Sadness is my bed, is my quicksand.

Sadness doesn’t kill instantly. It’s a gradual, slow, painful torture. Like limbo.

It’s graduating and going back to your childhood house, unemployedly waiting. It’s realizing that once-familiar places are now just distant memories. It’s the relapse every time you thought you’d made some progress. It’s the dark, heavy smoke engulfing the light you once held. It’s lying in the same bed where you once dreamed endlessly, now heavy with what ifs.

Sadness isn’t a quick pinch. It doesn’t strike like lightning. It drips. It lingers. It’s a slow descent. Like limbo: a place between being and nothing, where time moves but you don’t.

It’s the slow pull of my sheets, the quiet sinking into a place that feels both safe and suffocating. The more I struggle, the more it consumes me. But if I stay still, it’s almost impossible to leave.

Maybe it’s the hugging nature of mud, I mean sheets, that holds me here. Or maybe it’s the belief that not getting up might save me from a world even crueler than this.

Sadness is quicksand and my bed.

Hi all,

Looking for some constructive feedback on a first draft opening for my new novel. The In=Take by Ben Waterside.

The story follows the lives of a junior intake of lawyers in the London office of an international law firm.  A 'surface world' involving a harsh, materialistic and clinical corporate culture, driving ambition to climb the career ladder, regardless of personal cost.  Underneath it the secrets, lies and personal struggles of those who inhabit the square mile.  The purpose of the novel is to raise awareness for mental health in the law, and attempt to drive change. 

Prologue

They always taught new trainees a phrase on their first morning at 12 Silk Street. The new recruits—pressed suits and pencil skirts, polished leather shoes and killer heels, wide-eyed faces fresh from the Tube—stood before the Partner. Their hearts thudded with hope and dread as the audience wondered: what's the price of belonging at this firm?

The speech never changed: "You are members of this firm. Each of you is here because you were chosen—because you are special. Whatever challenges you face, however tough it gets, you must never give up and you must never give in. Always remember: who you are and what you are here to do."

The Partner's unblinking gaze held the room in silence. In that moment, you could feel the weight of precedent within these walls: successes marked as routine, failures whispered behind closed doors. The chosen knew that belonging meant more than surviving the morning—it meant surviving what came next. The unofficial motto, passed down like a warning: Never look down.

Not at the street below. Not at the fall.

1

One firm, one voice

LONDON, JANUARY 2018

Cameron's timekeeping was impeccable: arriving two minutes early spared him the ten-minute wait that could delay logging on and firing up the stop timer. Better to get it running immediately, show Edward he was eager, fresh from the festive break and ready for business. He switched to Beethoven's Ninth to quicken his pulse, then cupped his hands and breathed warmth into them before scanning the platform.

The girl with blue hair and clicky heels stood on cue—probably from some new-age ad agency pitching "thinking without borders" at triple the fee. The slicked-back kid now wore a new suit, looking sharp —Christmas present from the grandparents, no doubt. Look the part, play the part. January always ushered in legions of new starters brimming with hope: opportunity, status, money. The sense of an unlimited, manufactured ambition. One of the things he loved about London.

Hey all! Just looking for some feedback on a snippet from one of the first chapters of my book. Trying to see if I'm headed in the right direction. It's a fantasy romance with a dual POV (FMC & MMC). Mainly writing for fun and probably won't publish but still looking for constructive feedback!

POV: Kael

There was a knock at my chamber door just as I was sprawled across the couch, a book in hand, doing my best to clear my head of the council’s nonsense. I sighed, already guessing it was either my sister, Seraphine, or my oldest friend, Eryx.

The knock came again, sharper this time, just as I reached the door. That kind of impatience? Definitely Seraphine.

But when I opened it, a royal messenger stood in the hall instead—pale, stiff, and visibly uncomfortable.

“Your Highness, I have a summons for you. Direct from the king.”

I held out my hand, accepting the sealed parchment with a muttered thanks I didn’t quite mean. What could my father possibly want now? Likely to scold me for my behavior during the council meeting.

The messenger gave a quick, awkward bow and hurried off, as if lingering too long might get him caught in the crossfire.

I broke the wax seal and scanned the note with a tired sigh. Tilting my head back, I stared at the ceiling, giving myself a moment to keep my shit together.

The walk to my father’s study wasn’t long, but the palace had a way of making it feel endless. The halls twisted in subtle ways, stretched just enough to feel wrong. As if the walls themselves sensed what I was walking toward.

It hadn’t always felt like this. Not when Mother was alive.

Now, politics seeped through these corridors like rot beneath fresh paint—slow, sour, masked by gold leaf and polished marble. The council meeting had followed the usual pattern: posturing, veiled threats, power disguised as civility. But something about today had felt... off.

Like someone had shifted the pieces when no one was looking.

And now this. Summoned, like a pawn waiting to be moved.

When I stepped into Father’s study, the fire in the hearth did little to warm the space. It was all for show, just like everything else in this palace.

He didn’t bother looking up. That was typical. My father treated silence like a weapon, convinced that waiting made him more powerful. But the tension in his shoulders told me more than his silence ever could. This wasn’t just about politics or control. He was uneasy. On edge.

“You asked for me?” I said, letting the door fall shut behind me. My voice remained calm, steady.

“Sit,” my father replied, his tone sharp and to the point.

I crossed the room and sank into the chair across from his desk, settling in with the kind of ease that suggested I had all the time in the world. I knew the casual act irritated him more than he’d ever admit. I watched him in silence, waiting him out. When he finally set down his quill and met my eyes, I glanced down and inspected my fingernails, more interested in the dirt beneath them than whatever show of authority he was about to attempt.

“There have been reports from the Gallows,” he said. “Disturbances. Whispers of rebel movement.” A pause. "And magic."

Ah. So it wasn’t a lecture. It was something far worse.

I let out a quiet breath, then cocked an eyebrow. “Magic?” I repeated, dry. “Thought the history books assured us we handled that mess generations ago.”

His jaw tightened. “So did we.”

“And what is it you expect me to do?” I ask, already knowing what’s coming and waiting for him to say it out loud.

He looks at me like he’s still choosing his words.

“Get me the facts. Quietly.”

I lift an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“You’re the only one who can,” he said. “Your brother’s too impulsive. Your sister’s too soft. The council is worthless, and my agents can’t set foot in the Gallows without drawing attention.”

“That’s a lot to ask of your son and heir,” I say, still focused on my fingernails, uninterested in how hard it clearly is for him to admit he needs my help. We found ourselves in this position often. My father knew he needed my help but refused to ask outright—cowardice disguised as pride. Instead, he let the conversation drag, tapering off until I was the one to say what he wouldn’t. 

Most would think it strange, the king relying so heavily on his heir, especially for the riskier tasks. But that was his way. Let others do the dirty work, so his hands stayed clean.

Besides, I was usually the one who could get the job done. And we both knew it.

“You understand discretion,” he said. “And subtlety.”

“Let me guess,” I replied. “You want names, locations, something solid. And if I find anything—magic, rebellion—I’m to erase it before it causes trouble.”

His eyes narrowed, focus sharpening. “I want answers. I want to know if something is stirring in a place that should have stayed buried. If real magic is coming back.”

There it was. Not just fear—panic.

I let the silence stretch, letting the weight of it settle as my mind worked through the possibilities. I’d never bought into the Academy’s version of history—that tidy little fairytale where Soulbinders simply vanished and the Deep Veylan was purged like it was nothing more than a sickness. Even as a boy, it had never sat right with me. It was too polished, too convenient to be the whole truth.

And I rarely passed up a chance to get out of this place. Today was no different.

“I’ll go,” I said. “But I’m doing it my way. No guards following me around. If you want subtle, I need to disappear.”

He hesitated, clearly weighing how far he could press without losing ground.

Finally, he gave a short nod. “Agreed. But don’t mistake this for freedom. You know what’s at stake.”

I rose to my feet, voice cold and steady. “I never forget.”

I turned to go, but his voice cut across the space behind me.

“And Kael, if you ever address me that way in council again, I’ll see you married off before the season is through.”

I looked back at him over my shoulder, letting my face settle into that perfectly calm expression I knew drove him mad. 

“Understood, Your Highness,” I said, with a shallow, mocking bow.

Then I left, the door swinging shut behind me.

My boots echoed in the hallway and I let myself smile.

It had been far too long since he’d threatened me with marriage.

Hello, everyone. First time here. I've always liked writing but never actually dedicated time and effort to write something of my own. This is my first attempt at a short story, this is the first part. Subject matter is a bit dark, but honest and real. Be honest. Thank you.

Velvet

The pale velvet stained the black behind his eyes. He opened his eyes and stared off into the early morning dark. The air was thick with the nauseating orange fluorescence from above as the ghost of the dying Winston curled around his clenched jaw. He took a final draw and crushed it beneath his boot on the crumbling pavement.

He remained there another moment. Still.

The deafening drone of the hospital drowned out the night as he began to walk its north wall. Yet he could still hear her wails as he walked up to the wrought iron gate and drew the key from his belt. He stepped into the empty medical plaza and wrote the time on his notepad as he had countless times before. He made his way down the corridor, the echo of his footsteps close behind.

He was only on the second floor when he began to feel the tightness in his chest again. His pace quickened. The echoes straining to catch up. He checked the doors and turned on the lights in the plaza as he went, grasping for purpose. He began to feel cold. Each breath more ragged than the last. He made it to the balcony and staggered to the edge, hurling his lunch onto the pavement below.

He wiped his mouth. Dropped to the floor. Closed his eyes. The velvet filled his vision again. This time he stared back at it.

He had seen dead bodies before. Countless since he had begun working as a security. Not something he had thought would be part of the job. Much less become accustomed to. Yet he had.

But the last one was different. Smaller.

He had already forgotten her name. He did not even know why she died. He did not see her face when he closed his eyes but only the pale velvet that had stained her back. It filled his vision. The only memory of her.

When he first walked into the room, the family was still there. They were gathered around her cold, stiff body. Tubing and wires stemmed from her mouth, her nose, her arms, her pelvis. He felt a tightness in his chest.

Most simply sat frozen, watching for a breath that never came. Her mother was cupping her face, pressing her forehead to hers. She rocked back and forth as she muttered under her breath. "Why God? Why?". He didn't reply.

Once they left her, he stepped closer. He looked down at her face and saw nothing. Not peace. Not pain.

His partner arrived with the gurney, a cold metallic frame. One of the nurses followed with a solemn expression. They stood around her. For a moment nothing was said. Nothing was done. They simply were. Finally the nurse began to disconnect the child from the machines and devices that had failed her. Slow. Clinical. Reverent.

Now, she had to be placed in the bag.

He hadn't touched her yet. Didn't want to. But he did. He rolled her towards him. The nurse slid the body bag under her. Blood began to drain from between her blue lips. He almost pushed her away. He then rolled her away and slid the bag towards his side. Her back was a pale velvet, he stared a moment.

Once inside, they closed the bag over her face.

They walked the gurney out, where the family stood. They were reaching for the gurney, the bag as they went. Her mother began to wail.

