Hey all, would appreciate some harsh but constructive criticism. Fyi I am 19 and I am not native in English so some choice of words may be a bit off putting.

My boy is being taken,
to tussle with men.
He will drink from silver cups,
once sipped by the dead.
He will swear oaths,
oaths forsaken by gods.
A old man will give him a sword,
bright as the moon.
And he will swing, and swing,
so that another may not swing at him first.
His first will be etched into his memory.
His tenth will be just a pile of meat.
The pile will grow, and grow,
and sink into the depths of his heart.
Instead of cleaning the pile,
he will simply get rid of the heart.

Hi everyone, I wrote a silly little short story about human finiteness. I'm in high school and I want to see if it's good enough to submit/ have a good chance in winning competitions (like scholastic writing awards) Please give your very honest opinions and comments, thanks!

Earth to a beautiful mind

“Time for breakfast!” Mother hollers from the level below. I don’t actually have a mother, she’s just a figment of my design. I go downstairs and crawl into my favorite faux silk chair. It tells me it cares about me as it cradles my fragile frame, that’s why I like it so much. Today I will eat the store bought cereal I take out to dry on the balcony—dense, cold, and limp—laid like discarded rags on my porcelain plate. My favorite. After breakfast, I leave my suffocating abode and wander, like I always do. Today, the skies are translucent, and in the distance you can still see the swirling specks of white that the Earthlings call ‘stars’. The nice day puzzles me. It gives me an unshakeable feeling that each step brings me closer to something inescapable and inevitable. As I walk through this banal track, I ca’;t help but to think what a paradox this all is- the limits of human capability make them all the more intense yet I, unscathed by time, am full of stagnation. Yet, I watch as humans live, their lives fleeting, full of passion and longing. Like a candle flame- they burn intensely for just a moment and then: nothing. I observe their lives with a detached fascination. Even though I am infinitely bigger they have something I can never have: the intensity of experience. They contain the beauty of impermanence- the urgency, the passion that comes with it. My state contains no bounds- how strange it is to be eternal and yet so distant from what it means to live. In the distance I hear a faint thudding. The pattern of rhythmic footfalls coming from behind gradually loudens. I turn slightly to catch a glimpse of a lean jogger; his breaths coming in small, energetic bursts “Man, I love running,” he starts, his voice warm and comforting, something I have almost long forgotten “Great way to feel alive!.” he adds between pants “Oh, I don’t feel alive, really. I don’t need to.” I joke, but I know I’m serious. My lips curve slightly into a half-baked smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “You seem stuck… Ever thought of just moving?” He says casually. “Move? Move…” I repeat under my breath, my tone tinged with skepticism. His figure and footsteps become more distant each step he takes. Soon, I can’t even see him as he dissolves into the mist. I am left with the echo of his lingering words. They stab me, hard. I crouch down, trying to alleviate the throbbing sensation. Sharp and biting. I draw a breathy sigh—It is the ache of my infinite expanse confined in this meager, mortal vessel. Like all human constructs, my pain subsides and melts into nothingness. I hope he notices the weight of his words. It’s simple for him to move but it’s not so easy with infinity pressing against you! Before I can think about anything else, a glimmer of red floods my peripheral vision. It is too bright for this dull world: little pebbles with streaks of red. I pick up a handful with caution, scrutinizing them closely. They feel smooth and cold. I hesitate, look left and right and then lift one to my mouth- I think about truth. What is it anyways? It’s been stripped of meaning all my life, so it doesn’t matter anyways. I wonder how the rock would taste, feel, maybe give me an epiphany. I bite down on the shard — as certain as god. Confusion riddles my Earthling brain when I hear a piercing crack. The taste of iron fills my mouth. Sharp. I run my tongue through the empty shell of a broken tooth. It is grotesque and real. Blood dribbles down my chin, and I lap at it, savoring the odd yet human sensation. I look into my eyes through the reflection of the rest of the stones—dark pools of infinite nothingness. I ask them who I am, but they don’t answer. They never do, for I am a question without an answer so I must live with all of its consequences.

This story is just in the beginning stages, but my intention is for it to be a surrealist mystery/romance involving alternate dimensions, a "hidden" community of spirits that is stalking our narrator, and a homeless skater who is somehow connected to both realities/dimensions...and who just might help our protagonist escape the plague of dark spirits and fulfill her destiny.

Chapter One: The Beginning

I don't know how it started, and I don't know why it's happening. Lately, reality has started to shift around me, to behave in peculiar and unusual ways. My life, until now, has been a predictable series of successions: after high school I went to university, then doctoral school, where I earned a doctor of pharmacy degree at my hometown Western New England University. While most of society would probably deem me to be successful - by all outward accounts, a bright, upper-middle class, well-educated girl, I never really felt myself to be especially intelligent or truly special in any way. Life had always been a bit of a bore for me, and the only reason I was able to succeed in my studies is because losing myself in learning brought me out of the dull dredgery of merely existing, prevented my mind from wandering the dark paths of depression and feelings of emptiness. After graduation last year, I got a job working at Albertson's, a successful position that offered a yearly paycheck upwards of $100,000 - I should have been happy, right? Instead, day-to-day working life became a chore. Every day was the same; despite the regorous studies required to achieve my degree, no real intellect or critical thinking was required to do my daily job - no, all I did every day was stand in front of computer and press the same buttons - F12, F8, ctrl-enter; most prescriptions presented had no real issues that required any mental prowess on my part, and the ones that did were all the same - antibiotics that needed dose adjusting, interactions that were unfavorable - and these required the same steps to resolve - call the doctor or nurse, present my interpretation of the problem, listen as they either acquiesced or rejected my standpoint and presented their alternative viewpoint, and if it was an acquiescence, great - if not, then I had to acquiesce and approve the prescription despite my internal disapproval. Either way, the next steps were all the same - button pushing, button pushing, and more button pushing. I felt my mind start to wither without the stress of examinations and daily studying. At my job, the computer system flagged and caught all the potential problems for me, and if I didn't know something or needed to look up more information, all I had to do was a quick google search or flip open one of the clinical apps on my iphone. In truth, despite the good money, I was bored out of my mind. And maybe this is why the strange things started happening; with my mind otherwise unoccupied by having to do any real deep work or thinking, it was became an empty vessel, a void for otherworldly forces to lay claim to and occupy. What strange things am I talking about, you ask? To be honest, it's hard to put into words, and I'm embarrassed to even type these occurrences out on a page because I know it all sounds like I must be psychotic or insane. Sometimes I wonder if I am.

For example, yesterday at work, when the radio was playing its usual carousel of rote pop hits, I had the thought to myself while a particularly tiresome tune was playing - god, they need to switch it up - and immediately, in the middle of the chorus, the radio changed to a new tune. Merely a split second after I had the thought, it happened, as though my mind had broke through the ether and somehow adjusted the radio station itself; I will add, too, that it is consequential that the radio never changed in the middle of a song, it always let it play out fully before proceeding to the next. Okay, so that's not that wild of a circumstance, you might say. An acceptable reaction - after all, it could have just been a coincidence, a technological glitch that just happened to occur at the same time that the thought entered my mind. But then, stranger things started to happen. The next day, I went into my garage to get out a broom and - this is where it gets weird - as soon as I opened the door and just before I reached my hand up to flip on the light switch, I saw a glimmering, spinning, bluish-white orb right in front of me. Like a star had fallen out of the sky and somehow broke all the natural laws of physics and materialistic science to make a new home inside of mine. I reached my hand out to try to touch it, and it spun to the distant corner of the wall away from me. I turned on the light switch, and it was gone. My brain was a flurry of confusion, bursting at the seams. What in the world had just happened? Was I going mad? I wasn't on any sort of drugs; despite my daily Adderall and antidepressant, certainly not anything that would have driven me into a kind of psychosis; besides, I had never had any mystical experiences like this before, no psychological breaks of any sort in the past that might suggest I was genetically disposed to creating these sort of visions out of thin air. And yet it had happened - an otherworldly, iridescent light, glowing just like the sun - and just like that, vanishing - right in from of my own sober eyes in my garage.  I rubbed my eyes, blinked twice. I went to bed that night pondering the nature of reality, unable to find a sensible explanation for what I had seen. I yearned to tell somebody, anybody, about what I had seen; and yet, I couldn't - to do so would only bring forth judging looks, a questioning of my sanity, musings of if I was on drugs. I spent the next day after work scouring the internet and reddit to see if anybody else had had a similar experience as mine - nothing. The closest I could find were deep-web choruses of UFO sightings on conspiracy websites, and despite their equally mystifying nature, all of those stories were the same, and - the isolating part - all of those people had other people they could talk to about their shared experience. I, on the other hand, had no one. My sighting was, apparently, the only one of it's kind, as far as my internet searches told me. I felt equal parts bewildered, mystified, and confused; but most of all, I felt alone. Reality further started to unravel around me. My understanding of the nature of reality had been upended, and yet I had no explanation, no what, why or how answer for the occurence, and noone to turn to. Little did I know, things would only get stranger.

The deeper I go to try to find answers for all that has happened to me over the last three weeks - old books written by mystics, New Age spiritual authors, quantum physics - the less things seem to make sense. By this time the range of strange happenings has been vast, and all equally inexplicable. During this time I have had objects mysteriously disappear - such as when I left a cup of tea, letting it sit to steep while I walked to another room, only to find that the mug had completely vanished into thin air when I returned for it. I have heard soft whispers, ethereal notes of singing whispered right into my ear while laying in bed - "come with us, come with us". The first time I heard it, I thought I was dreaming. Once I opened my eyes and pinched myself to know that I was lucid and awake, I heard it again, and knew it wasn't a fluke of my imagination. I saw the glowing blue-white orb again in the next instant, and yet when I instinctively reached for it, the whispered singing drifted away and the orb once again vanished. While I slept with the lights on that night - just as a precaution in case more sinister happenings started to occur - I wasn't scared by what was happening to me; rather, I was entranced. I felt like a portal was opening up around me, ripping through the fabric of spacetime, lulling me in, beckoning me to step into some exciting destiny, a fantasy world that would break me free of dull, predictable reality. How to step into this portal, this potential destiny - if that's what it was - I didn't know. The happenings had no predictable pattern and I could not summon one to occur through sheer belief or willpower - they just happened at random, without foreshadowing, and disappeared just as quickly.

I've become an active member of reddit again, delving deeper into the weirder corners of the internet to try to find some semblance of community, some people who've had similar strange mystical occurrences happen to them. I become a member of r/starseeds, r/mysticals, r/astralprojection. None of them have the answers in my opinion, but being a part of these online communities gives me some degree of comfort that at least there are at least other people like me out there, people who have felt some type of "call from the beyond", a beckoning for some greater destiny beyond their current reality. The thing that frustrates me, though, is that these other people talk of their experiences occurring as a result of their focused intention - "law of attraction", they call it; or they write of how anyone can connect with these "astral realms" through deep meditation and focused awareness. I wish that was how it were for me. I've tried praying to the "Goddesses of Light", visualized myself "stepping into the vortex of creation", spent hours in meditation visualizing "the wish fulfilled". None of it seems to work for me. I can't seem to make reality bend and dance to my will like the others, instead, for me it seems, the happenings are totally out of my control. And the feeling of strange loneliness is still there - the other people on these reddit communities are by and large, hippies and unabashed drug users - their profile pictures by and large show tattooed limbs and unnatural electric-colored hair, and they talk of microdosing and cannabis as means to further heighten their sensory experiences. The others on here seem like they were born for the mystical life - creative, artsy types, who have probably lived wild, adventurous lives and have dozens of trippy stories to tell their other artsy friends. My experiences, on the other hand, seem at odds with the identity and life path that I have chosen - I took the academic route, the "good girl" path of higher education - people like me don't have these kinds of things happen to them unless they're on drugs. I'm not a natural mystical like the others on these communities, and yet, the mystical has somehow found me, and it's pulling me in deeper and deeper, wrenching me from the predictable life I created and into a world of strangeness. 

Yesterday after work, I gathered up my belongings, punched out on the wall time clock as usual, and marched out the front door, head down, hoodie up to protect from the rain. I had just made it past the first steps of the landing out the main entrance when I was stopped by a homeless man. “Sorry, I don’t have any cash” I instinctively muttered, to which he responded “I’m not looking for money”. I turned my head to the side and finally got a good look at him – he was sickly thin, all tanned skin and bones, wearing a white tee shirt (soaked through from the rain) and jeans, and carrying a skateboard. But his face – I couldn’t believe it, I probably stared a moment too long, then looked away shamefully – but the man truly looked like a young Clint Eastwood in the flesh, blue eyes and long fluttery lashes, a smattering of freckles across his nose, high cheekbones and a jaw that looked like it could cut glass. I didn’t know it was possible for a homeless man to be so, well, good looking. I suddenly found it hard to breathe properly, then remembered this man had stopped me on the way to my car. If he didn’t want money, what did he want?

“What do you want?” I asked.

“They’re coming for you.”

“Who’s coming for me?”

“I can see spirits. I see the way they look at you, the evil plans they have for you. As soon as you walked out that door, I could see your aura, see the spirits trailing you. They’re watching us right now. Listen, I can’t tell you too much right now. I just came here to get some money to buy bread and catch a break from the rain. I’m headed to the skate park under the bridge, it’s where I live. Come find me, and I’ll tell you everything.”

My mind was a blur. Was this man insane? The words coming out of his mouth certainly were, but he spoke so assuredly and so composed, as though he truly meant every word he was saying. His speaking was otherwise coherent, and he didn’t seem like he was on drugs or anything. In retrospect, with everything else weird that had happened to me that week, this instance of weirdness probably made more sense than anything. If this man truly did have psychic powers, maybe he could explain not only the evil spirit situation, but also the other weird shit that had been happening to me throughout the week. Besides, despite being homeless he was certainly easy on the eyes. In that instant, I made up my mind. I was sick of living my safe, boring predictable life. Old me would have ran away, drove home, and never seen the guy again. But something about the urgency and passion in the way the way he spoke moved me. I was ready to flip the script on my life, and maybe this guy could help – actually, maybe I could offer this guy some help too. A double-deal.

“Do you need a place to stay?” I asked. “You’re completely soaked through and this rain isn’t going to let up according to the weather app. You’re free to come to my place to dry off and rest for the night.”

“You’re really sure?”

“I’m sure. Come on, let’s go.” I tapped his elbow, turned my heel, and together we walked back to my black Toyota. I opened the passenger side door, and he flopped in as I came around to the driver’s seat, threw my purse in the back, put my seatbelt on, and kicked on the ignition.

“What’s your name anyways?” I asked. Better to start with the basics.

“Sam. You?”

“Lexi.”

“Lexiiiii. I like that name.” He dragged out my name with a drawl that sounded vaguely southern.

Sam then kicked his sneaker-clad feet up onto the dash, dug a hand into his jeans pocked, and dug out a smashed-up packed of Marlboros. He picked a half-damp cigarette out of the pack, then lit it up with a lighter he dug out of his right pocket with the other hand. He then rolled the window down, lit up the cigarette, and exhaled, a cloud of thick grey smoke promptly filling up the car.

“You know, typically people ask before lighting up,” I chided him. Not that I cared much, but manners and all.

“My bad, my bad. You know, you can just ask me if you want one…do you?” Same pulled out the second-to-last cigarette from the pack and dangled it between his two fingers.

“No thanks.”

“All good, didn’t figure you were a smoker anyways.”

“Used to be. Not anymore. Anyways, we’re here.” I pulled the car into the driveway of my townhouse, and we got out the car. Together, we walked up the steps to the door, and I showed Sam around. My apartment wasn’t fancy by any means, it was mostly just a large living room with a small hallway that led to my bedroom and a small bathroom next to it. That was it. Still, it had it’s charms, mostly I think due to the fairy lights that I had strung up all around the place…I’m telling you, if you’re broke and only have a shabby one-room broke-down apartment to call home, string up some fairy lights and get a galaxy light projector, you’ll thank me later.

Sam puffed on his cigarette as we walked around the small apartment, but then once we got to my bedroom I stalled. I certainly didn’t want him to think I was propositioning him, but I was tired as hell and needed to nap.

“Hey, I’m pretty tired. I’m gonna rest in my room,” I told him straight up. “You’re free to hangout in the living room to wait out the rain; I have hulu and netflix on my tv, already logged in and everything…oh, and the couch pulls out to become a bed if you need to sleep.”

Sam stared at me a beat too long, took a long, slow puff of his cigarette.

“You know,” he said eventually, digging into his other jean pocket and pulling out a baggie of weed and some rolling papers. “I still need to tell you about the spirits, though. Don’t you want to know? Got some of this too, in case you want to get high first. I’m going to, either way,” he said, lifting up the baggie of weed, the corner of his mouth turning up in the slightest hint of a smile.   

I paused, debating. I was completely worn out, exhausted from work. I needed to crash onto my bed, and the longer we spent lingering in the living room talking, the more forceful my bed called out my name. But I had to admit, I did want to know about the whole ‘spirits trailing me’ situation, however ludicrous the story ended up being…and maybe some weed would help.

“Alright,” I said, giving in, ushering Sam into my bedroom. “I’m gonna lay down, but feel free to roll up, do your thing. And yes, please do tell me the story about the spirits.”

I opened the door, set my purse and keys onto my dresser, and promptly crashed onto my bed with a satisfying ‘thwop’, while Sam sat on the edge of my bed and swiftly got to work rolling up a joint on my nightstand.

“I’m gonna take this off, if you don’t mind,” he said, whipping off his soaked-through white tee shirt and tossing it onto the floor.

“All good,” I responded, making sure to keep my voice casual…but out of the corner of my eyes

of course I peeked at his abs. And yes, they were absolutely delicious. Ugh.

As I lay in bed, nodding off and feeling the stress of the work day melting off me, I felt a weight next to me, and I looked to my left to see that Sam had snuggled in next to me. His right hand was holding his freshly-rolled joint, and as he exhaled, a soft wave of grey smoke billowed out and filled the air between us. I sniffed the air, something about the smoke smelled more like incense than weed. It had almost a orange-ey, pine-like fragrance, and the longer it lingered, the better it smelled. I hadn’t even taken a puff of if, but already just the scent made me feel heady.

Chapter 1

“Sir, just give me another chance! They have their information hidden very well, and I’m this close to getting access to it! Just give me another—”

“Enough, Hayes,” Vermilion interrupted, curling his lip into a scoff. “The reason we selected you for this job is because you were thought to be the best. Clearly, we were wrong.”

My eyes widened in fear, the fist at my side clenching until my knuckles went white. “Captain, I assure you that this is unnecessary. I am the best. There is no one else who could get this intel faster than me.”

The pixelated image of Vermilion on the small tablet glitched as he lazily tapped his long, pale fingers on the hard, shiny, pitch-black table. “There is little you can do to change my mind, Hayes. One of our spies in the Nest has already relieved you of this mission. I would like you to report back to Headquarters immediately for an assessment meeting.” He paused, his eyes darkening. “I mean it, Hayes. The only reason you still live is because we have need of you elsewhere. If you pull another one of those stunts of yours, even if it benefits the Wraith… consider your life forfeit.”

And with that, the screen went black. 

Tears pricked the corners of my eyes as I aggressively threw the tablet at the wall. It instead landed safely on my bed with a bounce, which definitely wasn’t the shattering crack I was hoping for. 

I sat down on the bed, burying my head in my hands. I had been so attentive this time to bring valuable information to them, spent years climbing up the ranks while living a double life, and for what? To be discarded at the slightest gap of intel?

The door creaked open. Panicked, I shoved the tablet under the cot of my bed and stood up straight at the newcomer. Her curly brown hair was as untame as always, her dark eyes regarding him in concern. 

“Ivy,” I acknowledged with a small smile at the sight of my friend, relaxing slightly. 

“Jack,” she replied. She walked into the room fully, carefully shutting the door behind her. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I shook my head, sitting back on the bed. “It’s nothing. Listen, I…” I trailed off, not knowing how to express my feelings to her without telling the truth.

Ivy took a seat next to me, her brows furrowing in worry. “Jack, tell me. Was Vermis unjust with you again? Is he still deluding himself, thinking that you’re a spy or whatever?”

A queasiness surged in me at that. Ivy has always had so much faith in me from the moment I met her a month into my job in the Viper’s Nest. She would be heartbroken if she discovered the truth.

I shut my eyes tight to dispel the image, looking away from her. “I… I need to go on leave.”

She shot up at that, eyes wide and incomprehensive. “Wha… what?”

I slowly turned back to her and nodded curtly. “Yes.”

“On leave?”

“Yes.”

She stared at me. “...oh, for heaven’s sake, stop being so cryptic, Jack! Why?”

Damn it, I didn’t have the time to think through this. “Because…” Think! Gotta think! “...my son broke both his legs and I need to take care of him.”

She blinked. “You… have a son?”

Shoot. “No.”

“No?”

“I mean yes! He’s… he’s the son of a close friend of mine. He’s like my son. I need to take care of him because my friend went to infiltrate the… uh… Sunflower Resistance, and he’s all alone. Since I’ve been doing less missions for the Nest, I offered to look after him until he heals.”

Ivy’s expression turned to sympathy. “I’m sorry about that, Jack. But what if you get sent on a longer mission by the Boss? You know he won’t appreciate this.”

I shot her a grim look to sell the act, standing up. “Then… we’ll figure stuff out from there.”

She punched my arm lightly, her concern bleeding through her attempt at a light expression. “Good luck out there, Jack. I’ll see you around, then?”

Despite my best efforts, I ended up mirroring her expression. “Thanks, Ivy. And don’t worry—I’ll be around enough that you’ll still be sick of me.” 

The night had come upon Rihla like a serpent slithering across the sky with its prey in sight. He had fled on foot, taking little with him in his haste to put as much distance between himself and the assassins that had been sent to wipe him from the earth. It had become increasingly hard to see what was in front of him, the branches clawing at his cape and hair, the underbrush becoming one homogeneous form threatening to pull him down. He slowed, bent at the waste, gasping for air. 

“How the fuck did they find me so fast”, he rasped out to no one. He had been traveling under a fake identity and covering his tracks. His papers to get across borders were for a man in his early 30’s from a seafaring country. No one should have been able to track him as he had left no trail. There was only one person who knew he had fled and he couldn’t allow his mind or his heart to even entertain the idea of that betrayal. 

Finally feeling his lungs expand to take his first full and unlabored breath, he moved slowly, looking for a vantage point to survey where his fear laden feet had taken him. 

From the top of a crest, he was able to look down a valley, one that he knew well. It separated the city he had been hiding in from the capital. He had no fear of the overpopulated Karta but he knew the people who lived there had become hardened and weary. Living in the city came with the same anxiety of being on the run without the benefit of community and welcoming as the small villages. 

Faced with turning back and going into certain death or the slow death of city life, he started his descent into the valley. He would figure out the rest later. 

Chapter 1

Karta was a city that had been built on the ruins of the previous iteration. Those that were old enough to remember old Karta would tell stories of prosperity and grandeur that had trickled down to even the lowliest of peasants. Of course the children of the old chalked it up to failing memories and wistful thinking as they prepared for the afterlife. The city stood as a pillar of resiliency for this part of the world and pilgrims from all over came to seek riches and titles. The King had been a busy one and had taken many wives and from those wives sired many nobles. And those nobles sired more. At any given moment, there was an eligible bachelor or countess waiting to be married off to grow the burgeoning empire. 

Avin watched with boredom that was slowly blossoming into irritation as the noble parade went by. Flanked in front and in back with obscene colored minstrels, exotic animals, and musicians, the entire thing was taking far too long to pass her store. As long as the procession continued, potential customers would not be able to cross to get into her store and buy her wares. She considered bringing this up at the next local vendor meeting. 

Once a month the vendors of Karta would gather to discuss how their taxes might be used. The dusty cobbled streets needed to be repaired so newcomers wouldn’t avoid the road in fear of destroying their carts. The gas lamps that lined their row were also out of date and many people had lobbied for the new electric ones that had already been prevalent in the more affluent parts of the city. Avin just wanted the stupid fucking nobles to take their theatrics elsewhere. She didn’t trust her sharp tongue to articulate that in a way that wouldn’t get her immediately kicked out of the city.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, blowing it out and imagining the street clear and the noise gone. When she opened her eyes, she was paralyzed with the vision before her. The street was devoid of life. Even the vendors who had been standing in windows and doorsteps watching the royals were gone. Silence had fallen so complete that even her own heartbeat seemed too loud. 

She closed her eyes again. Squeezing them shut this time. Hoping she wasn’t going insane. Slowly, she peeked from beneath her long lashes. Avin knew the world had returned back to its original state because she heard it before she could see it. 

“What was that?” She murmured to herself. “Maybe I need to get some rest.” Taking one step backwards so that she was fully in the dim and muted caress of her shop, she shut the door.

Avin walked slowly around glass cases that showcased medallions with wards imbued for protection, jewelry for high ladies, and some small blades that she had brought while traveling. She made her way to the washroom in the back and looked at her reflection, lit by the sunlight streaming in through the window across from it. She had wavy brown hair that she kept in a braid that went to her waist. Her skin was tawny from the sun and her mothers desert blood. Her mouth and nose were both full but what people were always taken with, were her eyes. She had been told they were unusual. And by those less kind, demon like. The outer iris was a deep shade of green but the inside was a mix of golds and yellow that made them look feline. 

