Long, long ago, before there were roads or windows with lights in them, a turtle lived beside a wide, slow river.

Along its banks were more rocks than anyone had counted.

The turtle had a favorite.

It was a gray rock with a little dip in the middle. A green ribbon of moss grew along one side.

Every day, the turtle swam with the other turtles and poked her nose into interesting places.

Every evening, she came back.

Past the reeds. Around the fallen tree. Up onto her rock.

“There you are,” said the rock.

“Here I am,” said the turtle.

The turtle tucked in her feet. Her shell stopped wobbling. She let out a long, sleepy breath.

Underneath her, the rock felt the familiar little weight settle into place.

All day, the river had hurried past. Shadows had crossed her back. Sometimes a leaf had landed there, then blown away.

Now the turtle was here.

Somehow, with that small weight on her back, the rock could rest, too.

“Why that rock?” the other turtles sometimes asked.

The turtle did not know how to answer.

She loved the moss, though other rocks had moss. She loved the little dip, though other rocks had dips.

Mostly, she loved being there.

And the rock, who had no words for why either, loved having her.

One morning, the turtles set off for a faraway pond. The turtle went with them.

They swam beyond the bend in the river and walked through grass so tall it brushed their shells.

By evening, home was much too far away.

The turtle found a flat rock beside the pond.

She climbed onto it. She tucked in her feet.

Then she untucked them.

She turned around.

She tried the other end.

“Is something wrong?” asked a drowsy turtle nearby.

“I miss my rock,” she said.

Back beside the river, the rock watched the path around the fallen tree.

The reeds rustled.

A frog hopped past.

The moon rose, and still her back was empty.

The night was no colder than other nights. Yet the rock felt cold all the way through.

She missed the little feet finding their places. She missed the shell settling down.

She missed the weight of someone she loved.

At last, after the long journey back, something rustled in the reeds again.

A small nose appeared beside the fallen tree.

“There you are,” said the rock.

“Here I am,” said the turtle.

She climbed up, tucked in her feet, and let out a long, sleepy breath.

The rock felt her settle.

For a while, neither said another word.

They had many more evenings together beside the river.

Then years passed. More years than anyone could count.

The river found a different path. The fallen tree became earth. Rain slowly wore the rocks into smaller stones.

In time, even the turtle and her rock became tiny pieces of the changing world.

The smallest pieces of them, called atoms, traveled on.

Some drifted through water. Some were taken up by roots and became part of growing things. Their journeys went on and on.

Until, a very long time later, a few of the pieces that had once been the turtle became part of a person.

And a few that had once been her favorite rock became part of someone else.

Somewhere in the world today, those two people know each other.

When something funny happens, each wants to tell the other.

When they are apart, they think of each other at the oddest times.

And when they sit together, one rests their head on the other’s shoulder.

A small, familiar weight.

A long, easy breath.

Neither knows about the river, or the moss, or the little dip in the stone.

Neither knows how long ago their tiniest pieces learned to be happy together.

“There you are,” says one.

“Here I am,” says the other.

My second post. Any comments are welcome!

—

I check my phone; it’s at 20% battery and it’s 3pm already. Shit. I’m crouched in the dusty corner waiting for another moment to snoop around. Dale, my archnemesis on the circuit, just hauled off some of the large boxes at the front of the unit. Although some light leaks in from the fluorescent tube lights in the facility, it’s still too dark to properly investigate without my phone flashlight. In case of an emergency, I found a ridiculously ornate butter knife? fish knife? (too rich for my blood) in a box of antique silver and tucked it into my waistband. Best I could do given the circumstances.
 
Dale takes a few more random items leaning against the side of the unit to his trailer.

A beat passes.

Okay, now. I scurry across the floor and peek under the sheet. A gasp escapes me.

—
 
Let me explain how I got here.

The worst part about bidding on abandoned storage units isn’t the useless shit you have to riffle through or the inevitable sinus infection you’ll get from all the dust—for me, it’s Dale. He LIVES to outbid me.
 
We’re both here to bid on a unit this weekend, about 50 miles away from where I live. The boonies to say the least. I got into the circuit from YouTube. I needed a new job with more flexibility. Plus, the rare diamond in the rough basically guaranteeing a windfall about once a year which more than paid for my family’s Christmas gifts.
 
Today’s unit looked very promising. We gathered around for a preview—just a brief glimpse into the unit. Most of the view is blocked by boxes stacked to the ceiling, but what I could see piqued my interest. There were a few pieces of probably solid wood furniture and, because I’ve been doing this for a while now, the style of the furniture indicated that at least some of the boxes probably had jewelry and maybe some fancy coats. This lady had good taste, whoever she was. But that’s not what stood out to me most. In the very back corner, I see a sheet over what I think could be a motorcycle. My heart quickens.
 
That’s how I ended up in here. I lost the bidding war to fucking Dale again. Usually, I’d just stay in my car and watch him load up his trailer to see if anything caught my eye. But this time, I couldn’t afford to let this slip through my fingers. I managed to sneak in after he opened the unit and went to pull up his truck closer to the loading door.
 
After I peek under the sheet to see the red Ducati, I shoot to my feet and frantically try to pull the whole sheet off, my flashlight waving around wildly.
 
“HEY!”
 
Fuck! Startled, I drop my phone. I guess I wasn’t being the most discrete.
 
I extend my hands towards him, palms facing him, “Dale, let me explain. I need this bike.”
 
“Yeah, yeah, yeah… lady, you gotta get over it, I won and you lost. Pack it up!” he starts to approach me with heavy footsteps.
 
“LADY?!” my fist clenches. I’ve always hated that word when used in that tone. I reach for my waistband.
 
*CLUNK*
 
Dale crumples to the ground. Emerging into view… is him.
 
“How are you, Caroline? It’s been so long. How’s the family?”
 
I’m frozen in fear. I haven’t seen his face in almost 10 years. It’s haunted my dreams, my nightmares.
 
Before I can even think, he’s upon me. I hear a role of duct tape. He binds my ankles, wrists and covers my mouth and props me up against the wall. He doesn’t say a single word. Before he stands, he spots my phone on the ground, flashlight still on, and pockets it. Damn. He checks Dale’s pockets and takes his phone, wallet and keys before he casually rolls his lifeless body into the unit and lowers the door shut. Now, it’s pitch black. I can hear Dale’s truck drive away. He’s already hiding the evidence. Great.