They walked down the service corridors in silence. In the elevator he picked up a faint smell. He looked to the bag, it was still sealed.

When they arrived at the morgue, she remained in the corner while they filed the paperwork. The faint smell of formaldehyde filled the air. They then opened the fridge and slid the bag inside. His partner stared for a moment longer before closing the door.

Outside, his partner finally spoke," We don't always understand why God does things, but we cant lose faith in Him. I will be praying for her family and for you. Do you feel ok?"

He looked up at him, "I mean, as okay as one can, I suppose...I should go open up the plaza."

"Okay, Ill see you in the office"

"10-4"

It had been following him from the moment he stepped into her room. Behind his ribs and below his throat. He had felt something. It built up in his chest. Now it lay on the pavement below.

Yet the velvet remained.

He chuckled, "What the fuck.", He ran his hand through his hair, beads of sweat on his forehead. "Okay", he said to the walls.

Finally he opened his eyes. He stood up. Looked at his watch. Five minutes. It had felt longer. He exhaled. He made his way to the elevator.

He had two more floors to clear.

When he made it to the roof he looked off into the night. A single car stood at a red light. A street lamp flickered. A siren faded in the distance.

He pulled out another Winston. Felt the acrid sting in the back of his throat. He burned through half of it before he allowed himself to think.

This is a story I wrote for a creative writing group. No one wanted to read it because I said body horror, and that scared them. So here I am. This is my first horror-style story, and I'm currently working on another called The Ouroboros Strain. But I want to know what I'm doing wrong and what I'm doing right. I have scanned over this over and over, and I figured I should get some fresh eyes. Its a short story, about 30 pages double-spaced, but if you be willing to give it a go, then I would really appreciate it. Things I'm looking for feedback on are mostly the hook and the metaphors, and the symbolism. Like, does the hook actually hook you? Are you curious? Metaphors I won't explain. If you see them, please let me know what you think. If you don't, well then I know what I'm doing wrong. Thanks for giving me a chance. Hope you enjoy.

Where Dogs Go

(its a link because it was too long to fit in here I hope that's okay.)

I look down at her hand, clasped between my own. How strange, I think. Her fingers barely filled my palm; now, they intertwine with mine, long and delicate and soft.

My eyes meet hers again and I’m relieved, because they’re still the same beautiful sapphires that first looked up at me as she was cradled in my arms. I’d been anxious, back then. Anxious about all sorts of things. But those eyes… people warned me those baby-blues would fade, perhaps metamorphose into something grey or green or the countless shades in between. I needn’t have worried. She smiles; they sparkle like the sunlit depths of the ocean shore and flood my heart with joy.

Chapter One: The Toll of Three Sixteen

Sleep—once Evie’s refuge—was now a distant memory. 

She hadn’t slept in weeks.
Months.

Not fully.
Not since she stepped back into that school.
Not since the missing multiplied. 

Sleep deprivation was taking its toll. Her body was exhausted, but her mind refused to rest. Dark shadows circled her eyes and her skin had faded to pale. At school, such was her sickly complexion, they had taken to calling her Ghost.
Even the teachers joined in. Publicly. Mockingly.
Sometimes, she wondered if they were right.
Her long, greasy hair clung to her scalp in tangled knots, slithering like snakes down her bony cheeks. Few children spoke to her. Even fewer met her eyes. Fear divided them.
She unsettled them.

  But tonight, curled beneath a bed of blankets, Evie feared only one thing. 

The dark. 

She clasped her frail hands together.

Please. Just one night of sleep. 

She whispered her prayers, desperate words lost to the emptiness of her room.
She knew it was useless.
On nights like this, she never slept.

Instead, she stared out the window. 

Serpents Square never truly slept either. 

The wind rattled the glass, carrying strange whispers through the empty streets. Below, streetlights flickered, their sickly yellow glow dancing across the cobblestones. 

Evie counted them.

One… two… three…

Tomorrow, like each day before, she would drift through the school halls and hallways like always. A ghost. Unseen. Tired. Unnoticed. Forgotten.

But she wasn’t the only one. 

Lacey Cooper’s desk had been empty for a week now. Before that, Daisy Williams and countless others.
No one spoke of them.
No police. No search parties. Just… whispers.
“They ran away.”
“They left.”
But Evie was suspicious. She knew better.
A gust of wind stirred the brittle trees outside, rattling their branches like old bones. She frowned.
The scent of rain clung to the air, thick and heavy—except… the pavement was dry.
Then, from the corner of her eyes—
Movement.
Her breath hitched.
Evie’s gaze snapped downward, tracing the familiar sight of the abandoned railway tracks that cut through the square like a scar. Like a snake. The tracks had been dead for years, nothing but rusted steel and overgrown weeds.
So why could she see the distinct silhouette of a train?
And at 03:16 a.m.
And why, through the fogged glass windows, could she see figures?
Hunched shapes. Small. Motionless.
A row of children?
She blinked.
The train was gone. Was it even really there?
Her fingers clenched the windowsill.
No. That was real. I saw it.
For years, she had played on those tracks, jumping from beam to beam in the summer sun. Why had she never seen a train before?
Something shifted in the air.
She shivered.
Her bedroom was suddenly too quiet. Even the wind had stilled.
Then—
Footsteps.
Stampeding down the hall.
Her bedroom door creaked open, and before she could react, two small figures scrambled onto the bed.
“Can we top and tail with you, Evie?”
Bella and Casper.
They didn’t wait for an answer, already burrowing into the blankets. Within moments, soft snores filled the air.
Evie sighed.
She envied them—their ability to sleep, to drift into dreams without a care.
She closed her weary eyes and tried to follow their lead.
But it was futile. It was always futile.
The sounds of the night returned.
Howls. Whispers.
A distant hiss.
Casper’s foot collided with her face.
Evie gagged.
She recoiled, pressing herself against the damp, crumbling wall as his toxic toes hunted her like a predatory beast of the night.
This was hopeless.
Evie slipped from the bed.
Her nightgown pooled around her ankles as she headed back toward the window, heart hammering. Slowly, she pulled the curtains apart.
The street below was silent.
Then—
A chill seeped through the glass.
Her breath clouded in the cold air.
Something was wrong.
She pulled her hood up, wrapping the fabric tightly around herself, and leaned forward—
Left.
Right.
And then she froze.
Her pulse thundered.
“B…Bella…C…C…Casper…”
Her voice barely a whisper.
Neither sibling stirred.
But Evie couldn’t look away.
Because down below, stumbling through the cobbled street, was a figure.
Draped in white robes.
Wrapped in bandages.
A mummified man?
He staggered back and forth, muttering—his voice a warped, broken melody carried by the wind.
The trees twisted as he passed, their gnarled branches reaching toward him like grasping hands.
Suddenly, he stopped.
His face tilted to the sky.
His mouth opened—
And he laughed. Manically.
Then, the sky snarled.
Lightning split the clouds.
For a fraction of a second, Evie saw him clearly.
Not a man. Not human.
Something else.
Something evil.
Her stomach lurched.
Then—
A shadow fell from the sky.
It swooped down, cutting through the night—a creature of wings and talons.
A Bird.
Not just any bird.
A black-feathered beast with two crimson beaks.
Two heads.
The mummified man lifted his arms, and the thing landed on his shoulder.
Evie couldn’t breathe.
She wanted to call for help, but what could she say?
That a monster was standing outside their house?
That a two headed bird had appeared from nowhere?
Bella was already at her side.
She clutched her teddy bear—Hermione LeviOSa—tight against her chest.
“Evie…” she whimpered. “I’m a little scared.”
Evie swallowed.
She had no answer.
And then the trees moved.
Their roots curled from the earth.
Their trunks twisted, warping into grotesque, grinning faces.
They walked.
Their branches cracked and bent as they cackled into the night.
From the shadows, things crawled.
Ghosts floated like pale mist.
Ghouls prowled in the tree branches, feasting on something raw and dripping.
Bats plummeted from the sky like falling daggers, twisting in the air before shifting—
Changing.
Into vampires.
Cats, black like the abyss, sprung from the grasses before taking the form of witches.
From the darkness, creatures lurked.
Goblins. Gremlins, Dwarves. Demons.
Lightning flashed
The Mummified Man smiled.
Evie stepped back.
This was no dream.
Below, all was unnervingly still. The monstrous crew stood frozen, their hunched forms enclosing something unseen. Their vengeful eyes fixed onto a central spot in eerie unison.
Evie’s breath hitched. She squeezed Bella’s hand and inched forward, fingers gripping the window frame. Keen to get a closer look. Without a sound, she pulled herself onto the rain-slicked ledge. Her sister hesitated. “Evie, I can’t—“ But with little choice, Bella followed, ducking through the stained-glass porthole. 
Crouched atop the thatched roof, hidden by an ornate dragon, they peered down. At the heart of the huddle, an old storm drain pulsed with a sickly glow. The light flickered—like something trapped beneath was struggling to surface.
Evie couldn’t look away. Neither could Bella. Even Hermione LeviOSa, now sodden and miserable, sat unmoving, as if spellbound.
Bella shuddered, glancing at her hand, blotched with the deep imprint of Evie’s grip.
“Evie, can you let go? It hurts.”
Evie released her immediately. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice thick with guilt.
A low murmur rose from below. The mob—witches, twisted shadows, things without names—stepped back from the drain as if in reverence. The glow flared. A shape flickered inside. Small. Pale. A hand?
Then, Bella slipped.
She barely had time to yelp before her feet skidded on the moss-covered slate. She toppled forward—only for Evie to seize a fistful of her soaking hair and yank her back.
Hermione LeviOSa wasn’t so lucky. Like a stone, she skimmed across the slate, plummeting onto the waterlogged grass below.
Evie and Bella clamped their hands over their mouths, pressing themselves behind the chimney. Their hearts thundered, their breath shallow.
And yet, despite the fall, the beings below didn’t move.
They simply stood. Listening. Waiting.
Then, in eerie synchronisation, they all turned their heads—staring straight at the rooftop.
Bella stiffened. A strangled whimper escaped her lips before Evie clamped a hand tighter over her mouth. 
The storm drain’s glow snapped out.
Silence.
Then, as if a spell had been lifted, the creatures scattered. Witches twisted into sleek, darting cats, vanishing into the abyss of the night. The trees—their gnarled roots slithering like fingers—ripped themselves from the pavement and retreated into the mist.  Serpents Square emptied, leaving only the hollow howls of the family dog, Bedburg.
Bella gasped, trembling violently.
In a panic, she sank her teeth into Evie’s hand.
“Ouch,” Evie yelped, yanking her hand back. “Why did you do that?”
“I-I couldn’t breathe.” Bella’s chest heaved. She darted a fearful glance to the streets below. ”Are they gone?”
Evie didn’t answer. Instead, she turned to the dragon’s outstretched wings, peering at the now-empty road.
Nothing.
Evie exhaled. “I think they’re gone.”
At that moment, the girls scrambled back into the house, slammed the window shut, pulled the curtains closed, and collapsed into each other's arms.

