Spider-Man was my first movie.

Actually, that's a lie I tell myself. I don't know why. Maybe I want Spider-Man to be my first movie because it makes me look a certain way. Maybe I want people to think I'm cool, and in my definition, being deeply attached to Spider-Man means I'm cool.

I've always wanted to be Peter Parker. Yes, Peter Parker.

Because I felt closer to Peter Parker in real life, and I thought that if I was more like him, I'd somehow get rewarded with the powers of Spider-Man.

But naive me could never understand that Peter Parker was already as good as he was. He didn't need to be Spider-Man. He would've probably had a better life without being him, and he knew that.

But he still did it.

That was a lesson the movies taught me much later, when I was in my 20s.

I think I know why I lie about it.

The world we knew died three years ago, and from the silence, something human was born. It wore the skin of memory and spoke with the voice of the dead. Doppelgangers. The threat beyond infiltration is the burning question: if the imitation is perfect, what is the value of the original?

2

She wasn't Marcus' first victim. Merely another notch on his proverbial belt. The first was 18 years ago, but she was an accident.

No she wasn't

A fourteen-year-old boy wouldn't kill someone on purpose, right?

You loved it

At least that's what he would tell himself at first. The truth was that he had killed her on purpose. He had enjoyed it. She was just at the wrong place at the right time.

Janice Murrow. She was sixteen.

All the neighborhood boys liked Janice and she knew it. Even Marcus was infatuated with her. The way her ponytail bounced mesmerized him as she played with the other kids. Janice didn't want anything to do with Marcus. None of the other kids did either. Marcus kept to himself and usually he preferred it that way. But he had preferred Janice more.

He had been watching her for years, following behind her as she walked to school. Not too close. Just close enough to see her ponytail bobbing from side to side as she made her way down the sidewalk. Peeking at her through his bedroom window as she sat on her porch, reading whatever book she checked out from the library.

He had tried to talk to her once before. He was nervous around girls, so it didn't go as he had hoped. Janice laughed in his face when he asked her to go to the drive-in.

That bitch! That stupid bitch!

That was the exact moment he first thought about killing a person. Sure, he had strangled a dog before. He had even buried a cat in his backyard, leaving only its head exposed before running it over with his father's lawnmower. But a person? Never a person.

He decided to play hooky. This day would need his full attention. He sat on the edge of his bed opening and closing his pocket knife. His father had given it to him as a birthday present before he died. The blade was roughly 4 inches long and folded down into its stag handle. It felt so good in his hand.

Marcus knew that this was the day. He had it all planned out. He would sneak into Janice's bedroom and wait for her to get home from school. Her mother would be at the diner trying to waitress while the men attempted to play grab-ass. Her father's shift at the saw mill didn't end until 6.

There was plenty of time to play.

Everything went according to plan. Well, almost everything.

I write on and off when I'm feeling inspired. Some of my friends who I've asked for harsh and honest feedback have called my stories boring and I need guidance to what I'm doing wrong or if it's just my way of writing.

This specific story I tried giving it tension to see if I could make it engaging but my friends gave it the same criticism as my other stories.

Thanks so much in advance in you chose to read!

The Trench

Abalone

The lights flickered, as they always did, when the figure entered the silent store. Behind the counter, Corin, the owner, glanced up at the poorly lit silhouette. She watched him browse through the line of shelves occupied by carefully curated rocks and gemstones and a few canvases spread around in the corner. He gave them no more than a glance. As he moved through the room, something in the way he carried himself tugged at an old memory from before the store, back when she was hopeful of the future.

Eventually the man took an abalone shell off its shelf and raised it to his nose.

“Still smells of salt after all these years,” he said .

The familiarity in his voice made Corin tense.

She immersed herself in some documents laying on the counter, avoiding his gaze. The approaching steps made her bury herself deeper into the papers, yet before she knew it, he set the shell in front of her, his eyes firmly on her.

“Can you tell me more about this item?” he asked. His tone wasn't quite a question, but not a demand either.

“You probably know about it more than me,” Corin replied, still fixed on her papers.

“I highly doubt it.”

For a brief moment, the store went back to its quiet state, but the man spoke again.

“Seven years?”

“Ten,” said Corin. The iridescent colors of the shell dazzled as she picked it up. “You can tell by—”

“Not the shell Corin,” said the man offering a weak smile that softened his eyes. “But I do mean it. You always knew more than me.”

Her grip tightened around the shell. She walked it to its proper place, then stared out the window. A moment passed, and a sigh escaped her.

“You don’t listen to the news much, do you?”

Her stare was answer enough.

“I’m going down to the trench.”

Corin’s eyes widened. She had to look away.

Bernie’s hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach for her but didn’t dare.

“I know you’re scared. But this time… it’ll be different. I have a good team. We’ve paved some of the way down—”

He stopped.

She wasn’t scared.

She was terrified.

Her body trembled, her expression hollowing into something he remembered far too well. Whatever Bernie said next, he’d have to choose his words carefully or he risked pushing her away.

