She’d always cry hysterically after sex, beg me to forgive her for her breaking body, her frozen heart. I told her it was normal to feel that way. I was as pleased to meet her as i was to pleasure her, to let her into my heart. 
We met at a lake where it rained, but now it’s flooded over time, accrued into a marsh in the sea. 
She had always been a broken girl. When she was a kid, she’d count roadkill, masturbate to odd pornography. She peed the bed until she was much too old. She never fit in with her friends, her family. Or at least she thought so; in retrospect, she said, maybe it was all a manifestation of who she thought she was.
She was always apologizing. Felt guilty for everything she did, cried when she said too much and knew too little. Cut herself for the smallest mistakes.
She told me something everyone else knew, but i didn’t.
She told me she loved the moon, showed me how she’d keep the windows open to see it’s light.
“It’s strange,” she’d say, “I always thought night was flooded with the dark.”
But one day the windows were blown open, and she saw the moon’s light for the first time, or at least recognized it.
“I’d never felt so cared for.”
I asked her if I made her feel that way and she closed the window. We slept together in silence.
Our sex was rowdy, but she’d hit my pelvis harshly and apologize like I was a holy temple. She always treated my body like god. Always held me like i was an angel. I held hers like a corpse, frail as she was, handling her like glass with care. I think i held her too little.
She started slipping away from my grasp.
Skipped dinner.
Talked more with the moon than she did me.
Took too many pills.
“My hope is that one day, these’ll kill me,” she joked, and I looked at her gravely.
I saw her eyes bloom with the thought of being carried away by the universe. Taken between heaven and earth.
I always knew that the universe was one big thing, she always wanted to go outside of it.
Outside the limitations.
She was once bold and quaint and queer to those around her.
Adventurous, happy.
But then i got to know her, and I saw how her eyes weren’t blue, but unmistakably gray.
She left her dishes in the sink, half-full, whispering secrets to the moon. I sometimes heard her say my name, curse it.
I found a note in the closet. I hurried to our bedroom, found her alive, staring at the yellow popcorn ceiling. She refused to go outside.
“Here are the only stars I need,” she said, and threw up like a dog.
She was bedridden for months, frail. The doctors said she had deep-rooted hatred that infected her bones like a cancer. I pitied her, cradled her, made her chicken soup.
“Don’t act sad when i die.” she said, calloused.
I didn’t appreciate her enough at the time to be grateful for those words.
“Now, now,” I said, i wish i said anything else.
She had told me she was sick long ago, but I didn’t see it until her skin was yellow with it. The window panes once broke, and when she awoke, a bug had crawled from inside it into her mouth. She wasn’t mad, told me she felt that way too.
I asked her why, and she said she was simply unwanted, crawling between window panes and empty universes was the same. She told me she wanted to make like a wave, to recede into the sea. 
I asked her what she believed in.
She told me she believed she was as much universe as i was, and it made me mad. I couldn’t fathom the universe being the same thing as me, and me being anything like her. I resented that notion, resented the universe, i told her. She just sighed and let go of my hand.
Sometimes, I awoke to her crying in the night.
Little sobs like waves that’d retreat to her body when she’d fall asleep. I never said anything.
One day, she got what she wanted.
She died, sick with the sadness in her bones. Put herself out of her misery, shot herself a grand seven times.
I stand here, holding her ashes, gripping them like they are all i have.
We were never happy, i resent myself for trying.
Maybe someone else could have loved her.
I miss that woman, crying at the moon, swallowing tears like waves.
Maybe I was like her all along.

Just sharing this here for a little inspo - because david mamet said it best - always be closing! Even writers!

https://brevity.wordpress.com/2026/10/13/the-writers-abcs/

And if you want to come to a Q&A tomorrow about selling work, read to the end of the essay -

It's a complete work, curious what people think of the characters and motivations.

For anyone who takes their time to read thank you in advance!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1s9uNwoxdQEL9vACKd9_HCx1qFirghd2bDOXXEdSkz8M/edit?usp=drivesdk

And oh the sound of you
Muffled by the new music i like listening to
Each stroke
And each feeling they provoke

So much pain yet so much satisfaction
Of knowing you’re back to cure the depression
I felt during the whole time
During the whole time you ceased to be mine

Yet for the whole duration of our time apart
I still picked at the skin you took from a part
Of my being
Hoping each piece will serve as a countdown until your next arriving

These blood droplets, coagulating while you create more,
The feeling of my cold pointer finger wiping them away like the sea on the shore,
Always seems to make my body warm up to my core.

Counted recently and there are seven unfinished drafts sitting in various folders. Novels, short stories, a memoir attempt from two years ago. All abandoned somewhere around the 20k word mark. Some of them were genuinely good ideas that just lost steam.

The pattern is always the same. Strong start, lose momentum around the middle, start something new, repeat. Starting is easy. Finishing is the hard part. And the more unfinished projects pile up, the harder it gets to commit to any single one.
Part of it is discipline. Part of it is that switching between projects means losing all the context you built up, character voices, plot threads, world details. Rebuilding that context every time is exhausting, so starting fresh feels easier than returning.

Anyone actually cracked the code on this or is it just the writer's curse?

Been working on this for some time, I got some areas I definitely need help and advice in but overall I’m proud of my work.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1rapa9GgFehh0EE_eQVHrATBc_GGgaltJ1bg8F2FE2JI/edit?usp=drivesdk

14.10

I never thought my pain could consume me this deeply.

Even now, as I write these words, I’m afraid to look at the screen because I realize just how much it hurts.

My hands are shackled in heavy chains, and I can’t seem to find the keys. I smile. I try to appear happy, to be the person everyone wants me to be. But the truth is, I’ve lost myself.

I can’t make music. I can’t create. I can’t sleep peacefully or even breathe without feeling the weight of everything inside me. All the best moments of my life seem to be covered by the shadow of these thoughts. I’m trapped within four walls, locked inside myself, left alone with my own mind.

The most terrifying part is that I’m aware of all of it. But that awareness only makes the pain worse.

The time is 9:11 PM. It feels like my clock stopped ticking not long ago. My life has been put on pause.

I love this life, but I’ve grown to hate myself.

For years, I tried to become someone. I was close. I kept moving forward, trying, building plans for my future. But somewhere along the way, I fell into a pit.

Now I’m covered in blood, trying to climb out, but something keeps pulling me back by the leg. The chain is so strong that with every passing second, I sink lower and lower.

A panic disorder? I don’t know.

I feel eyes watching me from behind. I feel like a victim of a system I was never meant to be a part of.

Who am I? What am I? Do I even have a choice?

I think. A lot. Too much. I try to turn a blind eye to so many things, to pretend everything is fine. But when your wings are torn off, it hurts.

You realize that maybe you’ll never be able to fly again. And all you can do is keep crashing against the ground, slowly losing your strength.

I love my friends. I love her. But I’m losing myself.

Do you know how painful it is when she holds you in her arms, and you feel so broken that you just sit there, unable to say a word? When something is happening inside you that you can’t even explain to yourself, and not even the embrace of someone you love can silence the pain.

While I was writing these words, she even called me. I couldn’t properly put into words what was happening to me.

They called me a drug addict.

But my only addiction was life itself.

Music. The night. The air. Those moments when I could be alone with myself, without unwanted attention, without having to play a role, without that version of myself I’m constantly trying to show the world.

I want to be, not to seem.

I want to be myself.

Maybe I’m a bad son. Maybe a bad grandson. Maybe my own father has already forgotten that I even exist.

Maybe people are simply putting up with me.

I feel like a stranger.

You know that feeling when you don’t fit into the mold of what a “good” person is supposed to be? When you’ve spent your whole life working on yourself, trying to achieve something, moving forward, only to suddenly find yourself trapped in a cage?

Maybe one day I’ll lose everything because of this.

My friends. Her.

And honestly, I don’t think I could put up with someone who feels the way I do and becomes the kind of person I’m becoming.

You know, everyone has a family. People argue, make up, and carry on living together. But in a real family, despite all the conflicts, you still feel at home. You feel like you belong to something. Like there’s a place where you can return and be accepted.

But sometimes, it’s different.

Sometimes, even when you’re already grown up, it feels as if someone picks you up and carries you back years into the past — to a time when you were nobody, when you had no voice and no right to choose. They put you in a corner and point their fingers at you, as if you were still that little child who has no right to decide who to be or how to live.

Fuck, it’s so hard to walk the same road twice.

Dark thoughts begin to creep into my mind.

I’m living for something. Something is still keeping me here, stopping those thoughts from becoming something more than just thoughts.

My whole body aches. I’m suffocating under this strange, unbearable loneliness, surrounded by walls that are supposed to feel like home.

The irony is that these very walls are where I achieved everything I have today. This is where I earned my money, gained what I had been working toward, and accomplished something with my life.

And now, this is the very place where I feel like I’m dying.

It hurts to realize that some people dream of moving away, of finding a job, of having the freedom to build a life of their own. And I, who have seemingly already obtained so much of what others can only dream of, still don’t feel happy.

I often envy those children who have a family that feels whole.

I have always been my own family.

I’ve been through a lot. Too much. I’ve spent so long keeping everything inside, trapping myself in my own thoughts, trying to deal with everything on my own.

But what happens next?

Every day, I wake up within these same walls, beneath this same ceiling, hoping that today I won’t have to think about any of it. That today, things will feel a little easier. That maybe, just for a moment, I’ll feel like my old self again.

But I can no longer accept myself with all these thoughts inside my head.

I feel sick.

No, I’m not poisoned.

I’ve just had enough.

waylon.

Hello, I have just written this short prologue and have intentions of continuing into a short story, this is my first piece of writing and would appreciate any help.

Thanks

Prologue

Sand. Sand was all he thought about. Sand replaced the hair on his face and dark leather of his coat; sand filled his black engineer boots, grating against his pale flesh. The man, a sole speck on a vast rolling plain, nothing but a lone star a dark night's sky.

The man had once had a name, but the memory was almost lost to him as if it were a life 1000 years before. As he walked on through the seemingly endless wasteland, he considered the distance he had travelled. He supposed he had walked about 150 miles over the 3 days since he had departed. Looking back, he watched as the gentle wind covered his tracks. the sand, an ever-flowing golden river, always shifting and never content.

He could no longer see the home he had left or hear the familiar sounds of the cattle which his family had relied upon. He had left the house, and the cattle, just as he had left the shallow grave of his wife and unborn child. His wife had been 27, only 5 years younger than himself, and she had Soley occupied his thoughts for the first 2 days and nights of his journey. The man was heavy with grief and carried the blame for her death like an iron chain around his ankle.

*****

6 men, drifters all, had come to his farm drunk and demanding that he saddle them with good mounts in exchange for a price below what he himself had paid for the 4 Mares they had selected, when he refused, the youngest of the group, no more than 19 years, drew his pistol and fired, scarcely missing the man and startling the mount he was sitting on causing her to rear on her hind legs throwing him off. Rising quickly, he drew and fired twice. Catching one man square in the forehead and another high in the chest. Before he could turn to face the other men, he felt the hard impact of the stock of a rifle to his temple.

When he awoke, the 4 mares were gone, and his cattle had been driven off into the plains. His barn and farmhouse had both been set alight, blazing like an unnatural sunrise in the dark of night.

The man stood above the charred carcass of what was once his wife and wept for he knew he was to blame, he knelt and cried until the rising sun grew too hot on his back he could kneel no longer.

He set off in the direction of the 4 remaining drifters after burying his wife and covering the grave in a cairn of large stones to prevent scavengers from digging it up. As he walked by the two dead men, he watched a large buzzard tear into the flesh of the young outlaw, and he felt no pity, only regret.

Howdy everyone! I'm new to writing, and this is my first genuinely major written thing. So. Hope you enjoy it! Also. Feel free to criticize it if you want!

Sidenote: this is part 1 of the story. I decided to post the first part only because I wanted to abide by the word count rules. The link below leads directly to a viewing only Google Doc which contains the first part of the story. Tell me what you think and what you noticed, please!

Copyright laws apply, as usual.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1oYW7Pbv25jZe8cbBt1HSz06IRBG6mDggMC8etoXNCaA/edit?usp=drivesdk

I have finished and completed my debut novel ready for submission. Just need an honest feedback on the first three chapters or 50 pages.

Will happily return the favour.

Happy writing everyone.