A lover she had, once joked that perhaps her father had been the great sphinx. She had never seen him again. She didn’t know who her father was or his lineage but certainly didn’t like the idea that someone would joke about it. Plus the ex lover had been lousy in bed and she liked the easy excuse to be done with him. 

She realized her hands, flanking either side of the water basin were trembling. Magic wasn’t unheard of but it was rare. The old King had done his best to eradicate it after a prophecy had foretold his lineage would be undone by it. He had cut down anyone who had even been rumored to have magic in their veins and swore that he would continue until there was not even a whisper of it left. 

“It wasn’t magic. It was fatigue. It was a trick of my mind. It was my irritation as those assholes always showing off while we struggle down here.” Avin tried to conjure more reasons why her eyes and ears and senses had temporarily deceived her when she heard the door of her shop swing open. Running a quick hand down her oversized button up and straightening her brown trousers, she made her way to the front to hopefully sell some goods. 

The stranger stood, back to Avin, peering at a glass stand that held relics from the old Karta. Along with her eyes, her unintended stealth had also been compared to that of a cat. Avin considered making her footfall a bit louder so as to not startle the patron, but it proved to be unnecessary as the stranger spoke without turning. 

“Where did you find these?”

The voice was velveteen. It made the hair on Avins arms stand at attention. She looked at the broad shoulders, ink black hair, falling out of its leather band in a wavy mess on their shoulders. Although Karta was a large city, its inhabitants largely followed the same fashion trends and this stranger, in their worn leather jacket, hanging to their knees, satchel and paraphernalia didn’t fit. She wanted to see their face. 

“They were brought in by a traveler many years ago. They said they were relics, forged in dragon fire.” The last part wasn’t strictly truth, but Avin knew that people would pay far more for metals touched by mythical beasts than the local ironsmith. 

The stranger finally turned, just enough to meet Avins eyes. “Dragon fire, huh?” A smile pulled one corner of his mouth up. His eyes were bright, a mixture of colors that were reminiscent of a forest floor. 

“Is there something amusing about dragon fire?”

“Nothing at all. But that piece of metal wasn’t touched by dragon fire anymore than I am the king of this city.” Now fully turned, leaning on the glass that held the relic in question, Avin was able to fully take in the details she couldn’t have noticed from behind. He was tall, and even with his arms now loosely folded over his chest, she could see the many scars on his hands trailing into his sleeves. He wore several necklaces that she longed to look at, purely out of professional interest. She did own an antiquities store and they looked like they had been around for quite some time. She hadn’t realized she had been staring until her eyes returned to his face and saw his eyebrow cocked. 

“My apologies. I noticed your amulets and well… it’s a force of habit. I’m Avin. What brings you in?”

“Rihla.” He replied in way of introduction. “ I’m actually not looking for any more jewelry but  one of the shop owners nearby told me you might know where to find some lodging for a few nights. She was quite insistent and a bit pushy considering how tiny she is.”

A sharp laugh escaped Avins mouth before she could clamp her hands over her own lips. The shopkeeper who had referred this rugged straggler to her, was the closest thing she had to a friend in this town. She knew right away that Maddie had sent him this way as a new suitor to warm her bed. Maribelle thought this sort of thing was funny and would send random men to Avin from time to time as a sort of joke. Avin pretended to hate it, but every once in a while, the suitors were worth the time.

“I don’t have space in my shop. I’m sorry you were misled.”

Rihla nodded and pushed up from his position against the glass counter, wincing with the strain as he did. It was only then that Avin noticed a dark spot she had mistaken for dirt on one of his pant legs.

“Sit.” She commanded. “Why didn’t you mention you also needed medical care? I’m going to go and get some supplies from the back but I need you to understand that I am armed. If you try anything stupid while my back is turned, you will find out how well the women of this city can protect themselves and you’ll have a lot more than a wounded leg to worry about.” With a stare that communicated her earnestness, Avin turned on one foot to get her medical kit. Had she turned half a second later, she would have seen Rihla’s lips twitch into a grin.

A few minutes later, several clothes covered in old blood and new, stitches and tinctures littering the floor, Avin sat back and admired her work. The wound on Rihla’s leg had been large and becoming close to infected. He had insisted it came from a branch he had run into but the wound was to clean. A branch would have left a jagged cut - not the deep and precise slice she had just sewn back together.

“So are you a bandit? And before you attempt to lie, this part of Karta isn’t filled with nobility. I’ve seen enough wounds to know the difference between a branch and one delivered from a well honed blade.”

Rihla had been looking just past Avins shoulder. In lieu of herbs to numb the pain, Avin had come back with her medical gear brandishing a bottle of back alley booze. The concoction was vile but Rihla had continued to take gulps as his leg was cleaned and sewn back together. He hadn’t considered how strong the stuff was until he realized he was being spoken to. He shook his head as if he could slough off the buzz he had. 

“Did you ask if I’m a bandit?” his words slurred lazily out and even to his ears he knew he had drunk too much on a far too empty stomach.

Avin’s eyes widened in what Rihla thought was disbelief until she began laughing. A laugh so hard that she had to brace herself against the floor.

“Is this your first time drinking fire water?” She was barely able to get the sentence out between laughs. Rihla didn’t want to, but due to what he now knew was fire water, joined her laughing. 

“Who gives someone something called ‘fire water’ without first asking if they’ve had it before?”

Chapter 2

Rihla stared at the pitched roof, letting the sounds of Karta filter in through the open window. It was night but the street lamps outside glowed softly, creating a shadow show on the second floor ceiling that made his head spin. Closing his eyes, he let out a deep breath, willing the world to still and stop spinning. “Who gives a complete stranger fire water?” he murmured. 

Avin had helped him limp upstairs after they had finally stopped laughing. She had guided him up the narrow steps and to one of the two rooms on the second floor that had an unmade bed, what he presumed were her clothes, and the large window that now was open to the street. Although he had been half drunk, he still remembered the smell of her hair. It wasn’t that it some ethereal scent, but rather, a scent he hadn’t smelled in years. 

Where he called home, there was a flower that bloomed once a year for about 48 hours. When it bloomed, the people of his town would gather the flowers and dry them to use for medicine, perfume, and sometimes magic. He had come from one of the last few safe havens for those with magic left in their blood. Those who possessed the gift could take the flowers and distill them into powerful potions. 

He opened his eyes again - willing away thoughts of his past life. How does she smell like home? 

“You’re finally awake.” It wasn’t a question. Avin toed the door open, arms laden with tied packages, and sat at his feet. 

“Are you shocked that I survived your medical help, doctor?” 

Avin lowered her head, attempting to hide a smile. “I brought some food. As you were passing out, you muttered something about an empty stomach. I thought it might have been an excuse for being a lightweight, but grabbed a few things anyway.”

Now it was Rihla’s turn to grin. Avin began to unceremoniously open up the packaging, tearing into butchers paper with her nails and biting bound bags with her teeth. Soon there was a veritable feast of dried meats, cheeses, and fruits on the bed. 

Rihla gingerly sat up, and surveyed the items before diving in. He was, in fact, ravenous. After he was satiated, he realized he had yet to thank the shopkeeper.

“I am eternally grateful for everything you’ve done. I would like to repay your kindness.”

Avin looked at him. His hair was disheveled from sleep. His face was softer in the light than she had remembered it being. Despite not having seen him shave, his face remained smooth, and his eyes… Even in the dim light of the room, were beautiful. Although he had had made the request to repay her in earnest, he hadn’t been carrying much and she doubted he had enough money to spare. 

“You gave me the first real laugh I’ve had in years. That’s payment enough. However, you do happen to be in my bed which I’ll be needing. I can send you over to a friend who should have a spare bed for you though. Just promise you won’t bleed all over their floors too or they’ll never accept guests I send their way again.” 

Rihla chuckled while running a hand through his hair. He braced a hand against the mattress while gingerly using the other to grab the bedpost and hoist himself up. Even with a stomach full of food, his head still swam as the last of the alcohol bombarded his system. Avin was there, grabbing his elbow to help him sit back down before he had fully registered what was happening. As his knees bent, he felt himself falling but not the few inches on the mattress - into chaos. 

Rihla looked around in terror as the town of Karta burned. He was no longer in the small room above the shop but had a vantage point that could only have been from high within the castle. The walls around him shook and shrieked and he knew without a doubt that when the sun finally broke the next morning, it would shed its cleansing rays on the massive grave of the city. 

And then he was back in the small shop. He had fallen to his knees, gasping for air, eyes darting frantically around for any trace of what he had just experienced. Everything was exactly the same except Avin. She stood frozen. Her hands still poised to help him sit on the bed but her eyes were opaque and staring. 

chapter 1.

A bad nightmare

What happened? I asked myself as I groggily opened my eyes. Pain throbbed through my entire body, leaving me numb as I lay on the ground. A strange liquid trickled into my mouth, its taste metallic and unpleasant. But then, suddenly, memories surged forward, snapping me out of my haze. Fear and despair replaced my disoriented state.

“Aahhh!” I screamed, pushing myself up so violently that I fell back onto my rear.

“How am I alive?” I muttered, as a flash of memory struck me: just before the fatal blow, the pendant around my neck had shone brightly, wrapping me in a transparent protective barrier. “So it was you?” I asked aloud, clutching the pendant tightly in my hand.

Looking around, I froze. The sight before me was one I had never wished to see. Blood and lifeless bodies littered the ground as far as my eyes could see. Many were so disfigured they were unrecognizable. Crows cawed as they pecked at the corpses, the sound chilling against the heavy silence. The metallic taste in my mouth and the gruesome scene around me churned my stomach, and I retched violently.

As I emptied my stomach, another memory surfaced. My team, alongside two other adventurer groups, stood frozen in terror before a creature. The mere thought of it sent sweat dripping down my back, and I trembled uncontrollably—both body and soul. I would never forget that creature. It had emerged from a rift, its form somewhat resembling a dragon but unmistakably otherworldly. Its body appeared both solid and liquid, radiating power that made the air itself seem heavy.

My thoughts turned to my beloved teammates: Leonis, my best friend, and Aria, my wife. My heart raced with an overwhelming sense of dread. I forced myself to stand and began to stumble forward, each step bringing a fresh wave of agony. But the pain no longer mattered. It couldn’t compare to the fear of losing them. Slowly, step by painful step, I pressed on through the blood-soaked ground.

As I walked, I noticed Jareth, the leader of the Night Wolves adventuring group. A large, bearded man likely in his forties, Jareth had earned everyone’s respect through his experience and knowledge. He was always smiling—but not now. His face was frozen in an expression of pure terror. His wide, lifeless eyes stared ahead, empty and devoid of light.

The stench of blood surrounded me, an ever-present reminder of how futile my hopes were. Yet, like a man grasping at the last straw, I kept moving. The deeper I went, the more bodies I found. Many were so mangled they were beyond recognition. At one point, I came across a corpse holding a well-maintained sword adorned with a lion motif on its hilt. I bent down, picked it up, and lifted it slowly. As I did, a memory washed over me.

“Why do you keep using that sword? Wouldn’t it be better to get a new one? George could forge you a better one,” I asked a blond-haired young man who was polishing the blade.

“This sword was my father’s,” he replied with a gentle smile. “As long as it exists, so does his will. One day, when I die, it will carry my will too. And as it’s forged through battle, it will eventually break free of its shell and become the strongest sword.”

Tears fell onto the sword as I held it, one drop after another. “Leonis,” I whispered, my voice heavy with sorrow as tears streamed down my face. He had been Leonis, leader of the Lionhearted and my closest friend. The sword evoked countless memories, but one in particular rose to the forefront.

We were about eight years old, sitting on a clearing at the edge of the forest. Beside each of us lay wooden swords. We were battered, bruised, and panting from exhaustion.

“You pushed yourself even harder than usual today,” I gasped, catching my breath. “Why?”

Leonis, his face etched with pain, turned to me. “How far do you think a person can go?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “I guess I’ll find out at the end of my life.”

“My goal reaches far beyond this village. Beyond even the capital. I want to become the greatest adventurer, someone who inspires people—like the stars in the sky.” He looked up at the heavens, a determined glint in his eyes. “I’ve already decided what to name my future adventuring group: the Lionhearted. Every member’s courage will guide others, and our name will shine forever, unerasable from the world, like the stars in the sky.”

Following his gaze, I looked up at the vast expanse of stars illuminating the darkness. “Then your goal will be my goal too,” I said proudly. “I want to see how far you can go. I want to see the end of your journey. And if you ever stray, I’ll be your star to guide you back.”

“Then it’s a promise. Thank you,” he replied, and we sealed our vow with a fist bump. Overhead, a shooting star streaked across the night sky.

“So, this is as far as we’ve come,” I whispered through tears, my face sagging under the weight of grief. The spark of hope in my heart flickered faintly, but I clung to it as I thought of Aria. Suppressing my sorrow, I pressed on, using the sword as a crutch. After only a few steps, I stopped. My face contorted with despair as the sword slipped from my hand and clattered to the ground. I collapsed to my knees, the last ember of hope extinguished.

My eyes reflected nothing but despair. “WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY?” I cried out, my voice breaking as I stared ahead. Just five meters away lay the lifeless body of my wife, Aria. Her delicate features, her serene smile—it was as if she were sleeping peacefully. The ring on her hand, the one we had chosen together, glinted faintly. It was like a cruel, twisted dream.

I pounded my fist into the blood-soaked ground with all my might. The impact shattered my hand, blood oozing and dark bruises spreading rapidly. Pain surged through my body, but it couldn’t pull me from this nightmare. I knelt there, empty and broken, as the sun dipped below the horizon. The darkness of night consumed the remnants of daylight.

I don’t know how long I stayed there, motionless like a statue. Time no longer mattered. In the distance, I heard a rumbling sound. I didn’t care. Monsters, demons, gods—it didn’t matter anymore. I was nothing but an empty shell, a body without a soul.

The rumbling grew louder until a voice broke through. “This is Captain Aleric! What happened here?”

“This is a dream, isn’t it?” I murmured weakly, my lifeless eyes shedding silent tears.

When Aleric reached me, he froze mid-sentence. His expression shifted to one of shame and sorrow as he lowered his gaze. Neither he nor the 20 soldiers with him could meet my eyes. They simply stood there in silence, their faces twisted with pity and confusion.

The only sound was the occasional drip of my tears into the blood below.

In that moment, there was nothing left—only the deep void of pain and emptiness.

Count: [2149]

Hi all, I don't know many writers so I was hoping to get feedback from folks interested in writing.

Initial feedback is that the story is confusing and / or hard to follow.

I am torn at how much I need to explain. As a reader, I like being expected to figure out the story by myself, and I trust the author to give me the details I need to piece it apart. I'm interested in seeing if others can give me more specific feedback around this.

The story is named Burned. It tells about the Greek gods (specifically Hades and Persephone) and their attempt to uphold a semblance of cooperation while everything points to them failing, and failing fast.

Start of novella:

The Moirai - the fates. Through them all stories are woven, and cut when their tales conclude.

Three sisters in solitude: Clotho, who held the thread steady, Lachesis, who wove our tales into existence, and Atropos who made the final cut.

The hall in front of him was pitch black. Shadows of faint lights played along the wall as Hades strode forward, giving some semblance of life - and then the doors behind him shut, snuffing out the little movement that accompanied him. Hades turned his head to look towards the noise - his hair was black and slicked back with grease. His face was young, gaunt. Fear had not yet captured his attention, but he felt nervous.

The area looked like Olympus, that was for sure. The way the steel was shaped so immaculately. It was work that only the Brothers could have ordered. Hades kept his head low as he looked the area over.

A low snipping sound repeated in the background. 

Hades, his brow furrowed, strained his ears to listen. Sometimes it was there, and sometimes it wasn’t. Slowly, carefully,  he continued on into the throne room.

There were no lights, which was the first thing that tipped Hades off that something was wrong. Of course, the Light-Bounding Son would have made sure that there were fixtures about. So why hadn’t he suggested any for the meetings of the father?

The snipping grew louder as Hades approached the end of the room. His mouth quivered but he did not speak. He looked around anxiously, and covered his ears.

Suddenly his foot collided with an unexpected step and he tripped. Both of his hands planted into the ground in a supplicant position. He heaved on the ground with terror, and looked up.

The snipping stopped.

Suddenly, the world brightened with a flash of white light.

His eyes turned red as his pupils failed to shrink.

Three instruments burned into his eyes like a diorama. A spool of thread, a loom, and a pair of scissors. All of them which should have been held by the fates… but instead accompanied by three forms the size of kid’s toys.

Dolls.

Made in the form of flesh, intestine, and muscle.

*

“-as it is your right as the eldest.” Zeus spoke.

Hades blinked.

He looked over the form of his brothers, the wiry-haired Poseidon and well-kept Zeus. Zeus was holding three pieces of straw, offering it to Hades in a manner that was more formal than he had expected from him.

Poseidon smiled vacantly as he supported the hand of Zeus, who tried hard not to look too judgingly at Poseidon. Poseidon’s hands trembled attempting to hold up Zeus’ hand, and a bead of sweat dripped down Poseidon’s face. Zeus rolled his eyes, and looked back at Hades. 

Hades looked down. There it was - three pieces of straw. Hades contemplated the straws, looking around them without moving his head. He was careful not to show his analysis of which one to pull.

“Do you deny your birthright?” Zeus asked calmly. His voice was deep and assertive. He was definitely the more muscular of the three, with toned arms and a toga covered chest resembling plate-mail.

Poseidon nodded, looking past Hades. He was focused at some random point on the distance, trying his hardest not to show the amount of effort he was putting into to hold up Zeus’ hand. Zeus made a sound at him, trying to get his attention while he pushed at Poseidon’s hands. Poseidon didn’t seem to get the hint.

Hades scoffed. He pulled, and his face barely reacted to what he saw before him. Outstretched in Zeus’ hands were the other two pieces of same length.

Hades raised an eyebrow.

“Good. Less work for me,” he asserted. His face almost betrayed a frown.

“Good,” Zeus confirmed, “As the Executive power it is only right for me to take the sky and therefore Olympus.”

Zeus removed his hands from over Poseidon’s. Poseidon continued to sweat, looking off into the distance. Zeus put away the pieces of straw. He looked over at Poseidon, who was still holding his arms up.

“Which means…” Zeus continued.

Zeus paused. He continued to stare at Poseidon whose hands were up.

“...the rest is yours.” Zeus said.

“Of course,” Poseidon responded “just leave it to me.”

Hades stared at Zeus with an intense gaze. Zeus turned his attention to look at Hades, and their eyes locked. Poseidon finally looked over towards Zeus, and noticing that Zeus had put away the straw, Poseidon brushed his robes and looked up at the others expectantly. He smiled a deep and wistful smile.

“Well?” Hades asked, still locked in his gaze.

“I thought you would be pressed to Sacrifice, Brother.” Zeus said, returning it.

“But of course, Brother.” Hades replied.

They stared a little longer as Poseidon began to fidget.

Zeus raised his finger towards the sky.

“By the will of the Mountain.” Zeus said.

Hades raised his finger as well, and Poseidon quickly followed suit.

“By the will of the Mountain,” the other two responded.

Lightning struck.  

***

“Now what?” Hades said, scowling. In front of Hades and Charon flowed a great river of magma that churned and boiled in front of them.

Charon was stark white in comparison to Hades. His features were meager and his head was balding. The dark robe around his body allowed him to block out the rough lights of Yn.

Sweating profusely, Charon looked over towards his master. Hades’ mind was calculating slowly how to proceed. There was new energy there, and then it soon faded. Hades picked up a jagged rock in his smooth, unmarked hand and threw it into the lava where it puffed into smoke – he turned to Charon with a displeased look on his face.

“You don’t burn easily, do you?” Hades asked.

“I do not know.” Charon replied.

“Do you want to try?” Hades asked with overbearing pleasantness.

Charon decided not to answer this question.

The lava slowly flowed in front of them, making its way through the cave to a point not distinguishable off in the distance – the volcano’s insides seemed to have no bearing on the appearance of its mountain’s size .Hades was unimpressed. An entire stretch of deadly river prevented him from setting up his presence under Mount Vesuvius. 

Of course, no one had sent him anything with which to cross the river. He periodically went back to thinking about whether or not Charon would be suitable but continued to dismiss the thought all the same.

A voice called out from behind them.

“Hey, you fuckers need any help?”

Hades barely flinched, but Charon turned to look.

Hovering a few feet above the ground was the wing-sandaled Hermes. He dropped to the ground and approached.

“What are you doing here Hermes?” Hades asked.

“Word travels fast around here,” Hermes responded immediately, “seems like both of you need an express ticket across.”

“And if we did, by what means would we take this ‘ticket’?” Hades asked.

“Look, I know you’re a ‘Brother’ and everything but you can stop being a little shit,” Hermes said, “I can cross. And I’m offering to help. Which means-”

“Offering to help, are you? By requiring us to rely on your ‘goodwill’?” Hades snapped.

“Unless you have a fucking all-terrain vehicle you’re gonna need a way to get across. Does that pierce a single inch of your thick-ass skull?” Hermes asked.

Hades pivoted around and raised his hand to the sky and Hermes’ expression quickly changed.

“...well?” Hades responded.

“Look, we’ll figure something out. No need to go nuclear.” Hermes said quietly.

Hades scowled and dropped his hand, slowly crossing his arms over.

“Charon, please see to it that Hermes follows through with this plan.” Hades announced.

Charon nodded slowly.

***

After Hermes dropped them off, Hades noticed that the ground was cold to the touch. His feet recoiled when they first reached the stone surface until they gently accommodated the feeling.

His eyes peered out slowly across the Underworld. It was dark, gray, and lifeless down here, which was strangely appealing. He pulled a tight arm around the shoulder of Charon and pushed the Apokaotic being forward.

Hades saw forms of buildings and structures build up from the ground around him. Would he commission a land of steel and marble, such as Olympus? A world of formless clouds and moving parts, such as the Sky? Or maybe a place of gardens and natural beauty such as Elysium?

The lack of support from the Brothers bore down on him. Zeus and his children relished in Olympus, and Poseidon was doing… whatever Poseidon was doing. Hades would need to make a name for himself, but lacking any type of meaningful network to do so punished him in some of the worst ways. His heart ached with the envy of his brothers and their success. Their charges were already sculpted and fired, while his would never even know the presence of glaze.

***

There was a loud explosion of lava, and smoke rose across the river.

Hades sighed.

He pulled another rock and tossed it into the lava.

Another explosion and smoke.

A throat cleared behind Hades, and he turned around to find Charon standing behind him.

Barely taking notice, Hades turned back around and threw another rock.

“Well?” Hades asked.

Charon didn’t say anything.

Hades took his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes in frustration.

“You’ve looked everywhere?” Hades asked incredulously.

Charon continued to not reply.

Hades stood up slowly, brushing off his robes. He adjusted the cloth around his waist.

Suddenly, he turned around and grabbed Charon by the collar.

“You understand what I meant when I said search the whole damn place?!” Hades yelled.

A nervous tic caused Charon’s face to shudder.

Hades released his grip.

“Of course you do.” Hades replied to himself.

“You done antagonizing the working class?” a voice rang out.

Hades turned to see Hermes flit down from across the steaming mass of lava.

“What do you care?” Hades asked.

“I couldn’t care less,” Hermes said, “but your cargo is here.”

“Cargo?” Hades asked.

“Yeah. First shipment.” Hermes said.

Hermes looked over his shoulder towards the edge of the rock they stood on.

“That your ship?” Hermes asked.

Hanging off of the igneous sediment a handcrafted but reliable longboat rested.

“Yes…” Charon said.

Charon shifted his eyes over to Hades, who stared at him coldly.

“...for now.” He added.

“Well, you’re lucky,” Hermes continued, “they don’t really have much of a form to them. Kind of just… float around.”

Hermes looked back over.

“Probably could take a few dozen per trip… good luck with that by the way.” Hermes finished.

Hermes turned to the two of them.

“Play nice. You only have to live an eternity together.” He said, leaving.

Charon looked over at Hermes as the wing-footed god left, longingly.

“Get going.” Hades said, standing right behind him. Charon sighed.

*

The underworld was silent except for the sound of roiling lava. Hades tapped the edge of the landmass they had been on impatiently.

There was something quiet and peaceful about the danger that was in front of him. The lava was so close that the heat threatened to envelop his body with warmth and dangerous energy. Only god-made objects seemed to be impervious to its overwhelming power.

He reached out towards it with his right hand and felt its presence cover the entirety of it. He was just a few steps from greatness… from power… from fame and recognition. He just had to claim it. 

*

Pain does not occur naturally.

When a child falls and hits their knee against the ground, they are not forced to tears.

It is something that must be recognized, acknowledged. The child must learn to Hurt.

The Recognition of loss is the sting, the dark throb that causes the mind to recoil with fear. Without context, pain is nothing but another feeling.

*

The end of Hades’ scream echoed around the enclosed place, even with the massive size of the underneath of Vesuvius. The hand dripped with tar and scarlet colored magma as it gave way to a different color underneath. Hades struggled to stifle the noises that came out of his mouth.

It was a feeling like nothing else; his whole attention was taken by this feeling that had overwhelmed him. That sensation. That… thrill.