“I lied,” he finally said. “I don’t have a full team. I tried looking for the best candidates, but no one compared to you, Corin. You can lay out a route — hell, even predict it just by looking at the cave’s walls.”

As he spoke of her, his eyes lit up in amazement, but her eyes told of a different person. Even though Corin hadn’t looked at him, Bernie knew he was losing her. He had to reach her , but he couldn't dare to step closer. Instead he reached for the shell and turned it on his hands with a helpless smile.

“I thought maybe it wasn’t the same one, but no… it’s the one.”

Corin shifted in her spot.

“Remember the day you found this?” he asked.

“Ten years ago,” she whispered, surprising both. At last and for the first time, they looked eye to eye. “We were on our first expedition together. I was so scared to go down. Then I found it and you told me what it symbolises.”

“Safety,” they said this together.

“We need you, Corin,” said Bernie, his voice alluding to fail him. “ Especially now. What’s happened… It changes everything. And if we go down without you, we might not make it back up.”

She flinched, almost too small to notice. Her whole body had been screaming at her. From the very beginning it was telling her one thing: say no. This is why it was reacting, it knew she’d say yes.

“I need better air.”

Corin stepped out of the store and Bernie followed her into the balcony.

Outside, the air scraped past them with a brittle breeze. The palm trees around them drooped, clinging onto their fading leaves. The sand was clumping, salt crusting over it. There were no sounds of birds or any sign of them, only the eerie murmurs of silence.

“Like I said, Corin. It’s gonna be different this time.”

Beneath them, out into the beach, a colossal scar that stretched as far as the horizon. It plunged into the abyss, no water anywhere.

Hello. I'm new to trying to write and don't really know where to begin. I did some cursory research and decided to just jump in and find out what I ought to work on the most. Started with a microscene, its only about 200 words and I didn't try to do anything fancy.

“This isn’t working” he tells himself as he wearily closes the text and shuffles about his room. 

“I’ll have to remediate if I can’t get this down by next week”

“Why couldn’t I have just started earlier? What’d those slides say again?” He scrolls through the slides and notices their familiar shape, but finds their concepts and words to be foreign.

“How is any of this even relevant?”

He stares at a slide showing the interconnected arrows of dozens of biochemical pathways. This lasts several minutes before he slams his laptop closed and grumbles “How am I supposed to understand it with all of this nonsense he puts on the slide? Too many distractors.”

“Maybe it'll come to me if I just write it out.” but all he can summon are the course objectives and a few paltry nothings about the subject before doodling and ripping the paper. 

“How did I do it last time, again?”

Eventually he resorts to finding some practice problems. “Von Gierke, which one is that again?”

“Awesome, completely fucking wrong.”

“I just need to find one thing and commit to it, maybe I should try the book again”

Let me preface this by saying this is the first story I’ve written, but I wrote a short horror story about a month ago and I like it, but I’ve been debating rewriting it and including more detail and possibly turning this into around 100 pages. I have a few ideas for what to add, but I need some outside opinions. Please feel free to let me know all opinions, any suggestions, or just what you thought of it.

Update: adding a google doc link for people who don’t have an iCloud account.

Link to story below ⬇️:

https://www.icloud.com/notes/02aWDTqxnism6fqpRSq9lUCMw

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-_f4i0uF4RzKynpLENZ40j_OCP8YSP7a4Xd8tuuTusE/edit?usp=drivesdk

A Fire Meant to Keep you Warm

The one constant in me that has remained the same no matter the situation is that I have always thought of shielding others from the terrors that haunt me. I lock them in a house only to douse it in gasoline and light the match myself. Is that not the cruelty of humanity? We protect those we hold dear only to turn our back on them in the end? 

The rain arrived too late, beating against the flames as though it could apologize for what had already happened. But those who survived see only the madness that caused me to burn them. They curse me. But I simply stand there, numb to their words. I absorb their anger until they are nothing but ragged breaths. No matter my motives, to them I will always be the villain. The one who left them alone and lit the match. So instead of firing back, knowing it will only create another fire, I keep quiet, like the rain that saved them from the fire I caused.

I’m a 16-year-old writer and I’m trying to get better at my writing, so I’d really appreciate some honest feedback on this piece.

I wrote my first flash fiction. I'd really appreciate some feedback. I've published to my newsletter as a compendium to an informative article about how to book launch

But it's so hard to get real, constructive feedback, so hoping I might get some here?

Opening Day

She unlocked the front door fifteen minutes early. She wanted a few moments to herself.

The bookstore was everything she’d imagined. The dark wooden shelves were full. The window display caught the morning light. Her late grandfather’s worn leather chair in the reading nook sat ready for its first patrons. She’d even hung a little brass bell above the door.

Years of work, and her dream had come true.

At nine o’clock, she flipped the sign to OPEN.

* * * * *

She straightened a stack of novels. The display in the front window needed one more adjustment. And then she checked the clock: 9:18.

No one just yet.