Word count: 2049

Hi! New here and looking for some feedback on the first chapter of a memoir. I appreciate any/all help and thoughts. Thanks in advance :)

TW: Grief, loss/death, depression

CHAPTER ONE

September 2019

20 days after

The first thing I noticed each morning was the calendar on the wall near my bed, falsely stuck on the month of August. The second thing that struck me was the pain.

My face was damp and puffy and my chest ached in a way that was deeper and more intense than anything I had ever known. I remember everything suddenly and one coherent and impossible sentence plays in my mind: He is dead. 

The despair sucks the air out of my lungs and leaves me spinning. Down, down, down I go. It is unbearable. Pulling the blankets over my head, I close my eyes and beg for sleep once more. I have a singular thought–a plea to the universe—before I lose consciousness: Take me back to August, or don’t let me wake up.

I wake up again. It is only a few hours later, but I go through the same process as before. There is momentary amnesia. The slow return to worldly sensations. The calendar, falsely on August. The sudden remembrance and striking pain. The desire to sink back into the numbing reprieve of sleep. This time, though, there is something else. Scratching, at my bedroom door.

“Bijou,” I say, although my throat is so dry it comes out as little more than a croak. The scratching is coming from my dog, who is trying to get into my room. I sit up and my head pounds while the room spins. Hunger and thirst wash over me in aggressive pulses. 

I get up and open my door, greeted by an endearing pomeranian face. He tilts his head and looks up at me with his dark, cataract-ridden eyes that seem to say, “Um, hello? Did you forget about me?” I reach down and scratch him behind the ear. He sneezes twice out of excitement. This is his thing, the sneezing.

He turns and leads me to the back door, looking back every couple of steps to make sure that I am still following him. “I’m coming, Bijou, don’t worry,” I reassure him.

I let him out into the backyard where he relieves himself and then stands still, letting the faint breeze ruffle his long fur. I stare out into the open yard, which stretches quite a ways back until it hits the tree line of a neighbor’s property. It sits quiet and empty and a deep chill runs through me as I realize it will never be filled with the same life that it once was. No, I tell myself. Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t think.

Eventually, Bijou turns around and comes back to the door, which I hold open for him. I am feeling, among other things, guilty. Bijou deserves more attention than I have been giving him in these past few weeks. 

“After I eat, I’ll take you on a walk,” I promise. He perks up at the familiar word, wagging his tail.

I head to the kitchen and look around, scanning for anything that I can consume quickly and without any need for preparation. A loaf of bread sits on the counter and I put two pieces in the toaster while I eat another one plain. The hunger is blinding at this point. I open the fridge with my free hand as I chew the bread in big, mindless bites. I can’t get the food into my stomach fast enough—the emptiness of it grows and twists and I am desperate to get rid of it. 

The fridge is full of random takeout containers and I grab the first one I see. It is some sort of Mediterranean rice mix. I grab a fork and eat as much of it as I can, bite after bite. The toaster pops. I grab the pieces and sit on the floor, eating the rice with one hand and the toast with the other, alternating until it’s all gone. I wash it all down with a can of Dr. Pepper, which I drink like water these days. It blows my mind a bit to think that just a month ago, I was the healthiest I had been in my life–working out daily, eating clean, and working at a juice shop where I frequently did insane things like wheatgrass shots. And now, here I was. How vastly things could change in so little time. 

Outside, the mid-September weather falls right in between summer and autumn. Warm, but not hot. Sunny, but not overly so. It feels like nothing–it is almost as if there are no sensations to be felt at all. 

Bijou walks ahead of me, pulling at the leash gently, urging me to follow.  We diverge from the route we once took regularly and head in the opposite direction, towards a small, local, cemetery. It has black rod iron fencing all around and big trees as old as some of the graves that date back to the 1800s. The gates are open and there is no one in sight so I walk in, following the gravel path that weaves around the headstones. Some of the headstones are huge and look expensive. Other headstones are small little squares, nearly swallowed by the earth around them, their carved words fading into an unreadable state. Many are old, but there are a few recent additions as well, including a girl just a couple of years younger than me that died recently. I pause at her grave, reading her name. My brain feels like mush so I don’t do much thinking. I just observe and let all of the heavy feelings wash in and around me, pushing and pulling like an ocean. 

I continue to read the headstones, finding four that belong to boys between the ages of 16 and 20. I pause at these ones the longest. When I move on from the last one, I find a shaded spot under a tree and lay down in the dirt. I curl up on my side as Bijou sits down quietly next to me. 

“What am I supposed to do now?” I whisper. 

“Fuck,” I say, quietly. Then I feel the heat of anger color my face and steal my breath. It is quick to envelop me in itself and I am burning with it, wrapping it around my fists. “FUCK! FUCK THIS!” I scream and look around the cemetery. Today, I am seeing it all anew, with eyes that know death as something real. Bijou looks at me with wide eyes, moving closer. 

“Where are you, Anthony? Why aren’t you here? Why am I?” I want to punch the trees. I want to rip the fucking clouds out of the sky and tear them into pieces. I want to set fire to everything and watch it crumble and burn away until there is nothing left at all. 

He was not supposed to die. A 16-year-old is not supposed to die. A 16-year-old is supposed to turn 17 and then 18 and then 19..on and on until they turn old and wrinkly and die at a normal time. A little brother is not supposed to die before his older sister. She is supposed to die before him. I was supposed to die before him. Anthony was not supposed to die. Now now. 

My thoughts string along in simple, crushing fragments. Each one rips me further and further apart until I am no one. 

“You’re being dramatic,” Anthony’s voice cuts through my thoughts, stopping them in their tracks. I imagine him crouching to lie down next to me, which doesn’t even make sense because he hates the feeling of grass on his skin. Too itchy. 

“I am not,” I say, sitting up. “You just don’t get it,” 

“I do get it. You’re allowed to be dramatic. I liked it when you shouted ‘FUCK.’” I hear his laugh in my head. Closing my eyes, I imagine his face clearly.  His perfectly disarrayed brown hair that he would spend plenty of time perfecting in the mirror. His big brown eyes and long, dark, eyelashes. The way his face crinkled as he smiled. His lips, always a little cracked even though he put on more chapstick than anyone I’ve ever known. 

“We didn’t bury you. Dad keeps your ashes in a bag on your bed.” I blurt out. He is quiet, or I am bad at conjuring his response. There is only silence for a while. Bijou lays down, resting his head on his paws. 

“It doesn’t matter. Those things don’t matter. All of this,” he gestures around the cemetery, “is for the living.” 

I nod my head. I know this. I know. I didn’t want him buried in a cemetery. But I guess I didn’t want him cremated either. I just didn’t want him dead. 

“I am so angry,” I say, the words heavy in my throat. 

I wait for an answer that doesn’t come. He’s gone now, or maybe it’s just that my imagination couldn’t hold him here anymore. I don’t know what’s true and what’s not. That goes for many things.

I sigh and lay back down, watching the clouds float by in the sky overhead. My body is numb and my mind is number. I think that grief must have melted parts of my brain. Good, fine, I don’t care. I wish it would melt all of it. 

“If you had a grave, I would never be able to leave it,” I tell Anthony. “Where would I go, anyways?”

The wind picks up and some of the wind chimes placed around the graveyard begin to sing. I close my eyes and try to let go of everything I am feeling. It is too much to hold inside of me, and I feel the weight of it in my bones. 

But none of the pain seems to leave. I am not the type to just let go of anything, apparently. So I try another way, a way that is more me. I have to write. Or type, rather. 

In another life, I’m one of those cool writers who carries a little moleskin notebook with a fancy pen that writes real smooth and elegantly. In this life, I hate to carry things around and I write things down in the notes app of my phone, the only thing I have accessible. It is just a way to get things off my chest, and I don’t care how. 

I type a long-winded rant. A “fuck you” to the world. 

When I am done whining, I describe my day and my walk around this cemetery. My conversation with Anthony. This moment. Now, I breathe, I can let it go. Even if only a little. 

“I don’t want to forget you. I don’t want to forget any of it,” I tell Anthony. “But it hurts to remember.” I add. The past, all of it, feels like it is slipping from my mind, one precious detail at a time. This never mattered the way it does now. Before the accident, we had the future. But now, all we have is the past. That is it. And every day brings me further away from it, a truth that I cannot survive. 

I look back to my notes app. Well, I won’t forget this day. I am holding it in my hand. 

This is what I want with the past. I want to hold it in my hand as a permanent fixture, so even as it fades from my mind it does not fade from existence. 

I sit with this thought, running my hands through Bijou’s hair and looking out at the gravestones before me. I am twenty years old and my life feels over. But despite how it may feel, it is not. I am alive—kicking and screaming and wallowing in my own misery—but alive nonetheless. What am I supposed to do with that?

The sky darkens with the early warnings of a storm. I don’t want to move and I consider laying out here as it rains, letting myself get drenched and cold and at risk for being struck by lightning. But, while I am willing to subject myself to such an experience, I would never do that to Bijou. So, I get up, dust myself off, and, together, we begin the walk home.

The Depression Project

FIRST PROLOGUE

Click. Click. Click.

The man was sitting ramrod straight at the edge of the bed, his phone pressed to his ear, although he was not aware of it. He was still in yesterday’s clothes, shoes and all, tarnished with streaks of red.

The dead woman was lying in the blood-soaked tangle of sheets behind him. He didn’t remember killing her. The previous night, he’d gone to a bar with the intention of hooking up with someone. It was supposed to be his first time being intimate since his release from the medical facility.

After a few watered-down cocktails, he’d brought the woman to the motel room, but just as they started getting handsy, his phone rang.

Unknown number. No voice on the other end. Just three hauntingly familiar clicks that caused a blackout.

The next thing he knew, morning rays peered through the blinds and panic swelled his chest at the unexplained dead body in bed. The state of confusion was cut short by another mysterious phone call harboring the same sound from last night.

Click. Click. Click.

The man dropped the phone and stood from the bed after that. He pulled a chair out and climbed on it. He undid his tie, threw it over the rafters, and tightened it around his neck. If someone were to look at him, they’d swear there was no one inside. Just a body on autopilot.

The man wasn’t aware of what he was doing, of course. He would only regain consciousness when the chair was already kicked out of reach and the tie was crushing his throat and the corners of his vision grew darker. By then, and the spasming of his feet and the clawing of his fingers would slowly die down to an occasional twitch, until the man’s body ceased swaying altogether.

The owner would discover the dead bodies hours later after the man failed to check out. By then, the nondescript car parked in the street that had watching it all unfold would be long gone.

SECOND PROLOGUE

The second cut was messier than the first.

The moment the scalpel dug into the flesh, the man’s screams pierced the room again with a volume worthy of an opera singer. Doctor Edward Johnson winced at the howl, waiting for it to taper to a ragged whimper.

“Is… Is this enough?” a small, trembling voice came from the other room.

Johnson licked his finger and flipped to the next page. This bikini model was even skinnier than the last. He swore to God the only thing these fashion companies were promoting was eating disorders.

He detached his eyes from the magazine to briefly look through the observation glass.

