Title: If You Love Something

It’s not healthy to run.
You aren’t facing your problems—how will you grow?
Grow up, get over it.
The world keeps turning, you’ll be fine.
 

Be an adult,
face your fears,
quit sulking, 

pitying yourself.

Quit fucking up and blaming the universe.
Quit being a bad friend, taking out your insecurities on others.

Don’t you have a loving family? 

Good health?
Opportunities?
A good education?
Friends who care?

Why can’t you just be happy,
content,
calm,
patient,
responsible,
level-headed,
respectful 
rational,
stable,
loving,
grateful.

Why can’t you shut the fuck up when others are trying to speak - Do you love the sound of your own voice? Do you think you’re better than others?

Why do you keep hurting yourself—falling, breaking, drinking, drugging, crashing?

Is it a Freudian thing or was it the bullies.
Bullies that everyone has, except for the few.
They exist, but not in my world, not anymore.
I learned well. 

Move across the country to forget suburban traumas—a blearing phantom limb.

New songs of your sorrow will catch ears out West.
Go there and, when they find out, leave again.
Leave no trace
just like trash—
you pollute.

Why don’t you just go find Christ.
Pick up tired books behind church pews
and sing to the heavens bleating hymns that could
rock a meth head to sleep.

Stop pushing people away. Stop.
Would it make it easier to kill yourself?
No, no, no. Then I’d truly be running from my problems. 

Maybe I could find God.
Not anymore,
but at one point, I could have.
I would have.

Here’s what I do know: AWARENESS never absolved anyone of anything.

So stop asking me why.
I couldn’t tell you either way.

She doesn’t forgive easily.
Same with others,
time as proof.

If you love something, let it go.
This is my greatest act of love.
If only I had done it with the others.

I don’t seek forgiveness; this is the end of the road.

If a house catches on fire, don’t go back and rebuild it.
If you lit the house on fire, don’t go back and fix it.
If the house is on fire and you walk by, don’t stop to save it.
If you burn down a home, don’t expect to go back inside.

A shitty analogy, but I’m no author, and this isn’t a sonnet.

I wrote this to say goodbye.
You mean much more to me than words.

I’m cutting out this tumor before it grows.

If you love something, let it bleed.

Hi everyone,I'm a native French speaker, and I've recently translated my short novel from French to English. I'm looking for native English speakers to give me honest feedback on the translation, especially in terms of flow, naturalness, and readability. Since this is my first time translating my work, I'd love any tips or corrections that can help improve the overall quality.

You can access the document here 👇

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1P05QGfdLfRQH0PRLje5DIN6c5oNBpojG8aHs9pdsFXY/edit?usp=drivesdk

If you enjoy helping out or are passionate about reading, I'd be grateful for your insights! Thanks in advance for your time and help!

Hi I've just started writing and it's my first time writing since high school! I'd love to get some feedback and areas for improvement before I carry on! :) (I couldn't figure out how to attach images so I'm just going to copy-paste into here and hope for the best haha)

Moira was just thirteen years old the first time she came face-to-face with one of the cold women. Pale skin. Such pale skin you could see the criss cross of veins beneath the white. A network of blue-green veins beneath her skin, like sub-dermal woad, spider-webbed just out of reach. She had these glassy white eyes that Moira somehow subconsciously knew were all-seeing, and this white cotton hair that appeared to float around her head as if a breeze was constantly nearby. Moira didn’t know - could never have known - because her parents avoided the topic of death so ardently, what this woman was. What her presence heralded.

Her Mathair had brought her to the markets that day to help prepare for the summer solstice - they needed fish for grilling, bread and grain, and mead. And she was allowed a new dress for the occasion, which is what she was looking for when that strange, white woman came upon her. The cobbled streets were lined above-head with linens of every sunny colour; oranges and yellows and deep reds. The air was warm and thick with the scent of just over-ripe fruits and the light tang of sweat from what seemed like every person from the village flitting in and out of the stalls, picking up their last minute preparations for the nights’ bonfire. The noise and jostling and heat was so far removed from their quiet riverside home and Moira had never been around so many people at once that surely, surely, it was reasonable that she hadn’t noticed the angry murmuring that had risen up around her or the way that people had began to push up against the stalls the same way an ocean draws back before crashing onto shore.

Moira had just walked up to a clothing stall ran by her Mathair’s friend Alaistair, a bald and distinctly bird-like man. There was a dress at the front, this sweet little plum number, long and flowing with a gold blackbird brocade pinning the right shoulder to a small pleat. Moira moved to get Alaistair’s attention, raising her hand shyly as if to wave good morning, but he overlooked her in favour of a young man who asked for a green linen tunic hanging in the back corner of the stall. While she waited for Alaistair to be done, she felt the hem of the dress, running the soft weave between her fingers. Abruptly, Moira noticed a hazy mist rolling in across the cobblestone streets, lapping lightly around her ankles. It was cold and wet against the sun beating down on her shoulders. The light around her seemed to dim slightly, the shadows cast by the stall linens darkening almost imperceptibly. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled in caution as she heard a silence fall behind her. Alaistair raised his eyes from where he was counting silver behind the counter to look just behind her shoulder, his eyes tightening in panic. Moira, against her better judgement, slowly turned her head to look over her shoulder. Scanning the crowd of onlookers behind her, her eyes came to rest on a strange woman. She saw the fear and fury on the faces of every person within her eyeline, but it was a fear that did not register. She was quietly entranced by the woman, the sureness of her steps, those deep lifeless eyes and their unwavering stare. She was striding towards Moira, lithe and elegant and fleetingly apologetic.

A woman she recognised but did not know the name of moved forward, her face strained and taut, mouth open and words of admonishment ready on her tongue when the cold woman stopped on her approach to Moira. “I’m sorry, little one”, she whispered into the silence, opening her mouth as if to scream and hair raising around her head like an angry cloud. Her lips thinned into a bloodless cracked line around a mouth that continued to stretch and stretch and stretch and stretch until her face appeared as a hole and teeth and tongue, and nothing more. Pain and sadness creased the lines around her eyes and whatever sound Moira was expecting to come out of her mouth never eventuated as the cold woman raised a single ghastly finger to point at Moira and then dropped to the stone floor with a heavy thump. Dead.

As she looked down at the dead woman in front of her, she felt not horror or disgust as was to be expected, but rather a deep-set fascination. She wanted to reach out and touch this pale lady, to feel the coldness of her skin beneath her own fingers. To feel the stillness of her heart and the absence of breath in her chest. A sudden panic at this thought gripped Moira’s heart in a vice grip, its icy tentacles shooting through her chest and down her legs until she felt paralysed from the cold. A loud buzzing sounded in her head and the market tilted sideways as Moira sagged backwards down Alaistair’s stall onto the cobblestones below. “Let me through! Please, let me through! That’s my nighean! Moira, please my girl, I’m coming!”. She could just hear her Mathair shouting through the crowd, trying to make her way through the swarm of angry villagers but they were blocking her way. The throng of people converged around Mathair, closing ranks to prevent her from moving closer. Her Mathair, in a frantic bid to break through, was shoving at the villagers shoulders, hollowly slapping against their chests. “Enough Mhairi, you know what this means”, a voice sounded from behind Moira. “You should turn around and leave the girl to us”. She felt rough hands, the same hands belonging to the voice behind her she supposed, grabbing her shoulders and rolling her onto her back. “Let her go Fionnlagh”, her Mathair said pushing again and again against the barricade of people surrounding Moira, tears welling gently in her eyes. “Mama please. I want my mama”, said Moira, her voice a hoarse breath caught in her throat, before her head drooped back and the world went black. Fionnlagh trembled as he moved to grab Moira’s shoulders again, attempting to drag her out of the mob of people surrounding the stall. Her skin was noticeably cooling beneath his touch with each passing second and a single tuft of hair played a vicious white against the young girls’ red fringe. No one paid a thought to the strange creature that was lying in the street, her body would be moved, in time, before the rats and ravens began plucking at her flesh. But for now, there were more pressing issues.

His lank hair flopped forward into his eyes as he strained to drag Moira’s body. An unconscious person was much heavier to move, dead weight pulling at the forearms and back, and Fionnlagh was unused to manual labour. “Anyone care to help out?” he called into the watching townsfolk. The same woman from before, words of rebuke for that cold woman ready and dripping from her tongue, approached Fionnlagh where he was bent over Moira’s body. Catriona, was her name, and she was a burly woman. Short and stocky, tanned arms peeking out from beneath her tunic from years of toil on her farm. Age lines marred what once would have been a handsome face, stone-grey hair pulled tight against her scalp. “I’m as eager as you to see an end to this”.

She reached to grab one of Moira’s legs, prepared to move her out of the horde of onlookers when Mhairi broke through the crowd at last. She was panicked and frantic, desperate to reach Moira before she was pulled away. Clothes in disarray and sand-hewn hair pulled loose from its once-perfect braid, she barreled towards the pair, shoving them away to crouch protectively over her daughter. “All of you turn around and go back about your business, leave my Moira alone”, she hissed, pulling a small purse-knife from her side. The action would have been threatening, had she not held the appearance of a spitting cat, cornered and afraid. One just had to look close enough to see that the fear she presented was not for Moira’s well-being, but for her family’s fate.

“Don’t be ridiculous Mhairi, put blade away and let us handle things from here. You should go home and be with Bairre,” Catriona said, her voice tinged around the edges with a hardness that could not be softened by her attempt to sound gentle and coaxing. “Take another step ‘Triona.” Mhairi’s voice quavered but her hand was steady as she raised the knife an inch. “See reason Mhairi! She’s been marked! We have a chance to put an end to these heedless deaths, people taken before their time and -” she was cut off at the end by Alaistair coming to stand by Mhairi’s side, and resting a hand on her shoulder. He was not a large or imposing man in stature, but his presence commanded a certain respect not often observed in this small town. “Let this woman take her nighean home in peace.” He spoke quietly yet his voice still carried across the square. Mhairi looked up at him, hope in her eyes, “She and Bairre deserve to say their final goodbyes before you she’s put to rest”. He looked directly at Fionnlagh at that, nodding before gently squeezing Mhairi’s shoulder. The gesture, while outwardly reassuring was just ever-so-slightly too tight, pinching a spot near her collarbone.

Moira awoke slowly, her head felt like her brain had been removed and the remaining cavity stuffed with lambswool. Her limbs were limp and heavy with a cold numb sensation, but the bed beneath her was warm and soft and she was too exhausted to pull herself from unconsciousness completely just yet. She drifted in and out for a while, letting strange dreams of men and women and children, sick and on their deathbed fill her mind. Their presence was hailed by the echo of keening, of cries of heart-wrenching grief. A soft song filling her chest at the sight and sound of them. The song was curious and one she had never heard but somehow recognised - at both times mournful and something that filled her with hope. Hope for a life beyond the one she was living, beyond the confines of her small village. It made her want to weep for the family she would leave behind in moving on and at the same time, made her unable to look back, too drawn forward towards that peaceful feeling. The song filled her body from her toes to her lungs until she was so full of breath that it was if she was balancing on that delicate precipice between life and death. And so, to let it out before the music utterly consumed her, Moira began to sing.

Or at least she thought she had started to sing. What noise that left her mouth however was nothing short of a piercing wail. The sound was that of anguish but the feeling was one of pure ecstasy and once she started, Moira found she was unable to stop the dreadful wail until the song had reached its completion. Hammering footsteps sounded around the corner of her bedroom door as her Mathair and Athair barreled into the room. The wooden door clanged against the side board and her Mathair rushed to kneel at her head, soft hands stroking her hair away from her face. “Hush my sweet girl, go back to sleep”, she said, a tender yet tight smile pulling at her cheeks. “Stop it Mhairi,” her Athair said, his voice harsh and rough in the small room. “Our daughter is gone and this thing has replaced her. You would be wise to step back before she turns her scream on you”. Her Athair was normally of a gentle disposition, auburn hair and workman’s hands rough and worn from years as a blacksmith. But that visage was gone tonight; his lip curled in disgust as he looked down at Moira. Her Mathair whirled around at that. “Nonsense Bairre - look at her”. She stood up then and made to grab Athair’s chin. “Look. at. her. She is still the same bairn I carried in me for nine moons. I would recognise her face in the darkness and no cold woman’s wail will change that. If she needs to scream, let her scream. I will not abandon her”. “That. Is not my Moira”. His voice came out barely more than a whisper, but it was enough for the disdain to carry across the room. There was this detached look in his eyes that told Moira that he didn’t believe what he was saying, but was trying to withdraw from the pain of what was to come. Her athair turned on his heel then and stalked out of the room, the door once again clanging behind him.

“Don’t worry about Papa, my sweet girl, he’ll come around I’m sure of it. He’s just afraid”. Her Mathair smiled, bending down to brush her lips against Moira’s forehead. The gesture was tender, as a Mathair should be with her bairn, but even Moira in her young age could feel the barest hint of disgust in the way her Mathair recoiled from her skin. “But why, Mama?”, the words left Moira’s mouth just as her mother turned to leave, soft and full of hope that what was broken could still be fixed. Her Mathair turned back to sit on her bed, the mattress sinking slightly beneath her weight. She smoothed the blanket around Moira, tucking it in tight to her sides, fighting to find the words to explain.

She sighed deeply and kept her eyes trained to where Moira’s hand clutched the blanket. “He’s afraid of losing you to the woman from the market,” she said tucking her hair behind her ears in a nervous gesture. She refused to make eye contact with Moira when she spoke, dancing around the question in a way that left Moira more confused than before. Why was he so afraid of losing her? And why did it make him angry, when anger was so usually an emotion outside his reach? “I don’t understand, why would the lady from the markets want to steal me? She’s dead besides, so I’m safe. Am I not?” Her mathair opened and closed her mouth, more akin to a fish than a person and suddenly held the back of her hand to Moira’s forehead. She was clearly reluctant to answer directly. “You’re looking a bit peaky hen, perhaps its best you get some more rest”, she said, her voice resolving to avoid the question, and the situation at hand. “But Mama I don’t feel sick. I just feel cold”, Moira said. A brief shudder of revulsion passed through her Mathair, so quickly replaced by a sad smile and a gentle pat on the hand, that if Moira wasn’t watching she might have missed it. “I know my girl, I know”.

Moira was left alone in her room then as her Mathair left to ‘fix up some supper’, and sleep began to draw her back in. There was a frost that had settled into Moira’s bones since the trip that late morning and it was making her slow and sleepy. She rolled onto her stomach and pressed her face against the pillow, the soft scent of feather-down lulling her into a quiet slumber this time. Still she dreamt, but instead of before where nondescript faces flitted in and out of her minds eye, this time she was met with a young boy. He was older than her but still small, tousled brown curls and a crooked playful smile. Again a mist played at his feet, at once dense and light as a flowing stream. He was dressed in tan pants and a brown flaxen shirt, beckoning her forward. “How are you here?” she asked, sitting up in her bed.

Nonplussed, he beckoned her forward again more insistently this time. She stood up from her bed and started towards him, her legs heavy and slow with hours of unuse. The closer she got to him, the more clearly that she was able to see his face. He was stood next to her mirror, just in front of her dresser drawer. His neck and arms were marred with a smattering of raw looking scabs - red and bruised apparently from picking. A singular pustule was burgeoning on his cheek near his hairline, swollen and ready to burst. The boy was afflicted with the red pox, a horrible illness that had swept through the village before Moira was born. It caused itchy boils that filled with this milk-yellow substance and could be spread by touch only. Not many survived once they came down with it, but those who did were pushed from the village in to the lower east end. Pox Creek, the villagers called it and Athair had warned her against ever going down there. “Papa certainly wouldn’t have let you in to my room, not when you’re sick mister”, she said drawing back from him. He didn’t look scary really, just sad, but she was a good daughter and Athair had told her not to interact with the afflicted. She backed up a little further and in the process caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her once vibrant copper hair was now streaked with bright white, and her eyes. Her eyes, previously the same sun-baked earthen brown of her Mathairs’ were now muted and cloudy, like the sun had drawn back before a storm.

