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Hi this is my first time writing. So I want you guys to see what you think if first couple things I wrote so far and go ahead and comment and give me feedback of what you think

Shattered

The “Hero”

Yes, I know, the title is very confusing, yet I have something to share with everyone. You see, I am a Hero...not just any Hero, a superhero and like others, I have an arch-nemesis. You see, just recently I had an encounter which changed my whole view on things and really made me question if I was the “good guy”.

It all started a few months ago, I was in HQ waiting for my next mission to occur when I realised that my arch-nemesis hadn’t come up with an evil plot in the last 6 MONTHS!!! I just presumed he was plotting his next “fool-proof” evil plan (yet, of course, I would save the day) and needed a long-time period to do so. I was about to ruin the whole plot by taking it down before it started! Yes, I was going to bust into his evil lair and shred the plan into pieces.

I arrived ready to take down this whole event, then I saw him...he wasn’t himself. He was just crumpled on the floor; all of his plans were in the bin. I didn’t know what to make of it. He turned to me when he realised I was through his “secret” entrance..I was expecting a huge fight, like normal yet he just stopped...put his hands up and walked to me.

“You’ve been fun all these years, you really have, yet all good things come to an end.” He said and with that, he walked over to the kitchen...If I wasn’t there he would’ve been dead. I stopped him of course, like the hero I was, but all of the times I stopped his plans before were the reason he was like this...am I really a hero?

When I arrived back to HQ I had an announcement to make

“I would like to introduce you all to our newest recruit to the Mercs for money and the newest leader, Deadpool, yes he was our biggest threat, yet he’s changed.” I gestured for him to step forward and I shook his hand “Welcome to the team.”

There I was, in a room. It was totally normal. There were no doors and no windows, just a table and two chairs. I sat down in one of the chairs. Everything was normal. Everything was fine. I wouldn’t be telling myself that if it simply weren’t for what was opposite of me--

that “thing”.

The creature was a midget. It had round eyes, thick orange lips, and a weird bulbish appendage out from underneath its head. Not to mention the slime colored, hideous tail. I could not comprehend how I stood the sight of that thing. How could anyone?

It couldn’t even look me straight in the eye, even if it tried! The audacity! It was pretending as if I were not right in front of it!

So, I told it, “We are both in this together, buddy. Get off your high horse!”

Do you want to know what it told me? Still, nothing. It just plucked out another one of its disease-ridden feathers.

I started to panic. How could the creature be so calm in a situation like this? Does it know we are both trapped in just a small compact white room with a table and two chairs? Who could be calm? No normal person would be calm! Then, it hit me.

That “thing”, that awful thing. With its short, thin, alien feathery arms, it trapped me here. How could it do such a thing? I have a family. I have a life.

I stood up from my chair. I yelled at the bird, “HOW CAN YOU DO SUCH A THING TO ME?!”

Then, finally that villainous monster , the dreaded creature spoke, do you want to know what it said?

Do you REALLY want to know what that terrible crafty devilish THING said?

It was one word:

Bok. Freaking BOK.

                                       *

Last night was quite chilly. I woke up with my crown and tail numb from the cold. But I think that I'm good, I slept quite in the middle of the herd so...

Today it seems that the Great Horned decided it's time to move. I wonder where we'll be going. I like the great forest quite a lot. The humongous coniferous trees give this place a nice smell and the atmosphere itself is cool. But the ferns are less and less and we're a herd of sub-adults and older, so we kinda eat a lot. Mind, are you listening or I'm talking to myself again?

The elders are dumb. They may know more than me but they are so dumb. They stay on the edge of the herd where it's dangerous. Mouth breathers, they also stink and mulch their food with an open mouth. Gross! They make the greens smell and that smell makes the ferns bitter. Sometimes I think they do it on purpose!

Dumb small-horned Rita tries to dig up something with her foot. She may have good smell but she has no use in the herd with so small horns. I stopped next to her and pushed her aside with my hips, and then I plowed the ground with my great horns. I found out pretty quickly the prize, juicy sweet roots!

'Share them Tull. I found them and you dug them up, we're a team!' she said in a squeaky voice.

'Rita you useless. If you had some good horns you would've ate them yourself. A nose is nothing without horns' I said chowing down on the roots.

'You'll see how wrong your words are one day' she said turning around.

I left some bits and moved on. We're walking kinda slowly as the herd is grazing in the same time.

I heard the chirps of a small feathered flyer. Those pesky creatures ruin the relative silence, I hope something ate it. I looked where the sound came from, but I couldn't make much of what I was seeing. I thought I saw a bush walking but I brushed it off to my cloudy vision.

As we were walking forward, I felt the tension growing up in the herd. What dumb Thunder-Roarer thinks that they can fight us? We will make an anthill out of them with our horns!

Turns out there's no Thunder-Roarer because I can't hear any and those guys are massive. Who knows what spooked someone and everyone followed them. However, my quills are standing up just to be sure.

'Tull! Tull! Ready your horns, a Claw-Bearer is nearby, I smell them!' said Rita trailing behind me.

'Dumb dull-horned, there's no Claw-Bearer! Plus, they can't do a thing to us!' I snapped.

'Don't risk it, please!'

I shoved her aside and continued forward. But then, I froze as I heard a high-pitched scream somewhere behind. I turned around slowly and saw that Rita was attacked by a bold greenish Claw-Bearer. I knew what I had to do.

'No, you're not!' I bellowed, charging towards the attacker.

I fought them blinded by rage, I don't exactly know what I did, but I remember them piercing me with their claws and the surprisingly warm blood that came from that. I know that somehow I got them off me and I tried to charge and trample, but they got away.

'See, I told you that they're coming!' squeaked Rita beside me.

'And you wouldn't be saying that now if it weren't for my horns' I said catching my breath.

'You and your horns...'

Then we turned around and faced the Great Horned.

'It's fine, we're fine, let's continue on' I said trying to get out of trouble.

                                        **

'Charr! Charr! Where's that fluffer?!' I said looking for my sister.

'Here Tze. What's up?' she jumped from a bush.

'You two, tone down. I was hunting last night and I need to get my sleep back' said one of the Hunting Sisters.

'Sure thing. Come Tze, there's a nice warm rock over there.'

'Sunbathing, my favorite' I said following her.

We were sitting side by side in the sunlight, when my stomach talked to me.

'Charr, who's hunting today? I didn't catch a bite out of last night's hunt'.

'I don't see Myria around. If she's out hunting, she's bringing big game' she said admirably.

'Oh dear, we're eating well tonight' I sighed in relief.

                                       ***

I left the pack's nest in the morning, before most of them were awake. I like the morning quietness, chill and humid atmosphere. It makes smells easier to follow and leaves the ground soft enough to not make my feet hurt in long traveling but not that soft it's muddy and I leave tracks.

There were a lot of bad hunts lately, the Hunting Sisters had some disagreement and are hunting solo, but it doesn't work that well and now they're also hungry-moody. Claw-Bearers need their pack. I may be an exception, but I'm also not really a Claw-Bearer.

I caught the smell of a herd while wondering. It smelled like resyr, those are real chunky, but also have sturdy horns. I couldn't find any hatchlings' smell, but that may be good actually. The young unite the herd, without them they may be easier to distract.

I followed from a distance for a while. I analyzed all of them, they were mostly big adults and elders, but I saw a few sub-adults and one that looked smaller. They also had small horns and an interesting red hide, but they were following one with quite a crown.

I studied that big one for a time too, it didn't look wary of it's environment. I approached them from the side, upwind, and got a very good spot. I know they have a poor sight and my green feathers are perfect. I also don't carry a specific smell so maybe they won't notice me.

My past self would be screaming at me now, not checking for other kravi and being reckless, but what my past self didn't have is my bone memory, I no longer need to do all of that consciously, I didn't get any bad gut feeling so it's free hunt. I could feel my muscles tensing and relaxing as a warm-up while I was eyeing the bites I could take that will definitely grant a true kill.