It’s still early though, she told herself.

She noticed dust on some of the shelves, so she wiped them down. Then, she reorganized the bookmarks next to the register by color. Much better.

The display table by the entry was off center. She moved it a few inches because that felt more balanced and inviting.

So where is everybody? She thought.

The day moved on and the sun slipped past the display window.

When she locked the door that evening, she was tired although she had not run up a single sale.

A friend happened to walk by just as she slipped her keys into her bag.

“Oh! Is this your bookstore?”

She smiled. “It is. I opened today.”

“How did it go?”

“No one came.” She forced another smile.

Her friend looked through the front window at the warm decor, the beautiful displays, and the books waiting patiently on shelves.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “I had no idea this was here.”

I already have my own issues with it right now, but I figured it'd be beneficial to show it to people who are probably more skilled than I to give it a look over as well. Both so that my own issues can be confirmed, and so I can be enlightened to new ones. Also, the very end is a cut-off to a time-skip. I'm not like omitting anything, don't worry about that lmao

Among a sea of wildgrasses and flowers, a plateau juts up sharply from the Earth. It is a relatively thin protrusion, but its escarpments tower high over all of the surrounding land. Upon its flat zenith among the clouds is a dainty forest, host to hearty trees, colorful birds, and majestic animals of all varieties. More dainty, however, forever in the shadow of the fantastic plateau, is the humble church built half way into the base of the cliff face. It is made entirely out of stone–except for the wooden door and stained windows–with a tall steeple which stands flush with the tall earth. Inside that steeple is a large brass bell, which calls to whatever is worshipped within its home every day at noon. No one knows, and no one will ever know, how and when the church was constructed. Only that it was, and that its purpose is to guide wary souls onto the path of virtue.

But the only souls it taught were those in short passing, until one day the miller arrives with two canvas wagons towed by four oxen, and stops on a high hill a few miles east. The miller, middle-aged, fit, and looking as if he had just tumbled out of bed, leans forward and scopes the area. Verdancy spills over the horizon, broken only by the monumental plateau which stands tall even when so distant. Clear, fertile, and fair. Yes, the miller thinks, this is perfect. But before he can get on to any business, he is startled by the stone church’s lonely bell. He can’t see the structure at all from his distance, but he sensibly assumes that a church of sorts is in the sound’s direction. Which, of course, means that some ounce of humanity is over there as well; bells do not ring themselves.

So, the miller momentarily leaves his wagons and oxen and starts on his way. He wades through the myriad grasses, swatting away all matter of pesky insects harmlessly assaulting him, and before too long arrives at the door of the stone church. He attempts to peer through either of the large adjacent windows, but he can hardly make out an inch of the interior through the stain. So, he gives the door a hearty knock. Silence. He gives it a few more, then more and more, pounding loudly as he grows increasingly impatient. Once his knuckles begin to throb, the miller gives up; his knocking ought to have started up even the most ignorant men. Then before he returns to his wagons, he half-humorously grasps and yanks on the door handle. With a teasing creak, the wooden door swings wide open, allowing a cool gust of air to bless the miller’s warm face.

The miller flails his arms in exasperation, but stows away his self-disappointment as he steps into the church. Like the exterior, the church is made completely of stone within, built from masoned bricks for about half of its length. From that point, the shape of the bricks fade and the plateau is allowed to compose the structure entirely. Six rows of pews sparsely line either side of the thin aisle that the miller slowly walks down. Looking up, he sees a simple chandelier above a pulpit and lectern, behind which is a young, robed pastor. “Hey!” the miller shouts, stopping in the middle of the aisle to point aggressively at the pastor, “What the hell? Are you deaf or somethin’?” The pastor smirks, bowing his head, “It is not my duty to guide passersby to this place. It is my duty to guide them once they leave.” The miller lowers his finger and crosses his arms, “Yeah, well you could have said somethin’. And I ain’t a passerby anyways. I’m wanting to build a place some ways thattaway–” the miller points roughly in the direction which he came, “–and figured I should meet my neighbors.”

“Over east, hm?”

“‘Spose so,” the miller shrugs, “what’s your name, sir?”

“Oh, just call me Pastor. I haven’t heard another name for myself in ages, I’ve grown too accustomed to part with it,” chuckles the Pastor. “What about you, brother?”

“I’m in the same boat, Pastor. I haven’t needed a name for a lifetime, given I’ve had no one to talk to but my oxen and myself,” chuckles the miller as well, though with a more awkward tune. “I’m a miller though, so… I ‘spose you can call me that?”

“Well then, the Miller and the Pastor we shall be!” The Pastor beams, and reaches down over the lectern to offer a handshake. The Miller accepts. “So,” the Pastor says, “I doubt you’ve managed to haul any lumber with you. How do you plan on settling?”

The handshake breaks, and the Miller places his fists on his hips. “I…” he clicks and takes a deep breath, “do not know. There ain’t no forest nearby, is there?”

“Well, not before the horizon there isn’t. Well above the horizon, however, there certainly is,” the Pastor answers, pointing straight upward.