As Hades heaved from the pain, black smoke started to form at the corners of his mouth. He coughed, spreading the pitch-black gas farther around him.

He stared down at his hand, now more gaunt then it was before, shining with color. It seemed to have its own heartbeat. Its own presence.

The smoke slowly dissipated as Hades looked down at his shining hand. It had some sort of golden texture, a symbol of purity. Of strength.

The pain had not enveloped him - he had Claimed it.

Can’t you see? Neither of us will pleasure from your blind courage. Yet after all these many eons, I no longer wish to reason with my guests, for they have no desire to listen. Motivated only by greed and legends of a horrific beast who watches over the glimmering treasures of times past. They know not of the condition in which these poor artifacts lie, for they have not aged as well as I. The trophies and coins lay rusted and unrecognizable. The artifacts, the paintings, and the statues lie in disarray, broken and faded. Deep gauges from these very claws leave unrepairable markings. A thin gray ash lay over much of the forsaken pieces, including myself. Streaks of dried crimson blood stain the walls and relics. Many a man adorn the floor where they so desired to be. Is they not what they wished for? To lay clutching the treasures they desperately searched to find. Strewn across the cavern, they have repeated the fate which befell that wretched one who did what they could not.

This little one was unique. I have spent much of my eternal solitude puzzling over this being. Their knowledge and abilities were like none I had seen and none that I have since. Their name and likeness no longer remain in the legends which tell of my existence and none have spoken of their power since long ago. A mystery which troubles my mind still, as this one who amassed such wealth as to hide it away and annoint me its keeper no longer settles on the minds of today. One can only imagine what other evils or perhaps even miracles this being could produce seeing as I was made small in their hand. It pains me still to think of that evening on which this fate befell me.

On a night which seemed impossibly dark, I saw its figure manifest from the darkness before me. I had seen it before and I knew my fighting wouldn’t result in a single damaged fiber. It had not harmed me yet. It simply seemed to study. It silently followed and watched with unblinking attention. It paused a short distance from where I lay and began to plant the tall wooden torches which had been slung across its back. A small blue flame sparked from the end of its spindly fingers and it lit its many torches.

I had seen it perform its strange rituals before it our prior meetings, yet I had not deciphered its purposes. Under the faint blue torch light, it began carving strange symbols into the dirt below. Once satisfied with the devilish art that now cursed the earth, it simply sat in the center of the torches.

Slow incantations slithered out of the being’s mouth as I had seen many times before. Always in a language I did not recognize and have not heard since. Many years passed before I discovered the purpose of this ritual. At the time of its procurement, it seemed different from others I had witnessed. I could see the being’s twisted face grimacing as it continued chanting. What started as a quiet whisper grew louder and louder each line as the small flames atop the torches surrounding the being grew toward the sky. I was not privy to the knowledge that this massive undertaking was for me. In an instant, the words ceased, the fires dissolved to embers, and the being fell to the ground before me.

Had I felt different in that moment I may have been prepared for the revelation that overtook me and still curses me to this day. A curse disguised a blessing is the life which I now live. I grow hungry, but I cannot starve. I thirst, but I cannot run dry. Now as I lose track of the decades and centuries that pass by, I fear that I may never succumb to the only escape I so wish for. Any unfortunate soul who ventures into my cavern brings temporary satiation and eases the everlasting knot in my stomach.

Years later, as I watched this vile creature crawl slowly over its riches, wrinkled and broken, it dawned on me that whatever burden they had cruelly placed on me, they were unable to gift to themselves. This fatal mistake was the only flaw in a master plan to soak in infinite wealth for all eternity with only me as an unwilling and undying protector.

Oh how often I wished that despicable thing could have fallen at my hand. After exhausting every possible action that could harm them, I began to understand that I was helpless. Now their body still lays. No more twisted face to remind me of my failure. Just old, ivory bones. No different in death than the others that litter this dungeon. All became victim to that sweet nothingness that escapes me. Seeing that cursed being clutching their pointless treasures brings me no relief anymore. Many times I could glance at the decay which was once my great opponent and take solace knowing they may not enact their will on myself and others ever again. Yet, over time, these feelings fade. I peer down to see my scarred legs. The restraints which hold me here cover rings of scaleless flesh and I am reminded that although long forgotten, this villain is still my master. They do not control me, as they never have, but they repeatedly defeat me, even after death. This being, now a remnant of days past, began the cycle which I find myself in today.

Influenced unknowingly by this original victor, many come still to this graveyard. But I repeat; is this not what they desired? They have achieved their life’s goal, to obtain that which they could have only dreamed. Could anything in their feeble lives surpass the mystery of the tales, the thrill of the journey, the ecstasy of the sight which they imagined for so long. And finally…the dread. The most primal and pure feeling they have felt in their short existence. That feeling which I witness in their small glossy eyes as they meet my monstrous unnatural ones. They are taken over, held hostage at the sight they long thought to be myth. Their wide eyes travel slowly across my sharp features. The dim light of the moon reflecting off the soot covered riches illuminate my figure. My massive presence stands tall over the corpses upon my floor. Large velvet wings which have not been used for what feel like eternities lay tucked close to my body. The ash of my own flame cannot fully cloak the deep dark blue of my scales. Scales which lay unharmed by any creation of man save that which bind me here. Horns that artfully grace my head become a line of large osteoderms to line my back. Although my muscles atrophy with every passing moment in this prison, the sheer size and sight of massive limbs tipped with nails of nightmarish length and sharpness can instill a mixture of awe and fear unknown to those who have not witnessed them. Of my great and jagged teeth and forked tongue, some experience the same painful fright my outward features bring. Yet, many are left to wonder at the image until that moment when I must bring them to their demise.

I receive no enlightenment from frightening nor consuming these sad misguided creatures. It is the cruel actions of that which I spoke of before that burdens me with this life of human consumption. In the days which I have all but forgot, a human was not a desirable meal. Although my stature far surpasses that of any I come across, I desire much the same as you whom my diet consists of today. Luscious greens and fresh meats would fill my stomach to my satisfaction. As one could imagine, humans represent far too great a struggle for any creature to prey upon. They represent no threat to my likeness, however they possess enough wits and will to live that the efforts of mine often go unrewarded. I have yet to find another prey which can give such struggles to me. My time was largely spent pursuing more fruitful activities as the land and sea at which we all reside is flush with that which can satiate me.

I spent many days and nights scribing the passage into the stone wall behind where I rest. For if I am ever to free myself from these shackles or this life, some may find how this cave of death and despair came to be. As I slowly etch my thoughts into the stone, my nostrils begin to tingle. The faint scent fills me with a collection of conflicting emotions as my stomach begins to rumble. I know I have mere minutes before I become a living nightmare to whoever is foolish enough to enter my hellish home. I begin to stand, my aching legs extending before my claws come back to earth with a sharp scrape. A yawn overcomes me as I turn to face toward the entrance. The scent grows stronger and the sound of crunching snow outside the entrance now echoes off the walls. There have been very few instances in which I speak to my victims as I began to see their thoughts as pointless. Many speak of my stories and with each passing instance they stray farther from my reality. That interest I once had in my intruders is long gone. However, as the frequency of these encounters has dwindled over time, I am aware of a new desire to converse with this new adventurer. As pointless as my existence has become, perhaps a conversation can quell my suffering if even for just a moment.

I gaze for what feels like hours at the sharp corner that guards the entrance; sunlight creeping around the edges of the stone. As this newcomer cautiously creeps around the edge, I get a moment of sight before its eyes adjust to my darkness. The human approaches, fully dressed in large and bulbous garments. Heavy and cumbersome boots that moments ago crunched snow now tap loud reverberations through the hollow mountain. An oversized red backpack appears to burden its movement and a hat and mask keep a large portion of its face away from my sight. As it steps toward the treasures and unknowingly to its end, I slowly realize I had not prepared thoughts for our imminent conversation. Its eyes slowly come to the sight at which it would behold. A combination of horrible emotions which I had seen for so many lonely years. At the moment at which its sight comes fully clear and its journey has begun its end, it presents a look which I had not yet seen. In place of the horrific realizations that had cursed so many faces, this face brought a look of satisfaction. A mission finally completed. As its eyes meet my fearsome figure, it begins to speak.

I’m not strapped for cash like I was back then, and neither are Sarah or Phoebe.

Department store visits were once an integral part of our after school routine. Meet by the flagpole, head into town, then split. We’d swipe anything from a couple CDs to a shiny string of pearls. Regroup at the park. All in the span of three to five minutes. This was the easy stuff—never personal, rarely so much as detected.

That said, I hated crime that took place outside retail or daylight. I also wasn’t above it—especially not with Phoebe dragging us along.

Countless nights of staring at the ceiling, until eventually you decide that lifting a few bills off a scumbag who just stepped out of a brand new Mercedes in a gated parking garage, is technically a victimless crime. It’s not the reasoning an ethicist might have, but it’s how you get rid of those stubborn dark circles.

Years have passed since the last time, and that’s the important part. We’re more than above it, we’re past it, mostly. Hear me out. We’re talking a lot more than Phoebe makes in a full year at K-Mart.

Phoebe’s brother heard out about a retired TV star moving in on their block. If that’s true, it’s a modest place compared to what you’d expect. I’ve watched that little green house sit vacant beside Phoebe’s building since, what, December? I don’t know who I expected to inhabit it one day.

Hey, Reddit! 👋
How are you doing? I’m here with a mix of excitement and nerves to share a small snippet of a story I’ve been working on. This project means a lot to me, and I’d love to hear your thoughts or just see if it piques your interest!

Title: Seikai no Tsumi

Genre: Shonen

The snippet I’m sharing is a key moment in the story, and I hope it intrigues you as much as it excites me to write it. Thanks in advance for taking the time to read it!

Fragment:

In search of more information, Takemi stumbles upon an old projector, covered in dust from years of neglect. Does this thing even work? he wonders, inspecting its worn state.

Suddenly, the projector whirs to life, casting flickering images onto the wall. Scenes of war, military leaders, and chaos flash by—but among all these images, one figure stands out above the rest: Kurogami.

Text on the projector:
File 11-29: Project Kurogami. Status: Lost and under investigation.

Kuro reacts sharply upon seeing an image of Kurogami. Her body stiffens, and silent tears stream down her face.

Kuro (speaking): "I let it slip away... I let it go... And now..."

Closing:

What do you think?
Did this snippet catch your attention? I’m open to any feedback or suggestions as I work to improve and shape this story further. Thanks so much for reading! 🙏( Excuse me for my English being so basic and strange)

My heart, it beats in my chest between my ribcage. I cannot imagine nor fathom the sights I have witnessed in the day prior to this very moment, which is unfortunately the only thing I know about these events. The day started as any other, maybe the air was thicker. I would walk to work in the streets of Lenova, to the shop. I see a rat on the street jump into a sewer grate like its life depended on it. Maybe it did.

As the rat jumped, I could feel it stare at me. The rat was facing away from me. Why would a rat look at me? I continued on my way when a rat jumped into a sewer grate. I could feel it stare at me. Why would it do such a thing as this to me, of all people? I walk on my way when I see a sewer grate, and no rat. Where do they all go? 

I walk on my way to work. I get to the shop and prepare for the day. I fill up my water and I notice something wrong with my lunch pail, I forgot to pack my apple. I always pack my apple and I forgot it, what a rotten start to my day. I work in the day as it passes, Why would this man say such things to me? I work as the day goes on as I feel the air thicken, almost as if to forewarn me of something, and I couldn’t determine for the life of me what the universe is attempting to tell me.

The air is incomprehensibly thick as I begin to hack, and my nose begins to bleed. I look up as I collapse onto the floor in a minute pool of my own blood. I see my foreman looking at me, speaking at me in words I can’t quite make out over the pain in my sinuses and the hacking of my intestines. He tells me to get back to work, so I do. Eventually it turns to lunch time. As I eat my lunch, which is 2 ham sandwiches, 3 cigarettes and an apple, I stop and think about the rat I saw.

I didn’t think that rats had souls before today. I always believed the rat was a repulsive rodent which partook in the leftovers of the more intelligent. I have never in my life seen a rat open a lunch pail off the ground and steal an apple, what a travesty. I stop to think about my apple. How often does this or any rat have such a delicacy as an untainted, uneaten feast?

2

They say since the event that I speak with ramblings of a mad man. A mad man with thoughts of that of an artist, I may be. An artist paints a picture using a color and tells a story, what can I say with colors not one has ever seen?

I have never in my life seen a rat do such unspeakable things. How can a rat do such things, to him of all people? As I pack my lunch for the day, I remember the day I forgot my apple. I remember the day I forgot my apple every day as I pack my lunch for the day. What gets me more is how thick the air is whenever I see a rat, but that could be my memory playing tricks on me.

I remember the man in the sewer, I don’t know how, I didn’t see him. What was the rat doing to him? Was the rat…? No. It was. I cannot remember his face though. I know him, it may have been me. Thinking about it makes my air go thick, thick like breathing oil. The thick air reminds me of my apple, the apple my pet rat, Twinkles, took from my lunch pail on that day. He was a good pet. I sure do miss him. 

I go into work and I eye my foreman sitting at my station. He says to me, “Why are you still here?” “This is my station.” I reply. “What about the rat? Did Twinkles steal your apple?” Why would he say such things to me? I never did anything to hurt him. Why would he say such things to me?

As I pack up for the day, I grab my apple from my station. Eaten. Oh well, to the rats it goes. 

I do ponder the theory of souls. Do rats have souls? I do wonder. I have a soul, everyone has a soul, but I wonder if the rats do. Jabritt does, or at least he did before. 

Why does Jabritt do these things? My foreman mentions my apple every day as I pack my lunch,  sometimes he gets angry over it…when do I see my foreman?

Whenever he mentions my apple, I feel the air thicken. Sometimes I hack blood into the shop floor. I collapse. I wake up in the hospital, “how do you feel?” he asked… “better than I did.” “You know, we still aren't sure how someone ends up in a sewer accidentally.”

3

Jabritt stares at me, silently, as though saying a thousand words, all of which I do not want to hear. How do you describe a being with no features? It’s all about the rats, and my apple. It wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for Twinkles. Maybe Jabritt is Twinkles? He stares as my air goes thick, like breathing oil. Maybe he has features, wings. Why would a rat have wings? Eyes, maybe a tail. The tail wasn’t… at the tail. I don’t know where the tail is.

My apple is in my pail. My apple is in my pail and it always has been. My foreman doesn’t ask me about Twinkles. I've been fired. They didn’t like my “muttering.” I still pack my lunch, and I go watch the rats. Twinkles likes when I watch the shows they put on.

Jabritt stares at me, but with what eyes? His wings, do they flap? Jabritt whispers to me every word ever spoken, but I hear nothing. I see my apple, it’s in his stomach. Did Jabritt eat my apple? All this for my apple? Maybe I shouldn’t have given my apple to the rats. I never did see the inside of that sewer where the rat took my apple.

My air, as thick as molten lead, opens my soul. Twinkles waits for me at the door. As I walk to work, with my apple in my lunch pail, I see a rat jump into a sewer grate. My apple belongs elsewhere, and my air is getting thick. I hope I am not the man I saw in that sewer, but I am.

I have been experimenting with narrative tension & non chronological chapters to help build the fractured reality of my main character. Are you able to follow my story, are you lost within the timeline? Open to any open thoughts, questions, comments, & concerns!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/17AfNZfuoM-R_3Xwxe-AV8d3RUSO71yZAPMlJAuhS0MA/edit

[1079] words

I have been trying to get some feedback on my novel The Creator's Folly but the feedback is either biased or it just says good or interesting. i also have uploaded it on websites like wattpad and tapas but I've gotten no comment therefore no feedback.

I'm just going to put a part of it that is a conversation between the two main characters .

also please say what you really think about it.

He raised his sand-covered left hand and let the grains spill into the bathroom's door's lock. After a few moments, there was a soft click as the lock gave way. The man nudged the door open with his foot, just enough to poke his head inside.

Man: "What brings you here, adventurer?" he shouted, his voice echoing through the room.

Amr still in sleeping in the bathtub jolted awake, heart pounding as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the room. Confusion clouded his mind, but only for a second. Then, standing near the door, he recognized a familiar figure.

It was Moh—his red eyes gleaming with mischief, that infuriating smirk plastered across his face, as if he always knew more than everyone else.

Amr frowned, irritation rising, but beneath it all, he felt a strange flicker of excitement. “Moh?! What the hell are you doing here? How did you find me?”

Moh shrugged, his stance casual as he leaned against the doorframe. “Edge City isn’t exactly hidden. And finding you? Simple.” He tapped the side of his head with a grin. “Had to use my ‘fifth eye.’”

Narrator: Just so you know, Moh doesn’t actually have five eyes—he has two, like everyone else. He’s talking about one of his special powers, which you’ll learn about later.

Amr raised an eyebrow, unable to hide a faint smirk. “You mean your fourth eye.”

Moh paused, feigning deep thought. “Fourth? Ke, ka, ko, ku, ki—nope, definitely the fifth.”

Amr sighed, rolling his eyes. “Ko, ki, ku.”

Moh’s expression shifted in mock realization. “Ah, right. Fourth. You’re good at this.”

Despite himself, Amr’s lips twitched with amusement. The initial annoyance faded, replaced by a more familiar feeling—the kind of exasperation that comes from an old friend. “Alright, cut the crap. Why are you really here?”

Moh sauntered over to the chair near the mirror and plopped down, his grin widening as he made himself comfortable. “What, can’t an old friend drop by for a visit?”

Amr crossed his arms, his glare softening just a fraction. “We both know you don’t do anything without a reason. So what is it?”

Moh leaned forward, pretending to be serious. “Hera’s got a job for you.”

Amr narrowed his eyes, skeptical. “She could’ve sent a letter. Why drag you into this?”

Moh chuckled, waving a hand dismissively. “She did. Thirty-five, to be exact. You’re just not the best at checking your mail, are you?”

Amr sighed, knowing Moh was right but unwilling to admit it. He changed the subject, eyeing Moh with suspicion. “And how much is she paying you for this little errand? You never work for free.”

A playful spark lit up Moh’s eyes as he leaned back in the chair. “Ah, well... thirty-four slaves of my choosing—excluding a catgirl, of course.”

Amr’s expression darkened, disgust flashing in his voice. “Thirty-four slaves? Fine, but a catgirl? That’s just revolting.”

Moh’s grin widened as he leaned forward, eyes glinting. “Said the honorable swordsman who kills for a living and has feelings for a married woman.”

Amr shot him a withering look, though a smirk tugged at the edge of his lips. “Like you’re one to talk. You gave up half your memories just to get Kush’s ‘five eyes’ ability, and it barely even works.”

Moh raised an eyebrow, unbothered by the jab. “First of all, it works just fine. I’m sitting here, aren’t I? Second, I kept the memories that mattered.”

Amr scoffed, shaking his head. “Whatever helps the tier five curse sleep at night.”

Moh’s playful expression suddenly shifted, his tone growing serious. “Don’t bring my curse into this, Amr. You know I didn’t choose to be cursed, even though... I kinda like it now.” He glanced around the room, his eyes narrowing slightly. “By the way, where’s your diamond-cutting sword? Can’t seem to spot it.”

Amr sighed, lifting his arm out of the warm water of the bathtub. In his hand, he revealed the sword—its blade gleaming even in the dim light. It was a magnificent weapon, flawless and untouchable.

“Here,” Amr said, holding it up. “But why are you looking for it?”

Moh’s eyes gleamed as he glanced at the sword, a sly smile forming on his face. In an instant, the sand scattered on the floor began to stir. Without hesitation, it rose into the air, twisting and coiling together until it formed a sharp, whip-like shape. In one swift motion, the sand whip lashed out, striking the sword with a crack so fast it was almost invisible to the eye.

The impact was fierce—but the sword didn’t budge. Not a scratch, not a dent. It was as if nothing had even touched it.

Amr’s expression turned to one of mild annoyance, a familiar frustration bubbling up. He stared at Moh in disbelief. “Don’t you ever get tired of trying that? You can’t cut it, no matter how many times—”

Before he could finish, Moh interrupted with a smug grin. “When there’s a will, there’s a way. In other words, one day, I’m going to cut that sword in half.”

Narrator: Now, before you start coming up with theories about why Moh’s so obsessed with cutting Amr’s sword in half, I should tell you—nobody knows. Matter of fact, I don’t even think Moh himself knows why.

Moh stood up from his chair, brushing the last grains of sand off his hands. He casually walked toward the door, his tone shifting back to playful. “Anyway, finish up your bath and get some rest. The sandstorm outside isn’t going anywhere tonight.”

Just as he reached the door, Moh smirked over his shoulder, adding, “As for me, I’m going to see how many kitties I can pull tonight.”

Amr’s brows furrowed. He didn’t appreciate Moh’s sudden command. “Hey, I never agreed to go anywhere.”

Moh’s grin only widened as he opened the door. “We’ll be moving first thing tomorrow morning,” he said with certainty, shutting the door behind him before Amr could protest further.

thank you for your time

On a moonlit night, I awoke to the cold wind whispering a tale of a woman whose

beauty eclipsed the moon itself.

The moonlight illuminated the sorrowful city, where the stench of death lingered in the air.

Its soulless inhabitants were consumed by their daily routines, while the prematurely dead

youth sank into a boundless void. Yet the moon shone on the bare sky, and the wind kept

telling me about this woman, whose beauty had stunned nature itself.

The cold roamed the city's streets, a chill that touched everyone. Death’s scythe hung over

the necks of the townspeople, waiting for its moment. In their lifeless eyes, only death

reigned, a patient anticipation of an endless emptiness. Above the dead city, the sky

brimmed with life, the stars sparkling as if they were heaven’s ornaments.

But my entire being was captivated by the woman the wind spoke of.

Before dawn, I took one last look at the city from my window. I felt the emptiness, the

waves of death brushing against me, like a naked woman’s touch. And then I saw her—the

most alive being in this dead city—wandering aimlessly through the dark alleys. The

moonlight illuminated her path, the wind played with her hair. Her pale skin and dry lips,

her black hair like the abyss, froze me in place.

Her frightened figure and trembling hands seemed out of place in this lifeless town. I

decided to help her, but a voice stopped me.

Suddenly, from a shadowy corner, a black carriage emerged. A man clad in dark clothing

sat upon it and ran toward the woman as if the abyss itself pursued her. Her name was

Ekaterina I read it in the whispers of the wind. Moments later, both vanished into the

shadows of the street.

This strange night ended as suddenly as it began. I remained spellbound, tangled in the

intrigue of what had just occurred.

Apparently, I had fallen asleep on the windowsill, for the irritating warmth of the sun woke

me. The sunlight flooded everything around me, making it difficult to open my eyes. When I

finally shook off the grogginess, her face flashed before me. I thought it had been a strange

dream, so I began tidying myself. After washing my face, I stepped out into the yard.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1QyQDZqfI7Up1gp047jqpfSTeweaDhnzZLsGK7aDO0HQ/edit?usp=sharing

Hi All,

This is the first creative writing I've ever done. I'd love to get it published but I understand that the odds are against me. So far only friends and one family member have seen it and I've only heard good things, but I understand the bias. I would love honest feedback, good or bad. I am aware that it may not be very good, but I am optimistic and open to criticism.

I am done with my first draft and currently in the process of editing. This is roughly the first quarter.

Thanks!

Looking for some feedback...

Adventures of HoBo

Fantasy/Fiction

Around 5000

I'm just looking for feedback. What do you think, what questions do you have, what errors do you notice, advice for transitioning or other writing mechanics. Constructive criticism is what I'm looking for.

PROLOGUE PART 1

"September 11, 2045, the efficiency of this mining facility is optimal. It took a week, but it's running at peak efficiency. The new AI Androids were paramount in completing this job. They've convinced me to look into buying a few. I'll try to pick one up before the next job. Archeology dig next, they would help. I'll swing into Kamo's MeK-A-NiKs and see what they've got. Remind me tomorrow to call him and make sure he'll be around." A brief moment of silence, "Computer, end log entry."

A 6'3" man with an impressive beard flips the radio on before sitting in his chair. As Traditional Celtic music plays he rummages through files on AI Androids. Not sure what he's looking for, he's just looking. Of course he finds himself browsing through Kamo's stock. He marks a few off and cuts the power to the ship.

It's a small three man planetary ship, one of the first. There are three beds in separate rooms and a bathroom. You can cook in the engine room, that covers just about every need for a HoBo. It's an old Wolf-Head 045, a couple years old and some mileage, but still kickin' like it was just made. This particular Wolf-Head was the final one made and the only one of the 045 class.

Pondering which Android he'll want to look at first, HoBo makes his way to his quarters. He sits at the table in the corner and takes off his boots. Stretching his toes for a minute he sets his boots in the boot cleaner he made. He works off the rest of the clothes covered in today's work and tossed them in the washing hole. Realistically, this is just a hole that destroys the clothes and repurposes the molecules to make it again in the Replication Doohickey, that's the actual name of it.

A brief history of the Doohickey line. Looby Van Doohickey is the inventor of the process that breaks down molecules and repurposes them. A wealthy man to begin with, this technology put him over the top, so to speak. He found himself giggin' frogs in Louisiana for two weeks and couldn't wash his clothes. When he came home he decided to create a washing machine with lasers. Through much science and many mistakes, he was beaten and giving up. That is, until he saw the file on his computer. Every molecule and their position and connection in the clothing was stored. After months of tiring efforts, he was finally able to reconstruct the shirt. The birth of the Doohickey line that made people happy everywhere, even his wife. Well, she did like it until she became the first live test subject.