(Ps I am very new to this platform not sure how it all works)

I have finished and completed my debut novel ready for submission. Just need an honest feedback on the first three chapters or 50 pages.

Will happily return the favour.

Happy writing everyone.

(Ps I am very new to this platform not sure how it all works)

This is an essay that I wrote a couple of weeks back for my English class. The prompt was to write about a moment or person that changed you. My teacher complimented it and I am also very proud of it since I got very vulnerable. I feel more comfortable sharing it with people who don't know me personally.

----------

Never would I have thought that the words of a five-year-old would send me to therapy. Regret is a big word to use when talking about someone, but it's the one that I relate to the most. I regret being an empathetic person because that is what led me to sit next to the crying kid on the first day of kindergarten back in 2013. That one simple action would cost me my developmental years.

For the next twelve years I would find myself deeply struggling with my confidence and how I viewed myself. My insecurity showed itself in the way I dressed. Long sleeves, sweaters, jeans. No matter the weather, season, holiday, every part of my body would be covered in cloth. I was only 10 when my perception of myself began to get worse, I started to find new things to be insecure about and by the time 6th grade came and went I had become uncomfortable in my skin and I became depressed. My worst year was 2023 which is the year I especially started struggling with my weight and mental health. At just fifteen years old I had developed an eating disorder and was 95 pounds, which I considered fat at the time. Putting on weight terrified me, so to keep track of my weight I would weigh myself on the daily, restrict my food consumption, and would work out until my body started to ache. It became clear to me that I was sick when I tried to do sit ups and couldn't even get through the first one before I started to feel extremely nauseous. During this time I became very antisocial and didn't have any real friends. I would hang out alone in the library during lunch, which did wonders for my grades. My mental health continued to deteriorate and it unfortunately led me to discover self-harm. My first time doing it was documented in my journal from that time, but I cannot bring myself to read those pages and relive the moment. From what I remember, I liked that it was a little secret that I kept hidden underneath the sleeves of my sweater. One day I got into an ugly argument with my parents and I let it all spill out. I came clean about everything that I had been doing in the last few months. It turned into a screaming match and it ended in me begging to be put in therapy to try to figure out what was going on with me. I finally got the help I had been needing all this time.

What could have possibly happened between me and that kid for me to turn out this way? The beginning of all my insecurities trace back to him. Anthony. My dearest friend from kindergarten whom I would talk to every day and considered a best friend. We were in class and as always we were coloring. I would always talk to Anthony when we did our work since we sat next to each other, and on this specific day I was wearing a short sleeve shirt and had my arm resting on the desk. He had turned towards my direction to tell me something when my arms caught his attention. He had his gaze set and his eyes went wide. He was looking at my arm hair and he said, “You have more arm hair than me and I'm a boy”. Those words stuck with me so much and that's why I remember it exactly as he said it. I wanted to sink into a hole. After he said that, I reached for my sweater which was resting on the back of my chair. I put it on and didn't take it off for twelve years. That comment is what caused me so much insecurity. He wasn't my dearest friend anymore, he was the mean kid who made me feel insecure about having arm hair. A normal human thing that became what I hated the most about myself. At just five years old, I felt my femininity being threatened. I didn't feel girly because I saw myself as a hairy beast. It sucked even more for me that throughout elementary school I was taller than most of the boys in my class. I would stand in the back of photos with the rest of the boys. When we danced for cinco de mayo; I had to kneel down so whichever boy I was dancing with could reach above my head to spin me around. I was the tallest amongst my girl-friends and that continued up until high school. Me and all the boys, including Anthony, were the same height. Every time I felt uncomfortable, all I could remember were Anthony’s words from back then. I hated him.

Taking all of that into account, I knew I needed to let go of that hate I felt for Anthony and for myself specially. That moment from kindergarten was one of the first things I brought up in therapy. I started working towards self love and learning how to stop those negative thoughts from taking over. I had to start believing I was beautiful by telling it to myself in the mirror until I believed it. My therapist encouraged me to be more outgoing and to not be afraid to speak to new people. That tip helped me find my best friends that I love dearly. I had more work to do to fix my confidence so after multiple sessions she introduced me to exposure therapy. My goal was to wear a shirt that showed a little of my arms and as I got more comfortable, the sleeves would get shorter until my whole arms were exposed. My first day practicing this I was terrified. I tried to take my sweater off during class, but I was scared of resting my arms on my desk. Resting my arms on my desk is what made Anthony notice them and I didn't want a repeat but what I learned is that no one cares. 

That's what helped me the most. People are too focused on themselves and they won't care about what you do. That discovery I made on my own is what inevitably helped me step out of my shell and become less self conscious about myself and how others may view me. If they think I'm weird , so be it. My opinion is all that matters and I was starting to love myself because I didn't need to worry about being perceived. That also made me learn that I hate when someone has a crush on me and I know about it. It would make me more aware of myself. The way I dress, how my hair looked that day, how I acted. I hated knowing that there was someone paying attention to me because they liked something about me. That made me realize that I don't want a boyfriend. The only relationship I need is the one I have with myself. It's the most important relationship in my life and the only one I should be completely devoted to. But I do know that one day there will be an exception and I will find the perfect guy but since I love myself and want to protect myself, I raised my standards to an extreme high and will refuse to settle for less. When I stopped going to therapy I was worried that I would regress but I learned that practicing what I learned was what would help me in the long run so as I traversed my feelings on my own I learned to regulate myself and practiced, I found peace at last.

Today I still practice what I learned and although sometimes the bad thoughts want to resurface, I have learned to push them back down and to reassure myself that I will continue to be healthy and get better everyday. Now for Anthony. Sometime during high school he switched to a different school. I never confronted him about that conversation from years ago because I understand that we were five years old and little kids are mean by nature. He wasn't trying to be mean but I unfortunately took it the wrong way and ruined my life. The last time I talked to him was before he switched schools. I asked him to send me the homework answers and he did. So as much as I regret having sat next to him in kindergarten, I have to admit that without him I would not have learned what self love was. Something that takes people a lifetime to learn. I was able to master it in my teenage years through therapy and a support system.

I have always craved attention. For this reason, I have taken to crying in public. Most of my crying happens in the parks that border the LA “River”. Sitting on a bench or atop a hill, I put my face in my hands and let tears pour out of my eyes as I emit a low, shuddering moan from my chest. 

Over the years I have perfected the art of fake-crying. I have trained myself to make every sniff, shudder, and snot as believable and as tragic as possible. I know how to make it seem as though I am trying to hold back my tears, to muffle my wailing but am unable to do so as my grief is so painful. Doing so generates me more looks of pity and condolence from strangers. Oh how I love those glances. Nothing compares to the pleasure I get from someone watching me cry, unsure if they should approach me, and ultimately leaving me alone with a well of guilt in their heart. I often fantasize about whatever reasons people come up with in their heads for why I am crying. Maybe I cry because I have just realized how old I am, that my days are coming to an end and I am a pathetic old man when in reality I take great pleasure in being old and pathetic. Maybe I am crying over a dead loved one. A child maybe, but more likely a dead wife. After all, me being so old, it would only make sense that my wife would also be old and likely dead. Unbeknownst to them I have never had a wife, never so much as a girlfriend. That is, unbeknownst to everyone except for one woman who was kind enough, brave enough to approach me, sit by my side, and ask me why I was crying. I told her I was crying because the doctor diagnosed me with two months to live and that I will die a sixty-something (Or is it seventy?) year old virgin who never got to experience so much as a woman’s touch. Of course, I could care less about things like that. No look of love and adoration or sexual intercourse from a woman could give me even an iota of the pleasure that woman gave me when she awkwardly got up, apologized, and walked away from me, leaving me crying, feeling terribly sorry for me. I could almost smell her guilt over the fact that she was unable to provide me with any sort of consolation. Of course, guilt doesn’t actually have a smell, but if it did, it would smell of wine and cheese. 

There is no sadness, or any emotion really, behind my crying. I cry for the same reason one goes to work. I cry for the same reason one masturbates. Or, in some cases, goes to work to masturbate. You could call it my dirty little secret, but “secret” implies that I have anybody to hide it from. Which I do not.

Once I am satisfied, I retreat back into the LA “River,” my home for the past two or three decades. The LA “River” is somewhat like myself. It is old, gray, and unappealing. As I only meet the basic qualifications of being a man, the LA “River” is a river by flexible definition and nothing more. It is a man-made atrocity. A scar in the flesh of the city. No river should have walls made of concrete, should flow with more beer cans, heroin needles, plastic bags, and gasoline than water. No river should smell so awful. If it does, the stench should not come from decaying algae, dying from all of the chemicals in the water and because of how shallow and slow moving the water is when no river should be so slow and shallow. 

By the way I talk about the LA “River”, you may think I despise it but that is far from the truth. It is true that I think to call it a “river” is a complete perversion of the word, but I actually quite like it. I enjoy trudging through its yellowish-brown water, through beds of gelatinous, toxic-green algae and used needles that occasionally prick my bare feet. After years of exploration, I know this “river” like the back of my hand. In my first few years I got caught loitering fairly often, racking up some ten thousand dollars or so worth in fines. Now I know which stretches of the “river” I need to lay low, which are best traversed at night and which at day, the best ways to run away or hide if somebody catches me, and even how to sneak in and out of the long stretches of the “river” that are private property. I have lived a very long life. I have learned lessons more valuable than any university or online course could ever teach. 

The sun is setting. There is a sharp pain in my upper pelvic area. I need to piss. As I pull down my pants I notice that they are badly stained and torn up. A certain amount of dirtiness makes people pity you more, but too much just makes people afraid of you. I make a note to myself to try and find new pants as soon as I wake up. I squeeze my bladder for about a minute before my piss comes out, a dark shade of auburn. The setting sun shines through the stream creating an orange, stained-glass glow that reflects across the water. This color of urine no longer worries me. Dehydration is common in homeless people and people who cry often. I realize that I am thirsty so, despite my better judgement, I take a sip from the “river” (upstream from where I pissed of course). I find a shard of glass floating in the water and use it to shave my scruffy, white beard off using algae as shaving gel. I accidentally nick myself on the neck with the glass shard so I press my leftover hair against the cut and stop the bleeding. My white beard, now detached from my face, becomes red. Call me Redbeard. This “river” is my seven seas. 

The sun has fully set now and I hear the faint hooting of owls underneath the sound of rushing cars. I enter a stretch of the “river” where the concrete walls slant to more of a basin. An  orgasmic smell meets my nostrils. I notice an empty sensation in my stomach. I pull myself out of the primordial soup, deciding to check out whatever the smell is coming from. With each step up the side of the concrete basin, the smell gets stronger. When I arrive at the top of the basin I am blinded by the glare of city lights, but when my eyes adjust, I see that I am just a street away from a McDonalds. It appears to me as a glimmering My eyes glitter and my jaw drips with hunger. 

Illuminated by the yellow glow of the great golden arches, I dig blindly through the trashcan outside of the McDonalds. One hand roots through the dark mess in the can and the other steadies me against the wall. In the sea of empty boxes and soda cups, I pull out some french fries and a couple of chicken nuggets. I am grabbing a half-finished milkshake when I notice a presence beside me. I turn and see two little, blinking pink lights on the ground. I squint and see that the lights are attached to two small shoes which then are attached to the small silhouette of a person facing me. It stands just outside of the golden spotlight. Save for its blinking shoes, the silhouette is shrouded in darkness.

“Hello mister” it says, its voice that of a little girl. I don’t respond. “I saw you at the park today. You were pretending to cry.” I forget how to breathe. I feel a cold liquid drip over my hands. I don’t look but I realize that I am squeezing the milkshake so hard that it burst. I want to pull my hand out of the trashcan but it is stuck. 

“Are you an actor or something?” 

I look back up, this time there are two more lights. These are about four feet above the ground, two crimson dots, right where the girl’s eyes would be. Even in the darkness, I can tell it is smiling. I can feel its teeth biting down on me. It begins to move. It is shaking. I think it is laughing. I scream at it and it screams back, a high-pitched squeal. Its silhouette disappears into the darkness, its little shoes go blink blinking away, around the corner. About a minute later, a janitor comes outside and chases me away with a broom. I grab everything that I pulled from the trash and retreat back into the “river.”

