Hello! I would really love some feedback on my entry for the New York Times Summer Reading Competition. I worked really hard on it and I was disappointed to find out I did not place.

I was wondering if I could get any critiques on it (so I could improve it and maybe resubmit with changes)! I would really, really appreciate it! It's under 1500 characters and a pretty short read! It is primarily about my aphantasia (inability to see pictures in my mind) in contrast to the benefits that others get through visualization.

Please let me know if you'd be willing and I'll DM my entry to you!

Hi, guys, I need some advice. I'm really interested in working online, and copywriting appeals to me the most. But it's a little intimidating-I mean, I don't know where to start, and I don't understand what I need to do. I've been trying to learn copywriting from books and Telegram channels, but I feel like that's not the right approach. That's why I'm turning to you for help: if you can give me any advice, please share your experience and real-life examples that might help me-and maybe you have some tips that helped you master copywriting

I recently moved into a two-story home. The house was rather tiny, but it didn’t bother me. I lived alone, you see, so it was more than enough.

As I was unpacking my stuff on the second floor, I saw a window. And I swear to you that window was not there when I bought the place. I had never seen it before. Not in a way that it could have gone unnoticed. It. Wasn’t. There. I had looked through every inch of the house and that window… It just wasn’t there. I knew it with such certainty. I didn’t even look through the window before I sought out my blueprints to make sure I wasn’t crazy. It wasn’t there either. There was no evidence of its existence at all. That’s when I looked through the window. The first thing I noticed was the red tint. It was subtle, but noticeable. Everything had that strange, reddish colour. It wasn’t like someone had put tainted glass in the window. It was as if the light itself was filled with dread. Apart from that, I didn’t notice anything at first. I thought the feeling of wrongness just came from the red tint, but then I saw it. Or rather: I didn’t. There were no people. No cars, no animals— not even the rustling of leaves. It was so silent... I started talking to myself. I was rambling on about what to have for dinner. Then I froze. I looked at my phone. 19:45. I looked outside again. I could clearly see the sun. It was right in front of my window, looking at me. But the strangest thing was… it didn’t seem to move. It was frozen in place. I could only describe it as: the sun was looking at me. I turned away from the window and ran downstairs. As I sprinted outside, I felt my heartbeat fade away. I could not, for the life of me, see the sun. There was a hint of orange in the sky, but the sun was gone. I looked up at where that window should have been. There was nothing. Just a solid, brick wall.

I knew it was a real window. I knew it wasn’t just a picture sitting behind a window frame. I could feel it. So I don’t know why I did what I did next. I opened the window. A warm, musty air came flying through. It carried the faint smell of a dirty carpet. That should’ve been enough, really. But not for me. I grabbed one of my empty cardboard boxes and threw it through the window. When it landed outside, it didn’t make a sound. It fell slowly and the next thing I knew… it just lay there. Totally silent, staying totally still. I closed the window immediately and ran outside again. The cardboard box wasn’t there. I didn’t sleep in the house that night. I drove to a friend’s house and stayed for two days. I think I hoped that would make the window disappear. It didn’t.

I didn’t tell my friend about the window. In hindsight, that was probably a good idea. Well, good for my friend, not for me. Neither did I tell my poor mother. She kept asking to come over. Obviously, I wouldn’t let her. She shouldn’t have to see this. In the end, I decided to set up my desk next to that window. If it wasn’t going to leave, I’d just… make use of it. The unmoving sun made a good night-light, though the red colour remained unsettling. At first, I kept looking through that window and didn’t get any work done. Two weeks in, I started getting used to it. But every so often I felt a lingering gaze and was reminded that the sun was still looking at me. In silence. After one month it became part of my everyday life. I wasn’t bothered by the sun, the colour or even the silence. It was about two months in that everything changed. I sat at my desk, late in the night. A scream cut through the silence. I jumped up and looked through my window, where the sound had come from. The screaming had already stopped. Did I imagine it? It came again. And it didn’t stop. The scream came from far in the distance. It sounded only from beyond that window. It wasn’t human. It was higher-pitched and… stretched. Like whatever it was, was in pain. I looked out of the window but saw nothing. It was the same stillness that reached beyond the horizon. The screaming stopped. Silence returned. But it wasn’t the same.

After what felt like an eternity, I did something only a fool would do. I opened the window. It was the first time in months. The musty air came flying through and slowly, I poked my head outside. There was a weird dampness, like I was placed in an infinitely big room. I looked around, eyes widened. There was nothing but stillness. Like nothing had ever happened. No sound. No movement. Only that musty smell and that eerie, red tint. I waited for something to happen, but it never did. I closed my window. To this day I’m waiting for something to happen. Anything. With every corner I pass. Something still has to happen.

Not much later, I moved out. I had to leave that thing behind— I just… couldn’t. I even boarded up the window before I left. It might have been unnecessary, but I didn’t want to risk anything. Now, I’m moving my stuff into my new house. The people who bought my old house texted me and asked why I boarded up an empty wall. I didn’t text them back. It’s best to leave things behind as they are. I don’t want to do any more investigating. I’ve finally moved the last box. Time to place these— wait. That window… It wasn’t there before.

I am seeing if this book would be worth writing based on the setting of the fictional town:

Whisper Falls, Pennsylvania, was once one of the state’s most prosperous coal-mining towns. Coal miners, railroad workers, and their families built thriving lives here, believing the town’s future was as endless as the seams of coal beneath their feet.
Everything changed the day twenty-five miners were killed in a disaster officially ruled an accident. The mine was permanently sealed, and with it, Whisper Falls began a slow decline from which it never recovered.
Today, only a fraction of the town remains, frozen in time. Rusted railroad tracks disappear into the surrounding forest, ending at the abandoned Whisper Mine—a place few locals dare visit after dark. Behind the mine, a towering waterfall crashes endlessly into the rocky basin below. On quiet nights, when the wind dies and the town falls silent, many swear the rushing water sounds like whispered voices.
In Whisper Falls, every child grows up hearing the same warning:
“If the falls whisper your name… do not answer.”
Most dismiss it as nothing more than an old mining superstition—until someone disappears.
The oldest section of the cemetery dates back to the town’s founding. Weathered gravestones lean beneath ancient oak trees, their names slowly fading with time. Since the mine disaster, locals claim no flowers survive there for long. The graves bear the scars of decades of neglect, while cracked headstones and broken monuments hint that some of the dead were never meant to rest peacefully.
Along Main Avenue, empty storefronts stand like ghosts of a better era. Their faded signs and boarded windows are reminders of the bustling community Whisper Falls once was. Every year another business closes. Another family leaves. Another home is abandoned. Little by little, hope seems to vanish alongside the people.
Yet despite its decline, Whisper Falls refuses to die.
A small police department, volunteer fire station, gas station, grocery store, schools, and a single bridge connecting the town to the outside world remain as the last signs of everyday life.
But beneath the quiet streets and abandoned buildings lies something far older than the town itself.
Secrets buried deeper than coal.
Secrets hidden for decades.
Secrets waiting for someone brave enough—or foolish enough—to uncover them.

TW ⚠️Hi everyone! This is just a little something I wrote when I was still reeling the emotions of my assault. This is my first time posting my writing so I would appreciate feedback! (This is a letter format to my assaulter)

Dear Gary.
It’s been three days since you took a part of me. Three days and I still feel as helpless and vulnerable as I did in that room with you. Three showers and I still feel dirty. I’ve scrubbed and scrubbed my skin but I can’t seem to get the feeling of your dirty hands of my body. I feel tainted and broken all because you had to feel control over me. Why? Why did you do that to me? Why did you feel that you had to hold me down and pretend to be oblivious to me asking you to stop? You weren’t oblivious though, were you? The feeling of your hand over my mouth to “shut me up” is something I am going to feel for the rest of my life. I won’t allow you to keep me silent anymore. Do you even realise how much pain you have caused me?

The physical pain has mostly gone but the mental agony you put me through isn’t going to leave. You made me feel crazy. You made me think that it was my fault for wearing what I wore and for having a few drinks or even letting myself in the room with you. If I wore a shirt and joggers, would you have still raped me Gary? If I was sober, could I of fought you off more? What if I wasn’t stupid enough to go into a room alone with you, would you have took me there anyway?

Even now, I look at my body and I get angry for letting you touch it. The feeling of your hands on my legs to rip them apart is keeping me from being able to sleep. The cut on my arm reminds me of you holding me down. In a way it’s funny, cause as much as I’m angry at you for touching my body, I’m more angry at my own body. I’m angry at my body for freezing up and not knowing what to do. I wanted to fight you off and push you away but my body wouldn’t move. My brain was telling my body to move and to run, it wouldn’t. My body failed me and I failed my body.

Three days later and I’m still bleeding, that’s how much you damaged me Gary. I have to constantly change my pants cause they get destroyed in blood because of you. I keep asking myself if you even noticed how much I was bleeding but you had to, the bed was soaked in blood but you just chose to ignore it. The blood from how much you hurt me was on your shirt but you’ve probably already burned it or thrown it out, haven’t you? At least you can just discard of the evidence, but not me. Everytime I look down and see the blood I get reminded of you.

My new tattoo, my two butterflies. I loved that tattoo but so did you. You kept touching it in awe. And now, I hate my tattoo. I see it and I’m reminded of you touching my delicate butterflies. Ironic. You touched the delicate butterflies the same way you touched delicate me. I’ve had this tattoo two weeks and I already want to cut it off. All because of you. How much more are you going to continue to poison everything in my life? Everywhere I look, everything on my body just reminds me of you. Why are you continuing to violate me even though I’m not in that room anymore?

It is titled “Brotherly Love” and it is based on the biblical story of Cain and Abel.
Genres: literary fiction, psychological horror/tragedy
TW: some gore and violence, mild swearing
Description: this is a story of twin brothers following an action that one of them did that neither can forgive.
Word count: 1640

I don’t want to spoil much just please give me feedback :)

https://docs.google.com/document/d/10xAHOBjziDakiTEVJ8TOKWVRF0rk22fpb8jbCG_lgp4/edit?usp=drivesdk

10-WOMAN IN GREEN
 
 
 
Marla was a worm burrowing through the earth, then a golden leaf drifting from a tree. She was the ripple a bird's song left in the air, completely blended with the wilderness surrounding her.
 
Sitting with eyes closed, arms stretched downward and palms resting on the soil, she waited for nature to answer.
 
Sweat trickled down her forehead. Summer had been long this spin—the red mountain seemed to yearn for a missing winter. The outskirts of the red city were silent and empty. Just a girl in a red leather tunic, a cat, and an old woman.
 
Tingling spread through her fingers and lips. Swiftly she shaped a sentence in her mind and mouthed it in the ancient tongue. Nature flowed through her body, fresh sweat soaked the leather, and her headache deepened.
 
What was summoned grazed one of her palms—cold to the touch. Lifting her arm, she opened her eyes and found a large piece of gold resting in her hand.
 
A smile spread across her face, followed by a surge of pride. It only lasted a second as she caught the raised brow on Ïline's face.
 
Like Marla, the old witch was drenched in sweat. Her usually loose hair was tied in a low bun. Her staff dangled from her back as always, and her feet were bare over the fallen leaves.
 
"Is that what you asked for?" Ïline wore her usual suspicious look.
 
Morning had come and gone since they left. Marla was exhausted, hungry, and moody. Back in the city, Üreng would be waiting to swing through the trees with her on his back. She began to say "yes."
 
But Ïline was staring directly into her eyes, and Marla knew what was coming.
 
"Okay, no. I asked for a diamond." She muttered quickly, before her teacher could breach her thoughts.
 
Cat leapt into her lap, clawing her legs, tail flicking side to side. Amused and exasperated, the witch looked at her.
 
To Marla's surprise, no scolding followed. Instead, Ïline sat on the grass facing her—no stern expression, just an unexpected calm. Cat stopped clawing and curled up on Marla's lap.
 
"Kid, have I ever told you that I, just like you, wasn't born here?" Ïline twirled a twig she had picked up.
 
Marla glanced at her. She had always sensed the old woman stood apart from the people of the city, but the thought had never fully crossed her mind.
 
"Dwarves aren't all from Teggidryl. Like most races, we're scattered across the world. This furry beast on your lap and I are proof of that—we come from the eastern edge of the Väyn Woods. You might know them as the Black Woods."
 
Ïline paused and picked up another branch to toy with.
 
"My mother chose to leave our village when I was a sprout. An enchanted place—purple lagoons, white fires." Her eyes glazed over, lost somewhere in the past. After a moment, she continued.
 
"Don't get me wrong. I love the red city and its communal spirit. Who wouldn't?"
 
Marla didn't care for the sarcasm.
 
"Where I grew up, magic was viewed very differently. I don't remember much—memory fails with age. But I was taught to let it move around me. To use my emotions as a bridge to it. Discipline came later. In those early years, feeling was the bridge."
 
The witch leaned closer.
 
"Tesing has told you to shut your heart and mind—blah blah blah." She pulled a face in a perfect imitation of Tesing's grim expression.
 
"For the bond to work you need to feel—let nature flow in full. Speak the words like you mean them. Use your heart, not just your mind."
 
Marla lowered her gaze to the lump of gold in her palm. Ïline reached forward and lifted her chin with the twig.
 
Her teacher's floral scent extended through her touch.
 
"I know what frightens you, kid. I've been inside your head, remember?" The dwarf tapped her forehead. "I've watched you grow up within our walls, share meals, swing on the trees. I know you. And let me be absolutely clear: you are not the king."
 
Marla's fists tightened. Ïline had found the nerve. The elder knew exactly what had been haunting her—the fact that the same blood ran through both of them.
 
Her eyes welled as she met Ïline's gaze. The witch leaned in and spoke sharply.
 
"Stop trying so hard not to become someone you're not, and start being who you are."
 
She poked Marla's chest with a bony finger.
 
"Ouch." Marla rubbed the spot.
 
With sudden swiftness, Ïline sprang to her feet, clapped her hands, and sent Cat scrambling from Marla's lap.
 
"Wipe those tears. Let's try again." Another clap.
 
The sound dragged Marla back from a deep drift. She could still feel the sting of the poke.
 
For a brief instant she had been home. She wasn't. Only rock and darkness. No golden or crimson leaves. No summer.
 
Everything was damp and scorching. Her bones cracked as she stood—the tunnel had widened enough for that, at least. Salty sweat mingled with her fresh cuts. The water in her pouch was long gone; she'd been sustaining herself on condensation from the ceiling.
 
Her eyes had long since adjusted to the darkness, but there was little to see. She relied on her other senses—as Selinë had trained her. Her nose tracked a faint draft of cool air. Her ears caught the slightest movement.
 
Above all, she followed the mountain's pull.
 
Breathing, stretching, she brought herself back to focus. She pressed on, one hand trailing the rock, listening for whatever the void was hiding.
 
Then her nose met stone.
 
"A dead end? Really?" Her frustration echoed through the cave.
 
She had misread the draft. A soft kick to the wall, then she turned back. Through the irritation she tried to focus her mind, searching for any other hint.
 
A few steps later, the current returned, brushing the back of her neck.
 
Every nerve pulled taut. She spun.
 
Marla ran her hands across the damp rock. Found nothing. She stepped back, breathed slowly, and cleared her head.
 
I didn't imagine it. The draft came from somewhere.
 