She started, the shock of her appearance pulled Moira from her revere and she looked around blankly around her room. Her chest ached and her lungs felt squeezed of all air. She edged towards the mirror and pulled softly at her eyes, once beautiful but now eerie. There was a new liveliness in them that wasn’t immediately apparent and contradicted the apparent sightlessness of them. It made her feel strange and confused. Turning to apologise for her sudden distraction she noticed the room was once-again empty. Where had the boy gone? “Mama?”, she said peeking around the edge of her door. She was too afraid still to enter the house proper if Athair was still angry with her, but she had to know who the boy was. “Mama, who was that boy?” she repeated, slipping out from her room to stand just in the hallway. Her Mathair came around the corner, a pan and tea towel in hand. “What boy?” she asked, flipping the towel over her shoulder. “The boy that was just in my room? He had the pox and he tried to call me to him”. The pan clattered to the floor as her Mathair backed up against the wall shaking her head violently. “No. No no no, it can’t be” she murmured again and again pressing herself deeper into the wall. “What is it Mama, what did I do?” “Come here girl, come sit and I’ll explain”, her Athair’s voice sounded from the dining room, weary with an exhaustion not befitting his age.

Moira walked tentatively around the corner to the table, pulling out a weather-worn chair across from Athair. He rested his forehead to his clasped knuckles as if sending up a prayer to Dagda.

#All Clouds of Sorrow Depart

by Stuart Spore

i

That November afternoon the classroom was warm and uncomfortably dry. Dust mites floated through the still air and the children sniffled and sneezed randomly. The teacher, a short rotund person called Miss Wiggle, was explaining Armistice Day to the class. Her voice was monotonal and dry as the room itself.

There were twenty-seven children and none of them were interested in Armistice Day or wanted to have it explained to them. Few were actually listening and fewer still could have repeated Miss Wiggle's last words with any fidelity, let alone whatever words came before them. The other children daydreamed absently or semiconsciously rehearsed (with much wishful thinking) what they would say to their family that evening or to their bully the next day at recess. At the dark end of the classroom, one boy, his head down on his folded arms, slept.

Outside the day was cloudless and the sun bright. The last desicated oak leaves dropped from the trees across the blacktop playground and fluttered languidly through the still air. The sun, on its slow descent toward evening, now cast its intense light through the classroom, falling directly on the unlucky children who sat facing the windows. Along with the harsh light, the sun soon caused the already warm room to grow even stuffier. The enervated children shifted in their seats and tried to shield their eyes from the glare.

Miss Wiggle's desk faced away from the sun. If she noticed the discomfort of the children caught in the sun's assault she did not show it. Nor did she seem discomfited by the heat of the sun on her back. She droned on, "... eleven -- eleven -- eleven -- eleven ..."

Jack did not pay attention to Miss Wiggle. His desk, like hers, faced away from the windows. He looked across the room at the children who were squinting or had their eyes cast down toward their desks, trying to avoid the inescapable glare. He watched as a yawn which appeared on the face of a tall boy at the left of the classroom spread, first to a frizzy-haired girl about a third of the way along, then to another boy near the middle, and finally completed its transit on the face of a pudgy, sweaty boy in a striped t-shirt at the far right.

His hands were spread out on his desktop, palms down. Jack's nails were severely damaged. He had picked at them until there was hardly any nail left; only his thumbnails were more or less intact. He stared down at his sore and mangled nails. The soreness was generalized; it did not come from one finger or the other, but from all of them together.

The hurt was an invitation, a familiar invitation. He stared at his fingers in anticipation, then turned his hands over and pressed the lacerated nails into the hard wood desktop. He was immediately rewarded by a rush of pain, which increased as he pushed down harder. He unconsciously pressed his tongue against his lower teeth. This pain was distinct from the residual soreness he felt when his nails were not under pressure. It was more intense and no longer an invitation but a reward. He pushed down harder and the pain quickly monopolized Jack's awareness. After a few moments Jack released the pressure and felt the pain recede. He realized he had been holding his breath; he exhaled and relaxed his tongue.

Jack paused, then repeated the process, pressing his damaged fingers down harder this time. The throbbing was growing unbearable when he felt a sharp, threatening jolt of unanticipated pain in the middle finger of his right hand. He abruptly lifted his fingers and looked down at the middle finger. Close by what remained of the torn and jagged nail the nail bed was newly swollen and inflamed. He examined the swelling closely and then pressed the thumbnail of his left hand into the swollen spot. That brought on an immediate reprise of acute, alarming pain. The swelling seemed to pulse and even after he lifted his thumb away the sharp pain remained vivid.

Jack took the short steel ruler from its place near the top of the desk and held it in his left hand. He put the his right hand palm down on the desktop and pushed the sharp corner of the ruler into the swelling. The renewed pain almost made him cry out, but he mastered it and continued to press down. He felt the swelling give way and collapse. The pain receded abruptly. He dropped the ruler and looked at his finger. He saw white puss seeping up out of the nail bed. He watched the seeping puss ooze out before finally wiping the puss off on the sleeve of his shirt.

He lifted his fingers from the desk and waved them gently back and forth in the warm air. He blinked twice, then pushed his fingers back down till he felt the familiar pain return. Jack began to play with the pain. By lifting or pressing down each finger Jack could control the pain and make it dance. He pushed down on alternate fingers. He pushed down the fingers of his left hand while lifting his right hand. Then he switched off and it was his right hand's turn. Whatever was on Jack's mind before was forgotten. He may have been anxious or glad or fearful or angry or curious or bored before but now he was just in charge of the pain. It occupied him fully and time passed unnoticed.

Eventually Miss Wiggle repeated her Armistice mantra, "... eleven -- eleven -- eleven -- eleven ..." and the lesson dwindled to its listless conclusion. Miss Wiggle lifted her eyes and looked around at the children. Two children on the back row facing the windows had their heads down on their desks and were apparently asleep. The others were nodding lethargically or shielding their eyes from the still obtrusive sun. Without exception the children appeared to be hot, bored, and inattentive. Miss Wiggle did not appear to notice.

Jack folded his hands in his lap so that his fingers were concealed. It nearly time for the final bell.

ii

Armistice Day came and went and the temporary warmth of late autumn surrendered to the pervading chill of early winter. The skies were overcast and low clouds tumbled dramatically in the gusty wind. The schoolroom seemed dimmer than it really was and very dry. The girls were disconcerted by their unruly, staticky hair and the boys rubbed their wool sweaters and then surreptitiously touched the unsuspecting (preferably on the back of the neck), triggering a static discharge and making the victim jump.

Miss Wiggle was talking about Thanksgiving. She told the class that they would be hanging paper cutouts of turkeys and pilgrims in the classroom for the occasion. She seemed to be looking forward to the decorating with some eagerness. The children were familiar with these rites and welcomed them without much excitement.

Jack focused his attention on a boy in the back row of the classroom. His name was John. John had been in Jack's class since September, but it was only a couple of days before that Jack noticed him for the first time. They were at recess and by chance Jack and John ended up standing beside each other waiting to be chosen for some game or other. Jack noticed that John and he were the same height. They were built and dressed alike. Both wore their brown hair in severe crew cuts. Neither wore glasses. Jack's eyes were blue while John's eyes were brown, but Jack failed to notice. Jack was unconscious of his own eye color so it was easy for him to look at John and miss the difference. Jack also failed to notice that John's fingernails, unlike his, were intact and healthy. But fingernails and eye color aside, they were in fact similar; both were unathletic and taciturn. Neither were prominent classroom personalities.

Since that day at recess he had watched John from a distance. Jack learned that John was picked up every afternoon by his mother who drove a green and white Chevy. Jack really knew nothing else about him, but still he was in Jack's thoughts a lot, both at school and afterward. He even dreamed about him, waking in the morning with the memory of the two of them walking closely together along a path beside a slowly meandering, tidewater river. At breakfast that morning while his mother was making grits Jack asked if he had a brother. His mother said, "What? What makes you ask that?"

Jack said, "I thought I had a twin." He was himself surprised by this idea. He looked down so he didn't have to see his mother's face.

She looked at him wonderingly, and said, "No you don't have a twin. I would know if you did."

Jack said, "Oh I guess it was something I saw on TV."

"I guess so. Maybe you shouldn't watch so much TV." She paused, then admonished him, "Don't miss the bus this morning, hear?"

"Yes ma'am."

Jack had not spoken to John since that day at recess. However strong his curiosity it didn’t overcome his reticence. Or his fear, which he did not consciously acknowledge to himself. He felt connected to John but if there was a bond it was a remote, distrustful one and completely one-sided.

Looking across the classroom, he watched John surreptitiously. John seemed to be listening to Miss Wiggle's Thanksgiving plans with more attention than they warranted. Jack wondered if he really could be John's brother. Is he my twin? What is a twin really? Was there a way for twins to be separated that adults didn't know about? He was aware that adults made lots of mistakes and were often wrong about things they told children.

At noon the children lined up and walked to the cafeteria. Jack happened to be seated across from Edna, a lanky tomboy who lived just down the road from Jack. They had known each other for about four years and were used to playing together. Of all the children Jack knew Edna best and the other way round. After eating Edna wanted to have a contest to see who could stare the other in the eye longest without blinking. They did that, but when Edna easily beat Jack for the second time, she said, "Sorry, Jack."

"I'm not Jack. You mean that guy other there," Jack pointed to where John was seated two tables over. Edna looked, then said, "Ha Ha. That's John. You're Jack."

"Can't tell the difference, can you?" replied Jack.

"You kidding me?" said Edna, cocking her eye at him.

"You never noticed we're twins?"

"No. Cause you're not twins. Maybe you're a nitwit, but you and John ain't twins. You two don't even look that much alike."

Jack was hurt. Back in the classroom he looked again at John on the other side of the room. He had been sure they were brothers, but now he wondered if he might be wrong. It made him sad. For the next couple of days Jack continued to observe John at a distance and continued feeling sad and confused.

iii

Two days later it turned wet and blustery. The rain was intermittent but heavy and icy cold. It got worse as the day went on; by time to go home the day had become very dark indeed. Along with about a dozen other children, Jack waited in the lobby. Their bus hadn't shown up on schedule and the monitor kept consulting his clipboard and fretting about the delay. Peering out the window Jack could make out a line of cars waiting to pick up children. He wiped the condensation away but between the rain and the constantly shifting glare from the headlights it was difficult to see anything clearly. The other children were chattering mindlessly and giggling; the lobby was claustrophobic and uncomfortably warm.

Jack zipped up his jacket and walked out the door to stand outside in the roofed waiting area. The wind blew a gust of cold rain directly in his face. Jack quickly worked his way around to a slightly better protected position where he could see the cars as they pulled up, picked up their passengers, and drove off, splashing plumes of rain water over the curb and sidewalk as they drove away. About five cars, one after the other, arrived and left before he saw the green and white Chevy pull up behind the first car in line.

He watched the Chevy closely. He could just see the driver's silhouette. Then a turning car illuminated the Chevy and Jack caught a fleeting glimpse of the driver. She was wearing a clear plastic rain scarf which diffused and reflected the glaring, shifting light. The driver turned her head his way and Jack was shocked to see that it was his mother driving. His mouth opened. He was bewildered. He felt himself go weak all over. Almost immediately the driver turned away. Jack saw John run from lobby and reach for the door of the Chevy. Headlights lit up the car and as John climbed in he got another view of the driver. It was not his mother. She was like his mother, but the evanescent light made it difficult to make out details. Jack was confused. He watched the Chevy drive off in the rain.

The next day in class Jack couldn't take his eyes off John. The mid-morning recess was cancelled because it was too cold and rainy out. Instead Miss Wiggle led the class in singing songs from their songbook. They started with "Sweet Betsy from Pike." Jack paid little attention. He had the songbook open in front of him, but it wasn't open to the right page and he only mimicked what the other children sang. He pressed his fingernails into the hard wood desktop and stared at John.

John was faultless. John sat straight up at his desk, his songbook open before him, his mouth shaping the words as he sang. He looked clean and well cared for, untroubled and content. The song ended and a smile played across John's face. Jack unconsciously pressed his fingernails down harder. The longer Jack watched the more perfect John seemed. John did not notice Jack.

Jack remembered the driver in the rain from the day before. He recalled the capricious, uneasy light and the hard rain. He was still very confused by the driver’s shifting appearance. How could he be sure who was driving? Who had he seen? He tried to summon an image of his mother’s face in his imagination but was disturbed to discover that he could not.

The children’s singing seemed to slow down as if someone was pressing their finger against a spinning record

Jack had last seen his mother that morning in the kitchen, but he hadn’t actually looked at her. He should know what she looked like anyway. He had seen her everyday of his life. But now it was as if he had never seen her face. Jack knew he was shy; eye-contact with adults embarrassed him. He didn’t know why, but now he wished he hadn’t always looked away. He willfully demanded that her image appear, but the harder he tried the less distinct his memory of his mother's face became. Finally it faded into a flimsy silhouette, a image without substance or meaning. He pushed his tongue into the back of his teeth and unconsciously held his breath.

The singing lost its melody, ceased being music, and became a hiss. For a moment Jack thought the entire classroom was hissing him. He looked around anxiously. The children were not paying attention to him. Jack exhaled. The hiss faded abruptly and singing resumed as if nothing had happened.

Jack realized that the person he thought was his mother was in fact John's. It all fit. He didn't have a twin. He didn't have a mother. She was really John's mother. He was sitting in the classroom with the other children but he was not like them. He was not what he had thought he was. None of the other children had figured it out, but he had. He didn't want them to find out.

