will someone please review this story I have been working on, It's a YA action/fantasy story mostly. its unfinished rn and I'm not sure if I will finish it but I would like feedback on what's good and what's bad about it for future reference

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1VP2MhNU4T2bK_w74QnWaXC9U3oMNETr0GfqY-H34Dc0/edit?usp=sharing

Ether tramatic, physical, or more.

I'm new to Reddit and to writing in response to prompts (started dabbling with r/WritingPrompts a few days ago). I've long been reluctant to share any sort of creative writing with others out of self-consciousness and a sense that my style is clunky. So spending a few hours writing short stories on weekends feels like as good a way as any to try and get over that hump.

All this to say - this one didn't get a ton of votes, and I have no idea whether it's because it's just not compelling or because it was buried pretty far down a comment thread.

Honest feedback very welcome if you can spare it (though I'd be grateful if you could keep it kind as I still feel very nervous sharing this).

The prompt was: "Please, don't look at me that way. I practically survive on bourbon, cigarettes and banter, at this point. You have rather resolutely defeated me." [source if you'd like to read the other stories, they're good!]

*********

"Please, don't look at me that way. I practically survive on bourbon, cigarettes and banter, at this point. You have rather resolutely defeated me."

Just a tad dramatic, but then again, I expected nothing less from Basil. A theater nerd to the very core, he’d take grandiloquence over genuine communication any day of the week. 

In fairness, though, he seemed to mean it this time. His office used to be my idea of a haven, all polished wood furniture, heavy bookshelves, tall windows taking in the Oxford afternoon glow, and always a kettle brewing. I lost count of the hours we spent there in simpler times, sipping tea and expounding upon the views of our more illustrious predecessors. Philosophy, politics, they all seemed so abstract back then. He was this professoral prodigy and me, his prize student; we mistook our wit for wisdom and our culture for foresight as we laid out grandiose plans for the future late into the night. 

Oh, how the mighty had fallen. 

Basil’s office was now a mere shadow of itself, and its owner wasn’t much better off. Gone was the beautiful wooden furniture, presumably sold to fund the last bouts of his campaign. A bar cart stood where the kettle used to be, crowded with half-empty open bottles whose dizzying smells hit me like a wet slap in the face the moment I opened the door. And true to his word, Basil – wearing a crumpled shirt and tie in lieu of the elegant blazers of yore – sat at his desk, an overflowing ashtray and a bottle of cheap booze conveniently within reach. 

I tried to suppress the disgust from my face and to stop wrinkling my nose as I let myself in. 

“Really Basil – what did you expect? I’d heard you’d let yourself slide, but dear God I had no idea…”

As I spoke my eyes searched for a chair that looked like it’d been dusted any time in the prior decade, but soon gave up and grabbed a sorry excuse for a stool that looked like it was both somewhat stable and free from booze and food stains. I continued as I dragged it towards Basil’s desk and sat across from him, carefully laying down my hat and cane –

“You ought to pick yourself up, old chap. You are better than this, though quite frankly if you continue to indulge these vices for a few more months you may just succeed in clobbering down what’s left of the man I used to admire. 

- The horror!”, he said with an exaggerated gasp before breaking in a disgraceful combination of laughter and a coughing fit. “To think I might lose your respect. Truly, one shudders. Your esteem has always been such a blessing–in fact, I daresay it made me the man I am today!”

He chuckled to himself and took a sip of whatever foul beverage lingered in his glass–maybe it was called bourbon but gauging by the smell it certainly didn’t deserve the name. 

“Oh spare me the paltry attempts at guilting me, will you?”, I retorted, heat rising to my face. The man still knew how to get under my skin. “There is only one person to blame for your disgrace, and he’s sitting right across from me.

- Absolutely, my dear friend, and we shall never let anyone claim otherwise. The glorious Achilles de Barjac has always been a stalwart support of his old master. They rose to prominence together like meteors through the firmament, and really, can one meteor ever be to blame for the other’s rather disappointing failure to eschew gravity’s mundane pull? I say not, most definitely not, and I’d throw down the glove at anyone who’d presume to doubt the sincerity of our friendship. Had I gloves left to throw, that is, or the ability to stand without being ever so inconvenienced by the knives in my back.”

He paused and grinned at me. “Would you like them returned, by the way? You seem to have left them there when last we met.

- If that’s what passes for banter in your book, you’re better off sticking to tobacco and spirits.” I took a deep breath, trying to resist the urge to stand up and leave. This was harder than I expected. 

“Look, old friend, it pains me to see you this way. We have overcome too much, against too brutal odds, for it to be where we leave things off. We had our differences lately, yes, and you know as well as I how irreconcilable they were. But we ran a fair campaign, the Party made its decision, and now… now we can move on. You can come back. We can win in the general – once again, together. Take over Downing Street, why the hell not, and we don’t need to stop there. It’s a big open world out there, and it’s rife for conquest.”

I paused, hopeful that there was something left of my friend in this husk of a man, something to be daunted and excited by the prospect of joining me once again, of a victory, of power and ruling. 