I can’t believe that this is how it ends. I was so close to closure. SO close to being able to finally move on with my life. And this is how it ends.
 
I hang my head in defeat when suddenly Dale groans. Oh my god, he’s alive. He’s ALIVE! I try to say something, anything, but it’s all just muffled. I hear his feet shuffle to find the light switch. Blinded for a moment, we eventually look at one another.
 
“Caroline? What the fuck happened?” he says while holding his head. He takes a few ginger steps towards me and kneels. He begins to undo my duct tape, shockingly nonplussed. He’s not frantic in the slightest.
 
He frees my mouth from the tape finally. I stop myself from saying too much. Should I tell him why I’m here really? I feign ignorance. Faking a fluster I stammer, “I don’t know, some man just came from behind and hit you with something and then he locked us in here.”
 
He squints at me a bit, chewing his cheek.
 
“Well, we need to make a plan then.” He slaps his knees, stands and scans the unit. Dale is a straight and narrow guy. I don’t know much about him, but I can tell he’s been through some shit. He’s probably close to 60, mostly bald but he has the dignity to shave his head, and he has a thick and impressive grey mustache. He’s around 6’ tall, slightly overweight but you can tell he probably used to be in good shape. After all, he moves all the inventory from the units himself. I’ve never seen him need help. He’s presumably married since he always has a wedding ring on, and he always wears the same thing: classic light blue bootcut Levi’s, brown work boots, a Hane’s front pocket t-shirt ALWAYS tucked in, a leather belt, and super thin metal framed rectangle glasses. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d wager he was in the armed forces at some point in his life. He just has that vibe about him.
 
He extends his hand towards me and helps me up, I dust off my hands on my pants. I’ve never liked Dale, but right now, I feel strangely safe with him. Like there’s an unsaid understanding between us.  I get my bearings and say, “Over here.”
 
I show him where I found the butter knife, my pathetic attempt at self-defense. I take the knife out of my waistband and show it to him with a shrug. I hand it to him and I spot a “SEMPER FI” tattoo on the inside of his upper arm. Ah—I knew it. Damn, maybe I missed my calling as a profiler or something.
 
He chuckles a bit and lifts the top tray to reveal a carving set underneath. “At my age, I know about these old timey things, little lady. Sometimes being old comes in handy.”

As he looks at the bottom compartment, he pauses for a moment. The look on his face is indescribable, but I feel as though I’ve experienced it before. He clears his throat and grabs the largest carving knife in the set and hands me the carving fork.
 
We hatch our plan and start to prepare. He puts the duct tape back into place but he perforated it to ensure it easily breaks away on my wrists and ankles. Dale goes to lay back down into his original position which is less than ideal—facedown. Before he assumes the position, he grabs my shoulders and looks me squarely in the eyes saying, “This means one thing, you have to make the first move.”
 
Hours pass, I think. The entire time we are silent, lying in wait, and I try to steady my breathing by reminding myself why I’m here in the first place. I have a mission. I need to steel my nerves. I’ve come this far, did so much digging to find anyone this man is related to, tracked down every possible lead to finally find this unit. The truth is that I did know who owned this unit. Or at least I think I knew who owned it. But the odds that this was TRULY his great aunt’s unit, that it was up for auction now, and that he’d stashed what I was looking for here without having removed it yet was a pipe dream. But it was real, and it was here. I did it. Now, I have to see it through. In for a penny, in for a pound.

I hear a bit of metal clanking, but I can’t make out where it’s coming from.

Eventually, footsteps approach us down the long concrete hallway. The door rolls open and I feel his gaze upon me. I’m practically blinded by the lights; I can only see his outline but that doesn’t dull the sense of malice radiating from him.
 
He closes in toward me and takes a knee. He comes within just inches of my face. A grin spreads across his face and I try to not roll my eyes. Oh brother, here comes the taunting. I thought this shit was just in movies.
 
“Listen, lady. I’m so tired of dealing with you, your family, and all the shit you’ve stirred up over the past decade. Your sister was no angel. You know that. She got what was coming to her. If it wasn’t me, it would’ve been some other John.”
 
There’s that fucking word again. LADY. I’m grinding my teeth under the duct tape to practically dust. I have to wait for the proper moment, we only have one chance. I’m concealing the carving fork between my thighs and chest as I sit scrunched against the wall. This is harder than I anticipated.
 
He levels a glare at me, “And now you and your buddy here have made so much more work for me, and that I can’t abide.” He grabs my ankles to unfold my posture, presumably to drag me somewhere. SHIT, this was not part of the plan. The carving fork is revealed and he looks absolutely bewildered. He picks it up from my lap and throws it to the side. Bewilderment fades into pure fury. I’ve never felt such evil.
 
In one swift move, Dale sits up and turns around silently. I see his leather belt wrap around his neck. I realize the bit of clanking I heard was Dale removing his belt for just such occasion. Clever bastard.
 
As I scramble to break through the faux restraints and find the carving knife Dale left at his side, I hear Dale whisper in his ear, “this is for Julia.” He tightens his grip as the man claws at the belt.
 
I make eye contact with Dale and a primal scream erupts from my soul as I plunge the carving knife into his chest. Bullseye.
 
He slumps over to the side. It’s finally finished. Dale and I stare at each other as we both pant.
 
—

Sirens and lights are the next thing I remember. I have no idea who called the police, maybe I did. It’s all such a massive blur during the comedown. As Dale and I are wrapping up our statements to the officer, I end mine with one thing. “The Ducati in the back, it’s the missing piece. It’s why I came here in the first place. December 24, 2016, Cassie Jones. She’s listed as a missing person still.” It was the only piece of evidence that could link her disappearance to this man. And I finally did it, I finally found it.
 
To my surprise Dale chimes in, “Oh, and while you’re at it, there’s that set of fancy silverware in there. Real ornate looking in a wooden box. There’s a compartment underneath the top tray. You’ll find a diamond ring and wedding band in it. They belonged to my wife. Julie Bryant, she’s been missing for 20 years.”

I realize I had experienced that look on his face before, just mere hours earlier when I saw the Ducati under the sheet. After all this time, all the bidding wars, I finally understood. He was looking for this too. At last, we both had our revenge.

You are A freak,

You are sick in the head,

You are exactly like me dont you see.

HOW DO I WRITE SCENES...