I sit down in the comfort of a sewage pipe a few meters above the floor of the basin to eat. This artificial, chemical-ridden “food” is only food in the sense that I am a man and the LA “River” is a river. Once I have finished my meal, my stomach still aches with hunger. I adore the feeling of hunger. I eat out of necessity only. If I could get away with never having to eat, I would. I love being skinny. My gauntness, my frailness makes me appear more pitiful. I look almost like a corpse. I get goosebumps of pleasure whenever somebody on the street or at a park offers me food because they see how sickeningly thin I am. Being skinny in today’s society is a blessing. People pity you, but no more than they are jealous of you. They are jealous because they are fatter than you and nobody wants to be fat. 

My post-meal drowsiness begins to kick in. My eyelids feel heavy. I consider falling asleep right then and there, but falling asleep in pipes can be very risky. Sewage might flow through in the middle of the night and wash you out. There is a nice park not too far away from here where I can find a bench to sleep on and immediately get on with my daily pity-harvest as soon as the sun rises. I try to stand up, but my legs will not respond. I feel as though my pockets are filled with magnets, anchoring me to the floor of the sewage pipe. I feel around in my pockets for such magnets. My brain feels fuzzy, as though half of it has stopped working. The working side of my brain tells me that I need to lay down or else it too may break. I comply, and the moment my head hits the metallic surface of the pipe, everything slips away and I am plunged into liquid darkness.

I awake as a fetus. I have no reason to know that I am a fetus and yet that fact is obvious to me. I am unable to open my eyes but I am unable to. However, from the feelings of my surroundings and the light making it through my eyelids, I can tell that I am floating in a pool of pink and red fluid. I am warm and cozy in the embrace of the gel-like substance in which I am submerged. I close my eyes and upon opening them I notice a strange pulling sensation in the apex of my belly. I feel around with little baby' s hands and find a firm, slimy rope. I realize that, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I am full. I float around in my river of comfort for what could be seconds or days or weeks. 

A bright, white light penetrates my eyelids. I try to squint but I realize that my eyes are already sealed shut. The world shakes and I am thrust in the direction of the light. I am thrust again and again. With each thrust the light gets brighter. Another thrust and my head is pushed between two warm, fleshy flaps. I am thrust again and feel a cold, sterile air licking at my scalp. Another thrust and my head is free. I hear the sound of a woman screaming. Another trust and a male voice says something about going to be sick. One final thrust

And the world slips away from me. The bright light swallows me. A drop in my stomach and an electricity in my chest let me know that I am falling. It occurs to me that I must be dreaming. But if I was dreaming, shouldn’t my falling jolt me awake? No, instead I continue to fall as the terrible sensation in my abdomen lets me know. Without realizing I am able to do so, I open my eyes. All around me, there is nothing but white. It is the type of white one sees when staring into a bright light. Between the brightness, and the air rushing in my face as I fall, my eyes water profusely, but I force them  to stay open as I look at my hands. But I do not have hands. In fact, I barely have arms. Instead, I have these smooth, pink, fingerless protrusions of muscle and bone. My forearms are covered in bumps that I assume are massive cysts. I crook my neck to look down at my body. I am fat and slimy. Below my round belly there is no penis. No vagina either. Then I realize that I have seen this body before. I have seen this plump, pink carcass before at supermarkets, back when I used to go to those. I am an uncooked rotisserie chicken. But then where is my head? I crook my neck further and see that I have no head or neck. 

My face is pressed up against hot concrete. Drool oozes from my mouth. My eyes flutter open. They take a moment to adjust to the blinding sunlight before I see that I am lying down somewhere in the LA “river.” However, the world appears slanted to me for some reason. Shakily, I try to stand up, but the world (at least from my point of view) is actually slanted and I fall on my side, skinning my shoulder slightly. I look up and see that I am lying on the sloped wall of the basin, just below the sewage pipe in which I fell asleep. Sewer water drips out of the pipe and that, combined with my wetness which I am just now noticing, makes me think that I must have been washed out of the pipe in my sleep. I crawl, hands and knees, down to the bottom of the basin where I vomit last night's McDonalds into the murky water, further murky-ing it. I get up, brush myself off, crack my back real good and march onwards. 

Any feedback appreciated!

Some people claim that there's a woman to blame. But I know it's my own damn fault - Jimmy Buffet

I opened my eyes again to a soft breeze over softer sand. From forced perspective, the sky and the sand sandwiched a perfectly indigo ocean, a tricolor flag of a briefly extant but glorious nation that arose out of some revolution in the mid eighteenth century. My skin was at the point of being pleasantly burnt, and the muscles underneath were beginning to relax against the chaise that sat upon said soft sand, under which I buried my feet up to my ankles, feeling its coolness under the burning top layer. The waves and the breeze and the quiet murmur of guests and wait staff converged into a white noise that I am told people try to replicate at night to help them sleep. “12 Hour Ocean Noises (NO ADS!)” on Youtube. All in all, it was a very expensive and some might say exclusive view, and the only thought I had in that moment was that I should probably run back to my room to go jerk off. 

It wasn’t that I was horny. Far from it. I actually don’t think my libido has approached anything approaching “horny” in quite some time. Perhaps over a year. It was more force of habit. Or, more specifically, because I didn’t have anything to do in that exact moment. I didn’t like having nothing to do at any moment, let alone having nothing to do in public. No one knew me here, I don’t think, at the Bougainvillea Resort and Spa, so ostensibly no one really had the proper background on my character to really judge me or my situation, which made the whole mess worse, I think. Some guy in his mid 40s, they might think 50s as I’ve been drinking tiki drinks on this trip, which has probably added some mass, by himself, looking out at the ocean for no reason? Not a great position to be in. Jerking off would at least give me something to do. 

I could write something, of course, as this was apparently the reason for the trip. But everything in my brain and body screamed against it. It’s a very silly thing. And being aware of that silliness doesn’t make it any better.

Over time, and by time I mean basically the past decade, the feeling has been inescapable. When I’m at one of Jason’s baseball games, my brain and body screams to leave, get back home and start writing. I need to put food on the table, make a name for myself, put my mark on the world before I die, etc. Of course when that baseball game ends and I kiss him on the head and tell him what a great job he did (he hit a double and caught a pop fly), make him shower and eat dinner and get him to bed and I’m finally sitting in front of my computer, I would rather pull my fingernails out one by one or stare at blank wall or get a colonoscopy than write anything. I then usually just go jerk off and then go to bed. Iris then looks at me with sad eyes as I get into bed with her. It’s important for me to note that her eyes display no judgement, anger or malice. Just a soft, almost imperceptible layer of soft sadness over hazel. Sometimes I wish that she would just straight up hate me. 

It’s not just the writing part, of course. Though that is the most dire part of it. Anything that requires any sort of work or thought is difficult to follow through on. Emails with my editor are the worst of all, both because they require a decent amount of thought and because lately they have come less and less frequently and with less and less punctuation, which I think is probably a bad sign. 

First email: Hey!!! This spec is off to a great start. Attached some notes below and can’t wait for what’s next. Could we get 30k more words by next month? That would be amazing!!!! Talk soon!!!!! - L

Second email: Hey! Following up on this. Would love to see something, even if it’s under 30k. Let me know, thanks! - L

Third Email: Hey, wanted to check in here again. Do you want to get on a call? - Laura

What is even more pathetic about the whole situation is it is neither dire nor unique in any sense. “Former Bestselling Author has Writer’s Block and Porn Addiction, and Also Hates Himself - more at 10.” There is something, I think, romantic about being an alcoholic or a drug addict that is non-transferable to porn addiction. I can’t quite place my hand (ha-ha) on it. Something about the aesthetic of a heavy rocks glass filled with brown liquid being lifted to a grizzled, grey-whiskered face is appealing to me, especially as a writer. Very Hemingway.  Even a heroin addict, with the interplay of bright fire and dark powder, has at least some aesthetic value. (Is heroin actually a dark powder? I’m just guessing, I’ve never actually seen it). But there is nothing, and I really mean nothing, appealing about being hunched over on the toilet with your dick in your hand while the rest of your household is asleep. 

Rod, my agent, calls it “procrastibating,” and says it’s perfectly normal and that every male whose dick still works does it. 
“Listen man,” he once told me over lunch, “We walk around all day with these portable rectangular porn machines in our pockets that can boot up any of our craziest, most depraved fantasies in milliseconds. If you weren’t jerking off, I’d be worried about you.” 
He then asks how the book is coming along and why Laura has been up his ass about it. I shrug and say I’ve been working on it, but nothing really good has come along, at least nothing I’d want to share with Laura yet. He nods and says he can keep her off me for a bit, but I should probably have something soon. I nod in the affirmative. He then asks how Iris and Jason are doing. I smile and shrug again. They’re doing great, I say. 

It was Iris who suggested the trip. Something to disrupt the routines we were both in. Jason had day camp and was away for most of the day anyways, so I wouldn’t be burdening her with anything too bad, at least nothing worse than had been going on already. I protested at first, but ultimately agreed. 
It is a fundamentally odd feeling, going on a nice trip by yourself. I first felt it when I checked in at the front desk. The Bougainvillea Resort and Spa was, for an innumerable list of reasons, not like the Holiday Inns and Homewood Suites I would stay in on book tours. The normal clientele was, if I were to guess, honeymooning couples and families who drive Range Rovers. And at institutions such as The Bougainvillea Resort and Spa the staff is of course very well trained in the art of Making Sure the Guest Does not Feel Uncomfortable Whatsoever Even if that Guest is a Sad Decrepit Failing Writer. Therefore the front desk concierge had to do the unenviable and impressive job of staking me out, figuring out I was by myself, realizing that I am a solo loser, and then making sure nothing in our conversation tipped me off to the fact that the concierge was aware of all of the above, as to not make my stay uncomfortable, all within the time it takes for me to exit the taxi, cross the threshold of the lobby, and walk up to the front desk. 
“Welcome to the Bougainvillea Resort and Spa sir, are you checking in?” 
“Yes.”
“Excellent! One king room, ocean view, correct?”
“Yes.” 
“Great! We can have your bag brought to your room now. Would you like to book anything at the Spa now? You can always book later if you’d like.” 
“Probably later, thanks.” 
“And is one room key okay?”
Bzzt. Wrong. He almost had it until the “okay” at the end. “Okay” implies a disturbance, a wrongness. We both know that if I actually had any semblance of my life together I would have at least come with a wife or girlfriend or mistress, requiring two keys, not one. But of course he knew as I walked up that I had no such guests with me, thus requiring only one key. Breaking the sad pathetic loser seal that ensconced the conversation right up until the “okay.” And now he knows that I know that he knows that he messed up. I saw it in his face. A slight twinge in the left eye, brief but perceptible. He was so close too. I bet he thought about it afterward on his break. 
“One key is great,” I say. 
And thus, after dropping my stuff off in my room, taking stock of the pink sheets and expensive handsoaps, and a quick change into a bathing suit that Iris bought me for some birthday a few years ago, I made my way down to the beach and into this chaise. A shadow came across my face. 
“Alchemy in the Wild?” 
“What?”
“You wrote Alchemy in the Wild, right?” 
“Oh, yes. Yeah, sorry.” 
“Definitely unprofessional of me, but I just wanted to say, I’m a big fan.” 
She had dark hair and bright eyes. Her smile was uncomfortable. Not necessarily forced, but more unrehearsed, as if she was getting used to the practice. I searched for a name tag, but I guess at luxury resorts there is no expectation of a guest belittling himself from knowing the name of the help. 
“Hey, all good, I appreciate it…” 
I paused, arching my eyebrows, lilting my tone at the end, forming a question. 
“Oh, Lily!” 
“Nice to meet you Lily.”
A pause. Longer than it needed to be, but just long enough for her to signal to me that she was thinking about asking a question. Slight turn of the hips as if she had decided to walk away, but then:
“Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
I truly, genuinely, tried not to sound annoyed, but I think I failed. The shoot was too quick, too high pitched and lived at the front of my mouth. To be clear, annoyance was in fact worming its way through the back of my eyes at that moment. I wanted to return to my view of the water and the sand and wasn’t truly interested in answering fan questions. But I didn’t want Lily to know that. 
“Why the ending?”
“Why the ending?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you be a bit more specific?” I let out a blast of air approximating a giggle. 
“Like, wasn’t Circe’s death kinda random?”
“Kinda the point, isn’t it?”
“I guess.”
I could tell she disagreed, but didn’t want to press it, maybe due to the sacred tenets of a waitress-customer relationship. Which was fine. I certainly wasn’t on vacation to debate my own books. Still, she had a point. A point, by the way, that was brought up numerous times in my seminars at Iowa. Circe’s death wasn't earned. It was random. It was a cheap way to add stakes, the way I framed it was sexist, etc. etc. etc. Of course, I didn’t disagree (well, maybe with that last part), not with Lily nor with the oxford-shirted, scratchy sweatered consortium that was my MFA class. The real truth was, I didn’t know how to end Alchemy. Not in time for the semester to end, anyway. If I had struggled through it a little bit more, I might have found something, but I sent the draft to Rod on a whim, who called it “supremely sellable” (seriously) and sent it along the publishing pipeline, followed by book tours and positive (but not stellar) reviews and money. Of course, that was always the meta-analysis of the book when it came out; the uncomfortable space between a book that is a genuine hit and at the same time panned by critics. But I really didn’t give a shit, especially at the time. Let the thinkpieces and Kirkus shrug, I was twenty-six with a bestseller, appearances on Late Night and a healthy bank account. Even the worst reviews of Alchemy had to admit that I “showed promise.” 

