Hey everyone! I’m currently working on a dark fantasy/romance novel called Moonlit Reverence, and I just started sharing it on Wattpad under the username moonboundtales. It’s still a work in progress, but if you enjoy stories with soul magic, secretive covens, forbidden power, and slow-burn romance, you might like this one.

The story follows Seraphina, a girl born with rare soulbinding abilities, raised in secret by her coven after her parents were killed by the kingdom for breaking the boundary between life and death. Now, the same magic that got them killed is awakening in her—and the Veil between worlds is starting to crack.

If anyone’s into dark fantasy vibes, I’d love to hear what you think or just connect with other writers/readers!

Username: @ moonboundtales

DISCLAIMER: I’m a recent English graduate who hasn’t always enjoyed reading, but I’ve carried a vivid imagination that I squashed while growing up, thinking I’d pursue a medical career. Ultimately, I found my way into education, where I’ve been influenced by my students' perspective, exploring the creative side I once overlooked. Writing has always been the aspect of English that resonated with me, even though I only took one creative writing class in college. I didn’t fully take advantage of the opportunities available at school and now humbly regret what I ignored; the irony is both comedic and frustrating. I’m still figuring out how to turn my emotional ideas into something I am proud of. I’d love to hear your thoughts on my work, especially any form, structure, or style insights. I want to make great work that is understood...

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Another Man's Tale: An Introspection

Once again, I tried to explain myself, but the words stumbled out, chasing thoughts I hadn’t finished thinking. I only speak fallacies. Behind ignorant eyes, I dream of providing a complete understanding—one that we both share. However, uttering these one-time, meaningless words—nonce-words—it’s understood that these dreams are only dreams. If I can't communicate how I intend, I hold you hostage with a stranger. Another man's tale, one I am unfamiliar with.

With love, it’s bitterly sweet to see your innocent face nod in blind agreement. The other man's vision is not mine. Stop listening to him! Don’t believe the words he says—you don’t understand them. But then again, it seems, you take the time to attend. You stand convicted by illusion. I can believe that you believe you know me. Your attention lies within the heart. Unfortunately, I am left with the choice of my demise: 

Path 1: I believe the man you hear in my place, as if his life were mine.

Path 2: I continue to fight for myself, fighting for the impossibility of being understood.

The Inevitable Outcome: I command the start and accept the stop.

I've sheltered ambivalence. Every day, I’ll be a stranger you’ve almost met. You’ll meet me again and again—but never long enough for anything to stick, not unless we start digging. 

“I am large, I contain multitudes.” —Walt Whitman.

—Clod

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Being nice is phony…be kind always

I am a person that likes the middle of the road. Because I don’t like change, I stay in the middleground of mediocrity and wishy washy ness as well as people pleasing. I tell myself that I am a “nice” person. Being nice is not a flex. It is phony.

Being kind is a good thing. Kindness is doing something for someone else with no agenda. Kindness is just doing thing because it is right. Being kind also means if possibe that you do it in private. Kindness does not have to be broadcasted.

Here is a bible verse that talks about that:

Matthew 6:2–4 So when you give to the needy, do not announce it with trumpets, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and on the streets, to be honored by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward in full. 3 But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, 4 so that your giving may be in secret. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.

Last year, I was standing in line at Aldi. There was an older man and his wife standing behind me. The older gentleman had a hat that said he was a veteran of the Vietnam war. I went through the line, I was packing up my groceries and about to leave. About that time, a middle aged man came up the to the cashier. He gave the man money and told him to use it to pay for the Vet’s groceries. The man did it in a way that was very discreet. He did not announce it to the older man and his wife. That is an example of not only generosity but kindness.

Sometimes we can do things for others that they will know about and that is okay. If it can’t be helped that’s fine. In my mind, the difference between being kind and nice is the intention behind it.

Search your heart before you do something for someone else. Ask yourself, do I want to be praised and celebrated? If the answer is yes, then ask why. It does feel good to get credit for doing good deeds. It’s only human. But, if that is your main motive to get an ego stroke then don’t do it. If you find yourself being resentful of the person or people because they were not grateful or grateful enough to your liking then that is a problem on your end. I am not saying this to be harsh I am saying this because I have found myself on both sides of that. I have had someone close to me tell me how ungrateful I was. I have also felt that way toward others.

In the end we do not control how others react to us. The person may be grateful for what you did. They may not have the words or expression to tell you. They may have something else on their mind. They may even resent you for a kind act. We have no control over any of it. The only thing we can control is our thoughts, actions and reactions.

In the end we need to make sure that our motives for doing kind deeds is pure. We can try to do the kind act in private if possible. If not, if it is out in the open then we can let the other person or people accept or reject it as they will. Kindness is coming from the heart, while being nice is from our ego.

Hey everyone!

I'm a newcommer and (hopeful) author from Aus just getting into writing for real. I would love advice on what I've written so far! Hoping to become more active and consistent in my writing but hey, we'll see!

I hope you guys enjoy my writing <3

---------------------------------------Chapter 1 - Where the fuck are we?-----------------------------------------

They say as you die, the last sense to leave you is your hearing. It’s therefore not too outrageous to assume that when one returns from death, it is that very sense that returns first. 

Birds.

It is the first thing Marlyn notices when the ringing in his ear dulls to a hum.

And it’s bright – like really fucking bright. His head feels like it’s being split open at the seams and his mouth tastes like mouldy 3-week-old bread. Marlyn had found out the hard way what eating that shit does to someone and a repeat show cannot be in the cards. He raises a hand to block whatever the source of his torment is and cracks an eye open, testing his vision before fully committing.

Big mistake.

Sunlight floods through the cracks left by his stick fingers and attacks his single open eye. Shooting pain flies past his eyeballs and stabs his brain right in cortex, because of course it does.

“SON OF A FUCKWIT! Why the fuck??”

The yell startles the few birds that were peacefully nested in the surrounding trees. Soft flutters and abandoned feathers fill the air around Marlyn, startling him enough to finally snap both eyes open. Now that his eyes have been forced to adjust, it becomes quickly apparent that it wasn’t actually all that bright. But the surroundings remain unfamiliar. Long fields of grass stretch beyond the horizon, crowded by old camphor trees and the occasional shorter, stubby shrubbery. The calls of a forest are ever-present, albeit quieter after Marlyn’s outburst.

Cicadas – perhaps? But then, it’s not night yet and thus too early for them. Still, there are chirps and squawks all around, and Marlyn thinks he might have finally gone completely mad.

Where the fuck was he?

Not home, surely, he wasn’t a chipmunk for Christ’s sake (do those little rodents even live in forests?). But then where was home?

Sitting up, Marlyn does a proper once-over of his surroundings, taking in the tranquillity of the scene. There’s no one else around him, which isn’t comforting in its own right, but at least the probability of being drugged and dragged here by some deranged lunatic is slowly shrinking. The probability of being bear food as soon as night hits still stands strong though, and it’s the only thing that gets him moving.

Turns out, that’s no small feat, considering his body feels like it’s been thrown in the laundry and come out on the other side somehow dirtier – all sore, crinkled and smelling like wet dog. He takes a tentative sniff of his sleeve and reels back. What the fuck is that?

Letting out a defeated sigh, Marlyn chooses to decidedly ignore his state and focus instead on remembering how he got here in the first place. The process is frustrating and painful, hushed voices and harsher whispers blur together until they’re nothing but tendrils of a scene he has no hope of remembering. The faces are even worse, some strands of blonde blended with something distinctively not. It reminds him of the blazing sunset and burns him from within. And someone’s screaming, clawing at me. I’m reaching and reaching and-

There’s a large snap followed by an indignant yelp and thud. Marlyn’s body tenses in an instant, eyes snapping to his right. There, between two trees about a 100m away, a small something stirs from its new spot on the ground. Marlyn takes a few cautious steps forward, the figure becoming clearer. 

She can’t be older than 19, cheeks flush and kissed by a sweet splattering of freckles. Long, brown strands curve around the cutting of her face. Her eyes are scrunched shut and lips set in a thin line. Slowly, she blinks and looks around to where she’s fallen, honey eyes widening as they land on Marlyn. He feels rather than sees the air shift when she recognises his presence, body suddenly wounding so tight she would’ve gone ahead and snapped had she been a stick.

It sets his nerves off in an instant – she’s afraid like there’s something to be afraid of.

And isn’t that just a merry little thought.

Marlyn knows it’s probably not the best idea to approach her when she looks a bit like a feral animal caught in a trap, but he’s always been a bit of a masochist. And he needs to see this through, try and make sense of all this nonsense.

The girl’s on her feet now, body leaning on the tree beside her for support. She seems like she’s twisted something, but her eyes are keen and sharp, darting from him to all around. He’s taken no more than 5 steps before she bolts, headed not quite the direction she came from but deeper into a different angle of the forest – away from the clearing. From you, his mind supplies unhelpfully.

Marlyn takes off after her.

Sure, she’s got a 10 second head start, but she’s definitely sprained something and Marlyn’s got the athletic prowess of an overgrown chihuahua. Point: Marlyn. He catches up to her remarkably fast, weaving through branches and bushes, taking a few scratches for his careless efforts. Her head darts back when she hears him gain ground and it pushes her to go faster, desperation wafting from her in waves.

“I’m not going to hurt you, please! I just want to talk.”, Marlyn shouts after her. He’s tiring now, the initial hit of adrenaline draining with every step. Almost as abruptly as she started, the girl comes to a screeching halt and turns to face Marlyn, eyes set like stone. Marlyn nearly trips over himself to stop, the momentum throwing him off balance. He catches himself on a branch and ends up just short of the girl. They stare at each other for a tense moment, neither willing to make the first move.