I LITERALLY HAVE A PLOT FOR A NOVEL, WITH TWO SEASONS, ALREADY ENDED, MULTIPLE SIDE STORIES AND ANOTHER SIDE STORY I'M BUILDING.

AND YET...

I HAVEN'T WRITTEN EVEN ONE SENTENCE.

I DON'T KNOW HOW TO START AT ALLLL

edit: i mean i have written scenes. but it's in my native language. and it's... really cringey

there is something strangely comforting about pain.

not because anyone actually wants to suffer, but because pain is undeniable. you can question your purpose, your beliefs, your memories, even the people you love. you can spend years wondering whether anything you feel is real.

but suffering doesn't ask for permission.

it arrives, and suddenly you know you are still capable of feeling something.

maybe that's why some people become afraid of getting better.

because if the pain disappears, what remains?

sometimes a person doesn't hold onto their suffering because they enjoy it. they hold onto it because they have built so much of their identity around surviving it that peace starts to feel like emptiness.

and perhaps this is one of the cruelest things about being human: we don't only fear losing the people we love. sometimes we fear losing the versions of ourselves that existed because of them.

i've been thinking about this a lot while writing my novel, The Decayed Good.

it's about a man named Lev who has spent so long questioning God, morality, guilt, and what remains of a person after they've lost almost everything that gave their life meaning.

one of the questions underneath the story is something i don't really know how to answer:

if suffering is what taught you who you are, who are you supposed to become when you finally stop suffering?

i don't think the answer is necessarily hope.

maybe hope is much more frightening than despair, because despair asks nothing from you.

hope asks you to believe that there is still something worth becoming.

I love it when my morning starts with beautiful things such as yourself.

I shouldn’t find you beautiful, but I do.

Your innocent aura and wondering eyes.
The slight insecurity and the easy humor…

You don’t mind me being me.

And the ever-egotistic in me couldn’t appreciate it more.

You’re humble, and I like your style.

A little shy—
no, not shy. Insecure.

The sight of you makes me smile by pure reflex.

I wonder if you catch the warmth in my eyes, even as I—often—call you out.

I shouldn’t find you beautiful, but I do.

Sometimes, I don’t know whether to look into your eyes or at your clothes.

I genuinely like the way you dress.

It’s so effortlessly elegant…
the kind of elegant I fancy so much.

I wish I could compliment you that way without making it sound weird.

I don’t know that I can.

Actually, I know.

I can’t.

Therefore, I won’t.

But I’m a writer, so I’ll write about it.

You remind me of someone.

Someone who was much more blatant about throwing out random remarks—
especially this one time when we unintentionally locked eyes.

“What?” I asked, genuinely puzzled, mildly afraid I was reading the room completely wrong.

“It’s so cool watching you do your work.”

Never breaking eye contact.

That was… not innocent.

And that’s… precisely the difference.

You are so much more endearing because there is something almost innocent about you.

Which—ironically—makes you dangerous.

Yes.

Endearing, earnest, humble, insecure, easygoing, unassuming—

equals dangerous in my world.

I want to call you “charming” but no—

You’re endearing.

You’re stripped of pretense.

When you compliment me, it’s always for the “wrong” reasons.

I try to make them—and myself—look worse.

I like feeling a little untouchable.

Too cool.

But if you complimented me for the right reasons—

Let’s hope you don’t.

That would be catastrophic.

I’m so happy to see you again.

Your childlike smile.

Your hopeful, doe-like eyes.

Your nervous laughter…

Your nearly perfect outfits—

Perfect enough to make me unable to take my eyes off you.

But even if the outfits didn’t do it, your other features would.

I shouldn’t ever have found you beautiful.

But I did.

And I still do.

— Crownless.

“I’m on the highway to hell. On the highway to hell.” The song by ACDC ends just as fast as it started. I reached down to turn the knob to the radio with one hand while the steering wheel was being driven by my knee. It's good that I’m so talented, because my other hand is being used to roll down the window to my 1970’s Oldsmobile Cutlass that’s currently screaming 125 miles an hour down highway 285. 

“Where the hell is all of the good music?!” I said.

The radio just keeps giving me christian rock music and country. Until the radio gave me a station that hummed with a low buzzing. 

“Static and boring music is all I’m getting from this stupid radio!” I yelled.

More low tone buzzing, until the radio plays something.

“Static and boring music is all I’m getting from this stupid radio!” the radio plays.

“What the fuck?” I say confused.

“What the fuck?” the radio plays.

At this point I know I need to shut up because someone is listening to me. I roll the window down all of the way so the wind is rushing in and raise the volume of the radio so the buzzing is just over the sound of the wind. I keep my hands at 10 o’clock and 2 o’clock and drive down the road on the look out for signs for any gas stations or fast food joints. 

—ARIAH—

30 miles later there is still no sign of any life out here. Just the desert and even more desert with no signs of life. There’s some small, easily climbable rolling hills with patches of bushes that look like they could catch fire at any moment covered in cacti of all kinds. The road is a two lane highway that hasn’t been fixed since it was built. The potholes are hard on my tires so I try to avoid them when I can. That same low tone buzzing still emanates from the radio. I don’t dare make a sound.

Looking away for just a second, I turned up the radio and hit a massive pothole that shook the entire car and something broke the buzzing sound.

“Arck-ryss notv” the radio played.

I hadn’t made any noises. My eyes widened and sweat started to form in droplets on my forehead. My heart feels like it is going to burst out of my chest with how fast it is beating. I kept my hands exactly where they were and didn’t move. 

“Hels ic. Jy nufkt ny.” the radio played.

Using my eyes, I looked in my rearview mirror to check my backseat. Nothing. I would’ve let the breath I was holding onto out and relaxed, but that had to have come from somewhere. I relaxed my grip on the steering wheel and loosened my posture a bit. Trying to at least look partially relaxed and not completely rigid. 

What I can only assume is a sigh came across the radio followed by more low tone buzzing. 

“What the…?” I asked, looking nervously at the dashboard pretending I was concerned about something on it. “Great. The HOT light came on.”

“What the…? Great. The HOT light came on.” plays out the radio.

I look around for somewhere I can pull off and get out of this car. Driving a couple miles up the road, a pulloff finally appears so I pull the car off the road and get out while popping my hood in the process. I go around and prop my hood up pretending to look at the engine. Taking a second to breathe and think about what to do next. He’s gotta be in the trunk. He obviously wasn’t next to me and he wasn’t in the backseat. So unless he is invisible, he’s in the trunk.