Quickly he took his eyes off John and focused instead on the blackboard at the front of the room. The blackboard was blank, recently wiped clean. Jack took up the songbook and found the page. He lifted his voice and began to sing with the other children:

"Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,

Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee;

Sounds of the rude world, heard in the day,

Lull'd by the moonlight have all passed away!"

end

Unit 32B was rarely silent. The Occupant and his wife always argued. The occupant’s children constantly whined. The unit whirred with the sounds of machines as it prepared dinner for the occupant and his wife, while they argued. “When will you finally start looking for a job? My income won’t support us all forever.” chastised the wife. This was not the first time they’d had this conversation. “I’ve told you, I’m trying.” He responded exasperated. “Trying? You’ve applied to what? You’ve interviewed for what? You’ve done nothing but sit on your ass the past month. When are you going to stop feeling sorry for yourself and support your family!” As the wife's voice escalated, so did the crying of the children. Unit 32B chimed throughout, signaling the completion of dinner. The occupants of unit 32B suddenly ended their noise to eat. They ate separately. They ate Silently. Unit 32B was hardly silent. The next day a package addressed to the occupant was left at the door of unit 32B. The occupant opened the package and pulled out a shining blue box lettered in chrome. The reflective lettering, which read “Realtec” was imprinted on the box. The occupant wasted no time opening the box and dawning the contents. A sleek black headpiece wrapped around the occupant's eyes and ears, immersing him in darkness. The occupant slid his finger across the side of the headpiece, pressing a chrome button ingrained with the same logo as the box, the darkness became light, and the earpieces made a mechanical noise as they muffled the sound around the occupant, drowning out the whining of his children and the whirring of the machines. “Welcome to Realtec!” A cheery, slightly mechanical voice chimed in. “Realtec is a virtual reality, the real-life simulation! We use a state-of-the-art virtual reality emersion to offer you an ultra-real experience!” added the voice. The occupant simply listened, unsure if it was necessary to respond to the voice. The light in the occupant's eyes faded into a new environment, a home. This home was far different from Unit 32B, It did not feel like a unit, but an actual home, and was furnished in a way that the occupant felt familiar and comfortable. “Welcome to Realtectopolis! Your name is spencer! Here at Realtektopolis, you may do anything you want! You can live out your dream job or hobby! You can fulfil your dreams of fame and fortune all here! Your name is Spencer. You have a wife, a daughter, and two cats here in Realtektopolis. Please enjoy your stay, and remember, all you need to do to leave the game is simply desire to do so!” Announced the cheery mechanical voice.
Several hours had passed since the occupant of Unit 32B had dawned the headpiece. The children of Unit 32B cried while he stayed in his virtual world but he did not notice. Spencer’s child never cried or complained, but instead filled his home with laughter. The door to Unit 32B opened wide as the occupant’s wife returned from work. She was not happy. She could hear her children crying from outside the unit. She entered the room to see her husband laying unresponsive on their couch with a black headpiece wrapped around his face. When the occupant of Unit 32B finally removed the headset his wife was angry, and so of course, they argued.
“Seriously?” She asked angrily. “While I am providing for this entire family, you’re spending my money on this virtual crap!” she was seething. The occupant of Unit 32B had nothing to say. Spencer’s wife was never angry with him. She did not argue but instead filled their home with joy. “You need to get your life together, if you continue to be a deadweight to this family, I’m going to leave you.” This was not her first time making this threat, but the occupant of unit 32B knew that he would not get another chance. Spencer opened his eyes as he rolled over to face his wife. He smiled at her as the sun shone through the window, hitting her face just right. Spencer thought about how beautiful his wife was, remembering all the reasons he had married her in the first place. She began to stir as well, and Spencer, sensing his movement had awoken her, apologized. “How did you sleep dear?” she asked, shrugging off the apology. “I slept fine but I had that same dream.” he offered in response. “Which one was it?” she asked carefully. “The one I’ve been having, about the family that is always fighting” As he explained he found himself more and more confused, within himself he had such a strong feeling that this was not a dream, and yet what else could it be? “That sounds like such a horrible way to live, but that is not our reality my love” she replied in sympathy. “I know it is not our reality” replied Spencer solemnly. The occupant of Unit 32B removed the headset that was now so familiar to him. As he removed it the occupant of Unit 32B noticed a silence. Unit 32B was hardly silent. As the occupant’s stomach rumbled he rose from his seat, stretching his stiff joints as he did. The occupant surveyed his small unit, from the main room he could turn to see the entire rest of the unit, but no one else was there with him. He was entirely alone. The occupant of Unit 32B returned to his seat, and with his face, in his hands, he cried. For hours he cried, filling the unit with the familiar sounds of anguish. Spencer no longer dreamt of turmoil. He had slept soundly for weeks and the dream of his twisted reality that once plagued him nightly no longer returned. Each night Spencer slept a dreamless sleep. Each morning Spencer woke up in his happy home next to his happy wife with his happy family. Unit 32B was silent. It had been for weeks.

Hi Everyone. I'm taking a creative writing course at university and I wrote the following piece. As it is my first time writing second person I would love some feedback from general readers or others who write second person pov stories. Any feedback is very much appreciated.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1vyTjnA2LJHTekecpgBWEOiMyciQ0-3Mwjutj-LWbL1I/edit?usp=sharing

Hey guys , my name is Zain and it's my first time to write a short story and please avoid the grammar mistakes because English is not my first language. And if you have some advice for me to improve comment it.

So it's a story about a boy Jake who is a teenager but the problem is his communication skills aren't that good

that's why he doesn't have friends in his high school, to avoid the feeling of loneliness he decided to make a friend online , so he started to commenting on videos like " tell you're age and find your buddy" so he comment on videos like this and he get a response with a boy named " Andrew " and they started to chat , play games together , and talk on calls.

but one thing that make Jake feel weird that he always declined his video calls, so one day Jake play truth or dare with him and Jake has a plan that he would ask him why he declined his video calls but his questions are so weird like "do you live alone" "does you're parents know where you visit the most" and these types of questions make Jake afraid so he decided to block him.

but the mistakes that he made is he gave him his house address his number and so many photos of him in locations that he liked, and that much information is enough for someone to find you.

After that Jake started to always be afraid and anxious for months, for him sleeping is like a challenge but when nothing happened for months he started to calm down but one day jake dad friend visit him in our house and Jake sit with them to but one thing he noticed that his voice is just like Andrew and after that that trauma hit Jake again.

And on Monday 19 August 2018 Jake has been kidnapped by his school and after the kidnapper was his Dad friend and his real name was Kevin.

And fortunately Jake is alive but his mental health is so messed up, so to all the teenager's who makes friends online and tell them everything, there making a mistake .

That's it please guide me about my mistakes so I can improve more.

A TRUER FRIEND

They go outside and salute the day

The neighbors hear them from miles away

Might be a leaf or a unicorn

They live to bark from the day they're born

I would not trade them for a pot of gold

They have a love that can't be sold

In a world that's spinning 'round and 'round

A truer friend cannot be found.

©2024KerryShoemaker

Hi everyone, I just wrote a poem about my restless thoughts at night. Interestingly, I wrote it at the exact time as I named the topic. I’d love to hear your thoughts on it.

THE 3 AM POEM

It's 3 AM in the clock, darkness is falling, and winter winds are trailing. The world lies unsurprisingly silent, as I sit in solitude, my sleep scattered.

Is it caffeine or the habit? That's what they used to ask. But have they never felt the loss of their innocence?

There was a time with warmer nights, and I felt my shoulders light. My eyes crave a glimpse of meadows, But they left me in a room of echoes.

How many times can you hold a hand that pushes you to the edges? It's 3:30 AM on the clock; perhaps I'll set aside my grudges.

Hello everyone.

I'm new in Reddit. I've been writing for 5 years, and I usually get feedbacks from my close friends. I hope you like it. I'll be waiting for your comments and critiques. Thank you in advance.

A Knock on the Door

I heard a knock on the door. It was five in the morning, and everyone was asleep. The streets, the house, everything was asleep. The dusk hadn’t shown its bluish face yet, and the darkness was the only one to conquer the sphere. There were some raindrops on the windows. I didn’t know whether it really knocked or not, but I had a strange feeling in my gut. At first I thought it was just another moment in which I confused the real and the dream. Yet not even a minute later, it knocked again. It was real. I quickly got out of bed, but I wasn’t able to see much if there were anybody. I heard the thunder outside rambling the windows. I got anxious. I didn't know what to do. I walked around the room. Cars were passing on the wet road, and the blowing wind could be heard. Then I moved out of my room to get a knife to protect myself lest anything happens. It looked familiar somehow but I was too occupied to think of it. I waited in the darkness and then came another tapping.

Thud, thud, thud.

It was echoing in my head nonstop as if it would never knock again. Why was someone at my door at this time of night? Did I do something wrong? Then I saw a shadow behind me. A tall man with a long coat. He had a cowboy hat unnecessarily. With a quick dash forward, I turned my back and there was nothing. There was just a street light flickering without a reason. Then my cat hopped onto the plate which I left after dinner. It fell on the ground with the hop, scattered around with little pieces. I stuck there for about a minute after going through two incidents at once. My heart was pounding, and as if it could be heard from outside, there came another tapping on the door.

Thud, thud, thud.

This time my body wholly reacted. I was feeling my skin was stretched out, my hand was trembling, my lungs were not filling, I was feeling dizzy and my gut had a different feeling which I cannot describe with words of this pitiful world. I cleaned the sweat of my head. The cat was purring and licking its feet indifferent to the situation. I should have adopted a dog instead of him, though he was good companion. I tried to get to my room trying not to touch the plate’s shattered pieces. I took my phone and opened my flashlight and watched the door. My phone’s battery died the minute I took it to my hand, but the door was there, in front of me, and there came another tapping. Who was behind the door and why it was harassing me that time of the night?

Thud, thud, thud.

It was getting uneasy. I wasn’t able to answer the questions in my head. Who was that behind the door? Was it some kind of a killer? Was it a joke pulled up on me? There might be a couple of reasons. First, I was a very annoying man with no filter. I could have hurt someone with my words, and one of them might have come to kill me and dump me on a forest until someone find my decayed body. Another reason is that I had a couple of students who did not take my classes seriously, and I gave them an F1. The intruder might have ended up on my door to kill me or pull me some kind of a scary joke. With the flickering light of the street, I slowly walked to the door and there came another knocking on the door. Without a relent, the intruder, behind the door, was tapping.

Thud, thud, thud.

I was afraid to look through the peephole. It was dangerous anyway. The intruder might have a gun and could shoot me in the eye, and I would die behind doors instantly. It was too much of risk to take. I was also thinking while slowly going to the door, what if it wasn’t here to kill me but to talk. What if? The idea of talk soothed me a little bit. I was longing for a talk for a long time. There came another tapping on the door but this time more different.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Was the intruder trying to give a signal? Was he a friend of mine, and was this our code of friendship? I wasn’t sure. I had never been sure my whole life. What should have I done? I was getting more and more anxious, and I went to the door and found to courage to ask who it was? I asked and no answer was given except a slightly lesser tapping on the door. I realized that it might be a drunkard. Maybe… Maybe it was only a stupid drunkard who forgot his house. Maybe it was the end for me. The only thing that I had to do was open the door and face the truth, but it was not that easy. I loved to be alive. I asked again and nothing… I gently touched the door handle without any options to take and then came a squeak. I opened the door, echoing in the building, and, luckily, there was no one at the door. I looked around and I was not able to see anybody. It was just a perfume left on the corridor of the building that I live in. It was sugary and definitely a woman’s perfume. I closed the door with a huge relief. I took a deep breath and I got to bed with the knife in my hand. The minute I put my head on the pillow, my old alarm clock rang. It was time to go to work. Thank God, no one came and found the dead bodies in my bathtub.

hi this is the intro from my cosmic horror detective novel I've been writing for a bit now any feedback would be appreciated its a bit grim and I'm a little worried about the flow but thanks for reading!

# The Hartley Murders

The entity pulsed with anticipation.

In a world devoid of colour, the creature's senses thrummed with the vibrant crimson of fresh blood. It was all it could see, all it wanted to see. The Hartley home, once a bastion of familial warmth, now resonated with the sickly sweet scent of fear and the promise of violence.

The entity shifted, its form a nauseating blur of man, woman, neither, and both. Blood-soaked and grotesque, it wore the faces of Mr. and Mrs. Hartley like ill-fitting masks, features subtly wrong in ways that defied human anatomy. Its very existence was an affront to reality, a cosmic joke that laughed in the face of physics and biology.

With inhuman speed, it tore into the Hartley's flesh. Bones snapped like brittle twigs, organs rupturing in a symphony of gore. The creature revelled in the carnage, its alien mind pulsing with a pleasure beyond human comprehension. It twisted the bodies into shapes that defied human understanding, creating a macabre Möbius strip of intertwined limbs and torsos.

Blood spattered the walls in fractal patterns, defying gravity and the laws of physics. The entity's alien senses perceived each droplet as a burst of ecstasy, a promise of more violence to come. The room itself seemed to warp and bend, reality struggling to contain the horror unfolding within its confines.

As it completed its grisly work, the creature's attention snapped to the closet. It could sense the rapid heartbeat of the child within, a staccato rhythm that sang of fresh blood yet to be spilled. The air crackled with potential energy, the universe holding its breath in anticipation of what was to come.

Emily Hartley, age 10, huddled in the corner of the closet, her small frame wracked with silent sobs. Through the slats in the door, she watched in horror as the nightmare unfolded. The sickening crack of bone and the wet tearing of sinew filled the air, punctuated by inhuman sounds of pleasure that no human throat could produce.

Time seemed to stretch and distort, each second an eternity of terror. Emily's mind struggled to process what her eyes were seeing, her young psyche teetering on the brink of shattering completely. The once-familiar living room had become an alien landscape, painted in shades of crimson and shadow.

Blood sprayed in impossible patterns, defying gravity and the laws of physics. Emily's eyes widened as she saw the crimson mist crystallize in mid-air, forming intricate, fractal-like structures that shimmered with an otherworldly light. These crystalline formations hung suspended, each one a miniature universe of horror and beauty.

A fine dusting of this crystalline blood made its way through the slats, coating Emily in a gossamer-thin, shimmering haze. As she inhaled sharply in fear, some of the microscopic crystals entered her lungs. In that instant, Emily's perception of reality shattered like a mirror struck by a hammer.

The world around her seemed to fold in on itself, revealing layers of existence she had never known possible. Colours she couldn't name danced at the edges of her vision, and the very air seemed alive with pulsing, geometric patterns. Sound became visible, light had texture, and time itself seemed to flow in multiple directions at once.

But it was the thing in the living room that truly broke her. As Emily's new senses adjusted, she saw the entity for what it truly was - a being of geometries that bent the mind, existing in multiple dimensions at once. Its form shifted and writhed, sometimes wearing the faces of her parents like grotesque masks, other times revealing glimpses of something so alien that her mind recoiled in terror.

Emily's mouth opened in a silent scream, her young psyche struggling to process the horrors she was witnessing. In that moment, she knew that nothing would ever be the same. The veil had been lifted, and she could never un-see the terrible truths of the universe. Reality as she had known it was a thin façade, hiding a cosmos of terror and wonder that defied comprehension.

The entity paused in its bloody work, its ever-shifting form seeming to sniff the air. For a heart-stopping moment, Emily thought it had sensed her. She could feel its alien awareness brush against her mind, a touch that threatened to unravel her very being. But then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the creature vanished.

In its wake, it left behind a scene of carnage that defied explanation. The bodies of Emily's parents lay twisted and broken, their forms a mockery of human anatomy. The walls dripped with blood that moved and pulsed as if alive. And throughout the room, reality itself seemed to ripple and warp, struggling to reassert itself in the aftermath of the cosmic violation it had endured.

As Emily's altered senses began to stabilize, she became aware of a new sound. Distant at first, but growing closer with each passing second. It was a rhythmic thudding, like the beating of a great heart. And beneath it, she could hear voices, speaking words that seemed to resonate with the very fabric of existence:

"Rapid Response Team moving in. Prepare for reality stabilization protocols."

Emily didn't understand the words, but she felt their power. As the sounds grew closer, the world around her began to shift once more. The blood-soaked horror of her home started to fade, replaced by a more mundane, if still gruesome, crime scene.

Panic gripped Emily's heart. She knew, with a certainty that defied her young age, that she couldn't let these people find her. Not like this. Not when she could still see the layers of reality shifting around her.

With a strength born of desperation, Emily forced her trembling legs to move. She crawled deeper into the closet, pushing past hanging clothes and boxes, searching for any hiding spot that might conceal her from the approaching team.

As she burrowed into a pile of old blankets, Emily's mind raced. The universe had revealed its true face to her, and she knew she could never go back to the life she had known. But what lay ahead? What would become of her now?

The voices grew louder, more distinct. Emily held her breath, her small body tense with fear and anticipation. She could hear footsteps now, moving methodically through the house. Closer and closer they came.