She approached the dead end again, reaching across its full width. Rising onto her toes, fingertips stretching—an edge met them.
 
Her pulse surged.
 
"Yes!"
 
Gripping the ledge, she hauled herself up, muscles screaming. A sliver of light appeared at the far end of the tunnel as her head peeked over the new floor.
 
Marla leapt to her feet. Pain exploded at the crown of her head as she struck stone.
 
She collapsed.
 
However, her cheek didn't land on jagged rock. It landed on smooth white marble.
 
Around her stood the red mountain, peaks capped with snow. Sorenn, Üreng, and a small crowd—all watched as blood trickled from her lip.
 
It was autumn. The long hall was carpeted in fallen leaves, the sun pale and soft between clouds.
 
"Planning to stay down until winter, little sis?" Selinë offered his thick, hairy hand. "Up."
 
Marla took it, rose, and retrieved her training sword. Her backside throbbed from an afternoon of repeated landings. Selinë had bested her again.
 
"You're using your eyes too much. Use your gut," he nudged her shoulder.
 
"Ready yourself." He dropped into his stance, sword easy in his grip.
 
Marla did the same, calculating her next move. She turned the blade downward and struck toward his chin. Selinë parried without effort and slipped behind her in one motion. Air whistled. She ducked and swept at his legs. He caught her wooden sword mid-swing, lifted her, and flung her sideways.
 
Instead of landing badly, she rolled and came up reaching for his weapon. Selinë spun and tapped the back of her head with the flat of his wooden blade.
 
Tears sprang to her eyes.
 
"That would've hurt loads more with steel," he waved the wooden sword in front of her face.
 
Marla rubbed her skull, close to the edge of giving up. Impotence crawled through her. Yet Selinë tossed her sword back.
 
"Again."
 
Puffing air, she raised her guard.
 
"Hold on." Sorenn's voice rang out. "Come here, love." He gestured her over and took her by the shoulders.
 
"You're faster than him," he whispered. "Wear him down. And if that fails—" he leaned closer, his mustache tickling her ear, "he's got a bad right knee."
 
The king winked.
 
Marla returned to face Selinë. This time she didn't attack—she circled. Every time he swung, she moved away. Repeating it, she watched his stance begin to loosen, sweat appearing on his brow.
 
Pleased, she glanced toward Sorenn.
 
Taking advantage of her distraction, Selinë lunged.
 
Looking over her shoulder, Marla leapt high, landed behind him, and swung. Again, he caught the blade and tossed her on the ground.
 
Selinë gloated.
 
Marla used it. She scrambled forward and plunged into his bad knee, twisting hard.
 
He howled—half pain, half laughter—and went down with her.
 
Sorenn's laugh rang through the hall. Üreng pounded the marble with both fists.
 
"Uh-uhh-uhhh-uhhh!" the gorilla laughed.
 
Selinë grabbed her legs, pinned her, and leaned over with a palm on her head, still laughing.
 
"You dirty little—"
 
The marble darkened. Selinë’s touch vanished. Autumn dissolved. The damp returned.
 
Her cheek rested on rock, not marble. There wasn't a gorilla laughing, just her in the darkness.
 
Warmth spread from the crown of her head. Marla reached up and found a gash beneath her hair.
 
Dizzy, she pushed to all fours and crawled until the tunnel widened enough to stand. She moved carefully now, hands waving ahead of her, protecting herself from further damage.
 
The passage was growing. Her heart raced.
 
Could this be the way out?
 
She quickened her walk.
 
"Marla?"
 
Her mother's voice cut through the silence like the sharpest of rocks.
 
She stopped dead. Chills running in her veins.
 
"Marla, darling—is that really you?"
 
Trembling, mind blank, she turned toward the voice.
 
Standing in the middle of the cave was her mother in her suede green dress. Auburn hair falling over her shoulders, just as she remembered. The same golden eyes glowing at the sight of her.
 
Shadows retreated to the corners. A soft light bloomed where they stood.
 
Tears rose in Marla's eyes. "Mum?" she mouthed, stepping forward.
 
As she moved, the cave transformed—white stone beneath her feet, a fountain rising from nothing, her brother's laughter and tiny steps echoing all around.
 
Over a patch of purple flowers, her mother stood, inviting her to a hug.
 
"Marla, let me look at you. You've grown so much."
 
Short of breath, she kept walking.
 
Her mother was close, gleaming, looking exactly as she remembered.
 
But there wasn't a trace of a peachy perfume.
 
Marla stopped in her tracks.
 
That can't be right. How could she look the same?
 
"What's wrong, honey?" Love poured from her mother's expression.
 
"You're not her," Marla murmured.
 
A voice inside her countered: How can you be sure? So much time has passed. She's right there. Isn't hugging her once more what you most desire?
 
Trembling, Marla took one more step—then shook her head at the absence of her childhood's scent.
 
"No. My mother is dead. I know that."
 
"What are you saying, dear? Nobody is dead—come here. Don't you miss me?"
 
It wasn't love in whatever was calling her. Marla recognized something else.
 
Obsession.
 
Her own.
 
This wasn't her mother. But that didn't mean she couldn't say goodbye.
 
Meeting the illusion's eyes, she stepped back.
 
"Mum—you'll never know how much I've missed you. More than words can express."
 
She looked down at the carved oak on her chest. Faces moved through her mind: Selinë's grin, an old dwarven witch's mischievous look, a tabby cat curled against her in the mornings. And her father, all that he was.
 
"I still carry your last kiss." She touched her own cheek. "But it wasn't the only thing you gave me. You gifted me a life. An extraordinary one."
 
She smiled through the tears.
 
"I love you, Mum. But I have to let you go."
 
Her voice broke as she said it. Memories of that gifted life flashed through her mind and the knot she had been carrying—for so many spins—finally loosened.
 
"MARLA. COME HERE. NOW."
 
The king's voice exploded through the cave.
 
He stood where her mother had been. Face twisted. White tunic and armor soaked in blood, his long blade carrying the dark smear of old slaughter.
 
Nothing remained of the man she had once known. Only madness behind the green eyes.
 
Marla couldn't move.
 
"I—TOLD—YOU—TO—COME."
 
Shaking, she drew her sword and slashed him from shoulder to gut.
 
The king shattered into a cloud of mauve dust.
 
Coughing and gagging, Marla dropped to her knees and vomited.
 
A precipice lay where the visions had been. The darkness returned. No more fountains. No more white.
 
Gathering herself, swatting away the cloud of dust, she backed away from the edge. Above her, purple blooms hung low from the ceiling, spores drifting in the damp air.
 
Breathing hard, mind still reeling, she caught a glimpse of light.
 
To her left, an opening waited in the dark. She walked toward it slowly, careful not to fall, mindful not to strike her head again.
 
She didn't look back.
 
Marla left the cave where, moments before, her mother had stood.
 
Her heart had finally stopped aching.

Hello! I'm seeking feedback for this short passage, in which a character ruminates, by way of speaking "directly" to his deceased father, on discovering his father's dead body. The only lore/context I think is necessary is that this character's father has changed his name to escape the feds after committing insurance fraud, and has lived with that name until his death. Content warning for suicide if you need to stay away from such subject matters. Thanks!

Boris Chernenko, son of Vasily, who was the son of Dmitry, in fact doesn’t belong at all to that heritage. You were born, instead, as Savka Abramov, son of Dmitry, who was the son of Vasily. 

All these people have one thing in common.

You’re all dead now.

You stare at me from the floor. Eyes that can’t blink. Eyes that are pale now. I have a poster in my room that looks just like this. Did you know that? The sun shone on it for too long. Sun bleached the flag they planted on the Moon in ‘69 just to stick it to the goddamn Soviets. Now it’s white, like a surrender.

1969. 

That was a year after you were born, right?

Savka Dmitryevich Abramov didn’t get the good grace of the sun. You closed all the blinds in preparation for your death. Good of you to shield all from seeing the pieces left of your brain clinging to the crack of your skull. All but your own fucking kid. I wonder why no one’s called the cops by now. Your Bellini thunders when it fires. Thank god I never heard it. I would’ve begged you to stop. I would’ve begged until the air that escaped my lungs scratched my throat raw. 

The bottle of vodka you got from Costco last week fell but didn’t break. Clear liquid pools next to the hole in your head, seeping into the corner of your mouth. In death, you’re still drinking. You didn’t even have the decency to close that bottle before you shot yourself. The bullet casing lays on top of that puddle next to your eyes. 

Blue, bleached blank, by a bullet. 

Copper and alcohol. Gun powder. A cigar you cut and smoked and snubbed out before your big decision. Blood doused the wrapper, steeping the tobacco leaves, gulped down hungrily by the cracks in the flooring. You smell the same as when you were alive. So stale it hurts my eyes, makes me want to retch out the acid that sloshes at the bottom of my stomach. The kasha you made for me this morning sits half-eaten in the fridge. I was going to finish it when I came back. I don’t think I will, now. 

Thanks, for that.

I’m standing at the door’s threshold. Notebooks and pens and the ziplocs of weed and adderall I haven’t sold gush from my backpack to the floor. You haven’t taught me what to do in situations like this. You’ve wrapped fake passports in an old newspaper. Cash in the closet. Cash under the sink. Crypto on the computer you built out of scraps. The Saturn sits idle at Sarnowski’s in case we need to make a run for our lives again. Canned soup, canned fruit, canned sardines in the basement in case of emergency. Your empty cans of beer had holes in the middle. You guided my hand until I could no longer feel the recoil. 

“Be prepared,” you said, “it’s the least you can do because no one will be there for you.”

The kasha you made burns. It claws its way up my esophagus. My legs can’t stand standing anymore, but I don’t want to clean up my own mess as I clean up yours. You’ve never mopped this floor. Wood planks store grit and grime and now you soak all that you were into it like a slimy old ghost. I stash my vomit away like all that junk you keep down in the basement to collect dust. How am I meant to bury you? You never told me where you kept the shovel. 

You stare at me, still. There, still there. Still haven’t given me an answer. 

Hello!
My wife and I have been co-authoring a book for a few years and are looking for some feedback. We are also looking for Alpha/Beta readers for Part 1 of the book, so if you are interested, we would be very grateful.

Our book looks to appeal to those who enjoy a strong female protagonist, a grungy dieselpunk setting with mechs, and the complexities of life in the military; from mental anguish to strong comradery and the strength of self. There are also low elements of fantasy and mysticism. The setting is quite heavily inspired by various Asian cultures, with a lot of the environment taking place in a dense jungle and a military base.

This story is meant for mature audiences. There are very strong themes of:

• Abuse (physical, mental, emotional, verbal)
• Explicit Language
• Sexual Assault
• Excessive Gore / Injury / Blood
• Drowning
• Suicide
• Mental illness

Here is our first chapter (3.5k words). We are looking for any and all critiques, comments, and advice. Thank you for reading!

