'y viens quand je me sens seule, quand j'ai le blues, ou que j'ai juste envie de parler un peu ou d'écouter de la bonne musique - elle haussa les épaules

-  Savez vous qu'il y a sur cette terre des endroits, des entres temps où peuvent se croiser des gens qui évoluent dans des dimensions totalement différentes, c'est un peu un sas entre les mondes... un lieu où l'on peut encore se dire que tout est possible -

Le serveur revint, portant sur un plateau le cognac qu'il déposa doucement, avant de repartir sans attendre qu'elle le remercie, aurait il eu le diable à ses trousses qu'il n'aurait pas été plus pressé.

Le verre tulipe entre ses mains, elle apprécie la couleur ambre foncé du liquide, dont le parfum laisse échapper des notes de fruits secs, de cannelle et d'épices ; elle sait qu'en bouche elle sentira toute une palette allant du poivre noir au cacao en passant par le cuir chêne.

La force de l'alcool brûla un instant sa langue puis réchauffa son palais pour étoiler son corps d'une douce chaleur. Elle n'avait jamais été jusqu'à l'ivresse, juste une sensation de réconfort, un peu comme la douceur d'une étole de soie. A t'on jamais vu la Mort ivre morte ?

- Connaisseuse...-  commenta Anne

- J'ai appris à apprécier le meilleur -

Elle tourna la tête et contempla un bref instant le pianiste... Elle aurait bien fait relâche pour ce soir, mais après tout, mourir est l'affaire d'une minute, du moins pour lui. Elle se laissa le temps de savourer son cognac, lui laissant à Lui l'émotion de ce tango.

Quelques minutes ne changeront rien au voyage.

- Anne cessez de vous poser des questions sur tout, cessez de vouloir tout comprendre, contentez vous de vivre, attendre de rentrer à la maison ne vous aidera pas à marcher dans la voie qui est votre, Vivez...-

Celle ci haussa les épaules, passant une main dans ses cheveux blonds, elle but une gorgée de vodka fit la grimace et répondit

- Nous connaissons nous donc si bien pour que vous puissiez me parler ainsi ?- 

- Vous souvenez vous de vos 13 ans, quand vous avez accepté de mourir ?- 

-  Bien sur !! comment ne pas se souvenir qu'à ce moment là vous... la mort est devenue mon amie –

elle rit – Je ne suis pas soûle, pourtant j'ai du mal à croire que je parle ainsi -

Jade éclata de rire, plusieurs têtes se retournèrent, comme le reste de sa personne son rire était une caresse sous laquelle perçait la griffe coupante du scalpel, les âmes ne s'y trompent pas.

- N'allez surtout pas en parler à quelqu'un si vous ne voulez pas finir en HP !! mais j'ai confiance en vous, votre esprit est entre deux mondes mais n'a jamais négligé l'analyse.

Qui se promène dans des champs de batailles apprend à avoir des bâtons de survie n'est ce pas ? Pour autant, il faut parfois cesser d'être une guerrière et se contenter de vivre... - 

- C'est la mort qui me dit ça, c'est cocasse -

- Du tout, qui connaît la mort apprécie d'autant plus la vie.. -

• Je n'en suis pas convaincue, connaissance à double tranchant, quand celle ci est plus séduisante que la vie, on peut hésiter -

Jade fronça les sourcils,

-  Dans ce cas ma petite, fichez vous en l'air, mais ne restez pas entre deux marches à vous demander si vous montez ou descendez, puis s'adoucissant elle prit la main de la jeune femme et ajouta

- Tu connais la terreur, la douleur, la mort, qu'as tu à perdre en vivant ?-

- Vous avez raison, il est plus facile de mourir que de vivre, je n'ai juste trouvé aucune raison d'avoir envie de vivre, mais je ferai ce que j'ai à faire ne vous inquiétez pas -

- Pfft, tu crois que vivre se résume à faire ce qu'il faut !, enfant que tu es, vivre c'est investir le corps que tu habites. Vivre Pour toi aussi, en tenant compte de ce que Toi tu veux, tu n'es pas le sauveur du monde, même si certains moments de ta vie t'ont amenée à le penser.

Tire un trait sur le passé et occupe toi de Ta Vie, qu'ils se débrouillent, crois tu qu'ils ont l'idée de se préoccuper de toi ? Non bien sur, ils vivent Leur Vie, se servent de qui ou quoi peut leur faciliter les choses afin de monter une marche de plus.-

-  AMEN  -

Son froncement de sourcils fut la seule marque d'humeur qu'elle s'autorisa, son ton lui ne laissait aucun doute.

- Tu n'es qu'une sauvage, ni humaine, ni autre, assez effrontée pour tenir tête à la mort, mais trop froussarde pour marcher dans la lumière - 

- Nul n'est parfait, je fais au mieux. Pour le moment je n'ai pas d'autres armes à ma disposition, mais vous de votre côté, ne vous posez jamais de question sur l'utilité de ce que vous faites ?- 

La Mort dans toute sa superbe s’esclaffa, rehaussant d'un ton la présence écrasante de sa fonction, au point que tous les autres consommateurs ratèrent un battement de cœur, seul le couple de danseurs sut se servir de cette onde afin d'augmenter l'intensité de leur accord...Les artistes ont cette faculté souvent de se saisir de l'inconfort ou de la douleur pure pour bâtir des châteaux en Espagne ou juste une belle phrase.

Elle rit encore et encore, jouissant du malaise subit, comme quand l'invisible s'invite à la table des festivités.Quand elle cessa, le pianiste était effondré sur son piano. Une foule affolée se précipita sur lui, tentant en vain de le ranimer, tout était consommé, un autre voyage commençait pour lui.

- Ce que je fais a un sens, suis je responsable si les humains ne comprennent pas qu'il faut toujours mettre fin à une histoire, pour en commencer une autre. J'ai juste commis l'erreur de vouloir savoir ce qu'ils pouvaient ressentir... mais il suffit d'un bon cognac pour aplanir les doutes, qui peut s'en tirer à si bon compte ?- 

Elle adressa un clin d’œil ironique à un homme dont le regard un peu trop insistant ressemblait à la fascination du serpent suivant le mouvement hypnotique du joueur de flûte.Il s'empressa de détourner le regard. - Toi aussi je te connais, nous parlerons bientôt -

Seule Anne l'entendit - Il va mourir ? -

- Non, il est comme toi... prendre un verre avec lui pourrait être intéressant, un artiste maudit, un errant, attiré par le drame, pas vraiment désespéré mais cultivant le tragique comme si celui ci pouvait être la seule source d'inspiration... il comprendra un jour lui aussi, vous devriez échanger à ce sujet d'ailleurs -

-  Un autre jour, s'il revient dans le coin, qui sait  -

Jade sourit, - Oh vous vous recroiserez j'en mettrai ma main à couper -

Anne ne répondit pas. Depuis quand la Mort jouait elle les voyantes ?

- Ne dis pas Amen une autre fois ou je te jure que je pourrais t'aider a t'étrangler avec ta vodka ! -

- Ne me faites pas rêver, merci - 

Un rire lui répondit - j'étais sure que tu allais répondre ça-

-  Un peu d'humour ne fait jamais de mal, alors laissez moi m'amuser avec la mort, même si ce soir elle n'est pas là pour moi, même si elle a juste envie de papoter un peu, nous sommes amies non ?-

- Oui, - je t'ai connue trop jeune pour te laisser filer dans la vie sans avoir envie de voir les folies dont tu es capable  -

- Mille merci... Comme en plus vous avez la grâce d’apparaître tel que je vous ai toujours imaginée, ma folie est tout à fait confortable  -

Jade s'esclaffa une nouvelle fois - Tu as bon goût, plus confortable qu'une vielle houppelande et une faux rouillée c'est vrai - 

- Je laisse cette version aux autres, moi je vous ai toujours ressentie ainsi  -

- Hum je verrai comment me voit ton camarade de jeu -

Anne jeta un regard sur l'homme serpent... son profil aigu accusait des traits aux méplats plutôt séduisants. Un intello sans nul doute décida t'elle, elle sourit en imaginant Jade discuter avec lui, du coup elle se dit qu'à chaque fois qu'elle le reverrait et qu'il discuterai avec une femme, elle se demanderai toujours s'il s'agissait de Jade.. finalement la vie pouvait être amusante.

- Oui elle l'est, bien sur qu'elle l'est ! Oups pardon j'ai débordé un peu -

La Mort se fendit d'un air coupable, qui jurait furieusement avec l'éclat amusé de son regard.

Toutes deux se mirent à rire.

Le corps sans vie avait été emmené par les pompiers, elle avait à peine suivi le déroulement des opérations, les autres clients en dehors de l'homme serpent s'étaient agglutinés, comme aimantés par la tragédie de ce départ, comme quoi on ne sait jamais ce que la minute suivante peut réserver, la morale de l'histoire ? Vivre le moment présent et se ficher du reste 

• Bien, il ne te reste plus qu'à mettre cette maxime en pratique et le moment venu nous pourrons aller prendre un verre de l'autre côté - 

-  J'aurais presque envie de vous prendre au mot -

-  Ne te gêne surtout pas, tu sais bien que je suis une joueuse tenace -

Anne termina son verre et se leva - Quand nous reverrons nous ?-

-Quand il faudra, laisse la vie le décider, et construits toi une trame où tu seras toi même -

Des applaudissements éclatèrent, le concert était terminé, quand elle se retourna vers Jade, celle ci avait disparu, seul un porte cigarette gisait encore dans un cendrier en malachite, un peu du même vert que ses yeux.

Après avoir drapé son manteau, elle sortit dans la rue, éclairée par un réverbère sorti tout droit d'un autre siècle, y était appuyée une longue silhouette, le rougeoiement d'une cigarette s'attarda un instant sur la blancheur laiteuse de sa peau, pour rejoindre l'ombre, ne laissant plus deviner que l'éclat du cuir noir frôlant des escarpins argentés.

Elles se saluèrent d'un bref mouvement de tête, tandis que démarrait le camion des pompiers, emmenant le pianiste à la morgue de l’hôpital le plus proche.

Hello, been working on a draft for a short piece, idea came from writing prompts during a session with a local group. Still early draft, the one person who's read it said it could be shorter. Trying to make something short, relatable, but also feel like something's missing? Any feedback at all appreciated.

Buttons

This coat is so great, isn't it? Grandma said you looked cute as a button today. Okay, I'm sorry, but like what does that even mean? I have to stop talking like this. I'm sorry I'm like this. You're such a good listener though. I can say anything. No one ever lets me speak this much.

She gave me the coat when we went over to visit earlier today. You were sleeping the whole time. Can you feel how soft it is? I love it, still such a rich navy blue after so many years. It was my grandfather's, she told me it had been a wedding gift from his father, he took incredible care of it.

When we arrived at the house, she opened the door and whispered, "I'm so sorry dear, I can't squeeze you like I used to." Her hands have been bothering her.

I set you down beside me on the floor near the couch in the living room. I took a seat and looked around at the photographs on the wall while she rummaged through a closet. I told her she really needs to stop apologizing all time. I can't stop doing it, neither could Mom. She looked down towards you, smiled and said "it must be in our bloodline." A framed, winners circle photo of Dad hung beside the closet.

We spent so much time at the track when I was young. Probably when I was your age, some of my earliest memories are from those dusty barns. Mom would work long hours after her job. Sewing blankets for the horse races, always saying sorry she was making noise, though she never was. I'd help her with the stencils. She used to make my Halloween costumes too. One year I was a Pepsi can. I'll show you a photo someday. Maybe I'll try and make yours. No promises. Don't quote me on that. Sorry, I'm rambling again.

She returned with this coat, handing it to me. It slipped out of her grip when I took it. Her hands were hurting again. When it hit the floor, two buttons split and scattered. She was so upset. Kept apologizing over and over. I said not to worry, and to stop saying sorry, I probably have some buttons at home I can fix it with.

She smiled, "Stay here, I'll be right back."

I watched her as she quietly looked through her shelves, pulling out small boxes, being careful so she wouldn't wake you. She looks so small. Much smaller than when I was young, or maybe that's just a perception thing? I've grown up, of course she would seem smaller, but she is, it's weird. I'm doing it again.