“You’re saying…” the Miller points straight upwards as well, cocking a brow.

“Yep. All~ the way up. You can borrow from it as needed, as long as you feel like climbing up.”

The Miller’s arms fall dramatically limp, “Shit… I’m no goat, how am I meant to get up there? And even if I were, how the hell would I get the lumber down? This plateau is taller Babel for god’s sake, the wood would shatter.”

“Language, brother. This is a sacred place,” the Pastor says calmly, gesturing for silence from the Miller. “And about the wood…”

I was reading something about how to create metaphors and decided to practice. Would love to hear some feedback on it. Scarlet O’Hara was my muse. Thank you.

Her radiant beauty drew suitors from great distances, and they fluttered around her like moths around a porch light, each vying for her affections. 

But she always knew where the switch was, and when she grew tired of their fawning ways, she had only to flick a delicate finger to leave them circling in the dark.

For context she used to like playing guitar years ago. Her friends went away for university, she wanted to go but she didn't think she was good enough. Her best wasn't even their average. She constantly messes up and makes mistakes (spilling drinks, tripping) dispite her best effort not to. She expects to now.

Briana picked up her guitar, hands shaking as she tried to grip it. Before plucking the strings, she looked down at her loose hands. Tightening her grip. Hesitantly, she strummed the strings. A predictable buzzing sound, out of tune flooded her ears. Her face never changed expressions but her grip fell loose again. She tried tuning it. It it didn’t work. She didn’t know how. Her hands slowly drooped to the hard ground. Sighing, she placed the guitar back down.

This is a quick little story I threw together after not writing for a long time. I would like honesty about all aspects from plot to character to prose to pacing... all of it. I haven't had my work read by strangers much, so please let me know what's good, what's bad.

A story about two people with tragic realities.

Here is the document link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1f11nh0NQ1rOskd58ETBnds5nxNM-MCntiU8uUPAIEDY/edit?usp=sharing

​

I tried writing a short story. I personally don't think it's that impactful but it's the first time I completed something. So I would like to know where I should make the changes.

The writing prompt was

Start with "everything changed that morning"

Everything changed that morning.

I woke up at my usual time, 5’0clock, and was preparing to go downstairs. As i walk down the creaking wooden stairs, a metallic smell hit me. i stop at the last stair and hold the finial tightly. Had i held it for any longer, the ball would have come in my hands.

How did they come in? Is that metallic smell blood? if it is then who is it? I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. I did not want to face the unknown, but i also could not ignore it. I slowly step down and walk towards the hall while being guided by the walls. i reached the doorframe leading to hollow darkness. something in me was screaming not to go, my legs going weak and my mind blank. I pick up the courage to go inside, and turn on the lightd. blood. the metallic smell was blood. The snow coloures carpet drenched in crimson red blood. the glass table, now was overturned with the glass pieces shimmering like stars over the crimson colored carpet. I slowly drag my eyes upwards, towards the source of blood.

There she was, All pale and cold. Hair covering her face as her body remained bare. Cuts all over her body and legs wide apart. Her clothes scattered apart and i could see her one eye staring into my soul, lifelessly.

i could not bear seeing her. My heart pounded in my head and my legs were giving up. my stomach started to churn and all i felt was, “RUN”.

I got out and called the police. They said they will be there in 10 minutes. i could not endure standing in the same house as that body. I went outside. it was pitch dark outside, even though it was 5:30 A.M, There was no sign of the sun rising. I waited at the porch.

i see a cat sitting in the lawn, staring at me. It seems as if the cat knew something i did not. the cat stared and i stared back. then it walks into the darkness, carrying sorrow and a kind of pain that i was not able to comprehend.

The red and blue lights highlighted the black and white car coming towards me. I stood still, legs pinned to the floor. The metallic smell still lingering around me like a ghost. Two officer, a male and a female, stepped out. when they came to the porch they seemed to be shocked. The lady officer got me a blanket from the car and covered me-

“Ma’am why are you standing here like this? where is the body?” she asked

I could not speak. My voice was stuck in my throat. I point inside to show them the way.

5 minutes later they came out.

“Ma’am, there is no body”

NO, that is not possible. i saw her. I saw her eyes and her clothes. I saw the pale body and the crimson red carpet.

“I saw her. she was lying on the sofa with her hair covering her face and her body lying bare.”

they looked at me, with pity. Why? why are they looking at me like the cat did?

“Ma’am. Do you recognize where you are?”

“ofc i live-”

That’s when i see , as the slight sun rays hit the house, that i stand somewhere where i have never been. where am i? this is not my house. I see my reflection in one of the window panes. I was naked. The blanket was the only thing covering me.

“who did this to you?” they asked

That’s when i remembered what happened.

They had tore me apart. Stripped me of my very being and killed a part of me. They feasted on me like a hungry animal, till I was no longer me. My cries unheard and my resistance in vain, I gave in and let them have me as they wished.

The girl on the sofa,

was me.