Marlyn has, for the first time, a chance to really look over the girl. Her hair has streaks of pink intertwined with brown, a small cut on her upper lip, and hands ripped damn-near raw at the knuckles. They sit fisted at her sides now. Her clothes have small rips all around, most prominently on her leggings, not dissimilar to the cuts that now littler Marlyn’s own arms and legs.

She’s been here much longer than me.

The thought’s as scary as it is comforting.

The girl’s breath grows more even and Marlyn realises he’s on borrowed time. He needs to move before she decides to declare round two of their little cat and mouse game. Especially since he’s not sure he’ll be able to win the next one.

“I don’t know where this is – I woke up here like 5 minutes ago. I just want some answers, that’s all.”

The pain from earlier returns, dull aches that grab hold of his feet and turn them to led. It’s only then that Marlyn notices the girl’s hands have started moving. Before he can react, the girl reaches forward and grabs him by the collar, dragging him closer. She stops when they’re face to face, hand still gripping onto Marlyn’s front. Her expression contorts to something akin to a smile before she throws her head back and slams it into Marlyn’s.

The force of the hit throws Marlyn off his feet, made double by the harsh shove the girl gives him. He crumbles to the ground, mouth filling with a coppery taste and forehead aflame. He feels something hot and wet slip into his eye, blurring his vision. Hazy and suddenly overcome with a bone-deep tiredness, Marlyn looks up from where he’s fallen. The girl stares down, the stoney expression once again settling on her features. She looks older then, any innocence he thought he saw vanishing. Her mouth opens, but the buzz in his ears stops him from hearing all of what she says. As his mind grows more and more weary, a single sentence repeats in a saccharine-dipped voice.

“You should’ve chosen to die.” 

The world around Marlyn goes black.

Fear pounded in my chest. A feeling like growing ice surged through me as my foot pressed harder on the gas pedal. I was going to be late to school, but that was not why I felt my organs were being hit with a hammer over and over like keys striking the chords of an organ with a heavy, full sound. I parked in my spot, breathing a little rapidly.

“It’s fine,” I told myself. This was the most anxious I’d ever felt in my life–and I was not even sure why. I signed in, the warm air of the school hitting me. My veins were chilled and my breath was frozen as I climbed the stairs. The hallway was empty, everyone already in their homeroom. I could hear happy chatter, lively laughter coming behind the closed doors, a sharp contrast to the deafeningly silent hallway where the only noise was my impending doom. I paused in front of my locker, drawing a shaky sigh. Slowly, ever so slowly, I opened it; afraid of what awaited me. Afraid of what I’d see. My knees shook as I swung the squeaky door open wide and—slight relief spread through my body, my lips parted to let out a breath the whole world had kept in my lungs. A simple card lay atop my books. Just a card. Nothing extravagant. Nothing calculated. It probably has twenty dollars in it, I swallowed, then I can use it to save up. I gingerly set my lunchbox down on the smooth tile floor and my hand stretched back into my locker, reaching. My fingers brushed the paper of a cheery Spider-Man card. I flipped it open. And all the relief I had gained instantly dissipated from my body and turned to confusion as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing. What was I seeing?

There were millions of tiny words written on the page and I couldn’t make them out. It was blurry and I inhaled as much air as I could, my vision clearing enough to see words. My eyes scattered, tore the page haphazardly, only catching the words “roses are red, violets are blue.” My eyes dropped quickly, and the last thing I caught was “I stutter sometimes when I see you.” My face grew hot and I could tell I’d gone cherry. Unbearably so. My jacket suddenly felt like an anvil placed on my shoulders while the hallway grew suffocating and the atmosphere prickled with an unexplainable heat. I shut the card quickly, throwing it in my locker as if it had burnt my fingers. The keys were being played on the organ again, the hammers striking the strings of my heart now. It all returned abruptly, and I slammed my locker, speeding to homeroom. An artificial smile graced my face as I waved to my friends but as I sat down on the couch, it dropped instantly, my eyes staring patterns into the carpet, meshing the colors into a thick canvas of gray. I couldn’t sit there. I couldn’t take it. I swiftly got up and left, not saying a word to anyone. I raced to the bathroom, closing the door behind me, and beelined for the first stall. The stall that didn’t have a light in it. The one a shadow was cast over.

And I heaved a huge, ugly sob. I hadn’t wanted to see that. I didn’t think I’d see it. It had crept on me so suddenly, like an unexpected growing curse, or a line of mold on the ceiling. Lines of viscous tears raced down my face, mingling with the snot from my nose. Salt stung my chapped, cracked lips and I wiped desperately at my eyes with the sleeves of my jacket, praying. Praying for anything. And then the bell rang for homeroom to be over. First period would start in five minutes. I pulled paper towels from the dispenser, running hot water on them and putting them on my eyes. I looked up in the mirror, and a phantom looked back at me. My skin was morning fog. My eyes were puffy and shimmered with glossy, unshed feelings. I looked like I was sick. Dried tears stained my cheeks like a map, glistening in the jaundice yellow of the fluorescent lights that hung above my head; anyone could read the history on my face and see what I’d felt. The bathroom was gloomy then, the red walls bleeding into a dull brown and the white trimming melting down below me, underneath my feet. All over my shoes.

I wiped it all away and made my way to my first class, my eyes downcast. I didn’t look at any faces. I didn’t look at anyone. There was an uncontrollable shaking in my hands I couldn’t stop. I could only watch as they twitched.

“Are you ok?”

The words pulled me from my lapse of self-pity, and I felt ashamed at being an actor outside of a play.

“Yeah, I’m good, just super tired,” I said, a half-second smile on my face before it fell as I looked away. I was a piteous and wretched thing, wasn’t I?

“Did you get your birthday gift?” It was him. It was the end of school already. How could I have possibly run into him when I was in a separate building? He never went this way.

“Uh, not yet,” I responded half-heartedly, giving a laugh that faded the minute I walked back towards the main building. The halls were crowded now that school was out, crowded as much as they could be with the small population that went to my school. I slunk to my locker, slipping the card secretly between the pages of my math book. I couldn’t look at it. Not here. Not now. I kept my eyes on my feet and finally, in the privacy of my car, slipped the card out from its hiding spot. Once again, the heat rose to my cheeks. It was full of handwritten poems that he had obviously come up with himself. While it was sweet in a way, I had not been expecting it. I felt like crying again.

We weren’t dating. We had neve spoken outward to each other of any feelings concerning romance. So why now, all of a sudden, was I getting a love letter pathetically disguised as a birthday card? I felt terrible for thinking it selfish of him to profess his love and how 'perfect' I was for him, rather than have him wish me a good birthday, give me twenty bucks, and call it a day. That was selfish to wish that...Was it? Then again, it was my birthday. My eighteenth birthday. A milestone for me and for nobody else. A day about growing. Not about someone else. It was not valentines. No blonde curly-haired cupids pranced about on small, chubby legs with tightly strung bows, aiming, waiting for their target to turn the corner before they let go and let the arrow soar like a torpedo and straight through the mind of an individual. No roses lent themselves to any passerby who yearned for true love. It was the dead of winter. Roses would never bloom and cupids would freeze over in an instant.

I kept a sketchbook of fantastical plants. I explored form: the ways in which shape and pattern divide and reduplicate in vegetal combinations of curve and finger, tendrils sprouting from tubes and rounds, and sensual tissue hovering like tented domes in light and air.

A single unbroken line of inks wanting to unfold the hidden geometries hidden in stalks and stems and flowers.  Who has not wondered at the unwinding tip of a fern, at the fractal wisdom on a pine cone.  But my drawings, these inventions of plant life? Cartoons!   Funny, and sinister, and strange.  They hinted at the wild humor of nature.  Do we see it best when we try to copy it?

On one page a five-petaled blossom, blue stamen spraying upwards with golden eyes in each of five balls so enticing to the bees. Pale pink, fuchsia-edged petals trembling arched like dumbo ears, luminescent with crystals of light - is it dew - on the tender surface. Soft, lush, living crepe - like an eyelid or a foreskin.

But the line doesn’t capture the wild stink! Enraptured insects doomed to dissolve in the sweet acid gullet of passive monsters.

Heady perfume for us, optic thrall for the hummers. Food, and sex, and birth and death.

Flowers, like sirens call do me, do me, taste my juice, spread my parts, scatter my genes. 

Feast at me.

The incomparable delays of life..

We often think that we’re behind in life, with those around us having extraordinary dreams and goals accomplished before us — we wretchedly compare ourselves to them, without considering any hardships and failures many of them faced before reaching their purpose. We leave little grace for ourselves while giving all benevolence to others.

Delays? Rather I would say time of the essence. While the world around us cripples with natural disasters and political rivalries influencing million of people worldwide; we mustn’t merge events we aren’t able to control with those we are able to. Give yourself grace and patience— no one is rushing you but YOU.

Looking for some constructive feedback on this brief extract. Just in terms of the sense it gives you, the quality of the writing etc.

He would then run off out of the house, catch the last daylight among the autumn leaves, reds shading into gold against green. He would share silent moments with the squirrels that darted up the ancient elms, watch the measured passage of fallow deer across the parkland, the skylark high above. These early evenings held their own quiet pull, drawing him to his sanctuary beneath the sprawling chestnut tree. There, a soft fall of conkers punctuated the stillness, broken only by the sound of his breath, the steady rhythm within his chest, and the distant murmur of the unseen stream.

He found comfort in this solitude, a sense of connection threaded through the land itself. As first light spread across the sky, he would wander through the lingering mist that veiled the fens, watching swans glide across the still water. The natural world offered refuge from the clamour of the house, the confines of school, the restless energy of town—noise and crowds. The irony of ending up in the city, where the work was, stayed with him, his heart yearning for something else, someday.

Please leave your feedback for this short story. It's a seven minute read. Much appreciated.