I think at lunch Rod sometimes hints at the fact that I’ve never struggled enough in the beginning, which is why I can’t write anything now. It’s a fine theory. There was some small stuff afterward. A few published short stories and some creative journalism assignments at magazines that no longer exist. I thought those were fine, but at dinner parties when people approached me and said “I read your article, it was great!” their eyes got a bit too wide, their upper lips pinned a bit too tightly, and I knew that what I wrote was mainly horseshit. Which, at the time, I told myself was fine because it was all practice for my next novel where I would really let it all out and loose and kick some ass or whatever. And then Iris got pregnant and we moved for the better schools and Iris got a real job and then it’s almost fifteen years later and if you don’t write something soon you’re probably getting dropped by Rod and then things really start getting hairy. That is not fine. 

“Can I get you anything else?”
“No, I was actually just getting up to leave, thanks.”
“Are you joining for dinner?”
“Like with you?”
“Oh, uh, no, like should we save a table for you at the hotel restaurant?”
Jesus Christ. 
“Oh, sorry, my bad. Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be there in an hour, if that’s okay.” 
“Sure thing!” 
Lily nodded her head down and stepped away. I sighed and hucked my feet around the chaise to stand up, the skin on my back briefly sticking to the back of the chair as I heaved myself up. 

As I shuffled along the finely manicured footpath from the beach to the main building of the Bouganvillea Resort and Spa, I felt a buzz in my pocket. 
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“How’s the beach?”
“Really lovely, actually, you picked a good one.” 
“You know me. Get any more writing done?”
“Oh yeah. You were right. Very successful trip. Fifty kay words already, hopefully more on the way. Something about being next to a big body of water makes me more productive. Maybe we should move here.” 
I got a small chuckle out of that one.
“You know we can’t.”
“Vacation house?” 
“Send Rod another bestseller and we can talk.”
“You drive a hard bargain, but I think we can come to terms. Jason there?”
“Yeah, one sec.”
The insects began to get louder as the sun went down.
“Daddy!”
“Buddy! How was your day? How was the game?”
“Good. I hit a home run!”
“No way. Like over the fence?” 
“No, but I hit it to the outfield and they couldn’t throw it back in time.”
“Well, hey, you know what?”
“What.”
“It’s still counted as a home run on the back of your baseball card.”
“I have a baseball card?”
“If you keep working hard, I think you will.”
“Okay. Mommy wants to talk.”
“Okay, hand me back to her. Love you and miss you. Will see you soon.”

The dining room of the Bougainvillea Resort and Spa was about what you’d expect, I think. Sandy pink walls that matched the room. Rows of tables with white tablecloths and those little fake electronic candles that undulate to simulate a real fire. Some type of exotic sounding fish on the menu (steak or chicken are fine too, if you wanted), with a thick wine list in a leather binding. The plates matched the color palette of the rest of the resort. The food itself was fine. Probably on par with what I expected. I kind of hated the whole experience. 
A few tables down from me and to the right sat a couple. Both young, both attractive. She was in a dress that was nice but a bit eye-rolly. White linen with tan trimming, probably ripped right out of White Lotus without fully understanding the implications. The guy was also in white linen, khaki pants, some bullshit backwards hat that said “take it easy!” with a lei embellishment around the text. The light from the fake candles glinted off the face of his Rolex, its rise and fall in parallel to the artificial flicker, which in turn paralleled the quiet sounds of the waves a few hundred yards away, also in parallel to the gentle heaves of his chest as they laughed about some inside joke together. Probably some meme they saw on Instagram together. He was probably a rich stupid guy. No offense meant of course, but you can kind of just tell sometimes. Probably smart enough to run excel and likeable enough to move up the ladder at whatever private equity firm or investment bank he joined after college. Probably golfs a lot too. Anything else behind those eyes though? The Bougainvillea Resort and Spa has 36 holes to play, actually. They were still laughing together, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. 

“Drink, sir?”
“Uh, sorry, uh,” I flipped through the leather menu quickly, “mojito, why the hell not.”
The waiter nodded. 

The couple at the other side of the restaurant were still holding hands. They smiled at each other stupidly. I frowned. I don’t think they noticed. 

Dinner came and went along with 4 more mojitos. The coolness of the evening breeze ran through my shirt and felt nice against my reddened face. Lurching toward my room, a thought entered my mind that now would be a good time to write a little bit more. I never wrote tipsy in normal circumstances, but perhaps the combination of the drinks and the breeze and sounds of the ocean could get something going. 
“Seven hundred, maybe seven fifty,” I said quietly aloud, “then can do some bullshit on my phone or whatever.” 

I rounded the corner onto my room’s hallway and I saw Lily standing a few doors down from my room. She was on her phone, face illuminated by the screen. 

“Sorry about that dinner thing.”
She looked up quickly, surprise on her face. Was she supposed to be working? 
“Uh, what?” 
“Earlier, when you said if I was joining you for dinner and I thought you were asking me on a date.” 
Her face was searching. 
“Oh, uh, don’t worry about it… it’s all good.” 
“I thought a little more about what you said about Alchemy.” 
“Oh?”
“You were right, Circe’s death was random and there really wasn’t a point to it. I honestly didn’t know how to end the book.” 
“Oh, well that’s okay. It was a big hit!”
The phone still illuminated her face.
“Yeah it was. Do you write at all?” 
“Yes, actually. I’m a creative writing major at school right now.” 
Her face was now uniluminated. She locked her phone. I smiled. 
“Oh that’s amazing. Is this your summer job?” 
“Yep, heading back to school next week.”
“Well if you need any advice, just call me.”
I reached for her phone. Her face registered brief confusion until she realized what I was trying to do. She unlocked it and opened her contacts. I put my name and number in. We were now in front of my room. 
I looked at her for a moment. Brown eyes, brown hair, smooth face, pursed lips. I kissed her. Her lips were soft and her face felt good against mine. I felt her body tighten up for the initial split-second, then loosen. I opened my eyes, her brown eyes close across. 
“I think I’m going to go.” She said, her hips turning down the hall. 
“Alright,” I said. 
I opened the door to my room. Someone had left the window open, and I could feel the breeze come into the room all at once. 

Don't let her attend my funeral

I don't want to die that day

When we talked for the last time and you left for home

I kept talking to you, to myself and to loneliness

I'm writing something special for you very soon

How can I not adore the dandelion I've witnessed bloomed

Until then

Truly yours

More than yesterday

Less than today

And always like forever

I plan to publish a short story fiction novel on my website on Friday. I am currently in chapter two writing the steamy part. I feel a little dirty writing this part of the story during the day. Should I wait to write the erotica at night? Does it matter? I am not sure why I care but I thought receiving insight from the writing community will, I feel like that will help my moral compass on what to do next. Let me know what you think.

Dressing on purple.

Prologue:

Purple... Purple.. Purple... Purple!

When fragrance incites the mind and the heart accepts the brush’s dye. Two men changed their lives. Each other, unbeknownst to whom their bride. A harmony of flesh and hide. When two become one of a kind.

The king laughs thereupon, as the first requests are a tone.

“Purple! Purple! I want to dress on!”

Riches belong to them. Heroes, that’s their god-given right. Victors chosen before any loss. Cryleon, the kingdom is, was, and will be. The war was declared after it ended, citizens unbeknownst. While for warriors, it is with wet blood over dry blood over dry and drier. Skin inked with red and black. Some splashed by Fe, and many were wounded by it.

Years of force, stealth, and tactics -That's what the leaders tell you. 

Some know why many lifted white flags, or why many didn’t have any left. Many who wished to paint white on white. Only soot remained for them. Some squeezed what shall not be squeezed; many ripped apart. Some golden-glass they seized; none left with hearts.

All has fallen well with the sun. Where everything flips, except what’s dark. Living to death, some come back. Where once stoic, many lost their light. For all face an endless fight.

________________________________________________________________________

In the hall of the city’s city hall, where one may step north, east, or earth’s looped continuation. All life’s four quadrants stand packed. That’s what the news told them to do.

“Shh!!! No, it’s not an execution.”

”Hush!!! No, it’s not a fight.”

“Shh!!! Nobody’s hurt.”

“Hush!!! No, the king still didn’t stand.”

The ground’s hungry; it shook from the stomach of the city and vibrated to its outskirts. Rumbling started at one beat per minute. The beats came faster and swifter, racing to the end with one big Bamm! Rushed forth, a gas was enticed. It blew from the head of the hall. A fire shines, crisping the pigeons up high.

“Welcome, Welcome!!”

!!!

“We stand witnessing a great day. Recognizing our knights who sacrificed for us. Before our blessed celebrations, let’s congratulate two of our soldiers. Those who held the kingdom of Cryleon on their shoulders. … Never forgetting their role as protectors of their beloved citizens and those who hold the flag of our holy church. Those who remember their holy king’s words and, as I quote: Raise your head! You’re Cryleons!!! Let’s celebrate with our knights and grant them a word from our king!”

!!!

“… … … … Lift your heads… Lift them … … Lift them… … … We are a victorious kingdom.”

!!!

!!!

“… … … I have gathered you for a bittersweet … … … … Isn’t it time for a grey-bearded to sit?”

…

…

…

“… I won’t leave your hands empty.”

…

“From those who fought in the battle of Jaiber. Two knights worthy of praise. The only reward worthy from me is a never-ending one. Dalim and Kemill each have a hundred golden coins every month.

…

“… … … … and a reward worth much more… … … … … … The hands of my daughters Selena and Zathema. The future king of Cryleon will be of those knights.”

!!!

“… … … … However! The one who will hold Selena, the council of Cryleon will appoint… … … Once both of you agree to start the process of engagement. Each council member will appoint a challenge. Stand forth side by side and begin with the challenges pointed, till the public has chosen a side.”

 ______________________________________________________________________________

Two quarters of the city are swimming in the streets. East has long been absent, and north is standing with the type of silver they’re used to.

“Today everything is half price!”

“Get your snail eyes here!! Get your lizard tail here!!”

“Free signing for our guild here!”

The streets are filled with goods and services. Even the ground gets a lick from time to time. The squeaks of boots, tradespeople’s caravans, barrels of booze, workers rested and joyful, candy-filled stomachs, and overburdened livers. 

The mountain of Jethma covered the sun at least thrice, and so did the rivers of licorice return thrice more.

Seven days, that’s a Cryleon Festival.

________________________________________________________________________

When fragrance harms the mind and the heart rejects the brush’s dye. Two men changed their lives. Each other, knownst to whom they’ll smite. a harmony of flesh and might. When truth becomes one of lies.

The sword  laughs thereupon, as the first requests are a tone.

“Purple! Purple! I want to stab on!”

________________________________________________________________________

Each quarter had its way to celebrate the event. Some traded, many drank, some drank while grieving, few celebrated that grief itself.

Hindsight

And he snatched the V-card of this little girl!

(…)

“My V.I.P card!”

“oh… yes the daughter of…” gazes lowering mid-sentence.

The man returned it hesitantly after inspecting the kind of money his boss’s daughter gets.

That kind of wealth nobody gambles with... Except for Jim’s dad.

“Look Suzan, I got the newest fighter jet series. It has your favorite character in the show.”

“Didn’t it come out today?” The question wasn’t intended for anyone in particular. an intrusive thought that Suzan didn’t hide.

“I do anything for Jimmy. He wanted it, and I won’t betray him!”