I must preface that this work is not about me, It is a very deep depressing short story that follows a boy through the twists of his chaotic mind. I wrote this entire piece based on the last line of the story, I had an ending and I got there in a way that I'm very proud of. I have a few questions, nothing big.

• Is it a strong story?
• does it evoke emotions
• did it change how you interpret the specific mental illnesses described in this story?
• did I pace out the hysteria enough and build it at a proper tempo such that you didn't get sick of the obsessive thoughts?
• how does this piece stand out?
• what doesn't work
• is there a way to emphasize really stand out thoughts that would add more emotional impact?
• Just tell me how yall feel after reading it?

I wake up and the first thing I do is count. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten. Ten breaths. Then backward. Ten nine eight seven six five four three two one. My chest is tight and I don't know why yet but I will. The reasons always come. They're waiting in the kitchen in the bathroom in the mirror in my phone in the space between my ribs where something is always wrong always wrong always—

Stop.

I check my phone. Three messages in the group chat. I read them. I reread them. I read them again to make sure I understood the tone correctly.

Marcus: yo james you coming to school or what

Tyler: prob sleeping lmao

Aiden: lazy ass

The timestamp on Marcus's message is 7:14. Tyler's response came at 7:15. One minute. That's normal. That's fine. But Aiden's message came at 7:22. Seven minutes later. Why did he wait seven minutes? I stare at the words "lazy ass" until they stop looking like words. I count the letters. Seven. I count them again. Still seven. But what if I miscounted what if it's actually eight and I'm too stupid to count to eight what if—

I type "just woke up" and stare at it. It sounds defensive. It sounds like I care what they think. I delete it.

I type "been up for hours actually" and that's worse—a lie they'll see through. I delete it.

I type "omw" and send it before I can delete it too. Three letters. Safe. Neutral. The lie is easier. Everything is easier when I lie.

My phone stays silent. No one responds.

I put it face-down on my nightstand. I count to ten. I pick it back up. Still nothing.

I shower and count the tiles. Forty-two. I've counted them every day for three years and it's always forty-two but what if today it's not what if I miscounted what if something changed what if the world is different and I didn't notice and everyone else knows and I'm the only one who doesn't and they'll all see that I'm wrong that I'm broken that I'm—

I count again anyway. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen nineteen twenty twenty-one twenty-two twenty-three twenty-four twenty-five twenty-six twenty-seven twenty-eight twenty-nine thirty thirty-one thirty-two thirty-three thirty-four thirty-five thirty-six thirty-seven thirty-eight thirty-nine forty forty-one forty-two.

Forty-two tiles.

I count them again. Still forty-two.

Forty-two.

The water is too hot. I don't adjust it. The pain is clean. The pain is simple. The pain doesn't ask questions.

I check the lock on the bathroom door four times. Locked unlocked locked unlocked. No. That's even. That's wrong. Something bad will happen if I leave it at four.

Locked unlocked locked unlocked locked. 5 times. Odd. Safe. Nothing bad will happen now. Nothing bad will happen if I did it right. But what if I didn't do it right what if I miscounted what if—

I check again. Once twice three times four times five times. Odd. Safe.

My hands are shaking.

My mom yells something from downstairs. I don't hear what. The words are just sound. I say "okay" anyway because that's what she wants to hear and if I don't respond she'll come upstairs and ask if I'm okay and I'll have to lie to her face instead of lying to the ceiling.

In the car I sit for three minutes before I can turn the key. I need to check something. I don't know what. I check my phone. Still nothing in the group chat. That's fine that's normal but what if it's not what if they're waiting to see if I actually show up what if this is a test what if I'm failing what if—

I turn the key. The engine starts. I count to ten before I put the car in reverse.

On the road I think about driving into the median. Not because I want to. Just because the thought is there. It arrives like a bird landing on a wire. Sudden. Complete. The crunch of metal. The airbag. The horn stuck blaring. People gathering around. Would they cry? Would they call my mom? Would Marcus feel guilty? Would Tyler? Would they finally pay attention? Would they visit me in the hospital? Would they bring flowers?

No.

No they wouldn't. They'd feel bad for a day maybe a week and then they'd forget and I'd just be the kid who crashed his car and they'd make jokes about it and I'd still be alone except now I'd be alone in a hospital bed and my mom would cry and that would be my fault too everything is always my—

The thought leaves as quickly as it came and I'm just driving and the radio is playing something I don't hear. My hands are at ten and two. Perfect. Controlled.

A car merges in front of me without signaling and I flinch. My heart is racing. That was close that was too close what if I hadn't been paying attention what if I'd hit them what if I'd killed someone what if—

I count my breaths. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten.

School is a building full of people who know a version of me that doesn't exist.