In that moment, as Emily huddled in her makeshift sanctuary, the future stretched before her like an vast, unknowable void. She had seen behind the veil of reality, and that knowledge would shape her destiny in ways she couldn't yet imagine.

The door to the closet creaked open, and Emily squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to disappear. Whatever happened next would set in motion a chain of events that would ripple through time and space, altering the course of Emily's life and the lives of those around her in ways no one could predict.

Also I posted this on my old account that was previously hacked, and it removed it automatically, if it comes back I'm sorry for duplication

Looking for some critiques of my SciFi book. Here is the first chapter:

Tuesday October 15, 2452 15:04 SET (Standard Earth Time)

Bo hurried down the corridor, automatically avoiding the murky pools of darkness in areas where the lights had failed and had not been replaced yet. She was going to be late. Again. This would make the third time in less than two weeks. But it wasn’t her fault that the tram had been delayed by faulty electrics, she thought darkly. As if agreeing with her, the lights that were still working flickered, their sickly, yellow glow becoming a headache inducing strobe. 
    She had been forced to exit the tram three stops early and walk the rest of the way: right through the middle of one of the most run-down sectors on the B-ring of the station. Cheap working girls, boys, and every flavor in between, drug dealers and users, homeless vagrants, thugs and thieves, this was where the flotsam washed up. The end of the line. It was somewhat poetic that Bo Doyle found herself working at a bar here.
    Fortunately, in her comfortable dark pants with handy pockets down the sides of her legs, sturdy, but well worn, boots, t-shirt with an old earth rock band logo, and a synth-leather jacket that had seen better days, she blended in with the locals. The trick was to keep your head down, don’t make eye contact, and act like you know what you’re doing as you wove your way through the throng that crowded even the widest corridors of the ring. Sometimes, one of the vagrants or thugs would notice her, but a glower usually stopped them. Well, that and the taser she wore on her hip, peeking out from under her jacket just enough to be recognized. They didn’t need to know it would only take a half a charge. Just enough to hurt or really piss someone off.
    By the time she reached the Blue Moon – the neon sign missing the N, making it read Blue Moo – her mood matched the general ambiance of the sector.
    “You’re late,” Russ, the bouncer, grunted as she slipped through the door, the dim lighting of the interior no better than that out in the corridor. At least it didn’t flicker.
    “Tell me something I don’t already know,” she muttered under her breath, but didn’t stop. Instead, she went straight to the bar.
    “You’re late,” Min Zhou shoved the bar’s outdated pad across the dingy bar top, her neon yellow hair swinging playfully at her ears in defiance of her scowl.
    “The tram was delayed,” Bo replied as she scanned the till close-out Min had completed.
    “It’s always delayed.”
    Bo pressed her finger to the pad to indicate her agreement with Min’s closeout and take possession of the till. “I’m finding that out. You’re good. See you tomorrow.”
    Min tossed her wiping rag into the bin under the counter. “No, you won’t.”
    That got her attention. Since she had started three weeks ago, she had followed Min’s shift every day she worked.
    “Oh?”
    Min grinned, “I got a job at the Ace’s Wild!”
    Bo frowned, “in the tourist ring?”
    Min nodded.
    Well, Fuck. Not all the flotsam stayed, after all.
    “Congrats,” she managed to say and gave the other woman a weak smile.
    “Maybe I’ll see you there before too long?”
    Not bloody likely.
    “Maybe.” She looked over Min’s shoulder and saw the manager heading their way. “You better go, here comes Davos.”
    Min made a face, hurried out from behind the bar, and was halfway across the bar by the time Davos reached Bo.
    “You’re late.”
    “So, I’ve heard,” she turned away from him and set the pad on its shelf.
    “You only got this job because Robby promised you were a good worker.”
    She turned back to him and smiled sweetly, “and I am.”
    “This is the third time you’ve been late,” he pointed out.
    “It’s that damn tram,” she sighed. “It’s always late.”
    “Then leave earlier.”
    “Then I’d be here an hour early. Are you going to pay me for that hour?” she challenged.
    “No,” he snorted. “But I wouldn’t fire you, either. Your choice.”
    As he walked away, Bo resisted the childish urge to stick her tongue out at his back.
    “You’re late,” a voice from the end of the bar said.
    Bo turned to confront its owner, “I swear, if one more person tells me that…,”
    He grinned to show he was just joking, but she wasn’t ready to let him off that lightly, so she continued to glare at him until he raised his hands in surrender. Only then did she draw another Cenovian pilsner and set it down in front of him. 
    “One of those days?” he asked, raising his glass to his lips, his deep-set, blue eyes regarding her with amusement over the rim.
    She shrugged, “I’m a Doyle. It’s always one of those days.”
    Hudson was a regular at the Blue Moon and sometimes associate of her older brother, Robby, so he understood what she meant. Hell, half the people in the sector would wince and nod sympathetically when she revealed her family name.
    “It can’t be that bad,” was his half-hearted response. “Robby got you this job.”
    “Robby is the reason I needed this job,” she rolled her eyes.
    “Ouch.”
    “You have no idea.” She keyed in his drink and his wrist band chimed. “You’re here early,” she changed the subject.
    “I’m supposed to be meeting Robby.” He had the decency to look abashed.
    “Let me guess. He’s late,” she said dryly. Anyone that knew her brother knew that he was never on time. And rarely in the right place.
    Hudson chuckled, “yep. But at least I have his pretty little sister to keep me company while I wait.”
    As if on cue, one of the waitresses, Jenny, called her name from the other end of the bar, so Bo turned away to hide her blush. Hudson had plenty of women vying for his attention at the bar. Though he wasn’t conventionally good-looking, he was engaging and always had a ready smile. Even she wasn’t immune to his charms. Fortunately for her, though, all she had to do was remind herself that he ran with her brother and that negated most, if not all, of the attraction. Anyone that ran with her brother was going to bring nothing but trouble along for the ride.
    “Hey, Jenny,” she greeted the waitress. “How’s it going?”
    Jenny thumped her tray down on the bar top, “the usual bunch of cheap bastards. Assholes wouldn’t know a tip if it crawled up their leg and bit them on the nut sack.”
    Bo snickered, “be careful, some of them might like it.”
    Within the hour the bar began to fill up as the station’s day crew got off work. Though the station, along with all the others in the galaxy, adhered to standard Earth time, or SET, it was in name only. The station operated around the clock and its denizens kept their schedules accordingly. There were just as many people in the bar Sunday through Thursday as there was on Friday and Saturday, and the four hours after each shift-change were equally as busy whether it was morning, afternoon, or night. Apparently, drinking after work was universal.
    Bo stayed busy making drinks and leaving Hudson’s few chances to flirt with her. Before long, he had two women stationed on either side of him, taking his attention off her. Sometime after midnight, he gave up on her brother and left the bar. As she closed out his bill, she frowned at the tip he had left for her. His flirting was getting out of hand. She was going to have to nip it in the bud before he got any crazy ideas about her.

01:35 SET

Back at her studio apartment in the A-ring, Bo crossed the single room and collapsed onto the second-hand couch with a sigh. Calling the tiny space an apartment was a stretch. If it had been empty, she could have walked from wall to wall in eight steps. It had probably started out as a storage room, but some enterprising landlord had converted it to a no-frills apartment at some point. But small though it was, she didn’t have to share it with anyone. It was hers alone. Growing up with a brother and sister, six half-siblings, two stepsiblings, and a series of stepfathers on an over-crowded space station, privacy was a valuable commodity she was willing give up square footage for.
A-ring was the original ring of Fortuna Station. Over 100 years old, it was showing its age. There had been a campaign to scrap it two decades ago, but persistent over-crowding on the station put a quick end to it. The station now had nine rings with a tenth under construction, and they were still packed in like refugees from a global disaster.
Turning on her screen, she pulled a blanket over her body. Another problem with the ring: it was always cold. The newer rings, those built in the last fifty years, had better insulation, keeping in more of the heat; they were still cool though not uncomfortably so. The older rings, with less effective insulation and outdated systems that struggled to keep up with demand, were consistently cold.
She absently watched the news feed until a breaking news alert banner across the bottom of the screen caught her attention.
MINE COLLAPSE ON VANDICA – 12 MINERS INJURED – 9 DEAD – 7 MISSING
The banner streamed across the screen below a live feed. Emergency craft swarmed the surface of the moon like angry bees. Close ups showed injured miners being helped out of their suits in triage units set up outside the entrance of the mine and a sled transporting the dead in shiny silver body bags. Another sled glided by the reporter with a pile of mangled mining bots.

Bo was glad she didn’t know any miners personally. It was a hard and dangerous job. Though mining bots did most of the physical labor, humans were still needed to run the equipment, prospect potential veins of ore, make judgement calls, and perform repairs. All attempts to completely automate mining operations, while not complete failures, had been inefficient and fraught with delays. Ninety percent of the mines in the galaxy were on asteroids and small, rocky moons with no atmosphere and only trace gravity, so the miners were essentially working in the void of space. Space suits had become less bulky and more resistant to tears and punctures, but they were still space suits. A scant few nanometers of synthetic polymers separating them from an inhospitable environment. The news feed changed to a press conference from the mining headquarters on the station. An older woman in an understated business suit faced the cameras from her podium as she read the prepared statement from the corporation. “BHP is working closely with emergency and medical services to ensure those individuals still trapped in the Vandica Delta mine are rescued before their suits run out of air,” her dark eyes looked solemnly at the camera. “While it is too early to speculate about the cause of the collapse, we are consulting with experts in the civilian and government sectors, reviewing safety reports, and going through hours of feed from the mine itself. BHP is dedicated to providing a safe workplace for our employees, who we look upon as our family.” The camera zoomed in on her face as she continued. “To all the families that have suffered loss, all the families with injured loved ones, and all the families that are desperately waiting for news on the missing, we at BHP are there with you in spirit. We share your pain and anguish.” The camera panned out as she raised her arms as if she was going to embrace someone. “You, too are part of our family.” She held that pose for a heartbeat, then stepped back from the podium to a flurry of questions from the attending reporters. Another company official stepped up to the podium and started taking questions. After a few minutes of hearing him repeat “it is too early to speculate” and “we cannot release the names at this time”, Bo turned off the view screen. Her stomach rumbled irritably in the silence. Getting up, she went to the counter that served as her kitchen. Opening her cupboard, she picked out a pre-packaged meal and popped it into her microwave. Over the centuries, while technology had changed and advanced, the ubiquitous microwave had become the cornerstone of spacefarers’ kitchens. Few changes, other than improved efficiency and smart integration, had needed to be made to the appliance. After a minute, the microwave chimed, and Bo removed her dinner. Going back to the couch, Bo switched to an entertainment feed to watch the latest episode in a popular series about a sexy smuggler that to his dismay always ended up doing the right thing and got the girl at the end of each escapade. Part adventure/part rom-com, it was a light enough fare for winding down at the end of the night. Her comm unit dinged just as she finished her meal. Looking down at the ID, she saw it was Robby and promptly declined his call. She was still pissed at him for getting her fired from the sweet gig she had in the tourism ring. And, no, him getting her the job at the Blue Moon didn’t make up for it. She checked the time; it was almost 0200 and she wasn’t ready to go to sleep yet. Turning off the view screen, she picked up her personal pad and pulled up the interstellar geology textbook she was studying. If she could score high enough on the entrance exams, she could win a scholarship for the mining trade school and escape the cycle of poverty she was trapped in. Even better, she might win a scholarship to one of the planet side universities and get off this station for a few years! Sometime around 3am, she fell asleep and dreamed about walking of the surface of a planet with fresh air blowing through her hair and blue skies over her head.

Trigger warning: suggestions of loss and sucde. Title: Lost in Grief. [716 words]

A woman walked down the narrow path of the park with sorrow in her eyes and a heavy brown bag on her shoulder. The sun had fully risen but was blocked by gray rain-filled clouds. She didn’t know what she was searching for out in this park but she knew she needed an answer by the end of the day. The woman stopped at an old rickety bench that overlooked the playground. As she scanned the play area she realized there were no children in sight. Was it because of the rain that's been predicted or was there an eerie feeling in the air that warned families to stay away today? The woman set her bag down and headed to the center of the playground. She climbed the familiar green ladder and dragged her hand along the play structure before stopping at the distorted fun mirror. She couldn’t recognize the woman staring back at her. Not because the mirror pulled her chin into a long point and dragged her hair out to be humorously voluminous but because the bags under her eyes held a year of misery and loss behind them, because there was no longer the permanent smile that she had grown accustomed to the last five years. She lifted a hand as she touched her own face, her skin now pale and lifeless. Her hand traveled past her sucked in cheek and combed through her hair, peppered and pulled back into a low bun, she had aged a decade worth just over this year. She glanced away in disgust, not barring to look at herself any longer. Her hands shook and she pushed back the memories that were invading her mind as she made her way to the tunneled blue slide. She sat at the base and slid herself down but only a short way, just enough to be surrounded by the darkness that filled the tunnel. She laid down in this darkness and let herself fade from her unfortunate reality. She was embracing the silence when a  little boy's laugh rang out as he ran through the playground. She could hear the crunching of the bark beneath his feet as he made his way to the little green ladder. He giggled as he stopped at the fun mirror that distorted his beautiful chestnut brown hair and widened his frame. She heard the creaking of the structure as he made his way to the blue slide. She felt the pressure behind her eyes and her throat swell but quickly swallowed the emotion and descended further down the slide. Light came into view as her feet found the bark and she removed herself from the tunnel. She glanced back where the boy was playing but there was no one else there, she was still alone. She walked back to the bench that held her bag and quickly picked it up and continued down the narrow path from before. The clouds seemed to have darken during her time in the tunnel but she paid it no mind. She knew it would begin to rain soon but she had found her answer and she wasn’t planning on staying much longer. She had only been walking for a few minutes before arriving at the murky lake but it had felt like hours. She once again stopped at a bench but this time she removed her sandals and let the dry grass prick the bottom of her feet. She walked over to the edge of the lake and peered at her reflection, only this time she wasn’t alone. Standing beside her was a little boy about five years old with chestnut brown hair smiling back at her. She no longer looked aged nor sorrowful as her feet entered the freezing water, rippling the reflections staring back at her. The water now waist high, she reached into the brown bag that still hung from her shoulder, heavy with the answer to her questions. Her hand withdrew from the bag and she looked up into the sky at the beautiful gray clouds. She felt her cheeks dampen as she released all of the anger and loss that clouded her heart. Still looking up at the sky, she felt the fingers of the little boy intertwine with her other hand. Feeling at peace she let her fingers tightened their hold before releasing a final squeeze as she closed her eyes.

Hello,

I'm Viorel, I have epilepsy and I last month I lost my seizure alert dog.

In summer when she got sick I have decided that even if I don't have experience I want to write a book about what we succeeded to do together and help fight agains the stigma of epilepsy.

I have never written a book so I'm new to it.

The first thing I am looking for is to find someone alpha readers that can help me look over a few chapters and give me a feedback related to the style, structure and the idea of the book

These are the first 2 chapters:

Chapter 1: Meeting Tara - 2431

Chapter 2: Discovering a New Path - 2479

I've written this for a contest and would love some feedback before submitting. It's for a "spooky microfiction" challenge and the prompt was that the first line must be "There was only one rule: don't open the door." 300 word limit. Would love to know what it makes others think or if there are any areas for improvement.

----

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. The note was the only indication that I was not alone.

I wondered how long it had been since I woke up. Immediately upon waking, a note was slipped under the door, the crack at the bottom my only light source.

I shook my head to clear it but could not recall how I got here.