Jim’s purity from knowledge will make this situation’s blood stain darker.

“It’s the twenty-four hour yes challenge!” the son explained.

“Of all days, why today?” another intrusive thought from her.

“That doesn’t matter. Suzan! show dad your trick!” He shuffled a hundred pound note in between his hands.

“Look dad, Look. Guess it Suzan!”

It’s not time for it Jim…

Not an ideal situation, but Suzan loves to show off.

“You’re not hiding it well but your dad has twenty two thousand in his right pocket.”

The child’s expression wasn’t priceless. It just costs twenty two thousand from his dad. Jim clenched his hands awaiting his dad to pull his pockets yet the dad already knew.

Eyes and mouth larger than face.

“Isn’t it Amazing! Dad…”

“But only a guess from a young girl I see.”

Jim’s beliefs are being tested.

Jim waited for the little prophet to respond, but her rebuttal was incomprehensible…

“Then, what’s that thing you’re hiding under your shirt.” she said.

His tongue froze onto the ice-cream. More than that, he crushed the cone and the cream fell breaking the silence with a splatter.

“Can you also predict people’s future?”

Suzan squinted once more…

**Suzan knew what to say:**Don’t trust Suwqill.

But what about the child.

A Proposition stapled itself onto Suzan’s pride for logical consistency.

Die as a hero or turn into a villain…

And that’s what she said…

If the portrait of a crying man didn’t represent intense pain then it’s a sham Vincent van Gogh couldn’t do any better.

Suzan left with a parting word for Jim “Good luck…”

Running to her villa, as if a shower head had just attacked her dress. Cries with a bit of laughter.

Good luck… How’s that going to help… Goodbye Jim.

JVV News

Midnight of a festival

Where news is stapled with truth

Late last night a terrorist attack killing 5 people was …

The bomb was made by the country Suwqill

...

A child found starving for life.

The last fall winds had settled over the village of Chantwood, and now they screeched, a rhythmic hymn against the shutters.

The skies gleamed, sharp with silver, thin as frost on glass, and underneath it all lay the dismal graying haze of winter's shadow.

In that haze, a voice awoke the mourning flower.

"Hazel darling," Sarah called from the hall, knocking on Hazel's door, "the morning is fading fast, dear. Please hurry. I don't want you to be late... again." She hurried down the stairs toward the kitchen.

"Coming, Mother," Hazel called out as she brushed her blood-red fringe from her eyes. She pulled the warm covers from her and stretched out her arms in a magnificent yawn.

The petrified, frozen floor burnt to the touch of her warm toes. The tiny fireplace flame had withered to near-smoldering embers.

Hazel walked to the window and pulled the silver curtains away, peering into the misty darkness of late October clouds. A silent whisper of wind brushed past her.

Below, carriages plunged and crawled down the snow-covered cobbled streets, smoke engulfing the charred skies, billowing out of decrepit chimneys and old poor-houses. School children built snow-packed forts for winter warfare as snowballs barged left and right. They clambered about screaming and snickering at fallen comrades.

She loved these mornings. Cold. Honest. Hers.

Her chamber was a wreck, books laid open everywhere, bed, chair, floor, spines up like the shells of strange insects. Knowledge should spill, that was her rule.

She cleared the side-table. There lay her diary, small and leather, _October the 15th, 1820_ written hastily at the top. Today was the 25th. Ten days lost.

She sat at the hearth and flipped through the pages, watching the glow of the embers as the dead fire gave one last thread of smoke that wrapped her, and the dream came with it: a woman screaming in darkness.

A knock.

"Hazel?" Her father's voice, low and warm. "May I enter, child? Are you dressed?"

"Yes, Father. Of course."

The door opened. David Marvel stepped in, and the room seemed less cold with sapphire eyes and a smile that had talked Sarah into a life with ink on his cuffs.

"Your coachman waits, my dear, do not keep him, the horses are drafting letters of complaint."

"...I'll be down directly." Hazel didn't turn from the window.

David saw it and came and sat on the bed.

"Hazel... what is it? What troubles you?"

"Nothing, Father. Only a nightmare," she said quietly.

He took her hand, his hands were always warm, and said, "Dreams cannot hurt you, Hazel, they are canvases of the mind, nothing more."

She let him fold her in, sixteen was too old for it, she did it anyway.

Mr. Tip cleared his throat in the hall with great delicacy.

"Pardon, sir, the post has come."

"The post, David!" Sarah's voice from below, bright and exact. "More answers to the invitations."

"Wonderful," David said. "I'll be right down."

He touched Hazel's cheek, pushed the curl from her brow, kissed her there.

"Be safe, study hard, your mother and I love you beyond measure."

He went. Hazel listened to his steps on the stairs, then the quiet words of two people who still chose each other as the front door closed.

Hazel went to the wardrobe and drew out a black dress, simple, respectable, and beside it lay the stays, bone and lace and tyranny. She gave the laces one tug and remembered why ladies faint in novels and let the whole contraption fall to the bed with a sigh.

The dress would do.

She caught her hair, it fell in a red riot, the color of warning beacons and winter sunsets, curls draped to her shoulders and in the glass she was pale, freckled, and unmistakably herself.

"Hazel," Sarah called from the kitchen, "a moment."

Hazel grabbed her shawl hanging on a hook next to her door as she made her way down the stairs.

"Professor writes he has the influenza," Sarah said, her thumb rubbing the edge of the letter before she set it down. "Awful stuff, that. There's talk of scarlet fever in Greywood as well, from what I heard in town." She poured the tea, eyes not quite meeting Hazel's. "Lessons are stopped till he mends. Here," she handed over the note.

Hazel took it, resisting the urge to roll her eyes, scarlet fever, influenza, next it would be the damp air, mother was working herself into a state again.

"I hope he is well," she said and meant it, though she relished her studies, the morning had come too quick and the Latin on her desk was still wearing its first comma.

"If you are not going to school, then..."

"I'll walk," Hazel said quickly, too quickly, "the air will do me good."

Sarah looked up with a small smile, the kind cats wear before the pounce.

"Why do you look at me so?" Hazel felt her ears heat, traitors.

"Your ears my dear, they burn when you blush, or tell a fib. I know where you go, and to whom." Sarah set the sugar in with a tink, then lifted her cup with eyes on Hazel over the rim, blowing across the surface, her fingers tapped the cup once, twice.

"He is wild, that one," she said quieter, "but strong, and handsome enough to turn a saint's head, let alone my daughter's." The cup clicked against the saucer. "It's his father that keeps me up, if I'm honest. A wild man, cursed from what I hear."

Hazel lifted her chin, just a little.

"Mother, Andrew's father is sick, that's all. Not every suffering needs a curse to explain it."

Sarah sighed and set the tea aside, standing and walking over to Hazel with hands not quite steady as she pulled Hazel's shawl up to her throat and held it there.

"October air is damp, Hazel. It sits in the chest, don't stay out there after dark."

"Yes, Mother," Hazel replied.

"Keep that shawl closed. I mean it. The fog carries fever." Sarah's voice dropped. "Be safe, my dove."

"I'll be well."

Hazel shut the door on her mother's sigh and stepped out. The iron gate was cold enough to bite and the key in her reticule felt like a secret. She turned it, the latch gave and the boundary of home fell away, the October air took her hard, like it had been waiting.

North Struthers and Bleak, the streets smelled of apples turning to cider and yeast singing in ovens and horses doing what horses do in the street.

"Miss Marvel!" Mr. Thompson, the baker, was red-nosed and round as a harvest moon. "A pastry to fight the chill, eh? With my compliments, unusually cold, snow like this in October. Never seen it so thick, so early."

"Thank you, Mr. Thompson, but I'll pay." Hazel took two with steam rising from the paper and tucked them into her bag. "How is Mrs. Thompson?"

"Fair as ever, and twice as beautiful, the babies are loud and the soup is hot, God is good."

"Give her my best, and the children as well, tell Tommy I saved him a book on dragons."

"God bless you, child."

He turned to a customer and Hazel set coins in his basket before he could protest.

At Midstrom she turned into shadow, the alley was a mouth of brick and old snow, the cold lived there and paid no rent.

"Miss... pardon, miss..." An old woman stood where the light failed, thin as a winter branch with blond hair gone to gray and a shawl the color of ash, coming on with a heavy step, dragging one foot.

"Please," the woman said, "I am hungry."

Hazel knew her and did not know her, the face tugged at something under her ribs, like a string tied to a memory she hadn't lived yet.

This was Anna. People in Chantwood called her "Old Mae" and crossed themselves when she passed, Father Grey made sure the church left her soup and tallow every Friday. Hazel had seen Andrew stop for her before they knew each other, coming from the Abrams house after one of his father's bad nights. James Abrams hadn't spoken in years, Andrew's eyes were red, shoulders bent, but still he knelt in the snow to press a warm meat pie into Anna's hands.

"For the cold," he'd said. No sermon. No pity, just that.

"Here." Hazel drew out one pastry, steam rose between them, a brief ghost, and set it in the woman's hand. The fingers that closed on it were cold, not winter cold, grave cold.

"God bless you, child," Old Mae said, her voice was rust and old music. "You've your father's kindness, and his."

Hazel frowned. "Whose?"

Old Mae's rheumy eyes weren't rheumy now, they were sharp and clear.

"The boy, the one who leaves me bread when his father's mind goes dark and the house is quiet." She tilted her head. "He speaks of you, you know, when I come and collect bread at his home."

"I'm sure he was just being polite," Hazel said, her neck hot and her whole face hot. Old Mae smiled.

"Let me see your hand," Old Mae said, "let me tell you what the stars have written there."

Hazel hesitated, then gave it, the woman's nail was yellow and long, curved as a claw, she traced the lines of Hazel's palm with a touch that was ice that burned.

Old Mae turned her hand to the light, puzzled.

"....Interesting... Here, a strange power, strong and wild. It will change you. Transform you into what you were always meant to be, and here..." Her voice dropped, going low and elsewhere. "A spirit that will not bow, that will not break."

Hazel smiled.

"And here," Old Mae's thumb pressed hard into the center of Hazel's palm, "a thread, red as your hair, tied to a boy who carries grief in his heart and kindness in his hands. You'll save each other, or damn each other, the stars haven't decided."

Hazel stared with wonder.

Suddenly Old Mae's hand clamped down, the bones in Hazel's fingers ached as the woman's eyes widened, the pupil ate the iris until only a ring of violet remained, bright as a bruise, bright as a warning.

"Shadow," she whispered, the word ash. "Oh, child... you are branded."

Hazel pulled back. "What?"

"Branded by the dark!" Old Mae screamed it, stumbling, shawl slipping from one bone-sharp shoulder. "Hellfire is here! It is here!"

"Wait!" Hazel called. "Please, wait!"

The woman ran, not a shuffle, ran quick as a girl around the corner of Midstrom and gone. People on the street stopped, a boy with a hoop let it fall, whispers started like a mean little wind: "Witch." "Cursed her." "Same as she did with Andrew's father."

Hazel looked at her palm, nothing. Just skin, just lines and an ache where Old Mae had pressed.

She felt her ankle, heat there, sudden and sharp, like a coal pressed to it just above the mark she'd had since birth, a small dove's wing, white as scar, white as peace.

She shook her head. "Nonsense," she said to the alley, to her breath in the air, to the burning in her blood. "Absolute nonsense."

She walked on, her legs did the walking, her mind stayed in that alley with those violet eyes.

At the chapel steps she nearly ran into Father Grey, who dropped his hat, which made a soft defeated plop in the slush.

"My dear child," he said, retrieving it, "you'll send me to the netherworld before my time, and I've sermons yet to write."

He bent to pick it up and a cough took him mid-reach, hard, from low in his chest, and he pressed his fist to his mouth.

"Forgive me, Father, I was..." She couldn't say haunted. "Startled."

He straightened slow, set the hat on his white hair, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"By what?" His eyes were kind, they missed nothing, watering from the cough.

"A woman, in Midstrom, she took my hand and said... said I was... evil."

Father Grey went still, setting the hat on his white hair and looking at her, not at her face, but through it, as if reading a language under her skin.

"I have been a man of God for fifty years, Hazel," he said at last. "I have seen evil in men who smile, in the dark between stars, in the quiet of my own heart some nights." He set a hand on her shoulder, it was heavy and real. "You are not it. Do not carry another's madness, it will sink you."

"...Thank you, Father." Her voice was small.