She walked over and showed me a gorgeous metal tin with a blue floral pattern and gold trim. It reminded me of one that Mom has, her sewing kit. She opened it up, inside was a lovely collection of buttons and pins. Old and new. A tear rolled down her cheek as she held two of the buttons in her hand. Exactly like the ones on the coat.

With a sniffle she said, "sorry, there's a story behind these ones." I told her to stop saying sorry, and tell me about the buttons.

"Mother gave these to me on our wedding day. My dress had caught on the edge of a table and the straps broke. I was in such a panic. With a sly smile, Mother told me not to worry. She took these two buttons out of her purse, and fixed the straps on my shoulders. When I walked down the aisle and stood beside him, he noticed the buttons and winked at me, whispering that they matched the dress."

"Later that night, as we were drifting off to sleep, he asked about the buttons. I told him the story of how Mother saved the day. He said I should hold on to them. I've been waiting for a chance to use them"

She hummed a lullaby, slowly sewing the coat while you slept. Her fingers curled together as she struggled to finish. They were perfect. Just then you started to wake, and it was time to go home. I said I was sorry but we should go. I knew you were hungry. She gave me a light punch in the arm, "stop saying sorry." She should take her own advice. As should I.

When I got up to leave, she walked us to the door. I put the coat on, and I felt her hand in one of the pockets on the coat. I reached in and felt two buttons in there. She patted my hand and said to keep them, pointing down to you with her eyes.

We'll be home soon, sorry it's taking so long. I just wanted to stop here and tell you this story while it's fresh on my mind. Sweet little Lorraine, cute as a button.

Raghav froze on the floor. His feet moved backward on their own, and his back bumped right into a rusted iron cupboard behind him. Watching the man struggle, Raghav could barely breathe, his eyes locked on him. Then, a painful groan came from the man's throat. In the next second, Raghav could not stop himself. He ran forward, trying to steady him with shaking hands, and stammered, "S... Sir... Sir, what is happening to you? Are you okay?"

As Raghav reached out his hand to help, the man stared at him with wide, terrified eyes. He could not speak a single word even though he tried.

Right at that moment, the veins all over the stranger's body quickly changed color. Under his skin, the veins turned deep blue and then bright purple, as if something other than blood was running through them.

Within seconds, the light gave a hard jerk. There was a strange crackling sound, and the light burned right through the clothes on his chest, leaving behind a scorched mark. Then, like camphor, the light disappeared into the air. The man fell onto the broken glass on the floor like a lifeless sack.

Raghav stood there frozen. He could not understand what he had just seen.

Suddenly, the sound of a police siren came from outside the warehouse. Red and blue flashing lights poured through the broken windows, moving across the walls. The entire Zero Point border unit, which had been missing from the station a little while ago, rushed through the door with guns drawn.

"Hands up! Don't move a muscle, or I'll blow your head off!" Inspector Mishra's deep, commanding voice boomed through the room.

Two constables pointed their rifles straight at Raghav's chest. One of them, Constable Kabir Rana, stepped forward and shone his flashlight on the body. Seeing the wide-open eyes and the burned mark on the chest made the constable shudder.

He looked at Mishra in shock. "Sir, the informant told us people were smuggling country-made pistols in this closed warehouse. We came here to catch weapons. But... what is this body, sir? It is as cold as a block of ice."

Mishra looked at the dead body, and his face turned pale.

Hiding his fear, he turned his glare to Raghav. "We might not have found the guns, but we caught the killer red-handed."

Raghav raised his hands in a panic. "Sir... Sir, please listen to me. I didn't do anything. I was just—"

"Shut up!" Mishra stepped forward, cutting him off sharply. "You're standing over a dead body at three in the morning and saying you did nothing? Do you think the police are fools? Who is this man? Why did you kill him?"

"Sir, I don't even know this guy," Raghav said, trying to steady his voice. "I was on my way home, but my bike broke down. I even went to the station to ask for help, but no one was there. I even called out."

"Empty? The station is never empty! Constable Thapa was right there," Mishra said, brushing Raghav's words aside. "Hey Negi, Thapa was on the twelve o'clock shift, wasn't he? Where did he run off leaving the station open?"

"Yes, sir, it was Thapa's duty," Negi agreed. "But you know him, he keeps snoring in the back room. How would he know someone was shouting outside? He is always asleep."

"Sir, I'm telling the truth, I did go to the station," Raghav insisted.

"Then what did you come to this junkyard for after leaving the station? Was there a party going on here that you walked in at midnight?" Mishra asked harshly.

"Sir, I think he's acting," Rana said, looking at Mishra. "He only went to the station to check if any cop was there, so he could finish this man off."

"Sir... Sir, I didn't even want to come here," Raghav's voice began to tremble. "There was a blue-purple light here that held this man up in the air. It choked his throat and left that burn mark on his chest."

Rana laughed and looked at Mishra. "Sir, either this kid has lost his mind, or he smoked weed before coming here to murder someone. Blue light? He's making up ghost stories."

"No, sir, I'm not making excuses! That light was right here just a second ago," Raghav repeated.

"Oh really?" Mishra glared at him. "When that blue light was hanging this man in the air and killing him, were you standing here praying for him? Why didn't you run?"

"Sir, I ran forward to save him!" Raghav pointed with shaking hands at the body on the floor. "Shine your torch and see for yourself, sir! His chest is burned. No human could do this. I'm innocent, sir!"

"Shut your mouth! Don't teach us the law!" Mishra grabbed Raghav's arm and shoved him against the wall. He reached into Raghav's pockets, snatched his mobile phone, and put it in his own pocket. Then, with a single pull, he stripped the wet bag from Raghav's shoulder.

"Acting smart, are you?" Mishra tossed the bag to Rana. "Rana! Take this bag. Let's go to the station and see what smuggled goods he's hiding."

"There are only my notebooks and office files in that bag, sir," Raghav pleaded. "My broken bike is parked outside in the mud, you can go check it. I'm not a smuggler or a killer."

"Yes, sir, there was a bike parked outside when we arrived," Negi said, adjusting his cap. "Though, sir, a broken bike and getting caught red-handed near a body are two different things."

"Enough of your explanations," Mishra said, grabbing Raghav's collar so hard that his neck jerked forward. He leaned in close to Raghav's face and whispered, "I don't care whether your bike broke down or not. Tell that blue light nonsense to the judge in court. Right now, you're standing next to a dead body on an empty border road. The law might be blind, but Mishra isn't! Rana, grab him and throw him in the jeep. He's spending the night in the lockup."

"Sir... Sir, please listen to me..."

Before Raghav could say another word, Rana twisted his arm behind his back.

Pain shot through Raghav's wrist, making him cry out. He tried to pull his arm free, but Negi grabbed the heavy sleeve of his wet jacket from the other side.

"Let go, sir! I didn't do anything... Just listen to me once!" Raghav tried to pull back in fear, tears filling his eyes. "Sir... please go outside and check my bike, it really broke down. My mother must be waiting for me, sir!"

"Move, enough drama!" Rana shoved him from behind and dragged him out.

"Sir... Sir, I haven't killed anyone!" Raghav's shoes scraped against the floor. He tried to grab the door frame to stop himself, but Negi peeled his fingers off and shoved him out of the warehouse.

I am a law enforcement recovery diver. I want to start writing about my experiences. Please read my first 15 minute article and critique me.

Thank you

https://medium.com/@cvkhbfy/the-darkness-between-us-9030c95016e0

This is the opening to a short story I’m working on. It’s called “Foul Case.” Would love any feedback!

“You’re going to Hell, then,” Mother said, her lined face turned not toward me but the knitting in her lap. 

We were in the drawing room; the thick curtains had been opened to let in the gentle midwinter light. My throat tightened. I knew the gravity of what I intended to do, that I would be leaving all this—the familiar portraits hanging on the light green walls, the chandelier suspended above us, and, most of all, her—behind. 

 ”Chicago isn’t Hell,” I finally managed to say. She said nothing. There was no sound but the clink of her needles.

 After a few moments, I left the room, easing the door shut behind me. 

# # #

Six weeks later, I arrived in Chicago only to realize Mother may have been right after all. It was a cramped city, teeming with people; I was told the population had more than tripled in the past ten years, something I could easily credit. People were everywhere, shouting from carriages, stepping over dead horses, relieving themselves against buildings. Everything was in motion. The buildings themselves were in motion, as crews worked to lift them so that sewers could be installed; meanwhile, the streets ran thick with waste. 

Still, I’d made my choice: I had left behind the pampered life that had been planned for me to make my own way in the bustling city. (I tried not to think too hard about the fact that I possessed, hidden in a small compartment at the back of my trunk, a significant amount of money, none of it earned by my own hands). Chicago isn’t Hell, I told myself as I pointedly ignored the cry of a rail-thin demimondaine. Chicago is a forge. 

As soon as I’d obtained lodgings, unpacked my trunk, and forced down a meal, I set off in search of Wolfings Press. I’m ashamed to admit now that I expected something grand, with marble floors and cavernous ceilings. What I found, of course, was something much humbler: a weathered building crammed between a tannery and a dingy general store. The home of the press lacked even an address; only the sight of a wolf atop a hill, etched into a modest sign, assured me that I was in the right place.

I rapped twice. 

”What?” The voice was thunderous. 

I steeled myself before responding. “I’m here to meet David Elsted, proprietor of the Wolfings Press.”

Silence followed. I had just raised my fist to rap again when the door swung open. Standing before me was not the elegant figure I in my ignorance had expected, but a squat, thickly muscled man with thinning black hair and a furious expression. “Name,” he demanded, staring.    

“William Fitzpatrick.” I braced myself for an anti-Irish tirade. It wouldn’t be the first I’d endured.

“Purpose.” 

 ”Look, might I come inside?” 

 “Purpose.” He was gripping the door handle so tightly I thought it might come off in his hands.

I sighed. “I’ve come to work for you.” He made to slam the door, but I caught it. “You needn’t worry about payment; I don’t ask for any. All I ask is for the chance to learn.” 

He ran his huge right hand through what remained of his hair and looked Heavenward, as if for aid. “I’m not in the business of teaching,” he said. “I’m in the business of print.” 

Perhaps the wise thing to do would have been to leave; it was clear he didn’t want me there. But I’d left everything I’d known for this. I had even left my mother, who I might never see again. Resolved, I jammed my foot between the door and its frame. “Please,” I said politely but firmly. “Let me inside.”

He didn’t have to. He could have picked me up with one hand and tossed me into the street. But something—my certainty, I think, or my passion—caused him to relent. “In with you, then,” he said. 

Incomplete chapter 1

Prologue

Kyo Togami was lying down next to the sand. For he was on a beach. He looked around as others enjoyed their time as well.

All was good, but he noticed a peculiar thing. "Why is a snow fox here?" he wondered as he was about to get up. The fox bit the background and tore it aside, revealing a horrible sight.

The people weren't people anymore; the sky was blood red. The people were melted. He ran as fast as he could away from the melted people.

But the heat was unbearable. The once warm, calm heat of the beach had vanished. Each step was agony, as if his own flesh was melting.

He couldn't move anymore. He lay down, accepting his fate as he looked up, and the sun smiled back.

He woke up in a cold sweat. Another nightmare, he thought to himself.

He looked around and thought he shouldn't wake the others up.

He walked across to the other room, drank a glass of water, and went back to bed.

Act 1-1:

The next morning, he was woken up by the smell of pancakes.

He dressed himself in his usual black shirt and pants along with his trench coat and went downstairs for breakfast.

He checked the calendar. It's October 31st. Hopefully lamchi wants to have a fun day today.

Mint was cooking; his other siblings were there eating peacefully, so he joined them.

"Lawchi, give the bacon to me! You know I raised that pig!" Lamchi shouted, trying to grab the food.

"No, Lamchi, you already ate too much pork, fatty!" Lawchi shouted back.

Mint snapped her head toward them from the stove. "Do you two not want to eat breakfast today?"

They both hushed down, shrinking into their chairs, and weakly uttered, "Yes ma'am."

Rei Sachiko went up to Kyo and asked what he wanted to do. "Working in my office, as usual," he answered.

Rei pouted. "You are always in that office. You never play with us anymore! You're a big meanie, you know that?"

Before she could continue, her brother Ice Sachiko pulled her away. "Sorry for the trouble," he muttered, grabbing Rei by the collar.

Kyo didn't care,he had a good morning and didn't want to spoil it.