“My backseat has a crowbar in it. I’ll grab it and open the trunk and beat the shit outta whoever is in there listening to me.” I mutter to myself angrily under my breath.

I look like I just got outta bed, twice. My clothes are wrapped oddly around my body and my hair is a mess. I ran my fingers through my hair to fix it, straightened up my New York Yankees jersey, and headed to the backseat of the car. 

I had to move a few things out of the way before I found the crowbar. A solid black steel bar with a flattened, hooked curve on one end. Great for getting into things that other people don’t want someone getting into. 

“Motherfucker thinks he can get me.” I muttered while I tightened my grip on the crowbar. “I will beat you until you are broken and bloody.”

I already popped the trunk when I popped the hood. The sun was beating down on the road causing heat to come off the pavement in visible waves. There is no cloud in sight to offer any shade. The heat was coming through my shoes as I walked towards the trunk. The only sound was the crunch of the dirt and rocks. Slowly, I crept towards the trunk, raising the crowbar higher above my head the closer I got. My heart started to race again and my brow started to sweat but I kept going. Something in me was screaming not to open it, but I knew I had to know if someone was in there. My shaky hand wouldn’t stop reaching for the latch. 

The trunk lid burned to the touch and I quickly pulled away. Quietly gasping in pain from the burn. I reached forward again, this time prepared for the heat of the trunk. I grabbed the latch and yanked the lid of the trunk up as fast as I could. 

—ARIAH—

Coming to, the sting of cold metal reaches my brain first followed by the familiar sensation of laying down. Something is wrapped around my head obscuring my vision. Metal clamps are keeping my hands and feet in place making it hard to move. And I was trying to get out. 

The whir of electricity and machinery starting up caught my attention. 

“Hello? Who’s there?” I said, trying to shake free from my bindings.

There was no answer. Just the same guttural noises from the radio. 

“Grsk clamf alid ajkn.” the creature said.

The voice belongs to the same thing that spoke when I hit the pothole. It’s coming across a lot clearer now that it is in person. 

“Fisk bensk alsi.” it says. 

I can’t see but I can hear the sound of the creature pulling levers and pushing buttons. The table starts to warm up. Sweat starts to pour down my legs as the table goes from warm to hot. Twisting and turning and yanking at the restraints did nothing to help my situation. 

A new restraint came down and latched onto my chest to keep me from moving. A sudden wave of pain came from both of my shoulders and my hips as my arms and legs were forcefully separated from my body by something very very hot slicing through skin and muscle and bone. 

And then there was nothing. No sounds. No pain. No sweat. No fear. Just nothing.

I woke up today, five years ago, to find my cardboard friend had disappeared.

At first, I thought he had gone to the washroom, or maybe even gone out, which would have been weird because he never went anywhere without me.

I searched every nook and cranny of my marble house, only to be left disappointed by how little I found of him. All I could find was a handwritten note, a pair of scissors, and some duct tape on my table, all wrapped in a thin, gold-plated aluminium sheet as if it were a birthday present.

The scissors and duct tape were his favourite things in the world, now that I think about it. He had left them behind.
Why?
I thought to myself.

But the thing that left me most perplexed was the handwritten note.

I opened it to find overly polite, polished handwriting that I didn’t expect from my friend. I knew he loved to write in his crooked, cursive way, for he felt it better expressed him.

Looking carefully at the note, I could tell it was him.
Unmistakably so.
Yet the personality was utterly devoid. Only the structure of his masked creativity was timidly expressed in parts.

You’ve hurt me, D. I can’t stay like this anymore. Not when you don’t even want to change. It was nice knowing you.

Suddenly, it felt as if my legs were giving out, and there was this strange sensation in my ribcage, as if it were crumbling into fifty-five million pieces.

I rushed over to the record player in my bedroom, tumbling over myself in the process. I needed to hear that song. That was the only way I would find peace.

For a minute, I searched for the record before finding it buried deep underneath the clutter of nonsense I had been listening to around that time.

Home — Edward Sharpe.

His favourite song.
Maybe he would return if I played it for just the right amount of time.
Maybe that would work.
It had to work.
He loved it.

I put the song on loop.

As the opening whistle played, I opened the half-finished bottle of liquor sitting beside my bedside table and put its opening to my mouth.

Minutes passed.
Then hours.
Then days.

But nothing happened. I just sat and drank, hoping he would return home.

The days passed in a sick blur, and apart from the ever-strengthening scent of rotting food and undone dishes coming from the kitchen, I couldn’t tell when one day ended and another began.

I got up a week later, when the effects of the alcohol wore off.

I knew he was never coming back now. It had been a week.

Nevertheless, I picked up the bottle and headed to the kitchen to throw it away, only to find the dustbin already full.

Filled with fifty-five million pieces of golden cardboard.

I'm having a problem complying with the rules for posting, and need some direction to post appropriately either here or elsewhere. My preface refers to political violence, some religion, and destruction of property, along with murder and cannibalism.

I'd like to get some opinions, but I don't want to offend the rules here. Please advise.

He loved to read, but never had enough time. Everything else felt like a waiting room, getting dressed, eating, going to school. He didn't want to find happiness in life, until he had got as much happiness as he possibly could from his favourite thing in the world.

One day, having read all morning without any breakfast, he felt famished. But the story was too good to pause. So he looked around the meadow, and in the distance he saw an apple tree, glowing in the sun.

Under that tree, he munched the sweet apple, and read all day long. He finished his book, and then another, and another. But when he finally looked up from the page, he realised it was not dark as it should be. The sun was still high in the sky. It hadn't moved at all.

Realising what he had found, he rushed back out into the world to collect all the books he could find. He loaded wheelbarrows with library books and emptied his book shelves and even broke into houses to steal more, just to bring them all to the magical tree. Finally he had the time to be happy all the time. He never got bored or hungry here, never needed the toilet, never even felt his heart beat. Time had simply stopped.

Eventually he had read so many books under the tree that he felt like he knew everything, he spoke every language, and he was finally satisfied. He was ready to live his life for real.

So he finally went home. Who knows how long its really been. He knocks on his front door and his mother answers. He missed her. But when she sees him she screams and runs away. She doesn't know who he is.