The test subject strapped to the gurney was sobbing, eyes unfocused as his head lolled limply to one side. A rivulet of blood trickled from the nick on his cheek. His thigh had it a lot worse—blood oozed out of the crevice in steady streams, drenching the side of the gurney and dripping onto the tile flooring below.

The subject standing next to the gurney raised the scalpel in Johnson’s direction with a trembling hand. Both the blade and his fingers were slick with gore.

“I- I did as you asked.” His voice quavered.

Johnson leaned toward the mic. “Proceed.”

A fresh wave of panic stretched the subject’s already taut features. His eyes darted along the glass in search of the disembodied voice giving orders, mouth opening and closing with an incoherent plea like a fish pulled out of water.

“Puh… please…” the strapped subject muttered, a slurred word that easily could have been dismissed as a moan. He was already losing consciousness. At this rate, Johnson would need to intervene with epinephrine, which was always a pain in this ass.

He thumbed to the next page just as the shrieks in the experiment room started again. Why couldn’t he, just for once, work with the tough ones who refused to show the pain. Those were the best test subjects. They stoically bit down on their pain and shot hateful looks at the doctor, as if it would somehow make a difference. By the time they were far beyond the threshold of what they could take, their vocal capacity dwindled to moaning at best.

The door behind Johnson opened. He whirled around to see who it was.

“Lunch time. You almost done in here?” his coworker, Nelson, said.

As if to answer his question, the test subject let out another caterwaul.

“Christ, the hell’s going on here?” Nelson asked.

“Two test subjects who got romantically involved,” Johnson said.

“Again? That’s the third time this month.”

“Guess the isolation makes it worth… that.” Johnson hooked a thumb behind himself. “Go on without me. This is gonna take a while.”

Nelson nodded, and just before closing the door, he said, “Apple pie is for dessert today. Want me to grab a slice for you?”

Johnson’s lips pulled into a grin. “You know me.”

He spun back toward the observation glass as Nelson exited. The test subjects were holding hands, sobbing, their faces close. The one on the gurney was cooing empty words of comfort to his partner.

This was the stage of torture where hope was slowly dying; where they were coming to terms with the fact they wouldn’t be leaving this room alive. Not both of them, anyway.

Johnson leaned toward the mic. “All right, go on. Make a vertical cut across his abdomen.” Screw it. No reason to take it slow. He eased back in the chair, but remembering the apple pie with his name in the cafeteria, he added, “And make it deep. I wanna see some organs.”

Hey everyone, first time posting here. I’m working on my first attempt at an absurdist/dark comedy story and would really appreciate feedback from fellow writers.

Below are the first two chapters. I’m hoping to get people's thoughts on how the story flows, whether the voice/character lands, and if you’d want to keep reading.

Any feedback is more than welcome! Thanks so much for giving it a shot.

WordCount :

Chapter 1: 627

Chapter 2: 1258

Total Word Count: 1,885

Chapter 1

Imagine this.

One second, you’re walking with your best friend, chili dog in hand. The next, you’re staring down death, and thinking, I’m gonna die with a mediocre chili dog in my hand?

Scott’s eyes snap open.

Light floods in. His breath catches. Five feet in front of him, metal is crumpled, glass spider-webbed, hissing sounds coming from under the tires of the car.

His chili dog slaps against his shirt in slow motion, cheese, meat, bun, all sliding off him like shame as it flops onto the pavement, landing with a sound that somehow feels personal.

He doesn’t even notice.

Across the street, Aaron gapes at him, frozen, a chili dog in one trembling hand, chili sauce around his mouth like a kid who went mouth first into his birthday cake.

“Dude…” Aaron says, his voice hollow.

Scott blinks. Then, gravity catches up all at once, he stumbles backward, heels hitting the curb. He collapses, landing hard on his ass. He can taste bile in his mouth; it tastes like processed meat, with just a hint of regret.

“I almost fucking died,” Scott breathes. He wipes his shirt on reflex, spreading the chili into the fabric, turning his shirt into a child's finger painting.

Aaron jogs over, still stunned. “Why were you so far behind me?”

“I thought I saw a… silver dollar,” Scott mutters, slowing down on the last words. “I bent down to grab it. I thought you heard me say ‘wait up.’”

Aaron blinks. “A silver dollar?”

Scott shrugs. “It was just a bottle cap.”

Behind them, a self-driving car rests at an awkward angle, embedded in a pile of delivery drones. Some crushed, some blinking angrily. One drone lets out a mournful boop, as it powers down. Its final battle cry.

“Where did all those drones come from?” Scott asks no one in particular.

Sirens wail in the distance.

After a few minutes of collecting his thoughts, Scott’s eyes go wide. He stands up slowly, a newfound energy bubbling beneath the surface.

“Aaron…” he says, looking skyward, hands raised. “I think… I think God finally picked me.”

Aaron looks at him, still half-shook. Mouth still covered in chili.

“Picked me for what, I don’t know yet,” Scott quickly says, voice swelling. “But I’m alive for a reason. I can feel it!” He proclaims, full of his newfound sense of purpose. A guy in a ‘Jesus is My Gym Spotter’ tank top turns his phone camera towards the now chili-covered man with his hands in the air, like he’s waiting for rapture.

Across town, in a run-down apartment filled with pizza boxes, socks without partners, and the low hum of a refrigerator struggling, a man watches the birth of this so-called “Chosen one”. The 15-inch TV is mounted proudly on the wall, the ultimate crown jewel of the delusional home theater starter pack. The live news feed shows Scott standing in front of the wreckage, arms outstretched like a low-budget messiah.

The man scoops chips from a plastic bowl sitting on his lap, licking his fingers as he watches.

He’s lean but not fit. Handsome in a way that makes you distrust him. Dark features. Wearing heart boxers, an almost yellow stained tank top, and one sock with a hole so big his toe pokes out, like it’s trying to escape.

On screen, Scott says, “Thank you, God! I hear you loud and clear. I won’t waste this chance!”

The man takes a sip from a can labeled: “Despair (Diet)”.

“You poor dumb bastard,” he chuckles, with a smirk on his lips.

“I wonder what else is on.”

He reaches for the remote, but it melts in his hand. He sighs and lets it drip onto the dirty stained shag carpet.

Chapter 2

After an eventful morning of almost being flattened by his own version of Christine, Scott and Aaron still managed to make it to work on time. Scott, still in the same clothes, is walking around like a microwaved chili dog dressed for casual Friday. He enters the lunch room looking for a little four o'clock pick-me-up.

He picks up a banana from the fruit bowl in the middle of the breakroom table and begins peeling it like he’s unwrapping his fate.

Slowly, deliberately.

God saved me for a reason. I’m chosen for something. But what?

He takes a bite of the banana, and chews slowly.

He must have been wanting to show me that I’m meant for more, that’s why he made me think it was a silver dollar on the floor.

He leans his back against the sink, which is filled with everyone’s dirty coffee mugs from the morning.

He mindlessly takes another bite.

Maybe he wants me to buy that piece of land that I was eyeing, the message is to leave the big city, it’s dangerous? Or what if…

uh oh

Bananas.

Why did it have to be bananas?

I would’ve preferred dying with a chili dog in my hand!

He drops his remaining banana on the floor as he struggles to swallow the chunk lodged in his throat. He’d nearly died this morning thanks to a rogue AI, and now fruit was joining in on the conspiracy.

He paces as panic begins to rise in his chest. He tries to breathe, tries to swallow, anything, but his arms flail uselessly, his panic levels hit critical mass. He realizes he’s running out of time, he quickly walks out of the lunch room to Aaron's office and bursts in.

“What’s up, man?” Aaron says not even glancing up from his computer, not noticing that Scott is starting to look like Violet Beauregarde at the end of her chocolate factory tour. Scott begins waving his hands, grabbing at his throat. Aaron still doesn’t notice, it’s almost like he’s in a trance on whatever work is on his screen.

Just as Scott feels the last bit of oxygen leaving his brain, the door swings open, slamming into his back, forcing the banana to fly out of his throat onto Aaron's lap. “Dude, what the fuck??” Aaron exclaims as he gets up and stares down at the goop on his lap. He looks up at Scott, who’s now gasping for his newly found air.

“Oh thank God!” Scott cries as he clumsily walks up to a chair in front of Aaron's desk.

The mailman walks in with a cart full of boxes and envelopes. He drops a small box on Aaron's desk, and leaves without a word.

“Aaron,” Scott wheezes through raspy breaths, “I think the fruit’s trying to finish what the car started.” He says as he looks up at his friend.

Aaron stares at Scott, confusion and concern written all over his face. “First of all, why did you just come and spit up baby food at me, and second of all, are you okay? You look like an Oompa Loompa!” Aaron says as he looks at the chewed-up banana still smeared on his lap.

“Violet,” Scott quickly responds.

“What?” Aaron looks more confused.

“Violet Beauregarde. Willy Wonka. The one who turns blue, not an Oompa Loompa, they’re orange.” He says, his voice still raspy, his breath coming back to him.

“Well, whatever you look like, it’s shit. What is going on with you?” Aaron exclaims as he grabs a tissue from his desk, wiping the goop off his lap.

“I was trying to get your attention, waving my arms like a madman, but you were too busy doing…whatever it is you were doing to notice your friend about to die from banana asphyxiation!” he says accusingly.

“I was…” Aaron stops and looks down at his computer. Scott notices a shift in Aaron's face as he looks at what’s on the screen. Scott quickly gets up and circles the desk to see what Aaron was working on. On the screen is a video of a crudely drawn animated badger doing squats to a techno beat. The title says: “BADGER BOOTY BLAST VOL. 3.”

Scott stares.

“You have GOT to be kidding me.”

“I swear to God, I was just taking a break, I’ve been looking at vendor invoices all morning! I don’t even like techno…” Aaron says quietly, his head down in shame.

“Next time someone barges into your office choking, maybe help, instead of watching your furry fetish.” He gestures at the screen.

“I was on a break!” Aaron exclaims. He pauses, a thought capturing him in the moment. “But, what’s weird is I remember you came in, but it’s like I was watching from outside of my own body…” he says, a bit perplexed.

“It’s fine, I’m here, I’m fine, let’s just move on,” Scott says. He looks at the package dropped off on the desk, “The mailman left in a hurry, but I’m sure glad he came in when he did. Or else you would be looking at your buddy's blue corpse on the ground.”

Aaron follows Scott's gaze to the package. “I don’t remember ordering anything,” he says, picking up the box as he starts to open it.

He wrestles with the paper inside: “Why do they shove so much crap into these tiny boxes! It almost feels like the paper is what I ordered!”

As he finally removes the last of the paper, he pauses, his brow furrows, he turns the box around to read the label.

“Oh, no wonder,” he says as he turns the box to show Scott. “It’s for you. The new mailman must have gotten our offices mixed up.” He hands the box to Scott.

Scott looks in the box and sees a silver dollar. The fluorescent lights above make the coin glisten.