“Oh it pains you, does it? Well Achilles I’m sorry–nay, contrite–that I could ever cause discomfort to one who was so good to me.” 

His jaw tightened and his fists contracted atop the desk, shaking slightly as he spoke. 

“I should be a good sport, yes? And get over those trifling disputes. What does it matter if a generation of young men get maimed and eviscerated in mud-soaked plains across the Channel, long as Britannia’s flag floats proudly on the rubbles by the end.” Drops of saliva flew out of his mouth as his voice rose, sprinkling the dusty tabletop. 

“Such a noble cause did absolutely warrant – what did you call it? A fair campaign? You always had such a way with words. Fair. Like what your… goons did to my daughter, yes? Like the state they left my home in? Like what your friends in the papers printed about me–outright slander–until Muriel bloody left me rather than face the shame? FAIR?”

His fist slammed on the table and for a moment I saw my old master again, rising from his chair, all fire and drive, his eyes drilling into my skull. This was the man who almost took the party from me. The man I thought I’d crushed. I didn’t think he had such fight in him still. 

I dug my hand in my satchel, looking for what I knew would placate him if I could only dig it up before he made more of a fool of himself. 

“YOU COULDN’T FIND FAIRNESS IF IT STARED YOU IN THE FACE, YOU BLOOD-THIRSTY EGOMANIAC!”, he continued, undaunted. “It shall always be my life’s foremost regret that I took you under my wing. All this time diving studying the ancients; how did I fail to realize that you saw lessons where I saw warnings? I should have denied you your admission; I should have failed you every year; I should have stopped you from leading the party; I should—” 

He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out an ugly little gun, its barrel rusty and its handle dented but fully functional by the looks of it, and the wafts of cordite that inundated me as he pulled it to my face made it clear it was loaded.

“I should kill you where you stand. I’d be doing the world a favor.

- Now calm down, old friend”, I said with a voice as soothing as I could muster, raising my free hand in a gesture that I hoped conveyed peace. “I understand you are deeply upset. If you give me but one moment, I will – 

- Upset? Upset?” his knuckles were going white from gripping the gun, its muzzle swaying uncomfortably close from my face. “Dear boy, you have no idea. You have left me with nothing but blind rage. Anger's my meat; I sup upon myself…

- … and so shall starve with feeding? That is how the line goes, if memory serves well. Come on, even you have to see this is uncalled for.” My hand gently pressed down on the barrel, bringing it towards the desk. 

“I am terribly sorry, I really am, that the campaign took such a toll on you. The despicable curs who broke into your home deserve severe punishment. And I was just as shocked as you were, reading the drivel in those party rags. But you can’t hold me accountable for hot tempers, even when they lead to such tragedies. If you give me but a minute, I have something to show you that, I think, will help – 

- This… this wasn’t your doing?... You swear it?”, he asked, teetering, perhaps realizing he’d let his emotions get the better of him, questioning at last whether I truly was the architect of his demise. 

“I swear it”, I replied eagerly, “by all that I hold dear. If it were up to me, those thieves and slanderers would be sent to the mines. And as for those who… had their way… with Heather–God, Basil, I don’t even know where to start. There are no words for such foulness. And scarring her face after doing the deed? The blackest of hearts, all of them. I’m not ashamed to say it; if they’re found I’ll kill them myself.”

The gun’s slow descent towards the table halted, then receded, its barrel coming within inches of my eyes once again. Tears streaked from Basil’s eyes, his face wracked with waves of emotions I couldn’t quite place – guilt? Anger? Contempt? “Achilles… Oh Achilles, I didn’t want to believe it… they said it was you but I didn’t… 

- And you were right”, I replied, unsure of this change of heart, but sighing in relief as I ceased to rummage through my satchel and grabbed the object of my search.

“DON’T LIE TO ME!”, he snapped, his words echoing in the empty office like as many bullets. “See, I wanted to protect what’s left of Heather’s dignity. I couldn’t stop people from hearing about the abuse, but I told no one – no one, not even Muriel – about the scars. I hoped they could be treated in time. Accordingly, old friend, besides Heather and I, only her attackers would know of their existence. Her attackers, and their monster of a sponsor. 

- Now hold on, I can see how this is confusing but you’re jumping to conclus—

- No more lies, Achilles. No more excuses. I’m done listening to you. Truth be told, I should have stopped a long time ago. I’d tell you to commend your soul to the Lord, but I suspect He’d rather have nothing to do with it. Good-bye. I shall never know what possessed you to come taunt me today, but I will forever be grateful that you did. For once in your life, you helped me make things right. 

- Wait, don’t…”

The gunshot resounded through the room like thunder, rattling the bottles on the bar cart. Basil clutched his throat as he fell back into his chair, as if hopelessly trying to contain the torrent of blood gushing from his mangled neck. 

It had taken me way too long to find the gun in my satchel. For a moment, I’d worried I’d forgotten it, but the familiar contact of its wooden handle had come not a minute too soon. 