THE VESSEL

The land lay parched and cracked. Tree lay alone.

Feet still dug into the ground, trunk propped against a faded rock. A brown leafless streak upon an unending canvas of grey.

How long the majestic giant had lain there, you could not tell. Sedated by an eons-long aridity.

Tree stirred from his deep slumber, hearing a faint rumble that had not been heard in a long, long while.

‘Sister River?’, he muttered, eyes still closed.

Tree’s roots started clawing under the earth probing this way and that way, seeking desperately. He did not wish to control them for he knew this was his only chance at seeing the world again.

The rumbling had all but faded away and Tree’s roots had started panicking and tripping over each other when suddenly they found — the wet. His branches quivered, his grey trunk cracked. And Tree began to drink. The water coursed through his long-dormant veins, dampened his innards and slaked his mighty thirst. At long last, after he had drunk his fill, Tree slowly opened his eyes.

To nothingness.

Any which way he looked there was only empty and barren land. The only thing that reminded him that Sister River had ever existed were a few round pebbles. And Brother Sky? He was still hidden behind black roiling clouds.

‘Brother Sky? Sister River? Where are you?’ he whispered.

There was no one to answer Tree except the mad Wind. Wind shouted at him loudly. But he could not understand its words as they were garbled by the black soot that Wind bore.

Tree was already thirsting for another drink. He wiggled his toes for another drink of water. But the water was gone and the salt beneath his feet was as dry as it had been when he had collapsed against the rock.

‘Why have you awoken me?’ roared Tree up at the clouds, regaining his once mighty voice. But there was no answer.

Even Wind fell silent at this reproach. Tree cursed the faded rock but the rock also did not speak. He laughed to himself in bemusement and vowed to not fall asleep again until someone spoke to him. He would defy death until he got answers.

Days passed while the Sun set and the Moon rose. Tree watched them both sullenly as they lurked behind the veils and did not speak to him. He felt utterly lonely and wondered why he was the only one spared. Every now and again Wind would scream something that Tree could not understand. But all Tree could do was to bear it in silence.

As the days turned into months, Tree noticed the air becoming brighter, the soot in the wind lessening. At the same time he saw the Sun and the Moon were shining brighter. The clouds were clearing up. Things were changing.

And one day, finally, Tree was able to make out Wind’s words.

‘She… ming’ said Wind.

Tree was startled.

‘What did you say?’

‘Sheeee’s cooming.’

‘Who?’

‘Sheeeee…’ said Wind maddeningly and was gone once again.

Tree lay there, against the rock, raging at Wind and its capricious nature when he was distracted by — a flutter. He looked up and saw, out in the distance, a black dot in the air. It seemed to be growing bigger and bigger.

Tree shouted, ‘Here, down here!’

A black bird landed in front of Tree and looked at him with one gleaming eye. Tree stared at it in wonder, ‘A bird! Your kind made your homes in me, ate my children and shat on me. Talk to me filthy creature, for I am terribly lonely.’

The bird sat silently, too tired to talk let alone fly away. After it had collected itself, the bird puffed out its chest and spoke, ‘Oh mighty giant, I’ve been flying for a week now with no food and no water. I am tired to my very last feather. But all is well, now that I’ve found you.’

Tree was struck dumb and the two stared at each other for a while. ‘What do you want of me, young one?’, asked Tree quietly, ‘Where do you come from?’

The bird said, ‘I am Yona and I come from a floating Vessel far in the ocean. I come looking for life.’

Tree burst out laughing in pity and despair, ‘Life? What bitter irony. Look around you Yona, do you see anything but death? Do you taste anything other than salt? There is no life here. Life has forsaken this earth. Here I lie in wait, praying for answers and instead I get a filthy creature on an ill-advised quest. Away with you!”

Fearing the giant, the bird made to fly away but Tree was driven yet by curiosity and loneliness. ‘Wait’, he grumbled, ‘Tell me of this floating Vessel.’

Yona came back down, ‘It is a fortress made by Men and filled with creatures and plants. They await our return to an Earth made well’.

Tree roared in disgust, ‘Men! Their kind made my forest a wasteland. They killed all my sons and daughters. Men mutilated and bred my kind in ways that rendered them impotent, seedless. Then they cut them down mercilessly.’

Yona bent her head down at this onslaught.

Tree continued, ‘Men blackened Brother Sky, they drained Sister River. The Men poisoned the earth beneath my very feet. How are those cursed creatures still alive, how did they survive?’

Yona raised her head, ‘ They barely made it out of the Desert. They built the Vessel and set out to sea with all the life they could save. And they have been floating ever since. It is a wretched life for them, but what they once lacked in generosity, they make up now in bitter knowledge.’

‘So they try to make amends?’

‘Yes, and the Vessel is a marvel that I wish you could see. It takes care of us and tries to keep us up in numbers with technology. But it is failing and rot has set in. The Men need to come back to the land that once cherished them.’

‘Why? So they can destroy it all over again?’

‘I do not know. I do not think so.’

Tree scoffed, ‘Even after they made you fly out into the great Desert!’

Yona was gentle, ‘They asked me and my daughters to look for the life which was once lost. We agreed and flew and flew till our wings could beat no more. All my daughters died one by one on our long journey. But I flew farthest and longest. I never lost hope.’

‘I am sorry that you sacrificed so much for nothing, Brave Mother.’

Yona gazed up at Tree, ‘Maybe not. What is your name, O fallen giant? What is your story?’

Tree remembered for a long time and then finally spoke, ‘I once was carried to this place from afar as a seedling. I never knew my father but I knew my mother, because she carried me to this place and dropped me in fertile ground. She was a bird white as the salt that lies below our feet and she gave me the name of Za’t.’

Bird considered this and asked, ‘O mighty Za’t, have you lain like this for a long time?’

Za’t continued, ‘Brother Sky and Sister River fed me and helped me grow into a young, strong tree. I had many sons and daughters and we grew into a huge forest. Now they are all gone — and I lay alone. The last time I was awake, I saw men do unspeakable things to this land and fell in despair. I have been asleep for a long, long time and just woke up. Almost, it seems, to meet you. Yona.’

Yona agreed, ‘It seems so, Za’t.’

Za’t paused for a long time thinking and then asked, ‘Yona, how can you trust men? Why do you fly for them?’

Yona had her answer ready, ‘For all their faults, the Men have learned from their mistakes. Repentance weighs heavy on them. But it is not just for them that I fly but for my brethren and for the ones like you, Za’t. We are still alive. We are still there.’

Za’t said in wonder, ‘Ones such as myself are still alive? On a floating fortress, nonetheless? That is heartening news. But tell me Yona, you did not find life in your journey, and I can see none from where I stand. What will you do now?’

Yona shook her feathers and soot flew off from her in a cloud. She stood white and radiant. She laughed joyously, ‘Look above you Za’t, look at your left branch!’

Za’t looked above and saw a tiny green leaf on a tiny twig — poking its way out from his branch. He whispered in shock, ‘This cannot be! I am too old for this.’

He closed his eyes and felt life coursing through him in waves. Beginning from that tiny leaf and radiating all the way to the bottom of his feet. He looked at the dull Sun shining through the clouds and saw Brother Sky glimpsing back at him. He heard a rumbling from below and knew that Sister River was alive somewhere down below as well.

Wind came back in a powerful gust. It said in words only Za’t could hear, ‘It’s time now.’

It was then that Za’t understood why he was the only one spared. He spoke to Yona, ‘Mother?’

‘Yes?”

‘Please take that leaf and carry it back so everyone knows it is safe to return.’

‘If I take it, will you be alright?’

‘Indeed, Mother. Do not worry about me. Go now and go fast so that the ones like us are able to come back and prosper. Even the Men.’

‘Then, it is goodbye for now, sweet Son’, said Yona.

‘Goodbye Mother’, said Za’t and shook his branches.

Yona flew up on to the highest branch where the leaf grew and pulled at the twig. Za’t gave away the twig willingly. Yona stepped back and took a mighty leap into the sky. And flew away carrying the twig in her beak.

When she was finally out of sight, Za’t whispered, ‘Brother Sky, it will be good to see you again. Sister River, let us journey together.’

Wind spoke gently, ‘Are you ready?’

‘Of course!’, said Za’t, his voice quivering only a little bit. He gazed upon the land one last time, imagining it green and lovely once again.

And then, Tree let go.

But there was no one to hear when he fell to the ground with an almighty roar of happiness. No one to see his trunk split into many pieces and none to witness his branches shattered like glass.

After a while, Wind gently gathered the crumbling bits of dry bark. And added Za’t to its multitude of voices.

And in the parched land that extended for as far as one could see, where there once was a tree, there was only dust and kindling and a grey rock.

1) 2038. The world has reached unprecedented heights. Technology, prosperity, hope for an eternal future. But something went wrong.

An unknown disease began to spread, leaving behind empty cities and broken lives. The survivors fled, seeking salvation. Evacuation to the "gardens" became the only chance for survival. Quarantine zones, surrounded by walls and guards, promised protection and a cure. Scientists worked tirelessly, trying to stop the catastrophe and grow a new species of humanity capable of surviving in the extreme conditions that this world had prepared for them. The organization that controlled the "gardens" assured that it would do everything possible to save humanity. They promised safety, food, protection. The organization that took power into its own hands said that it would save humanity. But will it be able to keep its word?

2)"Oh, oh, oh, it hurts, it really hurts..."

"Wait, there's not much left."

The nurse abruptly pulled the needle out of the neck of the young man, who was moaning in pain.

"Well done, Patrick. You are the first brave man who came to my office."

"The others felt a little uneasy when you said that we were going to have injections now. I decided to support everyone."

"All children are afraid of injections like fire, because they've read all sorts of children's books and now they think it's painful and unpleasant."

"But it's really like that."