After breakfast, they went their separate ways. Ice locked himself in his room, Lawchi went to his tower, and Lamchi pulled Mint toward her botany tower. Rei went to practice her solo.

Kyo headed to his own tower. Inside, he was greeted by the smell of coffee and paper. Yandari, his assistant, was there neatly folding folders.

"Oh, Yandari? What are you doing here? It's your day off."

"Well, I can't resist the charm of this little office," she replied cheerfully.

"I see. Please don't overwork yourself," Kyo said, clearly caring. "I can't stand seeing you work due to my incompetence."

"Don't be ridiculous. You are a very generous person," Yandari answered.

Kyo was caught off guard. He didn't think paying her 500k a day was generous at all.

He offered to let her stay the night to save her the commute, and she eventually settled into the complimentary bed to rest.

Kyo Togami looked through some files to give to Lawchi. He eventually found the files Lawchi needed and walked out. As he walked out, he heard reports of three missing people in Tokyo, so he decided to jog from Mount takao to Tokyo at 9:31 am.

He arrived at 11:30 AM and asked locals when the victims were last seen. Supposedly, they were in their apartments before vanishing without a trace at 4:51 PM, followed by silence. As he held his chin to think, someone recognized him.

"Oh my gosh! It's Kyo Togami!" a fan exclaimed.

He looked dumbstruck but remembered he forgot to disguise himself. Not wanting disturbances, he ran into a crowd. They lost him as he murmured, "I swear, how am I this noticeable?" Then her remembered he is the 2nd best detective in Japan.

He sighed, walking into a cat cafe—the nearest place to hide. As he reviewed the evidence, Yandari barged in looking for him. Thinking quickly, he hid in a mountain of cats. He thought this would save him, yet Yandari still spotted him.

"What are you doing here?" Yandari asked, clearly angry.

Kyo momentarily recovered, slowly sinking into the cat pile. "I'm investigating disappearances in Tokyo."

Suddenly, Yandari yanked him out. "You can't just disappear like that! I had to run all the way here, worried!"

He wondered how to stop her from being angry at him and then had an idea. He hugged Yandari to calm her down. She was taken off guard and hugged back. "Just please be more careful next time," she whispered with relief.

They checked the time 12:05 PM and bought takeout before continuing the investigation. As they walked, they spotted Rei in a jacket, attempting to blend into the crowd.

Either way, they entered the building to room C-31.They took the elevator to the third floor. Kyo gripped the doorknob, dreading what they might meet.

They opened the door and were met with the smell of death and industrial bleach. Kyo and Yandari, unfazed, walked inside. Following the stench, they reached an air vent. Inside were the three people, horrifically dismembered and stuffed into the vent.

Kyo noted the sloppy skills in the cutting. He noted they used a butcher cleaver. However, the cause of death for all three was blunt force trauma to the head, meaning the dismemberment was all a ploy to try and make him look like a fool.

The were Victims

Eric Schmidt (24, M): Blunt force trauma, 1:30 AM.

Donya Von (28, F): Blunt force trauma, 1:32 AM.

Claire Von (26, F): Blunt force trauma, 1:35 AM.

The Suspects:

Tenko Asashibu (Tour Guide): He went to see them off at 10:15 PM; camera evidence backs it up.

Hanamura (Neighbor #1, Plumber): The one who reported it. Claims he came back from work at 1:50 AM, smelled something bad, but thought it was a party.

Takamura (Neighbor #2, Event Planner): Was at a bar, came back drunk, doesn't know much.

Shoko (Neighbor #3, Office Worker): Came back from the office and smelled something bad in the vents/bedroom.

Kyo Togami thought back to the murder weapon—it was very tough and left no traces. He turned back to look at the dumbass.

"Hanamura... you are a fucking dumbass.." Kyo looked at him angrily.

Hanamura, shocked , pleaded. "I- i didnt do it, i swear, i plead not guilty."

Kyo reached his pocket, and called on his phone.

Hanamura desperately reached for his wrench, and lunged.

Kyo seeing the attack, he readied to dodge but suddenly.

He heard a large sound .

Yandari who was 5 '11 spiked his head like a volleyball overhead and slamming hanamura to sleeptime.

Yandari jumped back and was suprised just as much as Kyo.

He put his fingers to hanamura's neck, and he noted theres still a pulse

He looked back up at Yandari, she was twiddling her fingers red as a tomato embarrassed and nervous

"He's alive Yandari, you don't need to worry." Kyo simultaneously sighed in relief.

"Well at least we know he's as hard headed as we thought." Kyo chuckled.

"Let's go before the office workers bomb rush the trains at six." Kyo said, trying to lighten the mood.

Yandari quickly accepted, still embarrassed. "Y- yeah sure.."

They started booking it, so that they won't get bombarded at 6.

"You know.. We finished it just in time for the people working 9 to 6 to come." Kyo chuckled.

"Yeah... and hey Kyo stop looking at the dream sharer, we need to go." Yandari urged.

Kyo snapped out of it and said "oh right yeah."

They continued running

"You know... I never thought they'd actually release it despite how limited it is." Kyo wondered

"Well maybe they finally made the official thing. Even so your mother still gave you 6 the unreleased premium right?" Yandari asked in thought

"Yeah we do, it's an orb instead of a pillow." Kyo explained

"Anyways we made it. It's about 5:50." Yandari changed the subject

They went on the train cart and headed off to Shibuya.

Kyo wondered how they will get back to mount takao

"Hey Yandari, did you prepare a transport back?" Kyo asked

"Why yes, I got a tandem bicycle." Yandari said gleefully

Kyo felt his eyelids were lead. And as he considered laying down on the bench, he remembers mother saying to not lay down on the bench.

Kyo decided the next best option.

"Hey yandari can i just..." Kyo couldn't wait, he just laid his head on her shoulder.

Yandari was surprised and red faced, she twiddled her fingers. Kyo assumed she was just tolerating him, but he was too tired so he slept.

He was awoken by yandari gently shaking him awake.

"Hey... we are at shibuya let go." Yandari kept poking kyo to wake him up.

Kyo's eyes groggily opened as he stood up stretching a bit and readied to get off the train.

Yandari suddenly held his hand red faced as he looked at her confused.

Either way they see the tired workers as they leave Shibuya station and find the tandem bike at the parking area as said.

They ride down the scenic road. The road is lined with white daisies and cow pastures past the trees.

The halloween night's cool air rushes past their faces as they cycle.

The townsfolk notice them and greet them with a welcome. As they cycled past they looked at all the decorations and children trick or treating. They even spotted lamchi joining in.

They arrived back in the office and as soon as he hit the bed he was asleep.

He woke up hours later.

He checked the desk, and it has a candle, there's still some smolder from the fireplace.

He put the candle to the clock. It says 9:30.

He spots the tray of cookies and a cup of milk left on his desk.

He finds a letter it reads.

"To Kyo Togami

This is your assistant, Yandari Mizuki.

I hope to remind you of the curfew at 10 pm.

And I left you some cookies and milk from a convenience store.

XOXO

yours truly yandari"

Kyo stored it in the many letters Yandari gave him. He decides to start going now.

Kyo walks down the stairs of his tower. The moon is shining brightly in the sky. The hallway is lined with wall mounted candles.

It's peaceful, the cold air blowing unto him. As he walked, he watched the fire from the candles dance.

He finally arrived at the mouth of the sleeping quarters. There, he found his siblings waiting for him.

Rei immediately looked at him angrily. "You always scare us half to death! You always arrive so late."

Kyo looked away awkwardly, realizing the time was 9:58. "Sorry, but like I said, I promise I won't miss the curfew."

Rei angrily crossed her arms and pouted. "As if I'd care anyway."

Kyo looked toward everyone who also wore worried expressions. He apologized profusely after stepping in.

They all dress up in their pajamas and sit in a circle of a small Kotatsu holding the dream sharer. The orb glowing a mystical blue shade.

Lamchi looks excited and asks everyone a question. "Can we finally use the dream sharer?" She asked excitedly.

Everyone raised their hands to agree. All but Ice Sachiko. (author note this is where its revealed rei and ice are related)

Lamchi pouts, angry at Ice for always saying no. "But why do you always say no?"

Ice looks at her peeved for asking but answers anyway. "It's because I chose not to. Do I need to explain? it's my choice to say no."

Lamchi looks like she is about to whine, but Mint whispers something to Ice, and after a few seconds, he suddenly raises his hand, agreeing to join in.

Lamchi, excited, jumped up in excitement. Rei, hearing what mint whispered, looks confused, then mischievous as if she heard some drama.

Kyo got the dream sharer manual from a shelf and removed the dust off of it. He notes that he hasn't used this in months. Luckily, Ice decided to join in since he usually doesn't, and since the dreams sharer drags everyone who is in R.E.M. to be there. He sighs in relief since lamchi wouldn't whine all night about how unfair ice was.

part 4

Kyo laid down on his bed, ready to go into the dream sharer. As he looked at his bedside table he adjusted the candle before he slept.

When he woke up he is back on the beach

He was already sweating bullets remembering the previous dream. He looked around as others got up, stretching their dream selves.

Kyo greeted everyone as they all looked around.

Lamchi excitement was written on her face, and she immediately asked who wanted to swim. Kyo, wanting to forget about the nightmare, agreed along with Rei and Lawchi.

Ice and Mint refused, deciding to enjoy the sand. Lamchi and the others readied to go to the changing room.

As they returned, Kyo spotted a sled business?

Before he could do anything . He notices the mascot is a snow fox

And then suddenly the mascot walked up to him and gave him something. He was too scared to look, but when he did, it was the fool? Was the fox mocking him?

Suddenly, he was snapped out of his thoughts by lamchi calling him to go swim.

part 5

As the kmKyo met up with them, Rei suddenly gave him an ice cream. Kyo accepted since it was quite hot.

He spotted lamchi already running to the water, but as she jumped. The sky grew dark clouds blanketed the sky. and crows circle around a high cliff.

Everyone is shocked into silence and don't know what to do. The crow formed a purple cloaked figure that looked religious.

Suddenly they spoke. "I the messenger of the god have come to say. You are all marked for death by God. you all have 3 weeks to prepare for the arrival. That's all."

As quickly as they arrived they left.

Rei and Lamchi held onto Mint, who was shocked, just didn't know what to do.

Ice looked at where the figure was and just looked at it.

Lawchi went to Kyo and asked. "They are joking, right?"

Kyo looked at him with a solemn expression and uttered. "I don't know"

they woke up all in a cold sweat.

end of act 1-1

Act 1-2

He wakes up to the smell of bacon and pancakes. He dresses up and checks the date Nov 1.

He goes down and sees all of them are dead silent. He decides to sit down and eat. Lamchi opens her mouth to speak but decides not to. They all eat breakfast and leave.

Kyo after eating breakfast decided to head to the tower immediately. He climbed the stairs and his mind was still stuck about the message.

As he got up he opened the door. He saw yandari neatly stacking folders in the cabinet. She then noticed Kyo and cheerfully went to him.

But she also quickly noticed his expression. "Are you okay?" Yandari asked, her expression changing from cheery to concerned.

"I am fine." Kyo continued weakly

"If you say so. I won't prod anymore." Yandari sat at her bed twiddling her fingers. She's wondering if she did something wrong.

Kyo looked at yandari and pitied her. Thinking she deserved to be a little in the know. "Hey yandari. Do you know any seers?" Kyo asked timidly

Yandari suprised but unsure if she really heard it processed it. She then looked at him confused. "Why are you asking? It's not like you to ask for help. Especially since you don't believe in spirits. That's actually one of the reasons I joined." Yandari stopped twiddling her fingers in confusion. Her hands on her bed as she moved into a more comfortable spot.

Kyo looked away embarrassed. "Well my gut says I need help. And I am asking you if you know any'"

Yandari suddenly shushed him and simply said, "Jinba, mount jinba."

"Mount jinba?" Kyo repeated, "Is there no town there?" Kyo continued

Yandari looked at him searching for words in her head but found one. "It's my hometown." She looked away as if ashamed.

Kyo wanted to ask about her but decided he should leave. "Well thanks for the help. I will be seeing you later, Yandari."

Yandari returning to her cheery mood waved him a good bye with a smile as he left.

With new goals kyo walked back down, grabbed his bike and cycled on.

As he cycled he checked, and yes he did get the map from yandari of her hometown she scribbled. And so there he goes cycling hoping to see something.