Chapter 1
Exhaust

The cold, metal seat beneath Li Xiu rumbled to life. The transport lurched, the driver fighting the worn-out vehicle, or perhaps the other way around. Li Xiu had to catch herself on the back of the seat in front of her to avoid sliding off her own. She huffed a muffled sigh through her filtration mask and placed a few long strands of extraneous oil-black hair back into her tight bun. She straightened her posture, but couldn’t stop herself from grimacing at the smell that stubbornly forced its way past the filters and into her nostrils.
She scowled, realizing the transport hadn’t actually begun moving despite the jostling. 
What a heap of junk, Li Xiu thought.
Her rear end was already sore from sitting for so long, but she remained poised nonetheless. She rolled her eyes as a few stragglers hopped onto the transport, the last one barely making it through the closing waist-high gate. The chubby young man didn’t appear to hear the driver’s annoyed comments as he hurriedly found a seat. Li Xiu would have paid the latecomer no mind, but her eyes were drawn to the gauges in his earlobes, large enough for Li Xiu to put her arm through.
He plopped down into a seat near the front and immediately rolled his head back, asleep. His mouth fell open, sucking in air with an uncomfortable noise of trapped phlegm.
How could someone have so little pride in themself? Li Xiu thought with distaste. Am I the only one who cares for punctuality? This poor excuse of a vehicle should have left minutes ago.
Furrowing her brow, she gave another look at the transport’s occupants as the driver fought with the gearshift. The seats were half empty with a smattering of service workers, existing members of the military, and various other nondescript passengers. There were a few that could be potential trainees, but there was nothing to clearly indicate this.
The engine’s low, guttural chugging increased its tempo. Two exhaust pipes protruding from either side of the front rumbled and belched plumes of dark exhaust. The metal deathtrap of a bus lurched forward again, though this time into motion. The treads began their melodic clanking against the stone ground, and Li Xiu stifled a cringe as the clouds of exhaust were blown backward as the transport moved forward.
The occupants in the open-frame transport were engulfed in the exhaust fumes, and more than a few coughed and sputtered, blinking their irritated eyes. Li Xiu’s own eyes watered, but her concern was drawn to her bright white tonbá decorated with subtle mint embroidery.
She had thought her training uniform was plain enough, but amongst the dark and earthy tones around her, she realized her choice stood out like polished filigree on a rusty axle. The dark grease smudge on the lower right of her abdomen further solidified her lack of foresight.
Why did I think this outfit was a good idea for entering a grimy military base? She thought, trying again to subtly scrape the stain off with her polished fingernail. At this rate, I will be a splotchy mess by the time we get there! Beasts, I can never let anything be simple. 
She continued scraping the stain with her thumbnail, knowing fully well that she was only embedding the grease further into the threads. Giving up, Li Xiu grit her teeth. With frustration she smoothed her uniform and tried to ignore the fact that she had stretched out the area. Now it was an awkward lump and a dark smudge.
Ignore it, Ahaetulla, Li Xiu thought. You have much greater things to—
The transport stopped again with another lurch and groan of metal. Li Xiu hastily braced herself a second time to avoid slipping off of her seat. 
I have half a mind to stomp up to the driver and show him how to properly drive! Li Xiu thought, settling into her seat again. The short gate at the transport’s entryway swung open, and a few more passengers stepped aboard.
She caught the eye of a young man with a ponytail and distractingly large eyebrows wearing a plain black military-style uniform. Li Xiu guessed he was close to her age of seventeen. The young man gave her a calculating look, sizing her up. He didn’t look like he belonged to any particular military branch, nor did he have the headband or patch displaying rank.
Finally, another trainee.
Li Xiu wanted to be glad, but his expression didn’t belay friendliness. She returned his cold stare, not wanting to back down.
He must have determined that I’m also a recruit, Li Xiu thought. My tonbá is giving away my intentions of joining for combat training rather than a job befitting a woman. He should know as well as I do that I have every right to join the fighting ranks.
She exhaled a sigh of defiance, though she doubted he would notice beneath her mask. After several seconds, he turned and found a seat by himself. I have every right to join. Li Xiu thought again.
The driver pulled a lever, and the gate creaked closed behind a grungy looking man, probably a mechanic. Li Xiu turned to watch out of the side of the transport, though the scenery wasn’t much to observe. The surrounding factory buildings of Northern Baoping were no more than drab boxes of metal sheeting with smokestacks surrounded by corrugated metal fencing. Metal was something the city, and the empire as a whole, seemed to have too much of.
The empire made great use of their surplus, but the way they used it in places like this lacked any soul. That was their way, though. Out here—where anyone who was worth anything would never step foot—the reality of the Wanbani Empire was plain to see. A brutal, efficient attempt at forging their country, and eventually the world, into a powerhouse of metallic might.
Despite those efforts, the surrounding jungle life fought back. Creeping vines, mosses, and small shoots worked their way between the cracks, overtaking areas out of sight. Li Xiu found comfort in this imagery. 
In the nicer portions of the city, and in Li Xiu’s own home city of Taiyang, the infrastructure embraced the trees and plants. The greenery was tastefully integrated. Allowed to grow, but kept trimmed and neat. Out here, it was a slow, brutal war between unstoppable, industrial, militant progress and the stalwart jungle wilderness. 
Five minutes or so passed until the driver pressed the brake too readily yet again, bringing the transport to another abrupt halt. The eyesore of a building at this stop was made almost entirely of rusted corrugated metal sheets and mismatched, chipping paint. The dilapidated waystation was in full use, despite its sorry state. Factory workers milled about, waiting for their respective transports. Li Xiu watched another transport unload passengers from Shanzihua, the city to the West.
Among them was a lanky young man with an undercut, the longer hair pulled into a tail. He was next to a shorter man with combed hair and several dangling and stud earrings on one ear. They both had matching red and swampy green tattoos with grafted scales on each side of their necks.
Li Xiu recognized their style and colors as representing the Rhado family of Shanzihua. They were either family members of the presiding bloodline, or they were fiercely loyal to them. The taller one had a big grin on his face and was talking excitedly with his friend. His friend, however, looked as if he were going to throw up, and Li Xiu grimaced when they took a seat nearby.
Following them was a skinny boy who scarcely looked old enough to enlist, despite his military-style uniform. He didn’t have any tattoos, but he did wear a magenta colored patch that Li Xiu thought belonged to one of the minor families in Baoping. Perhaps he wished to join as a Tiǎo, the lowest possible rank that essentially existed to fetch tea, dig latrines, and fill out forms that nobody else could be bothered with.
The transport picked up some speed as it left the main city limits. The road became noticeably bumpier, and Li Xiu had to hold on to the railing for stability. This compromised her decorum, but she would prefer that over smacking her head against the seat frame in front of her.
Not that anyone here would care about decorum, Li Xiu thought with an eye roll. She watched as the chubby, large-lobed young man peeled himself off the seat in front of him, rubbing his forehead absently. Li Xiu grimaced as he removed his finger from his nose and flicked the former obstruction over the side.
She also noticed that he, and a majority of the others, wore no filtration masks. Masks were admittedly a recent trend, but the increasing number of exhaust-spouting machines in the empire were more than enough of a justification.
Are these military types not concerned with their long-term health? Li Xiu thought.
Perhaps the lack of masks amongst these men has more to do with a desire to appear less feeble, Li Xiu considered. She had noticed early in life that men tended to eschew caution to avoid looking weak to others, and a military base was just the place for those sorts.
Or maybe they don’t expect to live that long anyway… Li Xiu thought with a sudden spike of anxiety. After all, they are in the military.
Li Xiu shoved that fear aside. While she knew her path would bring her to the front lines eventually, she was comforted by the fact that she would be highly trained beforehand. Though if her brother, Bành, was to be believed, the training would be comparably grueling to actual combat. Tests so brutal and realistic that trainees actually died. He did like to embellish his stories, so Li Xiu tried not to worry.
I hope he isn’t too upset by my letter, Li Xiu thought. I will finally be able to help the family this way. She pursed her lips. And hopefully myself.
The transport started tilting sideways and Li Xiu had to grip the other side of the seat and plant her legs to keep from falling over. A root had grown underneath the pathway, lifting the cobbled stone to form a large mound. The sturdy treads of the transport easily traversed this minor obstacle, but the occupants were tossed around as the vehicle continued onto the checkered roadway beyond.
Compared to what Li Xiu had endured traveling between her home city and Baoping, this was a smooth ride. The trees here had trunks only as wide as the ten-thousand-liter wine vats back home, whereas those in the true wilderness could easily grow to sixteen meters in diameter and reach ten times that in height. Their roots and surrounding foliage scaled relatively, creating labyrinths of snaking and deadly terrain with very few fingers of sunlight reaching beyond the impossibly high canopy.
The trees closer to the city also had a petrified quality, looking and feeling as though they were halfway to becoming stone. The lingering curse of the aboriginal èn hāten, the demonically possessed tribal beings that once lived in these lands, severely stunted the growth of the jungle. The èn hāten, before their imminent demise at the hand of the Empire, unleashed the curse as a means to inhibit the Wanbani people from thriving in the area. 
Contrary to the intention of the èn hāten, the budding Wanbani Empire had discovered that the partially petrified trees worked excellently as a building material. With the flexibility and structure of wood and the hardness of stone, the early Wanbani engineers had made true wonders of construction and art.
The transport hit another substantial bump before driving around a cut tree stump larger than the vehicle itself. On the other side, a surprisingly lavish mansion came into view, though it was mostly obscured by a wall of petrified wood and metal.
The transport puttered along, the ride smoothing as it moved onto the maintained road of the land surrounding the mansion. Li Xiu gave a sigh of relief at the lack of bumps, but also at being able to rest her eyes on the well maintained surroundings.
I finally get to lay eyes on the mansion of the Heavenly Twelve, Li Xiu thought with a sly grin. Another item to the list of things mother would be furious about.
The jungle seamlessly transitioned into a well groomed landscape of imported flowers and exotic plants. The lush greenery and vibrant blossoms of the decorative trees appeared to glow in the sunlight, while koi ponds shimmered like jewels, reflecting the intricate architecture of pavilions that peeked through the groves. It brought back a longing for home that made a lump well up in Li Xiu’s throat. She shook herself, removing thoughts of nostalgia.
The garden and architecture grew more opulent as they neared the mansion. Handfuls of citizens dressed in flowing silk garments, sleeves draping almost to the ground, roamed the pathways here. Li Xiu picked out a few who wore gold accents, reserved strictly for those with the noble ranks of the Golden Dragon. Li Xiu watched with curiosity, though was careful to project impassiveness for the sake of her decorum.
I wonder if any of the twelve are currently here. It would certainly be exciting to see Indotai Saiko, or any of the others for that matter.
Li Xiu held her breath in anticipation as the transport rounded the mansion walls and the lavish three-gated entrance came into view. She felt the urge to shield her eyes from the dancing beams of sunlight reflecting from the sheer amount of highly polished gold. All three gates were densely decorated with gilding and towering statues of Háofuadōm, the Golden Dragon. Naturally, dozens of heavily armed guards stood on and around the walls, a few of which were posted at mounted machine gun turrets.
Beasts, what opulence, Li Xiu thought. I suppose I would expect nothing less from the Emperor’s elite.
Looking beyond the gates, none who walked within the mansion grounds stood out as members of the Heavenly Twelve. Li Xiu wasn’t surprised, but was mildly disappointed to not see any of the empire’s greatest mech drivers here.
I suppose it would be unlikely for them to be standing around with the guards and groundskeepers, Li Xiu thought, feeling foolish. It would be equally unlikely that they would be staying here rather than having their talents utilized elsewhere.
She let her eyes linger, taking in the grand home beyond the open gates. Gold colored tiles interlaced upon the roofs like intricate embroidery made to resemble the backs of thousands of snakes. Golden dragons extended from each of the four eaves of all twelve floors. Vibrant mosaic reliefs patterned the walls, complemented by dancing dragons carved upon every wooden beam. Imposing doors of green sat behind an even more imposing archway at the top of each of four sets of stairs carved of light stone.
In each of the four cardinal directions, one three-story building stood, gentle jewel-toned stone and gilding painted each in association with their respective Heavenly Beast. Winding pathways led to small arched bridges that hugged tributaries extending in all directions from a central, lush pond.
There was a mansion comparable to this just outside of every city, though none quite matched its splendor. The only structures that could compare would be the Emperor’s palace, or the fabled Tower of Twelve, whose location was only known to the members themselves.
If everything goes well, I could end up on the other side of those doors, Li Xiu thought. She leaned back into her seat, envisioning such a future.
Curiously, one of the posted guards jogged up to the transport, waving to the driver. The vehicle slowed to a stop and the guard made his way to the driver’s side. He exchanged a few words with the driver, then returned to his post. Li Xiu frowned. Must be some sort of precautionary security note.
The vehicle began moving again, but soon turned off of the main road and parked behind another, much more comfortable looking, bus. Several well dressed visitors were gathered here, and Li Xiu raised an eyebrow as the transport gate swung open. 
Are we picking up tourists? I hope this transport still plans on going to the base.
A solitary, angry man who looked to be in his early twenties stomped aboard. He wore a sleek, but simple unmarked gray uniform that was one size too small for his muscular frame. He was all lean muscle with squarish features accentuated by his almost perfect ninety-degree buzz cut and frankly impressive jawline.
His brows furrowed, pulling at the tight, rust-orange tattoo of grafted scales that carved a jagged streak across the right side of his neck, emulating the shape of the Chiè family logogram. It connected behind his ear with another tattoo arcing down from his forehead and under his right eye. An intense display of his dedication to his intense family.
Aside from the clear denotation stamped on his face, everything from his thick head to his combat boots oozed the aggressive, brutal nature of his family name. Unlike the other powerful families, Chiè was more of a title. Those from the true Chiè bloodline had historically adopted hundreds of thousands of children, granting special treatment and perks with the expectation being that the adoptees fight in the military.
The expectation was more of a mandate however, with the adoptees having little choice between military conscription or being tossed aside while the ones who gave up their children received the benefits. Enslaving a natural-born citizen was illegal, but this was a well-known workaround.
What is someone like him doing here?  Li Xiu thought, trying not to look him in the eye. I wouldn’t have pegged any Chiè to be interested in sightseeing.
The Chiè man walked down the aisle, looking for a place to sit. He approached the first seat occupied by only one person; a timid looking nondescript young man with a completely bald head. The seated man looked up at the tense newcomer. The Chiè gripped the back of the seat fiercely and gave the man a death stare that would make a peryton cower. The seated man raised his hands and slid over, making more room. The Chiè shook his head, baring his teeth.
Understanding the implication, the seated man skirted around the unmoving Chiè. The Chiè grumbled something under his breath and shoved his way into the seat, immediately reclining with his feet on the back of the seat in front of him. His large boot knocked into the head of the lanky recruit with red and green tattoos. The recruit turned around, though a nervous comment from his friend with the earrings prevented any complaints from airing.
What are the chances that brute intends to pursue logistics…? Li Xiu thought. He must not have noticed me yet, else he certainly would have caused more of a commotion. I would rather not be near him once he discovers he will be training with a woman.
The bald man pulled a canvas knapsack from beneath the seat, then stumbled as the transport lurched forward. Li Xiu caught his eye for a moment, then looked away. Too late.
He gave Li Xiu an awkward smile and Li Xiu begrudgingly shimmied over, then pointedly shifted her attention outside of the bus.
Please do not speak to me, Li Xiu pleaded internally.
“Sorry,” The bald man said, his tone soft and nervous. He sat on the very edge of the seat.
Li Xiu glanced at him. He nervously shifted his knapsack beneath his feet, keeping his legs close together and maintaining as much distance as he could from Li Xiu. He wore a simple, inexpensive faded blue top with brown trousers and well-worn stained work boots.
A factory worker, Li Xiu concluded.
“No need to apologize,” She said, perhaps letting too much of her annoyance lace her words. After a few moments she tried to remedy her first impression.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” She said in her practiced socialite voice.
“You too,” He responded after some hesitation. He glanced at Li Xiu’s forehead tattoo then back down in front of him. He looked again, opened his mouth, then closed it, finally settling his gaze on the seat back. Li Xiu allowed the silence between them to settle, preferring not to waste her energy on someone of little consequence to her goals.
Li Xiu adjusted her mask and brushed a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. She suppressed the longing within her as the lavish garden and mansion of the Heavenly Twelve slowly crept from view. Li Xiu bit her cheek.
I suspect that will be the last bit of proper society I will see in a long while.

I'm a pharmacist in South Korea.

A while ago, through my blog, I met someone whose writing stayed with me.

Before an accident, he was an ordinary office worker.

After the accident, he lost the ability to return to his previous work. He spent more than a year in the hospital. During that time, he started writing for the first time in his life.

Writing became one of the few things he could still hold on to.

But when he was told he could no longer remain in the hospital, everything changed again.

His daily life changed overnight, and writing quietly disappeared from it.

I couldn't change what had happened.

So I decided to do something much smaller.

I began writing a little fairy tale inspired by him.

He reads every chapter.

I don't expect these stories to heal his pain.

But if, while reading them, he can forget it for a few minutes and smile just once, I think that's enough.

Perhaps this little sparrow and its prince will also find a place in someone else's heart.

That's why I wanted to share this story with people beyond my country. Perhaps someone, somewhere, may find a little comfort in it too.

I'll be sharing a new chapter about twice a week, usually around 11 p.m. Korea Standard Time. Thank you for reading.

Chapter 1

I hang weightless above the viewport. Below me, the Earth is a pale blue marble set against the inky void. I will forever cherish this view, the beauty and fragility of our home laid bare for all to see.

From here I see the grand summation of humanity. Every human who has ever lived started on this rock and I am part of the lucky few who, for now, don't call it home. 

Our influence can now be felt almost 400 million kilometers away on the barren red rock of Mars. Close to forty souls have nestled themselves into the martian surface for the past four years and more join them all the time.

Reaching up with my right hand, I grab the rail and pull backwards to send myself further down the corridor; Microgravity will never get old. The white walls that surround me are nested with wires and tubes, each equally important and innocuous. My target, the next viewing window, approaches to my right and I reach out a hand to grab the guard rail just before it. 

Bringing myself to a stop I stare out at the inky black of space looking to spot a new star. Well, not a star, but it sure does look like one. The light originates from the engine of the NASA Athena upper stage, currently burning hard on a Hohmann transfer to Mars. “One day…” I whisper under my breath as I watch the ship on its way to the red planet. 

“But not today.” Comes an unexpected reply from just over my shoulder. 

“Christ Danny, you need to stop doing that. How are you so silent? You're like a god damned cat.”

“Well, maybe Cassian, if you weren't daydreaming through the viewport, I wouldn't have been able to surprise you so easily.”

Danny Rodriguez was the most senior astronaut on the station. He spent over 900 days in space in various stints. He was nearing retirement which you could tell from the handful of grey hairs sneaking into the nest of messy hair on his olive-skinned head. He was a hard-ass but always fair, and someone I had always looked up to. I’d be lucky to have half the career he’s had when time catches up with me.

“I’m sorry, I’ll get back to it now. It's just that… well, it never gets old, does it?” 

“No,” he replied wistfully “It really doesn't." His eyes were fixated on the view of the departing craft from the window. 

“Who’s the daydreamer now?” I jest as I push off down the narrow corridor towards my station. The corridor opens to a square-shaped room with a central pillar housing a ladder. The walls here are free from wires and tubes but they retain the clean white colour. 

Scattered around the perimeter are various work areas designed for scientific experimentation. The station is equipped with some of the best equipment humanity has to offer. I pass Anya’s neat and tidy setup and admire the ribbon of green plants that snake their way across the growth pots. I spy a ribbon attached to one plant that reads ‘Promising candidate. Breed with specimen Alpha 4.’ 