Of us two, Basil had always been the brilliant one. I merely excelled at riding his coattails. When came the time to make my move and emerge from his shadow, I couldn’t leave anything to chance. I’d seen him come back from such terrible blows that I had to be sure. I was never proud of my methods, of course, but, as he himself said many times during our rise to power, ‘needs must’. 

I’d hoped we could bury the hatchet after his defeat. A broken Basil would be useful, and for all my ruthless reputation, I’m not devoid of sentiment. I owed the man too much not to try. But by the moment he raised his voice for the first time, I knew peace was out of the question. Any fight he’d have left in him, he’d eventually direct at me. 

This evening was always ending with a gunshot. I just never suspected he’d try to beat me to it. 

Just a tad dramatic. But then again, I should have expected nothing less from Basil.

I submitted my book to my very first Literary Agent! I included a 10 paged book proposal as well as separate elements they requested in the email and then also the full 159 paged manuscript.

I know how hard it is to get noticed at all, so I'm excited but also super nervous. I plan on submitting to as many agents as possible before turning to attempt submitting to publishers myself.

If you have advice, it certainly wouldn't hurt. This was a huge step for me, and submitting to even one literary agent, regardless of the results, feels humongous!

I just started this story, and this is one of the first drafts of its beginning (which will still be adjusted and corrected). Could you share your thoughts and point out areas where you think I could improve?

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1KCSjYA0RjHXaLwmJn0DtrwtbPGMsccifnVJoHkVaffg/edit?usp=drivesdk

“And… how do I put this?” Murphy paused, clearing his throat before asking, “He saw a dead body half an hour ago, but when you guys checked in, you saw nothing?”

“Yeah, that's what I've been telling you on the call, but you've been asking the same question again and again, dude,” Andy sighed, his body language tense with frustration and despair. He pulled out his diary from his shirt pocket and began writing with agitation.

His short-tempered nature was evident in his lean physique and huge mustaches. Despite his cynical nature, he only trusted his best friend, Murphy.

“Third case in the same month, with a similar pattern – again and again, a guy comes into this abandoned mansion for fun, sees a dead body, gets scared, and calls the cops. And when they arrive, boom, nothing,” Murphy added, wearing his gloves with a confused expression. He moved away from Andy and started observing the room.

It was a shady room with a thick layer of dust coating every surface. A creaky, king-size bed with broken corners stood central, while a grand piano with yellowed and broken keys sat nearby. Murphy approached a closet and opened it, immediately greeted by a huge gust of dust.

“Here, have it,” Andy said, handing Murphy a mask with a pale expression, as if not wanting to shatter his tough-guy personality. With a teasing smirk, Murphy wore it.

“I wish I had joined the shop; this detective stuff is way too hard,” Murphy thought, despite being a fast learner, evident from his sharp features, pointed chin, and slender body. His clean face belied his reputation as the best detective in Monaco.

“Nothing can be seen here too; it's hard to comprehend that someone deleted all evidence within 20 minutes of the crime. Not a single sign of struggle, blood, or anything – the person behind this is a goddamn genius,” Murphy said, closing the closet. His features seemed to collapse inward, his eyebrows raised, as if he was about to say something. But before he could, Andy said:

“Or he's lying.”

Do you copyright your work and if yes, where and how?

A lightening of my spirit,

And all I said, is I'll go get you.

Unbounding exuberance, purported, towards me?

I missed that, and so I said, I'll go fucking get you.

Compromising malfeasance, a feigned disjunction owed outward, and inner compactions search for the vibrant truth? The sound? The light....? Does the dawn forget the utter manipulation which led to her plight?

Nay, and so I responded, to my own and beloved, I'll go get you.

And uncompromising, furious ego who owes to others what they own so that their notoriety can reach the fever pitch which capitulates only at the steady march of death, the stench and distillation of the bones-silent prodding outward as I grumble during my mistaken piety with a passion towards - what we share?

And you've promised, you'll come get me....

And so we amalgamate the pressing bondages which tie and cut and severe and lead to clunk and clang and of all revisions which can instantiate the meaning of vapid art, the insignificance of our valour, of our virtue? The eternalization of the prayers and sins which led our fathers to war?

And favour - revigoration -

only,

fortune oh brother, of war, and of this? Can I say once more, I'll come fucking get you, and should my bones and spirt crumble and fall into the soil before our time has reached it's apex, her pinnacle, the ordinary fucking matchstick existence we cling to?

Once more, I'll come get you. Should the ember remember her design, her father and mother, her bastard lover, her divine and anointed child, shall persist beyond the fucking vagrant streets which birthed her, and her bloodlust born of incelibacy and indigence shall find only reprieve when the fucking task is done - when we have all been gotten.