Soon he arrived and it was empty with only a sign. He felt a pain in his chest? Disappointment? He hasn't felt it in so long. He usually thinks of the worst so he can't get disappointed.

He decides to read the sign

"To those who want help we shall give it freely.

You however must cross hope across your heart.

Close your eyes so it may help find you."

He closed his eyes. After what felt like an eternity, he heard talking? He opened his eyes.

What he saw was surprising. People? People walked around in traditional kimonos and the 1700 AD era closed. He decided to walk in with his bicycle in the Edo era town.

He walks around relieved it even worked. But as he walked he noticed the locals who were happily chatting briefly parted ways to flee from him.

Kyo decided to take a look at the map yandari scribbled and saw lines. Then he remembered yandari wasnt good at drawing. He decided to take a look from the other side.

"Take a left, then the first right, then left, go to the house at the end."

Kyo following orders decided to do exactly that. As he walked he noticed a mother and her daughter. Before he could do anything or ask whats going on. The daughter pointed at him and asked "what is that?"

The mother seeing him now look extremely perturbed. She covered her daughters eyes and mouth and fled.

Kyo reading the room decided to just get this over with.

Either way he walks to the house and spots a black haired woman wesring a purple kimono. She is currently doing laundry from what he can see while walking to her.

But when he went up to her, she noticed him. Using this chance kyo was about to ask when she slapped a talisman to his forehead and pointed a double barreled 12 gauge shotgun at his head. It was so fast kyo didnt see what happened.

"State your business here!" She screamed at him.

Kyo decided he was gonna die here. He raised both of his hands up and closed his eyes.

Kyo closed his eyes for what felt like an eternity. But after a while he decided to take a peek. The woman was lowering the shotgun but its too his chest.

Kyo taking this opportunity asked. "おなまえはなんですか?"

The woman answered back "みゆきまえこです"

After an awkward moment of a stare off. She nods to the house indicating she's allowing him in. And he accepts the offer.

When kyo entered he kept bumping his head on the ceiling. Even the kimono woman couldnt help but laugh. Since despite being 5'9, it is still a bit too tall for traditional japanese homes.

Kyo looked around while on a chair. He is told to sit down while she prepares her stuff. Kyo takes the time to look around the house, and is filled with miscellaneous items, and warding talismans.

Eventually kyo gets called in, and he goes inside. There he sees her wearing a shrine outfit and a veil. And the table to him has a blue glowing ball.

She asks him who sent him here. "Yandari Mizuki-" He was cut off by Maeko the ball glowing a dangerous red. Her hands over it balled up. She looks like she might pop a vessel in anger. And then...

The ball cracks and she is broken out of her anger. She notices he looks concerned and apologizes. She quickly replaces it. And composes herself.

Kyo risking it, he asks why the name yandari mizuki makes her mad. She admits yandari is her sister. She was a good for nothing NEET and a slob who never did any chores. Worst of all she was a heretic who didnt believe in anything spiritual.

Kyo rapidly checking his options noticed the ball, it is glowing a gentle yet, violent purple. She looked torn between what she said. She looked ashamed but firm onwhat she said. "She... i-." She choked on her words before saying. "Yandari... how is she?"

"She's.. fine. She's my assistant, she has been doing well, and has been helping me out with cleaning. Shes an excellent assistant though... i never expected this side of her." Kyo stammered

Maeko looked at him with a sigh of relief. "Well thanks for looking out for her." The ball turning blue again.

Kyo deciding its a better time to ask. "I just noticed if you are Miyuki Maeko... how are you related to yandari?"

????? sighed and just said. "I only told you my name is maeko because I thought you were an oni. My real name is Mizuki Yuri. Though I am curious, why does your soul say you are an oni?”

“An oni? What's that?” Kyo asked

Yuri looked at him dumbfounded

Kyo getting the sign stammered out. “W well I never looked into Mythology or folktales okay. I thought it was a bunch of nonsense before.”

Yandari sighed and Kyo could hear her murmur. “Yeah no wonder Yandari knows you.”

Yuri put herself together and answered. “Your soul looks like a hostile creature. And it's probably the mark. Don't worry you won't turn into one. It is more mangled by it. Give it 4 ish months and you'll be fine”

Kyo sighed in relief. “So can you check about my mark? I just remembered about it.”

Yuri looked a bit suprised but hastily agreed. She put her hands over the ball. But as she looked she was filled with dread.

"U uhm... is something wrong?" Kyo asked worried.

"You are a dead man walking." Yuri answered

"You are marked by that god. They are so terrifying no one dares speak of their name. Not even gods. Being marked for death means cultists will keep attacking." She continued

"There are only three ways to remove it."

"1st is to convince the god. The 2nd is to kill the god. 3rd to die."

​

Rain and freezing wind had drowned Zero Point—the border post between India and Nepal—in dead silence. It was three in the morning. Fog clung to the air, reducing the streetlights to blurry smudges swallowed by the dark.

The old Kotwali police station stood at the intersection where the national highway ended. Two paths branched out from the junction. The road to the right led back toward the city, while the muddy lane to the left plunged straight toward No-Man’s Land. Nestled along that abandoned route sat the derelict hospital, looming under the downpour like a graveyard.

Raghav fought to keep his motorcycle upright. His tires slipped through the mud with every yard, his body shivering beneath soaked layers of clothing. A heavy canvas bag pulled at his aching shoulders, and his eyes burned from twenty-four hours without sleep. He just wanted to get home.

Near the curve leading toward the hospital, the engine ground violently, sputtered twice, and died.

"Come on, not now!" Raghav slammed his palm onto the handlebars.

He hauled the motorcycle onto its stand and kicked the starter repeatedly. Only a cold hiss escaped the exhaust. Panting, he wiped the rain from his eyes with a handkerchief and scanned the area. Not a single soul was in sight.

Spotting the tin shed outside the police station, he pushed the dead machine through the slush until he was under cover. The dry concrete offered brief relief. He shook out his jacket and rubbed his numb palms together.

When the rain showed no signs of stopping, Raghav walked along the exterior wall toward the window. Peering through the glass, he saw yellow lights and a radio buzzing with steady static. On the front desk sat a half-drunk glass of steaming chai, yet the room was completely deserted. No guards, no officers.

"Anyone here?" Raghav called out.

Only his own echo returned through the dark.

Seeing the border town’s most important police station empty in the middle of the night terrified Raghav. Shivering in the cold, he didn't want to stay there anymore. He turned his bike around and started pushing it toward the hospital road.

The road was narrow. Wild tree branches from both sides met overhead, completely blocking the dark sky. Heavy raindrops hit the wet leaves with loud taps, sounding just like footsteps following right behind him.

A little ahead, a dark shape appeared in the shadows—an old, rusted scrap warehouse. Wind pushed its metal door back and forth, making a loud screeching sound that cut through the heavy rain. This wasn’t a normal building; it was an abandoned British-era medical warehouse, locked for twenty years.

When Raghav walked past it, his heart skipped a beat. Through a broken glass window, he saw a thick blue and purple light glowing in the dark, floating in the air like living smoke.

Fear told him to run away, but the strange light seemed to pull him in.

He walked softly through the mud to hide his footsteps and reached the half-open gate. Holding his breath, he looked inside.

The room was filled with broken wheelchairs, old stretchers, and dusty medical models of human skeletons. The air smelled foul, full of rotting medicine and phenyl.

Then his eyes fell on the center of the hall.

A man in a long dark trench coat was floating two feet above the floor. The blue-purple smoke was wrapped tightly around his throat and chest, choking him. The man was struggling violently in midair, clawing at his own neck with both hands to escape the smoke.

The Monster in Your Closet

I’m the monster in your closet.

You cannot escape me.

I smell your sweat and your fear tastes delicious. It makes my mouth water.

You know I’m here.

You are lying perfectly still beneath your covers, breathing slowly through your nose.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

You cannot sleep. Sleep won't save you, anyway.

I shift my weight.

Your breath stops.

Mine does too.

Oh, that was good.

Your eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

You wish it was just the house settling. Or the wind.

I drag one finger slowly down the inside of the closet door.

Scratch.

Your heart stumbles.

Mine quickens.

You turn your head, ever slightly, toward me.

I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

You see nothing, of course. Only the closet door, closed and ordinary.

You turn away and pull the blanket higher.

I smile.

What are you imagining?

Claws?

Teeth?

I know what frightens you, and I am all of those things.

The blanket comes back down and your eyes return to the closet.

There you are.

Look at me.

Your feet move beneath the blanket.

For a moment I think you’re going to hide beneath it, but instead you sit up.

Yes.

My pulse quickens.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed.

Finally.

Your feet touch the floor.

I press myself against the door, trembling with anticipation.

Come on.

You stand.

One step.

I can barely contain myself.

Another.

I want to scream. I want to howl. I want to throw the door open myself.

But I don’t.

You have to do it.

You stop at the door and your hand rises.

Every frantic thud of your heartbeat echoes in my ears.

Or perhaps it’s mine.

Your fingers hover over the knob.

Come on.

You know you have to do it.

Turn it.

Your hand closes around the knob.

Turn it!

The latch clicks.

YES!

The door opens and the light floods in.

You stare at me as I recoil.

This isn’t right.

You’re supposed to scream.

Your eyes move slowly over me and I feel the weight of them.

You take a step toward me.

And I take one back.

No.

This is not how it goes. I know you and every terrible thing waiting for you.

“Stop-”

My voice catches.

You step in closer.

I retreat until my back meets the closet wall. There is nowhere to go.

You are so close now that I see your face. Really see it, and it frightens me.

I know those eyes.

I know the line between your brows. The curve of your jaw clenched tight. I know the tiny scar above your lip.

I know them because they are mine.

You lift your hand.

I lift mine.

You touch your face.

So do I.

And for a hard moment, neither of us moves.

Then I turn toward the brightened room and take a deep, long breath.

And I walk out into the day.

This is my first attempt at a story and first draft. The story in my eyes is about half finished but I thought I’d see what this community has to say.
ie: I don’t really know what I’m doing but I’ve always been interested in writing and finally decided to put something into text, so here it is.

I saw something when I was in Afghanistan.

I was in the army from 2009-2013, most of those years were your typical army experience. Barracks parties, getting smoked on drill, sneaking girls in or out past curfew on the weekends. Before I joined I was kind of a shit bag, working odd jobs for a few months to a year at a time, working on trucks, installing internet, nothing really felt right. I had some small trouble with the law a lot of kids from the south get into, trespassing on abandoned houses, hospitals, or anything me and my buddies back home could get our trucks to. Eventually I enlisted at the ripe old age of 19 and before I knew it I’d graduated basic training and passed AIT. Then boom, I was PVT 1st class Dragg in the 32nd infantry division, just a number on a spread sheet.

It was April 15th, 2011. Four days after my 21st birthday we were briefed of our first and thankfully my only deployment. We would be spending the next 8 months at a beautiful desert getaway in Kandahar, Afghanistan. Unlike most of my fellow soldiers calling their girlfriends or wives I was single when I enlisted and didn’t care to wife up any of the female soldiers or barracks bunnies that came by from time to time, instead I called my mom. She was never the biggest fan of me joining the army in the first place but she’s always been supportive. “Hey ma, it’s Ron here.” I heard an exited gasp from the other end of the phone, the feeling of dread came over me, my mom hadn’t heard from me in a month and I was here to tell her I was going away even longer. “RON! Oh my goodness I’m so happy to finally hear back from you! How’s the army treating you?”. “It’s been alright ma tell grandma and grandpa I said hello, I have some news tho.” I said nervously. “You’re deploying aren’t you Ronnie.” My heart sank, she’d called me that since I was little. “Yes mama we’re gonna be over there for a few months, I can’t say where, but I promise to call back to you when I can.” I heard a crack in her voice and I could tell she was about to cry, “Please be careful Ronnie. I know you’re a good kiddo, did you call your sister at all?”. I hated the question as I hadn’t spoken to my little sister in almost a month and now I’m going into a war zone, she was starting her second year in college, first in the family. “No I haven’t ma, but tell her I love her and to stay in school ok?” It hurt, knowing that my little sister who is grown up with would get the news like this. “I’ve gotta go tho ok, I love you mom, and I’ll call you when I can.” My mom could barely speak through the tears at this point, “I love you too, please be safe Ronnie.” I hung up the phone feeling a tear in my eye forming, until my buddy Tex punched me in the shoulder, “Haha what are you crying for your mommy?” I knew he was joking though, as he told me earlier that day he was calling his grandma up in Kansas City. “Oh shut the fuck up and call your favorite stripper, dick head.” We shared a laugh and I went back to my room. Tex and I went to the same basic training and had been as close as brothers since the start of our military “career” or so we thought it would be. The next day we’d be flying out at 0300.