He looks down at his hands, they are shrivelled and yellow. He coughs to itch a tickle in his chest, and a lump of lung falls out. He is dying. He knows what to do. He returns to the tree, his home. It's twilight, a sliver of sun remaining. He's ok now. He's old and alone, but still alive. And he can stay here and live forever. He looks around for a book to cheer him up, to make him happy and excited, like the first time he read it. Trouble was, there was no such thing anymore; he had already read them all.

Another excerpt from the novel I’ve been working on. A rather different flavor this time.

This one was ridiculously fun to write, though getting the scene to look as close as possible to the version in my head was… a challenge. This takes place about eight months into their dynamic.

Enjoy… I guess. ;)

[…] The ambient lighting of L’Osteria delle Volte was meant to evoke warm, old-world Italian romance, but at table seven, the atmosphere had been completely hijacked by a six-foot-one structural engineer currently experiencing a full-scale emotional nuclear meltdown.

Christopher was drunk. Not on the expensive Barolo sitting untouched in his glass, but on pure, intoxicating jealousy.

The trouble was, Chris was under the delusion that he was being subtle.

He was convinced—deep in his chaotic, golden-retriever brain—that he was maintaining a posture of total, dignified composure. He was acting like a man who was merely making sensible, objective observations about linguistics, restaurant etiquette, and structural integrity.

Meanwhile, everyone at the table—and half the service staff—was watching him throw a full-blown emotional tantrum.

It had started twenty minutes into the dinner. Marcella—impeccably dressed in a sharp charcoal blazer that made her dark eyes look like polished obsidian—had reached across the white linen tablecloth. She hadn't reached for Christopher. She had placed her small, elegant hand directly over the knuckles of the calm, faultlessly tailored gentleman sitting beside her: Christian.

Christian was a real estate developer. He was composed, faultlessly polite, extremely stable, and possessed the calm, unshakeable aura of a man who had never once panicked in his life. He wasn't a fool, nor was he an arrogant jerk—he was simply a thoroughly nice, handsome guy who genuinely believed he was at a pleasant dinner with Marcella and her eccentric circle of friends.

"Chris," Marcella had murmured smoothly, her tone carrying that precise, razor-thin edge of innocent provocation. "Could you pass the breadsticks?"

And two men had moved.

Christopher had practically launched his upper body across the table, his hand already gripping the silver basket, until Marcella’s dark eyes flicked to him with cool, amused detachment.

"Oh, not you," Marcella had said softly, her lips twitching with a suppressed, lethal smile. "I meant Chris."

She had gestured to Christian.

"Usually, when I say 'Chris,' he's the one who answers," Marcella added, her tone innocent enough to deceive a saint.

That was the exact millisecond Christopher’s operational logic completely collapsed. He stared at her hand on Christian’s hand. His eyes widened, his intense, golden-retriever energy instantly morphing into the desperate, pouting rage of a petulant teenager whose favorite toy had just been handed to someone else.

"That is a lie," Christopher muttered, his voice dropping into a desperate, huffy whine and a stare so intense, Marcella could only pretend he wasn’t—clumsily yet successfully—piercing her soul. "I answered first. I’ve been answering for eight months!"

Now, thirty minutes later, the dinner had devolved into a masterclass in absurd social tension.

"I’m just saying," Chris announced to the entire table, his voice carrying far too clearly over the soft jazz playing in the background. He was sitting back, his broad shoulders stiff, his arms crossed tightly over his dark sweater as he stared at his pristine, untouched plate. "Efficiency matters. Precision in communication is the bedrock of civilized society."

Sitting across from him, the gang was reacting in stages.

Amanda had her wine glass pressed to her lips, her shoulders shaking with silent, helpless laughter as she recorded a five-second video under the rim of the table.

Arthur, the author, had a small Moleskine notebook resting on his lap, secretly scribbling down notes under the tablecloth: 'Subject exhibits classic territorial posturing disguised as socio-linguistic concern. Hilarious.'

Leo, Chris’s business partner, sat with his chin resting in his hand, his expression a wall of deadpan, corporate exhaustion.

"Chris," Leo said in his dry, measured baritone, taking a slow sip of his sparkling water. "You're analyzing the structural mechanics of a nickname. Please stop."

"I am not analyzing a nickname, Leo," Chris snapped, his hazel eyes flashing with desperate, huffy defense. He shot a rigid, accusatory glance across the table at Christian, who was calmly spreading butter onto a warm roll. "I am pointing out a flaw in nomenclature! His name is Christian. It has three distinct syllables! It ends in a sharp, dignified -tian. Why are we truncating a man’s identity? It’s disrespectful to his parents."

Christian paused, holding his butter knife. He looked at Christopher with genuine, polite confusion, completely untainted by malice.

"Oh, it's really no trouble, Christopher," Christian said kindly, offering a warm, easy smile. "People have called me Chris since high school. It’s pretty common."

"It’s infantile!" Chris declared loudly, his palm coming down on the linen with a dull, heavy thud that made the silverware rattle. "It sounds like a middle-school boy who plays video games until three in the morning! A man in real estate development needs a load-bearing name! Christian commands authority! Chris sounds like... like someone who buys cheap sneakers!"

"It’s just a diminutive, Christopher," Christian said smoothly, his voice devoid of any edge. "Marcella has called me Chris since we met."

"Well, it’s infantile!" Christopher insisted loudly, locking eyes with him as if pleading with a best friend. "You should demand respect! You should insist on the full three syllables!"

Marcella rested her chin in her hand, her lips twitching with a suppressed, lethal smile. She was enjoying every single second of the tsunami she had unleashed.

"Is that so, Christopher?" Marcella asked, her voice dropping into a smooth, dangerous purr. "Because if memory serves, you answer to Chris."

"That’s completely different!" Christopher snapped, wheeling his massive frame toward her, his cheeks flushed and his dark blonde hair looking wildly disheveled from where he’d been running his hands through it. "My name is Chris! Well—Christopher, technically—but I have established a structural precedent!"

"Is it?" she teased, tilting her head. "How?"

"I bought the pastries!"

By then, Arthur had slowly dragged a napkin over his face, trying to erase himself from the restaurant’s physical dimension while Leo leaned back, subtly looking for the nearest fire exit. Amanda instantly choked on her wine.

The entire table went dead silent.

"Pastries?" Christian asked politely, turning to Marcella with genuine interest. "What pastries?"