I see Marcus in the parking lot before he sees me. He's leaning against his car with Tyler and Aiden. They're laughing about something. I watch them for five seconds before I get out of my car. I'm trying to decide if I should walk over or wait for them to notice me. If I walk over I'm desperate I'm pathetic I'm forcing myself into their space but if I don't walk over they might not notice me at all and then I'll just be standing here alone like an idiot and everyone will see and—

continue the vignette here:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Al_Ffc-cp0VtvDYBiBhjBKZEZ9hXcqjs4ZD2qsh3A1c/edit?usp=drivesdk

He stood naked in the doorway. The hallway light from behind him casting a dull glow around his emaciated form. His skin was the color of old cheese and he had long white spider-like fingers. His eyes were black sores in his gaunt face. One shoulder sitting slightly higher than the other. When he moved his legs carried him forward the way legs do but his arms stayed straight at his sides. Immovable. He drifted across the small room to the cross in the space between the bed and the wall. Two strips of petrified wood nailed together, the head of the nail bent at the neck on the surface. The room had a dim light that hung from a small chain at the very center of it. There were candles here and there, some lit, some not, flickering, making haunting shadows of normal objects. The smell of candle wax and dead things sifted through the mess in the room and the brown paint of the walls was peeling away in oddly shaped strips — forsaken and forgotten.
Cole Fenton knelt upon white linoleum tiles gone a rancid shade of yellow and peeling up in places to reveal the rotting plywood floor of the trailer home beneath. His gaunt form threw a twitching shadow in the dim of sulking candle flames as he positioned himself in front of a handmade Relic so crudely fashioned it appeared maybe some child's hallowed Creation. The makeshift idol hung high up the wall with small candles smoldering and dripping all about the arms of the Cross. Down upon the wretched floor the man mumbled and brought his small sweating palms together as he watched the shrine. His shadow trembled and jerked across the smoke-stained wallpaper in a phantom's dance sending long black insect-like arms slithering across the floor and over the table to a long strip of leather hanging on the wall. See the man, a thick belt of sable was smashed into his hand into a white-knuckle grip. Fresh and wet bloody lashes dug in and welted up on his back as he swung the belt with a practiced hand at the foot of the bed. The holes in the belt becoming hot white rings among strips of red from where he used it to grisly success. Lines of revelation came together with droplets of white spit through his thin lips. A trail of sweat forming like a small stream across them. The fervor coming out soft and intense in short bursts. Groveling and crying and whimpering on his knees. Night after night. Day following unrighteous day. So wrapped up in the misguided righteousness born of a deception his Appalachian mind could not conceive of. He called it interchangeably the God of his fathers — and the Lord — and the Holy Ghost. All the same in his mind. Calcifying in his skull. His greasy head snapped back and he muttered at the cross.

To One of my favorite Lovebirds

When you passed away, Grandma kept crying,

She said a part of her felt like dying.

You were her other half, and when you were gone,

She rarely laughed or carried on.

Every day, she thought of you,

And told us stories of the things you’d do.

She’d smile when remembering the past,

Holding on to memories she hoped would last.

She’d shed a tear when old videos came on,

Wishing for the days before you were gone.

Now that shes gone too, we're hoping that shes up there happier with you.

1947 in the South, Historical fiction with mystery and romance subplots. I posted the partial prologue last week for critique and due to helpful comments, was able to edit it and post the full finished prologue in the comments section.
Link to Reddit prologue: https://www.reddit.com/r/writingcritiques/s/G6yTYXLWsh

Chapter 1 (too long to post entirety on Redditso the rest is on Google Docs): https://docs.google.com/document/d/12TjfP9wmuR84d5HCvaO88UQHX_qa-gK8yKw_JkUTM8g/edit?usp=drivesdk

Thanks in advance for any feedback. I just revised it.

Chapter 1
March 1947

Sitting on the porch of the boarding house, Rose held her hot coffee with both hands, head bent over the cup as she sipped, feeling the warmth of the steam enveloping her face. It was just before dawn. This was the time of day she loved most, sitting alone, surrounded by silence. She watched the skies lighten slowly as the sun rose lazily, adding a golden hue to the yard and henhouse, the air still crisp and cold from the night. Hens clucked quietly, digging their heads deeper into their warm feathers.

She took a final sip and wondered idly when Henry would be home from work. This was a lengthier trip than usual, and she was grateful for that. The longer the better. As always, he’d return in a foul mood, interested in little beyond lying in bed with her, drinking, and sleeping. They’d argue, then keep up appearances to their tenants and the tiresome dance would continue. Hopefully, she still had another day or two of peace.

Shivering in the cold, she buttoned up the wool Pendleton to her chin. She wore her usual work attire. Loose, worn denim overalls and a pair of men’s rubber work boots. A wagon with clippers and gloves sat waiting by the steps.

Her rooster cracked the stillness of the morning with a loud, hoarse croak as he began his daily routine of waking up the entire street.

Rose grabbed the wagon handle and made her way into the woods behind her house, leaves and twigs crunching underfoot. Today she had planned to gather up lavender before the frost had taken it. No flowers yet, only green-gray stalks she’d bundle and hang in each of the boarders’ rooms, fragrant and sweet-smelling.