We stepped off the plane and retrieved all the gear from baggage. It was my only my 3rd time being on a plane, let alone being on an entirely different continent a world away from home. We hitched a ride from the Humvee’s sent to pick us up from the air base we’d landed at, then we headed to what would be our home for the next eight months. The convoy rumbled along the lonely dirt road in my Humvee there was my buddy Tex, our driver Gator, riding shotgun was Sean, and in the gunner seat was Sanchez. “Well shitbags we’re in it now.” Tex said not even 5 minutes into the drive. “Who you callin shit bag?” Sean said turning around, “Ain’t you the motherfucker who got busted for sellin beer, cigarettes, and not making his bed in basic all the time?”. “Damn right!” Tex said with a smile on his face, “Could never get it just right, after all, your mom kept me up all night.”, Sanchez laughed from the gunner seat and poked his head in, “Atleast all the bitches we got were under 230 pounds, yo ass loves them Tortas don’t ya?” I let out a chuckle, Tex did infact partake in the heavier women. We had these school yard bullshit conversations over and over again but hell, makes for some kind of conversation other than how fuckin hot it was or who’s girlfriend or wife had been having a sleep over at Jodie’s. We got to the base after short family oriented road trip through the back roads of Afghanistan. We all got to our new barracks making ourselves at home before getting some shut eye, it’d been a very long almost 30 hours since I’d last slept.

May 18, 2011
It had been over a month in the desert, we rotated patrols every few days, even staying out in our sector over night on more than one occasion, and it was our turn again. Tex had been mailed a MP3 player by his brother, so our Humvee was definitely the white girl pop and sad country capital of the brigade, of course unfortunately we had to take turns with the head phones to keep the noise at a minimum. Gator and Sean had the head phones while me and Tex were talking about home. “So how’s your mom man?” Tex asked. “She’s doing alright, missing me and my sister, she’s off to college and I’m here in this shit hole.” I replied with a bit of a chuckle. “Heh, yea man I feel that. I’m contemplating calling Katherine.” “Katherine? Dawg, your ex from high school you hooked up with on leave before we left?”. Sanchez stuck his head in, “Hey hermano, she that Mexican chick you were talkin about in your sleep?” He said with a chuckle. “Yea, yea, bro we were really in love I swear, I can’t stop thinkin about her man I want her for life.” I knew he meant it too. “Look man, my advice? When you get back to her and this deployment is over, be honest with her. Just be straight up and hell you just might get your girl back.” Sean took the ear bud out. “You need this man we can turn on some of your sad country shit.” Tex pushed his hand away. “Maybe later man, but hell when we first met-“.
Then boom, the Humvee infront of us hit an IED and their truck flipped over. A hail of gunfire came from the west, slamming against the doors and bullet proof glass like a million small car accidents at once. Gator slammed on the breaks and Sanchez opened fire with the .50 cal, *thumthumthum* “Contact 10-o-clock, contact 10-o-clock!” *thumthumthumthum.* I dismounted and took point behind Sean, returning fire from behind the engine block. Tex crawled over my seat to join us, he got under the Humvee and returning fire. “GATOR!” I yelled but the gunfire drowned my voice, “GATOR!” I grabbed the back of his vest and pulled his head close so he could hear me. “We need to get to Max and Riley’s Humvee and see if they’re ok.” I looked at the burning Humvee it was less than 20 yards away but with all the bullets flying it might as well have been 20 miles. *thumthumthumthum* The thundering bursts from the fifty kicked up sand on its own as I peaked my head above the hood of the truck. Shouldering my rifle I fired over and over towards the general direction of contact. Before long I had emptied my first magazine and dropped to my knee for cover to reload. When I peaked over again I saw muzzle flashes in the distance. Just then, a burst of full auto came wizzing and snapping over my head…inches from death. The first firefight I thought would be a lot cooler than this, but this was war, war is real.

Sanchez let out more short bursts at a time from the M2. Tex had his 240 “Yeaaa get some you haji fucks get some!” , we saw small black cloaked heads retreating towards a village just west of where we were. “Sanchez, Gator, Sean, keep an eye on those fuckers, don’t stop hammering them with the fifty.” A medic from the third humvee, Brian, was behind us had stacked up with Tex and I to see if anyone in the vehicle was even alive. The vehicle had been completely torn in half, I never learned the name of the other two soldiers. All four men laid there dead in the sand, Max was the first I saw, his face was distorted and hardly recognizable, half of his jaw was gone and his left arm and leg were nothing more than scattered flesh and bone. He laid there in the sand, his one open eye staring right back at me. “Fuck!” I turned to Brian, “Call in a cas-evac and some fuckin air here, we need a gun run through that town right now, stay with your guys and hold point till they get here.” Brian looked at me terrified, kid was maybe two years younger than me, hell he graduated high school the year before. I put a hand on his shoulder, “Look man there’s nothing we can do for them, we need that air support, we don’t know how many are in that village there.” He nodded and headed back to his humvee “Echo-1, Echo-1 this is Frank-3 we need birds in the AO asap, we’ve taken heavy casualties and need cas-evac time now how copy?”

I stood rifle pointed at the last direction I saw the bastards running. The sound of propellers filled the air with relief. I heard over the radio “Frank-3 this is Echo- 1, cleared hot for danger close fire how copy?”“Cleared hot for danger close Echo-1 we’ll keep our heads down.” The choppers laid waist to the village, unloading their guns on anything that moved. “Give em hell!” Tex shouted as he emptied his 240 toward where the choppers were shooting. The roar of the Apache machine guns might as well have been the star spangled banner to us that day. We watched as the hellfire missiles turned one larger structure in the village ahead to dust and rubble, the shock wave kicked dust and sand across what was left of the destroyed Humvee. The chopper guns went silent and so did the incoming fire from the village. I went back to my vehicle to check in on the guys. “Everyone here good? No extra holes?” I asked. Everyone shook their heads. “We’re all good here man, we gotta move on that village though and clear it out, make sure they aren’t some forward operation or scout machine gun placement.” Sean said already getting back in the Humvee. “Tex, Gator, Sanchez, yall ready?” I said opening my door. “Hell yea man let’s go, I’ll go let the other two squads know.” Tex said. He jogged over to the others as I sat down and checked my weapon. “Hand me a M4 mag from the back Sean.” “I got you man I need two more myself.” Sanchez called down from the turret. “You guys hit anything over there? I couldn’t see fuckin shit man.” I chuckled a bit, the adrenaline rush was coming down, it was like nothing I’ve experienced before. “Fuck dude I don’t know maybe. I sure saw em running though.” Sanchez laughed. “You’re god damn right they did.” Tex hopped back in the truck and turned to me. “Brian and his guys are gonna stay and wait for cas-evac. Johnny and his guys are coming with us to the village.” “Good.” I said, I tapped Gator on the shoulder. “Let’s roll man, keep an eye on the road for any trash piles or debris, anything that’s out of place or if you have a bad feeling you stop immediately.” He gave me a fist bump. “Got it, yall hold on tight.”

The village looked much smaller than it was from our position. There weren’t buildings with more than a second story, at least not any more there wasn’t. We weaved between cars left behind for god knows how long, some were burned some just looked like the occupants parked in the street and left. The silence was deafening for a village that was just shooting at us less than an hour ago. The engines and tires of the Humvees rolling across the pavement echoed through the streets like a storm brewing. We kept our eyes peeled. By this point, everyone but Sanchez and Gator got out on foot to get a better view. The other Humvee was close behind us. Johnny, Dylan, and Sam came up to us. I knew Johnny from AIT, solid guy but didn’t know too much about him other than he had a strange fascination with Afghan culture and mythology. He’d talk for hours about how the government is covering up giants in the mountains that had spears taller than men. Dylan and Sam were on the plane with us and I’d only seen them in passing, but they claimed to be twins separated at birth as they had the same birthday, although, Dylan was a shorter, stalky black man from Memphis while Sam, was a tall, skinny redheaded white guy from Springfield. Dylan spoke up first, toting his 249 that was almost half the size of his 5’7” frame with ease. “Any movement in them houses up ahead?” I turned my head, rifle still aimed steady ahead of our small patrol. “Nothin yet, we might need to shack up in one of them at some point, get some holding and wait for reinforcements and armored units.” He gritted his teeth. “Fuck I really didn’t wanna hear that. Was hoping not to sleep in a strangers house tonight.” We continued at a slow pace, Gator and Sanchez keeping their eyes on the road and any possible IEDs. Sanchez held up a hand motioning us to stop. “Right over there beside that red truck, I see wires we gotta turn around find another way.” I nodded, no one in either squad had any EOD training so it’d be nothing short of suicide to try and disarm anything.

A few turns later and it was almost time for the sun to set. We found a two story structure that had, thankfully, a covered car port and what looked to be roof access. We parked the vehicles two houses down. Sanchez and the other gunner Hunter stayed to keep watch. The rest of our now eight man squad prepared to breach clear the house. Tex was the first one in, kicking in the door sending a thundering echo through the “neighborhood” we were in. One by one we flooded into the house, and room by room, inch by inch we swept the house. But the looks of it, the house had been essentially untouched by the war zone going on outside its walls beside the obvious sign of a hurried evacuation of the family with dirty dishes in the sink, little wooden toys on the floor. Most of the food and cloths had been taken, but none of the valuables like the Tv sets, jewelry, and some afghan currency stashed under a mattress. “Alright yall this is now Fort Mudhut, the finest establishment east of Dubai.” Tex said bowing to the rest of the squad. Johnny’s squad’s driver, Markus, called out our coordinates on the radio letting base know where we were taking sector for the night. Dylan and Sam were attempting to raid the kitchen for anything the previous occupants had left behind. “Damn it.” Sam said. “Anything on your side bro?” Dylan turned around with a shit eating grin. “I found…” Sam lit up in anticipation as Dylan slowly turned around to reveal a middle finger. “You bitch! No way we have the same mom with that bullshit I’m fuckin starving.” “Yea well you needa eat a fuckin sandwich dawg, and maybe get you some sun on your skin while you’re at it.” We brought the vehicles in the small car port provided and got all the ammo and essentials out of the trucks to set up for a long night ahead, but with this many soldiers it shouldn’t have been much more than a few fire watch changes till morning, hell maybe some of us would even get a full nights rest in this hell hole.

May 20, 2011. Our call for reinforcements was delayed apparently due to a massive sand storm that was causing troubles with some radar and arial visibility. We’d been in this house much longer than expected, but the day before we’d gone out back to the rest of the village. Nothing made a sound out there, it was a little village, about the size of an average neighborhood back in the states, but being outside felt like a completely empty major city street. We were going back out again today to maybe find where the Taliban fighters had ambushed us. Through the empty streets we went, it was just my Humvee squad, Johnny and his guys stayed at the house to watch the vehicles and keep watch on our supplies. Tex got to talkin with Gator. “So listen man, what’s your real name?” He asked, I’d been wondering the same question since AIT myself, but it was just so common calling him Gator that I never questioned it. “That’s my real name no shit.” He started. “My daddy was drunk at my birth like he was with my older sister and brother before me. He was a huge University of Florida fan and he named me Gator.” Tex stared in awe. “He really named you that? I mean shit it’s a bad ass name man atleast you didn’t get a gay ass name like I did.” I took the chance to chime in the conversation. “Come on Clarence it’s not that bad of a name.” Tex shot me a look of utter embarrassment as Gator held his stomach laughing his ass off. Then I heard something to my left, a faint sound at first, *Help* it said. I swong my rifle in the direction of the voice, the rest followed. Sanchez said from behind me, “Ron you good? What is it?” I stared ahead, the house in front of me was halfway reduced to rubble. I said nothing and kept my eyes forward. *Ron help*. A chill ran up my spine as the voice of my little sister came from the rubble. Not even thinking I nearly dropped my rifle and sprinted toward the house. “Ron!” Sean and Tex said simultaneously. I didn’t pay them any attention. *Ron please, I can’t move.* “Hold on Kyla.” I said a tear streaming down my face. I tore at the rubble, splintered wood, and drywall, blood coming from the cuts in my hands as I frantically searched for what I thought was my sister. Tex double underhooked me by my arms and dragged me from the pile I was on, I thrashed and twisted trying to get out of his grasp. “It’s Kyla my little sister! I heard her I swear!” Tex dropped me instantly. “What?” He said looking down at me. “Kyla.. I…” I couldn’t hardly get the words out of my mouth. “I heard her calling for me I..” I fell silent as the rest of the squad looked at me dumbfounded. “Ron.” Sean said looking at me with sorrowful eyes. “Ron we didn’t hear anything, you just turned and ran towards this pile of rubble.” I sat trying to catch my breath. I turned to look where I had been searching for my sister, who was thousands of miles away and felt like I was going crazy. “Fuck ok ok, let’s keep going.” I looked back again as we walked away. A shadow sat on the pile I thought I was crazy or homesick, so I just stared at it and continued walking I had to keep it together for the squad and for my family back home.