"I must go, Seth waits; he's to ring the bell for classes."

He climbed the stone steps, his boots were old and his back was bent, he didn't go straight in, he stood on the steps a second, hand pressed to his chest to settle it, and looked out past town toward the woods, then remembered Hazel and smiled again.

Hazel watched him, she knew Seth only a little, the orphan boy quiet as a kept secret, always with a book or a broom, polite at picnics, the few she had attended, Father always said church air didn't agree with science. They never much talked, he never met her eyes longer than a heartbeat, there was something cold about him, not cruel. Cold. Like standing near a well in August.

The chapel was stone and safety and saints in glass, and for a moment Hazel wanted to run inside and kneel and let the silence take her.

Instead she turned toward the woods and began the long journey out of Chantwood.

The cobble turned to packed snow, the houses got smaller, further apart, then no houses at all. Just fields white and flat. Hazel pulled her shawl tighter. Her boots sank and pulled, sank and pulled. It was quiet out here. Too quiet after Father grey. After Old mae.

She walked, the birthmark on her ankle prickling, she rubbed it through her stocking, the mark was the same as ever, a dove's wing, her mother said it meant peace, her mother was wrong about many things.

The road split. She knew this fork. Left went down the low road toward Greywood. Andrew's house was that way, set back off the road where the trees thin. Right went narrower, half gone with snow. That way was Elephant Rock.

For a second she stood at the fork. Greywood road was wider, more traveled. Elephant Rock was quieter. Andrew would be there, cutting wood, shoulders steaming in the cold. That's where she'd told herself she was going.

She took the right fork.

The willows trees closed in fast. The track was not a track now, just a path Andrew kept clear. Snow got deeper. Her steps went from crunch to soft sink. The wind came up and made a sound in the branches, high, thin and miserable, like a woman screaming, and Hazel stopped.

The sound was inside her head now, the dream, the dark, the scream from the dead fire that morning.

A twig snapped behind her.

She turned. Nothing. Only trees. Only snow falling from branches with soft final thumps.

Fear gripped her. She ran. Her breath tearing in her throat, branches clawed at her face and kept her curls as trophies, footsteps coming up behind her, keeping pace, not hurrying, like it knew she'd tire.

A hand caught her arm.

She screamed.

The bells of the church rang once.

Urga was burning, and hell had broken loose. 

For Dmitri, this was easy to see. He was in the midst of it all as he marched through the blood-red streets. They were chaotic. People ran for their lives, as russian whites and Chinese soldiers clashed ever so violently.

He scanned his surroundings. The monastery city was crude, austere; no, primitive. No beautiful buildings, no signs of anything grand. If it were not for his foes, he would have wondered if he had been taken back to the medieval ages. It truly was like all the worst parts of Saint Petersburg all over again.

This time of observation was broken as a Chinese soldier sprang out from one of the buildings, a large dao in his hands, ready to cleave his foe in two. Yet the Russian was determined to deliver that exact same fate unto him.

Dmitri’s grip on his curved blade tightened as he dodged to the side. His image reflected in his foe’s blade as it came down, pale and wide-eyed.

Before his opponent could recover his guard, his saber had whipped around in a moulinet, coming down on the poor fool’s head, splitting his skull wide open. Blood, brains, and his soul were splattered upon the doorframe.

He pitied the fool. He gave his life to some warlord who was in the midst of being crushed by a more dedicated enemy. It wasn’t really a fair fight. Yet there was no moment to breathe, no time to gloat. While this had been easy enough, he still had to enter the houses and clean them up. He was truly not looking forward to it.

From the briefing he'd received before the battle, he knew the foes had taken every building in the city as a tiny stronghold they had to clear out. Still, knowledge didn’t give enthusiasm. As much as he enjoyed the closeness of battle, fighting in buildings was never a fun affair.

And if one enemy came from that house, there was a non-zero chance more had huddled inside, waiting for their chance to spring out on him, ready to make him regret setting foot in this city.

Perhaps he was insane, like his general, or perhaps he was only fiercely loyal. But he was making his way into that building.

I’m working on a new project loosely based around my life. This is my first draft so the spacing is definitely a work in progress. I just want your thoughts and opinions to help me out. Is it too long? Not long enough?

THE LIFE I DIDN'T SEE COMING
Prologue
Before You Get to Know Me

Rosalie Meredith Lockhart • Age 24

If you had asked eight-year-old me what my life would look like at twenty-four, I probably would've told you I'd be married, living in a beautiful house with a wraparound porch, and raising two perfectly behaved children with the love of my life.
I'd also probably have a horse.
I don't know why. I just feel like eight-year-old me would've wanted a horse.
Well, I'm twenty-four now, and I can confidently tell you that absolutely none of those things have gone according to plan.
Except the kid part.
I do have one of those.
And he's definitely not perfectly behaved.
In fact, approximately twenty minutes ago, my son decided that the appropriate response to being told he couldn't eat a cracker off the floor was to throw himself backward and scream like I'd personally ruined his entire existence.
Motherhood. It's magical.
Don't get me wrong, I love that little boy more than anything in this world. He is, without question, the greatest thing I've ever done.
But sometimes I look at him, with his big eyes and mischievous little grin, and wonder how someone who hasn't even been alive for two whole years can have such a strong opinion about absolutely everything.
His name is Ryder.

And if there's one thing you should know about me before we get into all of this, it's that being his mother is the one part of my life I'd never change.
Everything else?
Well.
That's a little more complicated.
My name is Rosalie Meredith Lockhart, but unless you're my mother and I'm in trouble, you can call me Rose.
I've been told I'm sarcastic, stubborn, overly emotional, and occasionally incapable of keeping my mouth shut.
Personally, I think I'm delightful.
Other people may disagree.
I have a habit of laughing at inappropriate times, getting attached to people a little too easily, and convincing myself I've got everything figured out approximately five minutes before life decides to humble me.
And believe me, life has gotten really good at that last one.
You see, when I was younger, I thought growing up happened in some kind of orderly fashion.
You finished school, got a job, fell in love, got married, bought a house, had some babies, and lived happily ever after.
Simple, right?
Yeah, somebody probably should've warned me.
Because nobody tells you that you can do almost everything you're supposed to do and still end up somewhere completely unexpected.
Nobody tells you that the person you picture standing beside you at eighty might not even be standing beside you at twenty-four.
Or that sometimes the hardest part of losing a relationship isn't losing the person.
It's losing the future you spent years imagining.
The house.
The holidays.
The family pictures.
The stupid little traditions you thought you'd keep forever.
All those tiny pieces of a life that existed so clearly in your head, even though they hadn't happened yet.
It's a strange thing, grieving something you never actually had.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I do that a lot.
Right now, I'm sitting on the edge of my bed, surrounded by cardboard boxes and approximately seventeen different things I swore I packed but somehow can't find.
My son is asleep in the next room.
My mother is somewhere in the house, probably making a sarcastic comment about something that doesn't actually require commentary.
And me?
I'm trying to figure out what the hell comes next.
I wish I could tell you that after everything I've been through, I've become one of those strong, independent women who wake up every morning knowing exactly what they want out of life.
You know the type.
The ones who drink their coffee in matching pajamas, journal about gratitude, and somehow have time to exercise before the sun comes up.
Couldn't be me.
Most mornings, I'm lucky if I remember where I put my phone before leaving for work.
Sometimes I'm confident.
Sometimes I'm terrified.
Sometimes I feel like I have everything under control, and other times I want to call my mom and ask her how people are supposed to be adults because I genuinely feel like I've missed an important meeting.
But I've learned something recently.
Maybe growing up isn't about finally having all the answers.
Maybe it's about realizing you're going to make mistakes, change your mind, lose people, find new ones, and become about a hundred different versions of yourself along the way.
And maybe that's okay.
I wasn't always this person, though.
Before the responsibilities, the heartbreak, the bills, the sleepless nights, and the little boy who calls me Mommy, I was just a girl.
A girl who loved her family, probably talked too much, and had absolutely no idea how much her life was going to change.
I had friendships I thought would last forever.
Crushes I was convinced were the greatest love stories ever told.
Arguments that felt like the end of the world.
And moments so small I didn't realize they were important until years later.
Some of those people are still in my life.
Some aren't.
Some I wish I'd appreciated more.
And some?
Well, let's just say everybody serves a purpose, even if that purpose is teaching you what kind of bullshit you're no longer willing to tolerate.
But despite everything, I wouldn't erase the girl I used to be.
Because every embarrassing mistake, every ridiculous friendship, every broken promise, and every moment of happiness brought me here.
To twenty-four.
To Ryder.
To a life I never imagined I'd be living.
And as much as I wish I could go back and warn my younger self about certain things, I don't think I would.
For one, she probably wouldn't listen.
Stubbornness is a family trait.
But more importantly, I think she deserves to experience her story without knowing how every chapter ends.
Even the difficult ones.
Especially those.
Because somewhere along the way, that little girl becomes me.
And I'm starting to think I actually like the person she's becoming.
So, before we get to the broken engagement, the baby, the moving boxes, and the absolute disaster that is figuring out adulthood, I think we should start at the beginning.
Back when my biggest problems involved school, friendships, and whatever ridiculous situation I'd managed to get myself into that week.
Back before I understood that people could love each other and still grow apart.
Before I knew that forever wasn't always permanent.
Before life started making decisions I hadn't prepared for.
Back when I was just Rosalie Lockhart.
And trust me.
That girl had one hell of a story ahead of her.

This is a draft of a short story I'm working on, told entirely through a series of letters written by a Japanese soldier to his wife during the final months of World War II.

I'd really appreciate honest and constructive feedback. I'm especially interested in:

• Does Akira's emotional progression feel natural and believable?
• Does the relationship between Akira and Kazuko come across, even though we only see his side of the story?
• Does the pacing between the letters work?
• Do the characters feel like real people?
• Does the historical setting feel believable?
• Does the ending build the right kind of emotional impact?
• Are there any parts that feel unnecessary, confusing, or too on-the-nose?
• What would you change?

I'm not looking for praise, so please feel free to point out what doesn't work. I'm trying to improve as a writer, and I'd appreciate specific, honest feedback.

A Letter Too Late

21/March/1945

I am safe at the base. I guess you are doing well. Tell mother that I am eating well here and she doesn’t have to worry about me. Take care of mother and father. The war looks intense, it might take a while for me to come back. And if I don’t return, you can remarry someone.

Again, Thank you for taking care of mother and father.

Akira.

15/May/1945

I am doing well here, hope you are doing too. It’s quite dull here. Just pale walls, bland sheets, these creaking bunk beds, and the continuous shouting of the general. I hope mother and father are doing well. With each new intel, the war seems more close and gruesome. Sometimes it looks scary and sometimes, just what we have to accept. It’s really a bit unpleasant to not hear your voice first thing in the morning.

Thank you for taking care of mother and father.

Akira.

25/June/1945

I haven’t heard from you. Not a single letter. Looks like you are still upset after that night. Anyways, how are mother and father doing? Are they good? They are not worried about me, right? The environment here is really starting to scare me. Yesterday, I got so sick I couldn’t eat. I really want to come home, kazuko. The general is really infuriating, he calls in for work, work and more work. He says we shouldn’t sit around idly even when the war is not at our doorsteps. It’s a bit lonely here, nobody really talks, everyone just seems to be busy about their routines, then collapse on the beds at night. Last night, all I can remember was you, when you cooked for me, my favorite okonomiyaki and tonkatsu the very next day. Mother told me you asked for my favorites specifically.

Thank you for taking care of my family.

Akira.

11/July/1945

Dear Wife,

yes I put ‘dear wife’ in there so I won’t get another letter starting with ‘your mother says’. But I can see you smiling and smirking while writing like that, just to make me feel my mistake. How is mother and father? How are you? I got you letter. At least you wrote this time. I am currently the focus of the base or maybe the laughingstock for receiving a letter from you. General taunts me with ‘newly weds’. I wanted to say, I am sorry, for that night when I raised my hand on you. I was really frustrated and I won’t say I wasn’t wrong because I was frustrated. I am really sorry, Kazuko. I feel I want to come back, not for them, for us if you give me another chance. I was so wrong with you and I deeply regret that. I want to try being your husband this time.

Thanks for taking care of our family.

Akira.