Logan’s station, by contrast, is pure chaos and, to me, much more of an enigma. His work area is littered with materials samples and flasks of chemicals all carefully secured in seemingly no real order. Yet, were he in front of me right now, he’d identify every substance and lecture me on its purpose and potential to revolutionise the world. I’d have to take his word for it, though; materials science isn’t my area. 

Arriving at my station I grab the pipette and lower it into the growth flask, extracting a sample of ten micrometers of cell suspension precisely. With the sample transferred to the slide I place it under the microscope and peer through the lens. Blobs, simple undifferentiated blobs, fill my view. “Damn” I whisper to myself. These were supposed to be nerve cells by now. I double checked the quantity of growth factors, used the right number of seed cells and had made absolutely sure that the temperature had remained constant but still no luck. 

I'd been at this for two weeks. No amount of tweaking the drug concoction or modifying the external conditions could get them to obey my will. This has become personal now. These tiny unspecialised cells were not going to outsmart me. I needed a second opinion.

“Anya, are you there?” I enquire through my headset. 

“Not sure where else I’d be. We’re kinda stuck up here in case you hadn’t noticed.” Anya’s dry tone hung in the headset.

Anya is our other resident biologist, a few years my junior but, I don't mind admitting, infinitely wiser. “Thanks Anya but really I just wanted to know if your com was on and where you were on the station” 

“Yes and in the dorm. Next time just say what you mean.” 

“Noted.” I depart my station and grab the handrail above propelling myself across the lab area toward the junction with the sleeping area. As I reach the narrow opening and propel myself through into yet another claustrophobic, white tube Irina approaches from the other direction. Spotting her toolbag in hand I maneuver myself out of the way and allow her to pass by. “Another leak?” 

“No, something electrical I think. Comms with ground are patchy at best and I’ve been trying to figure out why.” Her usual calm voice was twinged by a slight hint of worry. “Nothing major though. I think I’ve isolated it to a small section of wiring in the storage area.” 

“If there’s anyone who can work it out it's you. Besides, who really needs to talk to ground control anyway?”

With a faint smile beneath her blue eyes Irina continues on her way, her blonde locks trailing behind her. In a crisis, not that this was one, there really is no one better; cool, calm, collected and one hell of an engineer. 

I continue my journey and round the corner to the sleeping area, one unlike anything you might see on earth. We really do take gravity for granted back home. You lay on your bed and you can be pretty damn sure you aren't going to float up and away from it. Up here beds are on the walls, though walls turn into floors and floors into walls depending on your orientation. They also come with straps and doors; it’s almost like tucking yourself into a coffin at night. 

Anya floats fiddling with a small electrical sensor, her brunette hair fans out around her head like a lion’s mane. She curses under her breath as the sensor refuses to obey her will. 

“Having some trouble?” I ask, rather unhelpfully. Her deep brown eyes flick away from the sensor to give me a look you could only describe as a death stare. Meant with kindness, I’m sure. 

“Can I help?” I offer. 

“You? Probably not. Irina might be able to. This sensor’s been spitting out nonsense lately and we’re not due a replacement until the ship docks next week. What did you need from me?” 

“Cells haven’t differentiated. Again” I grumble. “I’ve tweaked the levels of retinoic acid, adjusted the temperatures, even tried introducing some extra growth factors but, in the end, nothing happens.” 

“What are you growing them in?” Anya replies absently still hellbent on fixing her sensor.

“Just standard culture medium. Why do you ask?” 

She looks back over to me “Try making it more conductive. This should promote the growth of the nerve cells just don't add too much salt or-” 

“They’ll die. Got it! You’re a legend Anya, did I ever tell you that?” 

“You don’t need to I’m already aware” 

“Humble too!” I tease as I propel myself from the sleeping zone back towards the awaiting cells.

The next few hours consist of me setting up the next round of culture cells. I decide to run multiple cultures, each at different salt concentrations, so that I can quickly find the ideal conditions. If this works I’ll have to find a way to make it up to Anya when we’re both back on solid ground. I won’t know if it has worked for a few days yet, so I figure I might as well get some exercise in.

I strap myself into the treadmill thinking again about how much easier this is on earth. Bungee cords keep me on the running surface below, it wouldn't be much exercise if I was still floating. I cherish my time in the gym. Preventing my muscles from atrophying and my bones from turning to dust is a welcome bonus, but mostly, I appreciate the time to get lost in my own thoughts. 

I drift off to England: the soft purr of my cat Tilly, the feel of the cold winter air on a walk through the forest, the kind words of my parents when I’ve suffered disappointment. I’m reminded of why I made it up here in the first place. 

I’m barely lost in thought before Logan glides through the exercise capsule opening, snapping me back to reality. He puts two firm hands on my shoulder and shakes as he moves past me towards the weights machine. “Cass, working hard I see” he jokes. 

I’m suddenly aware that whilst I had been daydreaming I’d slowed to a kind of fast walk. I pick up my pace again, suddenly back in the room, and reply “I was somewhere completely different ‘till you arrived.”

“Home?” He replies.

“You know it. I don’t want to leave space, but I do want to be home.” 

“It’s a fucker isn't it? I felt the same when I was on deployment; I loved flying, loved being on base with everyone but, shit, I wished it was a day job and I could sleep in my own bed with my wife.” 

“I think the commute up here would be a dealbreaker for me though.” I respond with a dry tone.

“Not up for a rocket in the morning and a descent capsule in the evening?” 

“As tempting as that sounds, I think I’ll have to pass.”

Logan had strapped himself into the ARED: the station’s glorified, squeaky weight bench. He was pushing 105kg today, the flywheels hissing in rhythm with his breathing His previous military pilot experience has given him a well chiseled body that paired well with his light brown hair that sat messy on his head, and his piercing green eyes. 

“Still would be good to get used to re-entry” He says breathlessly between reps. “Mars Landings are rough” 

“Six minutes of hell is what they say” 

“The exact opposite of what I give my wife” Logan replies with a wry smile across his face.

I let out a huff of laughter, trying to keep my pace steady on the treadmill. “Come on now, we both know you aren't lasting six minutes” I joke, shooting a cheeky grin across at him.

He falters mid rep, trying to hold in a laugh. “Not going… to take that… from a guy who can barely… hit a nine minute mile” He says finishing his rep on the ARED. 

We continue to go back and forth as we spend the next 45 minutes cycling through our various mandated exercises. We stop just in time to head back to the central chamber for Danny’s daily check in. There wasn’t often much to talk about but Danny had his old school ways and wanted to make sure we all knew what was happening aboard the station. 

“Thanks for joining us, we've just been discussing the comms issues” Danny says as Logan and I float into the room. The three other members of the crew float in a rough semicircle in the station's cramped central room. The white walls of this area are covered in panels, wires snake across the walls like ivy on the frontage of a house. An occasional screen interrupts the flow of the wires displaying some piece of vital information about the health of the space station.

“I think I have isolated the problem and it should be fixed but, I need you to let me know if anything else goes wrong.” Irina says. “I thought I had it fixed last week but we still ran into gremlins”. 

“Thanks Irina we will keep an eye out” Danny responds. 

As I turn from Irina to Danny something behind him catches my eye; One of the screens behind Danny has a small red message blinking in the centre. I push forward past Danny, excusing myself on the way and take a closer look at the screen. The message reads:

“INCOMING DEBRIS FIELD. SHELTER IN CAPSULE.”

“Danny, I think we might have a problem here. Scanners are picking up a field of debris on the horizon. It must be significant because we're being told to shelter in the capsule.” I state, a tinge of concern creeping into my voice.

“How far out is it?” Danny responds calmly. 

I search the screen for the answer but can’t find it. Dismissing the warning with a swipe of my finger I switch the view on the screen. A sigh of relief escapes my mouth as I locate the information. “The system reckons it's about 20 minutes away” I respond. 

“Good, we have time then. Irina, time to hail ground control to see if those comms really are back up and running. Logan, get to thruster control and see if we can boost away from the debris cloud. Anya and Cassian make your way to the return capsule, we'll meet you onboard when we’re ready” Danny instructs. 

Before I can even argue with Danny about sending me to the capsule I am interrupted by a sudden sound. It’s almost like a faint hiss or whistle, the kind of sound you get when you first open a fizzy drink. It’s coming from behind me. No, it's in front of me. Oh shit, it's both and from either side. The sound makes my skin crawl and I begin to make a brief 

The automated systems know what is happening before we do, a wailing siren blares out, red lights begin to flash, and a screen in front of me flashes with a new message: 

“HULL BREACH DETECTED”

My stomach drops as I realise what is about to happen.

[919 words]
It’s hard to say how we got here. And perhaps that’s not even true. Perhaps it’s hard to admit the red flags we pacified & tucked into bed, the second and third degree burns spreading over our bodies like smoldering wildfire, becoming more burn than flesh, more dead than alive, smiling, working on it. We’re working on it; we want to make it work. We dream of labor us women, of unpaid overtime in a hell of our own making. 

We were in love! We weren’t. And then we weren’t! No, we never were. Are you following? The curse of an average-looking girl is the fate of a mediocre man. I brought this man around for years before informing him he was going to ask me to marry him. We rehearsed the lines, I strapped him into his life vest, and yet the stage fright overcame him in the middle of that particularly balmy August night alone on our sofa. The depths of his audience were frightening to him, the depths of me. But the show must go on, and I am nothing if not a resourceful & prepared understudy of the craft.

Muzzled on a leash dressed in the outfit I positioned on the hanger to give the illusion of choice and agency (this man makes choices you see), I briefly hear the condescending fry in the amphitheater on my shoulders, parenthood is the illusion of choice, Sara. I thought magicians never reveal their tricks? It might make the audience put the butt end of a shotgun down their collective throats, severing their brainstems that were held together only loosely by the intricate threads of the magician's illusion into one chunky puddle of shit and innards.

In the outfit he chose and the haircut he picked out, we would gather, our pre-game ritual of all of the things he best not say because they would be so fucking bad, the audience might be in danger of something far greater than a gory collective suicide, they might ask for a refund. Not a booing per se, or a mass exodus even, just the subtle scoff of an audience member who feels neither hatred nor love for you, pity nor admiration. They know now something they didn’t just a few minutes before, something you’ve been trying to hide from yourself, the sheer truth that you are bullshit. Your life is bullshit. They might even clap as you take your bow, and you will disappear, never to be heard from or asked about again. If by some miracle your existence enters the consciousness of a conversation amongst the audience, the room will grow stronger, straighter, relieved, no- euphoric to have dodged the fate of the magician. 

But how did we get here? How did the gifted daughter dismantle her own potential, her pure and precious potential. She carried it so bravely, so true for very long. Unfortunately for her, her potential was too heavy, too man and woman shaped. Her potential was cruel and greedy; it was remarkable how easily her potential shrunk itself down from the shape of two baby boomers and fit within the confines of her soul. But, she could not outrun her parents, she was her parents; they infected her like a virus. Antibiotics don’t kick viruses you see. Men have loved to teach me that; so generous in their wisdom, it is of no bother to them that the fact is preceded & succeeded without a blink or a fact, just the truth. And for they hath said it, it hath be true. She sought out the mediocre man, curling her shoulders inward to appear smaller, establishing upper cross syndrome in the first year, the highest of feminine virtues. She had known her whole life she was great. She was going to be great.

So, the potential of the girl generously made room for the mediocre man that would not threaten the hierarchy on which it feeds. And so it went. He led and she followed. He led and she followed. He led and she followed. He borrowed and she sorrowed. He fed and she wallowed. She bled and she swallowed. 

The curse of the average-looking girl is not one that is hard to articulate, but it is one that the beautiful-looking girl will never understand. The beautiful-looking girl, though trapped in her own cell of a different prison, can’t understand why the average-looking girl would settle for this man, would lower herself to this hesitant recruit (it would be only untrue to call him a volunteer). For the beautiful-looking girl is shielded from the great knowing. 

To be average-looking is to be unpursued, unchased, unseen. To be average-looking is not to be at all. To be average-looking is to die again and again. To be average-looking and cross the threshold of one’s potential, the average-looking girl must use her wits and resources, must acquire a degree in architecture and must start building! She must start building right away for life waits for no average-looking girl! 

Unfortunately for the average-looking girl, the true horror of the curse is not in the invisibility. The curse exists only as an impassible mountain on the journey to truth. If the average-looking girl could step over the curse, slither around the curse, dig underneath the curse, she’d see the curse is a smokescreen. Because the true place of the average-looking girl is on the ground, the men and the potential lay beneath her feet. Bury them, girl. Bury them all.

Hello, fellow writers! I'm (slowly) working on a cosmic/biological/psychological fantasy horror story that switches perspectives between the antagonist and 4 major human(oid) 'protagonists', and am seeking input on the opening. The story isn't exactly a narrative in the traditional sense, at least in the beginning, as it's more like exploring the world and slowly converging into conflict.

Again, this is only the opening section, not a whole lot of what's going to be occurring. I look forward to critiques!

_______________________________

— The Growth —

- Day of Arrival -

Cool. Not quite damp, but certainly not dry. Its very first experience.

Grow...

Schlup. A wet, slimy slap, muffled and cushioned by soft granules and flecks. Something rough, craggy. Alive. It did not know this feeling.

It didn't even know what feeling was.

Expand...

Instinctively, it stretched outward in an effort to learn more - to experience this new... thing. Surrounded and buried by the soft, cushiony stuff. Long and winding, and varying in thickness and path.

From above, subtle vibrations danced across the surface of the Growth. Rhythmic. In an effort to better understand, it flexed and squeezed itself, undulating until a small opening manifested and allowed the strange vibration to flow into its form.

After a moment, it finally created a rudimentary facsimile of an organ. Consequently discovering something new; sound.

Warbles rippled through the air, accompanied by smaller buzzing forms, their sources traveling overhead as the calls continued - strange sounds that seemed both distant and omnipresent. It explored with every lurch and fold of its putty-like form, but every direction felt the same.

Adapt...

It needed more information. Another way to understand, to grow.

Quick, heavy thuds approached from nearby, or at least nearer than the buzzing and warbling things, a rapid movement that caught the Growth’s attention. The warbling calls didn't even manage to renew before the thing was upon it.

”Uriiii! Riii!” A squealing pierced the air!

WHAP!

A sudden impact, colliding with the Growth, came from the direction it had heard the movement. For a moment, it felt none of the loamy granules, none of the pricklies or the rough texture of the winding paths.

Only a strange brush of air, along with the pull of some force that seemed to take hold of it. Fwiiiip- Just as the buzzing cycle resumed - THUNK-thump!

It slammed into another rough, craggy surface and then slumped into the softer granules once again.

Thump-thump-thump! The soft pounding noises approached again, faster than before!

In an effort to defend itself, the Growth swiped out, but found nothing! Just as it finished the exploratory strike, the thump-thump noise was upon it, and another heavy impact sent the Growth reeling in place once more! But this time, it dug into the soft stuff and gripped it tight, maintaining position!

“Uriiiiii! Uru! Uroah-! Uriiiiii!”

Sound was helpful, but not infallible. The Growth needed something, some way to bridge the gap between itself and this dangerous presence.

Small feelers stretched forth, struggling vainly for information, but felt only air. It needed an indirect method, something that did not demand first making contact.