Who's getting who ~

Title: Bolt
Premise: When an incident gives a high school senior the ability to conduct and control electricity, he learns to wield them to protect his city, while balancing school, time with his friends, and keeping his powers a secret from those he loves. He soon learns that a threat that wields powers similar to his has set out to stop him from using them for good.
Critique: Please just read my first 5 chapters (34 pages) and tell me your first impressions, any general critiques, what I can do better, what is done well, anything will help really. Thank you! Link: https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/s0hpps8fii5f0mlwu3asj/bolt-TRADE-PRINT-READY.pdf?rlkey=eff2t2l7jd5v0lxu9fqwg9vc2&st=hdj7536e&dl=0

*so, Journaling got ruined for me a while back and it had been my therapy since I was eleven. I've been going through alot of negative experiences and situations in the last few years as well. So, recently I finally tried to sit down and get some of the noise out of my head and dark emo poetry is the result.... so, below is one of many....

" When it’s dark and there is no hope It gets harder and harder, just to cope With these demons deep inside How do I convince them to go and hide But with me they stay, bound together Forced to wander this desert, forever I cannot die, though I have tried To end this torment that I am tied Amongst the chaos, I shall try To slay the devil that lays within Oh how I wish it were true To say it died, so take this as your cue To leave this awful place behind And try to push it out of your mind Run away while you have the chance Do not give him your final dance With my life I beg you please To leave me behind with great ease Do not think of me again For I shall be hidden deep within Your conscience mind and beating heart His dark plans I hope you thwart but take much caution if you dare To enter his disgusting, foul lair Spiders creep and bugs will weep Through the caves you must sweep Be swift with your moves, you cannot miss Or else embrace deaths cold kiss "

Right so this is a part 2 to the first post about this and uh, I don’t.. actually know what else to say. uh, i titled it after what this project is called. Mantis Maiden Entoma. (Link to my other post: https://www.reddit.com/r/KeepWriting/comments/1hphz1a/uh_not_sure_if_this_is_the_right_place_but_here/ )

I’m not getting to the point, so basically superheroes are real in this world and everyone (civilians) think that they’re super powerful and cool when in reality the heroes are treated awfully by their ”trainers” and the government, they only SEEM powerful to the civilians when in reality the heroes are powerless to actually do anything to them even if they wanted to since their trainers can kill or torture them whenever they want using a kill switch remote. (And I don’t think anyone’s disobeying someone elses rules after having EVERY NERVE IN THEIR BODY stimulated all once at maximum power.)

But I feel like that kill switch remote thing is kinda uncreative, the nerve stimulator is cool but other than I don’t feel like it’s very creative or inspired, so I came here for other ideas on how the superheroes can be powerless. Like maybe the government could have control over their lives and the hero’s family can’t legally do anything about it? Not sure how to write that tho since i don’t have much life experience myself…

I also need help with a question that came to me: what happens if the hero doesn’t do their job? Like they just have the job they never actually attend to the things they have to do such as fighting or meetings, and since superheroes in this world cannot quit their jobs through any mean except death, age, or illness, what would happen/ what would their punishment be?

I don't wanna erase, erase, erase the Remembrances With You neither of us deserve to have french blue sky on our face

I thought the only thing I could do, do, do is to make Facebook albums with a logical, sensible, personal title and we can watch what we'll become

Unique and Green left our brown bubble but we don't need a huge number to make ourselves chuckle

Saphron and Don left The pub of Love and Drag so they could move to Aquarius Beach a part of me hopes they'll come back as they're still queens in our eyes

I don't wanna erase, erase, erase the memories with you girl it's quite cute that you curl my always - been brown hair we sometimes make a good pair when you aren't bad mouthing people

I've only been to The Pub Of Love And Drag for two years but I honestly feel like I've been here for longer than that with my supportive pack it's probably cos everyone makes you feel welcome

I've graduated from Prince's Trust I do miss it a lot but it's not that far once I get off the bus so you'll see me around with a heart in my pot

I've left Prince's Trust I do wish I stayed longer but I'm glad someone else can experience what I saw and what I felt

I do wish I stayed longer but I'm glad someone else can get on the bus and hopefully change their lives for the better

The crunch of gravel shattered the eerie silence surrounding Kael as he ran for his life. He wasn’t sure if something was following him—the fog was so thick it was impossible to see anything or anyone.

After minutes of frantic, mindless running, he stopped to catch his breath. His heart pounded in his chest, feeling as if it might explode. But his brief rest was short-lived.

From his left, a creature lunged with incredible speed. If Kael had reacted even a millisecond later, its claws would have torn through his face like paper. Instead, it raked a deep cut across his nose. The force sent him stumbling backward, and he locked eyes with the beast.

It towered over him, its legs as thick as tree trunks and arms so long they touched the ground. Its gray, lifeless skin blended almost perfectly with the fog, making it nearly imperceptible. If Kael had looked away for even a second, the creature could have vanished into thin air.

Slowly, its head turned at an unnatural angle, like an owl’s. Kael’s skin prickled with terror as he took in its grotesque, inhuman face. Where lips should have been, its entire set of jagged, disfigured teeth was exposed—a chaotic mess of red flesh and sharp, crooked fangs that grew over one another. The creature’s face lacked a nose entirely, making it seem like a mockery of anything human.