As I was lost in anticipation, a small, black chirper emerged from their burrow and startled both me and themselves. I saw a few of the herd members looking our way, but they didn't seem to notice me. The chirper flied away.

I waited for the herd to pass and I approached them again from another angle. I've chosen as my target the small sub-adult. I think I'll call them the red one.

The red one looked wary of my presence. They was constantly checking their surroundings and sniff the air around. This may be more difficult than I have anticipated.

My target approached the one that they follow and seemed to argue about something, I have to be careful. The big one seemed to dismiss the red one and kept walking. I waited until there was quite a distance between them and I sprinted to my target.

The red one was frozen and it would've been a true kill as I leaped, if only the big one didn't turn at their distress call and bellowed, making my target run and me miss my landing.

I managed to land on my feet, but the big one charged towards me, be damned the herd protection instinct.

I rolled to the side to evade their horns and then I grasped their side. Their hide was thick, but my claws aren't there for decoration and I managed to pierce it. I awakened their reaction to attack, they tried to shake me off but I was already taking distance from them.

I backed away and pretended to get hit when they false-charged at me and swayed their horns towards me, then I bolted out of there. Meaning I stopped behind the first sturdy tree I met and they thought I'm gone.

This one didn't turn out that well. Well I didn't touch the target so it doesn't count as a miss, I'm still first krav hunter, and it's time to change my approach: I'll show them why I'm called Myria a Claw-Bearer Thunder-Roarer, The Bone Cutter!

I stood blood pumping, feathers rustling and most importantly, karv thirsty for blood.

I watched, crouched down in ferns how their rimerî looked like scolding the two. It was an interesting exchange of deep bellows from the herd and squeaks from the red one. It concluded when the rimerî sent the red one in the center of the herd and the big one at the back.

I raised my mane in frustration. That was my target! But I'm not going to fight this herd of resyr head-on, because it would be both foolish and very dangerous.

However, thinking at it again, no matter how big and imposing big horns is, they're hurt. I'll change target.

It actually makes sense. This one is not protected by the herd, and they're not close to them. And now, the horned is trailing behind them. Just as my luck planned from the beginning.

I followed them, hiding in fern bushes. They seemed to call the herd from time to time, but no one responded them back. Exiled. That means hunger, loneliness and danger. I'll end the horned fast.

One more call without a reply and the horned started to stick their horns in the ground in exasperation. Every time they throwed more and more soil in the air, spending their energy fast. I took advantage as their were not paying attention and I stalked closer and closer, until I reached leaping distance.

I watched until the horned used their last forces in one charge and then I tensed my feet and released the energy at the same time, starting a leap with a lot of force.

I used my hands' long feathers to precisely target with my feet, toes spread and claws unsheathed. I landed with each one one side of their spine around their stomach, grasping strongly, securing myself on the horned. The leap carried my hands and head forward, and I arched my tail for balance.

I implanted my claws in their lower neck, turned my head on a side and took a mouthful of their neck spine. I closed my front krav under the spine and then thrashed my head. My dear interlocking krav acted in accord with my namesake, and I yanked a chunk of the horned's spine.

It all ended in a blink of the eye, while the horned was breathing out their last call to the herd.

They went limp to the ground and I told them the reason:

'My duty is to end suffering and to keep the balence of blood amongst the living. We all live on other's blood, and yours will be the salvation for the Latachi Claw-Bearers. Thank, and face The Soulkeeper with pride, because you had a honorable death'.

As I was licking the warm blood of my face and claws, thinking if I should carry this big resyr back to the pack's nest or I should better call them here, when I noticed a horned staying behind the moving herd and squeaking. If they remain behind, my kill won't be the last one of the day.

I gave them my best maredat, the intimidation roar: deep, loud and fearsome. They turned around and disappeared in the herd.

                                           *

Mind, it turns out it's quite painless. I was afraid of this moment for some time, but this kravi is good at their duty. My last hope is that Rita will grow great horns, so she's won't need a dumbass like me to guard her.

I created the life of my liking. Thought a little...It still wasn't it.

The creation try 1300 But it looks like an empty nutshell.

How come? I'm gettin' so many chances...

All just blown... There's something of nothing.

Then I saw, Now I know what is missing:

Heart was shut

• Mind was ruling alone.

Viktoria (Sun) Matukevich☀️

It’s a thankless existence, this life that I live.

It’s also tiresome, lonely, physically and mentally taxing, there’s hardly any days off, full of complete curveballs that could sometimes spell your untimely demise, the pay is garbage, and you can become very easily disillusioned with it. Especially in the beginning. After all, not everyone can be saved, and that can be a disheartening thought when you first start out...

But, above all, it’s a lifestyle that no one ever pays attention to. No “oh my god, you’re my hero!” or any of that cheesy, cliché nonsense. This is no comic book. Vigilantism is no fairytale occupation. It isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. No one really notices the countless units of time and the painstaking hard work that goes into it all, or talks about it. It doesn’t come with a lot of reward, and the risks can sometimes mean the end of your very existence.

That’s not helped by the fact that I try to remain as anonymous as possible, of course. I make sure to cover my tracks as cleanly and impeccably as possible. Any trace of my existence is always wiped off the face of the Earth as soon as the job is complete. Which, in all honesty, was not hard to do in a place like this. The city was big, crime was rampant, people were generally on the lower side of the economic spectrum, and it felt more lawless and chaotic than anything else.

However, there was a very real, very deliberate reason as to why I kept myself out of anyone’s eye, both private and public. Well, two reasons, actually. But they both go hand-in-hand with one another. At least, I think they do.

They sort of fall under the same mentality, either way you look at it. That same umbrella mindset that I carried throughout all of this was responsible for the formation of my reasoning for being virtually unknown.

You see, I didn’t even want to be known for what I did. I still don’t, as a matter of fact! First of all…being watched? Being widely known? Being heavily scrutinized? Your every motive, your every action, being endlessly questioned? The law hounding you endlessly, day in and day out? No thanks! Being a “celebrity” in any sense of the word seemed like a nightmare (especially in this day and age, where surveillance technology had reached 1984 levels of advancement). And in a profession that happened to be extremely illegal (like mine, although that was only if you were caught), you really needed that sense of anonymity.

To top it all off, I did all of this…because it was necessary. In my eyes at least. Someone needed to step in, because if no one did…then who would?

And, see, if no one stepped in, things would continue to get worse and worse. The city would continue to fall further and further into despair. Break down and decay until all that was left was a wasteland. Not that things weren’t already a wasteland, mind you. But it was, at the very least…livable. Habitable.

But if nothing was done at all, by either me, or someone else, then everything would crumble. Collapse. Go kaput. Fall apart. And then…there’d be nothing. Everything that was around would die; cease to be.

Considering the amount of people that lived in this city (that weren’t part of the small percentage of elite that got to live in the luxurious and extravagant metropolis concentrated squarely in the center), that was a lot of dead folks. It was fairly depressing, and something that I didn’t quite like the idea of happening. Especially when a lot of people in this outer region were innocent, normal, genuinely good people who were just trying to merely got by. Not thrive, not live lavish lives, not revel in pure opulence or anything like that. Just…just survive.

All these men, women, children? They didn’t deserve to be torn apart by the rather ruthless members of society’s gross, dark, hateful underbelly Y’know that old saying? One bad apple can spoil the whole bunch? That held especially true in these circumstances. They also didn’t deserve to be swallowed up by said underbelly, either. Having to commit terrible actions to simply see the light of tomorrow’s sunrise. It simply was no way for civilized human beings to live.

One might wonder to themselves, “Where are the authorities in all of this calamity and strife?! Were there even authorities at all?!”