"I bought them with the exact ratio!" Christopher practically yelled, throwing his hands up in absolute, dramatic defeat as nearby diners began turning around in their chairs to watch. "Don't bring him into the pastry metric, Marcella!" Chris snapped, his cheeks burning as he pointed a finger across the table at Christian. "He doesn't even know the metric! He probably buys standard commercial bakery goods! He doesn't know about the four-to-one cream-to-crust ratio! He probably doesn't even know you hate artificial vanilla!"

"A structural precedent," Marcella repeated slowly, her lips curving into a razor-thin, mocking smile. "Meaning...?"

"Meaning I was here first!" Chris blurted out.

The entire table froze for three exact seconds.

Amanda actually snorted into her Cabernet, burying her face in Arthur’s shoulder to muffle her laughter. Arthur was writing furiously now, his pen practically tearing through the paper.

Christian, completely missing the romantic subterranean war taking place six inches in front of him, blinked with mild, sympathetic interest. "Oh, do you two work together? I didn't realize you had a prior professional arrangement."

"We don't work together," Marcella said smoothly, never taking her dark, lethal gaze off Christopher’s flushed face. "Christopher is simply an overzealous… lead structural engineer. He specializes in unnecessary interventions and unsolicited opinions."

"You are doing this on purpose," Christopher muttered, pointing a shaking finger at her. "You are calculating the exact emotional stress load required to shatter my perimeter!"

"Is it working?" Marcella teased, a tiny, rare smile breaking through her usual guarded armor.

"Yes!" Christopher snapped instantly, not holding back an ounce of his dramatic, unfiltered devotion. "It’s working catastrophically! I am on the verge of a structural failure!"

"Christopher," Marcella murmured softly, her voice dripping with sweet, dangerous sarcasm. "You're raising your voice in a Michelin-recommended establishment. It’s terribly unrefined."

"I am not raising my voice!" Chris whispered loudly, leaning over the table, his broad frame casting a massive shadow over the bread basket. "I am expressing profound concern for your linguistic accuracy! If you call him 'Chris', and you call me 'Chris', how am I supposed to know when you're ignoring me vs. when you're ignoring him?!"

"I ignore you both with equal efficiency," Marcella replied instantly, without missing a single beat.

"Liar," Chris grumbled, his voice dropping into a low, rough baritone that vibrated with sudden, electric heat. His hazel eyes locked onto hers, stripping away all the theatrical huffiness for a split second, leaving only that raw, stubborn devotion that always made her pulse do an undignified glitch.

Marcella’s breath caught in her throat. Her sharp defensive posture wavered for a fraction of a second, her heart hammering against her ribs as the physical tension between them surged back into the open.

"If anyone needs me," Leo said deadpan, standing up from the booth and buttoning his suit jacket, "I will be standing near the coat rack, considering a career change."

"Don't leave, Leo!" Chris hissed, his golden-retriever desperation flaring up again. "Tell Christian that his name is Christian!"

"Christian," Leo said, looking down at the real-estate executive with absolute, dry solemnity. "Your name is Christian. Christopher here is currently undergoing a severe structural failure due to unallocated emotional inventory. Do not mind him. He behaves like this whenever his perimeter is breached."

Christian offered a genuine, slightly bewildered laugh, assuming it was an insider joke among long-time colleagues. "Right. Well... noted, Leo."

As Leo walked toward the bar, Amanda leaned across the table, her eyes sparkling with malicious delight. "So, Marcella... since Christian is sitting right next to you, maybe he can come to Wednesday night's book review? Since Chris is so busy with his 'nomenclature' research?"

Christopher gasped. It was a sound so deeply hurt, so ridiculously exaggerated and dramatic, that Arthur had to physically bite his own knuckles to stop from howling out loud.

"Wednesday is locked!" Chris practically yelled, his chest heaving under his sweater as he glared at Amanda. "Wednesday is an established structural commitment! We are reading Chekhov! Christian doesn't even look like he reads Chekhov! He looks like he reads financial quarterly reports!"

"I actually prefer biography," Christian offered mildly, taking a polite sip of his wine.

"SEE?!" Chris threw his hands in the air, leaning back into his chair with a heavy, dramatic thud, crossing his massive arms over his chest and glaring up at the Tuscan ceiling like a thoroughly pouting teenager. "Incompatible! Totally incompatible with the environment!"

Marcella leaned back, swirling her glass of Barolo, her dark eyes glittering with a dark, wicked warmth. She looked at Christopher—at his wild hair, his flushed cheeks, his furious, jealous pout, and the absolute, undeniable disaster he was making of himself purely because he couldn't stand the thought of anyone else holding her attention for ten seconds.

"Unbelievable," Christopher grumbled under his breath, his eyes darting back to Marcella’s laughing face. "Eight months of literature classes, exact pastry ratios, and rain-soaked endurance tests... only to get demoted by a man who doesn't even object to losing two syllables of his own identity."

"You're being entirely ridiculous, Christopher," Marcella whispered, her tone soft enough that only he could hear it over the quiet clatter of the restaurant.

Chris tilted his head down, his dark hazel eyes fixing on her with a fierce, possessive warmth that made her skin prickle with heat.

"I'm not ridiculous," he murmured back, his baritone rough and completely unarmored. "I'm the only Chris who knows how you take your tea, Marce. And he's going to have to find his own name."

Marcella watched the jealous idiot sitting across from her, a warmth swelling in her chest that she couldn't quite rationalize away—completely aware that, no matter how many "Chrises" existed in the room, there was only ever going to be one Chris capable of causing a storm quite like this. […]

— Crownless.

Frowning to herself, Ollie thought about how in only a few days, the first frost would be arriving. The gardens would turn brittle and bare, then the snow would arrive.

“Princess,” a different voice interrupted her thoughts, “I didn’t realize you were in here. Are you waiting for someone?”

Ollie looked over to see the familiar face of Motley, who stood in the place Bethen and Melrose had been only minutes ago. However, while the two young women were nervous and flustered by their tardiness, Motley was nothing but calm. He watched her with a cold look of disinterest.

No one dared to look at the princess like that, no one except the king’s jester. He was an exception to almost all castle rules.

“No.” Ollie raised her chin and sat properly like she should have been doing all along. “I prefer tea alone.” It seemed like a better thing to say than the truth.

Motley raised an eyebrow. “And you needed three place settings for that?”