After gathering some courage, my first instinct was to reach for the doorknob, but I stopped when a movement caught my eye. Another note. 

Don’t open the door. 

Four times, I reached for the door, and four times, a note slipped through the crack. 

Confused and frustrated, I reached out again, ignored the note, and turned the knob. Before I could push through the door, a scream pierced the air so loud and deep I felt it in my chest. 

Just outside the door, I heard the unmistakable sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Then, silence. Pressing my ear against the door, I couldn’t even hear a breath. I sensed no movement. 

I reached for the knob again. I rested my hand on it; nothing. I turned the knob and heard it again. A scream and a thud. I held still. Taking a breath, I gently pushed forward but was met with a force so great I was knocked to the ground.

As I landed, I heard glass shatter. Was it a window? A glimmering shard sliced through the door’s crack, drawing blood from my bare foot. 

Behind me, I heard a slow, loud groan. Turning, I saw the faint outline of another door swinging open. Something landed at my feet, slowly absorbing the trickle of blood from the glass. I looked closer; another note. Don’t close the door. 

I have made a poem starring animal characters from Strawberry Shortcake, characters from My Little Pony G3 and a character from the 2002 He Man series, starring alongside my lioness cub character Furaha.

Honey Pie Pony and Orange Twist

Frolicking in the Autumn mist

Milkshake and Cookie Dough

Watching the peaceful river flow

Minty, Sunny Daze and Pinkie Pie

Lying down and looking up at the sky

Rainbow Dash and Wysteria

Discovering nature's scents, imperial

Toola Roola and Scootaloo

Joining in with playing in the mud too

Kimono and Sparkleworks

Making face paint out of the dirt

Orko, Custard, Pupcake and me*

Playing with the horses, wild and free

This foggy valley shrouded in mist

Being sisters and brothers - what bliss

Life's a free will when you're a horse

Nature is where you belong, of course.

*This poem is told from Furaha's perspective.

Let me know what you think of this wonderfully enchanting poem!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/13SWw5mUeB4zBsr9SzRKhcYC0T6qpM8tPOuLBr80puy0/edit?usp=sharing

I'd like to know your general thoughts. Did you like the piece? What didn't you like about it? Did you understand what was happening? Did the world make sense? And, would you want to read more?

Hello! I'm an amateur poet, would love some constructive criticism on this poem!

On a fresh spring day, when the sky was searing red,

A small daisy bloomed.

Like thousands others.

Her to-be pale complexion tinged pink,

Her life began anew.

Slowly, she unfurled, pure and free,

Like thousands others.

When she was a mere bud,

A bee came flying by.

Huge, was the bee,

And it parked itself on the daisy,

Gulping the sweet nectar.

As it had from thousands others.

Day by day, the daisy grew,

And grew and grew and grew.

Like thousands others.

Soon she was slightly taller than the rest,

And could see the tips of other daisies in its field.

Each one was the same, with snow white petals,

Like thousands others.

The daisy saw the bee come back,

Gulping nectar from other flowers too.

The daisy saw other flowers

Growing as tall as her too.

The daisy saw other flowers

With the same soft petals.

The daisy saw other flowers

With her own pretty leaves.

The daisy was just one among thousands.

Different she was not,

Unique she was not.

Rare she was not,

And certainly not worth noticing.

And yet, when her time finally came,

When she wilted and died away,

The daisies around her, who too looked the same,

Wilted ever so slightly.

They missed her beautiful stalk, strong and supple,

They missed her large, fragrant flowers.

They missed her pretty leaves.

The missed her everlasting companionship.

The daisy was one among thousands, and she knew of it

And so did those around her.

But still, what she did not know was that

When her thought came to their minds,

Nobody could replace her.

Title: Don't have one yet

Genre: Realistic fiction

Word Count: 862

Feedback: I want advice on what I should change to give a more immersive opening and to really hook the reader to set the stage up for the prologue. I want to know how to make it clear to the audience Why is the character just now, specifically, being put into this story? Should I backup into Shafiq's past even more to start the prologue. Do i need to draw it out? Should i rearrange anything?

Summary of section: Shafiq is nervous opening his decision letter to a prestigious boarding school.

Prologue 

Shafiq

I stared at the application, a shiver of unease crawling up my spine. Was it good enough? The tiny flicker of hope that had warmed me moments ago was snuffed out by a rush of doubt, leaving me cold.

The icon for my email blinked ominously, as if daring me to take the next step. But something stopped me, a whisper of fear. The decision was out there, lurking, just waiting to reveal itself. A bold, blood-red banner across the top of the site sealed my fate: Friday, November 23rd, 08:00—marking the start of my high school’s fall break, and perhaps, the beginning of something much larger.

That date was today. The time - one minute ago. 

The links to my uploaded files winked up at me from the site I had open, but the blue light of the computer monitor offered no comfort. I know I've already reviewed this page a million times and there was no way I would be changing anything now - it was already too late and I'd already perfected the application to the best of my ability before I submitted it all those months ago. The thought of a panel of judges evaluating my resume consumed my mind and some irresistible force kept me from clicking the link to the decision letter, a new addition to the site. Although I couldn’t understand why - I truly wanted nothing more than to read what it said.

My chest felt tight and I had to close my eyes and collect myself before I could click it. I just want it over with, I thought to myself, but still bailed immediately after a blank window opened up to load the letter. I quickly shut the laptop and forced out an exhale. Running my hands through my hair, I thought about how badly I needed to get in - I had to. The stakes were high, to say the least, and I could feel the weight of this pressure and possibility in every nerve of my body.

On the computer in front of me was a huge opportunity with the very potential to alter the course of my life; I felt every second ticking, the countdown to decision day that I had so religiously kept up with failed me now, and the urgency wrung my insides dry. This could be my shot at an early start towards the future in fashion and design I've always dreamed of. With the school’s distinguished programs and accreditations opening doors for graduates into top-tier companies, I could realistically enter the workforce with a competitive edge and the potential for rapid career advancement - if I got in, that was.

I was applying to IBS of Provence, a prestigious international school for advanced high school students. They offered programs unlike any other, one of which allowed students to complete their first two years of college during high school and provided some of their promising nominees the opportunity to either create and publish a research paper, or show off their skills and trades to industry professionals looking to offer employment. 

Some IBS graduates on a vocational track demonstrate such exceptional skill that they can secure entry-level positions directly upon completing high school. Other students with more academically-oriented ambitions have been able to gain admittance into elite universities, such as Cambridge and Oxford - the best in Europe. There was no doubt about it: IBS of Provence housed an impressive student body of high-achievers.

I was applying as a first-time second semester student, in hopes that applying mid-way through the year would increase my chances of admittance, all for the sake of my future career. The amount of things this school could offer me… the thought sent me down a wormhole of countless more aspirations and future goals and I had to stop myself from getting carried away with the daydream. I reminded myself that I needed to take one step at a time. 

There was only one person who understood how much effort I had put into this application. With nowhere else to put my nervous energy, I found myself calling her familiar number by muscle memory. It didn't take long to pick up and I couldn't wait for her to finish her sentence before interrupting.

"I'm going to do it!" I blurted out, breathless.

"And hello to you too, Shafiq," she laughed, affectionately. I could hear the warm smile in her voice. "What do you mean you're going to do it - do what?" 

My mind was buzzing anxiously, but there was no time to respond when she realized. 

"Wait, oh my gosh, Shafiq - it's decision day!" She exclaimed, hardly a second later. I heard the scrambling of papers somewhere on her side of the call. Something clattered to the ground and I heard her return to the phone, the excitement in her voice almost tangible. "Shafiq, it's November 23rd - the decision was set to be released four minutes ago! What are you waiting for?!" 

At that, I gave a start. What was I waiting for?

"I'm just about to check," I could only whisper, choked by nerves. It's time.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1qg4JwSkbSQomQC3fEMmoQkKH41WAN28-SnA3ya5ju-c/edit?usp=sharing

Hi! First post, and I was wondering if I could get some feedback and opinions on this? I'm trying to get it published as a YA fantasy akin to Percy Jackson and similar stories, and I'm not sure what seems to be the issue. All feedback welcome! Thank you!

Premise: Alec is a descendant of the famous Alice from Alice in Wonderland, and he's heard the story as much as everyone else. However, he quickly comes to learn that not only is Wonderland real, things are much different than what everyone has been told. In a world both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, Alec is given the duty of saving it.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1DysY86rkpjVWUNNswQ8NZAiIpD_diTxd/edit?usp=drive_link&ouid=114637852114782664055&rtpof=true&sd=true

[2626 Words]

The ground under Selvandhan’s feet tremored.  The clacking horse hooves overpowered the rumble of the stream. He trampled up the moss laden stone steps. With each foot forward, he kicked the stone down and wished it crumpled in his weight. The ice-cold bath did not help cool his blood. Two chestnut horses carried men in red uniforms circled the open grounds. He flinched at the sight of it and wrapped himself in wet cloth, except for his eyes. The cloth clung to his skin and flapped with the wind. The sound of horn blared followed by the banging bass drum.

A moment of silence. The men and the horses had assembled at the village center. People paced to the open grounds from all directions. Murmurs of gossip and clouds of dust followed. Selva too, approached the uniformed men. He wiggled his toes to get rid of the caked mud in his toes. It refused, clung to his foot firmly. “Everything. All at once”, he snapped under his breath. 

“Villagers, gather round. The Queen, has come here with a special request. Oh villagers, gather around!”, said a man, wearing an ironed bright red uniform which was a size bigger than him. Whenever East India Company sends one of their own instead of an Indian pawn, it meant trouble. Two men were seated on their horses, scanning the onlookers nearby. Selva paced to the open grounds. The crowd squished each other for space, but ensured that they stood at an arm’s length away from Selva. People keeping a physical distance from him was in no way, new to Selva. In fact, it helped him in situations like these. The announcer removed the red wax seal and opened the letter.

The crowd fell quiet. Selva heard people breath. Anxiety carpeted the air. The announcer knew it and took his sweet time to inform the message. He smirked as he read, “the Queen calls you, the villagers of Kalakkad, to join the Office of Survey of India. We invite local guides, men who are aware of the land and the adjoining forests. If selected, you will visit the forests, helping the East India Company understand your land and your culture. The man hired for the job will be paid handsomely and will be provided an opportunity to join the Royal Army. This letter is dated September 08, 1791”. A pause. The crowd whispered. The announcer cleared his throat and gathered people’s attention. “Our master, Lieutenant James Keene will provide us a few words of wisdom”, he turned back at the man seated on the horse. James Keene, with furrowed eyebrows, memorized the faces of the people. The trees behind swayed with the wind. A couple of birds flew by, breaking the silence with the flapping of wings.

I've been writing poems for quite some time, but I don't have much of my work collected. I usually choose a topic with multiple layers of concern and do extensive research to find the best way to express my thoughts. Here's a short piece of my work. Please provide your thoughts and suggestions for improvement.

A POINT ONLY WHISPERS TO ITS NEIGHBORS

A point only whispers to its neighbors, unaware of the line in space

A line moves only steadily straight, blind to the entity it can't embrace

The entity lives without a sense of time, innocent of the consequences it creates

A scream pierced through the silence of the room. A scream full of pain, terror and fright. 

Alexander woke up with a jolt, terrified. He knew Samuel Chester was a very stupid guy - and funny too, mainly the reason why Alexander was friends with him.

But this scream. Full of horror, panic, fright. 

Alex jumped off his bed, pushing his messy stack of clothes from his way, not even bothering to change his red and white pajamas. It was a sunny day ; not like he cared. 

“SAM?!! WHERE ARE YOU?!” 

He yelled, his palpitations rising with anxiety. Looking around, he heard a voice.

“I'M HERE!!” 

Sam shouted. He was sitting near the pond, with something in his hand. A stone - with a skull symbol on it.

Perplexed, Alexander went towards Samuel, picking up the stone. A sudden jolt of pain, and then images flashed through his mind - images of some sort of war years ago…bloodbath. Dead bodies, stabbed, murdered. Screams of terror, screams of the ones getting tortured, the cries of the mothers who had their child’s dead body in front of them filled the atmosphere - while a man covered in a black cape, his features not visible, held the very same stone, his evil laughter adding fuel to the fire.

Alexander’s body howled pain as he saw those visions - jolts of pain through his veins, his head pounding really fast. As if someone was crushing all his bones all at once. As if he was experiencing the war himself. He screamed. As loud as Samuel. 

He felt someone touching his arm, moving it. It was Samuel, trying to make Alexander drop the stone. 

The stone fell down onto the grass with a soft thud. The visions stopped, Alexander’s body relaxing.“Did you - did you see that?!” Alex asked, terror and confusion creeping upon him. 

“The whole - war and…man with a stone thing?” “Yes. That.” Samuel waved his hand dismissively in the air, trying to forget it. “We’ll ask your uncle about it later…let's head back in.” Alexander wanted to protest, but decided against it. It would be best to ask Uncle Blake later. Reluctantly, alexander went back into the house, behind sam. It was a small house with no more than 4 rooms, with brick walls and a sturdy, wooden roof. That’s how all houses were like in Bonum. 

Alexander’s parents had been killed when he was just 4 months old. Killed by whom? Uncle Blake won’t tell. 

Meanwhile, Sam was an orphan, who lived with Alexander. 

Alexander and Samuel were good friends since they were 5. Alexander was attractive; tall, with slightly tan skin, dark, brown eyes, messy black hair, and a muscular body - certainly muscular for a 14 year old. And Sam was just - Sam. A bit chubby, blonde, green eyes. Always seen as ‘Alex’s friend.’ Not ‘Samuel.’ 

And Alexander was well aware of this. And he hated that. He always makes sure Samuel doesn't hide in his shadow, while he gets all the attention. After all, Samuel is his best friend. 

But right now, both Alexander and Samuel had more important things to think about.  

The stone sat in the backyard, where Alexander had dropped it - still glowing the very same, bright, blood red.

And for the first time ever, Samuel and Alexander became concerned about Bonum - the land of peace, the land of the good. 

But little did they know, that Bonum, once the very land where there would be no harm, no soul to die in a tragic way - would soon meet the monstrosity no one ever wished for. 

The pair sat down on Samuel’s bed. Samuel laid down with a sigh, while Alex sat at the edge of the bed, running his hands through his hair. “It’ll be okay…It’ll be okay..It’s fine…Nothing’s wrong, this is all fake…”

He silently told himself. But nothing could change the fact that he had experienced that pain, that vision just a few moments ago - and he cannot even tell himself that he was just hallucinating and that this is a dream. It all felt too real. 

The further proof that Samuel also experienced the same didn’t make the atmosphere less heavy. 

There was a crack of ceremonial rifles under a heavy sky. We stood unflinching in formation with our gazes fixed over the horizon. As if remaining unphased by ceremonial rifle fire said something of our chances of surviving it in combat. Then a volley of pulse rifles streaked over the airstrip, etching their violet rays on to our retinas and casting fleeting shadows beneath us.

It had been over two decades since humanities last deployment. Although, ceremonial attire remained much the same - so I wrestled with the urge to tug at the rough collar around my neck.

“Isaac Jacobs, Private: 01457B!” our company's captain yelled out our names one by one, arriving at mine.

I straightened up and saluted. I could make out my son, Oscar, in the distance peering out from behind the legs of my wife, Phoebe. I could tell he was confused because he had that wide eyed expression with his mouth ajar. Phoebe however had a great poker face. I just hoped they were proud of me. Oscar was only five and too young to understand what I was doing. Sometimes even I struggled to understand – and I’d had 25 years to ponder it. It’s better he doesn’t understand things like explosive decompression or relativistic time dilation. Or war. Well, neither did I, not really. But I was going to learn about at least one of them in the not-too-distant future. I clenched my teeth and buried those silly thoughts. I couldn’t dwell on these things. Afterall, loss is what we were bred for. Loss is what we were bred from.