Quickly, Kael scrambled to his feet and began running, his heart pounding as he fled from the creature. He could hear its relentless pursuit through the fog, heavy footfalls closing in behind him. As he ran, the sound of more footsteps joined the first—coming not just from behind but from his sides. It was like a nightmare.

Out of nowhere, another creature lunged at him. Luck was still on his side—Kael managed to duck just in time, narrowly avoiding its claws. The beast tumbled onto the gravel but immediately rose, resuming its chase on all fours without hesitation.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Kael muttered desperately as he sprinted.

Then, suddenly, the ground disappeared beneath him. He had run straight off a cliff. A scream tore from his throat as he plummeted, his stomach lurching. But his scream wasn’t alone—one of the creatures had fallen with him, its shriek echoing into the void.

Kael braced for the impact, expecting jagged rocks to greet him. Instead, he hit water with a jarring splash. Gasping, he released his breath and struggled to swim upward, but his relief was short-lived. Something tugged at his leg—a strange, vine-like plant had coiled around him, pulling him deeper into the murky depths.

Panic consumed him as he clawed at the plant, desperately trying to free himself, but it was too strong. He kicked and thrashed, but his efforts only tightened its grip. The light above him began to dim as the darkness of the water closed in, the world slipping further and further away.

“The knife!” His mind screamed the realization.

With trembling hands, Kael drew the blade and slashed at the plant. To his shock, it bled a strange purple liquid as it recoiled. Freed, he kicked upward with all his strength, lungs burning, his vision narrowing. At the last possible moment, his head broke the surface, and he gasped for air.

Kael spotted a series of small patches of gravel amidst the wetlands and swam toward the nearest one. Crawling onto the muddy ground, soaked, bruised, and utterly exhausted, he collapsed.

Turning his gaze back to the cliff, Kael froze. Six of the creatures stood at the edge, silent and still, their eyes locked on him. They made no noise, no movement—just stared, unblinking.

“FUCK YOU, ASSHOLES!” he shouted with what little energy he had left, raising his middle finger at them in defiance.

Kael heard strange whimpers to his left. Turning his head, he saw a peculiar plant with glowing orbs sprouting from its stems. Intrigued, he got up to take a closer look.

As he approached, his movement seemed to trigger a reaction. The orbs swelled and suddenly burst with a sharp pop, releasing a strange brown liquid. The liquid splattered onto the ground, sizzling on contact. A single drop landed on his arm.

Kael screamed in agony as the liquid seared his skin, the pain sharp and immediate. It felt as though boiling oil had been poured directly onto his flesh. Desperate to stop the burning, he plunged his arm into the water nearby. The ground sizzled where the liquid had splattered, releasing faint wisps of steam as he frantically scrubbed his arm clean.

When the pain finally subsided, he inspected the wound. The spot where the drop had fallen was raw and red, the skin completely melted away. Fortunately, the burn was small and didn’t hurt anymore—a relief at first, though the numbness made him uneasy

Kael carefully and slowly moved past the plant, drawn toward the source of the whimpers. When he reached it, he froze. The creature that had fallen with him lay impaled on the leg of a broken-down iron spider.

Despite the long metal rod skewering its chest, the creature was still thrashing, its limbs flailing as it desperately tried to free itself. The violent movements were futile, but relentless.

“My God... how are you still alive?” Kael muttered under his breath.

The creature turned its head toward him, its eyes wild, and erupted into a frenzied rage. It stretched its long arms toward him, claws swiping like a cornered beast. Kael recoiled in horror.

Not only was the creature still alive, but if it hadn’t been restrained by the metal rod, it would have torn him apart. “I guess that’s why the cities fell,” he thought grimly, keeping just out of reach of the creature’s deadly claws.

Kael took a moment to examine it from a safe distance. It was enormous, towering over him at about nine feet tall. Its claws were pitch-black and razor-sharp. The creature lacked eyelids, and dark, blackened circles surrounded its bulging eyes, giving it a perpetual, unblinking stare.

But what truly shocked him was the tattoo—a man-made mark. The sigil was unmistakable: the Holy Empire’s brand for rebels.

Panic bubbled in Kael’s chest. “If I die here... will I become one of them?” The thought made his skin crawl.

“Better not overthink that,” he muttered, forcing himself to focus on survival. Unsure of where to go, he looked toward what he believed was northwest, praying his sense of direction wasn’t failing him.

The idea of swimming again sent a shiver down his spine. Instead, he decided to stick to the shallow waters, hopping from one small patch of land to the next. He made sure to avoid the plants, remembering how dangerous they were. It didn’t take much just the slightest vibration near them for the orbs to burst. 

When Kael finally made it out of the islands, he noticed the ground beneath his feet had changed. He was now walking on grass—purple grass. It was strange, but he didn’t care much at this point. His only thought was whether it might try to eat him, electrocute him, or worse. Considering how everything in this place seemed intent on killing him, he wouldn’t be surprised.