20/July/1945

Dear Wife,

How are you doing? I am doing well here, mostly working around the base. Sometimes I get the time to think about what will you write the next time. I was scared, that you won't write this time, but as you did wrote, I believe I am forgiven and you want to tolerate my antics again. I will try to be better this time and we might tolerate each other.  I will try to know you more, just like you did. Maybe I will get you something after all this is over and I can be back to you. And stop writing to 'Dear Soldier', I won't write next time if I get another letter starting with 'Dear Soldier'.

Take care of yourself and our family.

Akira.

31/July/1945

Dear Wife,

How are you? To be honest, I am not fine. An air raid strucked near the base, I was injured. My left shoulder is injured and I can't feel or move my left hand. The doctor says the senses will return soon but I am prohibited to move my left hand for around 3 months. I wasn't able to write but Likhawati-san is helping me write this letter. He is looking angrily at me or he is just jealous. I have good news though, I can come back home early, as I can't use my left hand and can't lift heavy bags. Maybe they will let me leave the base after 9th August. When I was on the bed, and believe myself to be done for I can only think of you. Not mother, not father, you. I can only think how I want to make things right with you. I was always irritated at how you always smiled and giggled through the difficult times. I still remember when you walked in on me in the bathroom and couldn't stop blushing and chuckling the whole day. I want to be irritated by your smile again. When I get home, don't hold back on irritating me with that smile. How's the weather in Nagasaki? Has it started raining there yet? The nights might be cold, take care of yourself. And yes, I like you called me Anata. But if you want you can keep it to Akira too.

Regards to mother and father.

Akira.

08/August/1945

Dear Kazuko,

I have a good news, I will leave the base on 11th of August. And I senses in my hand are back, but it just hurts now. I will be home soon. When I get home, to Nagasaki, to you, I won't know how I would feel or how to react to your presence. I have never seen any wife call their husband idiot even when they are on hospital bed. But it's you. I never wanted to get married, Kazuko, not just to you, to anyone. When I saw marriage through other's eyes, it was just responsibilities, duties and about honour. It was never about meaning to each other. I didn't want that, I thought you were same like them too. But I see it now, we both don't share that view, we have our own way of treating this relation. I want to mean something to you, not out of responsibility or duty, out of importance in your heart. I want to live with you, to have a home with you. I don't want to be distant to you anymore. Will you be my wife, Kazuko? Don't write, when I get home just answer me then.

Regards to mother and father.

Yours,

Akira.

Maja took the roast out of the oven and set the baking pan down on a wooden board in the middle of the table. The aroma of roasted meat instantly filled the dining room. She picked up a large carving fork and began slicing the meat, while Dino watched her hands intently from the other side of the table.

"It looks amazing, Maja," Dino said, reaching for the bottle on the sideboard behind him. "I brought this red. I think it’ll pair well."

"Thanks, Dino. You always remember to bring something nice," she replied, keeping her eyes fixed on the meat.

She placed the first slice onto Dino’s plate, then a second onto Antonio’s, who was sitting at the head of the table. Antonio remained silent. His hands were resting in his lap, beneath the edge of the table, as he stared motionlessly at the plate in front of him.

"Antonio?" Maja called out to him. "Are you okay? You’ve been so distant all day."

Antonio slowly raised his eyes. First, he looked at her—at her clean face and her hair pulled back into a ponytail—and then he shifted his gaze to his brother sitting opposite her.

"I’m fine," he said, his voice completely flat, without a single inflection. "Just tired from work. It’s nothing."

"See, that’s your problem," Dino cut in, already chewing on his first bite. "My friend, you need to slow down. Life is passing you by, and you’re buried in those papers. Look at yourself, you’re too pale. You need to get out more, be among people."

"I will get out," Antonio replied, picking up his knife and fork. "Soon."

Maja sat down in her place, facing Dino. She poured herself some water, then reached for the wine bottle. She filled Dino’s glass halfway, then her own.

"Would you like some, Antonio?" she asked, holding the bottle over his glass.

"No, thank you. I’m sticking to water tonight."

"Your loss, you don’t know what you’re missing," Dino said, raising his glass toward his brother. "To that, man. Cheers to our health."

Antonio raised his glass of water. Glass clinked against glass, the sound echoing brief and sharp in the quiet room. He took a small sip of the cold water and set the glass back on the table, exactly where it had been before, making sure it aligned perfectly to the millimeter with the edge of his plate.

The dinner went on slowly, filled with Dino’s story about his car trouble and a mechanic who tried to rip him off for parts. Maja listened to him intently, nodding occasionally and smiling at him. Antonio chewed the tough meat in silence, watching how Maja followed Dino’s every hand gesture.

When she reached toward the middle of the table for the salad bowl, she extended her arm straight out. The space between Dino’s plate and his glass was narrow, and as she pulled the bowl back, her index finger lingered against his forearm for a second. Dino didn’t pull his arm away. Instead, he kept talking, though the rhythm of his sentence slowed down for just a brief moment—just enough to catch her touch before he finished his thought and laughed.

Antonio watched it all without blinking. He knew about them. He knew about her made-up nights out with friends, and about all those evenings when she would come home late with cheap excuses. Everything was as clear as day.

"Maja, pass me some more bread, please," Dino said.

Maja picked up the bread basket and handed it to him across the table, their fingers brushing once again. This time, they didn’t even bother to hide it from him. Dino took a slice of bread and began wiping the sauce off his plate.

"This is honestly superb," he said, leaning back in his chair with satisfaction. "Maja, you’re a wonder."

Maja blushed slightly, then stood up and carried the empty salad bowl into the kitchen. She returned, sat back down, and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, while Dino raised his glass toward Antonio once more.

"Man, compliments to the chef for this dinner. We should do this more often."

Antonio slowly placed both hands on the table, palms down and fingers spread wide across the white tablecloth. The smile completely vanished from his face as he shifted his gaze from Dino to Maja.

"We should, but this is your last one," Antonio said.

Dino lowered his glass, the red wine swirling slightly inside it, and looked at his brother in confusion, then at Maja.

"What do you mean, last one?" he asked.

Maja stared at Antonio; her hand froze in her lap as she held the napkin."Antonio, what are you talking about?" she asked.

Antonio didn't answer right away. He slowly reached into the pocket of his blazer, which was hanging on the back of his chair, pulled out a small black pistol, and laid it on the table, right next to his glass of water.

Maja caught her breath sharply through her teeth, while Dino went completely rigid.

"Because tonight, you are both going to die," he said. His voice was entirely calm, without any rise in tone. "You are getting exactly what you deserve."

"Antonio, please..." Maja whispered, as a first tear rolled down her cheek, but she was too paralyzed by fear to wipe it away.

"You will expose yourself as an unfaithful wife, killed by her lover because she wanted to leave him," he said coldly, then turned to Dino. "And you... You, brother, will look like a piece of trash to the whole world—the man who stole his own brother's wife, and a monster who ended up killing her. And me? I had to kill you because you attacked me right after her. I’ll be the victim who acted in self-defense."

Dino's breathing was shallow and rapid, his hands clenched into fists on the table. He looked at the gun, then into Antonio’s cold eyes.

"Antonio, you’re crazy, I..." He gathered his strength, pressed his hands against the table, and tried to lunge to his feet.

He remained half-crouched, his palms pressed hard against the edge of the table. His eyes were wide, locked onto the barrel of the gun, which was now raised to the level of his chest. Antonio’s elbow rested on the table, his hand steady and still.

"Sit back down, Dino," Antonio said.

Dino lowered himself back into his chair, slowly, inch by inch. He didn’t take his eyes off Antonio’s finger, which was resting along the trigger.

"Antonio, calm down," Dino hissed through his teeth. His voice was deep and strained. "Put that away. I’m your brother. Let’s talk."

Antonio tilted his head slightly.

"We are talking, Dino. Tonight we talk about your car, about your mechanic, about your wine. Now it’s my turn."

Maja covered her mouth with both hands. A short, muffled sound, like a sob, escaped her throat, and she tried to swallow it down. She looked at Dino, then back at the gun.

"Antonio, please..." she spoke from behind her palms. "You’ve got it wrong... it’s not what you think. Do you really believe that..."

"Don't, Maja," Antonio cut her off, without turning his head toward her. He kept his eyes on his brother. "Don’t waste words on lies that you can’t even finish. I know everything. I told you."

Dino slowly spread his hands flat on the tablecloth.

"Alright," he said, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible. "You caught us. We messed up, we're idiots, do whatever you want to me. Hit me, break me, but put the gun away, please. We can handle this like civilized men."

"Like civilized men?" Antonio repeated, a barely noticeable, cold smile appearing on his face for a split second. "You want us to handle this like civilized men? You’re sitting at my table, Dino. You’re eating my food, raising a toast to me. And what are you doing behind my back the whole time? Sleeping with my wife. Is that your idea of 'civilized'?"

Maja dropped her hands from her face. The skin around her eyes was red, and her lips were trembling. She stared at Antonio, trying to catch his eye, but his gaze remained fixed on Dino.

"Antonio, please," she said, gasping for air. "If I have to, I’ll leave. I’ll pack up tonight, I’ll go, you’ll never have to deal with me again. Just... please, put the gun down."

"You’re not going anywhere, Maja," he said in a flat voice. "I told you how things stand. Tonight, you both die."

"You can’t kill your own brother, are you insane?!" Dino suddenly raised his voice, anger briefly overtaking his fear. His shoulders tensed. "The same mother gave birth to us, we grew up together, Antonio! We're blood!"

"You're the one who forgot that," Antonio replied. "Now it's too late."

Silence fell over the dining room. Dino’s breathing was heavy and shallow. Maja stared at the gun, then at her husband, gripping the edge of the table as if she were about to collapse from her chair.

Antonio slowly shifted the barrel of the gun, pointing toward the large carving knife that lay next to the empty baking pan in the middle of the table.

"Actually... You know what, Dino..." he spoke, his voice sounding almost relaxed. "Maybe it isn't entirely too late. Maybe there is a way out for you. It all depends on how badly you truly want to live."

Dino looked toward the knife. The blade caught the reflection of the light.

"What does that mean?" he managed to say.

"Take the knife, Dino," Antonio said. He didn’t raise his voice. "Take it and cut her arm. Make a gash. Prove to me that your life matters more to you than hers, and maybe I’ll let you walk out that door alive."

Maja’s breath caught. She flinched backward, pressing her back against the spine of her chair.

"Antonio, no! Dino, don't, please!" she cried out, clutching her hands to her chest as tears streamed down her face. "Antonio, don’t do this..."

Dino didn’t look at her. His forehead was completely drenched in sweat. His fingers slowly began to move toward the middle of the table. Toward the wooden handle of the knife.

"Dino..." she pleaded, her voice a mix of a scream and disbelief. She watched his fingers close around the handle. "Dino, please, don't. You love me... you said you loved me..."

"I'm sorry, Maja," he spoke, his voice completely twisted by terror. "I have to. I want to live."

He leaned over the table. The blade passed right next to the water pitcher. Maja tried to pull her arm back, but it was useless. She had nowhere to go.

The tip of the knife touched her forearm. Dino pressed down. His hand was shaking, but he dragged a cut several centimeters long. The skin tore open, and thick, red blood instantly began to drip onto the tablecloth.

Maja let out a sharp, guttural cry. She clamped her left hand over the wound.

"It’s done," Dino gasped, breathing loudly through his nose. He dropped the knife onto the table. "I did what you asked, Antonio, now let me go."

Antonio didn’t move. He lowered his eyes to the bloodstain, then shifted his gaze back to his brother.

"That was just a scratch, Dino. That isn’t proof that you want to live. That’s proof that you are a coward."

Maja breathed rapidly, keeping her fingers pressed tight over her forearm. Blood seeped between her fingers. Through her tears, she shot Dino a look full of pure rage.

"You piece of trash!" she screamed, her voice trembling. "You sold me out in a second. You talked me into all of this, and now you’re carving me up just to save your own skin. You coward!"

"Shut up, Maja!" Dino shouted, his lower lip trembling. His face was red with fury and panic. "You came to me on your own, I didn’t force you into anything! You were the one constantly talking about how bored you were with him! Antonio, she’s lying! I just..."

"Enough," Antonio cut them off. He didn’t raise his voice, but they both went silent instantly. "I don’t care. Dino, the knife is still on the table."

Dino looked down at the wooden handle.

"Antonio, please..." he whispered, his hand now visibly shaking. "Don't. I did what you asked. Let me go."