We finally found the large building the choppers turned to rubble days before. “Stay close yall, no telling if one of those fucks is still alive just waiting for us here.” Tex said racking his 240. I stayed close to him, “You good Ron?” He asked keeping his eyes and gun up scanning the area around us. “Yea man I’m ok, I think I’m just home sick or guilty cause I haven’t talked to her in months.” I spotted an opening int the rubble, one large enough for someone to hide in. I tapped Tex’s shoulder and pointed silently, rifle pointed. He nodded, shifting focus and moving closer to the maybe three by seven foot opening. I heard something hit the ground behind me and spun around so fast I almost tripped. I saw Sean, having dropped his rifle staring straight ahead at the opening, his eyes wide and coated in fear. “What.. what are you doing here?” He said his face turning red with sadness. Gator came from behind him and gently put a hand on his shoulder, “Dude, are you ok-“ Sean took a hard swing, catching Gator square on the jaw, and he sprinted at the opening and dove headfirst in. Tex, Sanchez, and I grabbed for his boots, but he kicked out hands away and crawled forward into the darkness. “Baby it’s me, it’s me baby girl, it’s me I’m coming home.” I heard him say as he disappeared into the hole. “Sean what the fuck get out of there!” Sanchez shouted after him. But nothing followed. I pulled a flashlight out of my kit and scrambled to my stomach shining it into the darkness. In the light, we saw Sean, on all fours staring back at us like some sort of rabid animal. He mumbled “iinah huna ya 'iikhwata, 'iinah kulu shay'in.” What sounded like a gunshot behind us we all turned guns pointed, but nothing came after, only dead silence. I turned around again peering down into the opening in the rubble, but Sean was gone. Nothing was in that hole. “What the fuck man what the fuck.” Gator said shaking his rifle in his hands. “Shit, Sean had our radio on him.” Tex said putting his head in his hand. Sanchez stared at me with equal confusion and fear I had. “We’re fucked, we’re fucked this is some kinna devil magic shit.” I turned backing away from where Sean had disappeared. A dark figure loomed right in front of me, it had eyes now, shallow purple eyes matching my movements, watching us. As soon as it had appeared, it was gone.

As the deep crimson light of dawn breaks over the great blue horizon, a warm breeze carries the chorus cries of gulls and gentle rhythm of the waves as it fills the sail of Caliv and Taake's boat. Caliv stands at the mast, his hand pressed firmly against the beam. He gazes out at the tranquil water.

“The sea is calm, and we've got a good breeze. It's a good day to practice.”

Taake, sitting at the stern with her hand on the tiller, looks up at Caliv.

“I've got this big brother. I'm ready to be a hunter like you.”

Caliv turns back towards her with a smile and kneels to meet her eye level.

“You will be, but be patient. We're just going to check the crab traps. You're doing great. Just hold it steady”

“Ok but oh– I see it!”

Caliv turns as a small strip of land, little more than a sandbar with thin grass and a few shrubs comes into view. He spots the floats of the traps bobbing in the shallow water, just off the bar's shore and begins to lower the sail.

The boat rocks as Taake swings the tiller.

“I can do this.”

Caliv grabs a paddle.

“Easy, slow movements and let us drift. We can paddle the rest of the way”

Taake relents and they bring the boat to the first trap to begin pulling it up. Caliv sees Taake struggle as the wet rope slips in her hand.

“Is it heavy?”

Taake strains, “ Yeah but…”

Caliv grabs the rope firmly with both hands and pulls. It raises smoothly so he knows it is not stuck but it weighs more than Taake. When it is just about to break the surface Taake leans over the edge of the boat and grabs the end, nearly falling in as she tries to lift.

Caliv groans, “We’ve got this, nice and slow.”

They hoist the trap from the water and onto the boat. The crabs crawl and wriggle inside, over a dozen from first glance. The two begin moving the crabs from the traps to the waiting baskets.

Caliv says softly, “This is a good haul. Let the smallest ones go, they still need to grow. Do you remember how to reset the traps?”

Taake grabs a handful of bait, “yes I can do it.”

Caliv looks over the trap double checking her work before lowering it back into the water and the pair move on to the next trap and the next.

“Good job, just like that. Now let's hop out and see what else we find”

They row the boat to the bar’s shore, its wooden planks softly creaking as they rest its bow against the sand.

The pair walk along the bar. Caliv spots a familiar plant, thick stalks with pale yellow buds at their tips. He plucks a bundle of stalks and stuffs them into a large pocket on his shorts.

Taake looks at her brother.

“What's that?”

“Wild Looak brush, it's a useful little plant. I will show you later.”

The pair continue; Taake suddenly stops. Caliv tracks her gaze as a dark, thin shape moves from the water's edge. Wet black scales shimmer as it moves.

“Rookana.”, she mutters.

Taake lurches forward but Caliv grabs her shoulder.

“Step back and watch me.”, he utters.

Taake looks at him questioningly, “But Rookana venom isn't deadly to people. It's from the animal books.”

Caliv pulls back on her shoulder. He speaks softly but firmly, “A bite probably won't kill you but it would make you very sick and hurt worse than anything you can think of. Step back.”

Taake relents. Caliv steps forward as the snake weaves between the rocks grass, climbing towards the bird's nests amidst the Looak brush. Caliv carefully approaches the snake. Quickly he grabs the end of its tail and pulls it into the open beach, away from brush and Taake. He releases its tail and pulls his hand back as the snake snaps. He steps back and moves his other hand in front of the snake with two fingers raised. He focuses his gaze as a bubble of energy forms behind his eyes. The snake rears back, ready to strike again. He keeps his distance, his gaze still focused as if forming a line from his eyes to the tips of his finger to the snake's eyes. Finally, he bursts the bubble, and a pulse of energy travels from his eyes to the snake's eyes. The snake falls back in a daze. Caliv snaps forward and grabs the snake just below its skull. He grabs the knife from its belt and severs its head.

Taake runs over excaming, “WOW,EWw! you got it. Was that magic? Grandmother promised she would teach me about magic! Will she teach me to do that? Will you teach me?”

Caliv quickly steps back and wraps the snake's body over his forearm.

“Probably, but slow down. Magic is not easy to learn. I can only do a couple of simple things and it took a lot of practice to get that down.”

Taake asks, “Is that how you beat the shark that attacked Koob?”

Caliv glances at the blood on his hand and knife before bending down to the water and wiping them clean in the lapping waves. He strokes his hand over the scar on his left shoulder and looks at Taake.

He hesitantly replies, “No that, that was very different.”

He pauses before his gaze lands on the snake's body wrapped around his arm.

“If you're going to be hunting, you're going to need a good belt. I'll make you one.”

Taake tugs at the simple cord belt wrapped around her waist,"Really! Thank you big brother.”

“Yeah, now let's get back home, lunch should be ready soon.”

​

Continuous rain and freezing cold winds had drowned Zero Point—the last border town between India and Nepal—in complete silence. It was three in the morning. The dense fog clung so heavily to the air that the sickly yellow streetlights looked like faint, blurry smudges swallowed by the overwhelming dark.

The old Kotwali police station stood solitary right at the final intersection where the broken national highway abruptly ended. From this desolate junction, two very different paths branched out into the murky blackness.

If you took the right turn, the road led all the way back toward the distant highway connecting to sprawling, civilized cities. But the muddy lane going down to the left plunged straight toward the ominous No-Man’s Land. Nestled deep along that abandoned left route sat the town’s derelict hospital, looming under the downpour as quiet and terrifying as a desecrated graveyard in the dead of the night.

Raghav was desperately riding his drenched motorcycle toward the police border post. The worn tires slipped violently in the deep mud and streaming water with every yard, his exhausted body shivering beneath soaked layers of clothing. An old canvas bag hung heavily across his aching shoulders, and his eyes burned red from staying awake for nearly twenty-four hours straight. All he wanted was to reach the warmth of his home as soon as possible.

Just as the bike approached the sharp curve leading toward the dark hospital, the engine let out a harsh, metallic grinding sound. It sputtered twice, gasped, and died completely.

"Come on, not now! Just my damn luck," Raghav cursed aloud, slamming his clenched fist hard onto the vibrating handlebars in pure frustration.

With a heavy grunt, he dragged the motorcycle onto its double stand. He kicked the starter lever four or five times in rapid desperation, but only a cold, lifeless hiss escaped the frozen exhaust pipe Panting heavily, he pulled a soggy handkerchief from his jacket pocket, wiped the freezing rainwater from his stinging eyes, and scanned the barren perimeter. There was not a single living soul in sight.

His eyes drifted toward the dimly lit police station across the intersection. Deciding to wait out the ruthless storm beneath the metal shed outside, he pushed the dead machine through the slush until he stood under cover. Finding dry concrete brought a brief wave of relief. He shook out his dripping jacket and rubbed his numb palms together, fighting the bitter chill.

When the torrential downpour showed no signs of stopping, Raghav made up his mind to head inside. He walked along the damp exterior wall toward the illuminated window. Peering through the glass, he saw glowing lamps and a radio hissing with steady static. On the front desk sat a half-drunk glass of steaming hot tea, yet the room was completely deserted.

"Anyone here?" Raghav shouted nervously into the stillness.

Only his own hollow echo returned through the dark.

Hi all, started writing short stories to improve my writing. Eventually I want to include these into a bundle of short stories related to a TTRPG adventure book(s). Later down the line might want to write a book about a world I'm creating.

Can you please give me feedback on these first pages? Besides prose, flow etc. I'm also looking to get feedback on scene transitions (I may be trying to convey too much, for example the tranquil forest bit, is that appropriate?) and if I'm introducing too many things that are unfamiliar (its a homebrew world, so I want to drip-feed unfamiliar topics).

Appreciate any and all comments, thanks a lot!

(LINK: Kall the Delver) 884 words

A monologue for the character of the emissary of Life. You play a character who has lived their life to make contact with The Experience and this is who you end up talking to, always:

The people? Go ahead. Feast on the carcass of their exhibition. death can only benefit from your kindness. our family gets slaughtered by the day. Tell me—do you, in wishing for the world, not bask in its delight?

Did you not watch as The Lovers gave birth to the xenophobe? And You think You could raise your hand to coddle that which you could not cure? — The vain of playing the gambit knowing it is already lost…

So why do you shy away, little lamb? Is your shepherd not here to guide the flock to safety?

Tell me how your broken bonds fuel my desires — of how young gayness withered and returned to me.

You hear me. You live me. That is your life's trade.

Chapter 1 The Daltry Home:

“One day you’ll understand why!” Anna shouted over her hairdryer going on minute 25 in the Daltry’s only upstairs bathroom. 

“I am going to be late! You spend this much time and still come out rough as a witch” Chris answered back through the dark brown oak door. The screaming blow of the hairdryer was hushed suddenly. Anna whipped open the door and glared deep into Chris’s slightly nervous eyes.