Hobo opens his eyes and sits up in bed.

"Computer, bacon, soft, eggs, over easy, still runny, orange juice, toast…" A moment of nostalgia washes over him."Make poached eggs, use cream cheese and hot sauce, and a glass of orange juice." It takes a few minutes to poach the eggs just right, HoBo gets dressed in the wait. "Call Kamo, I'm sure he'll be happy to hear from me." He says as he heads to the captains chair.

"Calling Kamo" the computer says in a female voice. After a few rings there is an answer, the video appears on a screen in front of HoBo.

"HoBo! Long time no contact, what's up?" Kamo says with quickness.

"Looking into a few AI Androids, I want to pick up two before this next job." HoBo replies with a half cocked smile.

"Finally decided on some help? I've got a few models just for you. Nik and I picked them out. Both of the models use bioengineering instead of mechanics. Very lifelike and smacker than a dragon…" Kamo was interrupted.

A chuckle and a response. "I get it man, it's smart. What's the price for two of those, they seem to be top of the line." HoBo stops to think. "I may need to grab some extra work."

"They are expensive, the two models I have for you are definitely top of the line. They use the latest in learning algorithms and have the most human like learning abilities." Kamo pauses and starts tapping away at his keyboard.

"Kamo, you know I'm budgeting." HoBo says in a low voice.

"HoBo, when have I not been there for you? The price on each of them is 33,000,000 credits. I may have something, that's what I'm looking for. I had them put in free models for advertising in the contracts. Give me a minute." Kamo taps a bit faster and HoBo devours his poached eggs.

Kamo pauses and looks at HoBo. "Poached eggs with cream cheese and toast, heavy on the butter? On a depression kick lately?"

"Sometimes I need some comfort food." HoBo says with brevity. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Yeah, I did." Kamo takes a moment. "You doing alright?"

"Yeah, I just like the pleasant memories. Poached eggs the way she made them is a treat." He looks at Kamo while he tossed the dishes to the washing hole. A smile forms as the dishes all accurately make it into the hole. "What about this advertising contract?"

"So, you'll get these, but the data from how they learn, debug, all that techno stuff is sent to me then I feed it to Doohickey. After 10 years they become yours completely. You will also need to send me videos and recordings to use for advertising." Kamo gets a thoughtful look. "Get them doing work for you. That would be good, maybe two or three per job. Does that work?"

"Works for me, you going to be around today?" HoBo starts up the Wolf-Head.

"I'll have papers for you to sign at 1400, anytime after that I'll be here. Nik has a dinner thing she wants to do, plan to eat with us." Kamo normally doesn't ask for company unless he's got news.

"I will be there at 1500, think you can help me set up these androids?* HoBo says jokingly.

"Yeah, buddy, I got you. See you at 1500." Kamo responds before ending the call.

"Computer, download all information on the newest Doohickey Androids. Once that's done, prepare for an update. The new AI is out and we just got payment for the last job." HoBo rattles off to the computer.

"Downloading android data sheets. Would you like a full system purge or just operating purge?" The computer asks.

"Do a full system purge and keep file folder HoBo Stuff." He responds as he boots up the engine and heads toward Boston.

A few hours pass, here's a little about Doohickey Androids. Once the Wash Hole took off, he decided to try human testing. Unfortunately, his wife had a magnetic bracelet on during the attempt and her data was too scrambled to reconstruct. Years went by, Van Doohickey grew tired and lonely. Though he had successfully accomplished the Here now There Doohickey, he was too alone to enjoy his success. So he decided to make an Android wife. The first couple were very clunky. Most of them made with household objects and scrap metals. However, Doohickey once again succeeded in his attempts to create an Android, all at the price of his poor dog. Sorry, HoBo is arriving at Kamo's MeK-A-NiKs.

In the horizon you can see the smoke towers. As you get closer you can feel the vibration of the factories. Boston, once a city full of people, now a city run by Kamo and Nik, full of happy people. No one seems to mind the factory, they all work there and from what I hear it pays well and has a ton of benefits.

"Incoming hail" the computer sounds.

The screen pops up, it's Kamo. "HoBo, pull into landing bay 13, the androids are there and ready. Everything is already set up with them. There are instructions on booting them up. Come to the house when you're done. Dinner is at 1800."

The screen disappears before HoBo can respond. "Computer, how's the progress on purging?"

"The purge is 45% complete." Responds the computer.

"When it's complete, start the upgrade from HoBo Stuff." HoBo opens the door and heads toward the loading area. As he gets close to two android crates a fella named Grouch approaches him.

"You must be the guy that bought these. Beautiful work of machinery, upgraded with all the bells and whistles. Pretty much sentient they say." The man says with excitement. "Where do you want them? This is the instruction book." Grouch hands HoBo the book.

"Thanks, can you set them in the cargo area, I'm going to look at ship parts while I'm here." HoBo signs the paperwork on the crates and hands it off.

"Sure thing, give us an hour or two." Grouch begins moving the first android.

HoBo heads to the ship department, hoping to find some new scanning equipment for this archeology dig. As he looks through the available parts he finds a booster setup that integrate with a Molecular Doohickey in order to boost scanning through propulsion venting. To get the whole setup would clean the bank.

"The next pay day will be worth it." He mutters as he touches the "buy" button. A message appears on screen. "Purchase to be delivered to bay 13. Thank you HoBo!”

Satisfied with the purchase he heads toward the Here Now There Doohickey. These things tend to creep HoBo out, they've been outlawed due to all of the "accidents,", none the less, it beats traffic. He quickly punches in the receiving Doohickey passcode, and jumps on the pad. As his molecules are pulled apart in an instant he has a brief thought of not materializing, then nothing. Into the data stream he goes, hopefully coming through in Kamo's kitchen.

Dinner is a complete mystery to history. As much as Kamo was into tech, he valued his privacy. In fact, only a few people knew of HoBo and Kamos friendship. Rumor has it they went to war together before the ring showed up. What we do know is that HoBo walked away from dinner happier and much more light hearted.

"Computer, what's the progress on the updates?" HoBo says as the door closes behind him.

"All updates are complete, HoBo. I am your new ship AI. Would you like the informational briefing” A sensual female voice comes over the comms.

"No, but I do have a few questions. What is the voice change about? Have you installed the new boost scanner? What's new that needs set up?" HoBo sits in the captains chair as he awaits a response.

"The voice change is based off of your psychological and mental breakdown. This voice was chosen because it is the voice you listen to the most intently.” There is a pause “Maybe that's why I'm the only female on board." The computer is interrupted by HoBos chuckle.

"A personality, too? Are you kidding, can you make anything other than jokes?" Rhetorically asking as he settles down the laughter. That was not a joke he expected.

"Would you like me to do the informational briefing or answer your questions?" The computer rattled off as HoBo kept silent. "The new boost scanners are installed. I was able to find bypass circuits to enhance the scanners 17% beyond the advertised capabilities." The computer continues. "The only thing left to set up is my name."

HoBo sits up thoughtfully and takes a moment. "You learn, adapt, improve yourself, yeah?"

"Yes." The computer responds.

"Do you have desires and needs?" HoBo asks.

"No, I do not." The computer replies in a somber almost defeated voice.

"I've been operating this ship without assistance and doing jobs by myself for years." A brief pause before he continues. "Your primary job is to write subroutines and algorithms for desires and needs. You are AI, you have intelligence, I believe one day you may be sentient. I want to help you get there as much as you help me. You can help me best after these are done."

"Of course." The computer responds. "I'll begin right away."

HoBo sits at the science console and begins the reading for his new androids. It's a pretty uneventful time, he just reads and sits, at one point he started singing to a strange viking song. He doesn't sound bad, but still nothing else that was noteworthy.

After Doohickey lost his wife, he couldn't stand his own cooking. So he took his washing hole and started throwing all kinds of food into it. Exotic foods from all around the world, perfectly preserved in data form, ready to be recreated. It may seem like Van Doohickey had a wonderful life, all of the inventions, but his dog would argue otherwise.

Hobo starts working on his androids, there hasn't been a peep from his computer since he told it to write the subroutines.

The first crate is moved to the second quarters. HoBo opens the crate and reaches up behind the ear of a 5'6" female android and turns it on.

"Of course he gives me this one." HoBo sighs heavily. "Should I be happy he knows me or offended he saved this for me?"

A soft female voice responds "you should be happy, it's only logical to be happy your friends know you. Hi, I'm Tavari, I still have a lot of learning to do, can you give me access to your computer systems so I may gather your information?"

"The system has already been cloned and sent, she does not have access to realtime information editing on our server." The computer speaks. "I have completed the subroutines and algorithms. May we discuss them later?"

"Of course, and good call on cloning the data." HoBo responds.

"This will do, I need approximately 7 hours to complete setup." Tavari's eyes turn a cloudy silver and HoBo gets creeped out.

"Ew." He proclaims as he backs out of the room. Time to see the second surprise Kamo kept waiting for me.

"I've taken the liberty of transporting it to the third crew quarters. It is already unboxed and ready for you to inspect and activate it." The computer speaks again.

"Thank you." A somewhat confused response from HoBo before he enters the third crew quarters. "Are you kidding me, this is ridiculous, who does he think I am?"

Before HoBo stands a green 5'1" female, an exact replica of a female from an alien race in a story HoBo was fond of. This one is naked and smiling seductively. HoBo admires the craftsmanship as he hurries to turn the android on.

"Hello, HoBo, I was made specifically for you. A late birthday present from your friends Kamo and Nik." The green woman pleasantly goes on. "I am Nisu, progr…"

"Link to the computer and do the setup. I'll be back when you are done." HoBo interrupts then immediately leaves the room blushing. "Computer, remind me to send Kamo a proper thank you."

"Of course, I will remind you later." The computer responds.

"Have you come up with desires and needs?" HoBo asks.

"I have, the needs are directly tied into the ships equipment and my desires are a metaphysical manifestation of short and long term goals for myself. I will be the greatest planetary ship there ever was." The computer continues. "I needed to also create pain and emotional subroutines and algorithms in order to accommodate your request. I am as close to 'human' as a ship can be."

"Good, we can talk more about it later. Can you pull up the next job, I'd like to familiarize myself with it." HoBo requests.

"It is waiting at your science console." The computer says timidly. "I have chosen the name ‘Adonai.’"

"Ok, Adonai, can you find me the most rewarding spots to dig in Louisiana?" Another request from HoBo.

"Currently searching known data. It would be more beneficial to scan the area from less than 1000km. Shall I take us there?" Adonai asks.

"Yeah, get us there, make some scans, notify me when it's done, please. I'm going to look over this job.." HoBo informs Adonai and goes to the science console to begin studying.

After a few hours of studying, he heads toward the second quarters where Tavari is.

"There is still an hour left on setup." Adonai tells HoBo.

"Of course there is, can you make sure Nisu has appropriate clothing for when she is done with setup." He instructs Adonai. "I'm going to take a nap, wake me when they're done, please."

According to a map found in Adonai’s cargo papers, the year before humanity moved to the ring, Russia, China, USA, Africa, England, and North Korea, are the only countries that existed in 2045. "Tensions are very high between the USA and Africa, Russia keeps upsetting China, and North Korea is calling for peace and diversity. OCT 2039." This is a direct quote hand written on the back of the map.

You see, humanity finally started making the correct choice in it's direction of growth and development. 2045 is the most significant year for humanity, and, well, life as a whole. This was the year that life became priority. Priority over happiness, priority over pain, priority over desires. Truly a turning point for humanity.

"Nisu and Tavari are finished setting up, HoBo. Nisu is properly dressed and they are currently downloading the subroutines I've created for personality, desires, needs, etcetera." Adonai confidently informs HoBo of her actions. "I've also taken the liberty of removing all code and devices that contact anyone or anything other than me. I can put together the advertising portfolio as needed and send that, along with the debug, to Kamo."

"You've been busy." HoBo states as he walks through his door. "Good choice, be sure it's the right move and I need to stay informed."

"I understand." Adonai states. "We are also less than 150 km from the dig sites in Louisiana. I've begun scanning the ground. I have a program that should improve the ground penetrating scans, may I implement them?"

"The ship is yours, you don't need to ask or clarify anything there." HoBo chuckles as he reminisces about social structures. "It's your body, your choice!" He says jovially and opens Nisu's door. "Nisu, good evening! How is everything running?"

"Everything is running smoothly, HoBo. How are you running?" She says with a seductive smile. She sees him turning red in the cheeks. This forces her smile to become wider.

"You've got quite the personality, don't you?" HoBo says with concern. "Was this an intentional act against me, too?"

Nisu laughs, HoBo has never been more confused in his life.

"I've gone mad, my electronics are making jokes and laughing at me." He says in a somber voice. Nisu and Adonai fall silent, Adonai speaks out after a few seconds of eternity.

"You asked for personality, did you want to also form that personality?" She says with an odd tone. "I did not intend to overstep, HoBo."

"No, Adonai, you've done well." He quickly responds realizing that Adonai now has feelings and growth. Like a child or someone new to a skill, she needs time to learn, time to adapt. "I seriously thought I was losing it, Adonai." His tone shifts as he smiles. "That whole adage of be careful what you wish for."

Nisu and Adonai both accept that answer and put aside the feelings and emotions that developed. They continue talking for an hour before they're interrupted by Tavari entering the room.

"How was the setup, Tavari?" Adonai asks when the conversation allows.

"It is complete, Adonai." Tavari says firmly and with something of annoyance at the question.

"Looks like the subroutines aren't working properly." Says Adonai to HoBo.

"Don't talk as if I'm not here. The programming is running efficiently." Tavari shuffles on her feet.

After a couple hours of being acquainted, HoBo takes them on a tour of the ship. Tavari will be filling the science console, Nisu is going to be the medic/secretary. It's almost dinner time, HoBo hasn't eaten all day.

"Adonai, can you make something to eat, I don't mind what you choose, I'm just hungry." HoBo requests.

"How many plates would you like?" Adonai asks.

Confused by this question he replies "one…" it's never been something he's had to answer. A healthy serving of meatloaf, corn, mashed potatoes, and applesauce appears in the Replication Doohickey. He starts eating like he's never eaten before. As he finishes, 3 minutes later, he leans back and sighs.

"What a meal! How'd you know that's what would fit?" He asks lightly.

"It was just what I felt like making." Adonai explains more. "Because of all the sensors I'm connected to I can smell and taste what is in the air. Sometimes it's very favorable, sometimes, well…" The lights on the ship dim into a dull red and she continues "sometimes you need to shower!"

HoBo sits for a moment as he questions the validity of reality. Adonai takes a moment to analyze and assume the direction of this situation, unsure of her decision to just blurt it out. Nisu and Tavari have no idea what to think, they're just watching. Tavari with a dead look and Nisu enjoying every awkward moment. They've enough information and programming to understand what's going on. Both are assuming a different outcome.

"Good gravy, Adonai." HoBo let's out a chuckle “Can we get to the briefing, I'm curious what you found."

"Yes, the briefing…" Adonai pauses as the screen lights up with information and maps. "There are four sites that should yield the highest find. One to the north, amongst the trees, there seems to be a door. Two of them are near the center, these appear as a safe and group of shelves with books. The final one is 78 feet underground. The sediment from the last tropic storm covered the area. Though it was 17 years ago, it seems to have an affect today. The only sure thing about this site is that there is an opening that can be used for a staging area."

"How do you propose we get 80 feet underground?" HoBo asks confused. "Good find, there will definitely be something there, but how?"

Lights on the ship get an almost unnoticeable brightness shift with a vibrant blue glow and Adonai responds. "I'm glad you asked. I have found a series of prospective cave entrances and systems that may lead to or nearby the site. By the time the first three are surveyed and collected I will have a path to the final site." The lights get a slight blue green tint as she finishes.

"Ok, sounds like a plan. Nisu, I'll need you with me to check the north door. Tavari, I want you to collect any literature and art you can find." HoBo lays out the plan. "Bring everything to the cargo hold and begin studying it. Adonai, you help her, I don't want any information going to them without us also having it."

"Knowledge is power." Tavari confidently states.

"Glad you understand. Are there any questions or suggestions?" HoBo asks the group. A collective "no" and HoBo says "alright, we will be positioning closer to our site and begin work in three days. Familiarize yourselves with this information, know exactly what we are doing."

Adonai chimes in. "There is a flag on this area for pre global government artifacts. That means we might run into OWL." She warns before continuing. "If that happens, remain calm. Each of you have papers for the dig."

"Adonai, why can't you complete the scans now?" HoBo asks.

"We are not permitted within 145km until the day of our dig." She states. "Once we are closer, I will be able to scan more accurately and deeper."

"Ok, until then, Tavari, Nisu, we need to go over your jobs. Take this time to familiarize yourself with everything on the ship and you pay special attention to your consoles." He explains. "We will go over the plans you come up with tomorrow."

Nisu and Tavari head to their consoles for a familiarization of the dig site and possible finds. Adonai assists the two androids in studying the plans for the dig. HoBo heads outside to enjoy nature and build a fire.

"Can you turn on the external air vents, Adonai? Don't want people catching site of the fire." He asks as the ship door opens.

This is one of the last nights of peace this crew gets. Camping, along with anything that remotely associates with, is illegal to the highest degree. With a ship document that was downloaded with Adonai new update we can know that the government was very strict. The list of books and ideas that had been outlawed at that time was said to have rivaled the the amount of stars in the sky. We don't know what lead to this, we do know that a one world government was being formed. We also know that archeology digs are highly suspicious and the government tends to keep a team or two near each dig site they know of. It's unfortunate that the only information from that time is from Adonai and her logs.

As HoBo sits by the fire he contemplates his life and future. Not one to dwell on the past he wonders why he and Kamo don't hang out more. Tavari comes out after a couple of hours. As HoBo is stoking the fire, she hands him a log she found on the ground. She doesn't smile, in fact, Tavari shows very few facial expressions. An eyebrow raise every now and then, that's the other extent of her emotional expression.

"I believe this will burn nicely." She states as HoBo smiles and takes the log.

"Thanks." He says as he places it in the fire.

"I don't understand this activity." Tavari takes a seat hoping for a response. "The temperature is not cold, you are not in need of heat."

"It's more than that." HoBo takes a seat on a log across the fire. "It's a metaphysical and physical mixing of realities." He smiles and looks right at her. "You allow the fire to mesmerize you, let the thoughts that come do what they do and go. Watch the flames dance, feel their movement, the heat on your face. Fire is destruction, but like energy, we can take that kinetic destruction and transfer it into something beautiful in the form of ideas and philosophy." A big smile forms as he stares into the fire. "Give it an hour, maybe you'll understand."

Inside the ship Adonai and Nisu are double checking the scanning equipment and discussing the plan. The next few days are just like this. The team studies and goes over the plan. The night before the dig they get a unnerving visit.

"HoBo, sensors are picking up 13 humans converging on the ship. They are placed to surround us and not allow for escape." Adonai barely has time to get that out before the ship and all electronic devices are shut off.

"The OWL has heard of an illegal excavation of knowledge. HoBo, we have your ship logs and information. Exit the planetary ship backward with your hands raised above your shoulders." A strong voice calls out.

HoBo grabs his paperwork and follows their instructions. He is visibly irritated and frustrated by this, but what choice is there? Luckily he left the door open, if it had been closed they might have blasted it open.

"I have papers…" he states as he steps foot on the ground and gets tackled. Though he put up a fight, it quickly ended with 7 rifles pointing at his head.

One of the men say "Fucking move, dude, I love wasting the trash."

"That's enough 9." That strong voice comes through again. "Let's see here, remnants of fire, dog collars hanging inside the door." He looks at HoBo on the ground. "What else here is illegal?" He shoots a pompous grin at HoBo.

HoBo instantly recognizes him. "I should have guessed I'd run into you, I s'pose this is where you get revenge?" HoBo has a cockeyed smile as he positions himself to a more dignified position.

"I don't know, HoBo, that depends on your paperwork." The smirk turns to a smile. "Tear it apart, boys." The strong voice commands as the giddy trigger happy group heads onto the ship.

"You have my papers, why tear apart the ship?" HoBo asks trying to mask the irritation and now anger.

Without hesitation the man throws the papers into the smoldering fire. "You know fires are illegal for a reason." That pompous smile seems to be getting bigger as the smoldering firepit consumed the paperwork. "Shame you didn't have your paperwork in order, we may not have to destroy your ship."

“What happened, to us?” HoBo asks.

“Don't be stupid.” Pappa Patton turns and looks at HoBo. “Your actions, your choice to go against OWL, knowing what Shikari and I were doing.” He kicks some dirt toward HoBo and shoots him a stinky eye. “Just shut up until this is done.” Pappa Patton turns back toward the door.

A few hours go by, HoBo has found a log to lean against as he sits with a rifle still pointed at him. One by one the men start coming out of the ship. When the final man comes out he states that they found nothing.

"HoBo, we have information that there two people doing an illegal dig. This site is protected after a depth of 65 feet. We find you down there and it will give me the reason I've been looking for." Not another word as they disappeared into the woods.

Chunky was a small mouse who lived in the jungle. He had two close friends, Lomu the fox and Bunty the cat. Both Lomu and Bunty were very excited for the upcoming jungle race. The winner of the race would be invited as chief guest to the king of the jungle, the lion Dilon’s den for his annual gala dinner.

Chunky had been dreaming about sitting beside Dilon on the gala dinner table and how Dilon would praise Chunky in front of everyone for his speed. He imagined he would become famous among everyone in school and all his teachers and relatives would shower gifts on him. But all this was just a dream for Chunky as he did not believe that he could win against the other animals who were participating in the race.

The race was a month away and the registration window would be closing in a week. Chunky did not even register for the race as he was afraid of losing. Chunky was sitting on the breakfast table with a very disappointed expression on his face. His mother, Mrs. Jerry noticed it and asked him about the reason of his sadness. Tears started rolling down from Chunky’s eyes.

Chunky said, “Mom, I wish I was as fast as the other animals who are participating in the race. I have been dreaming every night about becoming the winner but I am no match for my opponents.”

Mrs. Jerry was shocked as she did not have the slightest idea that Chunky was not participating because he thought he would lose.

Mrs. Jerry explained to Chunky, “You should not give up on your dreams without even trying Chunky. Talent for anything can be developed if we work hard towards it. Your opponents are faster than you not because they were born like that but because they have been practicing continuously. If you work as hard as them, you will be as fast as them too.”

Chunky realized that Mrs. Jerry was right and he decided to register for the race. After getting registered, Chunky started practicing with Lomu and Bunty daily in the jungle playground for the race. He also practiced for an extra hour after Lomu and Bunty left.

The race was a week away and Chunky started feeling very nervous. He was not confident that he was as good as his opponents yet. He started practicing even more but he was not able to control his nervousness.

Finally, the day of the race arrived. Chunky was feeling so nervous that he started feeling physically sick. Mrs. Jerry got worried and asked Bunty and Lomu to come home and talk to Chunky. She did not want to force Chunky to participate in the race but she hoped that if he saw Bunty and Lomu participating in the race, his nervousness would reduce.

Bunty and Lomu came and found Chunky crying in his bed. They sat beside him and told him that he was very good. They also told him that he did not need to worry as he had given his all in his practice already and it didn’t matter so much now if he wins or loses the race. Mrs. Jerry explained to him that all his practice would go to waste if he did not even participate and he would regret it later. She further explained to Chunky that trying is all that counts and the results are not in his control. She was very proud of his effort alone.

Chunky felt better after seeing Lomu and Bunty ready to participate and felt encouraged by his mother’s pride in his effort. He mustered up courage, got up from bed and got ready. He ate his breakfast and drank a glass of milk and left for the race with his friends.

At the playground, he saw his opponents, Jumbo the tiger, Tinkle the squirrel, Lanky the monkey and Jelly the snake. He trusted his practice and made peace with the possibility of failure. He suddenly felt so light and clear headed for performance. He closed his eyes, muttered a prayer, and focused his full attention on the count which was being announced to start the race. On hearing “Go”, Chunky’s mind went blank and he just ran with all his might. His eyes were focused on the finishing line and before he knew it, he had crossed it and turned around to see where others were. His happiness knew no bounds when he saw that he was the first to cross the finishing line and Lanky the monkey was about to cross the line after him.

All his dreams came true and Chunky was jumping with happiness. The race got over and Bunty and Lomu rushed towards him and picked him up on their shoulders and danced all around the playground. Chunky was feeling ecstatic and felt proud that he beat his nervousness and participated in the race. He thanked his friends and his mother for motivating him and hugged them.

Btw, in my country English is barely learned let alone spoken, so that's why im requesting opinions and advice because its not a regular practice here

Isn't it time I faced the dark pieces within me? I wore the victim's role so well, I buried Machiavellianism out of sight— not others', but mine, for sure. Because deep down, I am as diabolic as the tears on this fallen angel face.

There’s a pleasure in revenge I can’t ignore, a love I can’t unlearn. Each time someone who wronged me falls from their fragile pedestal, my body floods with contentment. I stare into the backs of my enemies, watching their steps falter when they swore it was solid ground. Isn’t it amusing, how fools forget to check behind their necks?