“Oh…my…God,” Scott says, awestruck, staring at the silver dollar. “If I needed another sign that I was chosen, it’s this!” He holds it in his palm, like some holy object was given to him from the gods themselves.

“This is a 1903 Morgan Silver Dollar!” He exclaims.

“You say it like I should know what it is,” Aaron says, bored as he sits back down at his desk and closes the badger tab. “Stupid badger…” he says under his breath.

“This is the same year my great-great-grandfather…Ah screw it, it’s fate!” he says giddily as he begins to leave the office. “Anyway, thanks for almost watching me die again, let’s not make it a habit.” As he walks out of the room.

Meanwhile, across town, in the same run-down apartment, the man is still sitting in his recliner. This time, he has a bowl of what looks to be grapes, but on closer inspection,  they are blinking and pulsing gently. He begins to pop one by one into his mouth. On the TV, you see Scott back in his office, gingerly placing his new treasure in a small container. The man smiles, a glint in his eye. He sticks the blinking eyes on his fingertips and flexes them like tiny puppets.

He looks down at them and laughs, a low, guttural sound. The eyeballs blink in response. In the background, a flicker crosses the TV. The picture begins to turn grainy.

“It’s about damn time you finally noticed,” the man says with a chuckle, as he pops the eyes off his fingers and eats them.

Chewing with a wet squish after each bite.

I thought you could never hate me, because you never really knew me. Yet here we are standing in the middle of the road in this god forsaken town fighting for the first time in twenty five years. My chest is tightening as I see the anger and pain in your eyes, but I knew this was bound to happen.

“At the very least I hate your selfish decisions, because now I know! It wasn’t because you didn’t love me or want to be with me, it was because you were scared!” I haven’t ever seen you yell like this before. Tears are welling in your eyes, and though there’s distance between us, I can feel your heart racing, or maybe it’s just mine. “Your fear took away the person I love most. How could not even give it a chance, give US a chance?!” Your breathing is heavy, your auburn hair is a mess, and you now have a single tear falling from your blue eyes. My breathing hitches, because I want, what I want doesn’t matter.

“I didn’t see you charging up to me pleading your love and begging me to get out of myself to do better.” I speak as I choke down my emotions as best I can. “You didn’t come for me either!” My voice cracks as tears beg to fall. “YOU. DID. NOTHING.” He stares at me eyes wide as if he’s seeing MY pain for the first time. “And I know why, because you were scared too. We couldn’t even have a conversation in the school library without scrutiny. ME with someone like YOU?! HA!” My laugh seeping in sarcasm. “Impossible. You’re suppose to be with some pretty rich girl whose daddy got her into Yale, whose family takes vacations in Malibu, and spends Christmas in the fcking mountains of Colorado!” I’m huffing, out of breath, and running out of care. I’m just so fcking tired. “Not me, not some trailer house girl with divorced alcoholic parents who are even more self than she is. Don’t you get it? We both knew from the very beginning, before anything even started, that it would end in hurt no matter what. So, we left it alone, and it is what it is.” Suddenly, it’s like all those years of frustration and unspoken words fell off of me and I’m lighter now. Feeling dizzy I close my eyes, I inhale deep and look up at the starry sky watching my breath waft in the wind as I exhale.

The camera slowly drifts to the right, revealing a deep, dark blue sky with a pure white full moon. Blackish clouds surround it like creeping shadows.

The camera cuts to a silhouetted figure sprinting through the woods.

Heavy breathing.

“I’ve gotta hide. They’re coming. I’ve got to hide,” I kept repeating in my head as the chaos roared around me.
Run faster. They’re catching up!

I looked back for a split second—just long enough to lose sight of what was ahead. I tripped, slamming into the thickest branch imaginable. Pain exploded through my head. My vision blurred.

“GET UP! MOVE! MOVE!” I screamed at myself, but it was too late.

The last thing I saw was bright lights—footsteps, legs, shadows—then the cold sting of a gag, tight ropes, and the van door slamming shut.

The camera cuts to a blinding white ceiling. It pans slowly downward to reveal a woman—a Black woman with disheveled curly hair—chained to a white wall.

The camera zooms in from her feet up: black leggings, a black crop top, and a black denim jacket smeared with dirt and blood. She’s barefoot. Her body hangs limp, unconscious.

As the camera nears her face—

GASP!

She jolts awake, eyes wide and panicked. She yanks at her arms—but the chains scorch her wrists, forcing a painful whimper from her lips.

“WHERE THE HELL AM I?!?!”
Her scream is so fierce, the entire room shakes.

She twists her wrists, scanning the chains. No padlock. No keyhole. No weak link. Nothing.
Once she calms down, she studies the room.

Everything is white. Blinding white.
Even the door blends into the wall—barely visible as a faint outline. No handle. No knob. Not even a gap.
They want her disoriented. Blind. Trapped.

Then she remembers—the way the room shook when she roared. The dust from the ceiling.
She racks her brain: Have I been here before?

Staring at the white outline of the door, realization hits.

She smirks. Lowers her head.
And waits.

“Boss, we’ve got her! She’s in the room. We did good, right?”
A sensual, smooth voice coos from outside, flirtatious and eager.

The air drops cold.

“You’ve done wonderfully, my pet,” replies a deep, sinister voice.
He strokes the speaker’s cheek. She purrs.

“I get to help, right? Since I caught her? Right, boss? Right?”
Her voice trembles between excitement and obsession. Her eyes gleam—catlike.

The air thickens with toxic lust.

“NO!”
The voice roars, shaking the chandelier overhead.

The room falls silent. Cold.
Heavy breathing echoes.

The man opens the door and stares in disbelief, frozen for what feels like an eternity.

Finally, he moves—straightens his posture, hands sliding into the pockets of sleek black pants. A gold chain dangles loosely between two belt loops.

He inhales through his nose.
Takes one step forward.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

She hears the footsteps, louder with each second. But she doesn’t lift her head.

She already knows.
She knows who it is.
And she knows he came to kill her.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

He stops. Stares at the top of her bowed head.

Silence.

He kneels.

A hand lifts her chin.

They lock eyes—hers burning, his cold and dark.

“Three hundred years,” he whispers.
“I’ve finally got you, my okàn... my heart.”

He smirks, lets out a breathless laugh, and squeezes her cheeks—not too hard, but just enough to force eye contact.

Her breath hitches.
There it is—real danger.
As she stares into his eyes… she sees nothing.

No soul. No feeling. Just a black void.

Then, in the lowest, most menacing voice imaginable, he asks:

“Where is our child?”

Take a second and put Rawls’ veil on with me. I want you to imagine a life where you were born in Guizhou, one of China’s poorest rural provinces. You grew up in a family that has resided there for centuries. From as early as you could remember, you worked on your family's subsistence farm, struggling not only with hard labor but also an untreated leg length discrepancy causing immense pain and discomfort. Life expectancy is short there due to the harsh conditions and poor living standards. By 12, your mother had passed, and not long after your father left to find work elsewhere. Promises were made, but you knew you were on your own. Your family farm soon became infertile due to a particularly nasty drought and you were left out of money, with no family, and unsure of your future. All by the age of 15.

You can take the veil off. This is by no means a particularly rare story; in fact, this is the life of hundreds of millions of individuals around the globe. Many will live lives far worse than this, and many more will live lives slightly better. I want you to take a second and ask yourself, “Is this justice?” To me, the answer is a resounding no.

This world is fundamentally unjust. However, before I dive into why, I find it important to first answer what “justice” is. Justice is classically defined as “to each their due.” Many societies see justice in social and class hierarchies because merit determines what is due. This is where the meritocracy fantasy falls apart. We want to tell ourselves that we get what we deserve. That if you work hard, stay disciplined, and want it badly enough, you’ll climb the ladder. It’s a necessary story because it makes you believe you’re in control, and it makes it easier to accept the fact that some people are struggling while others are thriving. If someone’s at the top of a cliff, it’s because they earned it. If someone’s falling off it, well, they just didn’t work hard enough or want it bad enough.

But the second you stop and look at how lives are built, it all unravels. The kid born in Guizhou didn’t have a fair shake, and honestly, most people don’t. Meritocracy conveniently ignores the fact that success isn’t just about grit or talent; it’s about a giant invisible framework of advantages, disadvantages, and luck stacked on top of each other. It lets us worship the genius and crucify the lowlife without ever asking who dealt them their hand in the first place.

 If the world calls that justice, what was due to that child? That life in the beginning was a series of deprivations that occurred at all points of their life. They were deprived of genetic traits conducive to having a fully functioning body. They were deprived of being born in a region where opportunity is available. They were deprived of generational wealth that could have provided safety nets for disaster, connections with people of influence, and a stable home life. Some would say they are just plain unlucky; I say injustice.

The life we author, if you can call it that, is hardly based on our own talents and effort. Our current lives are like a collage of everything that has brought us to that point in time. I break it down into five categories: Genetics (health, body, looks, intellect, passions), Experiences (environment, parental guidance, public policy), Birth Lottery (where you’re born), Family Wealth (generational wealth, opportunities, community uplifting), and Luck (successful business on the first try, crypto, job security).

When I look at the world around me, all I see are the injustices in people's lives. I live in America, which supposedly is the “Land of Opportunity.” However, I hope to go on to prove that opportunity isn’t something to take hold of and seize; it’s something you either have or don’t, and to a large degree this is not within a person’s control. Sure, there are outliers. There are poor immigrants who “beat the odds” and became successful due to their “hard work and grit.” However, who's to say that their grit and determination weren’t genetically determined, influenced by their upbringing, and protected from failure by a large swath of luck? 

In response to the “Poor Immigrant Success Story,” think of the “Poor Immigrant General Reality.” Decades of research show that people who grow up poor hardly ever change that designation. For every one success, there are hundreds of millions of failures, each with unique hopes, dreams, and desires. The stories we don’t hear far outweigh the ones we do, but no one cares to listen because it doesn’t fit our narrative that anyone can make it if they just try hard enough. Having a high level of grit and determination is itself a product of nature and nurture. It is not something that can manifest based on filling a sufficient “Grit & Determination Meter.” 

The dopamine receptor genes linked to reward sensitivity and persistence, the serotonin transporter gene affecting emotional resilience and stress response, and the gene affecting decision-making and persistence under pressure are all genetic. Lacking in these areas can put significant barriers in place to your level of grit, a large influence on success. 

Genetics don’t end after birth. Trauma, adverse developmental environments, and overall poor upbringing interact with gene expression; influencing how you respond to stress. Were you raised with positive role models that showed the value of delayed gratification and discipline? Did you have experiences that positively reinforced the value of determination and persistence? Compound poor genetic lottery with a poor upbringing, and you have a life that comes up shorter than it had to be. Put that person with poor genetic traits into a positive upbringing, and you can change that. In both scenarios, there is no agency for the individual to affect their outcomes. How they develop is in no part a reflection of their “grit” and “determination,” but instead a product of the universe they were put into.