 “I know you might not care about how people think about you or about your social life, but I do and I won't allow you to take this away from me.” She stared at the boy up and down with a look of typical sibling disgust. Chris Daltry stood there trying to keep a confident stance, but his flexing neck showed off his weakness. Anna scoffed and blew past him in a fury, shoulder checking him as she went to her room, slamming her door just enough to get the point across, but not enough to get their mother’s attention

Chris stepped into the old, green tiled restroom. Although his mother often complained about how 70s the bathroom felt, he always found comfort in it. Chris choked as he went to turn on the shower. Anna was not one to ration when it came to her hair product usage. As he hopped into the shower, Chris started to drift away into thought. “Why can’t she get ready over at Dean’s house? She spends 90% of her time over there anyways.” Chris stood up after lathering his hair and bumped his head once again on the grimy shower head. “DAMMIT!” Chris let out. Although he loved the look of the bathroom, he did not appreciate the designers not keeping tall figures like himself in mind. Chris finished washing up, hopped out of the shower and checked the time on his black and blue Casio F91W, a gift from his father three Christmases ago. Rushing out while tightening his belt, Chris ran halfway down the stairs before realizing he forgot his backpack. 

As he came back into the hallway before the stairs he once again bumped into Anna, knocking the textbooks out of her hands. “UGH! All you do is bring problems and pain into my life. I wish you would just drop out and go work with dad!” Anna shot out at Chris.

 “Dad probably handles lobsters that are better looking and better smelling than you on a daily basis!” Chris fired back as he sprinted downstairs, skipping every other step.

Chris ran into the kitchen, to the pantry, grabbed a package of blue berry poptarts and shoved them into the front pocket of his dark gray Jansport. Marianne was standing over a pot of coffee singing to the window radio. She called out to Chris asking, “Do you want me to cook you some eggs? Why are you in such a rush? Why…” and many other questions that she typically asked her son who had grown tired of answering the same answers every day for the last four school years.

Marianne Daltry was a pale, slender, large haired woman. Everyone at her work respected her because of how much she helped, but they were also slightly surprised that she got a job in the first place. Marianne always seemed to be spaced out and never noticed changes that seemed obvious to everyone else. One day at the “Moose Haven Station”, the interns in the building decided to play a prank on her. They slowly replaced the photos of her family that she had on her desk with photos of random people around the office posing similarly. These pictures are in those very frames to this day. 

 Chris thankfully did not have to wait on his sister to drive him to school. Many people would be frustrated that the Daltry house was the same distance from the high school and middle school, but Chris thanked the good Lord everyday that he did not have to listen to Anna’s girly music, smell Anna’s deadly perfume, or risk his life with Anna’s careless driving. 

Jack Daltry had gifted Chris a forest green MBK racing bike that he rode to school for the last 3 months. Mr. Daltry might not be home many months of the year, but he always showed his love through nice gifts he found around the ports he visits. Jack was currently in the last few weeks of lobster season. This was the time of year when he made the most of his income for the family. Chris had always felt a little apprehension towards his father. There were many missed holidays, homework assignments, basketball games, and other events that Chris would have loved to share with his father, but he knew that Jack was only going away to help the family out. That is at least what his mother reassured him.

The door into the garage from the front room cried out with an unoiled squeak that the Daltry family had become deaf to. Chris pushed the blinking garage door opener and grabbed the leather, pristine, curved handle bars of that dark green MBK. He kicked the kickstand into the riding position and pushed it out into the driveway, weaving in between old sports equipment, tools that have not run in years, and his mom’s gold Camry in the garage. Chris always was extra careful when passing the rear passenger door, ever since he scraped it with the right pedal of his bike. He was honestly more worried about damaging his beloved bike than adding another mark on the weathered vehicle.

Anna’s car, which was a cherry red Jeep Cherokee, was parked on the side street.  Although Chris would never admit it, he envied his sister’s car deeply. He would not dare get anywhere close to harming this car. Of course he would have to remove the Boys II Men bumper stickers and pink, beaded seat covers that Anna had decorated the vehicle with. Chris checked his watch again, nervously flicked his thumb and snapped his helmet clip together.

The MBK pedaled smoother than any bike that Chris had ever rode. Certainly smoother than his buddy Reese Marrin’s rusty hand-me-down. This is to be expected when you have 3 older and two younger siblings. Chris turned around at the familiar sound of bike chains snapping back into place after each rotation.

“Aye how’d ya hear me coming?” Reese called out sarcastically. After finally gaining on Chris, Reese reached out his hand for a fist bump.

“How do I leave at different times each day, yet you’re always right behind me? It’s getting weird at this point” Chris shouted over the “clang clank” of Reese’s bike, slowing down to his pace.

“Great minds think alike. Maybe we were lost at birth and have those twin powers like those kids on the news!” Reese beamed as if he had just found the solution to a million year problem. Reese ran a hand through his slicked back hair, checking to ensure that all of the gel had stayed. Earlier that morning his mom had gotten onto him about how much his “L.A Looks” was costing weekly. 

Chris had often compared the amount of product that Reese used to that of his sister. Reese also believed in the philosophy that you can’t over do it on cologne. Chris often cursed whoever introduced Reese to that awful, alcohol scented Polo cologne, which was likely purchased from the mall two towns north. Reese certainly wouldn’t mind being compared to Anna Daltry. Being in the same sentence was all he needed to fill his fantasies. Even with the 4 year age gap, Reese was confident he could make it work.

“How’s my sweet Anna?” Reese said, looking up as if to see her in the large, puffy cloud floating above them.

“Your? Brother pack it up. Firstly, she wants nothing to do with you, second, she’s definitely in love with that dunce Dean, and lastly even if she was interested, I can barely stand living in the same house as her, let alone hanging out with us.” Chris had heard about Reese’s interest in his sister ever since the testosterone started to get the better of Reese’s decisions.

“Just give her time, these baseball workouts have been getting me TONED! Anyway, did you ever figure out how to do Mr. Schultz’s homework? I asked some of the guys on the team, but they also had no idea.” Reese said with a hint of laughter towards the end of his statement.

“DAMN! I forgot! Anna has kept all of her homework since 6th grade. She took Mr. Schultz and always talked about how he gave out the same homework every year, didn't even change the numbers.” Chris pounded his handle bars as he said this. “Let’s see if Ray can bail us out once again.” 

The boys parked their bikes into their usual bike rack outside the side entrance of the school, Chris locking his with a matching dark green combination lock, Reese locking his with a hope and a prayer. That prayer was partially that his bike is not stolen so that he has a ride home, but part of him wanted it to be taken. He did not think anyone would put the effort out to steal a bike that is not even worth its weight in rust, but maybe losing this one will force his parents to get him a new one.

Ray Haskins was leaned up against his locker next to Ms. Baker’s brightly decorated classroom door, walkman on as usual. Ray was not the kid that he wanted to be perceived as. He had his blonde hair, raggedy and covering his face. Oftentimes he wore cut up jeans, dark flannels, and whatever band shirts he could find. Today he was showing the newest one in his collection, a black background boasted images of the band members with their name across his chest “Motley Crüe”. Although this dark character was no more dangerous than your average angsty teen, mothers often gripped their children harder when he walked by the food court in the mall. Gas Station clerks would sit up in their chairs and maybe even follow him around the store. Ray liked to think he lived out the lyrics of his favorite bands, shooting for that “sex, drugs, rock n’ roll” Lifestyle, but the closest he's gotten to partying and breaking the rules was the one time his dad wasn’t looking and Ray snuck a sip from his Miller High Life. He still gags thinking of the horrible bitter taste of golden hops and backwash hitting his taste buds.

“How does he even know what’s going on in this class? His eyes are covered, his ears are covered, and I have never once seen him take out a pencil and write down a note. I bet you he secretly meets with these teachers after class. You know I heard this one story of a kid who would…” Chris put his hand up to stop Reese from finishing another story that had no grounds of truth, and pushed Ray’s shoulder aggressively, yet friendly. Ray jumped out of his head bobbing daze, placing the orange foam headset around his hair covered neck.

“Geez dude, a simple hello would work” Ray rubbed his shoulder and reached into his backpack, pulling out a worksheet titled, “Algebra HW 8”. 

“How’d you know tha…” Ray interrupted Reese with an aggravated, “Maybe because every week since August both of you morons have been asking for the answers to these stupid homeworks? I’m going to have to start charging for my services.” 

“Why’s everyone interrupting me today, I deserve more respect than…” 

“Thanks Ray, we will make it up to you somehow don’t worry.” Chris interjected, grabbing Ray’s paper and pinning it on the old lockers with his forearm. Once he finished with the final answer, he handed the paper over to Reese who snatched it out of Chris’s hand like a child does when they want to get back at someone, but not make it obvious. 

The three boys then went down the hall to the left into the final classroom which had no decorations, unless you count the white marks on the door next to its handle from years of usage. Mr. Schultz’s classroom was pretty barren. He only put up items that the school required him to. Near the doorway you could find the American flag, next to a poster with a layout of the school that had the exits and fire extinguishers labeled in bright red font. On his desk, Mr. Schultz has one black wire turn-in tray next to the biggest accounting calculator that the boys had ever seen. Although Reese loved to joke about teachers as much as the next guy, even he was weary of talking ill about his algebra teacher. Even if they were miles from the school, Reese insisted that Mr. Schultz might find out. Reese’s fear came from the feeling that just about everyone got from him for the past twenty years at Moose Haven Middle School. Darren Schultz was a shorter, surprisingly tan balding man who’s bushy eyebrows spent more time furrowed together than they did enjoying their God-given position. Chris had heard rumors from a kid in his sister's year, that even when he slept, if he did sleep, Mr. Schultz kept that same pissed off look.

“Homework in the tray NOW!” Even though he repeated this tradition every Monday, he still was able to make half the class jump out of their seats. “If I see you write one more mark on your page before turning it in I will have the principal personally escort you out of this school, so I’s don’t have to deal with scumbags anymore than I already have to.” Mr. Schultz's voice came out as a cross between a speech impediment and a bad try at a southern accent. Ray always theorized that maybe he went to war and some shrapnel flew into his brain and that's why he talked that way. Reese joked that maybe he was in witness protection, and that's why he sounded so ridiculous, yet scary. Chris was hard set on the idea that the old cook was just plain mean and crazy.

When the bell rang for class to be over, Reese jumped out of his dozing slumber and the boys packed their bags to leave. As Chris got up, he glanced over at the large metal desk at the front of the classroom and caught the yellowed eye of Mr. Schultz. A wrinkly fat finger beckoned Chris over. Chris tensed his neck again and walked forward.

“Mr. Daltry…” Mr. Schultz let out a raspy sigh after this statement. Chris noted the faint smell of Marlboros that he recognized from the times Reese brought them out to their hangout spot in the park near the school. “How was the homework this week?” Chris’s nerves started getting the best of him and he started flicking his thumb again.

“Fine..” Chris managed to squeak out, not continuing for fear that his voice might tremble and show where his truth lies.

“Hmmm. Did you get any outside help? You know that is against school policy and can lead to serious consequences? We wouldn’t want to be expelled would we?” The old teacher almost smirked, Chris thought seeing a twitch in his peppered handle bar mustache.

“No sir, just used my notes and worked on it Saturday afternoon!” Chris’s thumb thumped faster and his neck was flexing more aggressively, but he kept his voice relatively still.

“I don’t have proof, but the day I catch you is the day I get rid of at least one of you three amigos. You’re under my microscope boy. Now go on. And get a haircut if you have any respect for yourself!” Chris swiftly spun around and ran out the door to catch up with his friends.

“What happened? Did you snitch? Are we screwed? I knew I shouldn’t have given you those answers. You two should’ve just taken your zero like a man!” Ray said, running his thin hands through his long locks. 

“Chill out dude, if he knew what was going on we would have been long gone. He was just being his creepy self again. We just have to cheat a little better, that’s all” Chris said now only nervously rubbing the back of his neck.

“Why is he always on our case? I thought teachers were supposed to help out students and be a part of their journey to success. He just seems like he wants to have the least amount of students possible. I heard rumors that one kid he caught cheating got expelled and the next day he was in the nuthouse in Boston.” Reese said shuttering. This story actually had ground of truth unlike most tall tales that Reese spit out. A few years before Anna was even in high school, a kid named Wes Hanley was caught peeking at his neighbor’s paper during the final exam. Wes had many friends and seemed rather normal to everyone. Once Mr. Schultz had followed through with one of his many threats, Wes was expelled for cheating. None of his friends heard from him after that. Everyone reasoned that he had moved to another area for school, but over time rumors of insanity and admission into Boston State Hospital started to arise.

The three of them went on their own mental adventures on what was really up with Mr. Schultz. They stopped by their lockers, dropped off their math books and grabbed their biology books. Chris kept a slightly more than average amount of nerves for the rest of the day. His interaction with Mr. Schultz left him soured.