Its surface roiled and bubbled, building on and converging on itself as a concentration of bright red flesh morphed and shifted - until an almost glassy surface plupped into existence.

Hazy, bleary. Little more than a grey silhouette against a darker grey background, hardly enough to even be monochromatic. The Growth had managed to cobble together the barest abstraction of sight - merely the recognition of motion.

But it was enough.

The dark mass came into ‘sight’. No sense of depth, no understanding of size - but the Growth could now determine where it was, and where the danger was coming from.

Like a gummy clamshell, the Growth split open! Lunging forward and clasping tight on the thing, it ensnared and burrowed with tendrils of red flesh!

”Uriiii! Riiii-riiiii! Uroiiiiiiiii!” Thrashing and kicking, goring at the Growth with curved tusk-like blades jutting from its short, flat face, the thing struggled and screamed in sudden disbelief - in fear. But with every buck, with every roll and wriggle, the tendrils only found deeper purchase.

In the surrounding area, the buzzing and warbling had stopped. Only the rustle of leaves disturbed by wind filled the air.

Consume…

Like oil across water, the flesh spread across every nerve and into each pore. Coarse fur scratched against it. Skin melded with amorphous flesh. Muscle fibers interlaced with tendrils. Bone and sinew became one with the Growth.

“Huff… Huff…”

The beast, its name still unknown to the Growth, stood still as it heaved breaths for several long moments. Fear still raced through its blood and gave a sharp tang to the air.

Expand…

…

Blurry images containing mouthfuls of what the Growth now recognized as grass, filtered through the boar’s mind and into the Growth’s understanding. And beneath those prickly blades, further sustenance might be found.

A treasure trove lay before it, simply waiting for consumption. It did not wait long.

Nor did it take long to vanish.

The boar, stout and rippling with muscle, stood amid dense foliage which stood taller than itself as it nuzzled the ground in curiosity. Before it, a small patch of barren ground lay in stark contrast to the verdant greenery surrounding it - just outside of easy reach of the beast’s mouth.

Despite the boar's attempts at denying the Growth's overwriting commands, the beast still took some modicum of pleasure in the natural act of devouring these, even now.

Consume…

But, while it was a simple matter to understand the beast’s method of consumption… manipulating the beast’s limbs hadn’t yet been explored.

But of course, this should pose no problem.

Aiming to close the difference between itself and the nearest clump of grass, the abomination lurched to the side without shifting the joints of the boar’s legs.

Whump.

It unceremoniously flopped over on its side, landing in a heap amidst the tufts of grass.

A success.

The head rotated in place, mouth grasping and ripping up the blades with abandon, not even stopping to chew as the sustenance was siphoned inside. Yet, no matter how many it ingested, every bit simply condensed into the boar’s body as a clump of matter. Within a few minutes of contorting and consuming in place, a circle of absence was all that remained.

It required more.

Adapt…

Two of its legs, stiff and jutting outwards to the side, schlurrped inwards like a set of retracted probosci, leaving a bare and furry belly with only its left fore and hind legs pointing skyward. A few heartbeats later, hooves poked out from the boar’s right flank, slowly emerging and tilting the beast upwards and onto its remaining as the legs manifested again!

Then, propped and standing like a wooden puppet, the splayed legs slowly shifted inwards until the boar was left in its original, upright position.

Another patch of grass lay just out of reach.

Consume…

Whump.

Chapter 1: The Anatomy of a Disease

Humanity is a disease. And Karan Padmaacharya used to be the fool trying to cure it.

The tropical jungle night was an oppressive canvas of mud, suffocating humidity, and heavy, high-contrast shadows that swallowed everything whole. Around Karan’s feet, several bloody bodies lay scattered across the muck, their lives drained into the dirt. He moved through the center of the devastation like a phantom—a massive, imposing silhouette melting into the dark, with only the faint, cold glint of his tactical gear betraying his existence.

A wet, mangled hand reached up from the mud in absolute agony, fingers twitching blindly for salvation. Karan didn't look down with pity. He simply brought his heavy tactical boot down hard onto the man’s wrist, pinning him effortlessly to the earth. Above them, hovering silently within the dense canopy of the trees, a high-tech ShastraBhandaar drone watched, its red camera eye glowing down like a miniature, unblinking crimson sun.

They think kindness is a virtue. They don't realize it’s just a cage.

Karan leaned down into the faint light filtering through the leaves, forcing the survivor to look into his cold, unblinking eyes. There were no glasses, no corporate softness left on his face anymore—just a hardened, hollow stare. His fingers wrapped around the handle of a combat knife already embedded deep in the man's arm, and with a slow, ruthless twist, he began to pull it upward, skinning him alive. The man's face twisted into a mask of absolute terror, sweat and tears mingling with the filth on his skin.

"Pls let me go... spare me..." the mercenary groaned, his voice cracking as he slipped desperately into frantic Hindi. "Haath jodhta hu m, jaane do mujhe... I have a wife and two kids..."

A wife. Two kids.

Before the man could finish the plea, Karan violently thrust the handle and blade deep into his mouth, instantly cutting off his screams. His face was inches from the victim's, completely devoid of mercy.

"Wife?" Karan whispered, his voice a jagged rasp. "I had a wife. And they took her." He leaned closer, watching the last panic flicker in the dying man's pupils. "You wanna know what happened to them? Let me tell you."

The Saint of Puducherry

(Flashback — Two Years Ago / Pre-Massacre Memory)

The memory hit him like a sudden wave of warmth, violently stripping away the dark, muddy blacks of the jungle and replacing them with the sun-drenched, golden hues of Puducherry at sunset. In his mind's eye, he saw the peaceful silhouette of a man and a woman holding hands, walking through a vibrant, glowing field.

Puducherry was a quiet place for a quiet man. Karan hadn't been much of a fighter back then. He was kind—genuinely kind and good. And the sole anchor for that kindness was Dripti. His beautiful Dripti.

The memory shifted into brilliant, full color as they reached the front gate of their modest village home. Dripti looked back at him, radiant, her face lit with pure, unadulterated affection. Beside her stood his past self, wearing a simple linen shirt and sharp glasses, looking entirely at peace with the universe.

How beautiful she had been. She always helped others, so he had done the same. He genuinely believed in those days that he was just a good man. But his current face—dark, heavily scarred, and dripping with fresh blood—stood juxtaposed so violently against her laughing memory.

The truth was uglier. Karan hadn't known that deep down, there was already a killer in him. A monster that Dripti was holding down by her mere presence. He had only done good to look good in front of her.

He remembered sitting on simple plastic chairs on their veranda, drinking tea with her and an elderly village man. They had bowed down to touch the elder's feet in respect earlier that afternoon, and then Karan was leaning forward enthusiastically, gesturing to a village development blueprint on his digital tablet while Dripti watched him proudly.

"If we build the high-tech irrigation here, Uncle," his younger, naive self had said, "the lower-status families won't have to rely on anyone else. We can make this entire village progressive, together."

He carried that passion everywhere. He had sat under the massive banyan tree in the village square with a group of lower-caste villagers, leaning forward, speaking fiercely about building schools and upgrading their farms.

"Once the ShastraBhandaar foundation funds the machinery," he had promised them, "no one can dictate your wages ever again. True independence."

But while Karan was blinded by his own self-righteous idealism, Dripti wasn't listening to his grand speech. Her eyes were fixed on the edge of the clearing, wide with an intense, brewing anxiety. Following her gaze toward a brick wall at the edge of the square, Karan now remembered what he had chosen to ignore back then.

Standing in the shadows was Ramesh Nagarjuna, the arrogant son of the village panchayat, flanked by his upper-caste thugs. His arms were crossed, his face twisted in pure, venomous disapproval and deep-seated classist hatred as he glared at Karan.

Karan had been blind to the poison brewing right in front of his face. But Dripti—she saw it. She read the murder in their eyes before they ever drew a weapon. She leaned in close to him, urgently whispering directly into his ear while subtly pointing with her eyes toward Ramesh: "Karan... look at Ramesh. They are furious. Please, stop this meeting. We should leave." And what did the great, enlightened billionaire do? He had just smiled warmly, gently placing his hand over hers to calm her down, completely dismissing her survival instincts.

"Hush, my love. They are just stubborn," he had whispered back, patting her hand. "Once they see the village prospering, their egos will fade. Trust them." ---

The Equation of Slaughter

(Present Day — The Tropical Jungle)

A jarring smash-cut of reality snapped him back to the grim present.

Karan yanked his combat knife out of the victim's mouth with a sickening, wet SNAKT sound. He coldly raised the blade to his face, using his thumb to casually wipe a smear of dark, thick blood off the steel, transferring the crimson stain directly onto his pristine white sleeve.

He had been a fool. A naive, idealistic fool who believed humanity could be reasoned with. She had warned him... and he had chosen to neglect it.

Lead soldier: stance too wide.

Left flank open by three inches.

Error: Fatal.

A blinding, shaky beam of light from a high-powered tactical torch violently cut through the pitch-black jungle. Holding it was another one of the attackers—half-injured, blood leaking from a raw wound on his forehead, his entire frame trembling violently. In his other hand, he desperately aimed an AK-47 into the dark trees, trying to find where the shadows were moving.

"Who's there?! Show yourself, you bastard!" the mercenary screamed into the void.

Karan didn't give him the satisfaction of hiding. He stepped directly into the blinding beam of the flashlight.

Underneath his heavy, massive, white winter tactical coat with its thick fur-lined collar, he wore a sharp, perfectly tailored, pure white corporate suit. His entire head and face were tightly covered in a sleek, stark-white tactical ninja mask. The entire pristine white outfit was violently spattered with fresh, bright-red, dripping blood from his previous kills. He stood dead silent, looming over the terrified thug like a modern ghost.

Suddenly, the red laser sights of a highly trained, heavily armed squad of elite mercenary tactical soldiers painted his chest.

"Private dogs..." Karan murmured under his breath. He didn't flinch. He charged straight into the line of fire.

The world became a blur of kinetic motion, muzzle flashes lighting up his white mask as he weaved past bullets with impossible, calculated speed. His mind instantly shifted into operational calculus. He sliced through the squad with cold, mathematical precision. A blade severed a rifle barrel in one fluid motion; a tactical strike dismantled a neck guard in the next.

They train for wars. He trains for slaughter. Every breath they take is an equation he has already solved.

The Cost of Arrogance

(Present Day — Active Combat)

The fight slowed for a fraction of a second. An elite mercenary, faster and more observant than the rest, managed to slip past Karan's guard. His tactical blade hissed through the humid air, catching Karan's shoulder. It tore through the heavy white fabric of his coat, biting deep enough to draw blood.

The mercenary grinned beneath his combat helmet, an ugly, mocking sneer escaping him. "They told us you were a monster. Don't see much of a 'natural' here, freak."

Karan stopped moving. Completely.

He let his eyes close beneath the white fabric of his mask, shutting out the chaotic noise of the rain and the rustling canopy. The jungle vanished. There was only geometry, distance, and vector. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he hurled his combat knife backward without looking.

THWIP. THK.

The blade found its mark, embedding itself perfectly into the mocking soldier's left eye socket. The man dropped to his knees instantly, his hands flying to his face as a ragged, screaming agony tore from his throat.

Karan opened his eyes, staring down at him coldly. "Hn. Natural?"

He closed the distance before the soldier could fall over. With one brutal, unyielding motion, he ripped the helmet clear off the man's head. His fingers dug deep into the remaining eye socket, gouging it out with a sickening, wet crunch. He crushed the tissue in his bare fist, then violently stuffed the wet, bloody remains down the soldier's screaming throat, choking out his final breaths.

"Yeah," Karan whispered to his dying ears. "A natural fighter. And more than that..." He leaned closer as the body went limp. "...a natural, God-gifted cannibal."

The Forging of a Monster

(Flashback — The Hermit's Training Montage)

Karan turned his back on the mutilated corpse and walked straight into the pitch-black darkness of the jungle canopy, letting the solid black shadows swallow him whole.

"Natural." There was nothing natural about what he had become. He wasn't born a monster. He was forged.

His mind drifted back to the immediate aftermath of that bloody day. He remembered staggering aimlessly through the crashing, violent waves of a stormy sea. His glasses were long gone, his clothes shredded into bloody rags, and his spirit completely dead. He was nothing but a hollow shell. He remembered collapsing face-first into the freezing, salt-stung water, fully expecting to let the tide take him.

But the universe wasn't done punishing him.

A thin, weathered old hermit found him on that lonely, wooded shoreline. He was an ancient bastard, living deep within forgotten woods, but he possessed the strength of an apex predator. He dragged Karan's waterlogged carcass back to his isolated cabin and kept him breathing for months.

Then, he broke him.

The months blurred into a brutal, rhythmic training montage of pain and rebirth. Karan remembered meditating for hours under a freezing, bone-crushing waterfall, forcing his mind to find absolute stillness amidst the chaos. He remembered tracking wild game through dense, unforgiving brush with nothing but a crude wooden spear, learning to mimic the silent, predatory grace of a tiger.

And he remembered the old bastard ruthlessly striking him with a thick bamboo staff every time his stance faltered while practicing Kalaripayattu. He drove Karan into low, deadly martial arts stances until his legs screamed and his hands bled.

By the time the hermit was done, the lean, corporate tech billionaire was dead and buried. In his place stood a massive, bulky powerhouse of scarred muscle. Drenched in sweat in the cabin courtyard, Karan lifted a heavy, ancient Indian steel Khanda sword, feeling its lethal weight balance perfectly in his grip.

The hermit taught him how to hunt. How to silence the white-hot rage in his head. How to kill with medieval steel. The nameless old bastard taught him everything he needed to know... but as Karan stood there staring at the glint of the blade, a dark, predatory awareness flashed in his chest.

Out of all his lessons... which one did he actually enjoy the most?

The Transaction

(Flashback — Days Before the Village Massacre)

Before the blood began to flow, a chilling prelude played out in the center of the village dirt.

Ramesh Nagarjuna stood trembling, absolute terror pinning his boots to the ground. The arrogant panchayat’s son was completely out of his league, his chest heaving with frantic breaths as he faced a towering, pitch-black silhouette. The mystery man loomed over him like an immovable monolith, casting a suffocating presence that seemed to swallow the surrounding air. With cold, transactional finality, the shadow handed Ramesh a heavy mandate—a massive payment to secure this specific village land by any means necessary.

As Ramesh clutched the money with shaking, sweaty hands, the mystery man did something entirely bizarre and unsettling. He slowly knelt down, running his fingers through the dirt. He bent low to sniff the very soil, a dark, clinical obsession passing over his hidden features.

"I will have this piece of shit village of urs, Karan Padmaachaarya," the mystery man muttered into the quiet air, his voice a freezing baritone.

The shadow rose, turning on his heel to stride toward a massive, matte-black helicopter idling just beyond the tree line, its rotors already screaming as they began to spin. As the mystery man walked away, the aggressive wind from the chopper blades caught the heavy folds of his coat. In between the sudden, violent movement and the blinding dust storm, a sleek, leather-bound checkbook slipped cleanly out from his inner pocket, falling completely unnoticed into the mud.

The moment the chopper tore into the sky, the atmospheric pressure in the courtyard snapped. His terror instantly warping into a rabid, overcompensated cruelty to appease his hidden handlers, Ramesh turned toward the houses with a sick, predatory grin. The massacre was initiated.