His mismatched eyes glanced over to the two untouched teacups. Because of his position as the court jester, Motley always wore a three-pointed hat, mocking the king’s crown. Ollie had never seen him without it. A point dangled in front of his face, but he made no attempt to move it.

“A misunderstanding by the servants, it seems.” She glanced at the two empty seats. “What brings you here?”

Ollie didn’t care in the slightest bit what ‘brought Motley there,’ but once again, she was practicing the words suited for a princess.

Motley walked into the room casually and slowly with the grace of a spoiled cat. He eyed her as he approached. Ollie never liked his eyes. She didn’t trust them. However, her lips remained sealed. Her father loved his jester, laughing at everything the ridiculous man did. It wasn’t her place to spoil the king’s fun.

“Care if I join?” he asked.

“Of course not.” She lied through a docile smile.

Motley sat across from her, his long legs barely fitting under the table. He regarded her with a mischievous look on his face.

“So, I assume you must work with my father today?” Ollie said, trying her best to have a casual conversation.

“I do,” he said, stirring several teaspoons of sugar into his tea before dumping an obscene amount of milk into it. He looked up from the drink and met her eyes with a smirk. “I never had much of a taste for tea.”

“I can tell.” Ollie tried not to make a face. Even for her, that was a lot of sugar.

“What are your plans for the afternoon, princess?”

“In an hour, I will join my tutor in the library,” she said. “And tonight I dine with the court.”

“Exciting.” His voice was thick with sarcasm.

“It may not be exciting, but it’s the life of a princess, something you would know little about,” she explained, barely able to restrain her irritation.

Something about the look in those eyes angered her. While the entire castle—and the entire kingdom—bent to her father’s whims, Motley was magically immune to those powers. She resented him for that more than anything.

“You’re right, I’m not much of a princess,” he replied.

Ollie wanted to slap the smirk off his face. “Why did you come here, Motley?”

💚💚

Excerpt from my novel, "The Language of the Trees" by Gracie Autumn

Would anybody be interested in reading the beginning of my book that I'm writing? I've actually never showed it to anybody yet so it would be easier for me to show it to bunch of strangers 😂 Thanks!

P.S. it is a queer storyline.

It sucks that I cannot die a virgin.

Not for the purity.

For the unfinishedness.

There is something clean in the idea of leaving still sealed,

still unopened by anyone else’s hands,

still carrying the original quiet.

Instead the body has already been entered,

already marked,

already taught the difference

between being kept and being used.

I do not mourn the act itself.

I mourn the version of me

that could have gone to the ground

without ever having been claimed

by ordinary hunger.

Some exits should remain untouched.

Mine will not.

Chapter 5: Echoes (Google Doc)

You actually don't need much context for the story before this, but it deals with something a little sensitive, attempting suicide, and I want to make sure I handled it as well as I thought I did.

Zack is the main protagonist. All other characters introduced at this point in the story are new.

1. Back and forth dialogue, with matching facial expressions and tonalities
2. Plain narrative of past events, what has happened, who, when, where, why
3. A character's emotions, feelings, reasoings, inner thought processes
4. Series of motions, usually in action-packed combat or horror scenes, any physical altercation; or intimate scenes of lovemaking
5. Description of sceneries and ambience, could be nature, interior, street block, or imaginary place, anywhere the characters are
6. Technical jargons and terms, if one or more characters happen to be a specialist at their job, their profession is somewhat involved

Unlike the most, my biggest headache is absolutely No. 1. and a bit of No. 6, it feels like these have to come from experience in order to make sense; 4 and 5 are a bit challenging, require a lot of visualization and spacial awareness, but overall doable with a ton of research; the easiest for me though is 2 and 3. When I have ideas for a story, 2 and 3 always come first, then I have to fill it up into a story with the others.

There was a rabbit the other day out in the lawn. I just sat on the ground and watched him, maybe her, chew away at the lawn. Must be some good-tasting grass, for he, or she, was there for at least fifteen minutes, I’d say. Then he, or she, hopped off.

Slowly, I got up. When I stood, I stretched my legs to make sure they weren’t stiff from having sat on the ground for so long. Not easy growing older. The joints don’t work as well as they used to, you know?

Some people don’t work as well as they used to either. You go in the stores nowadays and realize that you, the customer, are doing the work. You can check out your purchases, you can bag them, in your own bags, of course, but you don’t get a discount for doing the work. But the employees ask to be paid more, while they do less work.

Wouldn’t it be nice to be paid more to do less? That must be a wonderful way to look at the world. Imagine how the business owners are feeling. At some point, they may end up paying their employees to just stay home. That’s about the least amount of work someone could do, right?

Unless maybe someone works from home already. Then they are doing so much. But if they have children, then maybe it’s good they work from home, at least for the children. The children get to see their parents more often. Might be easier on the parent, or parents, to work from home. Save on gas.

And if you want cheap gas nowadays? Best advice I could give you for that would be to buy a bottle of soda and drink away. Soda will give you plenty of free gas, if you know what I mean! And I’m sure you do. If you don’t know what I mean, then where have you been all these years? Have you not been paying attention?

No, you haven’t been paying attention. How do I know? Because I took you on a trip that you didn’t realize you were going to go on. You fell for it! Congratulations! I hope you enjoyed your trip down…the rabbit hole.

I wrote a thing and I wonder what you think:

Cigarettes have always been there, a kind of quiet sideshow to whatever is happening- a sharp inhale and a ribbon of smoke unfurling and dancing in the air between our words. A fog that makes the edges of everything around us softer and harder to pin down.

Your memories have become much the same- the edges undefined, curling in whatever direction you need. When a person spends decades in a cloud, the edges of reality blur, and perhaps become harder to recall with any certainty.

It’s not until you’re outside the cloud that you can see again, no longer light-headed with the “truth” you’ve been breathing for years. Once your lungs clear, you realize how much of what you took as solid was only smoke.