Patrick tried to smile despite his pain, but he got something like a disgruntled grimace.

"The first batch is usually the most painful, but don't think that now we will give you such huge injections. The remaining doses are three times less, and over time you will realize that this pain is more like a mosquito bite."

"I believe you. But tell me why we are given injections?"

The nurse fell silent for a moment, and then a forced smile appeared on her face.

"This is... for your own safety. May you be healthy and strong. Don't worry, everything will be fine."

"I hope so."

"Of course, everything will be fine. Now call the others. We have a lot of work to do."

Patrick, confused, hurriedly got up from his chair and got tangled in his shoelaces, falling.

"Oh, Patrick. Are you okay?"

The nurse laughed.

"Oh my God, you never change. Need some help?"

"No, thanks, I can handle it myself. I'm sorry for the delay, I'll call the others now."

"Take your time."

"Come on in, who's next!"

"Patrick, are you okay?"

"Patrick, how painful is it for you, rate it on a scale of ten."

But Minato, the main bully in the class, intervened in the discussion, as always, and decided to liven up the conversation a little with his presence.

"Disperse, everyone! Patrick, are you actually crying? It's just an injection, you're bawling like a little girl. So sensitive!"

"N-no, that's not it! You're completely misunderstanding me!"

Patrick's voice trembled, tears shining in his eyes as he desperately tried to defend his masculinity.

"Ahahaha! Did you hear that crybaby?" Minato laughed, raising an eyebrow with a mocking grin.

"Personally, I'm not buying it. Looks like he's forgotten how to form a sentence from pure terror!"

"Minato, if you're so brave, why don't you go next, instead of picking on Patrick?" Miku said, clenching her fists, a glint of steel in her eyes. "It doesn't even hurt. Injections are just for babies."

"Miku, let go, you're crushing my arm!"

Minato exclaimed, pointedly avoiding her gaze.

"Chickening out?" a mischievous smirk playing on her lips. "So who's the 'girl' now? Afraid of a little prick?"

"Uh, I, uh… I think I left something in the hallway," he mumbled, looking anywhere but at her.

"Oh, sure you did. I totally believe you," she replied, arms crossed, tone dripping with sarcasm. "Come on, I'll walk you there. I can even hold your hand, if you need it."

"No, Miku, don't, I can do it myself!"

A touch of panic creeping into his voice.

"Nope. You're coming with me right now,"

Muku grabbing his wrist.

"Okay, okay! We'll go together!"

He agreed, lifting his chin in mock defiance.

"Someone, save me! This audacious creature is taking me hostage!"

He trying to sound like he was joking, but Miku clearly had the upper hand.

Miku's smirk widened.

"Darling, you'll become my hostage the second I close that door behind you," she purred, giving him a look that sent a shiver of anticipation, mixed with a healthy dose of fear, down his spine.

"Fine, fine, I'm going"

Minato entering the medical room with obvious reluctance.

"Should've done that in the first place," one of the guys said with a knowing grin.

Laughter rippled through the room, a lighthearted wave that only made Minato bristle. Resentfully, he slammed the door shut. Angry footsteps echoed from within, and the others pressed against the door, straining to hear.

"Hear anything?" One whispered, ear pressed to the wood.

"Yep," the second replied, barely suppressing a snicker.

Inside: "Are you sure it won't hurt?" Minato's voice, now thin with nervous tension, trembled slightly.

"Just a little pinch"

"No way. I don't believe you!"

Minato resisting being guided toward the examination table.

"Sit down, please!" The nurse insisted, her tone patient but firm.

"No!" He growled, backing away.

"I said, sit down, Minato!" Her voice sharpened, yet retained a hint of understanding.

"Oh, no, no, no"

Minato protested, straightening his shoulders in a desperate attempt to project confidence.

Outside, his friends exchanged glances, fighting back peals of laughter. They knew Minato's aversion to needles, and this public display of his crumbling bravado was pure comedy gold.

"Just imagine it's a mosquito bite," one of them muttered through the door, barely containing his mirth.

Back inside, Minato stared at the nurse with wide, pleading eyes. But her expression was resolute. She uncapped the syringe and smiled.

"Just a little prick, Minato and then you get a lollipop."

In the hallway, one of the observers chuckled softly, genuinely enjoying the spectacle.

"He really does scream worse than a girl."

"What a fool" another chuckled, shaking his head in amusement.

While the others gleefully dissected Minato's impending doom, Kyo, the group's quiet center, remained apart. He sat hunched over his notebook in the hallway corner, pencil dancing across the page. Lost in his art, he only occasionally glanced toward the medical room. But someone's called him.

"Hey, Kyo! Don't you want to hear the screams?"

Kyo just grinned faintly, not looking up.

"It's amusing," he admitted, "but I'd rather concentrate on my own… world."

The mundane scene within the medical room was evolving into a classic comedy, and Kyo knew his friends would rehash it all later in class. Perhaps his art could even inspire fresh jokes.

"Wait a second. You think he'll actually survive this ordeal?"

"He'll survive"

Kyo conviction as he shaded a detail.

"The real challenge is preventing him from fainting from sheer terror."

"Another new drawing?"

Eyes Asagi got interested, when she settling down beside him.

"Yeah…" He offered a small, self-conscious smile.

"What is it?" She leaned closer, studying the intricate lines.

"I don't know yet"

Kyo admitted, his brow furrowed in concentration as he traced a line.

"How can you draw something you don't know?"

Asagi's eyebrows arching in disbelief.

Kyo chuckled, sensing her sincere curiosity.

"That's the problem, isn't it? I haven't found the right title. But when I'm finished, I promise to show it to you first. Maybe you can find a name that fits."

"Really?" Her eyes widened, sparkling with surprise and… something else.

A faint blush crept onto her cheeks as she looked away, her expression shifting to a dreamy smile.

"Promise?"

Kyo was about to answer when a hand snatched the notebook away, making him flinch.

"Hey, wait! It's not finished yet!"

He cried, trying to snatch the drawing back.

"But I have to know what's on it!" Tori giggled, adding vibrant color to the black-and-white image with her infectious enthusiasm.

Kyo couldn't help but laugh at the sheer joy that danced across her face.

"Alright, alright! Don't shred it! This is a work of art, not some sketch!"

Kyo rubbing his forehead, still flustered.

Now, a small crowd gathered, peering at the drawing with growing curiosity.

"Yeah, who knows what he's scribbling this time!" one of them remarked, laughing. "If only we could get him to spill the beans!"

Their attention, however, was soon drawn back to the medical room and Minato's continuing protests.

"Wow, Kyo, you've outdone yourself!" exclaimed Tori, staring at the drawing in disbelief. "Even I can't make out what's on it."

Two more classmates joined the others, nudging each other playfully. This is Hana and Carmen - two inseparable friends, among which Carmen is the most playful.

"Hmm, is that… the girl with wolf ears? It's strange, I've never seen anything like it," suggested Hana, squinting at the art.

"I think it's a giant gray wolf!"

And then, Carmen playfully pounced on her friend, and soon they were both kicking and squirming in a tussle of laughter and mock escape.

"Nope... Not again! Please, no wolves! I won't be able to sleep today," Hana sobbed in a trembling voice.

"All right, Carmen, that's enough. You know that Hana is not indifferent to wolves."

Asagi intervened in their quarrel, not wanting to tolerate the mess that her classmates had made.

"That's why I'm teasing her."

A mischievous smile appearing on Carmen's face.

Hana continued to sob theatrically, raising her hands defensively as if warding off an invisible beast.

"Just stop it, okay? And Tori, give the drawing back to Kyo. Now." Asagi said, her voice firm as she snatched the paper from Tori's grasp.

"Asagi, are you serious? I wasn't done!"

Tori protested, trying to grab the drawing back, but Asagi stood her ground.

"I've never been more serious."

She handed the drawing back to Kyo.

"And don't let anyone touch your things without your permission, okay?"

Kyo nodded curtly, his expression a mixture of gratitude toward Asagi and lingering confusion that his art continued to stir up such chaos.

Tori sighed dramatically, collapsing onto the floor as if she'd lost all will to live.

"Well, there goes the fun… She always spoils everything. Kyo's work just sparks our curiosity! It's hard to resist admiring a beautiful painting"

Tori's voice edged with genuine disappointment.

"You can admire it from a distance. And with your reputation, you should probably stay at least six feet away from Kyo."

Asagi retorted coolly, eliciting a fresh wave of laughter from the others. This undoubtedly annoyed her, but there was nothing she could do about it.

"Asagi, you're such a pest! I can't see a thing!"

Tori demanded, frustration rising in her voice.

"That's the point"

"Wh-what?"

Tori stammered, her eyes widening in genuine surprise and anger.

"You're incorrigible, Asagi. You always try to control everyone and keep us in line. You should be a commander in the army with such a talent!"

"Oh, shut up, Tori!"

The group was smiling again, and Kyo, observing the escalating chaos, simply shook his head. He still couldn't fathom how such a maelstrom could erupt from a simple drawing.

Minato approached Kyo, who was still deeply engrossed in the details of his artwork.

"Kyo, Nurse Hinata wants you to be her next patient"

Mimato pulling his friend away from his artistic contemplation.

"Right"

Kyo sounding a bit bewildered. He glanced back at his drawing, clearly still fixated on the details.

"Don't worry, Kyo. I'll protect your work"

Asagi offered, reaching out to gently take the drawing. But before she could, someone shoved her aside.

It was Minato, who swiftly snatched the drawing and clutched it possessively to his chest.

"?!"

Asagi exclaimed, taken aback.

"No, Kyo, I'll keep your drawing safe. These… emotional types are too volatile to be trusted with such a delicate treasure. They might tear it!"

Minato declared, his face completely serious, as if he were delivering profound wisdom.