The Great Betrayal

(Flashback — The Day of the Massacre)

Because the rage never truly left. The memory always started with the heat—the suffocating, delirious fever that had pinned his younger, frail self to the mattress, leaving him as helpless as a newborn child while the world burned outside.

Through the wide-open front door of their village house, the sunlit courtyard was fully visible. It was a cruel, beautiful frame for a nightmare.

Ramesh Nagarjuna and his gang of upper-caste thugs violently dragged Dripti out into the dirt. Her clothes were torn, her hair wild and disheveled, but she was fighting back with everything she had, screaming Karan's name. In the background, lower-caste villagers were running out of their homes in confusion and terror.

Karan watched it all through that open doorway. He couldn't move his legs. His muscles refused to respond to his frantic commands. He couldn't even scream. He could only lie there in his sweat, forced to watch as Ramesh and his rabid dogs tore her world apart.

But they didn't just want to kill her. They wanted to destroy everything they had built, every ounce of progress they had brought to that village. Ramesh brutally grabbed Dripti's wrists from behind, pinning her. With a sick grin, he forced a heavy, smoking handgun into her trembling, resisting fingers, violently forcing it to point directly at the old village priest—the man who had blessed them just days before.

Ramesh squeezed his hand over hers, forcing her finger to pull the trigger.

BLAM.

The old priest dropped dead into the dirt.

The village square erupted into absolute, blind warfare in a matter of seconds. The lower-caste villagers saw the smoking gun in Dripti's hand. Mad with grief and blind rage, believing she had murdered their beloved elder to buy her own safety, they turned on her. They swarmed over her alongside Ramesh's men, dragging her down into the filth.

"No... please... don't..." Karan had sobbed weakly from the bed, tears of pure agony and shame streaming down his face. He had pleaded like a pathetic, sniveling coward.

She had trusted him to protect her. In her final moments, she looked toward the open door, her eyes desperately searching for her husband. And he just lay there. Watching.

Then came the strike that shattered his soul. Ramesh pinned her down completely. With a triumphant, sadistic grin, his fingers dug deep into her face, gouging her eye completely out of its socket and crushing it wetly in his bare fist.

Dripti’s face twisted into a final, agonizing scream that echoed through Karan's soul.

And that was the exact microsecond the good man died... and the Cannibal was born.

The Den of the Cannibal

(Present Day — Arriving at the Hideout)

The rain poured down in the present day, washing the fresh blood from his hands as Karan walked toward a decaying, rotting colonial-era mansion hidden deep within the dark island jungle. Vines strangled the cracked stone pillars, and the grand roof had partially collapsed under the weight of time. He left a trail of dark, heavy blood dripping from his sliced shoulder as he crossed the shattered threshold.

Every paradise requires a gatekeeper. And every monster needs a place to hide.

Inside the grand, dust-choked foyer, massive cobwebs hung like funeral shrouds over the walls. Karan walked straight to a massive, ornate grandfather clock resting against the far wall. Reaching behind the heavy wooden frame, his fingers found the hidden mechanical release.

A heavy, hydraulic click echoed through the empty mansion.

The massive clock slid smoothly aside on hidden tracks, revealing a sleek, ultra-modern secret passage buried behind the colonial decay. Brilliant, cold white LED lights cascaded downward, illuminating a subterranean stairwell.

Welcome to the Den. The den of the Cannibal.

Karan descended into a spectacular, massive, sterile underground base of operations. The moment his boots touched the pristine white floor, rows of automated overhead stadium lights flickered to life one by one, illuminating a vast engineering bay that stretched into the dark.

The base was built from the bones of ShastraBhandaar's ghost budget—a multi-billion rupee fortress buried deep beneath the dirt.

Karan walked past a specialized glass weapon cache. Inside rested a beautiful, lethal, high-tech spear forged from pure white titanium, surrounded by a terrifying collection of custom combat swords, tactical knives, and sleek pocket blades. He slowly hovered his blood-stained hand over the glass panel, staring at the reflections of his instruments.

"My loyal friends..." he murmured.

Turning toward a massive wall of digital screens, the primary monitor flared to life, displaying a dynamic, glowing holographic grid of the entire island, fed by thousands of hidden CCTVs and motion sensors. Below the console, he gripped a heavy steel mechanical lever and threw his weight into pulling it backward.

"Hn," he growled. "Let's get the beast out."

Viscera & Vengeance

(Present Day — Inside the Engineering Bay)

A large section of the pristine white floor split open, retracting with a mechanical hum. Rising from the hydraulic platform was an aggressive, ultra-sleek, custom hypercar—a pure white Ferrari F76, heavily armored with reinforced ballistic plating.

His beast. The Cannibal-Viscera.

Right behind it, two more automated platforms emerged from the subterranean floor. The first carried a rugged, military-grade tactical motorcycle—a custom Royal Enfield Ronin bristling with modifications. The second platform held a towering, terrifying weaponized stealth jet, shaped like a classic Blackbird spy plane but painted in a blinding, pure corporate white.

Another one... the Royal Enfield Ronin. And behind her... the fully weaponized White Bird. His love.

Karan stepped away from the fleet, pulling open his bloodied, ruined white tactical suit jacket. He unzipped the shredded, crimson-stained garment and hung it carefully onto a specialized display rack. To the left of the rack hung five other identical, heavily blood-stained white suits from his past missions—a morbid timeline of his vengeance. To the right stood a flawless, sterile row of brand-new white replacements.

Stepping into the small, stainless-steel medical bay near the entrance, he tore off his stark-white ninja mask and forced himself to look directly into the large, illuminated mirror. The face staring back at him was heavily scarred but sharp, framed by a thick, well-groomed beard and a tight, straight military-cut hairstyle. His chest and shoulders were a horrific road map of thick, black surgical stitches.

"Another one..." he groaned, wincing as he inspected the fresh knife wound on his bare shoulder.

He reached for a bottle of expensive red wine, cracking the seal with a sharp twist. He took a massive, desperate swig straight from the bottle, letting the alcohol burn his throat, before tilting it sideways and pouring the harsh liquid directly into the raw, gaping laceration on his skin.

The pain was blinding. Karan threw his head back, screaming into the empty steel room.

"DRIPTI!"

Her name was the only medicine that worked. The only word that calmed the fire in his blood. Every damn time.

With a sharp pull, he tightly wrapped a thick tactical bandage over the raw, burning wound, fastening the knot with a practiced jerk. "Every damn time."

A single, heavy, dark crimson drop of blood escaped his fingertips, falling through the air and splashing directly onto the sterile white floor tiles. He stared down into the expanding, dark crimson liquid reflection of the blood pool on the floor, watching the silhouette of the monster he had become tilt the wine bottle back, drinking deeply in the shadows.

The Distortion of Memory

(Present Day — Nightmare / Subconscious Hallucination)

But the wine didn't bring sleep; it brought the nightmare.

The world warped into a surreal, heavily distorted version of their village courtyard. A ragged, one-eyed, blood-soaked Dripti lay dying in the dirt before him. Ramesh Nagarjuna stood over her body, laughing maniacally without a single sound escaping his lips, sadistically forcing the remains of her own gouged eye into her open mouth.

Karan’s younger self staggered toward them in agonizing slow motion, completely helpless.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with the dark blood on her face. She looked directly at him with an absolute heartbreak that ripped through his subconscious.

Karan... I'm sorry. Please forgive me. Please lie down... you have done enough.

Suddenly, the dream froze, dropping its colors into a harsh, stark contrast. He was on his knees right in front of her, desperately gripping her cold hands, weeping and begging like a child.

"Don't leave me! Please... please take me with you! Please, Dripti!"

No, Karan. Don't cry, sweetheart. You still have work to do. You have to save those villagers... help them rebuild what they are destroying. Please stay... protect your loved ones. Help your family.

"Villagers?!" Karan shouted, his expression turning completely cold and hollow. His simple linen shirt violently warped, turning into the blood-splattered, white tactical Cannibal suit right before her eyes. "They took you away from me, Dripti! They are not my loved ones! Not my family! You were my family... and they took you!"

Dripti shrank back in absolute terror, staring at the monster he had become. She screamed, scrambling backward in the dirt away from him.

"Noooo! Stay away from me! Stay away from me! What did you do with my Karan?!"

"Dripti, wait—"

"Stay away, don't come near me, you monster!" she yelled, running into the dark void.

Karan violently sat up on the medical table, gasping for air and drenched in a cold sweat. The phantom screams still echoed in his ears. Panic and sorrow twisted his chest, a brutal reminder that he had lost her all over again. He smashed his fist down onto the steel floor, cracking a tile under the sheer force of his rage.

"No... NOOO! How did I forget?! How did I let myself sleep?!"

He forced his breathing to slow down, staring at the cracked tile. A single, heavy tear escaped his eye, falling toward the floor.

"I don't drink. I don't sleep," he whispered into the empty base. "I can't let her get away from me... No, Dripti. I am a monster... but this monster would never hurt you. I wish... I wish I was there when they took you."

The Snap

(Flashback — The Unedited Reality of the Massacre)

The tear hit the floor, and the ripple in the fluid seemed to warp the entire world around him, pulling him back into the raw, unedited memory of the past.

The watery ripple solidified into the wooden floorboards of their village house. He had been sweating, fever-ridden, and trembling, dragging himself across the floor toward the open doorway. Outside, Ramesh's fingers were actively digging into Dripti's eye.

"NOOOOOOO!"

An explosive surge of pure adrenaline kicked in, shattering the paralysis of the fever. Something inside his brain snapped.

Karan vaulted to his feet, lunging toward the kitchen table. His hand gripped a heavy carving knife, and before his conscious mind could even process the movement, he drove it directly into Ramesh’s chest. The man dropped instantly in a violent spray of crimson.

"GET AWAY FROM HER!"

What followed was a manic, fast-paced blur of pure slaughter. The gentle billionaire who had never raised a finger against another human being vanished. He became an absolute machine, dropping bodies with clean, calculated slashes.

What is happening?! I’ve never fought anyone in my life... how the hell am I doing this? How am I killing them with so much precision?!

Amidst the absolute chaos, a weak, bleeding Dripti reached out, her hand gently brushing against his ankle as if calling out to me one last time. He froze, looking down into her remaining eye.

BANG.

A bullet tore into his shoulder from behind, fired by a panicked villager caught in the crossfire.

Karan spun around, his mind completely consumed by a feral, unhinged rage. He glared at the shooter, his eyes bloodshot and predatory.

"You dared to do that?!" he roared. "Now face the consequences!"

He lunged, grabbing the shooter by the throat and violently slicing his neck open with a single motion. As the body dropped, he caught the automatic rifle mid-air. He lost all control. Spinning on his heel, he blindly sprayed bullets into the entire crowd—men, women, attackers, and the rioting villagers alike.

He erased everything in sight.

Dripti saw the monster that day. It was the last thing she ever saw before she died. When the smoke slowly cleared and the dust settled, the entire courtyard had become a silent graveyard. And a heavily blooded Karan Padmaacharya was the sole survivor left standing in the quiet rain.

The Cold Trail

(Present Day — The Den Mission Console)

Back at the main desk in the present day, Karan sat in his high-tech chair, completely composed. The memories were locked away again. He opened a sleek, metallic drawer and pulled out a weathered, leather-bound artifact: a Leonard Securities checkbook.

It had taken him an entire year to get a single clue. Or rather, to get out of his own naive assumption that it was just a simple village massacre.

For an entire year, he had run those village names against every global database he could hack. There were zeros across the board. How could he find anything? He had killed all the immediate perpetrators that day. He spent hours patrolling the cursed, barren ruins of his village land, staring into the dirt under a grey sky, wondering what it was all for.

Eventually, he tracked down the children of those deceased villagers, hoping for a thread. Two were studying in the UK. One was in France—he loved France. The target was working a corporate job. Karan paid the three of them a quiet, unseen visit, but found only one consistent fact: they hadn't had contact with that village in years. Another dead end.

Until one year ago, when the White Bird hovered silently using its vertical thrusters, landing stealthily in a clearing just outside the overgrown borders of the abandoned Puducherry village. Karan stepped out of the cockpit, clad in his stark-white tactical suit, and raised his wrist monitor. It was glowing with a massive cluster of bright orange heat-signature anomalies originating directly from the center of the ruins.

Perimeter sensors had picked up unexpected life. Heat signatures in a ghost town.

Trespassers Will Be Terminated

(Flashback — One Year Ago / The Puducherry Outpost)

Karan moved through the thick jungle brush like a phantom, parting the tall leaves to look down into their old village square. The ruins had been converted into a heavily fortified, high-tech military checkpost. Armored personnel carriers were parked where children used to play, and tactical tents were pitched around the ancient banyan tree.

Now who are they? And what do they want from this dead soil?

Zooming in with his tactical visor, he focused on the side of a heavy military transport truck. Stamped clearly on the door was a sharp, corporate emblem: Leonard Securities.

Private military. Who sent them? What do they want? Is this the missing thread to the day my world burned? If it is... he is dying. And his private army isn't going to save him.

Karan leapt down from a high concrete wall, striking like lightning. In one fluid motion, he drove two custom knives into the neck guards of the two outpost sentries before their brains could even process his silhouette.

What followed was a lethal, rhythmic sequence of silent takedowns. He effortlessly bypassed their laser-wire traps, cut the power lines to their security grid, and executed passing patrol guards with clean, synchronized hand-to-hand movements.

Hn. Trained professionals. They work for someone big, for sure.

He kicked open the heavy steel doors of the main command camp tent. Inside, a dozen heavily armed mercenary guards spun around in shock.

"We have company!! Lock down the tent!" someone yelled.

The lead Sergeant lunged forward, raising his tactical rifle to aim directly at Karan's chest. "Sir, you are trespassing—"

Before the soldier could finish the sentence, Karan closed the distance instantly. His fist struck the man's jaw with bone-shattering force, knocking him completely unconscious mid-air. Simultaneously, he dropped into a perfect, low-angle evasion under a hail of incoming gunfire, his free hand drawing a sidearm, ready to dismantle the rest of the squad with absolute precision.

Dammit, Loyalty!

(Flashback — One Year Ago / The Command Tent Raid)

When the smoke finally cleared inside the command tent, every single mercenary guard lay unconscious or dead on the floor. Only the Sergeant was left groaning, barely conscious, trying to drag his shattered body toward the exit.

Karan stood over him and fired his high-tensile wrist launcher. A thick, metallic carbonate cable wrapped tightly around his frame, pinning his arms to his sides with a sharp THWIP-ZIP!

Then Karan kneeled over the bound man, aggressively tearing open his tactical vest pockets and dumping the contents onto the floor. Among the survival gear, his hand locked onto a, weathered object—the leather checkbook.

The ghost from his past finally had a name attached to it: Leonard Securities.

Karan drove his combat knife deep into the Sergeant's thigh, slowly twisting the blade. The man's head hooked back in a mute, agonized scream.

"Who commands Leonard Securities? Why are you occupying this village? Speak."

He gave the mercenary every opportunity to save himself. Over the next hour, he took him apart piece by piece stabs, shattered bones, stripped fingers. But the Sergeant's jaw stayed locked. His eyes grew hollow, glazing over until his head slumped heavily to the side, completely lifeless. He died carrying his secrets to the grave.