This time, instead of running, he moved cautiously. Each step was deliberate and slow, his focus on making as little noise as possible. 

Please leave a like if you like it or a dislike if you didint and any feedback is really appreciated thanks for reading!!!

A few years back, I started writing my first fantasy novel. Naturally, life decided to step in, and the manuscript got lost in the chaos. Fast forward to a few months ago: I stumbled upon a dusty old copy and thought, “Why not give this another shot?”

What started as a humble 30 pages grew into 62… which then snowballed into 100 after revisions. And because I’m that kind of writer, I’ve also created a small library of annex documents for world-building, lore, and research. You know, to keep things organized.

Now, here’s the kicker: I’ve hit a bit of a roadblock, but not for lack of material. Oh no. From where I stand, I might have accidentally written the foundation for an entire trilogy. 😅

Anyone else out here with their “small project” spiraling out of control? Or is my novel breeding like a family of rabbits in a fantasy warren? 🐇✨

A day goes by, And where was I?

Living stagnant, a gift so fragile.

Wasting my time. Motivation divided,

easy to move, but so hard to start.

A dance without a tune, a jest without a crowd.

Where do I start?

Unconscious until rest, clawing back to my eyes

A cycle un-ending. Revise and critique.

Time is wasted, never recycled.

A quarter of life, unsure how to live.

Am I aware? Or waiting for future?

Will I feel the same? Or dissimilar?

Devoured by regret, displeased and wary.

Revision yields resent but how is one to know?

Moments so fleeting, decisions without comparison.

Nightfall breeds familiarity, a cycle once felt.

A chain unbroken. Of steel and regret.

The start never closer, by morning forgotten.

Break free.

Try.

This has had one go of editing.

The Eastern Winds pull at the trees and the grass atop rolling hills. Above, the Seldeur nebula cast a spray of fuchsia and electric blue. Above the small once-town known as Leyarties, the eye-like night sky is unobstructed by clouds.

Deep within Tellwy forest the town sits within a clearing, buffeted by loose leaves and seeds. My town, where townsfolk once lived and breathed now sits lifeless except for the three of us.

Im trying my best to stop the encroaching forest, pulling the growing saplings at the edge of the clearing. Now the pile was big enough for me to get more fuel while it burns so I turn back, headed home, the saplings piled in my arms. Weaving through the abandoned streets and alleyways, I’m sure to avoid the Iron-spiders nests and shambling Shuckmuckers. If I’m avoiding the Town center where my Older brother and our Father toil at their latest working, I pretend otherwise. The last time I was there, the Sigils for Summoning had no restrictions, a sure death to the casters and everyone for for miles if not done correctly.

Finally getting home I remove my shoes, hang my ragged jacket on the rough-made hook, and take my burden to the fire place, dropping the stack atop the small pile of dry logs. The wooden slat windows in the kitchen were stuck shut, one of the few places without a blown out glass panel. Taking the flat cooking stone back to the hearth, I begin to make the fire. I use my small knife to cut wood shavings free before piling that and the saplings atop of the white ash collecting at the bottom. The narrow flint rod I pull from my pocket was my first Working. Despite the effort with which I strike my knife against it, the sparks refuse to light, leaving me no other choice. Paahunu. The spellwords dont even pass my lips, the mere thought sparking a light under the pile. The flat discs of dough I made earlier are ready, too and the moment I can see the heat waves shifting the air above the stone, I drop the first one on to the stone, and then a second and third. Before long the heat would be too much and burning would be certain but for a narrow band I watch as the dough rises, bubbles. I flip the Puffballs, then put most of them aside. I pick through the last few, with burnt sides and stuff them in my pocket.

When I finally get there I see my Father, a grizzled old ‘mage’, sitting at a rotten desk. His oily uncut hair falls below the hemline of his Mouldy Robe, tattered and soiled. What was once a lively town square is gone, replaced by rotting and charred planks between deep gouges in the earth. My dads back is turned toward me, but Muurtak is dipping his hands in the gloopy Infernus pulp, and filling gouged lines in the earth. My father, The Mage doesn’t turn, doesn’t pay attention to what is certainly his own spell.

I take care to step carefully through the spell working, stepping between the lines and avoiding the calcified pulp of previous spells entirely. And then he’s there. Stepping to his Son, and congratulating him on a finished Sigil. His face is pale white, like porcelain, but cracked broken. Featureless, except for the blackened pits where his eyes were. A broken Glimmer.

“Leyand! What’s up?” Muurtak asks as I cautiosly step through the sigil lines, avoiding patches of earth with Calcified Infernus, remnants from old spells, entirely.

“Off for dinner then? Did you bring something for me?” his voice is saltry, almost believable. I pull the bread, which has half disintigrated, from my pocket and offer it to him.

“There’s more at home if you wanna to come?”Bids like this are always for Muurtaks sake. Can’t you see he doesn’t care? He takes the bread like its perfect, and starts breaking bits into his mouth.