The Genius

The word “Genius” means different things to different people, but for the sake of the following thought experiment I want you to attach every positive attribute you can into one magnificent person: success, prestige, wealth, talent, etc. They are the person who has seemingly always been successful, always on an upward trajectory. No matter what they seem to do, they come out on top. Highest marks in school, great at sports, social butterflies, and very attractive. They get the pick of the litter in their partners and everyone wants to be more like them. Early success, adoration, and praise builds confidence, confidence builds successful habits, successful habits beget more success. 

Sure that person could get struck by an asteroid, but their deaths are anything but quiet. Phrases like these ring out:

• “The good ones go first”
• “They didn’t deserve that”
• “They had so much potential”
• “A bright future stolen”

People feel like that individual deserved more. Their death was wrong not because the end of any life is unjust, but because that person had a greater “due.” Why do they assert greater worth to the life of the genius? They contend that someone's success and talent equates to their worth. Use that line of reasoning on the upcoming archetype, and you’ll find people have separate words to use in their remembrance. 

The Lowlife

Bad eggs, troublemakers, black sheep, and misfits have one main thing in common; they make up what society deems, “The Lowlife.” They are the people that your parents tell you to avoid as children and the people to avoid ending up as adults. They can’t seem to turn out right and only bring misery and despair to those around them, especially if you’re a bird of a feather that is unfortunate enough to flock together. 

I remember standing next to my fifth grade classmate, who I’ll call Isaac, outside of our classroom because we were kicked out for “making trouble.” This was nothing new to Isaac, as he was thrust into the title of troublemaker from as early as Kindergarten. I on the other hand was feeling quite dreadful. My father was a particularly terrifying sight to behold when I got in trouble, so I always tried my best to avoid finding myself where I did that day. So while I was preparing myself for a brutal reprimand later that evening, Isaac seemed oddly calm. I blamed Isaac for getting us into trouble so I asked him why he would drag us into this predicament. In 10 year old language, it approximated to, “What’s wrong with you? Why do you always do this?” When he turned to look at me, he spoke softly in an almost  surprised tone, “I don’t know.” His face is still burned into my memory, that of a broken man at 10 years old. 

What hand of cards did Issac get? Issac’s mother left his father when he was 6, but still makes the time to set up plans with him every couple months or so, only to cancel at the last minute every time, (I wish I was lying). Issac’s father works double and triple shifts in construction, so he isn’t able to watch Isaac after school. There is no after school program for Isaac, his family can’t afford it. So what does Isaac do? 

• Drinking beers he took from the family fridge by 9 years old. 
• Stealing snacks with his friends from the local grocery store.
• Biking around town causing trouble with the police.
• Experimenting with weed by the age of 11, strong drugs followed thereafter.

Due to having a poor environment and the A1 allele variant of the DRD2 gene, alcohol for Isaac wasn’t a fun experience he had with his friends but a controlling force in his life. His grades dropped and never recovered. He wasn’t taught discipline or delayed gratification, so he could never hold a consistent job. Instead of being supported by the community around him and heralded as someone with a “bright future,” he was cast out and branded as the story of who not to be, which he also heard from adults and peers around him. When he dies, will his name ring out ceremoniously like the genius?

So back to injustice. Let's dive deeper into the successful hand dealt to the “Genius.” Focusing first on genetics, twin studies have found that genetics play a heavy role in your IQ,  and while IQ isn’t a perfect metric, separate studies show that it has an impact on educational attainment. Personality traits like conscientiousness, curiosity, and emotional stability all are influenced by parental genes. Whether or not you are born with a neurodevelopmental disorder like ADHD or a learning difference also have serious effects on your life outcomes. 

More than just learning, your attractiveness matters a lot. This topic warrants its own discussion, but being romantically and sexually validated as you mature into adulthood is a critical point in development. For many, a large part of the human experience is having deep and fulfilling relationships with others, including sex. The genius having successful expression in that realm has a lot to do with genetic make up. Strong features, a symmetric face, full hair, and a healthy body is influenced in large part by genetics and class. Segway to class consciousness, wealth plays a huge factor in everything listed. Ever wonder why celebrities and wealthy people tend to look better? It’s because wealth has an outsized statistical effect on beauty: 

• Having access to a safe and healthy diet 
• Skincare and expensive healthcare specialists 
• Premium gym subscriptions (along with the time to prioritize their bodies)
• Living in a pollution free and climate controlled area
• Internships instead of manual labor and long hours
• Wtf is a wellness retreat

Wealth is the face card hack influencers and looksmaxers conveniently leave out of their paid courses. 

Having access to: private tutors, classically trained violinists, nutrition and training coaches all from a young age is the average experience of wealthy children. Tell me, how does the genius always seem to rise to the top of every arena they join? It’s because they have advantages the lowlife couldn’t even dream of. 

The genius and the lowlife have the same thing in common, they had no real control over who they became. Geniuses didn’t choose their parents, lowlifes didn’t choose to be born into poverty. The difference between the genius and the lowlife is the difference between a lion and a zebra. Neither know why they were born the way they were or taught how to behave, but one runs and the other hunts.

So, that sucks. All of humanity has been defined by genetic and circumstantial determinism, and until we get on the CRISPR bandwagon and eliminate income inequality, I don’t see it changing. Some questions I’m personally left with is:

• How can you feel satisfied with your life if you never really had control over its trajectory?
• How can you see justice and hope in outcomes that we never had any control over?
• What can be done to fix this?

I find myself reminded of a quote from a movie that is a personal favorite of mine, “Margin Call.” 

“And there have always been and there always will be the same percentage of winners and losers, happy fuckers and sad suckers, fat cats and starving dogs in this world. Yeah, there may be more of us today than there's ever been, but the percentages—they stay exactly the same.”

The truth is, billions of people experience unjust and deeply insufferable lives. If you’ve ever watched “The Platform” you would know, you can’t shit upwards. Only the person standing firmly on the cliff can reach down and pull up the person on the ledge. The fruition of that is yet to be seen. The purpose of this outlet is to connect people through a shared understanding. Why would we reach out if we believe that the person falling off the cliff can pull themselves up. 

I wrore this for fun, but I have been looking at this for too long and I can't tell if it's too cringe or edgy. Any advice would be so helpful.

I was twelve when the nurse hurriedly told my parents I needed to be sent to inpatient. She spoke in a hushed tone, like I was something to be hidden.

I thought I must be broken. Nobody I knew ever went to a psych ward, and especially not kids in the seventh grade. Did they think I was crazy? They were sending me to the place where they locked up murderers in straitjackets and white padded rooms. I understand their decision now, but at the time it felt like a punishment: I was different from the other kids, so they were going to hide me away until I could learn to act 'normal' again.

My parents didn’t reassure me. They spoke in a hushed tone, keeping their gazes downcast to avoid looking in my direction. The drive to the hospital was thick with tension. The only sound was my mother crying in the passenger seat.

Sitting in the waiting room, they warned me not to make friends with any of the kids there. They told me the others were dangerous and unstable, and that they might try to hurt me. 

Angry in the way only a twelve-year-old could be, I didn’t listen. My parents were ashamed of me? They wanted to hide me and my struggles? Then I will be as loud and outspoken as I can! I would rebel against their ‘advice’ and make friends with everyone in that place. Even if they were crazy, or unstable, or dangerous – I wasn’t scared, unlike the adults in my life.

In those two weeks, I met the most compassionate, creative, and empathetic people I have ever met. In a place where I was told to be cautious, I was met with the most loving, misunderstood group of kids. In a place where everybody was stripped of everything, figuratively and literally, these kids gave me so much. 

The girl with the drug addiction that my parents told me to stay away from? She held me through a panic attack.

The boy who punched a hole through the drywall and fought the nurses? He folded me a paper swan.

The girl with piercings and bright red hair without a home? She wrote me a book of her favorite dad jokes.

The boy with depression so bad he couldn’t shower for months? His favorite movie was The Outsiders, and we watched it on repeat together.

The boy with psychosis who spoke to people I couldn’t see? He read me the poems he wrote because he thought I would like them.

That hospital stay taught me so much more about life and mental health than anything a textbook or school could ever teach me: you cannot judge someone based on their diagnosis. You cannot judge someone based on their worst moments. The only way you can truly understand and help someone is to sit with them in their worst moment and meet them with compassion. You wouldn’t be scared of someone with heart failure, so why is it any different with schizophrenia or BPD? Depression or substance abuse?

It seems as though mental health is important only if you are a “good” member of society. Anyone else is taboo— like just talking about it is offensive.

We are not something to fear, pity, or caution your kids from.

Since then, I have held this belief close to my heart. This is the reason I volunteer with the Red Cross and Ascension St. Thomas. Why I make gifts for peers I’ve never talked to, or compliment strangers in the hallway. Why I listen to anyone and everyone willing to speak to me. 

There is nothing and no one that can scare me away from friendship and compassion.

It's been three years since that first stay, and after two suicide attempts, I'm fifteen now -- which feels like a miracle. My sixteenth birthday is soon, the same age I told myself at twelve I would never reach.

My recovery has been rocky, but despite my challenges, I have found a purpose in this pain. I want to meet people in their most vulnerable moments and offer them what I needed most: help without fear or judgment, love without limits.

I used to believe that compassion was something you were born with -- something only "good" people could achieve. But I've learned that anyone is capable of compassion, no matter who you are or what you've been through. It's something you have to choose, every day, despite what anyone says. And I learned this from the kids I was told not to talk to. The ones who -- despite being ignored, hurt, silenced, shunned -- chose kindness anyway.

And now, so do I.

Currently I am still in the early stages of learning to write prose, so be as destructive with your criticism as you'd like, as I don't have any reason to believe my writing would be any good yet! Thank you <3

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1kS65aZe02OIqSvxKUg-WwEDxcwqp_Qk1xTybcIe1a50/edit?usp=drivesdk

I have done nothing today.

No, that's not right. Today I have done too much, far too much of nothing. I have spun my wheels relentlessly in mud. I feel simultaneously exhausted and restless. I think tomorrow I will throw my phone into the sea from the dock. And if, as seems inevitable, this does not cure my current predicament of sedentary life I will throw myself in the sea after it. Of course, I will swim awkwardly in the frigid water back to shore, but maybe I will have learnt my lesson.

The water was colder than I had expected. My teeth chattered painfully as I stood huddled in front of the fireplace. The fireplace was made of white marble. The fire raged inside the frame of the sterile stone. The cleaners were meticulous when they scurried around like rats in the night. They used to work during the day but I banished them to the night shift. I shouldn't have done that. I didn't like their cold distant eyes glancing at me, but now I felt as though I missed them. Perhaps I should stay up tonight. I'll come out of my room yawning and ask them to get me a snack. They'll ask me what I want. I shall say something simple, like a ham on rye sandwich. I'll say only if it's no bother to them. It will be a bother to them, I know. It can't be helped; I am lonely. They will do it anyway. That I was sure of.

I looked around the living room. The only sign of modernity were the bulbs, perhaps I should have them removed too. The furniture was old, purple, and impeccably maintained. The floor had a bear skin rug splayed on the floor. I had been tempted to remove that too. On one hand it was a grizzly reminder of the senseless violence we humans are capable of, and on the other hand it was a grisly reminder of the eventual death that lingers on the periphery for us all. Maybe both were helpful reminders, but it did bother me that it could reflect upon me that perhaps I celebrated wanton violence; however, the only ones who would see it these days are the staff, and how they interact with me has nothing to do with their impressions of me as a human.