Yes, there were in fact “authorities”. But they weren’t there to keep people safe, or even uphold the law, really. Sure, there were things that they could “put you down” for (practically everything that was deemed illegal was worthy of capital punishment in their eyes, come to think of it; and there was a lot that was deemed to be illegal…), but…they didn’t really take their jobs seriously. The laws were just kind of…there. They weren’t exactly enforced all that often. When they were enforced, however, it was done in an outright brutal, hasty, cruel, and evil manner. There was an upside, though. These so-called “rules” were only enforced heavily when someone important from the city’s center came around to make sure we were all “doing as we were told”. How often did this happen? It was very sporadic. It was hard to tell whenever the big shots would drop in. They just…did. Whenever they pleased…

The rest of the time, they just sort of mulled about and relished in their fancy paychecks, able to afford things most of us could only dream of possessing. As long as no one made a beeline for the center’s massive, heavily guarded gates, and as long as no one attacked them (not anyone else, mind you; just them, even though murder was a “shoot on sight” crime), they were perfectly content to just…be.

They were particularly nasty towards vigilantes, however. Mainly because they didn’t like to be upstaged. When someone was cleaning up the mess that was the city’s outer edges better than they were, they tended to get very rowdy, very irritable, and very pissed off. It made them look like they weren’t doing their jobs (which they weren’t, but they were able to fake it enough to the powers that be in order to live like kings), and when the higher ups felt that their precious “soldiers” were slacking off…well, things tended to go in every direction except right…

Of course, their relatively hands-off approach to managing us came with a lot of freedom. Downside is…all of that freedom tended to produce a whole of instability. For freedom was good, but anarchy was most certainly not.

So, to put it simply and shortly…this wasn’t something I did for any type of gratification, or reward, or anything remotely similar to that. I did it because it simply had to be done. No two ways around that. And anonymity was something that was employed both out of necessity, as well as a desire to let the actions speak for themselves, rather than reaping some sort of benefit. Sort of like the writer that goes by a pen name, preferring for their art to be as faceless as possible. Because it’s not about who you are at the end of the day. It’s about what you do, or what you did.

That’s why I was thoroughly surprised when, upon returning to my crummy home in the slums (yes, even the bottom-dwellers have such areas that they refer to as “ghettos” and such), there was a small piece of paper nailed to my door.

The handwriting was sloppy, the spelling wasn’t the best, and the paper was clearly not of the best quality. Most likely ripped off of a large chunk of parchment.

Made sense, if you thought about it. Literacy wasn’t something that many folks sought out or put much time/effort into (why better yourself when there’s nothing better that awaits you?), and good paper was quite the commodity. Like most things, it wasn’t cheap. It was easier to steal it than try and afford it…

It only had two words written on it. Two barely legible, hard to read words that…well, managed to put a smile on my face. There was a lingering doubt in my mind as to whether or not this was directed towards me specifically…but, then again, why would someone put something like this on my house? Specifically, on my front door?

I guess it isn’t such a thankless existence…

Feedback wanted.

      Twenty years of marriage - God, he thought, he could do less time for murder. Michael sat in the driveway, the Chevy idling loudly. Lydia's obnoxious solar powered miniature excuse for a car was mercifully absent.  If he was lucky, she’d gotten hung up in traffic, better yet - maybe even a wreck, he thought halfheartedly, enjoying the moment alone in the cab of his truck.

      He was in no mood to fight with his wife. What he wanted was to relax in his recliner, drink a beer and watch the Dodgers without her nightly friggen' tirade, but knowing her that wasn't likely.

      What had she said to him the night before, “You're not the man I married anymore,”

      That’s right, he thought to himself, grinning as he recalled his response, "You know what Lydia, you ain't no spring chicken anymore, either."

      He tossed his keys where she liked them to go and grabbed a cold one out the fridge. Halfway through the first bottle he grabbed another  and headed for the living room when something in his peripheral stopped him dead in his tracks.

      He was sitting in his chair, he, as in the exact damn personification of himself in polymer synthetic flesh. And the damned thing was smiling at him like some nightmarishly happy concierge.

      "What in the hell..." Michael said, his beer suddenly seeming suspended in front of him on its way to his mouth.

      "Good evening, Michael. I took the liberty of letting myself in. You'll find the spare key back in its place under the....."

      "Youuu...... youu... you shut your face," he stammered, his beer apparently unfrozen now, he pointed it with an outstretched arm at the bot like a weapon.

      "I cannot shut my face, Michael. Please examine the Synathalife 11097-A3 owner's manual online for further...."

      "SHUT UP," he enunciated each word slowly.

      "Command understood," the bot answered still smiling, tilting its head every once in a while, like a human, Michael noted.

      She'd gone and done it- she'd finally gone and done it, he thought.

      He needed another beer. He needed lots of beer. Michael cracked open the unopened bottle half forgotten in his hand, downed it faster than if he were in college then made his way slowly to the couch across from his synthetic doppelganger.

      You had to admire what they could do these days.  He, it smelled like a new car, like polymer. Its skin was smooth, impossibly smooth. Hell, it even had a bronze tan that looked like he'd just got back from the Caribbean.

      To add insult to injury, the robotic bastard looked a hell of a lot younger than he did. It was thinner by a good thirty pounds, taller by several inches and even had the build he'd worked so hard for when he gave a crap ten years ago. And then there was its hair.  Not a single damn gray hair on it, Michael thought.

      What other enhancements did you put on my credit card,  he wondered, fending off a sudden angry sense of inadequacy.

      "Reason for purchase?" Michael demanded.

      “I’m sorry Michael, but you do not have the authority for such a query. "

      His face snickered in irritation.  He finished his latest beer and pointed a bottle once again to the synth. “Resend query. Password,” he paused in thought, “Admin. Reason for purchase? "

      The bots face, his face tilted strangely and twitched for several seconds.

      "Query received. Reason for purchase noted: Want a better version of my husband. "

      ”Oh hell no," Michael snarled. "Get outta my damn chair!"

      With perfect posture, his robotic counterpart stood, complying contently.

      Michael could hear the sound of Lydia's keys rattling at the front door and then the sound of her dropping them the ground.

      "For crying out loud, how freaking hard is it to get someone to open the door? "

      "Lydia needs assistance," the bot said, moving towards the door, as if ready to swoop in and open it at her beck and call. “Would you like to assist, Michael?"

      "I'm good,” he answered flippantly, turning on the game and leaning back into his chair with a wide angry grin.  "Nah, buddy- she's all yours."

This is a brief story on mankind’s first encounter with losing divine faith. Now, imagine both a man and woman walking. They are late twenties (although someone on their death bed may unconsciously still perform the following act). The man and woman are in a crowded city, so attention spans are scarce. But, the man manages to glance at this woman while she glances at him. Now, let alone a rural town but in a crowded city a glance is usually the death of each-other’s existence. The man does not know what to think when this happens because it has occurred repetitively since the man foremost lost his self-hood to the concept of universally vowed time. The woman does not know what to think when this happens because it has occurred repetitively since the woman foremost lost her self-hood to the demise of her sanguine infatuation of love forevermore. Both the man and the woman have lost a mass of their souls to impending doom and limiting time. The man and the woman cannot persevere the slightest of disagreement with the architect of time because the architect has built a: “dismissing, mute, and numb ear” to all creatures bartering with their destiny. The man and woman carry this earthly burden of experience equally yet in peculiar approaches. The man and woman become two creatures walking alone while intertwined to surrender. The man and the woman now decide to surrender or wage war against the remainder of earthly architecture left standing…including themselves.

There was a time when we all were young children. Afraid to push boundaries, and afraid to push against the absurd reliance on another. Yet, we seem to transcend to creatures whom welcome fear by pushing the very boundaries that fear originates from. Yet, we seem to digress into a: “frantic, impatient, indifferent but inferior, consciously ignorant creature”. A creature seeking internal validation while desperately pursuing the validation from the opposition. A creature whom induces a self-suffering tirade of vituperation over the magical concept of self-hood but self-regulates in effect to their eternal reliance to the planet’s autonomous system of synergy.

I'm writing a story, but how much time should I dedicate to writing that, practicing my Spanish, and reading on my free time while I'm working at my job? Thanks in advance. I'm poor when it comes to time management.