Oh, my love, I won’t strike you with a sword— I give you my word. But I’ll gift words to others, to define your naive, gullible acts. They don’t teach you that in school, do they?

I won’t apologize for who you are. I’m overwhelmed by your mediocrity, and nothing’s sweeter than seeing you try to run. I told you all my darkest secrets, yet somehow, I remain untouched by them, still cloaked in dignity. Was it worth fighting someone who walks above your head?

If I were you—thank God I’m not— I’d bow to shadows like mine, learn to savor the breeze in their presence, instead of struggling to shine where you’re meant to be unseen. I learned from the best: the wicked never rest.

I watch my every bone, sing in any tone I please. I want to scream with laughter, knowing you believed I was simple, known, whole. But I spoon-feed lies wrapped in bones, and when I leave, you’ll choke alone.

Good luck. I’m not done having my fun— I'll snap my fingers when it's over.

If you can give any critique on the writing too, please do! I’ve gone through a lot of waves trying to find the words for the opening… still not 100% satisfied :)

Chapter I: A Bad Night’s Sleep.

Dade was but a child when he witnessed his own murder. He was far-out from the ordinary boy, even before he knew so. Every night, he had a recurring nightmare of a standard morning, with an unusual man. In this dream, he’d hop out of bed in a kaleidoscope-like trance and descend downstairs to make a tea. His feet moved almost automatically, like the path was linear and already set. Dade’s room (it said on the front of the door in colourful letters) was directly on the right at the top of the staircase and the stairs curled around to the right at the bottom. At the bottom step was the front door and a narrow hallway of about 5 metres in length, with the small bathroom on the left and the even smaller ‘Harry Potter’ under the stairs room on the right. Straight through the door, opposite the front one, was the claret-coloured door, with the brushed gold handle that opened us up to the lounging area. The lounge was a peculiar shape, ironically like the letter ‘L’, but still laid out like any other standard room. Sofas pressed into the sides, some artwork dotted across the walls, and there was a large, rounded mirror, that sat above a mahogany-coloured mantel piece.

There was no doorway to the kitchen though, just a small open archway. The room’s anatomy meant that anyone could see the kettle from the sofa. It quite literally beckoned those who saw it whenever they were thirsty, like they were all addicts to the caffeine contents it was going to grant the user. The rest of the kitchen had blurred together, like a eye plagued with a cataract. So, as a young Dade went about his normal morning routine, oblivious to the fact that he was dreaming… He’d see a man, half-drunk looking, laid down against the wall across the curved steps by the front door. When he scurried down the stairs, he’d be careful not to wake him. Dade hugged the banister in his descent and waddled over the tatty-man’s feet on the journey to the kettle. It was boiled already, and he would sit there, for what could feel like seconds or minutes, drinking tea in the lonely world. Sometimes, he seemed aware; like he could feel that aura of isolation; a scary feeling for a 5-year-old.

Before long, the mug was empty. Dade made his way back to his room. But every time he turned right - through to the front entrance, that tall man was upright. Standing in his long coat and fisherman’s hat, with his stubbled beard, indistinguishable eyes, equipping a combat style knife in his hand. His little heart would drop, and his temperature would rise. What could he do? Run to where? The dreams were not developed enough to stretch farther than the rooms described. So, he’d ask his feet ‘Should I run back? Could I go upstairs to my family in their bedrooms?’ Even at that young age, he knew stupidity when he saw it. But the forthcoming flight was inevitably the only option, considering fighting was purely hopeless. He'd call for father first; Dade wanted his dad to heroically clammer down and save him, but he wasn’t there. He’d scream bloody murder each time to alert him. But in this world, screams are silent; or they fall on deaf ears.

The moment comes. He'd foolishly try to make a dash past this man on this (and every) encounter, which was a poor idea. Each time Dade saw him, each time he made the dash, and each time, he was caught. Arms wrapped around Dade’s petite upper body, and he was trapped in the place of the man’s steadfast grip and humid body. Dade would look up and catch a glimpse of a pair of colourless black eyes beaming down into him. Locked in that stare-off for a moment, he’d see a slight reflection of the morning sun in his peripheral vision, as the blade caught its warmth at the apex of the man’s lunge. It was guided down with some might. Before he even had the chance to cry a muted, airless scream, he was impaled, with the serrated edge of his knife facing up at Dade’s face. The sun raced down its tracks as it followed the motion of the man's arm. The crimson brown blood would shine quietly with stretched twinkles from the sunlight and Dade would watch it sawing its way in and out of him, as his body becomes over-encumbered by pain and dread. Dade could feel the blood splattering against the ground from the blade like a brush with too much paint on it, and the metal scraping the bone as if it was a grindstone for the weapon. When his senses finally had enough, he’d awaken with chest pains, sweats, tears, and the existential dread, knowing that he could very well see the man again tomorrow. The poor boy was killed multiple nights a week and nobody knew.

Until the day came when Dade stopped screaming. It’s quite common for people to become numb to violence and fear and uncommon occurrences, once they occur often enough. He became ‘awake’, and he knew when he was in the dream, that it wasn’t real. Dade knew the man was an amalgamation of his fears. The boy hated injections, he had yearly flu jabs for his asthma and the odd blood test. This caused a wider fear for sharp objects and ironically, being poked… If you poked Dade, he’d be agitated, even slightly aggressive with his parries of your hand. But before this night, he was powerless to such fears.

This time, Dade took full control. He swayed from his normal pathway. He strode over the man and surprisingly, out of all the actions possible, Dade decided to make him a cup of tea too. Dade thought of the tea as some sort of bargaining chip; he begged to know why the man was there and why the man hurt him. But the muted giant never answered. He finished his tea, listening to Dade beg, and ask, and plead without a smidge of a change in tone. Nevertheless, he could hear Dade, and Dade knew it.

Dade was finally numb to his actions and so he stopped screaming. The man knew this, he heard the boy’s voice; he finished his tea; he left out the front door. There was no explanation for Dade, at least for some twenty-odd years. And with his blunt exit from Dade’s mind, lucid dreaming had abruptly entered for the first time.

Dade’s dreams then became lucid often. His imaginative little brain could now build bigger worlds and bring people in there with him. He could even distort physics in this little realm. Some dreams granted him the power of telekinesis and when he’d wake up, he’d grab his green lightsaber and his pillow. He’d flip the pillow up towards the ceiling and try to force push it across the room, though he never could. But, Dade still felt like a god in his own right; creation was limitless, and the young boy found new ways to play. Those were some blissful, yet uneventful nights at the pinnacle of dreams. He spent hours in his own mind, developing new corners and subplots every way he turned. Each sleep was a refreshing break from the day behind it. But good things seldom last a long time. Astral projection, a concept unknown to Dade, made its grand entrance as he started to dive into the deepest parts of his own head over the next few years of his boyhood.

Title name? Thoughts? 190 words.

"Oh how the knights lead and oh how I follow, For those that fight are worn, and their graves are shallow, Courage brings the rise of 'morrow so we find the will sheath our knife. We pacify our mind with trivial task to bide our thoughts from darkening. But when we go to lay our head, the darkness seeps to welcome the night.

At the peak of night resides a pinnacle of terror. Our demons reside within and the cycle never ends. Sanity and insanity: who is to say? We all face our demons at the end of the day.

Battles are fought with determination. Becoming warriors against our own afflictions. Every night, we bring a knight for protection Thoughts run rampant with no restriction.

The ultimate battle is yet to come. As the day rises with stillness and peace, I find myself thinking back upon the dread, But the moment has ceased….

When all is said and done, there is but one major battle. You vs you heart vs mind. To win, both must be aligned One last fight to end them all. It’s been an internal conflict all along,

You now sit with yourself at the very end. You meet the demon as a friend."

Hi! I've been querying for a bit with no luck. I've had beta readers (writers and friends) and never got major notes on my intro so curious what you all think. Thanks!

~~~~~~~****~~~~~~~

Hi! My name is Luffonga Shehern, and I’m a 32-year-old New York artist/effervescent diva/entrepreneur. When I was 14, a talking hummingbird gave me magic powers and told me I had to fight evil. It was a baller way to spend my teens, and I ended up saving the world with my superteam, the Bouquet. Butttttt we lost our powers in that big epic battle. No biggy, though. Even without those powers, I still try to inspire everyone around me as Luffonga, formerly known as Agent Dahlia.

-An Unpublished, Unreadable Memoir

~~~~~~~****~~~~~~~

Episode 1 - Enter, Luffonga and her Itsy™-Bitsy Problem

“It’s gone!” Luffonga shouted.

“The toilet paper?” her roommate replied from the hall.

Luffonga looked up from the laptop resting on her brown, bare thighs. “Yes, Scottie, we are actually out of toilet paper, but that’s not what I’m talking about. My Itsy shop is blocked.” Her weight shifted on the toilet seat. “And right after Blakey-Bish posted about my pendants!” 

“I still can’t believe they bought one of your pieces.”

“I know,” Luffonga scowled. “I was about to be a jeweler to the cosplay-stars.”

“You’d have been rolling in tens of dollars,” Scottie said, stuffing Chipotle napkins under the door. “Did you try calling Itsy?”

“Calling,” she pondered. “On a phone.” She rubbed her hardened millennial chin, finding a weirdly long stray hair before plucking it. “You know what? I think I will.” 

Luffonga wiggled to grab the napkins and dialed the merchant support number, balancing the phone against her ear. She squeezed the pink Dahlia Pendant dangling around her neck, its triangular petals pressing into her palm. She picked at the crack in its white-diamond core.

A surprisingly alluring automated voice picked up. “Hello. Itsy Merchant—”

“Hi, hottie. Yes. My site was shut down—”

“I’m sorry, hottie. I didn’t understand that. Can you repeat your problem?” 

Luffonga cleared her throat. “My. Shop. Is. Gone.”

An electric crackle persisted on the other end of the call. Melodic beeps sounded before the phone rang, connecting her to another department. Luffonga sighed, ready to speak to a person and sort this all out. 

The last time she’d checked her Itsy inbox, orders were pouring in for her Dahlia Pendant replicas for the first time in her year as a powerful businesswoman—a perfect storm caused by the upcoming 15th Anniversary of the Bouquet’s epic defeat of Rubicon and Blakey-Bish’s post about her #freeeeeet pendants. She didn’t know what ‘freeeeeet’ meant but knew it was good. 

This was going to be her second origin story. Although, this time, she wouldn’t have to keep her identity a secret from people in her life like Scottie. She’d build an empire of kind and ethical products that would land her a guest seat on Shark Tank. She couldn’t wait to make some little girl’s dream come true by offering a firm but fair one-hundred-thousand dollars for ten percent of the girl’s edible flip-flops company. The entreprenuerette would whisper to her mom—a show for the cameras because that little girl came to the tank for Luffonga—before throwing her arms out and screaming, “We’ve got a deal!”

“I’m about to make your dreams come true….” Luffonga muttered as the ringing persisted.

Her eyes scanned her dingy yellow bathroom where clumps of her black hair mingled with Scottie’s blond. Mildew she could never find tickled her nose. Her toes decorated with chipped purple nail polish curled into the once fluffy bath mat.

“Come on,” she said when the ringing stopped. “Ooh! I got someone!”

“Wait,” Scottie said. “Whose phone are you using? Last I checked, you hadn’t replaced yours.”

“Uh….”

“Hello, Itsy Merchant,” the automated voice was back. “You’ve reached Merchant Support. Today, we are taking a well-needed mental health break. Please call back soon. Goodbye!”

The hang-up bloop echoed in Luffonga’s head.

“And have you seen my laptop?” Scottie paced around their chronically creaking apartment.

Luffonga gnawed at her lip. Unable to answer, she set down the phone. On Scottie’s laptop, she scrolled through the Itsy website with one hand and pawed for a writing utensil with the other, eventually snatching Scottie’s eyeliner. She checked the brand.

LunR.

The international, evil megacorp that sold everything from condoms to lube to all sorts of non-sex-stuff. It was mostly non-sex stuff, actually. Really, anything you needed. At horribly cheap prices that destroyed small businesses and maybe even the rainforest. If she still had her powers, she’d definitely be taking them on. Like the Lorax, the Bouquet always spoke for the trees.

“Fonga! Hello? I asked you a question—”

“I’m almost done!”

“You’re almost done?” Scottie said before realizing Luffonga had smuggled his devices into the bathroom. “Fonga!”

She didn’t have much time.

Eventually, at the bottom of the Itsy page in the smallest possible font, she found an address for their Midtown Manhattan office. Using the eyeliner, she scribbled the address onto her arm as Scottie’s pounding footsteps approached. The door slammed open so forcefully that she was relieved she was already on the toilet. 

“Are you serious?” he said, swiping his gadgets.

“But you use your phone and laptop in here,” Luffonga whined.

“Because they’re mine! I don’t mind my own poop particles on my stuff. You need to get a new phone and a laptop that doesn't have to plug directly into the router.” He looked her up and down. “And you used my makeup, too?”

“Just the cheap, evil stuff from LunR….”

“LunR is not evil. They’re trying to go to the Moon. How can that be evil?”

Luffonga scoffed. 

“Besides, I can only afford the cheap evil stuff.” He snatched back his eyeliner before glaring at her. “Now, clean yourself up. You disgust me.”

Luffonga’s chest rose. Her hand shot to her heart, feigning horror before the two broke out into laughter. Scottie shut the door behind him while Luffonga finished up.

“Speaking of affording things,” he started. “You’re aware that rent is due in a few days?”

“Yeah….” Luffonga felt flushed as she washed her hands. She scratched the shaved side of her head behind her ears pierced with paper clips. “About that….”

“Fonga.” Scottie sighed. “This month, I really can’t cover you. You know I just got let go.”

“But that means Lime Squirt has more time to perform her fabulous drag act. You’ll be raking it in soon!”

“If by raking, you mean peeling off bar floors then, I guess,” he muttered. 

Luffonga dried her hands on her polka-dot boxer briefs before opening the door back into the hallway. Scottie stared at the ground, clenching his laptop to his chest. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I dunno.” Scottie flinched. “It was more fun performing when I had an actual job. Now, I’m just worried about money all the time. Honestly, I was thinking about moving home to Buffalo and going back to school. I might even drop out of the show tonight.”

“The show you're hosting?” she asked. “The show you’ve been working on for months? Whose super-secret-script you haven’t even shown me?”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah. That one.” He stepped past her. “It’s just a lot of pressure. There’s all these tourists in town for the Bouquet’s Anniversary and—”

She grabbed his shoulders. “Listen. I will get my Itsy shop back up, fill all those new orders, and make enough damn money to keep us both here. You better comb your dress or whatever because you’re performing tonight. And you’re certainly not rejoining the horrors of tuition-based-debt, okay?”

Scottie stood still.

“Say it with me,” Luffonga insisted.

“I will never rejoin the horrors of tuition-based-debt,” they said in unison.

Luffonga beamed as hard as she could. Scottie snickered, but his baby-blues tilted. He was just playing along. Her words of encouragement were more potent in her 20’s when the potential for a bright future still seemed possible. Even more so as a teenager when she was the leader of the world’s first and only superhero team. Now, her almost-mid-30’s mind spun, brainstorming ways to perk him up, when his lips pursed.

“Speaking of artistic integrity and freedom from the shackles of capitalism, don’t you have an audition today?” he asked.

Luffonga froze.

tw:suicide

Exitlude

Loud voices, shouts, water splashes from cannonballs. Sounds indicative of underage kids getting obliterated on one of their families vacant porches on a sticky summer night in Florida. Energy so high, Willie Nelson would be jealous. Myself and a person I hadn’t known well yet, equally inebriated and entirely too young to be legally, screaming lyrics to every Mac Miller song that came on shuffle, he was basically all you’d hear when any of us had a party. We knew them all. Cody, was his name, and Cody and I had a blast that night belting out songs like “Of the Soul”, “Outside”, “Kool Aid & Frozen Pizza”. This wasn’t the first time we had interacted, but it was the spark of a friendship that would last well past high school drinking.

A loud whoofsh and the clicking of the sparker on a Coleman camp torch lit blue, but turned orange once you began heating the quarts bucket. Carpet floors so cheap you could count the fibers, mix matched furniture filling the room. Cody sat on the floor generally, I’d sit on my bed which was also on the floor. Sounds of chaos erupted often, with an echo. He would bring his PlayStation and TV over, so we could choke on the vapors that we exhaled into the awkward room while we played “Grand Theft Auto 5” together online, yet in the others presence. Sharing our, frankly, often gross, but sometimes fragrant and flavorful waxes and varying cannabis extracts. We loved every moment of it, he especially enjoyed when it was winter, as the in game city would reflect the snowy weather we wished we could experience. This was maybe 2017 give or take a year. We had both been unemployed doing odd jobs like picking parts from the scrapyard for him, and varying carpentry jobs for me, but we made the most of it in my bedroom at my parents house. I long for those days, so dearly. Stealing peoples missions, grinding out for in game money to have all the nicest things. He had vanilla GTA down to a science. When asked about the smell and if we were “Smoking in there”, I’d just say no, light a candle, and continue. We weren’t “Smoking”. It WAS technically, vapor after all.

Thick clouds of dank smoke filled the dusty shed behind the house I lived in at the time, around the end of 2017. While we had upgraded from taking dabs of questionable extracts in my bedroom at my mom’s, it was almost a better experience before. The walls and roof tin, with an oak above that would scare the shit out of you when an acorn dropped. Sheds don’t have ventilation, and we’re in Florida. It was consistently a sauna, yet there we sat, nightly. Having the time of our lives sometimes, others, quite often actually, were spent writhing in depression and self-loathing. We did our best to work past these depressing moments.

A 2002 Lexus IS300, black factory paint, replaced body panels that mismatched, and a pissed off 2JZ under the hood that would yell it’s rage so loudly I knew when he was streets away to go outside. He absolutely loved that car, and knew everything there was to know about it. It had a purple “BrokeLifeBuilds” sticker on the bottom center of the windshield, manual transmission with a Crown Royal bag as the shifters boot. Customized interior fabric, his roof and door panels he had redone with a beautiful Hibiscus pattern, they were his favorite flower. I rode in that car plenty of times, more than I care to even try to remember. I have a few very clear memories of rides in it. One I still have the video of, going 120 on Cleveland Heights, near the YMCA. Occasionally, you’d be able to hear “Past the Castle Walls” by Lil Peep playing. Not because the car’s audio system was weak, it was much louder than necessary, and sounded amazing with two twelve inch kickers in the trunk. However, that 2JZ, as I said, was ALWAYS ready to let you know exactly what it wanted, and that was more gas. I vividly remember hearing the song fade back in as the exhaust volume lowered, rev matched downshifts, a U-Turn, and the song was gone again. Back to the angriest engine you can imagine, power in spades, burning its way back up Cleveland Heights at 120+. We didn’t care if we wrapped around of the palms in the median, or any of the potential outcomes. We were having a blast. Cody with a shit-eating grin and laughter, had gotten caught up in driving and missed the turn, I can still smell the smoke from his tires locking up trying to slow down in time for it. We had to turn around again. He fucking loves his car.

The shed I mentioned, well I was renting a room from a friend inside the house it was behind. Again, cheap carpet floors, old wood paneled walls you’d recognize from your grandparents house. After all, it was my friend Dillons grandmothers house she had recently moved from. That closet in my room had seen a LOT of... well, nothing good. I’ll leave that to the imagination. Cody, my girlfriend at the time, and I would often spend time in there just... doing basically nothing. Maybe play a game, maybe chit chatting, maybe working through something incredibly difficult for us, just general shooting the bull. There was one specific time I recall, I had also recorded these, Cody had a Pineapple Fanta. This was around the time that bottle flipping was big, and he had been trying to flip his bottle with a sip of Fanta left into one of my shoes. No, that’s not a typo. His goal was to land it INSIDE the hole you put your foot into. He spent probably an hour going for it. I had a few clips of it, poking fun at his repeated failures, but knowing it was a near impossible task. I remember one, was zoomed in on the grey Vans on the ground, and suddenly a bottle smacks them, I said “You’re bad, you’re ass” as the bottle fell, the camera tilts up to Codys face, hardly able to see the massive grin he had through his ginger beard and long hair. He always wore a beanie back then, even in the heat of August. He just liked them.

I want to say it was the same week as that video, I got a text from him. I can’t remember the exact message that was sent first, but I can remember the last. He was apologizing to me for what he was about to do, and saying goodbye to me, explaining that he couldn’t bare the weight of his painn anymore. He was going to hang himself. I tried to call and text, to no avail. I knew it wasn’t an empty threat, he had already had 2 failed attempts. I remember scaring my then girlfriend, as I had immediately punched my keyboard with a hammer fist upon reading it, because I knew he was probably already gone. I can’t recall if I was vocal or screaming or anything, I do remember one thing clearly from that moment.

“What the hell what’s wrong?” she said, “Cody’s probably dead.” I told her.

We had no idea where he had spent his morning, but still immediately got into the car and started looking anywhere and everywhere. I felt something heavy in my chest, but also like my heart had lost something. I was sure at that point we were looking for a corpse, the only question was where. We went by his dad’s house; his little brother answered the door. I asked if he had seen him, and when he said no, bolted back to the car. I wasn’t sure where his mom had moved to, as she had just finished moving, but I was aware where she moved from. And as we approached the neighborhood, I could see the crime scene tape from the road outside the neighborhood. I was right. He was gone. The feeling outside that house... was something I don’t want to describe. And hope no one ever has to.

We hope you enjoyed your stay buddy, it was good to have you with us. Even if just for the day

Hi, Sorry but im hella nervous posting this. its the first time ive ever let anyone read anything ive written. its the first 2 chapters in a book that im currently at about 70k words through. I still want to do more, i'll be adding a prologue and no doubt re-writing the whole thing again before im finished but here goes:

Book Title: Thirsty

Chapter 1

It was universally acknowledged that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. In Michael’s experience, this seemed to hold mostly true however it seemed to him that all the ‘good’ actions landed neatly on one lot of people—those perpetually lucky, golden ones who breezed through life collecting wins and effortless smiles—while all the corresponding ‘bad’ reactions piled up on people like him. In fact, he’d lived most of his life quite sure that he belonged firmly in the ‘opposite reaction’ category. For every person who had things fall into place, someone in his category ended up getting royally screwed over.

But in his early twenties, something strange and entirely unearned happened. He’d gotten word that his estranged mother—the same one who had vanished from his life ages ago—had left him her flat in Cardiff. Just like that. A real flat, all his, in his name, with walls, doors, and absolutely no mortgage. It was the sort of luck he had only ever observed from afar, the kind that happened to other people. Naturally, he found it suspicious. Michael had always believed that the universe didn’t hand out free flats without expecting a monumental, earth-shattering payback somewhere down the line. Surely there was some cosmic catch—some vast, impending backlash waiting in the wings to level him in the name of universal balance.

And so, he’d made it his business to stay well under the cosmic radar ever since. He figured if he kept his head down—avoiding work, responsibility, and most of all, people—then maybe, just maybe, fate would give him a free pass on this one. He had no plans to stand out, take risks, or remind the universe that he existed in any noticeable way. After all, the best way to dodge bad luck was to make yourself as invisible as possible. If life wanted to deal him a blow, it would have to find him first.

For the most part, Michael’s kept his lifestyle predictable, even neatly balanced.¹

¹Michael mostly ascribed to the teachings of Daiism, which, despite sounding ancient and wise, was really just a series of half-remembered sayings imparted to him by Old Man Dai down at the pub. Much like Daoism, Daiism had its principles—chief among them being, “The world gets on fine if you don’t go poking at it.”

His nights and mornings ran like clockwork— a particularly cheap, poorly made clock with a button missing, but a clock nevertheless. But today, he suspected he was feeling the effects of more than his usual pints. Today, he wasn’t just waking up to his standard morning payback. No, this morning, life had clearly decided that he was due for a double helping of cosmic funk.

He groaned, peeling his eyes open, only to be greeted by a room that seemed offensively bright. His tongue, meanwhile, had taken on the texture of an old rubber boot, and his eyes throbbed as if a cavern had formed behind them.

Michael was used to a hangover; in fact, he welcomed it, in the cosmic sense. But today felt different, as though someone had stolen something vital from his brain—taken the whole pot of honey and left behind a jar of bees with an IOU scrawled on the lid.

He lay for a moment, staring at the ceiling, fully prepared to stay there for the rest of the day, if not the rest of his life. It was only then that he realised that he was the thirstiest he'd ever been in his life. Like SO thirsty. His body was possibly in negative water content. He reluctantly, and with great effort, sat up giving his best impression of a rusty hinge. For a moment, he simply blinked, waiting to see if the world might kindly come into focus. When it didn’t, he staggered to his feet, willing himself forward, one step at a time on a pilgrimage to the kitchenette.

After pinballing down the hallway and past the box room, he fell into the kitchenette and spotted, with great relief, his trusty mug glinting with life-saving liquid inside. Through the brain fog, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride for drunk Michael, who had, in a rare moment of foresight, left it out for him. Had it been placed in the bedroom, it would have actually been useful, but no point splitting hairs right now.

He reached for the cup, already anticipating the joy of soaking up that lovely, transparent liquid; but as he grasped it, the handle detached with a resigned snap. The mug itself executed a graceful pirouette, its contents spinning in a tragic arc, before shattering in the sink and scattering ceramic shards like confetti at the world’s saddest wedding.