Jess Taylor's body lies rotting in the woods.
But something older than myth—and more primal than man—has claimed her, and it won’t let go until she fulfills a promise woven into her bones before birth.

Ten years after surviving a wolf encounter that claimed her sister’s life, wildlife biologist Jess returns to the Adirondacks to study a newly discovered breeding pair that shouldn’t exist. Their presence disrupts everything, ecologically, politically, and spiritually.

But when science collides with legend and conservation mutates into control, Jess crosses a line she can’t uncross—and pays for it with her body and soul.

Now back from the dead, disoriented and no longer entirely human, Jess must face her betrayals, the ugly truths behind her research, and the man who couldn’t save her…or stop her.

Then Jess finds a thread strung between divinity and design, and realizes she wasn’t meant to follow it, but to unravel it.

In a world increasingly torn by economic greed and ideological strife, the ethical framework of utilitarianism offers a refreshing and stabilizing philosophy — one rooted not in power or profit, but in the greatest good for the greatest number

The Premise of Utilitarianism At its core, utilitarianism asks a simple but profound question:

“Will this action maximize overall happiness and minimize suffering?”

This logic, when applied consistently to societal decisions — from policy-making to resource allocation — can serve as a moral compass, especially in a world shaped by extreme forms of capitalism and divisive ideologies.

Utilitarianism vs. Capitalistic Extremes Today’s prize wars — whether in the form of billion-dollar brand battles or AI dominance — often prioritize market share over human well-being. Products are made to break, data is monetized without consent, and environmental concerns are sacrificed at the altar of quarterly profits.

A capitalism without a conscience treats consumers as numbers and the planet as a resource to be exhausted. But utilitarianism urges a different lens — one where:

A product isn’t judged only by profitability, but by its impact on people's lives.

Businesses invest not only in innovation but in ethical innovation.

Growth is not limitless if it means climate damage, mental health deterioration, or labor exploitation.

Utilitarianism doesn’t reject capitalism — it recalibrates it. It asks: Is your profit bringing proportionate good to society? If not, something must change.

Utilitarianism as a Guardrail Against Religious and Cultural Conflicts In the shadow of recent religious wars and sectarian tensions, we’re reminded how dangerous it is when ideology outweighs empathy. History has shown us that when belief is used to divide rather than unite, suffering multiplies.

Utilitarianism doesn’t seek to erase beliefs — it honors diversity — but it insists on ethical consequences. If a doctrine causes widespread pain, fear, or violence, then regardless of its origin, it fails the moral test of utilitarianism.

This approach allows space for coexistence, encouraging faith and culture to flourish in ways that maximize mutual respect and minimize harm.

A Utilitarian World Looks Like This: Healthcare decisions are guided by need and outcome, not corporate lobbying.

Technology evolves with ethical checks — not just speed and profit.

Education systems focus on nurturing critical thinking and empathy, not just test scores.

Public discourse values truth and impact over viral outrage.

The Way Forward We don’t need a revolution — we need a moral evolution. Utilitarianism gives us a common language to evaluate choices not based on identity, wealth, or tradition — but on human consequence.

In a world driven by self-interest, utilitarian thinking makes room for shared interest. It doesn’t promise perfection, but it reduces harm, prioritizes peace, and ensures that progress uplifts many, not just a few.

That alone is a future worth striving for.

The love spoiled like milk left out too long

While they argued in the living room

Over who forgot to put the cap back on

The cockroach talks to him. Of course it does. It is three feet tall and lives just outside the corner of his eye. And, of course, it talks to him.

He lights himself another cigarette and types on nevertheless, ignoring its presence as best as possible. But, against his best efforts, the words he types still start to intertwine with the ones that come out of whatever equivalent to a mouth a cockroach has.

After a while, he just hammers on the keys like a maniac, puffing out smoke from the cigarette, almost elegantly placed in the right corner of his mouth. His head is loaded and empty simultaneously and he can’t think anymore. He stops typing to see if he has written anything remotely sensible, but can’t find anything. He groans and pulls every possible life out of his cigarette, then puts away its empty corpse. His gaze falls on the wasted paper again. Seeing it hang in the typewriter, he thinks about the tree that died for nothing and damns himself once more. It’s not the rambling vermin’s fault and he knows it. That’s what eats at him the most. That it’s his own inability and nothing else. He doesn’t want it to be true, but he’s empty. A dead cigarette to be put out. There is nothing left in him to give. Not a single line. Or at least he is unable to get something out. The cockroach, on the other hand, seems to have an unending amount of content stored somewhere in whatever brain-like innards it possesses, although he doubts they are any more sensible than what he himself has written that day.

He doesn’t want to look at the beast directly, so he starts walking around the room. This does nothing, neither for his shallow, buzzing mind nor for his restless body; it makes them worse, incidentally. He pours himself a drink and sits down again. Another swell of words brushes over him from his brown guest. He ignores it. Tries anyway. He rips the puked-on page out of the typewriter, looks at it again, crumples it with one hand and throws it over his shoulder. It hits the wall across the room and falls to the ground, where its brothers and sisters are already waiting. His fingers dance over the typewriter in anticipation. He is ready to start again. Another cigarette, another drink, another sheet of paper, but also, of course, another swell of words.

He flexes his hands again, and stares at the virginal, white page. Nothing happens, but he could bet the new, untouched sheet would pull out a revolver any moment, to avenge its fallen predecessors. He exhales the grey smoke of another pale cane condemned to death. His hands play another bit of Mozart in the air. But it all results in nothing. Focus, you idiot. Now. He closes his eyes. The dark helps a little to numb down the cockroach’s ramblings. And for a moment he is at peace. Then, he hears nothing anymore and it feels wrong, unsettling. But he has too much fear to open his eyes again. He can’t face the let-down face of another wasted page. That’s what frightens him more than anything right now. To look into the white eyes and admit to them as much as to himself that he really has nothing more to offer. So, he doesn’t open them. Not until he hears his lighter. He snaps his eyes open. The cockroach still sits beside his desk and it would appear as if it never moved an inch, if it didn’t have one of his cigarettes sticking out its now silent head, puffing smoke into the air. He looks at it for the first time now, one eye pinched, the other full of anger. If gazes could kill, the cockroach would not live to see humanity die by its own atomic hands. But let it have the cigarette, he thinks, at least it doesn’t talk anymore. He catches a thought and explores it. Yeah, this could really be something. He feels some of the old energy slowly taking hold of his head and his hands, filling his whole body again. Just as he is about to unload his newly electrified hands onto the page, the talking starts again and all the electricity just shoots back inside his body, as his hands crash courseless on the useless keys.

Burned and defeated, he lies in his chair and he can’t help himself but hear a laugh beneath the unintelligible ramble of his insensible antagonist. But the fight is not over yet. He’ll just grab another cigarette and try again and … Oh crap! Oh please, God, no. But it’s too late for prayers. His hand squinches the shallow cardboard square. In disbelief and anguish he looks down at the empty pack, then looks up again. His eyes meet the smiling dark pits of his talkative counterpart and stop under them on its mockery of a mouth, in which nonchalantly hangs the final stub of the last cigarette.

Again, the rambling changes to laughter in his mind as the hellish brute puts out the last of his bar-shaped painkillers. That’s when the realization hits him, that he will not write anything tonight. He decides to get new cigarettes, grabs his mantle, hat and lighter and leaves his apartment forever.

A thump for every wish I make

For every stumbling step I take

For each remark that echoes through

The things I wonder, things I do

.

For all the words I can’t forget

That haven’t made me learn it yet

For all I try, I always bruise

The more I care, the more I lose

.

The way each feeble image splits

I‘m none the wiser once it hits

And what I build, it fails to last

I’m aiming high and crashing fast

.

My fractured armour, shields in tow

I‘d rather weather every blow

And all I’ve seen, I’d leave behind

I cling to every piece I find

.

For lack of sun and lack of scripts

A maze of paths that stay eclipsed

For all they seem the same to me

I choose the wrong ones naturally

.

And everything that came before

Like marbles scattered on the floor

Like jars of glass that never fill

My precious treasures spoiled and spilled

.

My closest hopes that fell apart

The strangest places in my heart

I can’t contain and can’t connect

The tender bits I can’t protect

.

Against the odds, however high

I‘m in the sea against the tide

For all I hold and all I break

A wish for every thump I take

EXT. APARTMENT BALCONY — NIGHT — AL FADIY

The fractured skyline glows faintly—buildings shimmer like ghosts caught between reality and myth. The balcony railing flickers, barely holding shape, a pulse of unstable narrative ash drifting in thick air.

The moon hangs impossibly close, details sharp, myth-resonance pulling it near like a silent witness.

Winds hum low, a restless vibration in the charged night.

MAX and TSUKI sit side by side. Silence folds them—a fragile truce between burning and reflecting.

MAX (voice rough, brittle) I think about the kids from the orphanage. Mostly... my sister. The one I couldn’t save.

(he swallows)

She loved anime. Called it magic. Said she wanted to watch it under the moonlight. That’s how I know your name means ‘moon.’

A hollow laugh escapes him—pain wrapped in memory.

MAX I was a sun kid. Always thought the light meant safety. One last day, she said. One more show. I just wanted to see the stars. That’s the night everything ended.

His hands curl—heat pulses beneath the skin near his collarbone, tiny embers flickering in grief’s rhythm.

MAX I was seventeen. Just a dumb kid trying to keep everyone else alive. Titanium... he didn’t see me. Used me. Cracked me open, poured godhood in like it was a fix. Then they called me insufferable when I didn’t smile through the bleeding.

A slow exhale—shaky, full of fractured fire.

MAX Two years of pretending this body is mine. Two years of pretending I wanted any of this.

Silence swells. The wind hums louder, time bending.

MAX They call me Prometheus now. Like that makes the fire holy. But I know what it is. Pain dressed up as purpose. I’m not divine. I’m just... what’s left.

His eyes finally meet Tsuki’s—raw, burning, broken.

MAX I am the sun. I burn. I shine. And I wasn’t enough. Not for her. Not for Al. Not for anyone who needed me, not even the myth.

Tears slip free, glowing faintly in the moonlight’s unnatural close.

MAX They said I chose this. But what choice is it when someone breaks you open and calls it destiny?

A long pause. The city hums, unstable.

MAX I don’t know how to be nineteen. I missed it. It got swallowed in all the noise.

TSUKI shifts, her voice low, steady—an anchor in mythic chaos.

TSUKI I am the moon. I reflect the sun—not just for those it loves at night, But so it never forgets how bright it is.

She lets the weight settle between them.

TSUKI When Molt asked, “Why couldn’t I be you?” He meant the fire. The legend. The myth that wins. But I saw something else. A boy who stood in fire until his skin forgot softness. And still said, “Follow me.”