The first part of the ceremony came to a close, so we regrouped with our families. I hugged Phoebe and tried in vain to savour her warmth and touch. But how could I let anything in without opening the jar with so much locked inside. I inhaled deeply with my nose nestled in her neck and felt Oscar clinging to my leg. His

small clammy palms gripping on my wool green slacks. I gently took his arms and lifted them away, knelt to him and smiled, feeling like a fraud. I told him I loved him, which I did and that I will always be proud of him, which I will. He nodded in a roundabout way then saluted me innocently before falling back into my arms for a hug goodbye.

“Ten hut!”

In unison we of Zulu company turned on our heels and marched back out to the airstrip. The final part of the ceremony was known simply as ‘the exchange’ – when we meet and replace the returning veterans. It was a brief affair. Perhaps they wanted to keep it short in case they shared too many unsavoury details of the frontlines. Or maybe the powers that be just know that too much time spent on emotional things does not make for a good soldier.

 Some time had passed, and night had descended on the airstrip. The sky was still cloudy but the few breaks revealed an underlayer of twinkling stars. One of which subject to our arrival. To bring with it a fresh division and advancements in waging that thing we do best. We stood in the still of night waiting in anticipation for the returning ship.

There was a low rumbling and the hairs on my neck stood to attention and a strange electricity filled the air moments before she emerged. The EES Ramillies broke through the heavens and cast aside a whirl of clouds like a wave’s undertow in inky seas. Her lights beamed out valiantly, forging a path through the night sky as her dizzying, magnificent size descended. Her powerful drive cores held gravity at bay and rumbled through the chest of us recruits like resonating forks. War was finally here for us. As she loomed lower overhead, searchlights beamed up towards her vast underbelly revealing it to be horrifically creviced and scarred with remnants of interstellar war. It reminded me of a whale breaking through the seafoam, etched with scrapes and encrusted with barnacles accumulated from an unknown life in the dark abyss. This monstrosity was here, not by chance, nor by total necessity. Yet here it was. Designed, forged and launched by forces of the empire so powerful and removed that they felt as alien to me now as those we were destined to make violent contact with.

We stood there gazing up in awe. Now we were small and fragile. Like ducklings in a choppy river and the Empire of Earth was about to send us off down the rapids to do its bidding.

It was time to meet the returning veterans, gone for almost three decades. Landing shuttles descended from the mothership and touched down on the air strip before us. There was a hiss of pressurised latches and doors lifted open. Across the dark landing strip veterans dismounted in orderly fashion and formed a mirroring line of formation. We stood at attention facing each other, unable to make out their faces. Our captain's voice boomed out again. This time calling out recruit numbers, we would be matched based on the numeric ID. The returning veteran ‘A’, and us, the new draft, ‘B’. One by one veterans and fresh recruits stepped forward to meet in the space between us.

“Soldiers’ 01454!”

 I knew that was Pvt O’Connor and could make out him walking out in my periphery.

“Soldier 01455. Returning veteran is deceased!”

 Johnson stepped forward without an exchange.”

 “Soldiers’ 01456!”

 Brooks stepped forward.

 My heart was thumping so hard I thought Pvt Philips beside me might hear it.

 “Soldiers’ 01457!”

I could see the veteran of 25 years began to walk towards me. We got closer and I could make out his gait and then his profile. He looked only my age - in his mid 20s. I came face to face with soldier 01457A.

 He smiled back at me proudly, as if I had been the one who had been to war.

 “Isaac Jacobs,” he said in a tone that sent ripples through me.

 “...Dad,” I managed to whisper. I did not know I could remember his scent. He stood unchanged in over two decades, like an evergreen tree rooted as seasons pass around it.

Hi Everyone. I am a first time poster. Pretty new to creative writing and I wrote the following short story piece to read out in my creative writing workshop at university. Any feedback would be great as its hard to read your own work objectively. There may be some grammar problems but I'm more interested in getting feedback on the plot, dialogue, setting, theme, first impressions, how does it read?. I am based in Ireland and it is very much an Irish story.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1S-GsPVnfC24Sv9tXwz07RV_9nYxYl2wGF2snE_M7vQQ/edit?usp=sharing

I am writing a fantasy book (in Dutch) and i had some conversations in mind, but how do i do that? Something like this?

Mila asked Laura what she had in her hands, "Thats a sword i got from my father, do you like it?" Laura said. "It looks wonderful, are those real gems?" She said as she pointed to the handle of the sword.

Or is this better?

"My sword master told me they where real gems, but i have no idea what kind of gems" Laura said. Mila pointed to a red gem, and touched it a bit, " this looks like a ruby, but i am not sure" "Well, we can visit the library and look it up" "Sounds great, but i have to study for my Weapons test for tomorrow" "Okay, good Luck, i will tell you what i found after dinner" "Good luck with searching" Mila said, while Laura walked to the library.

So do i have to put a conersation in a block text or do i have to put beneath eachother like points in a summary?

Hello! Thanks for taking the time to read and critique chapter 3 of my book. This chapter introduces Sir Bors, a knight with a self-esteem problem. I'd love to know how you felt about the introduction of this character. Thanks again! (ignore formatting, I'm posting from some writing software)

There was a cloaked figure seated on the steps of the monastery, and Bors thought he knew who it was.

His stomach dropped.

Bors reigned Winter’s Wind from a canter to a halt, and threw an arm up to slow the Lady Livian and her horse.

Confused, she stopped.

“What is it?”, she asked, but as the question left her lips, she noticed the hunched figure. Her question changed.

“Who is that?”

“I’m… not sure.” Bors replied, deadly afraid that he was. “Wait here a moment while I go take a look.”

She snorted, amused, and nudged her horse a few paces forward.

“Aw, Bors. I thought we knew each other better than that.”

He forced a grin, but knew it was shaky.

“Oh, by all means, Livian - if I get into trouble, I’d love nothing more than for you to save the day. But please, before we get to that point… just give me a chance to check this out.”

He was usually so carefree and composed, and Livian noted the undercurrent of fear in his voice. She stared him down, an eyebrow raised.

“You know who it is?” It wasn’t really a question.

“Give me just a moment.” It wasn’t really an answer. Bors nudged his horse forward.

The monastery was a shy little building, set far back from the road, nestled amongst the clustering oak trees. As the sun sank, light seeped through the branches, drenching the gray granite building in an amber glow. The croaks and chirps of frogs and crickets rose from the hidden places among the tall dark grass. Fireflies danced on the easy evening breeze.

The monastery was a structure that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be beautiful or not - yes, it was gray and small and out of the way, but it also had that antique charm that old, hidden things sometimes have.

The doorways and windows were arched, decorated with once-elegant carvings which the grinding of the years had worn partially away. The windows didn’t display any images, but they were crafted of pristine stained glass - except in places where a piece had broken and the monks had replaced it with a pane of the standard, colorless variety. A bronze bell hung in the bell tower. Stone birdfeeders dotted the lawn.

It was the cusp of fall, which meant that orange and green leaves mingled on the dark shingled rooftop. A lattice-work of creepers crawled up the stone walls, framing the lower windows with many arms. Small garden boxes, which the monks grew vegetables in, were constructed at intervals along the building. They’d been abandoned by this time of year.

Clustering behind the main monastery building like chicks behind a mother hen were the smaller, cell-like huts where the monks lived. They were as gray and as stoic, but less beautiful.

The monks themselves were still and quiet, which was not unusual, and nervous, which was. They were grouped together in pairs or in threes and scattered across the commune. All eyes were on the cloaked stranger.

Bors summoned his courage, raised a gauntleted hand, and spoke the traditional greeting.

“Hail, good fellow. How doth it fare with thee?”

The hunched figure did not rise, or acknowledge Bors in any way. His face was still enshadowed by his hooded cloak. Bors, uneasily, became aware of a dirty steel pommel protruding from the front of the cloak.

Bors tried again.

“Hail there. How-”

The stranger cut him off.

“How doth it fare with me?” The figure laughed. “What a proper knight you pretend to be, Bors.” He paused. “I’ve been better. But then again… I’ve been worse.”

The voice confirmed Bors suspicion, and he pulled his right leg up and over Winter’s Wind and dropped to the ground.

“Lionel. I-”

The shadowed figure rose and removed his hood.

He was tall, with dark, sharp features. His nose was long and ever-so-slightly crooked, and his eyes were piercing and angry. His black, curly hair fell just past his ears, and a week’s worth of uneven stubble darkened his chin. Actually, Lionel looked somewhat like Bors, except the latter was slightly shorter, and was broader of face and shoulder.

Sir Lionel de Ganis, Knight of the Round Table, spoke.

“Are you surprised to see me, brother?” His face twisted in a barely contained rage.

Indeed, the pair were brothers, and had been traveling together before they’d been separated about a week prior. Bors was the older.

“I’m not, Lionel. I hoped I’d see you soon. I wanted to talk about the-”

“Talk? What’s there to talk about, Bors? I’m not confused, you’re not confused - we both know what happened. We don’t need to talk.” He laughed, coldly, and nodded towards Lady Livian, who was still far enough away that she couldn’t hear the conversation. “Oh. I thought you were just going to rescue her - are you her guardian now? Maybe her friend?” He scoffed. “I hope not, Bors. We both know where that road leads.”

This was a painful barb for Bors. Lionel (in the way that only an angry sibling can) had struck at one of his brother’s great failures.

Bors swallowed down a lump of anger and closed his eyes. It took a moment, and a few deep breaths, before he spoke.

“If we don’t need to talk, then what are you here for?” he said, ignoring the taunt.

“Take a wild guess.”

Lionel unfastened the cloak from around his shoulders, and cast it to the ground. It fell, without drama, in a heap.

His armor, which he wore under the cloak, was dark steel, like Bors’ but it was dingy and dented, smeared with filth and grime. He pulled his sword from its scabbard, and assumed a traditional dueling stance.

Bors began to speak, but at that same moment, Livian and one of the monks moved towards the brothers.

Livian, mounted as she was, reached the impending show-down first. “Bors, what’s going on? Who is this?”

“He’s… my brother, Livian. There’s been a misunderstanding, but we’re-”

The monk reached them and spoke.

“Brethren, brethren, please. This is consecrated ground you’re standing on. Our monastery is a place of peace. Please, put the sword away, come inside. We can get supper on the table before-”

“Stay back, monk. This doesn’t concern you.” Lionel snarled. “Draw your weapon, Bors. We’ll settle this in the old way. If you win, that proves you were right to rescue her, (He said ‘her’ like he was spitting venom at Livian) and innocent of all wrong intent, and if I win, then you’re proved to be a coward and a kin-betrayer.”

Bors, (despite the deep breathing) was getting angry now. Livian was more confused by the second, and poor Brother Abelard was becoming increasingly fearful that these two hot-blooded young knights would not respect the ancient tradition of peace on monastic ground.

“Lionel,” Bors said, “I’m a Knight of Camelot. I can’t get caught up in every fight you pick, especially when there are people who actually need me, who didn’t get themselves into the situations that they need help out of. If I chased you across the realm putting out your fires, I would never have time to do what Arthur’s actually asked me to do. I’m sorry you think I’ve wronged you, but my loyalty to the king comes before any squabble you start.”

“I’m blood, Bors! I’m family! I called out for you, and you ignored me. How could you leave me like that? Do you know what they did to me? My back didn’t stop bleeding until last night. I didn’t know if I would live or die!”

Lionel’s face became red, and his eyes became bloodshot.

“I’m a Knight of the Table too, Bors, don’t forget that. I serve the King just like you do. Don’t pretend to be better than me. You’re not some great and noble hero, you’re just trying to make up for Clairette.”

The sound of ringing steel cut through the clearing as Bors drew his sword.

Lionel, ever the little brother, grinned, pleased that this tactic had worked.

The younger knight lurched forward, weapon bared. He brought the blade down in a heavy, two-handed strike which fell like a guillotine. Bors raised his sword and slid to the right, so that Lionel’s blade glanced away and sliced through open air.

Before his sword touched the ground, Lionel changed course and slashed towards his brother’s armored ribs. Neither of the combatants were using shields, so Bors was forced to block the blow with his own sword. The weapons screeched and shivered as they met.

Bors threw his weight into the bind, pushing his already off-balance brother back a few paces. As Lionel stumbled, Bors threw a couple of quick chops, which Lionel clumsily, yet successfully, deflected. Lionel was backpedaling, trying to regain his balance, and Bors continued to drive in, keeping the pressure on.

I don’t know, Dear Reader, if you’ve ever been in a situation where your conscious and unconscious mind were equally hard at work, and you were intensely aware of both, but this was the situation that Bors found himself in now. He felt almost as if someone else was fighting the battle, piloting his arms and legs from afar. His body, after years and years of sweat-drenched study and practice, knew how to defend itself - especially against Lionel, who had been his prime sparring partner for many years. Despite the intensity of the duel, Bors’ mind was far away.

He was wondering, vaguely, how it had come to this.

This was his brother. His blood. The two of them had grown up together like vines around the trunk of a tree, intertwined in such a way that made them practically inseperable. They’d grown up on the same laps, hearing stories of the great King Arthur. They’d decided together to become Knights of the Table, to write their names side-by-side in the history books.

It had gone well for a while.

Over the years, Bors’ acclaim had grown. Lionel’s had not.

Bor’s wasn’t quite sure why that was. He didn’t feel any more capable than his brother - in fact, he felt less so. Perhaps he’d just been in the right place at the right time, or he’d said yes to the right people.

As time passed and adventures faded like adrenaline, he’d seen less and less of Lionel. They’d gone from inseparable to all too separate all too often. There were spaces in their conversations where no spaces used to be.

Bors wondered if that had been his fault. He truly didn’t know.

He became aware that the monk was pulling at his left shoulder and yelling at the two Knights, trying to get them to stop the fight.

“Brethren, brethren, please, I’m begging you!”

The monk droned on directly behind Bors like a mosquito in his ear. However, he couldn’t take any time to address the irritant, because Lionel had reversed the momentum of the duel. Now Bors was on the defensive.

Lionel’s sword soared and swooped, like a bird of prey with vicious talons outstretched. The longer the fight went on, the angrier Lionel became, and his attacks became fiercer.

He wasn’t fighting to kill - neither of them were. But he was fighting to impart a nasty bruise and a nastier lesson.

Lionels blade slipped past Bor’s defenses and slammed into his armored waist. Behind the pain, Bors felt his armor indent as it impressed into his ribs. He staggered, and his brother took a step back, a victorious smirk on his stubbly face.

“Prove it, Bors!” Lionel shouted. “Prove that you’re the better knight! Prove that you were right to abandon your brother! Prove you’re who they say you are!”

Bors was doubled over, drawing ragged breath into overworked lungs.

“I’m not trying to-”

“They’ll love to hear about this back at Camelot, Bors! They love a fall from grace, don’t they? To watch the mighty fall?”

While Lionel went on with his taunting, Bors could hear the old monk still babbling behind him and Lady Livian yelling something from her horse. His side throbbed with the dull and growing pain of an incoming bruise. There was sweat in his eyes, blood in his mouth, and noise in his ears.

He lifted his sword, locked eyes with his brother, and advanced. Lionel let him come, batted the first strike away.