      The night was warm and inviting, heavy with the smell of incense from the city brothels and sounds of worldly pleasures from its tenants. Yet Dagmar mostly slept, save for sailors who'd come to port and the rest of the heathens and mouthy harlots.  Ellea wove her way through the alleyways mostly unnoticed, like some silent wraith intent on it's destination.

      Ser Varen the Axe’s three-story manse stood hardly humble.  Its walls were tall and lofty like the fat executioner himself. A single solitary tower stood to the east, its shutters opened wide. Sheer crimson curtains fluttered to night’s breeze.

      She smiled. One thing she did well was climb. The eastern tower would be formidable, but not impossible.  A lattice-work of yellow starred jasmine grew up the tower haphazardly.

       From the dune colored plaster walls, the webwork of vines crept upward bedding themselves in cracks and crevices. Ellea made simple work of the ascent.  Perched upon the window’s ledge she quieted her breathing before daring to step foot on the planked wooden floors.

      Varen the Execution slept snoring like some choking bear in an overly large bed. His sheets strewn off him, he lay sprawled half nude looking like a fat ugly glutton.

      Ready for slaughter.

      She removed the metal shank she made after a band of rival pickpockets had beat her bloody long ago. It was a crude piece of work,  but it would do the trick. For a moment, as it's metal shimmered by moonlight she thought she saw Coren's blood still on her hands.

      She’d never killed a man. She'd fought off drunkards and even escaped a pock faced henchmen sent by one of the slavers to try to make a whore of her, but never- ever had she truly killed a man.

      Ellea thought of Coren, her friends screams, her own helplessness as Ser Veren brought down his axe and smiled at the hooting masses with his twisted yellow teeth.

     The bastard had kicked her hand to the dogs

      The crowd had shrieked for that.  One monstrous mongrel parting them like the damned King himself. It took Coren’s hand like drumstick and ran off somewhere to dine on it's trophy.

      No- she’d never killed a man, but she would tonight

      She loomed beside his volumous flesh, looking fondly at soft skin of his double chin and something felt ominously wrong.  Her shank inches from the fat man's throat, she froze and the tiny hairs on nape of her neck stood on end.

       "You are completely out of your depth, girl," a man’s voice cooed in her ear.  She could feel warm breath near her ear, a vice like arm, wrap itself round her waist and the distinctive feeling of a long slendor blade knicking her neck.

      *A true blade. An assassin's blade *

Title: The Queen of Psalms (Chapter I out of III/Prologue) / Main Story's working title is The Grim Knight.

Genre: Historical Fantasy.

Word Count: 1737.

Any type of criticism welcome, from writing to structure. However, note that this is a prologue to set up the main protagonist's backstory. His father, Stentore, is the protagonist of the prologue and it details (in three parts) how he came to marry above his station and feuded with his father-in-law yet secured his son's future by dying in battle following his father-in-law despite their feud. The following story is Stentore's son (unnamed thus far) becoming his grandfather's squire, despite not wishing to fight, and thrown into a chaotic world upon which he has no control. He is neither handsome nor strong, not rich or a high lord. The story can be summed up by the last lines of the excerpt, the House's motto. It is meant to exalt resilience and courage instead of prophecies or chosen ones and is dipped in realism.

"[...]their heraldic motto reading “Upright in Valour and Suffering”, a phrase that revealed the duality of a knight’s life. Valourous, chivalrous, famous but always suffering."

Link: Chapter I, a crude map of the continent the story is set in, showing the fractured kingdoms following a dark age after an Empire that fell, the arms of the family are actual preserved arms of a noble Genoese family as are many of the elements of the world, more specifically the beginning of the story is happening on this small island, inspired by Corsica, called Kallista and is a vassal viceroyalty of a city-state called Serenitam.

I have written a lot of lore, history and geography for the background ad world-building. I would say this is my strong suit, the writing itself being the weakest and I often find myself being both redundant and too flowery. It seems try-hard. Keep in mind that if any word is misspelled or used incorrectly, do let me know, English is not my main language.

• Would you care for a realistic medieval story about a boy coming of age and relying solely on his tenacity and courage?

• Would you read more, knowing there's a lot of meditative and contemplative passages and not a lot of violence?

• Would you like to read about the battle that happens in chapter III of the prologue in Stentore's point of view or his father in law (Count Giordano Leonis)'s point of view to emphasise the atrocity of a noble knight witnessing his daughter's husband slaughtered to save an old man's life?

• Now, would you feel it repetitive that Stentore's son will eventually try his hand at a tourney to win his beloved (the Queen of Psalms, a lady named every year during the festival), like his father did? I had this outlined but it feels somewhat far-reaching, though fits well with the development I have planned. (Note, this does not mean he wins). The development I intend is to have him mirror his father but in an almost opposite way, Stentore wanted fame as a knight, his son wanted a quiet life but had to pick up a sword due to the wars going on. Stentore married above his station and the woman he loves, his son tries to do the same to dubious results. Stentore valued faith over logic, his son is pragmatic, learned and tries to do his best to help wherever he can. Stentore was charming and strong, his son is plain average. And yet, they share their willingness to try and persevere.

• Finally, would you feel comic relief should be restricted or would you be open to have a somewhat comedic character around? I had thought of one of Stentore's cousins, a touring knight without home looking for hand-outs and somehow ending up ahead at every turn. And another squire at Count Leonis' castle, the heir to a Duchy, who appears somewhat bratty, lustful and prone to 'prank' people of lower class to a comedic degree, and have him become friends with the protagonist over time despite being polar opposites. They grow to trust each other and accept each other as they are with no jealousy over the duke's son's wealth or looks. I would not want him to be cartoonish, rather an easy-going fellow who likes to get into situations that alleviate the otherwise somber mood and would allow for our protagonist to travel around and accompany his fellow squire to visit different locales. There is a variety of different people, remains of the old empire, desert regions where mankind originated, steppes where militaristic 'barbarians' live, a rich kingdom with booming cities and even a kingdom (based off of Picts/Scots) walled up by the old Empire but never beaten ruled by a warlord dynasty commonly called the Rune King, and is rumoured to perform blood sacrifice to heal and gain strength (Is that true? Who knows!)

Thank you for reading, I know this is a lot to ask of you guys but I am excited for this story and would like to know what you think of it, where you'd like to see it go and if it has any potential to be published on the internet for some people to read. I'm writing medieval fiction, so if you hit me too hard, I'll have to take your hand. It's the law.

Hi all!

I am not a great writer but last year I write my thesis for my graphic design degree and got a 2:1! I was over the moon. Now that I've finished my degree and have some time again I'd love to get some constructive feedback on how I could improve on it. Manga is a passion of mine so I was happy when I got the ok to write about it academically, to that end I want to do it justice and create the best possible work. Thanks in advance!

​

Its a PDF on my google drive, here's a link (not sure how to post it otherwise)

https://drive.google.com/open?id=1QhB7d8z_Fuf1jx6z1wsdiwWdnBKOvCJ3

No longer a human.

I fall asleep in my bed to the speech as a human only to wake up like something else, something less.