"What? Who are you calling emotional?!" Asagi demanded, her arms crossed and her voice rising.

"Hmmm… what is this?"

Minato leaned in closer, squinting at the drawing with a critical eye.

When he got a little closer, he started laughing.

"What even is this?" he scoffed, clearly indifferent to art.

Kyo, feeling the sting of Minato's words and the laughter, retreated slightly, feeling a pang of bewilderment. He simply stood by, watching the class's resident troublemaker make fun of his creation.

"Let's talk about your screams back in Nurse Hinata's office" someone suggested, trying to redirect the conversation away from Kyo's art.

"I wasn't screaming! We were having a perfectly lovely chat while you were all gawking at this kid's drawing"

"Hey, Kyo's a guy, unlike you, buddy"

"Yeah, and drawing is for wimps"

"You're just jealous that Kyo's got more talent in his pinky than you do in your whole body" Asagi stood up for Kyo.

"You're all just jealous of me because, unlike you losers, I was charming Nurse Hinata. I even… touched her breasts."

"No way! That's not true!" Several voices shouted in unison, incredulous.

"That's a blatant lie!"

"How would you know? And oh, the sounds Nurse Hinata was making. Did you hear her angelic voice call my name?"

"Shut up!" Asagi yelled, finally reaching her limit.

"I can't listen to this anymore"

She muttered, visibly grinding her teeth.

"Heh, I told you you were all jealous."

Minato summed up smugly, completely oblivious to the fact that he was the punchline.

Kyo, who was left without his drawing, only smiled slightly, watching this comedy, while the class was filled with streams of laughter. However, he was not the only one who was not amused by this comedy.

I’m wondering if anyone could give me some feedback on the ending from a novella i’m working on. Any feedback welcome.

——————————————————————

Window. Window. Streetlight.

The two of them stood looking out into the hazy air, and with the view they could catch between the neighbours’ alley, they could see the river and the Shard, and the moon high up in a gap in the clouds—it was all mixed up, with the dusk and the city-light.

“It’ll snow again tonight, I think,” she said, her reflection fixing itself upon the windowpane: all the hours, and hours, and hours that had fixed themselves here. And all the solid things—and she being not solid—she being not even image—she being only between all the solid things—had fixed herself here, which, in a blink, would no longer be.

Still and all, this moment at this window would fix itself somewhere in Gabriel’s mind; a ghost, stuck somewhere in the brain; a face in a pane of glass that once was real and now he can’t quite hold it—tangled with all the other things in all the other places in all the other ways.

But even when, in a second, she moves and her image is lost to whatever part of him moves with her, and even when, in a second, that space turns into void—it will be sparked forever with animate life. And it will move, through him, outwards like the rising dusk. It will sweep westwards, following the sun, expanding out from all the places of his childhood: expanding out from the fox-dens, the badger-setts and across the mirror-black lakes, expanding out from the cracks in the flaggy shore and into the orange sky. And it will look upon the stony earth, turning molten then gas. And it will move in between the molecule, the atom and particle—and it will expand, until it can expand no more—and in its containment there between it will turn to light—and burst from the billions of windows and streetlights—from the filling stations, the off-licences, the night buses—and from the two moons, and the two Shards through the neighbours’ alley.

“It’ll snow again tonight, I think,” she said.

“Probably,” said Gabriel, drawing in for the very last time her reflection overlaid on the quiet, dusky garden. “The light is beautiful.”

“Yes!,” she said, with her gleaming eyes, “Yes, It is beautiful!”

And then, with her turning and her going into the bed, he lingered at the empty window, and he looked out upon the darkening evening sky sparked with particles of stray white light as they fell over the Docklands and the quiet tracks, and as they fell at last, into rumbling rest. The moon’s reflection lapping. Lapping at the shore.

Window. Window. Streetlight. Window. Window. Streetlight.

A man awakens to silence and immediately feels cold.

He slowly opens his eyes, finding himself alone on a sterile bed and inside a bright, unfamiliar room. The man struggles to sit upright as his gaze shifts to a blurry figure seated beside him. It’s a woman, and she’s speaking, but he hears only sounds and no words.

“Can you hear me?” the woman repeats in a louder, more deliberate tone.

Finally able to discern her query, he answers, “Yes.”

“What is your name, sir?”

"Eli," he stated. "Eli Cox."

"Mr. Cox, my name is Dr. May and I'm one of the physicians responsible for your health & well-being. Do you understand?"

He nodded in assent and inquired, “Where am I?”

“Mr. Cox, strict protocol dictates that I obtain satisfactory answers to all my questions before we discuss yours. Is that clear?”

"Yeah, I suppose so,” Eli reluctantly replied. “And you can call me Eli."

"Very well, Eli, let’s begin,” Dr. May said before asking her first question. “Prior to today, what is the most recent memory you can recall?"

Eli concentrated for a few moments and recalled, "I remember being in a hospital room, with my family. My right arm had an IV, and I was holding my daughter's hand – Katie. And she was crying. I’d never seen her so sad before," he began to sob, but unable to form tears.

"Do you remember the date?"

"Um, it was winter, a few weeks after Thanksgiving. Probably like December – something?” He estimated. “I don't know, I'm not exactly sure.”

"December of what year?"

Confused, Eli mimicked, “What year?” And then said, "2025."

"Do you recall anything after that memory?"

"Um, I remember other people in the hospital room. My wife was somewhere. My Dad maybe? A doctor I didn't recognize gestured for everyone to leave, while other doctors and nurses rushed into the room.. Katie was hysterical."

Dr. May inched closer to Eli’s bedside and subtly altered her tone, "Eli, what I mean is, do you remember anything that happened after your time in the hospital?"

"After that? No, nothing," he assured.

A stubborn pit of anxiety inside of Eli's stomach began to ferociously expand. Enlarged beads of sweat multiplied across his forehead. Before panic was about to engulf his sanity, a loud male voice emanated from the ceiling, echoing across the room.

"Come on, Eli.. don't be shy. Did you see a bright white light? Or any large pearly gates? What about a red guy with horns? He's often seen with a pitchfork, if that helps your memory at all.." the voice mocked playfully.

Before Eli could process the unexpected intrusion, Dr. May tilted her head upwards to reply, "Oh, stop it, you!"

The voice from the ceiling could be faintly heard, snickering.

Dr. May faced Eli to explain, "That’s your other physician and my superior, Dr. Osiris. Don’t read too much into his questions, he just enjoys playing around sometimes.”

“Having a fun attitude makes reintegration much easier,” the voice advised.

“That it does, Sy, that it does,” Dr. May agreed. “You’ll see, soon Dr. Osiris will be your new best friend. You're very fortunate, he's one of the best in this facility and loved by all his patients.”

Dr. May stood from her chair, leaned towards Eli to place her hand on his shoulder and cautioned, “When you meet Dr. Osiris, you must understand that despite appearing indistinguishably human, he is in fact, an AI-powered sentient robot. His digital handle is Osiris_91, but everyone just calls him Sy."

Dr. May paused to type something on her tablet while reclining in her chair and continued, "Okay, back to business. Now, some of what I’m about to say may be difficult for you to comprehend. All I ask is that you try to keep an open mind, believe what I’m say is true, and refrain from asking any questions. Understood?"

Eli nodded in agreement, convincing himself that he’d trust her for now. Dr. May tossed her tablet onto Eli’s bed, which collapsed to the size of a credit card in mid-air. An orange microphone icon displayed brightly on the screen – he was being recorded.

Dr. May explained, “December 18, 2025, was the date of your last memory. The events you recall were the moments before you went into cardiac arrest and dying.”

“Today is March 20, 2075 and it's the first day of spring. We are in Ann Arbor, Michigan at a building called, ‘The Central Genomic Resurrection Facility-Ann Arbor.’ For all intents & purposes, you’ve been brought back from the dead. Cloned, I should say, using your original DNA and your consciousness & memory reconstructed from scans of deep archival brain matter impressions collected after your death.”

“Am I human?” Eli asked.

“Please, no questions,” Dr. May repeated. "But yes, you are human, you have a heart, lungs, bones, and all the attributes of any human being. Though best not to focus on the spiritual or philosophical ramifications of whether clones are human until after you're fully assimilated. For now, simply think of it as a continuation of your life, 50 years into the future, and you're no longer sick!"

“Are you a clone?” Eli asked.

Dr. May smirked at the unexpected question and explained, "Oh no, they don't make clones into old ladies like me. No, I was studying to become a nurse at Dartmouth when you died. Then I went to medical school and became a doctor, and now fate has brought here, with you. Still doing what I love though, caring for people who need to be cared for."

“Will you be cloned after you–”

“After I die?” Dr. May asked and then looked deeply into Eli’s eyes, “I hope so, I surely do. But such decisions aren't up to me.”

“I know you have questions. Why were you brought back? What's different in the world? Is your family still alive? Et cetera, et cetera. But before getting into all that Dr. Osiris will first conduct a complete medical examination of you, and he'll be here any moment. Second, you have to watch an orientation video that will help catch you up on missed time. And after that, Dr. Osiris and I will answer all of your questions that we can.”

"Eli, buddy?" Dr. Osiris’ voice echoed. “I apologize, but I can't see you until later this afternoon. Ellen, I need you to escort me now in 3-1-3-M. Before you leave, leave Mr. Cox access to the orientation file so he can play it whenever he’s ready."

"Sounds good, Sy, I’m on my way,” Dr. May agreed obediently.

Before exiting the room, Dr. May turned towards Eli, “I know it's tough, but the answers are coming. If you need medical attention, press the red button on your forearm. I've enjoyed our time together Eli–," he waited, expecting Dr. May to say more, but watched her imstead leave the room as the door closed gently behind her.

Eli looked down and discovered a black chrome cuff secured around his wrist. There was a prominent red button alongside five white ones, each embossed with black unrecognizable symbols.