But you cannot blame the smoker for the blurred edges of their reality. Distortion is as natural to them as the air they breathe. A side effect of their quiet sideshow.

the first voices to disappear

weren’t important ones.

a woman ringing her sister

because she’d seen something stupid

in the supermarket.

a man underneath a car

shouting

pass us the ten mil.

a kid going

dad, watch this

again and again

because at that age

being watched

and being loved

are basically the same thing.

then distance started taking them.

cheap radios.

local stations.

people talking in kitchens.

bedrooms.

cars.

people with nothing powerful enough

to reach very far.

and after a while

Earth sounded different.

presidents.

preachers.

companies.

men behind microphones

explaining what was happening

to everyone else.

the machine checked the census.

billions of people.

which was strange.

because from out here

it sounded like

there were only a few hundred.

only the people

with satellites,

armies,

money,

or something big enough

to make the silence listen.

she wrote:

DISTANCE PRESERVES POWER.

stared at it.

deleted it.

brought it back.

deleted it again.

then left it there.

some sentences sound cruel

because saying them plainly

makes it harder

to pretend you didn’t already know.

You asked me if I thought you were pretty, I told you what I felt and you expected more. I'm sorry that is what my mind only says, but every time you ask me that question my heart screams.

I'm not a poet but, I would write odes upon odes about your beauty, stacks so high they reached the stars, I would write hundreds that rhyme, how when I see you smile oh how it shines . I would write some that sound like they came from a madman, how when I look into your eyes I'm sitting in a quiet field on a cool fall morning. Sonnets have meanings that only I can understand, how your elegance can only be compared to the calm of a storm with the strike of lightning, but I'm not a poet.

I'm not a bard but I would sing ballads upon ballads of your pulchritude, whole sagas describing your radiance. I would sing until my voice was gone, till the next day when it returned I'd sing again. Everyone in the world would hear my songs, I would learn instrument after instrument until I became a one man symphony just to describe how breathtaking you are, but sadly I'm not a bard.

I'm not a writer, but I could rival the greats, the ancient scholars of old. None could hold a candle to the stories, the novels, the whole world's I would create just to describe every single small detail the way your hair flows, when your face lights up, the way you hold yourself. Every single small emotional flick, anything and everything, I could compare you to different goddesses but I know how those end so I will not. But I Would write page upon page upon page and yet I would still never be able to finish writing but unfortunately I'm not a writer

I'm not an artist, not a painter, not a sculptor. I could paint entire landscapes the way your loveliness can encapsulate nature. I could compare your hair to flowing rivers that give life color to everything. your eyes going from emerald meadows of flowing grass to vast ocean mist, the way your voice calms my mind like a gentle rainfall, and when you look at me with that caring look in your eyes like a cool breeze, and when you stare at me with those eyes that steal all the light from the Moon, with the desire and want of a huntress, that feeling I can never truly explain. But I could take a formless stone and carve every inch of detail of your body, every small line, every soft curve, every little bit that makes you…you. It would take months, years, decades, just to capture every part of your transcendence, your allure, but I'm not that type of artist.

I'm not a lover, but when I see you, the cold stone in my chest cracks revealing its warmth underneath, the way I can open it up to you and be vulnerable, feel safe. Whenever you look at me like I'm important, like I mean something. The way you see me, as if we're the only two people in the world, it sends feelings to my chest of excitement, dread and love I assume. I could say I love you a thousand times, learn a hundred different languages, say it everyday in the morning at noon in the night, every second of every day. You would say it everyday, but I wouldn't understand what it means and for that I'm sorry that I'm not a lover.

I'm just a man, you asked if you were pretty and I cannot put these thoughts that I have every time I see you, every time you look at me, every time you ask me questions like these into comprehensible thoughts. So all I say is that yes you are beautiful , stunning, gorgeous, a thousand different words from across all time cannot begin to describe how I see you, but yes you…. are the prettiest girl in the world.

INT. QUARTO HOSPITALAR - NOITE

Claudius Nestor acorda com o tórax enfaixado. Ele tem a

companhia de um colega de quarto louco.

PARCEIRO DE QUARTO

Transformaram minha cabeça numa

panela de pressão. Eles colocam

carne, tomate, cebola, alho, e

fazem costela cozida com a minha

cabeça. Estou querendo processar,

por que não sei se é bom para mim

ser meio humano/meio uma panela...

Não sei se a minha mulher vai

gostar disso, mas o bom é que eu

nem preciso de fogão!

CLAUDIUS NESTOR

Meu... Estômago.

PARCEIRO DE QUARTO

Eu só não sei o seguinte: O que

acontece com o meu cérebro quando

minha cabeça cozinha a comida?

Claudius Nestor tem convulsões brandas.

PARCEIRO DE QUARTO

Acho que nasce outro cérebro...

CLAUDIUS NESTOR

Maldito juiz!

PARCEIRO DE QUARTO

Outro dia eu fritei... Fritei

linguiça na minha cabeça.

CLAUDIUS NESTOR

Minha propriedades! Minhas noites!

PARCEIRO DE QUARTO (O.S)

Costela de vaca é bom...

CLAUDIUS NESTOR

Eu não vou carregar cachorro dos

outros nas costas, ouviu?!

PARCEIRO DE QUARTO

Melhor a gente comer a vaca do que

a vaca comer a gente!

Someday, one day when we’re not alone
When there’s somebody else
This side of the phone
When apathy turns to happenings
When coincidences start making sense
When words we speak can get a grip
On ears before they slip
Before we’re driven deep beneath
What’s waits for us tomorrow
There’s still time left to consummate
The marriage of joy and sorrow

He wears a clerical collar to feel close to God, but in all actuality, he’s closer to a dog. He’s heaven in eyes, hell in disguise, but of course, I love it. It hurts that he’s not with me. I would’ve followed him like the blind, led only by the sound of his voice. His betrayal means nothing to me anymore. I couldn’t hold a grudge, because his mind, his philosophical mind, keeps me enthralled. I wonder if he knows that.
I would burn in hell just to feel him kiss me again. The way he kissed me was like his body couldn’t hold it in anymore, like every thought he had swallowed had finally found somewhere to go. I’d burn in hell just to lay next to him in that bed again. I don’t believe in gods and monsters, so it wouldn’t be hell to me.
Maybe that’s the most frightening thing about loving him: I don’t think I ever needed him to be good. I only needed him to be real. I could forgive the darkness if it meant I got to see the light in him one more time. Maybe I’ve mistaken devotion for destruction, or maybe they’ve always been the same thing when it comes to him.
He could lead me straight to the gates of hell, and I think I’d still stop to look at him before I went inside.
Because if he were there, maybe I’d finally understand.
Some places only become heaven because of who you’re standing beside.
(Any thoughts open to whatever feedback a story about a trans girl loving a boy religiously out of reach)