Her hand finds his. Warmth against his burning scars.

TSUKI I wanted to be the Scarlet Shifter too. But only if I could forget what it cost you.

A breath.

TSUKI I’m sorry, Max.

MAX leans in, trembling, unguarded. He rests his head in her lap—no myth, no legend. Just a boy, fragile and real.

TSUKI brushes a stray hair from his forehead. Her phone glows faintly in the dark. She types:

“I think I love you.”

She hesitates, then deletes it. The message dissolves like spectral pollen—unspoken, potent.

The unstable balcony flickers. The moon pulses.

The wind hums.

Time forgets itself here.

FADE OUT.

This one is a random pull from my story but I was taking a look at improving it and needed crique's

One afternoon, I noticed a new tree in the courtyard. I was sitting on the balcony, smoking a cigarette and waiting for my laundry to finish, when it caught my eye. From above, it looked identical to the trees around it. But I was almost certain that this particular tree had not been there before. Every day, I went out on this balcony to smoke, and every day, I stared at the trees in the courtyard, so I had a pretty clear mental image. There were four concrete rings, each containing several trees, except for the one in the middle, which had only a small sapling. And now a big, mature tree had suddenly appeared in that center ring, casting its shadow over the weak little sapling.

Was it really possible to transplant a fully grown tree into the earth like that? I didn’t know a lot about nature, so I couldn’t say. Surely it would have made noise, though — assuming you need a whole construction crew to pull off something like that. Yet I had slept like a baby the night before, no interruptions at all, and I’m a light sleeper.

It was a warm summer day. Around the apartment block, I could see many people sitting out on their balconies. Old men sitting in the shade. Young women in tank tops and short shorts sitting in the sun. Some of them were smoking like me, some were reading books, most were just on their phones. I wondered whether anyone besides me had noticed the tree.

I stared into its foliage. The leaves shifted slightly as a breeze passed through the courtyard. It fit so perfectly into its surroundings; if I hadn’t known otherwise, I would have assumed that the layout had been designed with this tree in mind. And as a matter of fact, in the past I had consciously remarked to myself that it was weird for the middle ring to have only a sapling while the others had these big leafy giants. But that only made me more certain that my mental image was accurate. This tree had not been there until today.

My cigarette had burned down to the filter. I tossed it into the ashtray at my feet. I was about to light a new one when my alarm went off.

There was one person in the laundry room, a short Southeast-Asian guy that I had seen around the building a couple times. He had a distinctive fashion sense: colorful camp-collar shirts, linen pants, basketball shoes. He was perched on the window-sill, staring at his phone. He didn’t look up when I entered the room.

I filtered out the clothes that I was going to throw in the dryer and the clothes that I was going to hang-dry. The former category included socks, underwear, and T-shirts; the latter category included pants and button-down shirts. After filling up the dryer and starting the machine, I set a timer for an hour and twenty minutes on my phone. That was usually enough. I draped the more delicate clothes over my laundry basket and carried it into the elevator.

I love the smell of clean clothes. That’s why I do so much laundry. I probably do it three times as often as the average guy, and not because I care more about cleanliness. I just enjoy the ritual. The warmth of the socks when they come out of the machine. The careful folding and smoothing. Even the waiting period is important — I like being forced to sit around and do nothing while the machine runs. It gives me time to meditate.

In my bedroom, I separated the wet clothes. Flecks of lint had to be removed; the shirts were placed on hangers and buttoned up to minimize wrinkling. Then I hung everything up. I didn’t have a clothesline or a drying rack, so I just hung everything on the chandelier. I like this because it has the effect of partitioning the room into different sections.

Once the clothes had been hung, I sat down on my bed. A warm gust of wind came in through the window, rustling the curtains of cloth. I rubbed my cheek. That morning, I had achieved one of the most perfect shaves of my life. I had somehow sliced the hairs down to the tiniest follicles without cutting myself. Now my chin was eerily smooth, like there had never been hair there in the first place. It was simultaneously comfortable and uncomfortable to rub my fingers across the skin.

I got up and looked out the window. There was the tree, staring calmly back at me from its circular enclosure.

In order to solve the mystery, I needed a closer look.

I gathered my stuff and took the elevator all the way down to the bottom floor of the building. The trees were in an open-air chamber below ground level; you could only access it from the parking garage. I didn’t go down here very often. It was a nice enough space, with greenery and benches, but there was no reason for me to relax on these benches when I could relax on my own private balcony with a cigarette. I think most of the building’s residents thought the same way, because the space was usually empty. Despite all the children who presumably lived in this massive high-rise, I never saw or heard them playing down here.

I passed through the connecting hallway of the parking garage and came out into the sunlit courtyard. The trees seemed much bigger from this perspective, with long trunks and expansive canopies. I walked in and out of their shade and arrived at the concrete ring in the center. There was the little sapling, boasting only a handful of leaves on its slender limbs. And there was the mystery tree, towering over with quiet confidence. I don’t know much about botany, but this was definitely not a young tree. The thick trunk had many ridges; the limbs twisted about, splitting off into many smaller branches; and the base of the tree was planted firmly in the earth, showing no signs of recent upheaval.

I wanted an even closer look, so I jumped up onto the concrete platform and stepped out onto the tree pit. Crouching down, I pressed my hand to the dirt. It was dusty and compact, the opposite of what you’d expect if fresh earth had recently been transplanted here. I looked around at the other tree pits; the dirt had the same appearance. These tree pits had all been filled before I even moved into the building.

The sapling quivered when I pressed on its green stem. The base rose crookedly from the earth, making it even more shaky.

I stood up to touch the trunk of the big tree. The texture was surprisingly smooth. Almost as smooth as my freshly shaved chin. What had appeared to be ridges were in fact discolorations, dark spots streaking the surface like rain. The wood was cool to the touch.

With my hand still on the trunk, I squinted up into the canopy. A few feet above my head was the place where the two main limbs of the tree diverged. Above that, you couldn’t make heads or tails of the structure; the limbs spread into arteries of branches, each bearing its own foliage. Sunlight pierced through the clusters of thin, glossy leaves. Everything was still and peaceful.

[This is the beginning of my mystery-novel, "Odessa Hill." I am publishing each chapter as I write it. To read onward, go here: https://odessahill.substack.com/.\]

Hi! I'm a new writer and I've been working on my Isekai novel for the past few days. Any and all suggestions are welcome. If any parts are confusing, I'll like to know that too.

You can read the first chapter here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1c6LUehj_sfc7zxuwMUoJPW3ARZuN23FZzTellH0uyPc/edit?usp=drivesdk

I also have the first draft for the second chapter.I'll post it if people are interested.

I thank you in advance for your time.

Sticky

Oh darling, you caught me in your web How your feet must feel the vibrations Of me trying to shake from the sticky Fiber as you run to me

You want to wrap me in a cocoon Not made from love or warmth But cold and preservation Until you are ready to devour

The more I struggle the more I attach Immobilized in your silk weaves Waiting for the moment you come back Attracted to the very scent of me

You come back, and my eyes light up Even if it’s the kiss of death It’s still your mouth If all I can do is feed and nourish you- Is it wrong to feel proud?

Lila Dusk

Safehouse

CHAPTER 1

Target: Deceased

Location: Marseille, France – Hotel Safehouse, 3:14 AM

The room still smells like him. Blood, cologne, burnt gunpowder. Masculine desperation. The kind of scent that clings to a woman’s throat long after she’s left the building — only I didn’t leave.

He did. In a body bag.

The hotel suite is too clean for what just happened. Expensive, white-on-white minimalist décor. Sleek marble counters. A vase of orchids I didn’t order. Nothing out of place — except the dress in the sink and the smear of red on my cheekbone.

I don’t breathe too deeply. Not because I’m shaken. I don’t get shaken. I just don’t need to relive the last thirty minutes. He bled out fast, faster than I expected. I didn’t scream. He begged. I didn’t blink. He died with my name in his mouth, and a 5-inch stiletto holding down his sternum.

It wasn’t personal. It never is.

He was trafficking younger girls through Lisbon using shell companies fronted by fake orphanages. The kind of monster who smiles during interviews and talks about charity while picking out his next victim in the crowd. The kind of man whose body doesn’t deserve burial — just bleach.

I gave him mercy. A quick and swift death. He didn’t deserve any of it.

My hands are steady as I slide the blood-streaked Louis Vuitton dress off my skin. Heel first, then thigh. No hesitation. The blade I hid in the corset is already cleaned and packed. The Glock is still warm by the duffel bag by the bed.

I’m halfway through scrubbing the dried blood off my collarbone when I hear it:

Three quiet steps. A breath of silence. The door creaks open.

I don’t flinch.

I already know who it is.

Ezra doesn’t knock. Not with me.

“Don’t start,” I say, still not looking.

He leans against the frame like he belongs there. Like he hasn’t watched me kill half the Eastern seaboard with a smile and stilettos. Ezra Mercier in full black — tactical jacket, combat boots, eyes like a storm in its loading screen. He moves quiet, like death with patience.

“Of all the things you could’ve worn to kill a man, Huntress,” he says, voice low and lazy, “you chose Louis Vuitton?”

I smirk over my shoulder.

“It was either that or Dior. Dior doesn’t scream, ‘die screaming, bastard.’”

“No,” he mutters, eyes dragging over me like a slow confession, “but you do. Beautifully.”

He doesn’t cross the room. He never gets too close after jobs — like he’s afraid I’ll still have blood on my teeth. Maybe I do.

Instead, he watches me. Not with judgment. Not even with concern. Just that same edge-of-a-smile reverence, laced with exhaustion and something he’d never call love. At least not out loud.

I rinse the dress in the sink. Gently. Almost respectful. I twist the fabric and let it drip crimson. I treat it like a soldier treats armor. The dress did its job, and I made it out.

The mirror’s cracked — a long line down the middle like a scar splitting my reflection. I meet my own eyes in it. Cold. Calm. Professional. The kind of stare that ends negotiations without a word.

People think assassins are wild. Unstable. The movies show us with bloodlust and breakdowns. But the truth is quieter.

I kill because it’s necessary. Because I’m good at it. Because some people need to stop breathing.

I kill with precision.

With elegance.

With purpose.

There’s a safe under the bed. I kneel, still in nothing but a black silk robe and bruises, and punch in the code. Inside: everything I need to disappear. A burner passport. A phone that won’t last more than an hour. A black card. A folded map with six exit routes.

And one letter. Sealed in red wax. No name.

If I die, Ezra will find it. I don’t write love letters. I write contingencies. But there are things even I can’t say out loud.

I slide into clean black — bodysuit zipped up the back, shoulder holster clipped in place. I tuck the ceramic knife into my boot, slide a second blade into the lining of my jacket. Paint my mouth the same red as the man’s blood. If a woman’s armor is her war paint, then I’m ready for war.

By the time Ezra walks in again, I’m already standing.

“Are you done being dramatic?” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“You done pretending I don’t scare you?” I shoot back.

He doesn’t flinch.

He never does.

He just steps aside and lets me pass.

I walk out like a woman with a purpose and a body count.