"Wake up," Karan growled, shaking his limp shoulders. "Wake up!"

He stood up in the center of the ruined tent, surrounded by the dead. He threw his bloody knife violently into the ground, his posture radiating absolute fury and frustration.

"Dammit... LOYALTY!!!!!" he roared into the empty night.

Outside the camp, the pristine white stealth jet, the White Bird, blasted its vertical thrusters, rocketing straight up into the stormy night sky and leaving the burning, silent military checkpost behind. The world faded into a heavy, black void.

Feathers of a Coin

For what are we,
if not weavers of truth?
Of paradox.
Of mystery.
Of moments that ache to be both shared and unique.

For what are we, if not both
the myth and the metric,
the spirit and the scientist,
the child in the mirror
and the clinician behind the door.

When I peer my little eye into the literature
I see both poetry and research
written by curious minds
aching to touch the heart of others
silently wondering if anyone understands

It is common to hold reverence for both
So why is it so rare to see them dancing together?
To sing songs of love and suffering
as a chorus
rather than two voices
echoing across distant shores?

If their contradiction is socially constructed, what function does it have?
To what end does it serve
to divide two faces of the same coin?

To split the paths that brought us here
to revere one
and exile the other?

Nature vs nurture
Myth vs science
Felt vs observed
Love vs suffering
Meaning vs hopelessness

Perhaps what i grieve most
is how often we come across a feather and seek its origin for hopes of novel discovery, as this path rarely returns us
to sacred connection
and ancient remembering

And for you?
Perhaps you’ve felt it too:

Though our eyes may see
only one side of a coin at a time,
the other side does not vanish.
It waits, always,
beneath the surface of our certainty.

It is not the image,
but the interplay,
that births the coin
we hold in our very hands.

And so, in our hands,
we hold more than object
we hold existence.

A gleaming truth
made real
only by what cannot be seen
from one side alone.

In the town of Nechabare, a place where food is scarce and compassion scarcer, only one voice wept. For the dead marchioness, not one tear was shed, for the people of Nechabare did not like tears and she had already made them shed too many. But one woman did cry, her moans a duet to the night’s relentless wind. She wept, and the neighbors could hear her sobs even beyond the creaking of their homes shaking in the storm. They did not try to comfort her. Maybe they would have, on a calmer night, with less fierce winds. At least, that’s what they tell themselves. 
In one home, the shoemaker’s wife remarked to him that it was a pity to see someone so young pass, that Marie—the young girl’s mother—did not have any other children to replace her. They spoke in past tense, as if the girl had already died. To the town of Nechabare, she had. 
They were not speaking of the marchioness. No, they spoke of a shy young woman, whose name rang in their skulls like the sound of their coins in their boots—that is to say, most had already forgotten it. 

The next morning, as the shoemaker and his wife, as the priest, the shepherd, the baker, the butcher, the mayor (and everyone else who found the will within themselves to gather in the town’s center) arrived, they noticed something strange. They didn’t notice it at first, for it is sometimes difficult to pin down the absence of something, or what that absence is. 
The butcher’s son pieced it together first. “She’s not crying.”

She. The young woman’s mother. The lone voice. Perhaps she had already accepted her daughter’s fate. Still, the townspeople moved forward with unspoken unease. 
The only sound was that of gravel underfoot. Its brittle crunch sounded like the snapping of small bones. The shoemaker’s wife reached for her husband’s hand, interlocking fingers. 

The mayor of Nechabare was not portly; no one in Nechabare could afford to be. But a side silhouette as he walked to the podium made it clear he was no stranger to liquors, and the mayor bent his arms at his elbows if only to hide his protuberant stomach. Mayor Elkzien always walked like this, inadvertently bringing more attention to the very thing he wished to hide. 

“We gather today,” Mayor Elkzien began once he reached the podium. “In d-d-deep s-sorrow, for we have l-lost a most honorable woman this turn of unfortun—unfort—unfortunate events.”
Mayor Eikzien was not sad. No one was. Not for the marchioness. Most didn’t even try to appear distraught. He was not sad, no, but he was nervous; two hundred unblinking, expressionless faces listening to his eulogy for a woman of more high status than anyone else in this forgotten corner of the world could ever dream of becoming. 

Ron Elkzien was new to his job. Respect had not yet been earned and he could feel it in his every interaction. Some days it drove him mad. Drove him to his father’s cellar. There he drank his bitterness away with even bitterer drinks. 

The mayor continued on, stuttering and rambling, deviating from his script in places where he thought he ought to change that wording but only making his new speech clumsier. 
Eventually, finally, the marquess—soon to be duke—arrived, atop a large black stallion that was somehow fitting to his nature and boldly contrasting to the freshly fallen snow. Two other riders were slightly behind him, one on a gray horse with white spots and the other one so dark brown it was nearly the same shade as the marquess’s. Its rider was also nearly the same hue, and so were her clothes. 

The mayor sputtered to a stop and sighed, relieved to be freed from a speech he didn’t want to give, and which his audience didn’t want to hear. One by one, they each turned to see the looming figure behind them and his two accomplices. 

“You told me,” started the marquess in a quiet but icy tone, and the mayor was no longer relieved. “That I could leave my wife here while I journeyed. We had a bargain.”

Ron swore he could feel the marquess’ voice rattling the bones in his rib cage, despite the man’s distance and soft voice. One gust of wind would sweep his words away, but the wind stopped to listen along with the people. 

“We c-cannot interfere with—with the will of Doria—”

He held up a hand. Not abruptly or angrily; it didn’t need to be. 

“I didn’t ask you to plead your case.” He paused. The town held its breath. “I came for justice. You took my most beloved and now I take yours.”

The mayor’s heart bruised a little when he thought about what was to happen. Of course, the sacrifice of one girl is better than the sacrifice of a whole town, even if she was a rather pretty girl. In the next life, maybe. 

“Y-yes. Um, on with it, then.” He motioned to the butcher and the shoemaker. They nodded grimly. The shoemaker let go of his wife’s hand, and the heaviness in their steps was almost imperceptible. 

His hammering heart. The crunch of gravel. A beat passed. Then another. 

In one swift motion, the butcher swung open the wine cellar where the girl was stored. A pause.
The two men looked at each other, and then the butcher dropped himself into the hole below. A hushed whisper began to spread through the town like a lake being frozen over, and the marquess’s horse neighed as he urged it forward. People parted before him, and the mayor began to feel a bit of doom with every step the sleek black horse took, every bit closer he got to that foreboding cellar door. 

Finally the butcher resurfaced, helped by a hand from the shoemaker, and the entirety of the town’s attention was on him. 

The butcher was a man who kept his emotions under a tight leash, if he had any at all. That is partially why he was chosen for this job; the other, of course, being that he is no stranger to death. Yet when he emerged, his face was drained of color, and he glanced hesitantly from the marquess to the mayor. 

“Well?” asked the marquess, and for once there was a hint of emotion, impatience.
“She’s not here, sir.”

His voice seemed to imply that the girl was simply misplaced, as one occasionally misplaces his other shoe or his hunting knife. Mayor Elkzien knew this wasn’t the case. The girl was tied up and given a strong liquor to make her sleep, and the mayor was the first one to arrive since the storm. Who would have so little sanity as to go in the storm, only to doom the rest of Nachabare? 
It was demons, surely. There were dark forces in this town, plucking off all the holiest souls one by one. First the marchioness, now the much beloved daughter of Marie…
Marie. The accursed woman broke her daughter free mid-storm, dooming them all. Marie and her daughter will freeze, and if not they’ll starve. The mountains where Nechabare are nested are not kindly nor forgiving.

And the rest of them, well.

From his mount, the marquess ran his sword through the throat of the shoemaker. The man’s neck may as well have been made of smoke for all the ease at which the sword ran through it. The townspeople didn’t run at first, too shocked at what they had seen. In fact, the shoemaker’s wife cried out and bolted forward, toward her dead or dying husband. She was the next to go.
“You thought to disrespect me once more, did you?” demanded the marquess. Over the clamor of running, yelling, and crying, only Mayer Elkzien heard him. Mayor Elkzien, stuck in place, transfixed, watching his town die. “Doria’s will is that justice is brought. Justice will be brought.”
And justice did he bring.

Hey y'all. I write. Constantly. It's my therapy for this f_ed up world we live in. I have a few finished pieces— some, I've posted parts of on here before. I just wanted to share one I've been working on for some time. In all honesty, I don't know if I'll ever find the time to get anything published (I work too much and I'm too critical of anything I do).

I live in New Orleans. I started writing this one during Hurricane Ida, 5 years ago, because I had no power and was getting baked in 90 degree temperatures. It's about a hurricane and the president of the United States drops an experimental nuclear war head to try and stop it, but the outcome is horrible and horrifying. The book is the testimonies of residents and what they experienced before New Orleans became hell on earth. This is one of the statements.

Color Study in Rot As told by Brianna Bennett, Age 28, painter, Bywater

​New Orleans’ll chew your ass up long before it loves you.

​That’s the trick nobody tells the transplants. They move here thinking the city’s all brass bands and frozen drinks and girls showing their tits for beads. They don’t see the mold growing inside the walls. Don’t smell the river when it gets hot enough to wake up. Don’t understand what it does to people who stay too long.

​But if the city chooses you?

​You stay anyway. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.

​I was living in a rotted shotgun in the Bywater with three busted windows, a dying window unit, and a raccoon that kept getting into my ceiling. Rent was cheap because the floor dipped in the middle and the landlord thought “historic charm” meant exposed black mold.

​Still loved it.

​Still walked to the corner store barefoot at three in the morning for cigarettes and beer. Still sat on rooftops listening to freight trains scream across the river. Still painted till sunrise while drunk neighbors fought outside my window. That neighborhood was ugly in the prettiest way possible. Graffiti over flood stains. Jasmine growing through chain-link fences. Needles in the gutters beside murals worth ten grand.

​It felt honest.

​I painted because I couldn’t afford therapy. Mostly huge canvases full of wet-looking people and collapsing buildings and weird body horror shit nobody wanted hanging over their couch. I sold enough tiny streetcar paintings to tourists to survive, then spent all the money on liquor and oils and cigarettes. Real glamorous life.

​My partner, Damion, left maybe a month before everything got bad. Packed his stuff in trash bags while I was asleep on the couch after a gallery opening. Said I loved New Orleans more than I loved being alive. Said the city was eating me up and I was letting it happen because I thought suffering made me interesting.

​Maybe he was right.

​He hugged me before he left, and I remember smelling his sweat while he embraced me, and I remember not knowing how to ask somebody to stay. That’s the kind of thing this city does too. It teaches you how to lose people slow.

​After the storm, everybody got weird. Meaner. Like watching termites drop their wings. Like the sudden, unsettling aftermath of a swarm.

​First it was little things. People snapping too fast. Arguments turning violent over absolutely nothing. A dude in line at the grocery smashed a wine bottle into another guy’s mouth because he reached for the last case of water. Saw a woman claw her own husband bloody outside a pharmacy while screaming he was "breathing funny.”

​Nobody knew why everybody felt so angry all the time. The city already had trauma in its bloodstream before all this. Storms. Poverty. Violence. Corruption. Everybody in New Orleans got some level of damage already cooked into them. Whatever came after the storm just cracked people open wider.

​I noticed the eyes before anything else. Huge pupils. Bloodshot, a thick web of red. Like they were seeing the world through a broken camera lens. And colors bothered them. Bright stuff especially.

​One night I watched a turned man sprint directly past three motionless people hiding in shadows just to attack a blinking orange construction sign. He tore the thing apart with his bare hands while screaming bloody murder at it.

​That got my attention. I’m a painter. My brain notices stupid visual shit automatically. Contrast. Movement. Shape. The turned didn’t really “see” normally anymore. Their brains grabbed onto loud visual information first. Bright colors. Motion. Hard outlines.

​Everything else blurred together. That realization saved my damn life.

​Or maybe something else did.

​It happened in my studio about two weeks later. I was upstairs chain-smoking beside an unfinished canvas when I heard screaming outside. Not unusual anymore. But then came this wet cracking sound. Like somebody stomping watermelons.

​I looked through the blinds and saw my neighbor Cody in the street. Or parts of him. Three turned people were on him like dogs. One was smashing his face into the curb over and over while another clawed at his stomach trying to pull him open. Blood covered the sidewalk in these thick black puddles shining under the streetlights.

​And the worst part? Nobody was yelling words anymore. Just noises. Animal noises.

​One of them looked up and saw movement in my window. Then all three charged my house. I barely had time to lock the studio door before they hit the front room downstairs. Furniture started breaking immediately. I heard glass shatter. One of them was screaming so hard it sounded like their throat was being scraped raw with broken glass.

​The first turned came through my studio door so violently the knob punched through drywall. It was this girl I vaguely recognized from the neighborhood. Purple hair before all this happened. Now half her scalp was missing and one arm bent sideways where the bone healed wrong. She was bleeding everywhere but didn’t seem to notice.

​She started wrecking the room instantly. Smashing canvases. Throwing shelves. Punching holes in walls. Looking for something alive to destroy.

​And I realized—

​She wasn’t actually searching carefully. She was reacting. Like a shark hitting electrical impulses. My eyes landed on the wall behind me. Water stains. Mold blooms. Nicotine yellowing. And my paint kit sitting open on the table.

​I don’t know if it was genius or desperation. Probably both.

​I started throwing paint on myself fast as I could. Gray undertones first. Then mildew greens. Brown water stains across my tits. Dry-brushed texture on my neck and jaw. I painted my damn eyelids. Then I flattened myself against the wall and stopped moving.

​The turned woman stalked closer. Breathing hard. Blood dripping off her fingertips. She got so close I could smell her sweat—metallic and sour like overheated pennies. Her eyes moved across me twice. Didn’t register me.

​Because I wasn’t a person anymore. I was background. Texture. Part of the rot.

​She stood there twitching for maybe twenty seconds before another scream outside pulled her attention away. Then she ran out. Just like that.

​I stayed against that wall till sunrise with paint drying on my skin and tears running into the acrylic. Not because I was scared anymore. Because I kept thinking about what Damion said before he left.

​You disappear into this city like you want it to swallow you whole.

​And standing there against that ruined wall, painted into the decay so perfectly even monsters couldn’t see me… I honestly couldn’t tell if my camouflage saved my life—or if I’d already gotten so good at disappearing nobody could see me anymore.

"Looking at a cylinder from the side does not deny the fact that it is a pure circle from above"

Everything moves slowly. There is a gaze that invokes stagnation; perhaps what the crowd chooses does not necessarily reflect reality. After all, looking at a cylinder from the side does not deny the fact that it is a pure circle from above.

A steel bed, a neatly arranged mattress, a spotless floor — everything is white, except for the brown landline phone on the left side of the bed. The old man, with his light beard, lies there peacefully. Having just awakened, his head was turned toward the phone, to which he paid no attention. His eyes scanned the walls and the ceiling, exploring his surroundings. He could not move his limbs. Paralysis bound his lower body.

He thought of moving his hand to lift the blanket, to discover why he could not move his legs, but a voice within him failed to grasp the situation. He knew he must move his hands, but they surrendered, refusing even to lift

the blanket in utter futility. Finally, bending to his mind's command, he managed to pull the blanket off his body. There were white ropes binding his feet.