They were back in the thick of it, trading equal blows, each one waiting for their opponent to give them a winning opportunity, neither one finding it. Their swords were a whirlwind, and the horses were neighing, and the monk was yelling, and Lionel was screaming about honor…

And there was a spatter of bright blood across Lionel’s face…

And then the sound of a body falling, and the icy feeling of dread.

Bors, praying it wouldn’t be so, turned and saw the monk, crumpled up in a sad little heap in the grass. There was blood welling up behind his robe and a desperate appeal frozen on his lips.

The scene went from cacophonous to silent in a single failing heartbeat.

Bors heard the exhale, and then nothing.

It had been Lionel’s sword. Bors knew that, and so did Livian and the other monks. Still, he felt guilty. He had chosen to fight, and in the course of that fight, an innocent man had died. He couldn’t help but shoulder some of the blame, and in his heart of hearts, he knew he was right to do so.

In the aftermath, Lionel had slipped away silently. His rage had gone out of him at the same moment Brother Abelard’s soul had departed. Though he fled, he wasn’t trying to run from the law or escape revenge. Those were lawless days by our modern reckoning, and even with the just reign in Camelot, Lionel knew that there wouldn’t be any retribution. The monks were too meek and forgiving to bring charges against a Knight of the Round Table. Bors probably would’ve tried to bring him back to Camelot, but at that moment his brother was busy trying to make any small restitution he could to the monks.

No, Lionel left in an attempt to escape himself.

Bors and Livian stayed that night in a small inn ten miles down the road. It was a cozy little cottage in the woods, with an eager stream that wrapped behind the back porch. Smoke drifted lazily from the chimney, and a warm glow shone from the windows. The owners were an almost obnoxiously lovely elderly couple who served the weary pair an excellent hot dinner and then showed them to their rooms.

Alone in the darkness, Bors couldn’t sleep. He tried in vain for a time, but finally, a good while after midnight, he pried the window open and slipped outside. He went down to the creek behind the cottage, and sat down on a stone and looked up at the stars.

He had been there for a long time, not moving or speaking, before Livian came out to join him. He didn’t hear her approach. She laid a hand on his arm and sat down next to him without saying a word. He couldn’t decide if he was grateful or not for the company.

In one of the wee hours before the dawn, he finally broke the fragile silence.

“I have a son.” Bors said.

“I didn’t know that.” Her voice was low and utterly calm.

“I’m not supposed to. After they found out, some of the other Knights wanted to expel me from the table. Vow of chastity, and all that.”

He took a long, measured breath.

“They weren’t wrong. I took an oath when I was sworn in. I’m a Knight of the Round Table, after all. We’re supposed to hold ourselves to a certain standard.”

Livian didn’t say anything. She wasn’t sure if he was actually talking to her.

“I would’ve left then, if it weren’t for Arthur. He forgave me, publicly, in front of the whole court at Camelot.”

Bors’ brow knotted, as if he was confused.

“I was grateful… but there was also a part of me that regretted I’d have to stay with the Table. There was a part of me that wanted to shirk my duty, wanted to go be with Clairette and my son. I was planning to tell Arthur, but…”

He swallowed.

“While I was away, she died. It was the flux, and it was fast. She sent me a letter when she got sick, and by the time I got it, she was gone.”

“I’m sorry.” Livian said.

“I am too. Clairette was… everything beautiful. The poems try, but they don’t come close.”

He took a deep breath.

“Elyan, my son, stays with my sister at Camelot. He turns three in a fortnight. I wish I was back there.”

There was another long silence. Livian’s hand was on Bors’ arm, but there was an ocean between them.

Bors chuckled, but there was no humor in it.

“Am I a bad knight, Livian? Sometimes I can do the job alright, but even so… I mean, even when I saved you, that meant I had to abandon Lionel, and look where that led. I put duty over family, and people got hurt, just like they got hurt when I chose Clairette instead of my responsibilities. Is there any way to win? I ride back and forth across the countryside, swinging a sword and playing the part, but no matter where I go, people suffer because of me. How can I-”

He realized, with a start, that he was shouting, and there were tears on his cheeks.

“I’m sorry Livian. I spoke without thinking.”

Livian didn’t say anything, but her eyes were watering too.

“Tomorrow morning,” Bors said, “I’ll make sure you have the provisions you need for the rest of your journey. If not from the inn, there’s a little village some distance up the road where we can buy bread. You don’t have very much further to go and it’s safe country, so you should be fine.”

Bors stood and turned back toward the inn.

“In truth, we should’ve parted days ago. I need to get back to Camelot. Thank you for travelling with me - it’s been an honor. I wish nothing but blessings on you until we meet again.”

Extending a hand, Bors pulled Livian to her feet.

She looked him in the eye, and after a few moments, she spoke.

“No.”

“I’m… sorry, I don’t understand.”

“You asked if I thought you were a bad knight. I don’t think you are.”

He broke eye contact, turning to look out past the creek. He didn’t respond.

“But I hope that wherever your journey leads, Bors, you can eventually answer that question for yourself.”

She turned and headed back towards the inn.

Bors stayed there, frozen, for a while longer. He gaze stayed locked on nothing in particular.

The sun was beginning to color the sky by the time he retreated back inside.

He dreamed that night. Two birds, a white dove and a black raven, came to him from the darkness, each mirroring the other’s flight, spinning on the wind, wingtip to wingtip. It was a beautiful dance, but Bors felt that somehow, the birds were enemies, and if they ever stopped dancing, they’d be forced to rend each other to pieces with their cruel talons.

As his subconscious mind realized that, a new bird joined the waltz. This one was a tiny, brown kestrel, and she was clumsier than her companions. As she tried to intergrate herself into their intricacies, she threw the delicate balance off. A wing wobbled when it was supposed to, a mid-air turn went almost too far - and from the order came chaos. Suddenly, the raven dove at the kestrel, claws outstretched. With a vicious strike, the raven tore into the kestrel’s chest. The once-graceful animal fell hard to the earth. Bors watched as it bled, shuddered, and died.

For a moment, hope seemed lost.

Then, descending like the answer to a prayer, the dove alighted, and joined the dead kestrel on the ground. It stared at the fallen for a grave moment. With a quick movement, before it could lose its nerve, the dove reached up a claw, and slashed open its own chest. Blood poured forth, and the doves body fell, draped over the kestrel.

Bors was horrified by the senselessness of the apparent suicide.

For a breath, nothing moved. And then…

The kestrel trembled. With shaky movements, it stood to its feet. The dead body of the dove remained motionless. The kestrel stretched, shook her wings, called victoriously into the sky. Her wounds had healed. Then, solemnly, she took a moment and bowed her head to the dove.

She hopped twice, and then the third time, she spread her wings and launched herself into the sky. She was soaring again, more gracefully then before, mastering every breeze and undercurrent. It was unimaginable that she had been earth-bound and dead as a stone moments before. She was one with the air, and it must have always been so.

Bors was ecstatic.

And then, as one, the man and the kestrel heard the raven croak.

It came at the kestrel with its wings tucked and its talons poised for murder. Like a black lightning bolt from the heavens it came, intent on death.

But the kestrel was not caught unaware this time.

With a deft twist, she dodged out of the way, outstretching one black claw into the path of her attacker. As the raven rocketed past, the velocity of its own ambush became its own demise. The kestrel’s claw caught the other bird as it passed, and the raven tore itself open from tailfeather to throat.

The raven hit the ground silently.

The kestrel gave another victorious screech, and danced away into the sky.

Bors woke in the morning without a clue as to what the dream meant. However, it didn’t fade away like morning fog as most dreams do. It stayed with him as he and Lady Livian bought supplies, said their goodbyes, and continued on their separate ways. It stayed in the back of his mind as he and Winter’s Wind set their course for Camelot. He meditated on the dream and wondered what it could mean the whole day - until, underneath a setting sun, he met the knight on the bridge.

Talk about heart

That was a different day.

It felt strange but it also felt good.

Love is a unique gift in which the pain outweighs the happiness of the people. Whether it is one-sided or not, it drives you crazy or makes you build your world around it. Maybe it is the luck of meeting people or the journey of love begins. I wonder if I am destined to be alone in someone's fate, then who would be relieved, then what kind of people would I be, who would love one sided, or maybe someone would also be a poet, I wish I was a poet but I would not love anyone, I would not be happy alone. I don't even know till today that I am a single person. Maybe I have got this gift from above that I am able to feel love but I don't want to explain what I am writing. That's why I kept my name Shapit Shayar. hota no. Love will last forever; the one who loves it from the heart gets it or the one who loves it with hatred gets rejected...?

The Lover’s Haunt

By: Gilliam Hall

Call me Mr. Screwed. For the duration of this tale, this title is accurate enough. I remember the night my life was derailed as though it were the last evening passed. I was sitting in the recliner in my apartment where I spent most of my free hours. Beer in hand I was grumbling, waiting for “her” to finally show. She was always late. We were supposed to meet after I ended my shift at the factory, but as usual, she didn’t show. It was getting late and I was ready to give up on her. I told myself that many times. 

Several times I was ready to give up on her. We were not happy. She always acted as though she were desperate to prove her love for me, but just like every other pathetic attempt, she failed. Why did I stay with her? I guess I just didn’t want to give up… again.

I finally wriggled my way out of the recliner and decided to call it a night. Perhaps sleep would rescue me for a pleasant change. My Doctor; Dr. Feelgood I often called him, prescribed me a stronger sleep aid as well as a med. to keep anxiety at bay. This barely worked to stop me from shouting at people. I walked into the bathroom for my usual night’s ritual of swallowing pills with a glass of tepid water and then turning in for the night. The new bottle of pills the doctor had given me was not where I thought they would be. They were nowhere to be found. “That woman!” I thought to myself. “She moves my stuff around like it is her home and never bothers to put it back”. Oh well, at least there was still a bottle of the old prescription with a few pills left in it in the back. I ignored the 

precaution labels about overdoses and women expecting children as usual.

One great gulp of water and fifteen minutes on the porcelain throne, and I was headed to bed. I stopped for one look in the bedroom mirror to remind myself how sorry I looked. Bloodshot and sleep-deprived eyes stared back at me. A person can only stand so much self reflection so I turned away to crawl into bed. 

Out of the corner of my eye, something seemed …off. My reflection had not moved. It was still there, staring at me. It had a slight grin as though it knew something that I didn’t and it was about to tell, but it wasn’t going to make it easy. I gently slapped myself on the face just to make sure I wasn’t already asleep and dreaming. The slight pain was real. In the mirror, there was still no reflected movement. The mirror image of me just stood grinning and giggling at some hidden joke.

“What are you laughing at?” I caught myself asking the nothing in front of me. “Isn’t it obvious? I am laughing at you” It replied. My breath caught in my throat and I did not know how to respond to my reflection having a private joke about its owner. “Do you not recognize your reflection when you see it? Pal you seriously need to get in touch with yourself” It howled with laughter and looked at me as though I were a slow-witted child who didn’t understand his joke.

“What do you want?” I asked, now obviously irritated by the cackling doppelganger. “What do I want?” he asked. Then his hand protruded from the mirror and beckoned me forward. I didn’t move. “What? You don’t trust yourself? That has to suck!” I stepped closer and just then Me-2.0 reached out grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me toward the mirror so hard that my head bounced off the glass and the dresser knocked me off balance. I fell to the floor, but not before I hit my head on the dresser and bloodied my nose. Through the twinkling stars in my eyes, I could see the other me laughing and still staring at me. “What I want is for you to get hold of yourself. You are a wreck. Your life is almost as miserable as you are and you are barely aware of it. I think it is time for you… to meet you.” Another giggle escaped from the nightmare in the mirror. I grabbed one of the stone figurines of a bird, a gift from my mother, and smashed it into the mirror. Nightmare me fell into hundreds of small pieces on the dresser top and the floor. I bent down to pick up one of 

the pieces to see only my eye staring back, and then a mischievous wink. From another shard, I saw white flashing teeth behind that same secret smile. “It ain’t over Hot Rod! Not even close.”

45 minutes and three Tylenol later for my throbbing nose, I was headed back to bed. The sleep aids I took were working better than usual and within a few minutes, blackness engulfed me.

***************************************

I woke to my evil alarm clock that had somehow been reset to the minutes just before midnight. I slapped the top where the God-sent off button was and rubbed my eyes. I could still get some sleep. I lay back again and rolled over yawning. As I opened my eyes I did not find an empty pillow or my girl asleep next to me. There was a gray figure lying there propped up on one elbow and staring at me expectantly. “Wakey, wakey sleepy head!” came a voice like a child’s through a running window fan. It vibrated in my ear as though spoken from a whispering distance. I couldn’t make out his features. It made me think of a young man in his early 20’s, only seen through a bathroom mirror that has been steamed over by a long shower. He wore the same mischievous, all-knowing grin as the reflection me did. “We have a lot of work to do and only so much time to do it,” He said. “Get out of my bed!” I shouted. “As you wish Maestro!” came the playful vibrating voice. One instant he was in the bed, the next he was perched on the chest of drawers still watching me. I rose from the bed as though it were filled with venomous snakes and stood beside it rummaging under the bed for the baseball bat I kept there.

“Looking for this?” Shade asked. I stood up quickly and the next thing I knew the bat was swinging at my head. I ducked out of the way and jumped over the bed, or at least nearly over the bed before my right foot caught on the edge and I tumbled out of control to the floor taking the sheets with me. There on the floor with sheets covering my head and wrapped around my foot, the mischievous Shade landed on my back and shouted “ I like this game!” and slammed the bat between my shoulder blades. “Let’s go for a ride horsey!” I had had enough at that point. I grabbed the thing's leg and twisted to lay on my back as quickly as I could and tossed the figure off of me along with the sheet blocking my vision. He landed without a sound still standing there. The bat fell to the side of the concrete. 

Concrete? I looked around to find that we were standing in a deserted parking lot in front of an old grocery store. “Where are we?” I asked. “Boy you catch on quick, don’t you Sparky?” he responded with a chuckle. “You don’t recognize your old stomping grounds? The many hours you spent bagging groceries for little old ladies and women with screaming children? Of course, there were the few perks, such as the pretty little cashiers that you dreamed of dating.”

“I don’t understand” I began to say before the front door of the grocery slid open and out walked a young man with a girl on his arm. I had to blink twice to make sure I was not hallucinating. At this point, it was preposterous to wonder if I was hallucinating now. The boy emerging from the building was the younger me. On my arm was none other than HER. The one that still makes me want to scream at the top of my lungs for the things she did to me. I still lovingly refer to her as “Monster”. Monster was the reason I stopped dating for years just to get away from women. This was our first date and we were headed for a restaurant. I don’t remember its name. I only remember the thoughts of passion and young ideas of romance blasting through my head while she spoke sweet words of promise and heated hints that made my ears burn. She was the first one I fell for. She was the one that turned me. “Why are you showing me this Shade?” “Do you recognize the smiling young face with that pretty young thing on his arm?” “Of course I do,” I said with a not-too-subtle hint of irritation. I was still wincing from the pain between my shoulder blades and my nose. “The pain I caused you was nothing compared to what you felt a few years down the road because of her was it?” I had to agree. He wouldn’t catch me saying it out loud though, the annoying little freak. The parking lot around us suddenly fuzzed and faded out like an old Television with bad reception. When I could make out details again we were standing in the bedroom of my first apartment. A couple of years had gone by and I saw myself again. I was standing staring out the window at a stormy night. The storm matched the feelings I was fighting inside. Pain etched a map of my misery on my face. She was harsh, hateful, insulting, and controlling. I was constantly under attack by her poisonous tongue and hateful stares. I still loved her but I was on the verge of breaking. Tonight she had confessed that she had been flirting with another man and he had developed a crush. She swore she had no real feelings for him and it was only for fun, but it had led to a kiss and a few whispered promises. I saw the end coming like a deer sees the headlights of an approaching transfer truck. Like the deer, I was still too afraid and doubtful to move out of the way. This was the first time that I looked over my shoulder and Shade wasn’t smiling mischievously. He had only a serious look of concern. “This is when the monster inside you was born.” I was struck like a bell with a steel hammer. “Monster! She was the monster!” Shade only gave a small sad smile. “All those doubts and suspicions I was having about her were only proven true less than a week later. I gave her a second chance and she crushed me with it!” The shade paused for a moment as though remembering exactly what I was describing. He looked out the window at the rain and flinched at the thunder. The small smile came back and the mischievous glint in his eye returned. “Perhaps you need to see this from another point of view.”