"I told you how things stand, Dino," Antonio continued. He slowly raised the gun and aimed the barrel straight at his forehead. "Stab her again. Properly this time. In the stomach."

"Antonio, no!" Maja shrieked. She tried to get up from her chair, but her hand slipped, knocking over her wine glass. The liquid spilled across the table. "Dino, don't!"

"Dino, the clock is ticking," Antonio said, his finger on the trigger tightening slightly. "Choose. Her stomach or your head. Now."

Dino closed his eyes for a second. He let out a short, broken sob, and then pure, primal fear for his own skin completely overrode everything else. He grabbed the knife from the table once more. He stepped out from behind his chair, bypassed the corner of the table, and leaned over Maja.

"I’m sorry..." he muttered through his teeth, his voice no longer sounding human.

He lunged and drove the blade deep into her abdomen.

The knife remained buried in her blouse. Slowly, he pulled his fingers away from the handle. He took one step back. His shoes squeaked quietly on the hardwood floor.

Maja didn’t scream. She only let out a long, shallow gasp, as if she had run out of air. She slid off the chair and collapsed onto the floor.

Dino stared at his sticky palms, his body shaking uncontrollably.

"Antonio..." he managed to say. His voice was raspy, barely audible. "It’s over. Let me out."

"Brother, please..." he took another step back. "Let me go. Please."

"You’re not going anywhere, Dino," Antonio replied.

On the floor, Maja let out a low, wheezing sound. The fingers of her right hand twitched once, scratching against the hardwood floor, and then went limp. Her breathing was growing shallower.

"You’re crazy..." Dino whispered. "You’re a psychopath."

"I am," Antonio said. He slowly lowered the gun by a few centimeters, aiming straight at the center of Dino’s chest. "From the moment I found out about the two of you, I’ve been fantasizing about this night."

"What more do you want from me, Antonio?" Dino managed to bring out, his voice cracked with terror.

"Slow down, Dino, what’s the rush? Haste makes waste, and tonight, I can’t afford even the slightest mistake."

"Stop it..." Dino shouted, unable to take the pressure any longer. "I’ve had enough of your sick games."

Antonio just watched him coldly.

"Come over here and hit me."

Dino stared frantically at his brother's face, then at the barrel of the gun.

"What?" he stammered.

"Hit me," Antonio repeated. "With your fist. In the face. I want you to hit me. I know you want to."

"Antonio, are you out of your mind... I’m not going to hit you..." Dino started shaking his head side to side, looking for an exit.

Antonio raised the gun a bit higher.

"Dino, if you don’t hit me, I will shoot you in the head this very second. Choose. Hit me or die right now."

Dino’s breathing was fast and ragged. Pure fear for his life forced his fingers to curl into a tight fist. He stepped forward, swung, and struck Antonio right on the left side of his face.

The sound of the impact was sharp. Antonio’s head jerked to the right, and blood instantly began to flow from his split lip. He slowly turned his head back, straightened up, and looked at his brother again.

"That was weak, Dino," he said, wiping the blood from his lip. "Again. In the right eye. Hit me again. Now."

Dino was sobbing. He swung again, harder this time, and caught him in the right eye. The skin above Antonio’s eyebrow split open immediately.

In that instant, Antonio clenched his fist and struck back. The blow landed flush on Dino’s jaw, and then he swung once more, hitting his nose. There was a dull crunch of cartilage. Dino stumbled backward, a thick stream of blood spurting from his nose.

Antonio slowly raised the gun and aimed straight at his chest.

"Stand right there," he said, his voice flat and muffled.

Clutching his broken nose, Dino stared in terror at the barrel of the gun. He took two steps back, right into the open space between the table and the wall.

"Antonio, don't, please..." he gasped, his voice breaking.

Antonio pulled the trigger. He fired two quick shots. The first bullet missed Dino and embedded itself in the wall behind him, leaving a deep hole. The second bullet went straight through his chest.

He hit the wall with his back and slowly slid down onto the hardwood floor. His head slumped to the side, his eyes remaining wide open, staring at the leg of the table. He didn’t move again.

A dead silence fell over the dining room, and the smell of gunpowder began to spread through the space. Antonio lowered his hand, the gun hanging by his side. He looked at Dino, then at Maja.

He pulled his phone from his pants pocket and dialed emergency services.

"Help..." he spoke into the receiver, sounding distraught. "My wife... He attacked me too... I’m bleeding... Quickly, please..."

He cut the call and set the phone down on the table.

He walked over to Maja’s body and carefully removed the knife, using a napkin to avoid leaving fingerprints. To alter the scene and simulate an attack, he inflicted several wounds upon himself through his clothing, enduring the sharp pain before dropping the weapon. He then dragged himself a short distance away and knocked over a chair to complete the appearance of a violent struggle.

From outside, sirens began to wail. Blue lights started flashing across the walls and the ceiling of the room.

He stretched out on the floor and closed his eyes.

The front door burst open under the impact, and several police officers rushed into the dining room.

Antonio remained motionless as the authorities entered. The show was ready to begin.

I'm homesick for the arms that never held me

Your beauty is far superior, dare I compare it with fairy

And I'm a, your and hers

My pen begs for something new

She speaks the language of roses

How can I write your name?

I've forgotten how to speak

I know you don't miss me

How can you?

You're too delicate to open the rubbish bin

Just a short-short story to practice writing. I do use AI to help with the grammar and flow after I finish the story.

Feedback is welcome, be kind please :)

Summer Break

The last five minutes always feel like hours.

Kitty looked at the clock and sighed, then glanced at her best friend Lizzy, who sat at the far right of the room. The teacher had moved them apart because they were "too jolly," but it hadn't ended their silent messages or their giggles. Lizzy looked at the clock too and mouthed a single word without a sound: *four*. Kitty checked the clock again, frowned, and pouted. Lizzy let out a soft giggle.

"Maybe Kitty can solve this problem," the teacher said, tapping on his desk. "She seems bored."

"Come on, teach! That's not fair."

"What's not fair?"

"Summer break starts in a few minutes. Why do we still have to work?"

"Well..." The teacher grinned.

"I'm sure you've already planned your whole summer," Kitty said.

He laughed. He knew very well she was trying to stall. He glanced at the clock: less than two minutes left. "What's better than ending the last day with a good math lesson? Maybe I should give you all homework for the summer."

"Nooo!" The protest echoed through the classroom. The class's crushed faces made him laugh even louder.

"I'm joking, I'm joking," he said, wiping tears from his eyes.

DING-DONG!

The school bell rang, and laughter and screaming filled the building.

"Pack your things neatly and put your chairs on your desks, please!" the teacher shouted, hoping someone would listen. "And enjoy your summer break!"

Kitty ran to Lizzy. "Let's go!" She grabbed her arm, and together they bolted out of the classroom. "Goodbye, teach! Goodbye, everyone!"

Giggling, they ran out of the school. The afternoon sun hit their faces and made them squeeze their eyes shut.

"Let's go to the sea this year," Lizzy said. "I'll ask my mom to ask your mom." Their parents were good friends as well as neighbors, so it would be easy.

"Yes! And an amusement park too!" Kitty said.

They planned their entire summer on the way home.

"Shall we get some snacks for tonight?" Lizzy asked.

"Sure."

"Let's cut through here. The market is at the end." Lizzy pointed at an alley.

"Okay."

As they walked, Lizzy listed every snack they had to buy, and Kitty named the movies they could watch. The end of the alley came into view, and the market beyond it. They walked faster. One more step and they'd be out, but a heavy force yanked them backward first. Their bodies felt like lead, then weightless, as if they were speeding forward, then heavy again. They fell to their knees, just outside the alley.

"What just happened?" Kitty was breathing hard. Her hands were trembling uncontrollably.

"Kitty..."

Lizzy was staring straight ahead with wide eyes. Kitty followed her gaze and gasped. "Where the hell are we?"

"What happened? How did we get here?" Lizzy's voice shook.

Kitty got up and held her panicking friend. "Let's calm down and think this through." She looked around. They stood at the edge of a crowded street. Stalls lined both sides, and more filled the middle: rickety wooden tables with striped awnings, barrows piled high, baskets on the ground, crates stacked into towers. Behind them rose tall brick buildings, dark with soot, with shop signs swinging above the doors and washing hanging from the upper windows.

"Lizzy," Kitty whispered. "It's a market."

"I can see that. But everything looks old and strange." The women wore long dresses with corsets. The men wore vests and tights.

"I didn't know there was a castle festival here."

Kitty checked her phone. *No signal. Weird.* She tugged Lizzy's arm. "Let's take a look."

It was the loudest market they had ever seen. A woman in a red apron shouted about fish, and the man beside her shouted about cheaper fish. Someone sold strawberries by the pint, someone else sold ribbons, and a boy weaved between the stalls with a stack of newspapers, yelling words they couldn't make out. Chickens squawked in wicker cages. A horse stood patiently between the shafts of a cart, flicking flies off its back with its tail.

As they walked past the stalls, Lizzy noticed people staring. Some stopped and turned around to look at them. "I think we really stand out."

"Yeah, we do. It's crazy. How did they make this so believable? It's like a movie." Kitty gazed around in amazement, until her eyes landed on the strawberries. "Lizzy, look, strawberries. They look amazing. Let's buy some."

Behind the stall stood a broad man with rolled-up sleeves and a leather apron.

"Two punnets, please," Kitty said. She pulled paper money and coins from her wallet and held them out to him.

He looked at the money. Then he looked at Kitty. He didn't take it.

"What's this?" He turned the note over with one thick finger, as if it might be wet. "This ain't money. Where's the King's face?" He picked up a coin, bit it, and squinted at it. "What kind of metal's this? It's too light."

"It's real," Kitty said, which was a stupid thing to say.

"It's rubbish." He pushed it all back across the table with the flat of his hand. "Go on. Off with you. I'll not be taken for a fool."

"Please, we just want..."

"Off."

Lizzy tugged at Kitty's sleeve. That was when they noticed the man standing by the next stall.

He was tall, in a stained waistcoat with his hat pushed back, and he had been watching them for a while. When Kitty turned around, he smiled, but it was the wrong kind of smile, the kind that never reaches the eyes.

"No need to beg for fruit, girls," he said. His gaze slid down them and back up again, slowly, and Kitty felt her face burn. Lizzy clutched her sleeve tighter. "Not dressed like that. Which house are you from, then? Mrs. Pell's?"

They had no idea what that meant. But it had to be something bad. The woman selling eggs went stiff and turned her face away, and the strawberry man snorted. Lizzy shrank against Kitty's side.

"We're not from anywhere," Kitty said, and her voice came out thin. "Leave us alone."

"Come now." He stepped closer and reached out. His fingers closed around Lizzy's wrist.

Lizzy yelped. Kitty didn't think. She stamped down hard on his foot with her sneaker.

"Run!"

They ran. Kitty never remembered choosing a direction. They shoved through the crowd, past a woman with a basket, under a barrow, over a spill of cabbage leaves that nearly sent Kitty sliding. Someone shouted behind them. A hand grabbed Kitty's shirt and tore free. Then the stalls ended, the street opened up in front of them, and they burst onto the road, still running.

They heard the horses before they saw them.

It was a sound impossible to mistake: hooves like thunder, the rattling, shrieking rumble of iron wheels, and a man roaring a warning. Lizzy turned her head and saw a huge dark shape bearing down on them, a black carriage drawn by two wild-eyed horses with their heads thrown up. They were so close that she could see the foam at their mouths.

Lizzy screamed. Kitty grabbed her hand and threw them both sideways.

They hit the ground hard, and the cobbles scraped their palms. The carriage thundered past so close that the wind flattened their hair, and filthy gutter water splashed across their legs. Kitty scrambled up, dragging Lizzy with her, and dove into the first gap she saw, a dark slot between two buildings. Before she could understand anything, the heavy feeling returned and pulled them back. Then came the weightlessness, the rush forward, and the heaviness again, slamming them to the ground.

"Ouch!" Lizzy groaned. "It happened again." She got up and helped Kitty to her feet. Their knees were bleeding from the fall.

Kitty looked around. "We're back."

Lizzy looked around, then at the alley. "Yeah." She kept staring at it. "What was that?"

"I don't know." Kitty stared at the alley too. "Whatever it was, it felt real."

They looked at each other: scraped hands, bleeding knees, dirty and torn clothes.

"Let's go home for now," Kitty said.

They locked hands and walked home together.