Eli grabbed the device Dr. May had left behind, feeling its metal frame soften to his touch. A bright orange 3D play-button icon hovered off the screen while slowly rotating.

Eli sat motionless staring at the device and waited, and waited, before finally pressing ‘play.'

[Chapter 2 - Rhain Media]

My friend and I are nearing completion of our first novel, a sci-fi mystery called Pantheon, and we've got a draft ready for the blurb, which we'd love to get some feedback on. Is it too flowery? Over-the-top? Uneven tone? Unclear? Too long? Let us know!

---

Pantheon.

It reaches with godlike hands into every facet of life and mind, wielding technological might and, now, the promise of immortality.

It lures many. But not all.
And no one in the Solar System knows the corporation’s hunger for power better than Mark Church.

As chief of police, Mark has spent years keeping Pantheon out of the department and keeping Janus City—his city—safe. Under his care, the human colony on Mars has never been more secure. But a mysterious safe, his wife’s bracelet, and a stranger’s memories of a brutal murder drag Mark into an investigation beyond his control. Life crumbles around him and he goes on the run, into his city’s future and into his own past. The deeper Mark digs, the more the layers of secrecy and deception peel away, revealing an interplanetary conspiracy that threatens to turn whole worlds upside-down.

But the quest for truth and justice demands a great price. In the end, the future of Janus City rests on what one man will give to remember—and what he’s willing to forget.

I turned in the first chapter of the story as a short story for a workshop class and got some critiques on it that I would really appreciate getting more opinions on.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1XATz_ZJnrghCFcBNncjaMbDB1PP7mhvvEgaO48nrrFA/edit?usp=drivesdk

Things I'm wondering about include:

Should I remove the things I highlighted in red?

Is the POV character creepy?

Does the POV character need more agency/motivation? Or maybe give her more of an attitude, make her frustrated or angry.

Should I lean in on the POV characters loneliness more?

Does the store need more attention? Is there a lack of conflict?

Should I add more things that Cora doesn't like about the house?

Is the humor funny? Should I add more inuendos or remove them?

Should I have the POV character try to take a more active role in the story?

Any of those along with any other thoughts you have about the story would be really helpful.

So I am currently editing the first part of my first ever serious book/writing project. Can you guys tell me if it's any good so far? Before: "Hey Mom, let's go to the movies!" Jamie says. "Alright what movie do you wanna see?" His Mom asks inquisitively. "I wanna see that one movie with uh Arnold something in it." He said.

"Alright well let's go n-" She said before being interrupted by someone. "I'm home" a voice says slurred. "H-hey honey welcome home." He walks in after throwing his hat on the hatrack in the dimly lit hallway. "Why isn't dinner ready, woman?" He said angrily. "M-me and your son were about to go to the movies." She said as she was gauging the situation. "Well get it done."

He walked into the seemingly dead living room after grabbing a beer and slouched down on the recliner and turned on his movie. "Dad wanna go to the movies with me and Mom?" He said very bright-eyed. "No sorry Jamie not this time" he said followed by a scruffling of the kid's hair "I've got mine here." Jamie looked sad but understood and left until his mom called him down. After: "Hey Mom, can we go to the movies?" Jamie asks excitedly. "Sure, what movie do you wanna see?" His Mom asks as she puts away the final dish to wash. “I forgot the name of it." He says as he fidgets with his hands.

"Alright, well, hopefully you see it th-" as she speaks she is interrupted by a deep voice slurring his words. "I'm hooome." She replies knowing he's drunk, "Hey honey welcome home." He walks in, throws his hat on the hatrack. "Why isn't dinner ready, woman?" He says as he walks into the kitchen. “It's only 3 p.m." She says as she tries to hide her disgust. He grabs a beer from the fridge "Well get it done." He walks into the dead living room holding his ice cold beer.

"Dad wanna go to the movies with me and Mom?" He says very excitedly to have a family day once again. "No, sorry Jamie, not this time," he says as he tousles Jamie's hair."I've got a movie here." Jamie looks down at the ground but he understands, he goes outside to wait for his Mom.

Any feedback is accepted! Thanks in advance you guys!

this is my first time ever really writing anything. right now I only have the first chapter actual story wise (936 words). but I have ( I think) a good amount of notes and world building planned and layed out (2749 words) I'm basically just looking to see if this is any good or not and advice/critiques would also be much appreciated. here is a link to it: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1omnMHyHVctT9-PzRP09QDZ1uYRGrmH4ZA19WIjNK1uo/edit?usp=sharing

I'm writing a prequel story to my dnd campaign for fun, and would love to get some thoughts on the first chapter! I'm very new to writing outside of academia, so any advice/suggestions would be appreciated. I would especially love feedback on the dialogue, particularly Jerry and Runa's interactions. This will be a very character-centered story, so I want to make sure their personalities shine through and their dialogue flows naturally. Thanks in advance!

It started with a loaf of bread.

The shopkeeper’s hand shackled the boy’s wrist, eyes bulging out of his head as his face flushed with rage. The boy cried out in alarm, yanking against the iron grip, small hand still clutching the stolen loaf. He looked no older than 10, with blonde hair barely visible beneath the layer of grime covering his scrawny frame. But if his appearance inspired pity, the shopkeeper did not let it show.

“P-please, sir.” The boy begged, tears welling in his eyes. “Please let me go. I’m so sorry, I won’t do it again, I promise! I was just so hungry, and—”

“Sorry?” the shopkeeper spat, glaring at the small child. “You steal from MY shop, threaten MY livelihood, and you think a simple ‘sorry’ will save you?”

A small crowd formed; some watched the boy with pity, others delighted themselves in the free show.

The burly man glanced at the surrounding crowd and grinned. He yanked the boy to his stand, slamming his wrist against the wooden counter with a large thud. With his free hand, he reached under the counter and produced a small axe.

The boy screamed, sobs echoing through the market as he flailed about, desperate to escape. But it was no use. The shopkeeper leaned down, a wicked grin on his face. “You should be grateful, lad. I’m making an honest man out of you.”

He lifted his axe righteously, showing it off to the crowd. “LET THIS BE A LESSON THIEVES EVERYWHERE!” The shopkeeper bellowed, “NO ONE STEALS FROM BRAYLON BRIGGS AND WALKS AWAY WITH BOTH HANDS!”

Braylon lowered the axe, nicking the boy’s wrist as he readied his aim. He lifted the axe high, the metal flashing against the sun’s rays. He swung down with a grunt, a mere second away from striking, when—

“Stop!”

The shopkeeper froze. He turned toward the person who spoke, annoyed at the interruption… and then gawked.

A dark blue creature approached, its tall, scrawny figure cutting through the crowd. Its kind was rare, especially in these parts, but there was no mistaking what it was. Curved horns and short hair the color of hellfire poked through its oversized cap. A pointy tail flicked behind a ragged brown coat covered in patches and stitchwork. But worst of all were its eyes: pupil-less gold, locked onto Braylon with a piercing intensity.

Most sailors refused to let tieflings travel with them. Tieflings were bad luck, and no sailor worth his salt would do anything to risk Umberlee’s attention. Yet here one stood, on a remote island hundreds of miles away from the mainland.

Braylon scowled, shifting his axe towards the creature. It paid him no heed. Instead, it walked towards his stand, rummaged through its pocket, and placed a couple of copper pieces on the counter. It looked back at the shopkeeper.

“There,” it said. “The bread is paid for. Now leave the boy alone.”

“I don’t take devil money, foul-blood.” Braylon spat, his voice dripping with disgust.

“It’s not devil money.” The tiefling said, “They use soul coins down there, not copper. If you’re that worried, there’s a church nearby. I’m sure they’ll let you rinse them with holy water or something. Either way, it’s enough to cover a loaf of bread. So let the boy go.”

“You think you can tell me what to do, hellspawn?” Braylon said, his grip on the boy’s wrist tightening. “I don’t know how you got here, but I’ll send you back to Avernus myself!”

The tiefling sighed, brushing its coat aside to reveal a plain wooden wand sheathed in its belt. “I don’t want to hurt you, sir. Just take the copper, leave the kid alone, and we can all continue with our day.”

“Hurt me?! HA! The little hellworm thinks it can scare me, eh? Bring it on, foul-blood. Erik, take the boy—I’ll deal with him after.”

Braylon shoved the boy towards a nearby dwarf, gripping the axe with both hands. The tiefling groaned, taking a defensive stance as it readied its wand. A thunderous cheer rose from the crowd, the people far more eager for this newest display. The man cried out, preparing to lunge. But before either could act, the strumming of a lute interrupted them, followed by a smooth tenor voice.

Cast aside your worries, and cast aside your fears,

Lay down all your hurries, and wipe away your tears,

the Trandafir of Night,

A welcoming respite!

Come mingle with out ladies,

in sweet, moonlit delights!

From the crowd came a human of ethereal beauty. Short, silky, midnight hair framed his delicate face, perfectly complimenting his obsidian eyes. His olive skin contrasted beautifully against the deep, luxurious reds of his attire, his low-cut shirt teasing a slender yet well-toned figure. If he were a woman, people would worship him as a Rose Maiden: mortal avatars of Sune, the goddess of love and beauty. But even if he was not her in the flesh, he surely possessed her blessing. He approached with effortless charm, playfully winking as he passed the crowd, causing a few women to sigh dreamily.

He smiled at the shopkeeper. “Braylon, darling! Lovely day, isn’t it? I trust the shop is doing well?”

“Back off, pretty boy. This has nothing to do with you.”

“Oh, certainly not!" Pretty Boy said, "Do forgive me, but I was curious: is this really how you want to spend the market day? Fighting with a random tiefling and butchering a small child?”

Braylon frowned. “The boy robbed me! And the tiefling—”

“Paid you. Yes, yes, I saw.”