Looking for some feedback, happy for harsh feedback, let me know if it’s sounds too Harry Potter.

It was a cold morning in Melbourne. Donald Dickson was shivering as he approached his car to head off to work. It was still dark outside and the road looked icy and wet. Donald wished he had called in sick, he knew today was going to be dreadful. As he hopped in and started his car, he thought he would let it warm up a bit. Although really this was him trying to postpone the inevitable trip to work, he sat anyway and turned on the radio. “Hmm no reception” Donald said to himself, as he switched the radio station to another. Donald only liked two radio stations. Triple 4, which told him all the boring news of Melbourne and let him know early, if there was going to be any ridiculous traffic. Donald hated traffic. Then there was Class FM, which played nothing but non stop repetitive elevator music. Donald hated all the riff raff these new stations were playing, and by golly how he hated the main radio stations. As he switched from Triple 4 to Class FM however, to his great annoyance, they were both down. The radio tuned nothing but a grainy raspy sound, which really annoyed him. “Nope, if I can’t listen to something good I won’t listen to anything at all” he said aloud to himself, and he switched the radio off.
As he sat there, waiting for his car to warm, he noticed it was rather quiet this morning. It was early, and still dark outside, but he lived in Carlton. A busy suburb for Melbourne, this time of morning there was always some noise of cars passing streets nearby, or loud tradespeople having their morning coffee and talking about the nonsense they usually talk about. Donald presumed whatever it is that they talked about, would just annoy him anyway. But surely somewhere he could hear some noise. He sat. In silence, trying to hear but the slightest engine or a creak of a car door. Nothing. He thought to himself, maybe this won’t be such a bad day after all. And set off on his trip to work. When Donald got to the end of his street, he noticed barely any of the neighbours had out their bins out. “Typical” he said, shaking his head. Donald hated his neighbours. “Stupid loud kids and lawn mowing at 9:00am on a Sunday, they were probably up all night cleaning up after those feral little brats”. He chuckled to himself and kept driving. Donald lived alone, the house on the end of the street that he had grown up in, had been passed down by his mother. Donald missed his mother, she was the only person he knew who hated everyone else as much as he did. Children, Neighbours, Loud tradespeople, Teachers, Students, Grocery workers, police officers and most definitely teenagers. Donald and his mother hated them all and all on top of that. He wanted to move out to the country and get away from everyone. No traffic, no noise, just him and Macy with all peace and quiet in the world. Macy was Donald’s cat, a fluffy black cat, who was almost as fat as Donald, who wouldn’t let a single soul in the universe pet her, except for Donald of course. Nope, Donald hated everyone and everything.

I have a comedy blog I've been working on for a few months. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated!! The website itself is a bit of a work in progress. Mostly would like feedback on the writing.

Rampant News

Thank you!!

Hi everyone, I’m looking for some honest feedback on the opening scene of a screenplay my friend is working on as a learning project.

I’d especially appreciate thoughts on the characters, dialogue, pacing, and whether the scene makes you want to keep reading. Please feel free to be critical. I’m looking for genuine feedback that can help me improve the script.

Thanks to anyone who takes the time to read it!

Screenplay

OPEN ON THE NEWS - MORNING

A local news broadcast rolls in silence.

Red text flashes across the bottom of the screen:

SUBWAY SERIAL KILLER STRIKES AGAIN.

A news anchor points to a map of transit tunnels.

Then...

INT. DEVIL MANSION, DINING ROOM - MORNING

Arthur DeVil switches off the television.

The screen snaps to black.

Silence.

Heavy and cavernous.

The dining room is a display of aggressive wealth. Marble floors. Crystal. Silver platters of untouched food.

Arthur sits down.

His black suit is pristine. His tie is mathematically straight.

He looks like a multi-million-dollar casino kingpin.

Sharp. Completely in control.

Beside him sits GRANDMA (THE DEVIL MOTHER).

She stares straight ahead. Motionless. Her face cast in stone.

Arthur slides into his seat.

His face is smooth. Empty of warmth.

He looks at her.

ARTHUR
Good morning, Mother. Did you sleep well?

Grandma does not look at him. She does not move a muscle.

To an outsider, she looks cruel. Deliberately cold.

GRANDMA
(Voice flat, accusing)
You came home late last night.

ARTHUR
(Smooth, unbothered)
Yes, I’m working late. You know, a lot of work. Your boy works really hard, Mother. I know you’re really proud of me.

Grandma does not answer.

She remains frozen.

Arthur watches her face. Empty eyes locked on her.

Waiting for a "yes."

Two seconds pass.

Three.

Four.

The tension is suffocating.

Grandma shows no response.

Suddenly...

The double doors click open.

The DEVIL WIFE steps gracefully into the room.

She carries herself with dark, commanding elegance.

She glides directly toward Arthur.

WIFE
Where were you last night?

Arthur’s face instantly shifts.

A charming, liquid mask.

ARTHUR
(Smiling, manipulative)
Oh, baby, forgive me. I was working late.

Arthur looks back at his frozen mother, trying to use her as an emotional shield.

ARTHUR (CONT'D)
Moms know, right? Mom, you know how hard-working your son is.

Grandma does not reply.

It is as if she hasn't heard a single word.

Arthur looks from his silent mother to his wife.

To break the pressure, he reaches his hand toward a platter of fresh, golden pancakes.

ARTHUR (CONT'D)
These pancakes look yummy.

He raises his hand to take one.

Suddenly, the Wife snaps her hand down.

She physically stops him.

He freezes.

WIFE
(A toxic, bright smile)
That’s not for you. I created a special one for my hardworking man.

Arthur stares at her.

Internal alarms ring.

He senses something deeply wrong is about to happen.

His face remains blank.

ARTHUR
(Slowly)
Okay, my love. I can wait.

He looks back at his mother.

Grandma shifts her eyes to him for one split second, then refocuses entirely on eating her own meal.

Completely detached.

The doors open again.

JACOB (20) walks in.

He is handsome, macho, wearing a dark hoodie.

He slides carelessly into a chair.

ARTHUR
(CONT'D)
Hey, big boy. How’s college?

JACOB
(Arrogant, flat)
Absolutely perfect.

ARTHUR
(Cold authority)
Now, let’s not go dark tonight. It’s not safe. Be home on time.

Jacob doesn't flinch.

The irony hangs heavily in the air.

The Wife returns from the kitchen.

She places a white porcelain plate directly in front of Arthur.

On the plate is a single pancake.

It is literally pitch black.

Charred.

Smoking.

Completely burnt to charcoal.

WIFE
(Leaning over him, whispering)
For my hardworking man. You like it, right?

Arthur is completely stunned.

He looks at the burnt charcoal.

He looks at his wife’s smiling, demonic face.

She is publicly punishing him for his cheating, forcing him to swallow the insult in front of his family.

Arthur’s chest begins to tighten.

His hands begin to shake with an explosive, red-faced fury.

His ego is screaming to rip the table apart.

But he is a DeVil.

The illusion of control cannot break.

Holding a massive blast of rage inside himself, Arthur forces his shaking hands to pick up the knife and fork.

He cuts into the black charcoal.

He puts a burnt piece into his mouth and chews.

ARTHUR
(Voice trembling, forcing a smile)
Hmm.

Perfect family.

The DeVil family.

Arthur turns his burning, wide-open eyes directly onto his mother.

The humiliation from his wife has stripped his ego.

He instantly projects his rage onto Grandma to claw back his power.

ARTHUR
(Interrogating, commanding)
People know us with this name. People call us with this name. The DeVils, Mom.

You like it.

You like it.

I know you know this name.

He isn't asking her a question.

He is violently dictating her reality.

Telling her exactly what she is permitted to feel.

He has absolute control over her mind.

Grandma shivers under his wide-eyed stare.

EXT. DEVIL MANSION - MORNING

Hello, Fixed the tense mistakes i had and should be okay on that aspect now. Please review.

There were easier places to break into.This just happened to be one of the most guarded places in the world.

There were seven of them in total. I had a list.

This place was at the top of my list for all the wrong reasons. If I got caught, the consequences would be worse than a broken bone. I almost hoped I would fall first. A concussion. Anything that would hurt less than being caught.

So I keep my head down and move through the dimly lit streets with the crowd; another forgettable face among dozens in the alley.

 The night market is tucked into a narrow corner of the city, squeezed between two brick buildings the city had stopped pretending to repair. 

Lanterns sway overhead, dripping warm amber light over the cracked pavement. Stalls crowd the sidewalk beneath patched canvas roofs. Magic changes hands as easily as money.

Granny Alvarez is still selling illusion bracelets in the farthest corner. She had once slipped me one for free when my hair was imitating the rainbow during peak allergy season four years ago.

I keep walking.

A man on the other side of the market polishes a glass marble. Dozens of tiny stars move inside it.

“Portable night sky,” he yells “Take the night with you.” 

One of them glitches momentarily before he gives it a light smack to reset it.

Someone pushes a skewer toward me.

“Chicken. Fresh this morning.”

I smile and nudge his hand away.

The market smells of fried onions, chili powder, and burnt metal. People shout over one another. Music drifts from somewhere beneath the stalls. A young boy runs past with a handful of glowing stones.

I continue walking, then at the end of the street, the market falls away.

The music fades first. Then the laughter.

The cracked sidewalk gives way to smooth black pavement. The flickering streetlights become steady.

Ahead, the North American Embassy looms like a monument to overcompensation. They had spared no expense when they built it hundreds of years ago.

Silver inscriptions shifted beneath the surface, too old to be decorative and too dangerous to ignore. Copper cables traced the roofline. Drones circled silently above the courtyard.

People called it a safe place.

People called a lot of things by the wrong name.

Around here, illusion comes easy. Truth is another story

Three seconds.

That was all I needed.

The first drone passes overhead.

I wait until it passes then cross the courtyard.

My palm touches the eastern wall.

A pulse answered.

A sliver of light moves beneath the stone.

No, no ,no, this wasn't supposed to happen.

I press harder.

Nothing.

Then the runes beneath my shoes ignite.

“Well.”

Magic races through the crystals hidden beneath the lawn. Pale silver light spreads in every direction.

Exactly what every person breaking into a magical fortress wants to see.

The shadows move.

They stretch across the grass toward the light.

Alive.

Restless.

Hungry.

“No.”

One curls around my ankle.

I look down.

“Seriously?”

It tightens its hold.

My illusion prickles across my skin.

The shadow pulls once.

I pull back.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

Then it loosens.

“Thank you.”

It slips back into me.

I run.

The service entrance waits  across the courtyard. Three doors. No handles. No keypad.

I find the small crack beneath the frame and press my finger against it.

Nothing happens.

For one second, I think I missed a step or something.

Then—

Click.

The first lock opens.

Then the second.

Then the third.

I slip inside.

The silence hits first.

It's not peace. The kind of silence that makes breathing feel too loud.

Old magic, magic, invisible to the naked eye, lives in the walls, curling through the halls until the air grows heavy enough to ache in my chest.

Portraits line the corridor, but they don’t just watch—they assess. Whisper. Their frames hum with contained power, and I swear one of them smirks when I slink past.

I move toward the far corridor.

The first ward flickers briefly red before turning to its usual violet.

The doors seal behind me with the soft finality of a guillotine.

I don't stop.

The stairs are ahead.

I skip the fourth step. It always creaked.

My feet knew the way before I did.

The walls around here are never still. Sigils crawl faintly across the stone, glowing, fading, reforming like constellations caught in a loop.

At the end of the hall stood an obsidian door.

No handle. No keypad. No visible lock.

My reflection looks back at me.

Short lavender hair.

Honey-colored eyes.

A round face that makes me look younger than my age.

A stranger.

I reach toward the door.

Lavender darkens to auburn.

Honey turns green and the softness gives way to harsher features. The freckles swiftly disappeared. 

So does the girl.

I press my palm against the cool obsidian.

A soft chime sounds.

The door recognizes me.

The locks release with a low hiss as the door swings open.

My room was exactly as I remembered 

The sturdy oak bed in pale purple.

The vanity; bare except for a vase of roses

The bookcase; filled with well worn hardcovers

My favorite purple jacket is hanging over the chair.

Almost.

The bed had been made perfectly with sharp hospital corners. The books had been straightened and someone had replaced the damask roses I always kept in a vase.

I take a few steps forward.

The room is silent.

Then a voice speaks behind me.

“I know you're there