It is the sun that catches me every morning when it shines over what is me, and collect my spirit as man and provide me with a mask similar to a creature- and what, once was I, wakes up. I not never fail to escape from it, I not never fail it to outwit. The sun gives hope and life every day to everything that does not speak, while also offering shackles - which are not allowed to be denied for those who own the speech. Every day I have to be more than I really am, and different from what I actually was. As soon as the sun has taken me there is no turning back, no shortcut, nor any backwards. The sun's rays baptize me like man to Sisyphus, and like him we shall all be punished for our hybris. It is only against the evening that this creature is killed with the darkness as a force and blinds it and first gives me insight as a human being. A human who looks over his day, his actions and his words. Who have I met? Who has been the other different? Who is Who? Who am I? I do not remember the last time or day I met man, thus I only see creatures. But how would it be to change, since I am also a creature during the day? I am no more or less than them nor the faith that we so slavishly hunger for like creatures and despise as man. everyone looks the same. Same hairstyle, same makeup, same clothing, same perfume even. And same empty shared thoughts about the good justice principle. All creatures must be equally valuable. Human did not reason so, she had conflicts with herself and others and sighed for a truth or more. But the creature does not devote a thought, or effort to reach the closest feeling that gives rise to a meaning, no, this being is instead seeking conflict without end. If human stood united then the creature is divided. All creatures either take on the justice assignment on their own for the “united group”, because it believes that it is formed, educated via images presented by the media, or it does not take on anything at all. Possibly it takes on the task of looking like "her sister" right next to everything that this sisterhood should represent. Or is it really just about that it should be presented? It is important for the creature that everyone should be allowed to be heard and have room for speech, but above all it should be visible. As long as it appears, it does the right thing. Morality depends for the creature to be seen, nothing more and nothing less. For this creature, opinions are the same as facts. For this creature, love is a label for whose price tag is intended to determine how great this love is and is to remain. For this creature, love is merely an illusion from its former owner, man. But then again, owning, no, it spells the wrong word. Owning is the thing of creature. Human only felt love, as a relationship founded on a constant giving and taking. The beauty and uniqness within humans, is that they are capable to love again when love was once lost. She is able to forgive without again hating as a basis for this forgiveness. Human was so much more than just a creature.

Introduction

I, with everyone else, live in an enchanted world. But this enchanted world is not linked to the magic world, or a world full of unresolved mysteries. No, with enchantment I mean that the world has become a place where everyone is an expert in their cause, just like the wizard with his tricks. And, like when the magician conjures up, we are delighted with how brilliant he is in his cause, while aware that he is deceiving us with a lie, an illusion. But we prefer the illusion, it becomes our reality, it becomes our matrix. The year is two thousand twenty, and it is more than two thousand now than ever. The great K: governs our world, and we bow to it. Some bow because they want to do it, and some bow before the world regime because they have no choice. In this time Donald Trump is the US president, Greta Thunberg is hated and loved all over the world for her commitment to the climate threat, young people and young adults feel worse now than ever, notre dame stands in flames, people are exploring themselves as everyday products over social media and never ever have we been so arrogant. For those who know me well, it is no novelty that I dismiss the enlightenment and then capitalism. I intend with this book to touch the enlightenment in the sense I think it deprives us of what is fundamentally important for humans and instead transforms the rational reason that Hegel advocated that we have, to what Adorno refers to as a material reason. I will write the pop culture and its mass-produced effect that reduces all genuineness to slentrians - which deprives us of mystery. In this book, with the best effort, I will refer to Mark Fisher's book "Capitalist Realism" and touch on the term he calls "reflexive incompetence", also referred to younger people. During the development of the book, more books will be added, from more people I will be inspired to touch and try to interpret and possibly develop in the greatest desire.

During the book's process in creative, I will try to provide analyzes to the extent that I have the ability to, reflections on postmodernism and its effects - this when identity policy, gender, feminism, neoliberalism, neoliberalism etc. The book is written during my time at the University of Skövde, the social psychological program. I see this book as a personal chance to develop, and to give myself an opportunity in the texts to conduct a debate with myself about the early mentioned topics and concepts.

Chapter 1

In this chapter, the enlightenment is intended, with a touch of Erik Eriksson's Hamburg theories about man's years of life, based on a capitalist viewpoint, made by me - this is done to clarify understanding as a contrast, Erikson's theories in this chapter state. It is also intended to criticize it, what I believe, the presumptuous attitude to human life derived from the enlightenment and its effect.
The criticism that follows is intended to be directed at the enlightenment and further more intended to touch the foundation of the positivist enlightenment as a concept which in it solves it from its attachment to a blind exercise of power, which, in my opinion, it tends to have - the enlightenment. Criticism that follows is intended for Erik Erikson's theory, which I believe, has a foundation in support of the capitalism. Enlightenment and its meaning; Enlightenment at first offered man a progressive thinking, the meaning of which was to liberate people from fear, and instead admit them to their own masters with knowledge and independence. The greatest task of the enlightenment was to demystify the world, dissolve myths and hearsay and instead offer a conception of knowledge. Admittedly, it is a free society that an enlightenment thinking intends, in which Erikson's theory is excellent. And while it is true that man's superiority lies in our knowledge, there can be no doubt about this - further the free society is a product that man himself produced.

What the enlightenment does is to demystify the world and further eradicate all animism.
People and things are deprived of their meaning, their essence. The world is no longer allowed chaos, but the rationality of the enlightenment, the synthesis, becomes our rescue.Enlightenment is a totalitarian tool. With the enlightenment as an ideology, matter must be mastered without delusions of inherent forces and properties. Suspicion becomes the things that do not adhere to this tool's calculability.

But how calculating the enlightenment may be, its own ideas about man's right and value in a process goes the same fate to meet as the actual former general concepts. For all the resistance the enlightenment encounters, only its strength increases. The myths remain the shadow of enlightenment - but every time that shadow grows, the enlightenment will respond to this as a confrontation that will continue to act without its equality with a principle of rationality, for it remains totalitarian.

For the myths - just like the enlightenment, want to account for, state an origin, name and further explain, depict and fix a doctrine. What the myths on the other hand does, unlike the enlightenment, is that it grasps what remains. What remains untouched, not touched. The man in the West has the idea that she comes to this world when she comes out of it instead. One question parents often get from children in western cultures is "how did I get here?" Whereupon children in collectivist cultures instead ask their parents "where do I come from?". Children in the West know about the enormous creation, the enlightenment, even as little ones are we saved by the creation of form of enlightenment, and not as the beautiful pure idea of creation as natural law offers man, but instead as a pointless object created.
Just like Alan Watts say; “Man comes out of this world” meaning, she is a creation not different from water and wind. It is the mathematical that remains the guideline of enlightenment. Everything that cannot be resolved in speech becomes enlightenment and villas; instead, modern positivism banishes such fiction.

Man, however, Erikson with his theory, pays his increasing power with a growing alienation before what they exercise their power.

The enlightenment relates to the thing as the dictator to the people, he knows them so well that he is able to manipulate them.
The scientist knows the thing as far as he is able to make them.
With silly-minded people, you celebrate the joyless life you have accepted.

Erikson maps his theory with the human being during his years of life. It is this mapping, this rationality as a tool that makes Erikson remove himself from man himself. Erikson, as well as the enlightenment, offers for man tools, solutions and alternative answers about what is required to "get to the finish goal" during all her years. Man is thus (according to Erikson) predestined in my opinion. I think, unlike Eriksons, that pleasure is found in mysticism, when resigned. In summary, I mean that it is not a problem to be alone for man for shorter years during his life, (if she is not taught to believe it). Individualist societies are societies where people age longer, but does it mean that they feel better? Is the time for us a concept that guarantees well-being? In contrast to collectivist countries whose social policy is more encapsulated around the collective, family, etc. And in individualistic countries, social policy is adapted for the individual, you must manage on your own - and if you fail it is ok. Social policy is tailor-made for you. But what does it matter before, if I still wanna to live immensely?

I've been trying to find a writing partner but no one seems to stay for long. I want to collaborate with someone to world build a fictional universe. I've turned the whole thing into a game format. I'll explain more if you're interested.

COMMENCE ESSAY RITUALS

(screens covering three walls of a room with a man cracking his knuckles and leaning back in his rolly massage recliner, he takes a mad sip of his big gulp and sticks his two juuls in his mouth, his eyes roll back and his pupils are fiery red, smoke coming out his ears)

"LET IT BEGIN!" he shouts

*Booting up noises begin

*stirring whirling and clicks buzzers beeps and doorbells go off

maniacal laughter erupts from the insane man as closer to the heart by RUsh begins trickling down the chords

The man makes an immediate slump into his chair as he rubs his eyes and wishes his essay wasnt such a chore.

"FUCK!" he screams

then the walls shuddered and the fan skipped a beat.

"NATHAN! DONT SAY THAT WORD" roars outside the one door.