“This is good. You could be a chef, you know?” somehow the compliment hurts. “You should take your brother and go then,” But I dont wait to hear the rest, just turn and go. At the edge of the Working, Muurtak makes a plea, asks to wait and watch the spell being made. Given his involvement I’d be remiss to suggest otherwise so we stay, here at the edge while Father finishes his bread and begins to chant.

It’s just now that I notice how complicated the spell is. Several doesnt perameters, most reliant on a correct output from the rest of them. Certainly more complex than Father had pulled off in a while. It’s not until he’s already started that I start to read the runes, try to understand its working, but its Muurtak who finally understands the makeup of the spell first. It’s a Gods Challange, one of the rarest and most powerful sigils, insisting the gods put you through a Trial. Except I can’t seem to find the Limiters that narrow the scope of the spell. Muurtak responds like he always does, just as the Magus, the spell energy, begins to overwhelm the Working.

Muurtak drives his hands in to the ground, sending his own force into the ground in an attempt to force the Magus through venting lines that suddenly appear in the earth. I can tell it wont be enough, even as I feel it trace the earth. Pain etches his face, and I have to look away, have to do something myself. My mind races. What to do. I can’t read the Sigil fast enough, come up with a response in time to stop the Precursor burst. Despite the vents, the force knocks me back, starts to drain the magic from my body to account for the lost force. Connected to the working I am able to see it all at once. See it collapse around me. The spell is going to keep going until it consumes the whole world, if we dont do something right away. And then I see it. My fingers dance in the air, tracing a latticework to settle atop the whole thing. It’s too late to save myself, or Muurtak but I release the Sigil built in my hand, casting it over the Working. And then it happens. Thew backfire is like an Earthquake, turning the ground in to a waving, bucking bull. Father takes the brunt of that, the first to be consumed. What little balance I had is taken from me as the second precursor blast erupts, rebounding withing the confines of the spell. I barely have time to turn to my brother, see the pain in his face, before I too, am consumed.

This is the first time I'm really sharing this publicly. I sent the full story to a couple publications' writing submissions, but got rejections. I'm hoping people can give some feedback if this seems interesting and where I can maybe improve/grow the story! Feel free to be really honest and thank you for reading!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It wasn’t planned. I swear it wasn’t planned. As I sit here covered in blood, I still don’t know what happened. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. We were supposed to have a sleepover, like we’ve done a hundred times before. We were supposed to watch movies and eat popcorn drizzled in chocolate. How could this have happened?

Just this morning, we were laughing in homeroom. Amelia was fixing my hair, putting it in a long braid, like she does nearly every day. It started with her recommending that I change my hair to flatter my face more, like hers. Over time, it’d become our daily routine for her to make me pretty each day before class. Everything was normal. Even when Amelia sneered at Courtney’s chocolate glazed doughnut with sprinkles, it was a normal day.

“Oh, I could never eat that,” Amelia had said. “It’s too sweet for me…and too many calories.” After a pause, she quickly added, “I’m sure you’ll be fine though.”

Courtney paused mid-bite and set the doughnut back down. She didn’t touch it for the rest of homeroom and as we walked out after the first bell, I saw her throw the flaky, sugary carcass into the trash.

It sounds harsh, but we all know it’s better to follow Amelia’s advice than to argue with it. When she showed up to a party, people noticed. If people heard she was even going to make an appearance, it was now the hottest spot to be that night. I think it’s something in the way she holds herself. She knows her power and she isn’t afraid to flaunt it. She has the power to make you feel like the most important person in the room just by giving you the time of day. But she also has the power to make you feel like you were two-inches tall any time she feels like it. Even as one of her closest friends, she will hold your deepest insecurities in front of you until you acknowledge them, but after pointing them out, she’d do you the favor of telling you how to fix them.

For this reason, I am careful with what I let myself share with her. I learned that the hard way. For example, at the beginning of the school year, we had a sleepover at Courtney’s house. An evening of movies and junk food quickly devolved to a night of delicious gossip and secrets, like it so often does. That’s when Amelia pronounced that we were going to go around and each admit who our crush was for the year.

“Mine is Brian, obviously,” she gloated. They’d only been dating for about a week at that point.

When it got to my turn, I shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think I have anyone.”

Amelia rolled her eyes and insisted that I was being lame. I insisted I really didn’t have anyone in mind, but she wouldn’t let it go. I even tried to name someone at random, but Amelia saw right through my charade.

“Liar,” she accused, pointing a finger at me. “Fine, what about not just boys in class? What about teachers?”

She raised her eyebrows, challenging me. I squirmed. When I didn’t answer immediately, she began listing off the male teachers at our school, many of which I was insulted she’d even consider as a joke. But then she said, “Mr. Agney” and I felt my cheeks flush hot against my will. Her eyes lasered in on me.

“Oh! I think we have a winner!”