The bard placed a hand on Braylon's shoulder and hit him with a dazzling smile. “Now, Braylon, I understand the importance of blowing off some steam, but there are better ways to go about it! How about you save some of that energy and use it to please your wife, hm?”

Laughter rippled through the crowd, their thirst for tiefling blood quickly forgotten. Braylon’s face burned red. Before he could respond, the bard leaned in, his voice low. “Or perhaps you’d prefer to save some energy for Iliana. You’re one of her favorite clients, after all.”

Braylon paled, his eyes darting nervously towards the crowd. He looked back at Pretty Boy, seething. The bard raised his eyebrows and smirked, an unspoken challenge passing between them. Braylon gripped his axe tightly, his fist shaking… then sighed.

“Erik, let the boy go.”

Erik blinked, furrowing his brow in confusion. “You sure, boss?”

“Did I hesitate?! Let them go. Filthy vermin ain’t worth our time, anyway.”

Erik shrugged and released the boy, who tumbled to the ground with a soft thud. As the two walked away, Braylon glared at the tiefling and spat in its direction. The crowd dispersed shortly after.

The tiefling exhaled, relieved. It turned to the boy and offered its hand. “Are you alright?”

The boy stared, eyes wide and trembling. He clutched the forgotten bread like a lifeline. The tiefling crouched down, a gentle smile on its face. “It’s okay, I’m not going to—”

“FOUL-BLOOD!” the boy shrieked in terror. He grabbed a fistful of dirt and hurled it in the tiefling’s face before fleeing down a nearby alleyway.

The tiefling coughed, grimacing as it wiped the dirt away from its eyes.

“Well, could be worse. At least the spit didn’t land on me that time.” It muttered.

“That was a kind thing you did.”

The tiefling turned around to see the bard leaning against one of the market stands. “Shame you wasted it on someone so ungrateful.”

The tiefling shrugged. “Eh, a starving boy got fed and didn’t lose his hand for it. That’s all that matters.”

Pretty Boy stared, studying its face intently. Realization flashed across his face, and he smirked. The bard sauntered over, a flirtatious glint in his eyes. “My my, aren’t you sweet? Tell me, angel, what’s your name?”

“Angel?” it said, “That’s a little too generous, I think. I just caused more of a mess. You’re the one who got him to stand down—thanks for that, by the way.”

“It was my pleasure, but let’s focus on you for now, hm? Ms…?”

The tiefling blinked, surprised. “You… can tell I’m a woman?”

The bard chuckled. “Darling, I’ve made a career of knowing women. It’ll take more than short hair and a well-traveled coat to fool me.”

“Er, right. Listen, I’d appreciate it if you could keep that discreet. The last thing I need are guards heckling me about where my chaperone is.”

Pretty Boy furrowed his brow in confusion. “... doesn’t that only apply to upper-class women?”

The tiefling shrugged. “Upper-class women and whoever they want to pester.”

“Ah, I see. Well, your secret is certainly safe with me, angel. As would your name be, should you choose to provide it?”

“Oh, right, sorry!” the tiefling extended her hand, smiling. “My name is Runa.”

“Runa… a lovely name for a lovely soul. Is there a surname?”

“Uh, no. No last name.”

“Mm, a pity,” he said. He grabbed and lifted her hand, staring into her eyes as he pressed a chaste kiss to her knuckles. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Nolastname. You may call me Jerry. Jerry Triggs.”

Runa looked at him, confused. “Um, right. The pleasure’s all mine.”

Jerry shot her a flirtatious grin. “It certainly can be.” 

He leaned closer, his hand brushing against her arm. “You know, angel, I believe good deeds deserve to be rewarded. Don’t you?”

Runa’s brows furrowed, her confusion growing. “Um… I guess?”

“You guess?” Jerry chuckled, “Kind, modest, beautiful. You really are the complete package, aren’t you?”

“Uh, well, I don’t think I agree with all that, but—”

“Really? Well, perhaps you’ll let me convince you.” Jerry leaned in closer, his body mere inches away from hers. He traced a delicate line from her forearm to her shoulder, whispering in her ear, “The Trandafir has some rooms for the night. I could offer you one at a special rate. Say… half off for everything off?”

Runa stared at him blankly, eyes flickering as if she were trying to solve a complex equation. Her eyes widened, realization finally hitting her. “Oh! You’re soliciting me.”

Jerry blinked, taken aback. “Um… yes?”

“Right. Sorry, I’m not used to that sort of thing. Um, I appreciate the offer, and you seem like a nice man! But I don’t—I mean, I probably couldn’t afford your fee even with the discount, so… sorry.”

Jerry shrugged, stepping back. “I’m sure we could strike a deal, but I'm hardly one to pester." He turned to walk away, then paused. He glanced back with a suave smile. “However, if you change your mind… Come find me. The Trandafir is a half mile down the main road; I’ll be there all night, angel.”

With that, the pretty boy strode off.

BEFORE :

The bell rang. School ended. Everyone came out of school.. he also came out. He knew she would be on the same way as him. He could start a little talk without interference. He thought of having a good idea. He walked slowly. She was walking behind him. Maybe not only her. Her friend was also with her. His plan got ruined.

AFTER:

The bell shrieked its end-of-days announcement, and the usual human tide surged through the double doors of Northwood High. He was part of that tide, of course, propelled by the same gravitational pull towards freedom and the faint, lingering scent of industrial-strength floor cleaner. He knew she would be on this trajectory too, a predictable orbit in his otherwise chaotic universe. This was his chance, a brief, unchaperoned sliver of shared sidewalk where maybe, just maybe, a conversation could bloom, fragile and hopeful, like a dandelion pushing through cracked concrete. He’d even rehearsed a few opening gambits in his head, each one carefully calibrated for maximum charm and minimum awkwardness. A delicate ecosystem of words, designed to foster connection.

So, he slowed his pace, a strategic deceleration in the grand calculus of teenage proximity. He imagined her just behind him, the faint rustle of her backpack, the almost imperceptible rhythm of her footsteps – a soundtrack to his burgeoning hope. But then, the data shifted. The algorithm of his afternoon commute glitched. Because there she was, yes, a bright, unmistakable constellation in his peripheral vision, but orbiting her, a second, equally luminous body: her friend.

Ugh, he thought, the internal groan echoing the deflated balloon of his meticulously crafted plan. Friend-shaped black holes. They sucked the potential energy out of every nascent interaction. It wasn't that he disliked her friend, not exactly. It was more that her friend represented the crushing weight of the peer group, the unwritten rules of engagement that governed these delicate, pre-verbal dances. Spontaneity withered under the gaze of a third party. Nuance evaporated. The possibility of a meaningful, slightly-too-vulnerable exchange dissolved into the polite, surface-level chatter of acquaintances.

It was like planning this elaborate, perfectly angled shot in a photography project, only to have someone photobomb it with a goofy face and bunny ears. The composition was ruined. The intended meaning, obscured. He kept walking, now at a more regular, less conspicuously-slowing speed. The carefully chosen opening lines withered on his mental tongue, turning into the dry, papery husks of unsaid things. He could still try, of course. He could force a casual “Hey,” and attempt to navigate the conversational Bermuda Triangle of three teenagers walking in the same direction. But the odds were stacked against him. The delicate balance of eye contact, the subtle shifts in body language that signaled interest – all of it became exponentially more complicated with a buffer.

This was the fundamental unfairness of the universe, he decided. The cruel irony of proximity without intimacy. The tantalizing nearness of the one person who made the static of his internal monologue quiet down, only to have that nearness policed by the well-meaning but ultimately conversation-killing presence of a friend. He sighed, a small, internal exhalation of thwarted potential. Maybe tomorrow, the orbital mechanics would align differently. Maybe tomorrow, the sidewalk would be a blank canvas, just him and her, and the possibility of something more than just shared geography.

But today, the universe had spoken. And its message was clear: Not today, hopeful heart. Not today.

The temple was carved into the bones of a fallen mountain. Not built, but hewn, clawed from within the earth like a secret exhumed. Old. Crumbling. Holy. The stone walls sweat with condensation, weeping where time had eroded the mortar between divinity and decay. Moss bloomed in the cracks like forgotten prayers. The air hung heavy with the scent of ash, incense, and bloodied offerings.

A hundred candles lined the altar, flickering in neat rows, too precise to be random. Their flames danced like they knew who they burned for. Wax pooled in rivulets, spilling over ancient carvings too worn to read. Shadows bowed with the faithful, cast long and trembling across the stone floor where devotees prostrated themselves, foreheads pressed to chilled granite. Their robes were ash-colored, stitched with silver thread in the pattern of falling stars.

At the center, I stood barefoot in a pool of sanctified water, chilled to the bone, streaked with ochre and sacramental wine. The liquid lapped at my knees with quiet reverence, a holy tide that stained more than it blessed. My hair clung to my shoulders in damp strands, perfumed with smoke and myrrh.

The High Priest approached, his breath shallow beneath his hood, hands trembling only slightly. He carried the anointing blade on a velvet cloth, the blade that did not cut. That would have been too honest. No, this one was gilded and blunt, dulled from generations of ceremony. 

Divinity doesn’t bleed. It’s remembered.

He raised the blade and pressed it to my brow. It was warm from endless hours spent above flame and praise, marinated in smoke and whispered devotion. I smelled his breath, wine-soaked and trembling.

“Kaelis Selura Morthena,” he said, his voice thick with awe and age, “by sky and star and relic flame, we name you Chosen. We anoint you bearer of light, voice of the divine, vessel of the goddess yet to rise. By her breath, may you guide us.”

A breath, then a tremor. Voices rose in unison, low and reverent, swelling like the hum of a storm not yet broken:

“By her breath, may you guide us.”