Groaning he contemplates the meaning of everything in a matter of seconds and contemplates the very meaning of the easy essay,

"why should i do this, it is nothing to me, i am not challenged however im too lazy to better myself"

*up the wolves starts playing in the background

Nathan its easy just do it, you will be rewarded with a good grade.

NAthan fuck that shit ill just bullshit it

NAThan you can do it just move these things around and check your email and change the music

NATHan its almost 3 oclock in the morning you need the sleep

NATHAn arent you hungry that shit i saw on the tv looks good lets get some

NATHAN GET YOUR WORK DONE IDIOT

*you never know by immortal technique plays

works for hours

NATHAN GET UPPP YOUR GOING TO BE LATE,PROFESSOR WILL KILL YOU

*gets to class 1 minute before 1112

*arm feels numb

*lightheaded

*passes out and permanently damages my brain

Lemme know what you think

A piece of writing meant to be thought-provoking and tentative that involves primarily of background materials, personal opinion and analysis is a think piece. It is a concise, accessible summary based on research and your individual interpretation of analysis and of results at in any context chosen. You are given a brief paper which allows you to explore your thoughts, ideas, and insights regarding a particular topic in a less complex way. It should be written in a manner in which an audience outside your field can understand your analysis and discussion. Despite the fact that it can be difficult writing it, following this guide will simplify it.

How to Write a Think Piece

1. Identify a topic to discuss. You are required to identify a topic or a trending topic you think you can give your thoughts about.
2. Do research about the identified topic. Find information about the identified topic. Write down any other shreds of evidence that you may need to include in the think piece including quotes from individuals that will give the reader a better understanding.
3. Write an outline for your pieceThe outline should include the introduction, body, and conclusion. In the outline, the introduction should include a sentence that can catch the reader’s eye, the introduction of your topic of discussion and subtopics. The body should discuss about the subtopics you mentioned in the introductory part. The conclusion should restate your thesis and giving your opinions about the topic identified.
4. Break down your post for easy reading. Your think piece should have short quotes, subheadings, images if relevant that can move your reader to read through the main points. This will help the readers get the main ideas they required in your piece.
5. Proofread your work. You are also required to proofread your work to make sure you have captured all the required points, and make corrections where necessary.
6. Find opinions from friends. This point is also necessary, having someone else g through your piece may identify some major points that you may have not included in the piece. And this will give you more ideas to include in the think piece.

After completing these steps then you are good to go!

If at any point you may require more help in how to write a think piece, feel free to contact myhomeworkwriters.com. In case you find any difficulty, our homework assist experts can help you with the assignment help. My Homework writers guarantees you of quality services.

Hello r/PracticeWriting !

We are a team of researchers from Aarhus University’s Centre for Digital Creativity in Denmark, and we are examining the role of digital tools in creative practice.

This is a study about creative writing, and we hope that you will help us with our research by participating.

Take part in our study on the relationship between writing tools and creativity to try out new tools and to possibly learn more about your own creative performance! The study takes no more than 30 minutes and runs in the browser on your own computer.

After the study, we’ll be happy to share the preliminary results with you as well as general strategies for writing more creatively.

Link to study: www.ccct.dk/cw/

Thanks!

So, first things first, I'm a graphic designer by profession, but I have been having a creative block lately, and I thought that maybe trying a different form of creativity would help with the block. I figure even if it doesn't help smash the block it might help my 'content creation' skills to get a daily calendar of writing tips and prompts.

So... here's the first one:

Prompt: You bolt awake… but you’re not immediately sure what awakened you. You blearily fumble for your cell phone to check the time, but as you reach for the bedside table, you gasp – your hand passes through the oak nightstand as if it were composed of nothing but mist. After a moment, you raise your hand up in front of your face to discover that it is not the nightstand that is no longer solid, but your disconcertingly translucent hand. What has happened?

-

“Shit.”

I instantly sit up in bed, panicked as if I overslept. I turn to look at the clock on the nightstand.

2:30am.

I exhale, my shoulders lowering with the release of tension. I run my hands through my golden-brown hair, pulling it away from my face and recline myself back to a horizontal position. It was a rather warm and humid night last night, being July and all, and I had laid on top of my blankets and pillows in an attempt to get comfortable in the summer humidity.

Hey, I’m not late! I think semi-excitedly, I’ve got a few more hours to sleep!

One and a half of those hours pass.

And… I’m still awake. So much for the semi-excitement.

“Might as well get up,” I mutter to myself. “I guess I could get some shit done.”

I sit back up, stretching my fists to the ceiling in pandiculation. I pause, then reach toward my phone on the oak nightstand for her phone. Instead of grasping it, my hand went through it with no resistance.

“Wait... what…the hell??” I grumbled as I tried to pick up my phone a second unsuccessful time. I furrow my brow in frustration.

“WHAT THE FUCK.”

I turn and look down at my feet, which, along with the rest of my body, are floating above the bed.

I make myself vertical, and see that my bed is occupied. Occupied by someone who looks like me, but paler.

I bring my hands to my face, which, interestingly, I can see right through.

“FUCK. FUCK! WHAT THE FUCK?? AM I DEAD??”

“Well, you catch on fast enough.” A voice said from behind me.

I scream and turn around, noticing the similarly transparent humanoid figure in the corner.

“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?” I yelp.

The figure in the corner, still facing the corner, responds. “I thought you already figured it out. You’re dead.”

“Wha…how?” I sputter.

“Carbon monoxide gas leak,” says the figure. “There are worse ways to go.”

“But… I had things to do.” I say thickly. “Things to be.”

The figure reaches out and pats my shoulder, surprisingly making contact. “I know. We all do. Did, rather.”

I’m filled with the sadness that accompanies irreversible misfortunes. I want to cry, but I can’t. It won’t change anything.

I force a cough to cover my distress. “So… ghosts are real, eh?”

The figure shakes its head.

I tilt my head quizzically. “Huh…Are you here to guide me into the afterlife? I didn’t think that was a real thing.”

“It’s not.”

“Then what’s going on? I mean, I get it, I’m dead. But what is this conversation we’re having?”

“It’s the last firings of your synapses before everything goes dark.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, I guess that makes-”

Everything goes dark.

context: dissertation for my art degree.

I want to make this sentence quite punchy: i am basically saying that the artist 'falling' is reminiscent of a baby falling (out of the womb) into being or "sentience".

here is what i have written!

Kiera O’Reilly shows the vulnerability of time and bodily fragility in her Stair Falling (2010) piece, where an often violent occurrence of falling down the stairs is revoked and re-appropriated in this surreal slow motion performance, appearing arduously executed. O’Reilly slows the event of falling, demonstrates an event that is about the materiality of the body in environmental affect. We fall into being, so to speak; an awakening of the mind through the endurance of the body - reminiscent of a baby 'falling' from the womb into a state of 'being' during birth.

I’ve been starting to wonder more often of when my time will come. Not in a the dead sort of way but in the moment that I discover what I am meant to do on this Earth. I can tell you right now that it isn’t being a software engineer. This is simply too little to bring meaning to my life. I feel like I have a pretty good draw in life, I ain’t half bad looking, i’m not real dim, but I intimidate to a point that alters who I feel I really am on a daily basis.

The weird part about that is that I’m comfortable with being weird, it’s always come natural to me. Why not anyways? I have literally zero reason to change who I am for no reason. I was born to this Earth with nothing to my parents, who are the same as I am. Just people trying to find happiness somewhere, but tends to be in another while still having to front their outward facing self on some ends.

I digress but this is still something I think about. My family is weird in a comfortable sense. Who better to spend a life with anyways? I want love and I already have a source of it, simply built into my life. There are people that care for me as I care for them, at least a much as I can. For some reason, real displays of love tend to be a skill I have yet to acquire.

I am concerned though, this life can be difficult for anyone who is not quite prepared.

That’s bullshit.though, no one is born with anything. Talent, intuition, knowledge, I am not special and there’s no reason to think that in the first place.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=bYyjGTAoXfQ

(For context, this is a paragraph/thing about the reasons why I’ve randomly missed blog posts and ghosted my podcast over the last two months. I decided to break the news to my viewers over Twitter and Facebook so they know what’s going on).