The room flashed away again, a theatre curtain being drawn up out of sight to reveal the newly set stage before it. Monster was there on her bed crying, speaking to some unknown person on the phone. Through her sobs, I could just make out the words “I don’t know why I did it. I only wanted him to fight for me like a man. I know I was wrong but I had to know. I treated him like a poorly trained dog, but I only did it because I was afraid,” Her mother, obviously, on the other end was whispering words of encouragement. “I don’t think he will come back, Mom. I think this has been coming for a while.” I looked over at Shade and he was looking at the weeping girl on her bed. “I know right? What a monster!” He smiled viciously and clapped his hands together. A thunderous noise knocked me from my feet and when I rose again I was back in my bedroom. The rain that was falling that fateful night as I was looking from the window was still falling tonight, years later. I realized one of the raindrops on the window was a reflection of the tear falling from my eye. It was all her fault …wasn’t it? I had held a grudge for years against all women. I believed that giving my heart to any other woman would only open me to more pain.  I became a coward and withdrew myself from any chance of falling into that trap. Perhaps the only way to avoid this was to find another, but not open myself to pain again.

Shade was gone but the mood he left me in clung to me like a death shroud. I looked over at the clock. There was still time to at least pretend to get some sleep. Though, even if I did it would only be full of nightmares. I resigned myself to going back to the living room and watching some TV alone with my thoughts. At least I thought I would be alone. There in the recliner with one foot propped on his knee waiting for me was another shade. This one was dressed in grays and was wearing a hooded jacket. Inside the hood, I could see a rubber mask of yet another maniacally grinning face. “Why are you afraid to show your face as the other two did?” I asked the specter. “The same reason you hide behind a grin and a joke my good man. Why let people see the pain and hurt inside? Cover it up with a disguise of happiness” He looked around the room as though looking for someone. “Weren’t you expecting a visitor tonight?” “What business is it of yours Smiley?” I asked. He chuckled.  “Oh, it’s my business alright. I’m in the business of busting your bubble!” He stood and walked around the room. There were only a few pictures and a flash of lightning illuminated one particular picture. It was the one that had not shown up for our date. In the photo, she was smiling at the camera. I did not take the picture. She never seemed to smile around me anymore. In the refrigerator were leftovers from her last attempt to impress me. She had cooked a meal that we both ate in silence. She only sat staring at me as though expecting me to say something, wanting me to say something. She wanted to hear how nice her dress looked, had she done something different with her hair? Who knows? Who cares? I didn’t, but I was looking out for number one. No more scars for me to heal.

Smiley came back to the recliner and peered down at the table with my old reading lamp. “What’s this, a love note from your most recent romance?” I walked over to find a white folded paper written in her hand. On the outside was scribbled only “Goodbye”. I unfolded the paper and there was nothing more to read. Just like our relationship. “Another one bites the dust I guess, huh partner?” “It seems that way,” I said with little emotion. “But hey,” he said” she will get over it won’t she? You did when you left Monster …oh wait. You didn’t, did you?” I turned to face him with a questioning look on my face. Only slightly concerned. I said ”What do you mean?” “Oh nothing of course. I mean it’s not like she would do something stupid over you. That would be silly wouldn’t it? It would be almost pathetic.” Pathetic was a word I was using often lately in regards to my so-called relationship. That was when it occurred to me, the missing sleeping pills! “What did you do to her?” “Whoah partner!” he said. “What did I do to her?” 

I had to know. I raced around the room to find a rain jacket and only found the pink one she had left behind. I couldn’t find the car keys anywhere and that is when I lost what few marbles I had left. “Take me to her!” I demanded of Smiley. “Aye, aye Cap’n” said he in a poorly executed pirate accent. He reached out and suddenly the air was sucked from my lungs. Lightening flashed and blinded me and suddenly I was on my back in the rain. I was looking up at the dark storm clouds and the falling rain when I remembered where I had wanted to be. I was on the roof of her building. Why he took me there God only knows! I jumped to my feet and ran to the door that led to the stairwell but found it locked. I couldn’t budge it! I ran to the edge to see if I could find a way down and that is when I saw the ambulance. It appeared to have been there for a while and there were men in blue uniforms moving as though there was no more hurry. A stretcher was being pulled out of the building by two burly men. On the stretcher was a still form covered from head to toe with a sheet. The form was female. I knew what it meant. 

There were other tenants gathered around outside. Some had umbrellas, others sharing the protection with their more prepared friends. There was one single man clinging onto the bed and following as though chained to it. Smiley snapped his fingers and suddenly we were standing next to the ambulance only feet away from the stranger holding onto the bed. He was crying. “No! She has to be alright! Don’t take her!” he was screaming. The two burly men were forced to physically remove his gripping hands from the bed so that she could be loaded into the ambulance. He fell into the street sobbing and flailing. I had to know who he was and why her death was affecting him like this. I stepped up and offered my hand to him. He took it and stood. He faced me with a pained look on his face as though his world was just shattered. I asked, “Who is the woman under the blanket.” He took a few seconds to answer. “I loved her. She didn’t know but I was going to tell her. We met one day while we were both buzzing in to get to our apartments. She needed help with her groceries so I carried them in. She offered me a cup of coffee and we talked for a while. I knew then that I was in love. I was going to ask her to dinner until I heard her answering machine kick on. It was her asshole boyfriend. He was barking at her like a man at a child asking where she was and why she was late again.” Who would treat a beautiful woman like that?” Smiley shook his head in agreement. “Yeah! What kind of monster would do that to the poor woman” said Smiley mockingly. The crying stranger acted as though he didn’t see Smiley and only stared at me waiting for an answer. I swallowed painfully and said “I don’t know. Perhaps you should have saved her from him” The stranger walked off looking after the men with the stretcher and then all faded into gray again. I fell backward into my recliner. I was still wet from the rain and still stung from the words I had heard. “What kind of monster? …Me. I’m the monster. I killed her”

I was alone again. The picture of my late girlfriend was still sitting face down from where Smiley had laid it. The note was still there, opened on the recliner. I didn’t know what to do. I could at least go to the hospital and tell them what I know, say goodbye, and make sure her family was called. I found the missing keys in my dirty pants pocket and dressed myself as quickly as possible. I headed for the door. Just then, as though timed perfectly, there came a knock at the door. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Three earth-shattering knocks muted the rolling thunder outside. Shaking I took the knob in hand but thought twice and looked out the window. I saw only a shadowed figure in a black derby hat and lightning flashes reflecting off of spectacles. “Wh-Whose there?” I asked. I heard nothing. I hesitantly opened the door and there stood an old man stooped and frail beyond his years. He wore all black and decked out in rainwear. He had a cane designed to look like the body of a snake. The head curled up under his knobby hands. Around his neck was dark cloth. It was covering the spot where a scar would be on an injured larynx. He put his hand to his throat and rasped “With me. Come.” Considering all I had been through tonight I was resistant. But perhaps the dream was over. This was one of her family members coming to greet me, but she had never mentioned a mute elderly uncle or grandfather. There was no humor to the man’s gaze as he stepped to the side, pointed to the stairs leading to the walkway out to the road, and only expected me to obey. I took a step forward coming in line with the man. He looked levelly into my eyes and glared. I walked onto the edge of the porch and stopped. I felt the butt of his cane connect with my lower back and push me with surprising force into the rain. I turned to grab the cane from him but he was gone, and so was my porch.

I was in another parking lot. There was no rain and from behind me, flood lights were casting shadows. I turned and found Old Man Raspy holding a door open waiting for me. We were entering a brick building and my first step into the building brought forth a smell that I was too familiar with. It was the medicinal smell of the place where people are stashed away until they give up their last breath. There were elderly people in wheelchairs and others on rolling beds being wheeled from room to room. This was the place I feared I would end up in my old age. Rotting alone and depressed in a hospital bed.

Old Man Raspy beckoned me to continue past the dead. They were only missing the headstones to proclaim them so. I followed him down two more halls until he finally stopped in front of a door. He turned to me and gestured. He didn’t need to speak. I understood “After you young man.” I knocked on the door and then came an answer. “Go away! I don’t need any more of your drugs woman!” The door opened slowly and there stood an old, beaten down, and angry …me. He growled through artificial teeth that were stained yellow and he didn’t bother to close his robe over pale blue pajamas. He was hobbling on an old four-footed hospital cane. If I had to have a cane, couldn’t I at least have shown a little style like Raspy did? It didn’t occur to me how pointless that question was at the time. “I thought you were that God-forsaken nurse hear to peddle her poisons on an old man. What do you want!” I stalled, not knowing what to say. “I’ve….come to check the heating in here. Cold weather is coming friend.” He replied “Friend! I choose my friends carefully and I don’t recall you making the cut, son! But if you’re here to check the heating, be my guest.” He thrust his finger into the room. “In and out boy,  don’t take too long.” He followed me in wheezing and coughing, paying no mind to the figure in black following me. I walked into a single room with little furnishing. There was a small table with a hospital issue reading lamp.  An open book lying face down on the bed. There,  also beside the bed was an empty medicine bottle and a single white piece of paper propped on the table as though positioned for someone to find. The elderly me had noticed where my eyes had strayed and hobbled over as quickly as he could to snatch the paper. I tried to stop him, but before I could he had knocked the table over and the note fell to the floor. A glass of water had fallen with it and made a puddle on the floor, slowly creeping toward the note with a single word written on it. I reached for it but the older me’s hand caught my wrist and then the earth shattered. It felt like I had been sucked into a funnel and forced into a container whose shape I didn’t recognize. Old age suddenly fell upon me and my bones began to ache with fatigue. I felt dizzy and disoriented as though drugged. I could suddenly recall my entire life leading up to that moment. I never found anyone else after the night of the suicide. I resigned myself to being the lonely murderer responsible for the death of an innocent. I never formed any other attachment to any human being and therefore grew old and feeble alone. No one visited me at the home. No one cared to. The only company I had was haunting memories of my self-induced misery. I felt as though my voice in the world was forever silenced. Through the dizziness and disorientation, it came to me, the elderly man with no voice. He had no voice in the world to be heard. They were all me. The playful young man with the mischievous smile, the man in grey with the grinning mask, and the elderly man with the cane and no voice were all different reflections of me. I was haunting myself. I reached over to pick up the piece of paper from the floor, now half-drenched in water. Written in the hand of a shaky old man was the word “Goodbye”. That was when the obvious meaning of the empty medicine bottle on the table hit home to me. I was dying. I began to choke. I fell onto the bed face-first and tried to catch myself but my body was not cooperating. Each free breath came slower and further between. The world was growing black and cold. “No! No! This can’t be the end.” I thought. I looked up at Old Man Raspy. He looked back and with a simple one-handed gesture was waving goodbye. Lights out.              

*******************************************************

I opened my eyes not knowing what to expect. Would the Grim Reaper be there to take my soul? God in his white robes greeting me in the world after, or perhaps the other one there waiting with chains in hand to drag me down into the Hell I was preparing for myself in life. None of those were what greeted me. I was staring up into my living room light. My hands were resting on my recliner arms. The TV was quietly playing an old movie based on a famous Charles Dickens novel. That seemed appropriate. I did just have the “Dickens” scared out of me. When I realized I actually could laugh, I let it all out hysterically. I was alive! I stood up from the recliner and the clock overhead was blinking the time “9:30 P.M.” Outside the window I could see dark clouds rolling, a coming thunderstorm. My breath caught in my throat. I looked down at the small table and there was the white paper with one word written on it. It seemed to take an eternity to turn, run to my keys, and dash for the door. But before I left I had to be sure. I went to the bathroom again and there on the counter was the empty spot where my medication should have been. I sprinted for 

the door and out to my car. At neck-breaking speeds, I drove to my girl’s apartment building. I couldn’t be too late. Please God no!  I made it to the front door of her building. I had to be buzzed in but just on the other side was a man heading up the stairs. I banged on the door and shouted for him to let me in. “It’s an emergency!” He turned from the stairs and let me in. Then I recognized the man as the crying stranger from the previous night …or the coming night. I sprinted past him up the stairs and headed for her apartment. Behind me, he was shouting “Wait, what’s going on? Does someone need help?” Then it struck me. It was me she was trying to escape. I drove her to this. It was as though it were my own hands that had stolen the life from her in that nightmarish vision. Could I save her? Even if she survived this was there a chance of putting back together what I had shattered? No, but maybe a knight in shining armor could. I sprinted back down and landed in front of Mystery Man. I then began to tell the best lie I had ever told. “I was walking on the street down there and I looked up at the sky to see if it would start raining soon. I looked up and lightening flashed off of a window. I saw a woman there, in the window holding her hand to her throat as though she were choking and gasping. That was when I came to the door.” Someone’s got to help her. He had a fearful look in his eye and barely croaked the words “Which window?” “It was the fourth floor, the last one on the street side!” His face went white and pale and his feet started to move on their own. From midway up the stairs he shouted “I know who that is. I can get in. Call an ambulance!” I did as he asked. The ambulance came and found her with him. She had been saved by her secret love. He had made it just in time. Luckily he had some medical training and was able to keep her conscious. I was already gone. I was slowly making my way back home when I caught a reflection in a shop window. That didn’t make any sense because there was no one there to reflect. I stopped the car at the edge of the street and got out. I walked up to the window and greeted my reflection as an old friend. “Didn’t I shatter you recently?” The grin was back on his face. “I told you that you should get in touch with yourself. I didn’t mean it literally.” In the reflection, I saw other reflections coming to join him. One was a younger man who had just been hurt. The next was an older man wearing a grinning mask, the other an elderly man with a cane and a black cloth tied around his neck. They all nodded a greeting to me and smiled. “Well, it looks like it's time to say goodbye to all of this don’t you think?” said my reflection. I now mirrored his impish smile and spotted a conveniently placed post with a heavy base used to string up the red rope around a theatre entrance. I picked it up and wielded it like a mace. I noticed the mischievous grin in the reflection this time was truly my own. The old man with the cane tilted his hat in a silent goodbye and winked behind his rain-streaked spectacles. With all my strength I smashed the post into the window and shattered my nightmare.

I felt a strong but feminine hand grab my arm and pull me back from the collapsing window. I tripped and fell on top of the figure behind me and dropped the post. I rolled off and heard a sultry female voice say ”May I ask what you think you're doing?” I finally made it back to my feet and turned around to meet the heated blue gaze of a woman in uniform. “Officer Grace” her badge proclaimed her. The rain was soaking her red curls under her cap and doing interesting things to her uniform that fit her well enough to show voluptuous curves. “What am I doing? Well, I guess I’m killing my old man.” In retrospect, that may not have been the smartest thing to say to an angry police officer, beautiful or not. But as the old saying goes, I lived happily ever after with an arresting beauty at my side keeping me in line.