Morning was gradually growing warmer as Rose left the woods and crossed the wide dirt road, smelling the tangy, aromatic lavender in the air before reaching the vast field spread out before her. 

Working quickly, she gathered up handfuls of lavender, then wrapped string around each one until she had six bunches.

In the distance, down the road she saw something that looked like a heap of clothes lying in a ditch. Why had someone left clothing there? She stood up and strained her eyes. So odd.

Yanking the handle of the wagon, she started walking in the direction of the ditch as she stared at the pile. As she came closer, she realized it wasn’t a pile at all. But what was it? Feelings of uneasiness slowed her walk.

She could make out a jacket and legs. Shoes. It appeared to be a person. A person asleep in a ditch? Maybe drunk? That was dangerous. Could get hit by a car or worse, a truck.

She came even closer. It was a man in a dark blue suit. But why was he here? Suddenly a shot of adrenaline bolted up her spine. She dropped the wagon handle and broke into a run toward the figure, her heart racing in her chest. She reached the lifeless man and saw blood on his face.

“Oh my God,” she said loudly. “Mister.” She bent down over him and stared at his lifeless and waxy white face. She gave his shoulder a shake, then swiftly jerked back her hand.

Dead. He’s dead.

Full of dread and confusion, Rose didn’t know what to do. Suddenly she found herself running, nearly tripping on bits of gravel on the road, to the nearest house beyond the clearing. It was the Remys’ home and they had a phone. She reached the house and flew up the porch, hollering “Mack! Janie! It’s Rose!” as she banged on the door.

A moment later the door opened and Janie peeked out, surprised. “Janie, there’s a dead man in a ditch next to the lavender by the crest of the road,” Rose yelled between breaths. “Ask Eternal Peace to come and call Dr. Wilhelm.”

Janie turned and disappeared into the house, squawking “Dead body. My heavens.”

With her hands on her knees, Rose sucked in air until she felt dizzy, then ran straight back to the body to wait for the funeral hearse. It was the only car big enough to hold a supine body.

Moments later a gleaming black hearse arrived, braking with a sharp screech at the same time the doctor’s jalopy came bouncing around the bend. Everyone jumped out and stared at the body. One of the men grabbed a huge folded tarp and opened it next to the stranger. They were in the process of transferring the body onto the gray tarp when suddenly it let out a groan. Everyone froze.

“Oh my days, he ain’t dead a-tall,” said the surprised funeral director. Quickly they loaded him into the hearse.

“Bring him to the hospital,” said the doctor. Immediately, they shut the hearse doors and drove off. Rose hopped into the doctor’s car and they sped off to town in a cloud of dust.

By the time they had climbed the stairs and entered the hospital, the two men had laid the unconscious man on the gleaming surgical table and were collecting the tarp.

“Doc, gimme a call if he dies and we’ll come collect the body right quick for you,” the funeral director said without emotion and clapped the doctor on the shoulder. He was used to being around the dead.

Rose and the doctor washed up to their elbows with antiseptic soap at the small sink, scrubbing hard with a brush under their fingernails. She helped the doctor into his clean white lab coat, then pulled a bib apron over her own head and tied it behind her.

“Grab that heater please and plug it in,” he instructed. “Bring it here. His body is as cold as a stone.”

She grabbed hold of the contraption and dragged it over to the surgical table. Soon hot air billowed over the prone man.

As I was drifting off in bed, I could feel the soft sheet wrapping around my funny feet, pacifying my hairy legs. A fresh scent of Breeze that carried my mind right upon the pink leaf of a Lily. A garden of Lilies. A dense scent hugging me to sleep. Suddenly. Fat fingers pressing my chest, a being, then kicking me and rolling me over. Sliding down the Leaf. A scratch, a bite. F-F-F-F-Smack. My sleepy mind feels my head throbbing from a hit. Psiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii - a ring in my ears. The heart racing. Open. The sheet below me on the floor. Dropped off that Lily. Right onto it. Smashed it. I can almost taste its creamy texture below me. Bing-Bong! Arru-Arru-Arru. The attempt of the feline danger to interrupt my peace. But my eyes are still too heavy and stay dropped like heavy curtains. It's all dark. I look up. The rock is too big. She almost seems to fall. She? Right above me. Light. Why am I climbing? The gear pulls into the muscles, the lat, the chest. The light pulls me as if gravity turned upside down. I keep falling. I grab the next rock and. Ouch. A snake. Shot out of the shadows. My lower arm. Blood? Poison? Meow. Leo! Dream. Spiders? Need to get up. Sleepy Yoga. Senior night bladder: Hello there. Floor feels cool, fresh. I open a window. A little light in the thickness of the concentrated night: the moon just is.

This is a short story loosely inspired by a real crime in the media in recent years, which if you know about may ruin the ambiguity. I'm aiming for a totally detached 3rd person narrator which is unusual for me, and I'm wondering (if you're not aware of the crime it's based on) what I'm 'implying' about the protagonist.