He set everything aside upon noticing the window on the right, where a small cloud sat near the corner — the same cloud that had kept its place for days. He had awakened for six consecutive days, as far as he could remember, or perhaps less... or maybe more... he did not know.

No one was there, and why should anyone be? Here, where no eyes watched and no intruder peeked.

Yet the old man kept his face toward the window, noticing that beneath it, near his bed, stood a secluded table. Upon it sat a glass vase, its white roses withered, and one had turned yellow after falling. He stared at them for a long time. He reflected that whether he existed or not — regardless of the truth of the vase and whatever lay behind the frozen window — he simply had to leave it all behind and focus on what truly mattered to him. His right cheek rested on the pillow. Involuntarily, out of sheer exhaustion, he closed his eyes.

Another petal from the white rose fell to the floor — right where one of the ropes lay torn.

Hi everyone, I'm Aami (pronounced Ah-me)! 👋 I’ve been writing since I was a teenager, and while I think my work reflects those years of practice, I have actually never shared it with anyone before. I've been challenged to finally put my writing out there, so here I am! I'm mostly looking for some constructive criticism to help me decide if I should start posting my work regularly or keep it as a private hobby.

​I mainly write romantic comedy short fictions. Also, a quick heads-up on my specific style: I am fascinated by fetal development, so my stories will always feature a pregnancy subplot! Thank you so much for reading and being kind to a first-timer. I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Here's an excerpt :

"Everyone congratulated me on becoming a mother. They didn't know I'd cried over a toilet that morning. They didn't know my ribs still ached when I laughed too hard or that I was learning how to hold my stomach without flinching from my own reflection. They saw a husband kissing his pregnant wife beneath twinkling patio lights and called it beautiful. I smiled for the pictures anyway. Some women become mothers the moment they see two pink lines. I think I became one the moment I realized I'd have to save us both."

Please give me your honest opinion and let me know if you want to read more!

Keep in mind that this was originally written in romanian and translated after.

The village between hills

Silence slowly descends over the dusty narrow streets; the climb is slow, arduous. The feet stop in place, wondering where they still have the strength to continue. Dusk is just settling, over the houses and people. We greet each other like two old friends, overcome with nostalgia. I take a few moments to rest my soul, overwhelmed by the burden of thoughts. I trully see the gentle face of my grandpa, filled with a slight impatience, as if centuries had passed since our last meeting.

“How proud is grandpa standing!”

I nestle against his chest, wrapped in endless embraces, longing for ripe, sweet and fragrant plums, for the smell of the walnut tree that stands relentlessly in front of the house, for the porch bathed in the gentle light of noon. Everything around freezes in a sweet oblivion, carried by the wind and healing rains, far away to unseen lands. From afar, carts loaded with the gifts of the earth ready to fill the barns of the laborers.

I look at my grandfather in wonder, waiting for him to reveal to me the secrets of the universe, like an angel watching in silence, undisturbed by the clamor around him. His words sound like a distant echo, indecipherable, that struggle to find the recipient. All the toil and effort is visible on his face, as if he is tired of living any longer.

"What burden does he carry in his soul?"

He sits quietly on the porch, tactically chewing the tobacco hidden in his breast pocket, so that grandma won't scold him. In vain, however, as if she doesn't know him... Her smile envelops me in a warm breeze with the scent of jasmine and wallflower. I look at her enchanted; I dare not touch her for fear of her vanishing into thin air; she seems like a being from another world, present and yet ephemeral. Her body is exhausted by so many burdens, walking discreetly in a fragile balance. Silence gradually envelops me in rays of ruby light, dispelling, as if by magic, all souls.

Far from the hustle and bustle of the city, in the village between the hills, my destiny is patiently crafted by my grandmother's wise whispers, in the chamber smelling of incense and basil, where time watches at the eternal gates. Colors and scents urge me to stay for a moment, in a strange, unnatural silence, where there is no need for words, only glances that mirror my steps back home.

Love. Oh to be loved. To know someone so deeply. Oh love.. How you left me. To forget someone so intensely. Oh love.. How you hurt me. I can’t remember your sound. Oh love.. Don’t forget me.

The Tears Of Broken Lives...

The heaviest tears are never the ones that fall they are the ones you carry behind your eyes, for years, where no one ever sees them.

This is a tragic tale of those whose lives were written long before tragedy struck—their own minds failing, turning against them.

No one hands you a map for a life that was never meant to be easy. You just wake up one day, and realise you have been fighting a war you never asked to join.

We do not get to pick the life we are born into, especially those who must suffer living a broken existence where simple human emotions like joy and happiness become distant memories of something you no longer remember;

yet despite never being able to feel these most fundamental things, we force ourselves to endure life without that which makes us human.

I remember what happiness felt like, once. But now it feels like hearing a song you love, only through a wall you know it is beautiful, but you can no longer hear it clearly enough to sing along.

Some say we choose our life before we enter this world that everything we experience is the result of a carefully constructed plan from the moment of conception, your life has already been written:

Before we take our first breath, and until we draw our last, everything in between is meant to teach us something we have never known If I chose this life what kind of lesson could possibly be worth breaking me this much?"

They say each time we are born anew, memory of the past fades—but sometimes there are those who recall their former lives, what some call reincarnation.

It is extremely rare: not only to remember who you once were, but to remember what it felt like to die in that life some of us do not just carry the weight of this life. We carry the echoes of every end that came before it.

If this is true if we choose the life we now inhabit I cannot see what could be gained from a life riddled with such deep, soul-shaking pain, suffering that eats away at the very core of who you are.

This is not physical hurt; it is something rooted in the soul. You lose the ability to live the life others take for granted one filled with the joy you wish every single day you could feel, the joy they live without even thinking.

It hurts more than any wound I have ever had. To watch people smile, and laugh, and love and know that part of me died, and will never come back I pray most never know the weight of tears so heavy they can only fall after years of holding it all inside.

wounds that scar us, that leave their mark on every part of our lives this pain can debilitate us, and lead us to harm ourselves: not just physically, but emotionally, torturing ourselves with negativity until we almost lose who we are.

You learn to hurt yourself before anyone else gets the chance to. You learn to hate the broken parts of you, until you forget you were ever whole.

Those who have never walked your path have no right to say they are better than you. They will call you weak, belittle you yet they would never survive the war you carry every day, if they were placed in your shoes.

People call you broken, for being hurt by things that would have destroyed them completely.

True resilience is forged in hardship. Life throws you into the deep end to see if you will sink or swim; it is in that fire that your resolve is tested, and your strength is made.

Strength is not when you do not feel the pain. Strength is when you feel it all every single shattering piece and you still take one more step forward."

Some people survive storms. Others become the lighthouse because they know what it feels like to be lost in the dark. A soul forged in hardship does not see the world through fear alone; it sees the pain hidden behind the smiles of others.

The strongest hearts are rarely the ones that never broke. They are the ones that learned how to beat again after every fracture. The deepest wounds are often invisible but so is the strength it took to survive them.

There are battles that leave no scars on the skin, yet reshape every corner of the mind. A mind that has lived through betrayal learns to watch every shadow not because it wants to fear, but because it longs to feel safe.

You cannot compare scars. No one else has lived inside your mind, carried your memories, or fought your battles. No one truly knows the weight another carries until they have walked beneath the same sky with the same burden.

There comes a day when you stop asking why your life broke apart, and start asking what it is trying to build. Healing is not becoming the person you were before the pain it is becoming someone the pain can no longer control.

The person you are becoming could never have existed without everything you survived.

Your greatest victory is not that you escaped your past it is that your past no longer decides who you become. Nightmares lose their power the moment you stop believing they still own your future.

Growth begins where fear finally loses its authority

If you are still here, after all of it you are more than enough you are more than brave you are a miracle, that you have not yet learned to see.

Because seeing is believing what is made possible only when you believe in an impossible dream made possible beyond what you believed,

That

The light you thought you’d lost forever was never gone it was just waiting for you to learn how to shine it yourself.

So you could finally believe

Dreams do come true

Not as the easy, perfect things we once imagined, but as something stronger something forged through hardship, tempered by resilience, and refined by hope.

The greatest achievement ever bestowed upon you is not wealth, success, or recognition.

It is discovering your truth of spirit.

To become

Your true authentic self

Beyond the scope of limitations that

Define who you choose to become

Remember

It's not who you are underneath

But what you do that defines you

Because what we do in this life echoes an eternity

So I ask what is the legacy that your life will leave behind..??

What is the echoe that people will remember you for that will ring through the age's of every generation who reads this,

Remember this,

Marcus Aurelius Once said:

The happiness of your life depends upon the quality of your thoughts.

The world did not give you your light. And so the world can never take it away.

So wipe away the tears of broken lives, and open your eyes. Look closely beyond the limits you once saw.

See a new world through new eyes. Let there be no more tears behind broken lies, or fears that stole the smile from your eyes.

I've written only two chapters yet. I'm not a writer so I would really like your opinion and any suggestions you could give me regarding my writing and whether it makes you want to read more.

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My Rom Com

Chapter 1

A Clean Slate

IT’S HAPPENING! My heart is racing so fast it’s going to explode. 

I’M GOING TO COLLEGE! I scream in my mind as I stare at the screen “Congratulations Misi”. 

It feels so surreal since I had not much expectation of getting into an MBA college this year. I was ready to give CAT again. But seems like the manifestation does work (especially when your friend gives you exact steps to do it). Or maybe SRK was right when he said if you want something hard enough, the whole universe will try to make it happen for you.

To be honest I was not surprised when I was waitlisted at 160 for ISM since I had done the most embarrassing thing in my life by not wearing formals to the interview when everyone was in blazer and pants. 

But now that I’m going to college, I can’t help but feel anxious and excited. I was so terrified about not getting into college this year that I didn’t even THINK what I’d do if I do. It’s going to be the first time that I’m going to live away from my home. I’ve gone to trips before but this is completely new territory I’m going to enter. 

I tell my parents, and even through the blur of my own excitement, I catch the flash of relief and pride in their eyes. They’re thrilled, but I’m buzzing too hard to even process it, my brain is already short-circuiting. A new city, new people, a totally fresh start. It's actually happening. And honestly? My mind immediately goes to the one thing I've spent my whole life obsessing over: what if I finally get my own love story?

I am a HOPELESS romantic. Like, criminally so. I blame a childhood of mainlining cheesy Bollywood movies and Hollywood rom-coms. They completely ruined my expectations, making me genuinely believe in perfect meet-cutes and the kind of love that's just meant to be.

But it's really hard to keep the faith when you're twenty-three and your dating history is literally a blank page. No boyfriends, no casual flings, nothing. It definitely didn't help that I spent basically all of my high school and college secretly pining after a friend who only saw me as... well, one of the guys.

But this is my clean slate. No awkward history, no unrequited crushes. Just a new city and a fresh start. This is my chance to get a rom com love that I’ve always dreamed of. And I’m going to make it happen.

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Chapter 2

The New Girl

Growing up, I’ve seen my parents fight and drift further and further apart. I know for a fact that they’re still in this marriage because they have to and not because they want to. It’s hard not to feel a twinge of guilt for judging them, because I know they love me. They’ve done everything for me, and I love them right back, more than anything. But that little knot of dread, the one that makes me want to run a mile from the idea of an arranged marriage? That’s always there.

I think that’s why I worked so hard to get here, to this point, to this MBA. I need to be independent. I need to know that when I’m thirty, I won’t be listening to them force me into a life that looks anything like theirs. It’s not that I don’t respect them; it’s just that I’m so scared of ending up stuck in the fading space where life just feels like a compromise.

Checking in at the airport with Papa, I looked at Ma, and the reality hit me. We both shed tears saying goodbye. I tried to hold mine in, I really did, but the second I looked at Ma’s face, I knew I was a goner. 

It was my first time on a plane, but surprisingly, I wasn't scared. I was too busy being overwhelmed by everything else. The ride to campus was pretty standard, but since it was all so new, I did what I always do: I turned on my favorite playlist and romanticized the view out the window. I love that feeling, the thrill of a brand-new start. It’s like the opening scene of a movie where you don’t know anything about the world yet, and for the first time, you actually believe that anything, everything, could happen.

I read the board ISM, The School of Creativity, as we pull through the main gate. It’s quiet here, mostly just birds, trees and red bricks, miles away from the city chaos. It’s baking hot, because, of course it is, but it feels different. Like I can actually breathe.

We go to the main reception and someone from the staff escorts us to my hostel Parijat. The girl I’m going to share my room with is not in the room. As we enter, I get my first look at my room. It’s fine. Two beds and two desks on either side of the room. A big window looking out at the volleyball court. It’s going to be my life for the next year, which is both exciting and weirdly terrifying. I notice the fans are centered right in the middle of the two beds which basically guarantees that it’s going to be sweltering on the bed. 

Then a girl enters the room. She’s got short, dark and curly and her skin is dark brown. She greets me and papa and introduces herself as Ananya. She hands me the key and disappears again. We leave the room to drop off papa to the gate. I try to learn the paths, but the campus looks so big, and every building looks exactly the same. I’m already worried I’m going to get lost on day one.

After Papa left, the silence in the room felt heavy, and suddenly, the excitement I’d been buzzing with all day started to ebb, replaced by a quiet, gnawing unease. I lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling fan, and let the questions I’d been shoving aside finally catch up to me. What if I don't like it here? What if I'm just… not the right fit? 

Through the window, I watched the sky turn that soft, early evening color, and I couldn’t help but feel incredibly small. It feels like everyone else has already started, like they’ve all arrived at a party where the music is already playing and everyone’s already dancing. I’ve always been the type to make friends easily, I’m an ambivert, I’m used to finding my people—but lying here, alone in this quiet room, I feel like a total fraud. Is it because I was waitlisted? Did I just sneak in while everyone else was invited? I really hope I'm just overthinking this. I just want to find one person I can click with, someone who makes this place feel less like a strange new city and more like home.

#feedbackwanted #romancewriting

Hiii! I wrote this short story for fun, and I'm trying to see if the humour and the rhythm flow well. I'd love to know if you found it funny or not. Thanks for reading!

In the quiet of night,

not a sound can be heard except for the crickets' teeny chirps and a lone nocturnal bird.

​In the quiet of night,

all creatures have found their well-deserved repose after a long day of hard chores.

From the mice to the elephants to the sheep, they all need their sleep.

​But in the quiet of night

remains the restless flutter of wings,

and a mind pulled by frustrated strings.

A single fairy floated through the air, trying hard not to despair.

She couldn't help but mourn the lost, precious hours of sleep,

for she was not promised a job with demands so deep.

The job on paper seemed worry-free: to grant wishes only three.

​But she never accounted for the human mind, and its stubborn refusal to leave daylight behind

—replacing their rest, as the night grows lean, with nothing but sheer willpower and bitter caffeine.

Which she normally wouldn't mind,

for she couldn't care less what humans designed.

​But to her misery, their lack of sleep affects her own reverie.

Since she sadly couldn’t grant wishes to the unconscious,

she's forced to fly by sleep schedules uniquely obnoxious.

​The fairy would have walked away from the job today if it weren't for the incredibly high pay.

And she could pretend she didn't need the wealth in her hand, if it weren't for her lifestyle so lavish and grand.

So in the quiet of night.

A fairy clench,her fists tight.

And her job she does with no small spite.

Oh, how she wishes her world was quiet this night!