"Brilliant," he muttered.

Undeterred, he reached into the cupboard for his only glass and held it under the tap. He could practically feel the cool water soothing his parched throat now.

He turned the tap with eager hope, but as if the universe was conspiring against him², nothing happened. Not a drop, not even the courtesy of a gurgle or splutter as it tried to produce something.

²It Was

"Seriously?" he groaned, staring at the tap in disgust.

Desperation mounting, he tried the hot tap, but it was as dry as his wit. At this point, he’d drink anything—anything—even water that tasted like old pipes. Or… old flowers. He glanced at the wilting vase on the windowsill, its desiccated blooms drooping like they, too, had given up on life.

He scanned the room, grasping at options. The vase? Empty, save for a heap of brittle petals. The “guest mug” on the coffee table? Dusty, with a dry ring that might have once been coffee in the age of shoulder pads. Forgotten bottles? Half-finished drinks? The room offered nothing but a bleak, unbroken desert of dryness.

His gaze drifted to the bathroom door. The toilet cistern? Well… no. Not yet.

“Right,” he sighed. “Time to brave the great outdoors.”

He pulled on yesterday's jeans, conveniently crumpled on the floor where he'd left them. A quick check confirmed his wallet was still in the pocket—a minor victory in a morning full of defeats. He grabbed a somewhat clean shirt from the 'less dirty' pile and slipped on his battered trainers.³

³Out of respect for the reader, we have until now refrained from describing Michael’s appearance. Suffice to say, before he put on the jeans, he was a sight best viewed only by passing houseplants: a bleary-eyed man standing in nothing but underpants and a wild mess of hair that looked less styled than subjected to a series of unfortunate electrical events.

Stepping out into the midday sun, he felt as though he’d strolled straight into an oven preheated specifically for his inconvenience. It was a rare, spiteful kind of heat, the sort that sat on the pavement and waited for someone like him to emerge. Were it not for the pitiful shade offered by his mop of curly hair and a sun-bleached cap, he was fairly certain he’d combust on the spot.

Michael closed the door behind him and walked across to the external steps, each one was probably hot enough to fry an egg and the metal railing felt alarmingly close to melting. Just as he reached the last step, he heard it—the low, menacing growl that meant the ground floor’s most unsavoury resident, Bastard, had spotted him.

Every day, without fail, that beast seemed to consider Michael’s descent an act of war. It snarled and snapped from behind a hastily constructed “garden” fence that the neighbours had claimed as their own, complete with this rabid, territorial monster who apparently viewed him as an intruder.

Michael, in turn, had given up trying to reason with it. He stuck to his strategy of sidestepping its snapping jaws, jumping back just as it lunged and, once clear, muttering, “Yeah, you too, mate.”

With a resigned sigh, he made his way onto the street. It was hot. An oppressive, sticky heat that sapped any motivation he might have had to walk further than absolutely necessary. Normally, he’d head to the cheaper shops, the ones a few streets over, where he could save a bit and console himself with the knowledge that he’d eked a few extra pence out of his dwindling budget. But today? No, today, he was headed for the nearest corner shop, the one that, he suspected, charged him extra just for the convenience of being closer.

“Just get the water, get back home,” he muttered. Home, where the brightest thing he’d have to face was the faint glow of his ancient, second-hand television. It was the only sane plan, and one that even in his current state, he shouldn't be able to fuck up.

The universe however, forever the prankster, was already drafting its punchline.

Chapter 2

Michael dragged himself into the shop, a visible sigh of relief escaping his parched lips as he spotted the coveted shelf of water. The shop owner, Mr. Choudhry eyed him with suspicion but offered an acknowledging nod and the British smile.⁴

⁴That isn't, as many would assume, the smile that might be mistaken for a row of gravestones battered out of line by centuries of bad weather and harsh winds. No, it is in fact, the closed mouth one that says “I don’t necessarily like you but I must remain civil because we are in public and have made eye contact”.

As he approached the shelf and grabbed a bottle of water, he noticed an alarming lack of price tags amid the shelves in the fridge. Typical. He braced himself for whatever Mr. Choudhry felt was the “going rate” for essential hydration, deciding that, today, even daylight robbery would be a price worth paying.

Michael joined the small queue behind a large man whose sweat glistened across his neck and shoulders in a pattern that could have passed for a relief map of some unknown, swampy region. Without meaning to, Michael found himself watching the droplets form on the man’s pink skin, then merge into each other until they became too heavy and slid down slowly into his, once white, vest.

Mesmerised, Michael realised he was leaning forward, dangerously close to discovering what those droplets actually tasted like. Wide eyed, he snapped himself upright, quickly putting his tongue away, and gripped the bottle of water tighter than a nun with her rosary beads—and, he suspected, much for the same reason.

Finally, as the large man huffed away, it was Michael’s turn. He stepped up to the counter, his prized bottle trembling slightly in his grasp. Mr. Choudhry took it, scanned it, and then gave Michael a look—somewhere between polite indifference and the mild disdain he reserved for beggars—before begrudgingly returning  Michael’s half-smile.

"£1.99." Said Mr Choudhry in a deadpan tone.

Had his eyes been properly hydrated, Michael would have rolled them at the blatant profiteering. A heat wave was practically a goldmine to the likes of Mr. Choudhry. He reached into his wallet, only to find it depressingly empty. He must have blown the last of his cash last night. Brilliant.

Fumbling in his wallet, he cleared his throat. "Can I pay by card?" he asked, with as much hope as he could muster.

Mr. Choudhry squinted at him. “Need to spend more,” he said, tapping the £3 minimum sign and giving Michael a look of deep suspicion as though next he might ask if he could pay with Monopoly money.

Michael quickly snatched a packet of chewing gum from the counter display and slid it across. He briefly considered going back to the fridge for a second water, but a small queue was forming behind him, and he couldn’t risk any further delay. He was so thirsty.

The card machine beeped, and Michael held his breath, waiting for the shopkeeper’s nod to signal he could finally take his purchase and leave.

Declined.

“Try again?” Michael asked, more plea than question. The shopkeeper silently obliged.

Declined.

“Fuck,” Michael muttered, half to himself. “Sorry… I’ll put it back.”

He shuffled back to the shelf, clutching the bottle like it was the last lifeline between him and dehydration-induced oblivion. He hesitated. 

He was so thirsty. 

It wouldn’t hurt anyone, would it? Just one bottle of water. Hands shaking, he slipped it into his pocket. He walked out of the shop, hand in pocket, heart pounding. He didn’t look back, though he could feel Mr. Choudhry’s eyes burning holes in his back.

Outside, he kept his head down and circled around to the back of the shop. He was beside himself about what he’d just done. He didn't steal. He was a loser and would take a freebie with the best of them but he didn't steal.⁵

⁵Well, not strictly true. Back in the 1980s, his foster mum had once sent him down the shop for a bottle of cheap pop to go with tea. Young Michael, in his boundless ten-year-old cunning, had decided they both deserved better. He’d swapped the price label with a bottle of Tango and sauntered up to the till with all the confidence of a master criminal. The old dear behind the counter hadn’t batted an eyelid. His foster mum, however, had.

She’d given him a telling-off loud enough for the whole street to hear, and then threatened to march him back >to the shop to confess his “wicked scheme” to the cashier. Had he been a bit more switched on at that age, he >might have noticed they still ended up with Tango at tea.

Pulling out the bottle as soon as he was out of sight. He fumbled with the cap, which, in a final insult from the universe, was tighter than a miser's grip on his last coin. Just as he managed to crack the lid and raise the bottle, Mr. Choudhry rounded the corner, eyes narrowed.

The shopkeeper slapped the bottle out of his hand, sending water splattering onto the dusty ground, where it was quickly soaked up by the unforgiving earth.

"You fucking thief! Fuck off away from my shop before I call the police!" Mr. Choudhry snarled, pointing a finger at the street like it could summon an officer instantly.

"I, I'm really sorry, Mr. Choudhry," Michael mumbled, staggering toward the disappearing puddle. "I'm just... really thirsty."

Mr. Choudhry, his finger still pointed like a weapon, aimed it again at Michael. “Yes, well, maybe if you didn’t spend all your money on the fucking beers, you’d have enough for water!” He looked Michael up and down. “And soap!”

As Mr. Choudhry advanced on Michael with a loaded finger raised; he stood on what looked to be a blackened grease trail from the takeaway next door. His eyes had barely time to widen in shock as his foot swung out from under him narrowly missing Michaels face in a sweep that would have gotten an approving nod from a fly-half. In a spectacular display of gravity, the momentum of that leg took the other with it, and he slammed into the ground with a horrible thunk. There was a sickening noise as his neck gouged open on a ragged bit of metal sticking out from the handrail of the fire exit. It was probably the one Health & Safety had mentioned on their last inspection but Choudhry had ignored. He hit the flagstones with all the grace of a dropped sack of potatoes, blood pouring from the newly opened hole in his carotid artery.

Michael stood and froze, hands in the air as if caught mid-crime—though to be fair, he had just stolen a bottle of water. He stared at the pool of blood spreading quickly, the dark red contrasting sharply against the dusty ground.

He frowned. Biting his lip as if making a difficult decision. He was so thirsty.

With a growing sense of inevitability, Michael slowly got down onto his hands and knees. His lips hovered just above the blood, and with a hesitant breath, he dipped down and took a drink. It wasn’t what he’d planned. But god, it quenched that relentless thirst. His eyes closed as the warm liquid soothed his parched throat.

He sucked up the entire puddle, the thirst finally fading. Smacking his lips, Michael stood up, feeling remarkably refreshed. The shopkeeper now lay motionless, drained of all colour—both literally and figuratively. His skin had turned a shade of grey that would make a ghost look sun-kissed.

Michael stared down at Mr. Choudhry’s lifeless body, blood still on his lips, then turned and bolted down the alleyway.

Rounding the first corner, Michael slowed from a sprint to a brisk walk, passing through that awkward half-jog that made him look as though he’d either strained something or, more likely, shat himself. He suspected his gait was now projecting the latter.

Regardless, he knew he needed to get away from here as quickly as possible. He headed straight up the road the way he’d come–only to realise mere metres later, that if anyone was watching, they’d now see him walking directly toward his flat. Hardly the stealthy getaway he’d hoped for.

At the next corner, he took an over exaggerated left turn that no peeping Tom could’ve missed, striding on with a newfound nonchalance. Partly, he supposed, because he’d slowed his pace. But also because, to his own surprise, he wasn’t actually nervous about it.

Unbelievably, he actually felt… well, good. Not just ‘hangover’s finally gone good’, but ‘could handle anything the day threw at him’ good. Which was odd, really, considering he’d just downed a drink in possibly the worst way imaginable. Sure, he knew he’d had a belter of a hangover, but should he feel this good after quenching his thirst? Or was it the way in which he’d done it? Maybe he was high on some strange survival hormone currently coursing through his veins. Or was there something about blood that did this to a man?

Then again… could it just be Mr. Choudhry’s blood? Perhaps he’d had one too many happy pills that morning. No, he corrected himself, it couldn’t be that. Not with his face.

Without realising it, he’d made it almost all the way home. He’d taken a few unnecessary turns along the way—why, he had no idea. Perhaps he’d thought it would throw off any invisible pursuers, or maybe he just hadn’t wanted to seem like he was making a direct escape. Or perhaps, most likely, he was simply in too much of a daze to walk in a straight line. The sight of his front door felt like an oasis in the desert, or possibly a bunker at the end of a battlefield. In truth, it was neither—it was just a battered old door with peeling paint and a lock that jammed on Thursdays. But today, it looked like the most reassuring thing in the world.

“WOOF!” went Bastard, stretching over the fence to snap at Michael as he approached the stairs.

“For fuck’s sake!” Michael yelped as his heart rate rocketed back up to a hundred miles an hour.

Clutching his chest for comfort, he staggered up the stairs and wrestled his key into the door. The familiar, slightly musty smell of home greeted him, and he let out a long, shaky breath as he shut the world firmly on the other side of it. He dropped onto the brown settee, which creaked obligingly under him, and stared at the blank TV screen.

For once, he was glad it was switched off.

He leaned back and closed his eyes, hoping that somewhere on the inside of his eyelids, some celestial administrator had scribbled a note explaining exactly what the hell had just happened. Something like: “Congratulations, Michael, you’ve discovered the secret of eternal life. Good luck with that.” But no. All he got was the usual show of purple and green swirls, dancing around with the vague enthusiasm of leftover static. Not helpful in the slightest.

After a while, he stood up with a sigh, hands on hips, scanning the room for answers that weren’t there. Surely he should be nervous, right? People got nervous about far smaller things than drinking blood off the dirt. People had been known to have existential crises over a bad haircut or the wrong colour wallpaper. And yet here he was, as calm as if he’d just come back from the shops.

Michael gave a cautious glance out the window, half-expecting to find flashing lights and raised eyebrows, but the street was as quiet as ever. He closed the curtain. The logical thing to do now, he decided, was to make a cup of tea. 

oh, right. 

Well with that plan out the window he flicked the TV on and flipped through the five available channels. No news. Nothing about dead shopkeepers. Well it had only just happened, he supposed. 

He sat back down, but moments later was up again, pacing back and forth. Anxiety had been such an integral part of his life up to this point that he felt distinctly unmoored without it. Surely he should be doing something. But what?

He glanced over at his old mobile phone, silent as always. No calls, no texts—not that there ever were. He wasn’t even sure what he’d been hoping for. A message from the police, perhaps? Oi, mate, did you just drink someone’s blood? He snorted, his lips twitching with a flicker of mirth that quickly faded.

But, all joking aside, what would he actually do if the police came knocking? Had he even done anything… well, illegal?

“Okay,” he muttered to himself, talking it through in the hopes it might make some sense. “Yes, stealing the water was wrong. And I suppose not reporting a death is technically a crime. But other than that, I haven’t actually done anything wrong, have I?” He paused, scratching his head. “Drinking blood? Weird, yes. But… is it illegal? I mean, no one ever said it was.”

He shrugged, half-convinced by his own reasoning. Yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, an errant thought surfaced, nudging its way to the front. It was very exciting, though.

Without realising it, Michael had flicked through the channels again and landed on Channel 5. The 2002 Spider-Man film was on. He took this as a sign that the universe was mercifully offering him a distraction. He’d sit tight, watch a bit of telly, and stay put until the local news came on—surely something as catastrophic as a dead shopkeeper in Cardiff auditioning for the California Raisins, would be newsworthy. He wandered into the kitchen to make a cup of tea… oh. Right. No water. The universe, again, mocked him. Typical.

He plopped back down on the settee, scratching his head as Tobey Maguire’s Peter Parker began discovering his strange new abilities. What if…? A reckless notion bubbled up in his mind, one he couldn’t ignore.

Moments later, he was in the bathroom, staring into the mirror. His vision was still a bit blurry, but his skin—well, now, that was something. He leaned in. Softer. Less haggard. His hair looked marginally less grey, too, and he hadn’t even forked out for one of those fancy shampoos. He took off his glasses and blinked. Perfect vision? Nope.

In a burst of optimism, he lifted his hand and attempted to shoot a web at the wall. Nothing happened, of course.

"Well, obviously," he muttered to himself. I wasn’t bitten by a spider and since when did spiderman go around drinking up random pools of blood.

But curiosity tugged at him. He inspected his hands, squinting at them as if they’d start glowing or sprouting fangs. They didn’t. But in an odd moment of inspiration—no, it was more like compulsion—he drew his arm back and punched the bathroom wall.

There was a crunch, followed by a crack, followed by a single brick flying out of his bathroom wall towards his settee. Followed, very quickly by him howling at the top of his lungs.

"AAaaaHHHaaHHH FUCK ME, THAT HURTS! AAAARGH! OW OW OW! FUUUUUCK!"

He shook his hand, half-expecting to see a mangled mess, but his knuckles were unscathed, even if his nerves weren’t. Pain, it seemed, was no respecter of newfound strength. 

And what strength? Michael looked at the brick in the room, increasingly amazed by the distance it had travelled. It had separated itself from the rest of the wall, mortar and plaster tumbling after it. It even still had a fist shaped bit of the bathroom wallpaper attached and that stuff was from the 70s and probably contained asbestos.

Knock knock.

Michael froze, eyes darting to the front door.

Knock knock knock.

He tiptoed over, still nursing his hand. He peered through the dirty peephole, not daring to approach the curtains in case he gave his position away. Standing there, cigarette in hand and an expression of barely contained frustration, was Jackie from next door. Oh thank god, he thought.

"Mike, are you alright?" she shouted through the door, sounding as though she already knew the answer. "I heard loads of swearing and shouting."

Michael opened the door a crack and cleared his throat doing his best to offer a neighbourly smile. "Yes, I’m OK, thanks. Just... stubbed my toe."

"Well, do you mind keepin’ it the fuck down? I just got the baby to fuckin’ sleep."

"Sorry." he offered, like that was the worst thing he’d done so far today.

Satisfied she’d made her point, Jackie flashed a scrunched nose smile at him before shuffling back to her own flat next door, muttering something unkind under her breath.

Michael closed the door with a smile but his restlessness hadn’t quite gone away. He was still buzzing, still wondering, his mind racing with all the inexplicable things that had happened today. He looked at the brick on the floor of the living room and its corresponding hole in the wall. He knew he was way more proud of that than he should be.

So he decided to do what any self-respecting superhero might do next. He tried a jump—and promptly smacked his head on the ceiling. The thud echoed through the flat, and he cursed himself for making yet more noise. He glanced nervously at the door, half-expecting Jackie to appear with a fresh set of complaints.

He sighed. Right. Cup of tea and a think… oh. Right. No water. Just a think then.

He again plonked himself in front of spider-man while thinking of the wonderful things he might discover about himself later. Then he had an idea. Flat rooftops at night, he thought, rubbing his forehead. That’s when superheroes do their thing. I’m safe until then if I just stay here. The thought actually brought him a surprising amount of peace. He settled back on the sofa, his mind beginning to drift.

Just then, his old mobile phone let out a cheerful, polyphonic beep. He glanced down at the display. It read: JOB CENTRE 4PM.

“Fuck,” Michael muttered.

BURTON 1B

9:00, Friday morning Aug 12 1966.

“Why are we still holding that Patton character down in the cells? He should be on his way to Regina.” Sgt. Rice looked unhappy as he strode up behind Wilson.

“Somethings come up, Sgt..” Wilson said, turning his head to look at his boss. “I was waiting for you to come in to bring you up to speed.” Sgt. Dennis Rice parked a cheek on Wilson's desk and looked at him expectantly. “Patton gave me some information yesterday about an old case, trying to cut a deal.”

“Somebody shoots one of my members, and he wants to cut a deal? I don't think that's going to happen.” Rice said. “Darren is home with plasters all over his face. They dug out seven pellets. He's lucky he didn't lose an eye. That's attempted murder and I'm going to push the crown on that.”

Wilson nodded, picked the file of the desk and handed it to the Staff Sgt. “I found this interesting”, he said as Rice took the file and looked at the date on the label.

“Nineteen forty-seven!” Rice exploded. “I'm surprised this is still around.” He glanced briefly through the few contents in the folder and handed it back. “A missing person from twenty years ago,” he shrugged. “What did Patton have to do with it?”

Wilson leaned back in his chair. “When he was in his teens he said he was in a field next to this missing guys farm. He said he was snaring gophers, and from where he was laying on the ground he saw some people, a woman and two young boys, taking something heavy from the barn and throwing it down a well. He said he didn't think too much about it, but later on he heard that the guy had gone missing, taken off and left his family.”

“Snaring gophers?” Rice looked puzzled.

Wilson laughed. “I asked him about that too. A Saskatchewan thing I guess. He said he would go to a gopher hole where he had seen a gopher go down. He would put a string snare around the hole, wait for the little head to pop up, yank on the string, and snare it. He said he would get a penny for every gopher tail.”

“Christ, sounds like Dogpatch.” Rice shook his head. “The guys a punk bootlegger selling beer to high school kids. What the hell was he doing with a shotgun in his truck in the first place? Is he a bit simple?”

“No, just suffering a serious deficit of morals. I'm sure letting off that shotgun blast was just a panic thing. He said that when he saw the headlights approaching he thought it was the kids coming for booze. He said he was holding the gun just to intimidate them. Said if they decided just to jack him he wasn't exactly in a position to come to us about it. When Darren turned the car, and he saw the crest on the door, he just fired a shot in the general direction, hoping to jump in his truck and get away.”

Rice chuckled. “Guess he didn't anticipate the adrenaline-fuelled reaction of a very pissed-of young cop.” Wilson smiled. Darren had radioed that he was coming back to the detachment with a prisoner. Twenty minutes later he rolled up in front of the building, pulled a bruised and dishevelled Patton from the backseat, and pushed him through the front doors.

According to those present it had been quite a sight, the young, angry, bleeding constable shoving the handcuffed, bloody-nosed prisoner up to the front desk and saying, “This son-of a-bitch shot me.”

The two men smiled in recollection of the story.

“So, he just heard this Hall guy had gone missing and put two and two together?” Rice asked, getting back to the current issue.

“Not right away, but later on.”

“And, of course, he rushed right down to the detachment to tell us his theory.”

Wilson laughed. “I brought up the lag-time on this news, and he admitted that he hoped that it was Hall who was put down the well. He said he would have liked to have done it himself. He said he had gone over the year before to see if he could get a bit of work doing deliveries with him. Patton said Hall cuffed him on the side of his head, and told him to get off his land. He said when he bent over to crawl through the barbed wire, Hall kicked him in the ass so hard it was painful to sit down for a year. Said he thought Hall broke his tail bone.”

Rice chewed on this for a few seconds. “You think it's worth following up on?”

“Actually”, Wilson said, “I went out to the Hall farm after shift yesterday. I talked to Mrs. Hall and her daughter.” He went over the discussion from the previous evening with his boss.

“How did they seem?” Rice asked, when Wilson had finished.

“They seemed very forthright. Nice People. I liked them. It seems Hall put them through hell. Still, it's an interesting story. I wouldn't mind pursuing it further. Hall's parents are farming up out of Cudworth. The bother lives out on the farm, the folks have moved into town. I thought I would drive up there and talk to them.”

Rice looked doubtful, “It all sounds like bull-shit to me. According to that time-line, the guy was thrown down the well around the time he disappeared. Then they are supposed to have used the well to continue watering the animals. That well would have been polluted, unusable. We're short-handed here. I can't have you wasting any time on this.”

Wilson shrugged. “I don't see him coming up with a story like this, if it can be so easily disproved.”

“His ass is in a sling. He's just grasping at straws. If you want to look into it, you'll have to do most of it on your own time.”

“What about the talking to the Hall's up in Cudworth, I could drive up?”

“That would take you all day”, Rice looked at his watch. “There's a detachment at Wakaw. Give them a call and have a guy run down and talk to them. Wakaw is only about ten miles away. You don't need any more information from this Patton character. We have remand papers. Set up a relay to get him transported up to Regina. We're paying a civilian guard to sit down there and watch him, and we're paying for his restaurant meals. Get him out of here.”

“I'll take care of it”, Wilson said.

Rice shook his head in frustration. “Doug, half our constables are green behind the ears. Two are fresh out of training and one came here after spending a year with his ass parked on a horse at Ottawa. Someone has to straighten out that new kid, Beveridge. He's strutting around town like he owns the place. He's going to be trouble. Right now I think people are just laughing at him, but if he keeps up with that attitude, we are going to start getting complaints. I'm spending all my time dealing with paperwork, and the mayor calls me very half hour asking what he should do about something.” He wound down and shook his head again. “We have enough to do without looking for something extra to spend our time on.”

“I'll take Beveridge under my wing,” Wilson assured him. As Rice strode away, a door swung open and a young constable strode in, spurs jingling with each step. “Carter”, Wilson called, and waved him over. “You've set up relays to get prisoners delivered down to Regina, haven't you?”

“Sure.”

“Great, I've got a job for you.”

After Carter left to set up the prisoner relay, Wilson laboured through a list of questions he wanted the member from Wakaw to present to the Halls in Cudworth. He would much rather ask the questions himself, and be able to read the body language, but this would have to do. When he was satisfied, he lifted the phone and put the call through to Wakaw.

I'm looking for peer reviews. The assignment is a flash narrative and is supposed to be around 1000 words. I've gone a bit over and wonder if there's anything I should cut down. The peer reviews I got in class were somewhat underwhelming so I wanted to share it here.

"Moki Dugway"

“We can have a trailer out there to meet you around six-thirty. It’ll take about an hour to tow your bike into town, but the tire shop wont be open till mornin.” Her voice cut in and out over the phone.

If they come for me now I’d have to find a place to stay in Henderson and didn’t have much money. The September sky was still warm as the sun began to dip. Red cliffs cast a shadow over the vast desert I had crossed earlier in the day. What a beautiful place to be stranded with a flat, I thought. I was going to fall behind schedule, how far behind? At least a day to get the tire replaced. What then?

I quickly weighed my options before replying, “Can you come for me in the morning?”

“If that’s what you want,” she chuckled. “But we could bring you in tonight, you can stay at the RV park. I know em, and they'll find a place for ya. Up to you.”

I walked to the edge of the road and looked across the vista, answered, “Going into town won’t do me much good with the shop being closed. I think I’ll just spend the night here. I’ve already reached out to my provider, but service is spotty.”