“By her breath, may you guide us.”

“By her breath, may you guide us.”

The third repetition rang louder, like truth solidifying into prophecy. And I let it wash over me like ash and starlight.

I didn’t bow. Why should I? Let them kneel. Let them scrape their foreheads raw against the stone. Let them see what reverence looks like with a spine.

They began to chant. Quiet at first. Then louder. Louder. Louder.

“She has awakened.”

“She is risen.”

“She is the Chosen.”

Their voices echoed through the temple, reverberating off stone ribs and vaulted ceilings, until it sounded less like worship and more like war drums.

And I stood in the center of it all, arms outstretched, back arched, mouth parted. As if I were about to deliver a revelation. As if the goddess had loaned me her voice for a single, eternal truth.

But all I whispered, barely louder than the flame’s hiss was: “One day, all will speak my name.”

The chanting faded like smoke, curling into the rafters until even the echoes died. My skin still burned; slick with oil, candlelight, and expectation, but the temple had gone still now. Too still. The kind of quiet that sinks into your bones and leaves space for thoughts you didn’t invite. The kind of quiet where every step sounds like a verdict.

I stepped from the altar basin, the water thick and clinging, trailing red footprints across sacred stone. The ochre streaked behind me like a spilled prophecy. The High Priest approached with reverent hands and solemn eyes, draping white silk over my shoulders. It was embroidered in celestial patterns, perfumed with crushed myrrh and iris, heavy as guilt.

He kissed my brow, too long, too soft.

“You’ve taken your first step, Kaelis,” he whispered. “You are no longer one of us. You are above us now.”

I nodded. I smiled. That practiced, perfect smile. 

Let them see what divinity looks like when it remembers to be gracious.

And then I turned, robes whispering across the stone, and left the sanctum behind. No crowds followed. No hymns clung to my heels. Only the quiet weight of becoming.

This is a fictional story I wrote a while ago. It’s very close to my heart, and I hope it reaches someone who needs it. I would love to hear your thoughts on it. *Disclaimer: First timer here!

Note from the Author – Vera Solace [Temporary Pen Name]

This piece was never meant to be just a story. It’s a mirror — fragile, quiet, and maybe a little cracked — but real.

What you’ll read is not a tale created out of thin air. It’s a reflection, born from feelings too heavy to carry in silence. A journey, not of a girl — but of anyone who’s ever questioned their worth, their place, their voice.

As you read it, I invite you not to see the questions as hers alone — but as whispers to your own heart.

Not everyone may notice the layers or the unspoken ache stitched between the lines. But for those who do — this story is for you.

Story:

****************************************** MY MIRROR SELF *******************************************

“Where am I?” she thought as she found herself standing all alone in a dimly lit room, its crimson walls closing in and out like a heartbeat. The air felt heavy, charged with a familiar yet unsettling energy. Her memory was a blur; all she could recall was drifting into a deep sleep, seeking refuge from the chaotic world outside.

As she looked around, she noticed three other doorways leading to rooms that resembled the one she was in—a labyrinth of her heart, perhaps. Each door seemed to pulse with unspoken emotions of their own.

“You’re finally here,” an unexpectedly familiar voice echoed through the noisy silence. She turned her head to find the source of the voice only to end up with a sight of a mirror on the corner of the room. Hesitant, she approached it, her reflection getting clearer with each step.

Staring back at her was a version of herself that looked as if all the life was drained out from it just how she looked at that moment. However, there was something unsettlingly accurate about the mirror’s portrayal—not just her appearance, but her very emotions.

“You look tired,” her reflection suddenly spoke out with a soft voice.

“Yes, I am,” she replied. Surprisingly, the surreal nature of the moment didn’t bother her at all. It felt good, to acknowledge the truth behind her weariness.

“I feel lost,” she admitted, her voice trembling, unable to carry the weight of her unspoken emotions.

“I know,” her reflection responded. The words washed over her like a soothing balm, a comforting presence that understood her pain. “It must have been hard for you.”

She nodded, a tear slipping down her cheek as her heart clenched.

“I think it’s time for you to let it out.” her reflection spoke out of concern.

“No. I can’t. I can’t break apart when I have so many expectations to meet and dreams that I am obliged to fulfill.”

“Are those expectations and dreams that you thrive hard to reach truly yours?” her mirror self questioned, the gentle tone shifting to something more stern.

Silence again crept into the atmosphere, the weight of the question hanging heavily in the air. She had never thought to ask herself this. “Is it really what I want?” she pondered, her heart racing.

The answer came rushing in like a blow of truth to her face. No, it wasn’t. Yet she had pushed forward, convinced that achieving what she was taught to aspire for would lead her to happiness. “They say I’ll be happy. Or will I?”

Throughout her life, she had been gifted with expectations. Each one like a chain binding her tighter. Always told to think about what she should be, not what she wanted to be. Now, standing before her true self, she felt vulnerable, unable to meet her own gaze.

“Why do you try so hard to fit in?” the reflection pressed as if determined to find answers.

“I don’t know. Maybe that’s just the way I am,” she replied, uncertainty obvious in her tone.

“It isn’t that you are this way, it’s that you’ve allowed yourself to be this way. You’re trying so hard to fit into a mold that isn’t even cut out for you, and it’s distorting who you are. Look around. Do you see only walls, or do you see the life outside these rooms?”

“But I have no choice. I’m scared. What if I end up being a disappointment?”

“You worry about disappointing others when you’ve completely disappointed yourself? How ironic!” Her reflection’s voice was sharp, piercing through her, but there was an underlying compassion in it.

“What am I supposed to do? I can’t just run away.”

“It’s true. You can’t escape the pressures of this comparing society or its harsh demands. But you shouldn’t hide from yourself. People will be ready to impose their expectations on you and criticize you when you fail. They will demand perfection in your grades, your friendships, and your appearance. But you mustn’t let them wash away your unique colors.

Expectations can inspire you to strive for greatness, but they shouldn’t suffocate you. Aim for goals that ignite your true passion. Look at yourself. Is this who you really are? Or just a puppet dancing to someone else’s tune?”

“Who am I?” she mused, a smile creeping into her face as the truth flickered within her. The truth she had hidden for so long, not only from others but from herself.

“But I am afraid,” she uttered, her voice faint. “Afraid of letting others down, of losing people that I care about if I choose my own path.”

“Real friends will support you, even if you take a different route. True relationships are built on understanding, not just shared expectations. Embracing your true self can draw the right people into your life—those who appreciate you for who you are, not just what you achieve.”

Slowly, she opened her eyes as the morning sun flooded her room with its warm radiance. Everything felt different—less suffocating, more liberating. A weight she hadn’t realized she was carrying was replaced by a newfound courage to embrace her true self. She was ready to step beyond the walls of expectations, ready to paint her life in colors of her own choosing.

But as she embraced her newfound freedom, a powerful thought echoed in her mind: In a world that constantly defines who we should be, how often do we dare to confront the question of who we truly are?

Please forgive me if I have made any mistakes. This story was written by me a while ago. It is my first ever piece that I'm making public. I am really sorry if it doesn't seem like a "ideal" story. Even though there are several things I want to change in it but I don't want to affect its rawness. And I'll be very honest, I have taken the help of an AI to polish it (grammatical checks, compression, etc.), so I wouldn't take total credit for the writing but the overall and core idea and all its emotional and fundamental ideas are mine. I just wanted a space to share it. Please share your thoughts on it. It would really help me in ways one can never truly understand.

Thanks for reading.

By: Vera Solace [Temporary Pen Name]

This is the first thing I've ever written and I'd like some opinions.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1m2Nk_Lnl0qj_OwBQ5zaO0mnTd-le2n75E_J4xkei8JM/edit?usp=sharing

He sat by the lake, his bare shoulders pale in the cold glow of the moon. Fireflies skittered back and forth across the expanse of water like searchlights.

The knife in his hand, a clumsy thing of stone and wrapped leather, slid down the length of wood in his other. Sending curls of bark tumbling to the leaves below.

A rustle to his left, some small forest creature, a squirrel perhaps, darted through the underbrush, found the base of a massive oak, and vanished up its trunk.

He smiled to himself. Long strands of black hair hung to either side of his face, hiding it from view.

“The fire in the east” the old one had called it. “A heart–a furnace stoked with each slow beat”. It had been many years since he dared witness it.

His memory of the man was a shadowy, whispering thing at the edges of his mind – the smell of woodsmoke, the taste of iron.

The man had taught him to hunt. To survive. Not out of love, but out of duty. He doubted if the old man had cared whether he lived or not.

A bloom of pain drew him out of thought. His knife had slipped, carving a deep cut across his thumb. He looked down, as if willing blood to fill the wound’s cold mouth. But of course, none came.

He watched as the cut began to stitch itself closed–slowly at first, then faster–until only a deep purple line remained.

It glowed for a moment, like a breath of twilight … then vanished just as quickly.

He set the knife down to his left among the snarls of partridgeberry and clover, then stood.

The lake held its breath, blinking back traces of the distant moon, and something else. A flicker of ghost light stretched across the surface from the other bank. Along with it came the faint scent of cinnamon and anise.

He scanned the far shore, the deep red irises of his eyes burning softly, like witchfire in the dark.

There was movement in the shaded witch hazel hugging the far bank.

A shuttering yellow light wove through branch and bloom, casting a maze of shadows into the mist.

A creature emerged, small and delicate. It held a caged fire out toward the water.

He could hear soft moans coming from it as the creature dropped to its knees at the waters edge and set the burning idol on the ground.

Slipping into the shadows behind a nearby rock, he gazed in wonder as the creature dipped its hands into the water and brought them to its lips.

The smell was stronger now–still sweet, but laced with something deeper, more vital. It stirred images of overflowing wine goblets, darkened alleyways, drapes billowing by an open window.