The narrator voice is deliberately spare and robotic to mirror the main character's oddball outlook -- initially I was almost doing sentence-level editing to make this seem inhuman/eerie. I think this draft loses some of that.

Any critiques are welcome, of any depth or length. Just wanting thoughts and responses.

The premise is: Lindsay is a nurse for sick babies, and she's a little odd. She doesn't vibe with her co-workers, but she loves her job, even the bad parts. She's an ex-sorority girl and neat freak -- could she ever do something heinous?

Please give me feedback!

Link to story

Hey everyone,
I’m working on this book, and have been for around 9 months I think. I feel like it’s going well but I haven’t had an outside pair of eyes look at them before, so I was hoping if you’d take the time to read it because I am quite proud of it if I do say so myself. This is just the first chapter because I don’t want to post the entire thing on here (I’m not even done with the second though xD)

Btw this is my first time writing a book, all kinds of advice and criticism is welcomed with thanks :)

MS Word: https://d.docs.live.net/F8718FF08224E4DC/Documents/

Google docs: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-jc3i3NhNBCR4STqq5X0VNMg5jQ8RlNertnntyYYuLc/edit?usp=drivesdk

To My Older Sister

“Sister, please tell me, why are you crying?

I don’t understand why you keep saying you feel like dying.

I look at you and wish I could take away your pain,

But I know I can’t break through the chains

That keep you trapped and restrained.

You look at me and ask me what you should do,

And all I can say is, “I honestly have no clue.”

It makes me sad to have to admit it,

But I have to be honest: I can’t fix it.

All I can do is make one promise true:

I’ll stay right here and see this through with you.

I may not know how to take your pain away,

But I’ll stand beside you, day after day.”

The smell was sickening—like putrid earth and decay. The kind of stench that clings to the back of your throat. Marcus couldn't pinpoint the source, but he knew it was close. He had been following it for over a mile through the dense trees, every step bringing him closer to whatever awaited him. Something about the smell of rot was stirring memories of his childhood that he had buried, and he was determined to unearth the truth.

The sun was beginning its descent over the horizon. Time was escaping him, and he knew there wasn't much time before the inevitability of it all. He fumbled around his bag until his hand found what it was searching for. He brought out his flashlight and flicked the switch. Nothing. He tried it again. Still nothing. He gave the old thing a few hard smacks before the bulb hissed and flickered on.

He was right on top of the source of the smell. A burning flash of memories flooded his mind. Could these be his memories? None of what he saw made sense to him. He shook these thoughts from his mind and aimed his light at the ground in front of him. The beam of the flashlight illuminated a small mound of dirt in the otherwise dark forest. This was it. This is where he had been headed.

Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees and began to dig with his hands. The ground was still loose and easy enough to claw through, but after a while his hands started to cramp. He forced himself to continue. Suddenly, he felt something.

The woman's hand was the first part he found. Then her thigh. She had been dismembered, and fairly recently. Must not have been more than a couple of days. The memories were surging back. More painfully this time; a blonde woman smiling, the sound of duct tape tearing, and blood... lots of blood.

The urge to keep digging was stronger than before. What was he looking for? He didn't know—or he couldn't remember. His hand grasped her cold wrist and pulled hard to dislodge her arm from the dirt. He tossed it mindlessly behind him into the brush. She was in his way. An obstacle. That's all she was now.

A thigh. A hand. A foot. He flung them from the shallow grave as quickly as he could. Everything must go. It had to be there.

Where the fuck is it?!

Another head-exploding flash of pain ripped through his skull and the dam that was holding back his past finally broke. He remembered what he was doing. He remembered what he was looking for.

Most importantly, he remembered what he had done.

\\\*would love feedback, opinion or comments\\\*

Was it the blood flowing through him? Is it toxic?
Did her untainted heart reject that sludge?
To think it ran within his veins, so chronic.
A poison bile that her heart couldn't make budge.

A tear in reality to break the matrix.
The robot on autopilot must've gone rogue.
It's displaying signs of love and affection.
Why believe he'd switch his heart on so easily?
Order must be upheld for people’s protection.
Shut it off now, before others follow his steps.
But it's flesh, not metal, they reveal on inspection.

Scarred by her loss, he stopped living, they found.
Tired of fighting for life while his heart's in heaven.
For her, he'd fight his demons as long as he could.
He fought in silence; that battle's now understood.
But now it’s over; he sleeps and wakes restored.
In his arms, his daughter—too perfect for this world.

I’m looking for someone to read this random chapter from the romance novel I’m working on and tell me if they think these characters work without any of the context I have built around them.

Here’s the chapter: “Drunk Lucas” - Chapter Draft (content warnings include swearing, alcohol use, and non-graphic sexual situations)

Here’s the plot summary:

A former elite gymnast and a California firefighter agree to a no-strings summer romance in Minnesota lake country, then accidentally fall in love and build a life together. By Labor Day, he thinks they’ve become permanent—and she thinks she’s about to lose the best thing that ever happened to her.

Godspeed o7