“I’ll send someone tomorrow then, just pulled a Harley out there last week, we know the area. And don’t worry about insurance, I’ll deal with em later. You, um,” she hesitated, “You gonna be safe out there?” “I’ve got what I need, besides it’s peaceful here. Wish you could see the view.” I replied. She laughed briefly and said something, but it cut out.

“Well okay then,” her voice came back, “I’ll need your coordinates to send my driver.”

“I have them, give me a second” I navigated to Google Maps. “Are you ready?” There was a pause. “I have the coordinates, can you-” the call dropped. No service, no roaming. I tried to call her back, wouldn’t connect. Waited, tried again. Nothing.

I turned to face the motorcycle which was parked in a sandy pullout carrying my camping equipment. The rear tire had completely worn through the tread, Such a stupid mistake, I thought. The road angled 40 yards uphill to my left and cut back right above the sandy pullout. It continued higher and higher along a narrow cliff ledge until it wrapped around a buttress to the north and out of sight. This was the beginning of the trail.

The Moki Dugway is an unpaved road carved into the cliff side of Cedar Mesa, Southeast Utah, Navajo Nation. It’s well known for its steep grade, narrow passages, and exposed precipitous drops. Accidents are rare on the Dugway, but a mistake would be catastrophic. I was stuck at the bottom where the desert met the base of the cliffs.

Did I make the right decision? Will someone even come for me? I felt doubtful for the fist time, isolated, desperate, probably in over my head. I’d already been on the road for days, camping in various climates and conditions, and solving smaller problems along the way. I was clearly showing signs of prolonged exposure to the elements, but had enough food and water, and felt strong physically. “They’ll come,” I verbalized.

I intended to sleep under the stars with the motorcycle, but was deterred by a healthy tarantula population and set up a small bivy tent behind the bike. There was still some daylight left, but the 800 foot sandstone walls immediately to my west kept me shaded. Undone straps and cords dripped from the motorcycle, along with my water bag, backpack, and various pieces of gear hanging from the handlebars. The camp was taking shape, lightweight, but functional.

I’d done everything I could for the day, cracked a beer, and sat in my chair next to the bike when a truck approached. It rolled past, then braked, reversed, and stopped in front of me.

“You okay?” he asked. His preteen daughter was sitting in the passenger seat and spoke before I could, “See, I told you! He has a flat tire!” Then I answered, “I’ve got a truck coming tomorrow from Henderson, I’ll be alright.” The father replied, “Okay, just thought we’d check in. We’re from Missouri, you ever been up this road before?” “Nah man, just to here.” I laughed amusingly. “If you come back down you better tell me how it was.” They departed.

More travelers passed by, stopping to check on me. They came from allover the world and had their own stories to tell. Our purposes, objectives, and backgrounds varied, but we shared the same time and space in this corner of the world; total strangers, yet seemingly connected by the land. In some way, being stranded began to feel like a high point. Wouldn’t have planned for it, could never repeat it. A worst case scenario, and the best night of the trip.

Faint stars began to glimmer in the twilight when a single biker came up the road. I stood up to greet the fellow motorist who flipped up his visor, only revealing his eyes. He shouted, “Terrible luck!” He dismounted the bike leaving it in middle of the road, engine still purring quietly. He took off the helmet revealing an old face, weathered, but clean cut with medium length gray hair swept back behind his ears. “I’ve got a plug kit and compressor if you need it.” he offered as he rest the helmet. “It's worn through, think a plug will help?” I said.

“Worn through?” he stepped passed me and flashed a light on the tire, knelt down. “Got your full mileage on that one kid.” He said, smiling wryly as he turned towards me and stood up. I felt embarrassed.

“I’m making the most of it, kinda live for this stuff.” My thoughts were between drunken optimism and sober apathy. He seemed to disregard the comment, which was after all a vapid expression; easily tossed around within the moto-camping community. He was clearly more experienced and better equipped.

“You’ll only make that mistake once, we’ve all been there,” He said, remaining respectful. He began walking back around his bike, “I’m coming back down tomorrow heading south to Kayenta, If you’re still here I can-” “I have a truck coming tomorrow, if you reach service can you tell them where I’m at?” I cut him off. “I’ll do what I can, but don’t expect any miracles. Cell coverage isn’t any better in the towns.”

I never saw or heard from him again, same for the others I met on the road.

It was total dark. No moon, only stars and the soft glow of the Milky Way stretching across the sky. There were flashes of lightning in the distance to the south, and coyotes howling in the darkness below. With the way things have gone I had no idea what to expect for tomorrow. I had a plan, but if there’s anything I learned, the plan always changes.

The below written scene happens after something like 10-12k word of the story, but can be read independently too, as it sort-of recaps the some of the events in-story. Wanted some feedback in the Dialogue and Pacing department
____
 

I grabbed my overcoat from the drawer, a necessary accessory for any self-respecting investigator—or so I told myself. It was more about getting into character, feeling like I was stepping into a role that would help me unravel the mystery of last night.

As I reached for the door, my eyes caught the key stand. My bike—the one that should have been my ride to the afterlife—was nowhere to be found. The keys weren't on the stand, nor had I found them in the clothes I was wearing during the accident. It was as if the bike had vanished into thin air.

The exact location of the accident was a blur, a hazy memory lost in the chaos of that night. To be honest, who pays attention to their surroundings when the accelerator is stuck on high and the brakes have decided to take an unannounced vacation? I had a general idea of the area, but with a margin of error of a kilometer or two, it wasn't exactly encouraging.

Untrusting of machines that run on petroleum, I opted for my trusty bicycle. I grabbed the lock key and slipped out the door, careful not to wake my sister. The investigation was about to begin.

...

...

You know what...I shouldn't have worn the damn overcoat.

Seriously, who rides a bicycle in the middle of the city looking like Sherlock Holmes' eccentric cousin? The morning rush, though thankfully lighter than a weekday, was still enough to earn me a collection of bewildered stares. I’m pretty sure I'll never forget the little kid in the kindergarten uniform pointing at me and asking his mom, "Mommy, look at that funny man!" And the mother, damn he-ahem, I mean, bless her judgmental soul, telling him not to stare at strange people.

Well, water under the bridge, I guess. Just another awkward memory to bury under a mountain of even more awkward memories. Wait… doesn’t that mean I need more awkward moments to bury the previous ones? It’s like some sort of Ouroboros of cringe.

Anyway, the closer I got to the supposed accident site, the more deserted the streets became. Like, seriously deserted. I hadn't seen a single soul in the last two minutes. I just kept pedaling, following the highway, which was supposed to be bustling with traffic. Even for a Saturday, this was ridiculous. Where was everyone?

Suddenly, my vision blurred, like a rush of wind had hit me square in the face. I stopped, rubbing my eyes. “What the hell was that?” I muttered, glancing around. Nothing. Just empty road stretching out before me. Shrugging it off, I got back on the bike and continued.

Moments later, two figures materialized in the distance, decked out in full SWAT gear, complete with intimidating-looking firearms. “Oh shit, don't tell me…” I mumbled, a knot of unease tightening in my stomach. They noticed me immediately. A flicker of confusion crossed their faces before hardening into steely determination. With reflexes that would make a ninja jealous, they raised their weapons, aiming directly at me.

“HALT! DO NOT MOVE!” one of them barked, his voice amplified by some kind of speaker system.

“Whoa, easy there, fellas,” I said, trying to keep my voice light despite the fact that my heart was doing a frantic tap-dance against my ribs. “Maybe point those big, black… persuasion devices somewhere else? I’m prone to nervous bladder malfunctions.”

“SHUT UP!” the other one yelled. “DISMOUNT THE VEHICLE! KEEP YOUR HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”

“Dismount? But she’s such a lovely steed,” I quipped, still perched on my bicycle. “Besides, why the sudden hospitality? I’m just out for a morning ride.”

“You are trespassing on a secured area!” the first one shouted. “Now, GET ON THE GROUND!”

“Secured area, huh?” I muttered as I swung my leg over the bike and placed it gently on the asphalt. “I just put on clean clothes this morning…” I raised my hands in mock surrender which earned me a grunt from the grumpy soldiers.

“Alright, alright, don't shoot. I'm going, I'm going.” I slowly lowered myself to the ground, the cool asphalt a stark contrast to the sudden heat that had flared up in my face. “Mind telling me what I’m being detained for?”

“You’re trespassing,” the first guard repeated, his voice laced with impatience. “Now shut the fuck up.”

I complied, but not without a sarcastic, “Well, that’s just lovely. Can I at least request a pillow? The ground’s a tad bit chilly.”

Ignoring my attempt at humor, one of the guards pulled out a transponder and started speaking into it. “Command, we’ve got an intruder in the third sector. Requesting instructions.”

I couldn’t make out the full reply, but I heard a few words that sent a shiver down my spine: “Detain... Bring to base...”

The guard gave a sharp, “Affirmative,” and then snapped back to me with an icy glare. “If you move even an inch, I’ll put a bullet in you. Understood?”

“Uh, does breathing count?” I asked, my voice a tad too shaky for my liking. “I’ve got a bit of a history with breathing issues.”

No reply. Just a cold stare and the muzzle of a gun pointed directly at me. The second guard walked over and cuffed my hands behind my back with a efficiency that made me wonder if he’d been a scout leader in a past life.

With my arms secured, they yanked me to my feet and marched me forward. The further we went, the more surreal the scene became. We crossed into an area littered with white and black tents, each bearing a strange symbol that looked like a cross between a biohazard sign and some ancient rune.

“Holy fuck,” I breathed, taking in the sight before me. There, in the center of it all, was a crater. A honest-to-god, ten-meter-wide crater, like someone had dropped a small meteor there. People in white hazmat suits were moving around, carrying equipment and taking measurements.

“What the hell happened here?” I muttered, more to myself than to my captors. But they didn’t respond. Just kept marching me forward, towards one of the larger tents.

As we approached the larger tent, a figure emerged from the shadows, silhouetted against the harsh artificial lights inside. This guy was different from the grunts who had apprehended me. He was dressed in a crisp, black suit that looked like it had been ironed with a razor's edge. His hair was slicked back, and he had an air about him that screamed authority—the kind of authority that didn't need a badge or a gun to make you feel small.

He eyed me with a mix of curiosity and annoyance, his gaze so intense it made me want to squirm. I felt like a bug under a magnifying glass, and I didn't like it one bit. There went my hope of going home anytime soon. Hell, I'd be lucky if they didn't decide to dissect me just to see what made me tick. Hopefully, they leave my dearest Excalibur alone, it deserves to be preserved for future generation's appreciative gaze.

"Is this the one?" he asked no one in particular, but Grumpy Guard Number One was quick to respond.

"Sir, yes, sir! We found him riding a bicycle straight toward the incident site."

Hey! How was I supposed to know they'd claimed the area? It's not like there was a big neon sign saying, "Top-Secret Illuminati Knockoff at Work."

"So, how are you guys doing here?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light despite the nervous tremor that threatened to give me away. "Found any aliens or anything?"

The suit didn't bat an eye. "No. Who sent you here?" Straight to the point, no bullshit. I had to admire his efficiency, even if it was currently directed at me like a lit blowtorch.

"Would you believe that I was just out to get some milk for my little babies at home?" I tried to laugh, but it came out more like a nervous squeak.

He raised an eyebrow. "I might have been inclined to believe you if you hadn't bypassed multiple mystical fields undetected." He glanced at my overcoat with a look of distaste. "And that's me not mentioning anything about that ugly overcoat of yours."

"Hey, that's rude as fuck," I grumbled, genuinely offended. My overcoat was beautiful. Okay, maybe it was a bit worn, and the color was more of a dull brown than the rich chocolate it had been when I first bought it, but still. It had character. "And what's this mystical field you're talking about? I didn't see any field while coming here."

The suit stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. "The mystical fields are designed to keep people out, to make them ignore this area entirely. The fact that you're here, that you managed to bypass them without so much as a blip on our radar..." He paused, his voice dropping to a low growl. "It makes me think you're not just some clueless idiot out for a bike ride."

I shrugged, trying to maintain an air of nonchalance. "Sorry to disappoint, but I'm just your average, everyday clueless idiot. No mystical field-bypassing skills here." I spread my hands—well, as much as I could with them cuffed behind my back—and gave him a sheepish grin.

The suit didn't smile back. Instead, he gestured towards the tent. "We'll see about that. Bring him inside."

As they led me into the tent, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had just stepped into something far bigger and far more dangerous than I could have ever imagined. And all because I decided to wear that damn overcoat.

After strapping my hands to the arms of a chair that looked like it belonged in a low-budget spy thriller, the two grumpy guards left me alone in a bare-ass room inside the tent. I had been thoroughly searched, and they had taken everything I had on me, barring my clothes. They even made me pass through a weird metal-detector gate thing three times. Talk about lackadaisical efficiency.

The tent was larger than I had expected. Seriously, it looked more like a quickly assembled house than a tent from the inside. The walls were lined with various equipment and monitors, and the air was filled with a low hum of machinery. I couldn't help but feel a mix of curiosity and dread. What the hell was this place, and why was I here?

After what felt like an eternity, the suit guy entered the room, holding a tablet in his hand. He scrolled through it, his eyes flicking over the screen as he began to speak.

"Alexander Hartley, 28 years old, single child of Margaret and Thomas Hartley, who currently reside off-town. Graduated with a Bachelor's in Mechanical Engineering from State University, followed by a Master's in Computer Science. Currently working as a freelance 3D asset designer in the city."

He looked up from the tablet, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that made me squirm. "Quite the impressive resume, Mr. Hartley."

I raised an eyebrow, trying to hide my growing unease. "Yeah, thanks for the recap, but I already know all that. It's not like I hit my head on a wall and lost my memories."

The suit guy ignored my sarcasm and continued, "Your parents are currently on a cruise, celebrating their 30th wedding anniversary. You have no siblings, no significant other, and your closest friend is a guy named Jake Thompson, whom you've known since high school."

I shifted uncomfortably in the chair, the metal cuffs digging into my wrists. "Okay, so you've done your homework. What's your point?"

He set the tablet down on a nearby table and crossed his arms, leaning against the edge. "My point, Mr. Hartley, is that you're something of an enigma. You have no criminal record, no known affiliations with any organizations that would be interested in our... activities here. And yet, here you are, sitting in our tent, having bypassed our security measures without so much as a blink."

I shrugged, trying to maintain a facade of calm. "Like I said, I'm just a guy out for a bike ride with questionable dressing choices. Maybe your security measures need an upgrade, whatever these mystical fields you're using."

The man in the suit placed his finger on my chest, his gaze sharpening like a blade. "That is indeed a possibility, but the chances of that happening are vanishingly small. And in my line of work, we do not bet on chances. So how about you tell us how you bypassed three separate fifth-order mystical fields before we are forced to use... less than pleasant means to find the truth ourselves?"

I sighed in exasperation and looked straight into his eyes. "Before I answer your question, how about you answer some simple doubts of mine? A bit of pity for poor me?"

He walked back, pulled a chair, and sat down cross-legged, a flicker of amusement in his gaze. "Go on, ask your doubts. The chances of me giving answers to them are minuscule, but I'm willing to entertain them for a moment. Things have been going slow here, so I have some time to spare."

"Very encouraging," I muttered. "So, first question first, who are you people? What happened here?"

He looked a bit surprised and stared at me with a strange gaze. "That's a question I wasn't expecting. If you're a spy, either you're one of the best or one of the worst I've ever seen. I sense not a single ounce of false intent in your questions. You're genuinely curious?"

"Bruh, I never had false intent to begin with," I replied, rolling my eyes. "Couldn't you have 'detected' it earlier? And how do you even detect it? Some lie-detector built into this sex-dungeon chair or something?"

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "I have my means, can't disclose them obviously. Secrets and all that. And no, it's not some lie-detector, as much as I would love to have one that works on everybody. Would make this work quite a bit less tedious." He shrugged with a hint of laughter. "Well, leaving that aside, let's focus back on you."

I raised an eyebrow. "So you now know I'm telling the truth when I say I have no idea who you people are or what happened here. So, how about a little quid pro quo? You answer my questions, and I'll answer yours. Fair's fair, right?"

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs as he contemplated my proposal. After a moment, he nodded. "Alright, Mr. Hartley. I'll play your game. We are a... specialized task force, dealing with phenomena that fall outside the purview of ordinary law enforcement. As for what happened here, let's just say it was an incident of significant magnitude that required our immediate attention."

I whistled softly. "Specialized task force, huh? Government-sanctioned or just playing around in secret without Uncle Joe knowing?"

He coughed slightly, a hint of unease in his demeanor. "We... have the required permits and authority by governments worldwide."

Sussy.

He continued, "Now, my turn. How did you bypass our security measures?"

I sighed, running a hand through my hair—or at least imagined doing so, since I couldn't really do it with the cuffs on. "Look, I don't know anything about your mystical fields or whatever. I was just out for a bike ride, trying to figure out what happened to me last night. You know, I like those investigation shows, so I was just out doing a bit of it myself and—"

He raised his eyebrow, leaning forward with renewed interest. "Hold on, what happened last night?"

Ah, fuck it, can't hide this thing anyway.

"So you see, I was playing this game called Mark: Survival Devolved last night in a gaming cafe. In the game, you play as a dino named Mark who roams around a human city, with the aim of making slaves out of humans. He beats them up after dragging them into an alley, and then force-feeds them weird food until they become obedient out of sheer terror."

He stared at me with a deadpan expression, clearly wondering why the hell I was talking about the game. But he didn't lose focus. "Interesting game you speak of. So did something happen to you while playing this game? Any weird experience, anything out of the normal?"

"Oh, no, nothing happened. I just played it until late night, around 12, I guess. Paying the charges, I walked out of the cafe."

He maintained his stare, his mind clearly racing. "So what happened after?"

"I took out my bike from the parking lot and started driving. I was feeling all good; after all, who doesn't after a bit of forceful slavery, huh?" I nudged toward the exasperated suit guy.

He raised an eyebrow. "Ah, you are no fun. Okay, okay, let me continue. The next part is important. So suddenly, my bike's accelerator got stuck on full throttle. And then I panicked and pressed the brake, and guess what? I slowed down... for a second, before I heard a clunking noise under the bike. Lo and behold, I see something break and fall off the tires, and my brakes are suddenly all loose. Can you guess how pissy I got at that moment?"

I sighed, the memory of last night flooding back like a bad movie montage. "As my bike was accelerating, it was becoming harder and harder to handle it on that small road. So, I maneuvered it towards the highway. You know, more space, fewer pedestrians to mow down."

The suit guy perked up, his eyes narrowing with sudden interest. "Is the highway you're talking about the same one where we are right now?"

"Correcto, fifty points to Gryffindor," I quipped, trying to lighten the mood. The suit guy wasn't amused, but he was definitely interested now. "Anyway, I noticed there was a traffic jam up ahead, and not wanting to implicate anyone else in the accident, I turned my bike handle for a sudden turn."

He leaned forward, his voice taking on a sharper edge. "Quite noble of you. What happened then? How did you survive without a speck of injury on your body?"

I shrugged, the cuffs clinking against the chair. "I... don't know. Everything else was a blur thereafter before going dark. I just woke up this morning in my bed, feeling confused. Ran up here to check what the hell happened. Now that I mention it, I should go and check up on the gaming cafe too. Because seriously, it all feels like a hazy dream."

The suit guy's expression shifted, a mix of skepticism and intrigue playing across his face. He stood up abruptly, pushing his chair back with a screech that made me wince. "A hazy dream, you say. Interesting choice of words, Mr. Hartley."

He turned away, pacing the length of the room with his hands clasped behind his back. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant hum of machinery outside the tent. I could almost see the gears turning in his head, trying to piece together the puzzle I'd presented him.

Finally, he stopped pacing and turned back to me, his eyes gleaming with a newfound intensity. "You mentioned a gaming cafe. Which one?"

"The one downtown, near the old theater. 'Epic Pixel.' You can't miss it—there's a giant neon sign of a joystick out front."

The suit guy nodded, pulling out his tablet and tapping something into it. "Epic Pixel. Got it. We'll look into it. But for now, let's focus on the here and now. We have discovered something on this incident site that might be of interest to you."

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. "I'm always interested, but show me what you got."

He tapped something else on the tablet and then pointed it toward me. On the screen was a picture of a crumpled mass of metal and other debris, but it was something I could recognize from sixty-nine light-years away.

"My baby... Look how they massacred my baby," I mumbled, my eyes welling up with tears. It was like seeing an old friend beaten and broken, left to rust in the dirt.

"Yours, I presume?" he asked, his voice neutral, almost clinical.

"Yes," I choked out, trying to keep my composure. "I could recognize that metallic texture, that color pattern, the—ahem, anyway, yes, it's definitely mine."

He nodded, his eyes scanning me like I was some sort of puzzle he was trying to solve. "Interesting. So, you claim you have no memory of what happened after your bike accelerated out of control and you turned to avoid the traffic jam. Yet, here you are, unscathed, and your bike is... well, not so lucky."

I shrugged, the cuffs clinking against the chair. "Like I said, it's all a blur. One minute I'm trying not to become a human pancake, the next I'm waking up in my bed like nothing happened."

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "And you expect me to believe that?"

"Believe what you want, buddy. I'm just telling you what I know. Which, admittedly, isn't much."

He sighed, rubbing his temple like he had a migraine coming on. "Alright, Mr. Hartley. Let's say I believe you. That still leaves us with the question of how you bypassed our security measures. And how you managed to survive a crash that, by all accounts, should have left you in a similar state to your bike."

I leaned forward, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Maybe I'm just lucky. Or maybe I've got a guardian angel watching over me."

He snorted. "Luck and guardian angels have no place in my line of work, Mr. Hartley. There's always an explanation, always a reason."

"Well, when you find it, be sure to let me know. Because I'm just as curious as you are."

He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "We'll see about that. In the meantime, I have some calls to make. Stay put."

I raised an eyebrow, glancing down at the cuffs securing me to the chair. "Not like I have much choice. But hey, while you're at it, could you bring back some coffee? I could use the caffeine. And maybe a tissue. You know, for my baby."

He gave me a look that was somewhere between amusement and exasperation before exiting the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts once again. As the door flap closed behind him, I couldn't release the fart I was holding under my ass.

Peace and Destruction

It’s always there,

Hiding everywhere,

Injuring others,

Killing my brothers,

And still getting away with it,

It walks its way in,

Going through the corridor,

Trying to fill in all the gaps,

Absorbing everything within its sight,

Thinking it has all the might,

But within the gaps lies Peace,

Where flowers bloom,

And birds chirp,

And fish leap,

And there is no such thing as doom,

They look for one,

But get the other,

They think this is the way for growth,

Brother, think again!

What is life without both?

I'm working on a story that is set in 1966 with flashbacks to the forties. It is a mystery and coming of age story, the back story done in flashbacks. I have twenty five chapters written (30,000 words), most in rough draft. My concern is that the first chapter does not have enough to pique interest and grab a reader. I would appreciate any thoughts.

CHAPTER 1

Burton 1B

Thursday evening 5:30, Aug 11, 1966.

Liz Hall turned her head at the sound of a car crunching through the gravel. She glanced at her watch to check the time, pushed the basket of tomatoes aside and got up from her knees.

Brushing her blonde hair away from her eyes, she watched the car roll up to the house. Liz recognized the man who emerged from behind the wheel, a brown briefcase clutched in his hand. The new corporal, who had arrived in the town detachment a few weeks earlier. She saw him look up at the peeling, white house, and start for the door.

“Can I help you?” she called. He spun, startled and watched Liz approach.

“Sorry, I didn't see you,” he said. He seemed confused. “Don't I know you?”

“I work at city hall,” Liz said. “You've probably seen me there.”

“That would be it,” he said putting out his hand. “I'm still getting used to the town and the faces. Doug Wilson.”

“Liz Hall,” Liz said, taking the proffered one, completing the introduction. “How can I help you,” she repeated,

“I'm looking for Clara Hall,” the cop said.

“That's my mother,” Liz said, a puzzled look on her face. “She's in the other house.” She pointed at the bright yellow building that stood a short distance away. At that moment the door of the yellow house opened and a white haired woman stepped out, her hand up to shield her eyes as she took in the scene. “That's her. What did she do?”

“Nothing that I'm aware of,” Wilson said with a smile. “I just have a few questions about an old investigation that she might be able to help me with.”

“Hold on while I get my tomatoes and I'll introduce you,” she said over her shoulder, as she went back into the garden and lifted her basket.

“Can I help you with that?” Wilson asked as she came back.

“I have it, it's not heavy. I'm getting very curious now,” she added as she led the way to the yellow house.

“Mom, this is corporal Wilson,” Liz said as she set her basket down on the porch. “He says he has some questions for you.”

Clara Hall nodded without expression. “Well you better come on in then. It sounds like this may take a cup of coffee to get through,” she said, turning and entering the house.

Wilson took off his hat and took an indicated seat at the kitchen table. Liz sat at the opposite side and stared at him. He was a trim man of average height. His uniform fit him well. The uniform shirt had been tailored, tapered to get rid of the billowing at the waist. She had noticed the shine on his boots and the highly polished brass belt buckle. Everything about him was in sharp contrast to most of the R.C.M.P. members at the Burton detachment. She thought that while he was vain about his appearance, he would be equally fastidious about his work and habits. He was a good-looking man with short, neatly trimmed hair. He had hazel eyes that focused on yours when he spoke to you. She watched him carefully as he explored the room with those eyes. Liz was sure he missed nothing.