“So you all probably noticed over the last few weeks that I’ve missed a few blog posts unannounced, when in the past I would give a reason beforehand. My podcast was also ghosted since June, despite me having a blast with them. I’ve been too afraid to bring up the reasons at first, but I feel like I’m ready now.

I’ve always been socially awkward and slightly down on myself, no matter what I did and for as long as I can remember. But for the last three years or so, it’s just gotten a little out of hand. I have a bad habit of putting everyone else on a high pedestal while leaving myself on the ground overthinking about every little mistake I’ve made. I brush off compliments a lot. I normally reply “thank you” when really I’m freaking out over if it’s true or not since I was lied to in the past. This caused me to lose confidence in myself and also the motivation to do things I’m good at with the fear that I’m not good at them. This is in all aspects of my life.

It’s affected me back in high school a couple of months back where near the end I locked myself in the bathroom twice to avoid embarrassing myself as I panic about social situations and possible outcomes. My already suffering social skills suffered more because I want to be this person that did everything right, like the people I put on those imaginary pedestals. I thought “maybe I need to change something”, but instead ended up hiding things instead. I was still myself, but I hid a lot of stuff that didn’t need to be personal behind this extremely quiet persona that didn’t need to be there. I try to impress people that don’t deserve to be impressed. I’m nice to everyone, I let people push me around, I keep myself busy and keep quiet in order to keep everyone else charmed.

I’ve only been properly realising all this recently over the last few weeks. I don’t want to continue thinking like this anymore, but can’t rewire 3 years of thinking that this is how I should act. All this was partly a lack of motivation, but also mainly realising that I should do things for me first. For now, I’ll be posting but on my own accord (while still keeping with the schedule as well as possible). Thank you for reading!”

In a dark room in southern Washington, a young man's eyes slowly opened. His irises dilated, letting in the small amount of light that seeped in from the window beside him. It was a shallow mix of blueish whites and reds from both the lights bordering the nature trail below, and the automated commercial transports creeping across the night sky far away. The slow dancing colors animated the ceiling and the young man gazed at them for a moment,  now fully awake. He rolled over on his side to face the wall just under the window. He pulled his arm out from his thick blanket and raised it above his head, the light splashing across his fair skin. He made a quick hand gesture and heard a small chirp from across the room. Seconds later, a small orange and white finch landed on his now outstretched index finger. It looked down at him, its head tilting in a twitchy fashion. It chirped again. The young man groaned. "Only an hour? Christ…" He lamented upon hearing how long he'd slept since closing his eyes. The finch quickly took flight as the arm dropped and was then pulled back under the covers. "Artemis, raise the bed so I can see outside, please." He quietly murmured. There was another distant vocalization before his bed began to float upwards, leaving the ground. It stopped just as the young man was able to see out of his apartment window.  From the top floor of the complex, aided by the additional height provided by the hill it sat on, he could see for miles. The entire city was wonderful to look at at this time of night. Distant flashing colors melded together into a symphony of mezmorizing beauty. The tall, plant covered sky scrapers shone like stars on the shorter buildings and parks below them. Being miles away, he could just barely see the flying automated transports that littered the sky around the city. Their minuscule logos hinting at what goods lay inside. His view was obstructed by the tiny round bird he'd spoken to earlier. It let out a short whistle. "Oh yeah, I'm feeling fine. I'm pretty much awake now. Thanks, though." He softly patted its head with his finger. It gave a satisfied tweet. Blue holographic numbers appeared just above its puffy chest.  They displayed the time; 1:34AM. "Jeez, I still got seven hours till work…" He mumbled. The finch tilted its head and the numbers vanished. The young man thought for a couple seconds before  throwing off his covers. "Ok, Artemis, go open the laundry room window, please." He softly commanded, laying spread eagle on his bed in nothing but his boxers. That fact caught up with him as the bird flew away though and he called after it, shivering, "And turn up the heat!" There was a lower, doubtful cry from across the apartment. "Then turn it up to eighty five!" He yelled back. There was no chirp back but the dull red glow of the glass encased heating coils that dotted the ceiling let him know Artemis had listened. He sat up and threw his legs off the bed and onto the cool carpeted floor. The tiny anti grav generators under his bed made the skin on the back of his legs tingle. Standing up, a few strands of his slightly curled, medium length blonde hair fell into his face. He quickly blew them away with a puff of air and made his way over to a white t shirt laying on  the floor. He picked it up and slid it over his pale, athletic frame. Absentmindedly trying to smooth out the wrinkles of his night shirt with his hands, he heard a low grumble and put a hand to his stomach. He was pretty hungry, but he didn't know what for. He lifted his wrist up even with his chest like he was checking an oldschool watch and quickly twisted it toward him, then back. The clear crystal band around it illuminated and stretched about 6 inches up his forearm. Various icons and ads lit up the screen and the young man felt the neural implant at the base of his skull warm slightly as it connected.  When it did, the icons and ads melted together, their colors mixing to form a blueish white. On it, three dots flashed in a sequence as it connected to the web. After a second they joined together and spread out, creating the page for his bank account. His remaining disposable income for the month of March was at one hundred and seventy eight dollars. His bills were checked as unpaid but that would eventually be taken care of. His eyes moved to his savings; Twelve thousand five hundred and six dollars and ten cents. It was a number he was proud of. The account he next glanced to, however, he was the opposite of. A frown moved across his lips as he stared at his "Emergency fund". It was half a million dollars exactly.  And it was going to stay at that number for the rest of time, he thought.  He stared at it, disgusted, until Artemis' chirps snapped him out of it. They weren't to him, he was just perched on the open window having a good time in the fresh sixty four degree air. A hundred years ago that temperature in March that far north would be unheard of, but years of fossil fuel burning had warmed the earth substantially.  However, human efforts kept the planet's ecosystems and geography mostly the same, just hotter. The young man twisted his wrist again and the crystal band shrunk back and turned off. He didn't want to spend any money, he already had food there. He walked over to a bare metal circle on the floor and pressed down on it with his foot. It sunk in half an inch before a small click was heard. The young man removed his foot and the room was illuminated as a lighted, multi level pillar erected itself. From underneath the floor, flexible crystal panes were drug up and slid together around it, forming a sliding door on each level. Food and drinks were also pulled up from their cooled storage under the floor and through the central pillar, being pushed out onto the different levels. The fridge was as tall as the eight foot ceiling and the levels were perfectly  placed within his reach. Each level spun clockwise, giving him a good view of the items within. He tapped his foot for a few seconds, trying to decide what he wanted. He finally placed a hand on the center most level. It stopped spinning and he easily slid open the crystal. He grabbed a grapefruit sized apple and a pink high calorie shake. Unfolding the bio degradable container of the shake, he lightly kicked the bottom of his fridge and it descended, just like it had come up, in ten seconds. He had already downed most of the semi sweet liquid before he turned around intending to gather his clothes for the laundry, but found they were all already placed into the basket.  "Oh, I could've gotten that, Artemis." He said to his small companion, who was hoping around on the carpet, pecking at it to remove debris and clean it. It stopped and gave a few quick tweets before resuming. The young man chuckled to himself. "Whatever…" He mumbled with a smile. He walked over to the basket and held the giant apple in between his left arm and torso before picking it up and carrying it to the laundry room. He stepped through the multicolored beads he'd hung from the doorway and set the basket down beside the single large, dark blue, rectangular machine. With his free hand he pressed down on the glass lid and heard a low 'ding'. It illuminated just like his crystal wristband and the young man set the machine. Once he was done, the lid opened and he chugged the rest of the shake. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the pine scented air, a smile forming on his face. He walked over to the window, which wasn't far, and placed the apple on the small ledge outside it, next to his succelents. The apartment complex formed a right angle "U". His bedside window faced outwards, towards the city and the small but dense evergreen forest that separated them, but the laundry room window, witch was on the other side of the room, faced inwards towards the inside of the complex. He looked down at the central garden area ten stories below. Birds roosted in the variety of different trees and bushes, bugs flew around the flowers, and a few small forest animals gathered around the automated food dispensers. He tossed the empty shake container out the window.  It tumbled for a few seconds before landing on one of the crisscrossing concrete paths that ran through the garden. The suddenness of the impact made most of the animals run for cover in the bushes. But, after a couple seconds they realized they were safe and came out of hiding.  Attracted by the scent, a hedgehog came over to the container and sniffed it before nibbling on the corner. That was normal. The container was plant based and by sunrise it would probably be gone. The young man grabbed his apple and bit into it, juice spilling out the sides of his mouth. It was tart and firm, just the way he liked them. He turned, wiping away the juice with his shirt, and began to load his laundry. Halfway through the load and his apple, however, he was interrupted by a small crash and a womans voice announcing, "Shit!". The young man, still with a mouth full of apple, quickly moved back over to the window and peered out wondering who was up this early. Across the way, on the level below him, a light was on. He could see it through the sliding glass door that lead out to the small balcony. Each apartment had one on that side. He saw what had made the crashing noise. A small, novelty ceramic statue lay shattered on the balcony. Shards were scattered all around the wooden floor.  It had apparently fallen from the guard rail. What he didn't see, however, was the young lady who's voice he heard, although, since the light was on, he assumed she'd just gone inside to get a broom and dustpan. Mystery solved, the young man was about to pull his head back in when he saw something that froze him solid. The ceramic shards klinked together as they were moved by an invisible force. They came together in a small pile before floating up into the air. The young man's knuckles were white from gripping the tiny ledge so hard. He wasn't superstitious, maybe just a little stitious, but what he was witnessing could only be one of two things, and he was almost certain he knew which one. It was a god damn ghost. He'd heard rumors about that floor, about things moving on their own. About lights turning on and off when there was no one around, but he had just shrugged it off. He couldn't do that this time. Staring transfixed at the site before him, he didn't notice a thick stream of sugary drool creeping down the back of his throat and into his open windpipe. As soon as it crossed the threshold into his trachea, the young man automatically coughed hard. Bits of apple were thrown from his mouth but he held it together and forcefully swallowed. His teary eyes darted back down to the balcony. The pieces were still floating in mid air, but they had frozen.  Like whatever entity was holding them had just noticed him. His lights were off so it was no wonder it only saw him then. The pieces suddenly fell again and the sliding glass door was violently flung open and then slammed shut. Not a second later it polarized and the lights went out. Seemingly broken from his spell, the young man stumbled back into his apartment, now letting his held back coughs and wheezes go. Artemis was shocked to see its master in such a state and flew to his shoulder, tweeting furiously. On his way back to his bed, tears blurring his vision, the young man managed to get out a, "I'm fine!", between coughs. He opened his nightstand and pulled out a golf ball sized pick cube. He sat on his bed, coughing then under control, and tapped on the cube. It unfolded into a long and wide rectangle that then bent itself in half. Letters and numbers appeared on the bottom half, and a white screen flashed to life on the top. He sat the laptop on his knees and began furiously searching the web. Tab after tab were opened detailing supernatural phenomena as well as multiple tabs on power emergence theory and what superhuman abilities had been recorded and theorized. People with superhuman and, although much more rare, inhuman or physics defying powers and abilities first started being born one hundred years ago in 1999. Although the exact reason was unknown and remained that way, there was nothing surprising about seeing people with wings, superhuman strength or speed, enhanced senses, or any other extreme physical powers. In fact it was rare to see someone without powers. Only five percent of the eleven billion people on the planet had no special abilities. However, those with non biological powers like wingless flight, energy projection, teleportation, etc, were very rare and valuable to governments and criminal organizations. Nevertheless, he was scouring the net for just one; Invisibility. True invisiblility. Not camoflauge or perception alteration, but true blue invisibility. After hours of sifting through countless websites and anonymous message boards where people could be honest about their abilities without fear of being rounded up by the military, he had found nothing. In a century it had never been documented once. And barely theorized. It was a ghost for sure. They'd been proven over seventy years ago on a terrible ghost hunting show by accident. Now the young man was living in the same apartment complex as one. Or more likely someone else was living in the same room as one! He had to tell them! Did they know? He had to document it. Despite being scientifically proven, evidence, especially footage was exceedingly rare and valuable. Heart pounding with a mix of fear and excitement, he crept back over to the laundry room. His apple had browned and the laundry machine had turned off at that point.  He quietly raised himself back up over the windowsill just enough to see the balcony.  He definitely wasn't hallucinating, the broken trinket was still there. He was trying to think of what to do next when, behind the polarized glass he could see the silhouette of a person. His breath caught in his throat. Could it see him? Surely not. He could barely see it. Then, suddenly, the glass depolarized and the door slid open. He ducked quickly behind the wall and listened closely. He heard the door close and then a pause before a quiet but audible sigh could be heard. It was also feminine. But he didn't hear the first voice clear enough to know if it was the same.  After a second of brain racking, he decided it was indeed a different voice. He heard the ceramic pieces once again being moved about and decided to peek again. As his eyes lifted above the ledge, he saw a person.  A real person.  She was slender, and tall but that was all he could tell. She was covered head to toe in clothing and even wore sunglasses. Barely the skin around her eyes was visible. Even then, it looked off. It was uneven and bumpy. Maybe scarred? How was she not dying of heat stroke? He thought. It didn't take long for her to gather up the pieces and stand straight up again.  She looked around, maybe trying to see what had knocked off her balcony ornament, before heading back inside. The young man didn't know what to think as he pulled away and rested his back against the wall under the window. But he had to find out more. There was a burning curiosity inside him that wouldn't die down no matter what. He had to go talk to that girl, ask her questions, see if she knew anything! He took a deep breath to calm himself and stood up. He closed the window and picked up the apple he dropped. He grabbed his laundry basket. Before anything else, he had to do laundry.