I tried to deny it, but it was too late. She had locked in. For months after, when we would walk by Mr. Agney’s classroom, she’d nudge me obviously with her elbow, eyes darting over to him. She’d make comments around other people about how I wasn’t interested in anyone in our class because I was holding out for Mr. Agney. I finally pulled her aside and demanded she cut it out. And to her credit, she did. She was incessant, but not cruel, which was a relief, because I didn’t want her to know the truth. And the truth was that John Agney, Alpine High’s newest staff member, and I were in love.

WARNING: The IP is from a game. I'm just writing this for fun—some elements are not lore-accurate and are made up by me, but most of it is taken from the in-game lore. This is essentially fan fiction.

Decades ago, the earth shook with such violence that it reshaped the land. Mountains fell, and new peaks rose. Valleys formed, and caves opened, unleashing an ancient evil into the world—a mist that blanketed an entire region.

At first, people were confused. Some claimed it was God’s wrath upon the sinners of the land. Others attributed it to a massive cave system. A few believed the Ancient Ones had been reawakened from their metal grave.

But it wasn’t long before confusion turned into chaos. The mist claimed those who had perished during the Great Shake, transforming them into monsters. Their bones cracked and twisted, their skin turned gray and lifeless, and their nails became claws as strong as steel. Crooked, sharp teeth filled their mouths. These creatures filled the cities with screams, killing, destroying, and devouring everything in their path.

In response, the Holy Nation sent 3,000 men to reclaim the lost lands they were never seen again 

In a panic, the Holy Nation built a massive wall to protect the rest of their lands, confining the creatures within the cursed fog. Now, all that remains are rumors, lies, and fantastical tales of the horrors that dwell within the mist-shrouded region…

“I SAID WALK!”

Kael was kicked in the back, falling onto the stone floor headfirst.

“Ouch,” he muttered in pain. His hands were cuffed behind his back, and with a groan, he pushed himself up and kept walking.

To his left, the sun shone brightly, casting its light on the city he had once called home—a memory of a better past. To his right, his fate loomed ahead. The fog was so thick that the ground below the wall was barely visible.

“STOP. Here is fine,” the guard commanded.

Kael walked to the edge. He was ready. He knew what awaited him—once he was pushed, the creatures would come. They would rip him to pieces. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, bracing himself.

But instead of the expected push, he felt the cuffs being unlocked. Surprised, Kael turned back to the guard.

“You could lose your job—or worse—end up with me,” Kael said angrily.

“I don’t care,” the guard replied.

“You’re an idiot, you know that? I told you not to do it, and now LOOK WHERE YOU ARE!” The guard’s voice rose, shaking with anger as he grabbed Kael by the shirt.

“WHERE DID IT GET YOU? A perfect life and an even brighter future, yet you threw it all away. What about your mother? Your sister?”

Kael had no words to respond. Shame weighed heavy on him. “I’m sorry, Teddy,” he said quietly.

“No, you’re not,” Teddy replied, his voice softening with sadness as he let go of Kael’s shirt.

Teddy unsheathed a knife and handed it to him. “This is the last favor I’ll do for you, and I pray to God He forgives me for betraying my duties. Once I throw you down, you run—and you keep running. The creatures don’t usually roam this part of the wall, so you’ll have a head start. But they will come for you.” He paused, his demeanor heavy with sadness. His eyes dropped to the ground, avoiding Kael’s gaze, knowing he might break if he made eye contact.

“Damn it... Listen, Kael.” His voice wavered as he pointed into the distance. “From here, go northwest—to the Floodlands. From there, you can make your way to Flotsam. They never built a wall, so you can escape through there. If you can’t reach Flotsam, keep going north until you find Canibalia.”

He hesitated, his tone growing darker. “It’s far too risky, but if it’s your last chance... you might as well take it.” 

Kael looked at Teddy. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

Teddy’s expression was filled with pure sadness. “Don’t thank me. As far as I’m concerned, I’m killing you. May God have mercy on your soul, sinner.”

Without warning, Teddy shoved Kael off the wall.

Kael tumbled onto the gravel below, rolling painfully before coming to a stop. He grunted as he stood, brushing himself off, and looked up at Teddy’s face. The fog crept in quickly, swallowing Teddy from view until they could no longer see each other.

Kael bent down, picking up the knife from the gravel. He stared at it for a few moments, then whispered, “Thank you.”

He scanned his surroundings, his heart pounding in his chest. The silence didn’t last long. Distant screams echoed through the mist. Kael gripped the knife tighter and began to run.

When you are about to introduce a new idea to your work do you get really anxious to the point it’s hard to actually sit down and write? Feels almost like you’re overstimulated. What do you do to calm yourself down enough to sit down and write?

Do any upcoming or beginning writers want to collaborate on a story? I want to attempt collaborating with other aspiring writers. Let’s create a story together. Often times whenever new writers meet it seems like all they want to do is write and show off what they’ve written (I’ve been guilty of this too) BUT instead of showing off our personal projects why not get together and create a group project that leaves personal projects out of it. Brainstorming and writing ideas down. If anyone is interested let me know because I would love to see how something like this can go.