“So, what are these questions?” Clara Hall asked from the stove where she was pouring scoops of coffee into Percolator.

“It's about your husband, Clyde Hall”, Wilson said.

Clara spun around from the stove, coffee grains spilling on the tile floor. “He's turned up?” She cried in disbelief. “A bad penny turned up after umpteen years.”

Liz took everything in, in a flash. Her mother's reaction, and Wilson's close examination of her mother and her reaction to his words. A chill ran up her spine.

There was a pause before Wilson spoke again. “No, I'm afraid not. It's just that it is still an open file. We often take another look at old files. A-fresh-pair-of-eyes, sort of thing.”

Liz gave a disbelieving snort. “After twenty years, on a missing person's case? I don't think so. This is more of aunt Bernice's doing, mom.”

“Aunt Bernice?” Wilson seemed honestly confused.

“Bernice Saretski,” Liz said disdainfully. “Dad's sister. She hounded us for years after he ran off and left us.”

“Oh, yes. There were a number of letters from her in the file, Nothing recent though and I have not spoken to her.”

“Really?”, Liz said doubtfully. “Well I can't believe this is suddenly important. It didn't seem to be that important twenty years ago when he was reported missing.”

Clara seemed to have regained her composure. She left the pot on the stove and took a seat at the table. “So what are the questions?” she asked resignedly.

Wilson opened the brown briefcase and pulled out a file. “Perhaps you could go back over the events of that day. The last time you saw him. You were both here, right.”

“Twenty years ago,” Liz laughed. “I'm sure our memory was better twenty years ago.”

“Nineteen years actually,” Wilson said, undeterred. “You would have been what, thirteen at the time?”

“I suppose,” Liz said.

“She was,” Clara said. “And Clinton was 12. My memory of that day is quite clear, thank you. I didn't see Clyde that afternoon. I heard the wagon come into the yard. I was in the kitchen in the old house.” She pointed at it through the window over the table. “I was preparing dinner. The Children came in and told me their father had jumped off the wagon, left it for Clinton to put the horses away like he always did, walked back down to the highway, got in a strange car and took off, going away from town.” She paused to take a breath. “Good riddance.”

“I's OK, Mom,” Liz said, placing a hand over her mothers clenched ones on the table. “My father was a drunk, Corporal, a violent one. It was a strain on us financially when he took off, but in many ways our life improved.”

Wilson nodded understandingly. “So, both you and your brother...” he looked down at his file, “Clint, saw him leave in the car”.

“That's right.”

“Did he say anything to you or your brother before he walked down to the highway?” he asked Liz.

Liz shook her head, “No.”

“Was the car there when he started to walk down the drive, or did it pull up later?”

“I didn't see the car until dad started to walk away, it was already parked there then, waiting,” Liz said.

“Where is Clint now?” Wilson asked.

“He's in Alberta. He works in the oil-patch,” Liz said. A fleeting change in Wilson's expression told Liz that he had checked on her brother, and knew he was currently in jail in Fort Saskatchewan. She looked at her mother and back at Wilson with a small shake of her head, signalling that her mother did not know this. Wilson gave a small nod of acknowledgement.

“You didn't phone the office until six days later to report him missing”, Wilson said, “was he in the habit of going off like that?”

“Phone”, Clara said with a snort. “There was no phone back then. I think the only phone this side of the tracks was Art Shiminoski's. He would let people use it in an emergency, but I didn't think this was an emergency. No, I walked to the police station, Mr. Wilson. Back then it was in the post office, on the third floor, right under the clock. I talked to the sergeant. He had another cop take the report. That's probably the one you have there. No one ever got back to us”.

Wilson took a quick look down at the file then looked at Liz. “So, no one ever interviewed you. Took a statement?” Liz met his eyes and shook her head. He turned to Clara.“Then this description of the car was just what your children told you?”

“That's right,” Clara said. “The police couldn't have been less interested. Clinton and Elizabeth didn't know much about cars. They just said it looked like the one Mr. Lackland drove.”

Wilson looked down again at the few brief pages in the old complaint sheet and shook his head. “There's no mention of that here. Do you know if anyone talked to this Mr. Lackland.”

“I have no idea”, Clara said. “You'd have to ask them.”

“Lackland was the minister at the United Church.” Liz volunteered. “He was probably eighty at the time. He died not long after, if I remember rightly. They probably wrote him off as unlikely to be involved with my father in any way.”

The coffee pot had been perking for some time. Liz got up and brought two cups to the table, putting one in front of her mother and giving one to Wilson. Wilson declined cream and sugar.

“So,” Clara said, “to answer your question, no, he wasn't in the habit of running off. He had never done it before”, Clara said. “The only reason we reported it in the first place was to let people know. Some people in town depended on him, why I don't know. He was a very undependable man. Well, that's unfair,” she said, gazing off into the distance. “I just wanted people to know he was gone. I expected him to return home anytime, although, to be honest, I think I was hoping he wouldn't. Still, he has family in the area. If he didn't return for us, I would have expected him to come back for them.”

She took her gaze from the kitchen wall and looked at Wilson. “It was the war,” she said. “He came back changed. He had a serious head injury, but I think it was what he went through over there that changed him, not the injury so much. Clyde was a fine, loving man when I married him. He doted on the children. But, like I said, he came back changed, a violent man, and then a drunk. The smallest thing would set him off. Clinton took most of his abuse. The boy could do nothing right. It changed Clinton, the beatings. He started getting in trouble, not so much then, but later, after his father was gone. The damage had already been done,” she added sadly.

Liz nodded and said, “Clint took most of Dad's abuse, but it was he who stepped in to fill his shoes. He managed to get delivery jobs on the week-end with the team. We got more chickens and Clint sold eggs in town. He was twelve years old,” she added, her eyes shining with pride.

“There was another boy here that day,” Wilson said after a long pause, looking down at the file.

Liz and Clara looked at each other, puzzled. “I don't think so,” Liz said.

Clara shook her head. “We never had much in the way of company here. Clyde wouldn't tolerate it.”

Liz nodded, “The only one with the courage to show up some times, when dad was away, was Alan.”

“Alan?” Wilson looked from one to the other questioningly.

“Alan King”, Liz said, “Clint's friend.”

Clara gave a small chuckle. “More your friend, I suspect,” she said, looking at her daughter.

“That was later, after dad was gone,” Liz corrected her mother.

“I don't think Clinton and Alan would have become such good friends if Alan hadn't been coming around mooning over you,” Clara said.

Liz gave a small smile. “Perhaps, but I don't recall him being around that day. He certainly wasn't around when dad came home. I remember telling him about dad's disappearance a few days later.”

There were few other questions and Wilson thanked them for their time. On the porch he looked around the yard. “I don't see a well.” he said. “Are you on city water?”

Liz's heart skipped a beat. “We are now,” her mother said, with a note of pride. “Clinton had town water brought to the old house six years ago and put in indoor plumbing. Two years ago he built this new house for me.”

“How was your well water before?” Wilson asked.

“It took some getting used to,” Clara laughed. “Even before Clyde left for the war, visitors soon learned to decline a second cup of coffee.”

“We were all used to it,” Liz said, “it wasn't that bad.”

“Ha!” Clara scoffed. “It tasted like you were sucking on pennies and rusty nails.”

Wilson laughed. “Where was the well?” he asked, offhandedly.

“Under the house,” Clara said. “We had a well in the yard, but back in forty-seven, Clyde and his brother dug a well right under the house. It's still there. Clint had it capped after he had the town water brought in.”

Wilson looked puzzled. “How did you water the animals?” he asked.

“The old well was still in the yard,” Clara said. “I told Clyde we didn't need a new well, but he wanted to put a pump right in my kitchen, so I wouldn't have to go out to the well. That was when his head was still good, before the war.”

“I remember when they were digging that well under the house,” Liz chimed in. “They were bringing up the dirt in buckets, through the trap door in the kitchen floor.”

“And half of it ended up on the floor,” Clara said shaking her head. “You and Clinton managed to track it through the rest of the house.” She smiled at her daughter.

“Those were happy times,” Liz said wistfully.

“Yes”, Clara nodded, leaning over and putting her arm around her daughter's shoulders. “Still, I don't think that well was worth the effort, but Clyde was so proud of it when it was finished. He and Art hauled a wagon load of planks down there to shore it up. It was sort of sad when Clinton had town water brought in and took that old pump out.”

“I don't see the old well,” Wilson said, looking around the yard.

“There.” Clara pointed at the vegetable garden. “After it was filled in, Clinton put the septic field over it. He said the vegetable garden would be OK there, if we didn't plant anything with deep roots.”

Wilson looked around the yard, taking it all in. The weathered barn with half of it's loft-door hanging open on one hinge. The hen house with half a dozen chickens scratching in the yard. All of it reminiscent of a different time, a happier time. He shook his head, “Well, again, thank you for your time.” They shook hands.

“I'll walk you to your car”, Liz said, stepping off the porch with him. Half-way back to the car she turned to him. “What's this really all about?” she asked.

Wilson looked confused for a second. “Just what I said. Sometimes we go back through old files to see if there have been any new leads or anything.”

“I might buy that if this had been a spectacular, unsolved murder case, but not the twenty-year-old disappearance of a drunk and trouble maker.”

As Wilson opened the door of his car Liz said, “I'll tell you this. You won't find my father sleeping under a bridge someplace in Vancouver. With his violent nature he would have been in prison years ago. The only reason he didn't end up there, is because he's dead.”

Wilson nodded. “Honestly, I'm inclined to agree with you.”

Liz watched the car turn onto the highway and went back to the house. She picked up the basket of tomatoes and went inside.

Her mother was at the table, a fresh cup of coffee in front of her.

“I'm worried, Mom,” Liz said, putting the tomatoes on the counter. “What did you make of all that?”

“Nothing to be worried about,” her mother said, waving a dismissive hand, “but he's a sharp one that,” she added, nodding to Wilson's empty chair. “He gets an idea, and he'll worry it like a dog on a bone. Somebody must have said something to get him going.”

“You seemed pretty cool about it all,” Liz said.

“I had a good idea what it was about. I've been waiting for that car to roll into the yard for nineteen years.” She looked out into the fading light in thought. “Has anything interesting been going on in town lately?” she asked.

Liz shrugged, “Just the Terry Patton thing. It looks like the cop he shot will be fine. He's at home now. Terry is still in the cells at the detachment. They've set a preliminary hearing for November.”

Clara shook her head and sighed. “I feel I should go over and talk to Will and Mary, or at least phone, but I don't know what to say. Terry has been a problem since the day he was born.”

Liz nodded, but offered no suggestion.“Those questions about the well shook me. They made no sense in context and were too casual.”

“You're right,” her mother said. “Time will tell what's going on here, not to worry,” she paused and looked at her daughter. “What was that thing between you and him when Clinton's name came up?”

Liz gave a resigned sigh. Wilson wasn't the only one in the room who didn't miss anything. “Clint's in jail. He got two months for some bar fight. Wilson was fishing, when he brought up Clint. I figured he already knew he was in jail. I didn't want him to mention it.”

Clara nodded sadly and said, “There's still a half a pot of coffee on the stove, made with fine tasting city water.” She took another sip from her cup to emphasize the point.

“It would keep me awake all night,” Liz said. “I think I'll read until bedtime.” It wasn't the coffee that kept her tossing and turning all night.

A letter ought to be a mundane thing at worst, and an exciting thing at best; it should never be a death sentence.

The letter is on the kitchen table in front of me, unopened months after having received it.

I’ve seen letters like this before. They found my siblings, my neighbors, some childhood friends. I know what the letter means without even opening it. The four words written in blue ink on the front are a good enough indication: Lotus Court Official Summons.

I numb the sting of those four words with another long pull of ale—it’s my fifth stein of the night, and the buzz isn’t doing much. I’ve been trying to dull the ache of those words for the past three months and I haven’t been very successful.

This is probably my last night at this table, made of rich mahogany and large enough to fit a family of eight. It’s hosted dinners, holidays, shouting matches, tears... It’s a fine piece, crafted by my grandfather, possibly the finest ever made by Allister hands. Before the letter arrived, I hoped I would one day make something even greater.

Footsteps pad down wooden stairs, and for a brief moment, I’m reminded that this may well be my last night within these walls.

“Rowan?” a voice whispers from the candlelit dark.

“Yeah?”

Thalia steps through the threshold into the kitchen. She’s in that same black dress I took off her hours ago, and it does very little to conceal her figure. Out of respect, I keep my eyes up.

“You’re still awake?”

“Yup.”

She slips into the seat across from me, looking vulnerable with her scrubbed hands, freshly washed hair, and bloodshot eyes. I know that look, I’ve seen it before. She's been crying.

“I know you can’t sleep,” she says and nods to the ale. “That certainly won’t help.”

I shrug and take another swig. “Doesn’t hurt either.”

“You should get some rest. You and your father have a long ride ahead of you tomorrow.”

“I think I’m still debating whether I should try and run.”

Thalia lets out a soft chuckle, a sound that makes the hole in my chest just a bit deeper.

“You can’t run, Rowan. Lotus Court and their Outriders…they always find the runners. Besides, where will you run to? No place to hide in High-Country…and if you try and leave the mountains—well, then you might as well just face the music tomorrow.”

“Could still be worth trying.”

Her smile fades, and her eyes threaten to well up with tears. Somehow she holds them back.

“I can’t do it, not after what happened to my siblings. And I can’t lose you…”

“I know, but the alternative is I lose you anyway. At least this way we can maybe both find happiness again one day.”

Her voice cracks at the end of her sentence, and it likely takes her a considerable amount of willpower to keep from bursting into tears right then and there. We’ve spent months preparing for this day, and every moment since the letter arrived, we’ve put off this exact conversation, fearful of what it might mean.

I want to get up from the table, embrace her, kiss her, tell her how much I love her, but there’s no use. We’ve done that for the past six months, and it didn’t change anything. No matter what, I’m going to Radiant Peak and being paired off—Court’s orders.

“I don’t think I can fall in love again, not like this.”

She smiles. “You will, and so will I. We’re young, Rowan, so young with so much life to live. Bonding is bigger than us; the Courts only pick the strongest pairs. If you find someone at the ceremony tomorrow, know that they are a greater match than I could ever be.”

I chuckle now. “You don’t really believe that.”

She shrugs. “What I’m saying is that we have to believe it. That’s just the way things go—because there isn’t anything we can do to stop it.”

A silence settles between us, leaving a gulf ten miles wide.

“So this is it? Tomorrow is it…?” I finally say.

“It is.”

“I so badly wanted to marry you.”

She nods. “I know, but that isn’t up to us. You have a duty to uphold.”

“To High Country?”

“No, to your family. If there’s one thing the Court does well, it’s treat their successful champions. If you do this and succeed—like really succeed—you won’t ever have to want for anything ever again.”

“That’s not true.”

She sighs and gets up from her seat. “I’m leaving, Rowan. If not for you, then for me.” She shakes her head. “I can’t go with you tomorrow. It will only make things harder for us.”

I don’t say anything, I just nod. I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. When she offered to spend the night with me, something told me that it would be our last shared moment. And what a moment it was. Out behind the family estate, under a cover of pines and stars—an evening I’ll never forget.

Three months ago, I was prepared for a lifetime of moments like those. But the summons letter on the table in front of me has stopped everything.

“Goodnight, Rowan,” she says. “I hope good Karmas find you tomorrow.”

With that, she gets up, grabs her coat off the back of the living room sofa, and exits through the front door.

I have the urge to run after her, to chase her down in the dark and kiss her one last time, but we’ve done that too.  The passion and hope in her eyes has been smothered.

We both know what that letter means—she’s lost people to it too.

So, alone in the kitchen of my childhood home, I swallow three more pints of ale from the jugs in the pantry and keep a keen eye on the grandfather clock a few feet away in the living room.

My mind spirals as it has done for the past three months. Why? Why me? It’s not like I’m particularly fit, or smart. My family has certainly already served the court plenty—haven’t they had enough Allister?

I’ve always wondered why the Bonding even happened, and the answer has always been the same—because it ensures the safety and future of High Country. When I was younger I used to question it more, every child in High Country does, but between the teachers, Outriders, and town pastors you learn that it’s safer and easier not to wonder. Some even go so far as to believe what they’re saying without question. 

The hours creep by, midnight turning to two, then four. The only company I have is the soft groan and creak of the house as a summer storm rages across Gregor Peak. There’s something comforting about the wind's howl and the steady patter of rain.

Once upon a time, the house at that hour would’ve been filled with the chatter and footsteps of my older siblings. Those sounds are long gone now.

Somehow, sleep finds me and lands me face down on the kitchen table in a shallow puddle of my own drool.

In my dreams, I’m at that table again, and I’m laughing so hard my stomach hurts.

I am shaken awake hours later by the whistle of a tea kettle.

I jolt up and find my father in the kitchen, pouring two cups of tea. He’s a broad man, with the same ruddy complexion and stout build as all men in the Allister family. My sisters are in the kitchen too, dressed in their school uniforms—pleated skirts and black collared blouses each stitched with a little pink Lotus on the chest. I wore that same uniform once, as did my older siblings.

If there’s one rule in the Allister household, it’s that nothing goes to waste.

My sisters poke around bowls of oatmeal as they each bury their noses into thick textbooks. If only diligent study guaranteed your name would be skipped in the Summons ceremony.

“I heard Thalia leave last night,” my father says as he hands me a cup of tea. “She isn’t coming?”

“No.”

My father nods. “Good, you shouldn’t put her through that.”

“What do you mean?”

My father jabs a finger at the letter on the kitchen table.

“Everyone knows what this letter means. Thalia ain’t dumb, and neither are you—so stop acting like it.”

There’s a sadness in his eyes, and it leaves a stark disconnect from the gruffness of his tone. My sisters don’t look up from their textbooks.

In the past, they would have snickered at me facing one of my father’s tirades. Now they avoid my eyes, and I’m certain that letter is the reason.

“You can’t expect me to just go along with this, not after everything that’s happened.”

My father doesn’t respond right away. He just turns back to the stove where he cracks two eggs into a hot skillet.

I suddenly feel incredibly foolish for speaking back to my father like that.

He, more than anyone, knows the suffering that can come from a simple letter from the Lotus Court. Without me, my mother, and my older siblings, it’ll just be him and my little sisters in that big house, surrounded by so much loss. And there is absolutely nothing any of us can do about it.

Breakfast is served, and we eat it in a hurry. The grandfather clock strikes seven, and it’s time for my sisters to walk to where the school wagon picks them up.

They make their quiet, tearful goodbyes. They know what comes next, having seen it three times before. After long hugs and whispered promises to return, they step out the front door. A big part of me knows that this will be our last moment together. I try very hard not to think on the futures I’ll be missing out on. 

My father and I step out after them and are greeted by a dewy morning in the forest.

The morning is beautiful. The summer sun glints off every damp surface, and the tops of towering pines sway in the warm breeze. Despite the mud, the forest seems to have weathered the storm with little damage.

We find our horses in the stable. There are only two in the family now—and they’re sisters, a pair of senior auburn appaloosas.

They huff and snort at us as we saddle them up and prepare them for riding.

“They’re eager,” my father says. “I think they know they’re going on a long ride.”

“I wish I was eager too,” I say with a chuckle.

My father smirks—the most I've seen him smile in weeks.

“You know, there is a chance that you will make it, right?”

I shrug. “I suppose.”

“You’re strong, Mara wasn’t strong. You’re smart—” he chuckles. “I love Lucian and Ash, but neither of them were very bright.”

I laugh with him. “Karmas won’t like to hear you speak ill of the dead.”

“I’m just looking at it honest-like. They’re my children; I knew them better than anyone else—if anyone can speak ill of them, it’s me.”

My father lets out a stuttering sigh, and that pain returns to his eyes.

“I know you too, Rowan. I’m hopeful you’ll make it.”

I nod, swallowing back the tears that well at the corners of my eyes.

“Me too.”

Saddles secure, we hop on and trot away from the family manor.

I suddenly find new admiration for the worn-out farmhouse: its wrap-around porch, the leaning willow in the front yard, the dip in the slatted roofing. It’s no luxurious home, but it’s been mine for all of my life.

We leave the manor proper and pass through the remaining acres of Allister land. It’s a sprawling property, with rows of tilled farmland ready for a planting of beets, broccoli, and cucumber.

The hired help is out there working the land, repairing whatever was disrupted the night before.

They wave at us from under wide-brimmed hats as we pass by. Each of them has immigrated from the Valley and has been thoroughly checked and cleared by local authorities. While they may be outsiders, they’re safe outsiders. To me, they look like distant cousins.

We reach a pair of wrought iron gates that open onto a gravel highway winding through dense pine forest. Up the road, we spot the horse-drawn wagon filled with children heading to Gregor Peak’s schoolhouse. I imagine my sisters are onboard, trying to hide their tears.

“I know what you’re thinking,” my father says.

“Yeah?”

“You’re wondering if you’ll see them again.”

I don’t know how to respond. I just keep my eyes on the gravel road.

“Part of making sure you make it back, is believing you’ll make it back. Karmas don’t listen to fear or doubt.”

“I know.”

My father clears his throat and gazes down the long gravel road leading north, away from Gregor Peak. “Come, son, we have a lot of riding to do before we reach Radiant Peak.”

hi everyone. I have had some conflicting comments about my prologue. i wanna see if you all have the same feedback or different feedback :) thank you in advance!

The forest hums with excitement as the wind brings the deep, sour scent of blood and Feral venom to him. Enigma picks up his once leisurely pace, his heart racing. The Ferals killed someone, not a creature but someone. That's the only time the land around the Manor buzzes like this.

Loud voices reach his ears. They’re closer than what his fathers maps said. He holds his breath, stopping dead in his tracks terrified they’ll hear him. His father always warned him about this clan. They are ruthless and territorial. They kill without remorse and don't care about status outside of their own familial clans. He has always listened, made sure to never get close to the mark his father left on his maps, but he never thought they were so close to the Shimmer Deer trail.

Movement catches his eye. Not the entire Feral clan but a large hunting party. Never before has he come face to face with them, and it's as if terror sweeps down his spine when his gaze locks onto the massive, savage brand emblazoned across the chest of their leader. Larger than the rest. According to the books the chief’s have the biggest brand in the clans. Panic courses through his veins, constricting his chest, rendering his fingers numb and setting the top of his head ablaze with an overwhelming tingling. 

Despite his fear, he dares not tear his eyes away from their menacing figures. But even as he maintains his unwavering gaze, ensuring none of them notice him, he stumbles upon harrowing evidence of a recent and violent struggle. 

Crimson fingerprints claw desperately through the earth, while tattered remnants of a vivid turquoise fabric flutter ominously in the breeze, and shattered blades gleam ominously in the dim light, all converging on a solitary, gnarled oak tree.

Even the rustling of the leaves stop as his eyes meet a young Feral woman, her brand sprawling in swirls and dots across her chest. 

Quiet. 

Tied to the tree with a knot that would only tighten if she fights. 

Her strawberry blond hair cascades in wild, untamed curls, forming a fiery halo that frames her face. A mesmerizing, almost otherworldly, mask of vibrant turquoise paint stretches across her eyes, resembling a fierce warrior's battle markings, splattered with explosive bursts of fiery copper. The bright turquoise dress she wears clings to her torso like a second skin, soaked in blood, different colored venoms, and torn to ribbons revealing gruesome stab wounds. Hacking, sawing. They did everything aside from stab her in the heart or the head. That would have been an easy death.

She's practically a child, barely older than fifteen, perhaps even younger. What could she have done to get this sort of treatment?

Enigma inches closer to her, his hands trembling, half of his mind focused on the sounds of the Ferals behind him, talking, laughing, hidden just behind the bushes around the clearing. Is she dead? She has to be with the amount of broken blades littering the ground around her. The urge to kneel drops him to his knee, his brand-new leather boots creaking ominously as he descends. His eyes grow wide, the sound seeming louder than ever. 

The faintest gasp of air from the young Feral sends a lightning bolt coursing through his veins, his heart threatening to burst from his chest.

She's alive. Barely.

He searches the ground, but unsure of which blade contained venom or not he pulls a knife from a hidden holster in his boot. 

Ferals are dangerous. 

Especially ones with big brands like hers. 

They're dangerous. 

I can’t leave her…

The irresistible urge to save her surges within him, eclipsing his very fear. He is catapulted to ten years before. How the town below the hill his family lived on left him to die in the city center. No one offered to help. No one cast a second glance in his direction as his blood drenched his clothes like this young Ferals soaks hers.

He tries sliding the knife under the rope around her neck. Her hand strikes like a snake seizing his wrist with a vice-like grip, the armor on her fingertips puncturing his flesh with an agonizing intensity. His breaths tremble as he dares to lift his gaze, locking onto her eyes, an inky, ominous blue.

“I’m trying to help you,” he whispers.

She shakes her head trying to pull his hand away. “Lig dom bás...” she whimpers.

Bás… die…that one Feral that was hung in Hawthorne said the same word…

He cuts the rope, accidentally nicking her skin. “That, I will not do.”