There's nothing really specific I want you to critique on, other than the fact that I'm trying to do something new and something that's virtually never been done yet: I'm going to post short stories on Instagram. What do you guys think? Will anyone be interested?

This is my first short story

Copy/pasted from the /r/writing feedback post:

There are four. No titles are settled, I just thought of them for the purpose of this submission. The order is by how much I like them. My favorite is first, least favorite last. Links are the titles.

Title: Suit

Genre: Short story, realistic fiction

Word count: 1391

Type of feedback: Any is appreciated. Specifically, I think the final transition from thought to action is a little too disjointed; thoughts?

Title: Dad

Genre: Short story, realistic fiction

Word count: 416

Type of feedback: Any is appreciated.

Title: Little Lyosha

Genre: Short story, realistic fiction

Word count (excluding footnotes): 379

Word count (including footnotes): 455

Type of feedback: Any is appreciated, but specifically I have some problems with how I communicate the stuff about historical context and the nickname. It doesn't make sense to just explain it in the story, but having footnotes seems to break the flow. Any suggestions?

Title: First Date

Genre: Short story, realistic fiction

Word Count: 197

Type of feedback: Any is appreciated.

As said before, these are sorted, with my favorite being Suit, and least First Date. If you only want to critique one, start with the top.

Thank you for any help you guys can provide!

https://wordpress.com/post/thelongfuture.wordpress.com/580

Looking for general impressions. Is anything confusing/unrealistic.?Am I doing anything annoying? Are you intrigued?

Thanks.

Sad forever... always a step behind. The meaninglessness starts to get to me. Connections are are devoid of meaning in a desert. I govern nothing, I am not the leader in this show. I mearly exist in this production where I control nothing. A meaningless cog that contemplates his own movements. Why or how could this cog ever imagine anything could be personal to him? He is simply a means to an end, nothing special in this normalcy machine. Continuing to defy he becomes immortalized in what he believes has meaning.

Nothing.

Why should any cog keep turning? To push along society? To meet social expectations? To do anything other than what is expected? How can any one "cog" mean anything in a machine that is systematically sustained.

A cog means nothing. I mean nothing.