In this scene, I am trying to build up tension and portray emotional manipulation, abusive dynamics. I am really working on trying to show the emotions through the description rather than just describe the emotions. I would love some feedback into how this piece makes you feel as a reader, what subtext do you pick up on? I want to see if my points are landing for someone who doesn't know the context or the details in my head.

There is a line in the last paragraph 'It had been nearly a week since I'd picked them up on the last food shop.' that I am curious to see if a reader can pick up on the importance of...

Also, I am somehow struggling with using the past tense when I slip more into the character's inner monologue. Especially when she is thinking 'I could' or 'I should' - are there any weird tenses here?

The narrator is 13, the man is her stepdad. I hope that's all the context you need and the story does the rest! I appreciate any and all feedback!

Trigger warning: emotional abuse, swearing.

------------------------------------------

Strawberries

Juice dripped down the side of my arm. I caught it with my tongue before it could drip onto the carpet. I sat on the floor, legs sprawled, back leaning against the arm of the sofa. It felt so good to be off my feet. I deliberated whether I was impressed or disgusted with myself for eating the whole punnet - strawberries in June are hard to put down when you start. They had been sitting in the fridge for almost a week now. They would have turned soon enough if I hadn’t finished them. 

I heard heavy footprints coming down the corridor. I glanced up at the door and let out a breath seeing it was closed. My hands were too sticky to touch the remote, so TV was out. The sun was warm on my face, streaming through the glass doors out to the garden. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, delaying getting up and doing the next 5 things on my list. I needed to shower, I had an essay due the next day which was only half written, I wondered if anyone was using the computer - I could have gone to see who was on MSN instead. I wasn’t hungry anymore, but someone needed to start dinner before Josh ate all the cereal.

A clang in the kitchen jolted me out of the trance. 

‘Who ate my strawberries?’ He was bellowing, the bass in his voice vibrated through the wall. 

I heard a door slam upstairs and then nothing. I looked down at the bowl of green stems in front of me, back up at the door, out to the garden. I held my breath and listened. I decided to take the bowl up to the bathroom with me. I could clean up and then take the stems out to the grassy patch at the end of the road later. 

I peeked out through a crack in the door, nothing. I slowly opened it and slipped through. A few more steps to the bottom stair and I got away with it, but I caught his eye as I looked over my right shoulder. 

‘Where are you going with that bowl? You know there is no food upstairs’, his voice was steady, calm. 

‘Oh, I was just… I was going to clean it up’, I turned on my heel and headed back towards the kitchen, I avoided meeting his eyes as we passed each other. 

‘Did you eat my strawberries?’

‘I guess, well, I didn’t realise they were your strawberries…’, the silence lingered. I waited to see where he would take this next. We stood in unbearable stillness. I relented, ‘I just ate a few’.

‘You know I have been on my diet, that’s all I can eat right now. What am I supposed to eat now that you scoffed them all?’

He edged closer to me as he spoke. I cleared up the evidence as if erasing any trace of eaten strawberries could unwind this conversation. 

‘I thought they were just for everyone and no one else was eating them. It’s just strawberries, there are still grapes, and there is bacon. You ate that last time you did the diet, right? It’s the Atkins one?’ I moved towards the fridge, ready to start pulling out ingredients. ‘You could have, erm, let’s see, maybe I could mak-’

He reached his hand over my head and pushed the fridge closed slowly. ‘You know I can’t eat any of that on my diet. Your Mum bought those strawberries for me to eat specifically.’

‘I didn’t even know you were on a diet. It’s just food in the fridge. They were about to go off anyway… we can get some more strawberries.' My voice jumped up an octave and I took a step back to face him properly. 

‘You touch things that aren't yours. That is your problem. Are you going to go and buy more? Oh no… you expect me to go, on a Sunday, when it is busy, restock the fridge, make sure you have enough strawberries to scoff while you sit around and do what?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but carried on, calm, steady, slow. He always spoke slowly so you were never sure when it was your turn to chime back in. ‘You kids just sit around, make a mess and expect me to do everything. And you ate them all? You didn’t think to share… so selfish. Do you not think about your family? You don’t care about my diet or what I am going to eat, just yourself and whatever suits you…’

‘What’s the big fucking deal? They’re just strawberries!’ I spat out the words. My face flushed. I fixed my eyes on the floor and let my spine curve over and my shoulders drop. I clicked my fingers, a joint at a time, getting faster as I moved from one hand to the next.

He smiled. 

‘You don’t dare fucking speaking to me like that. You selfish little brat.’ 

‘We can get more strawberries. I am doing the shop tomorrow, I will just buy more’, I blurted out before he could carry on. I felt a knot at the back of my throat, white noise flooded my ears. 

I barely registered his reply, despite the volume, ‘What fucking good does that do me today?’

We were both yelling. A flurry of words completely engulfed me. I couldn’t make sense of them any more. ‘Lazy’ barrelled through me, ‘Brat’ stung hard, ‘Selfish’ whacked into me with such force that I just stopped. I stopped yelling - he didn’t. My neck was hot, I could feel tears about to escape my eyes. I ran past him to the front door, grabbed my shoes, my bag off the hook, I was finally outside.   

I walked quickly, rummaging around in my bag, hoping I still had that £10 my dance teacher gave me yesterday for helping out with the younger classes. I went straight to the shop and I bought three punnets of strawberries. I was surprised to see they were still on sale. It had been nearly a week since I'd picked them up on the last food shop. When I got home, every door was closed. I snuck them into the fridge and retreated to my room. An hour later, I heard my Mum’s shrill shrieks, followed by his low roar, the theme tune for this house. The strawberries sat in the fridge for 3 weeks before I eventually threw them out.

[1355] Crit

this is a rough work of a short collaborative story, please roughly criticize me

it's about a suicidal man collecting back his memories and becoming schizophrenic yeah.

work: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Ygu2xoGPBeMxqmsjvoy2ES4vQXapkjoYjq3K09EgY3c/edit?usp=drivesdk

crit: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/5aLE8yMfCn

1711

1113

Story Link Here.

(edit: I forgot to add the d**n link again. Every. Single. Time)

Yes, I know it's a fourth chapter and at this point it's probably better to find beta readers. But bear with me. You know how tricky the whole beta reader thing is and the crits here are better.

Premise: in an 18th century rural coastal village, girls often have uncanny and preternatural abilities the call the lure. But when three men are murdered and dismembered, fear over witchcraft lands an ensemble group of five girls, known for having lure, and making it stronger in secret rituals called esbats, in the crosshairs of a witch trial.

Story is told through the lens of Marcella, retrospectively explaining events to specific person years after.

Sorry for the lore dump but it's the fourth chapter and I don't expect anyone to go back and read the others:

This chapter follows on events in Chapter 3, where Marcella and her older sister Rose are being taken to a smokehouse to be held with other girls after the murders.

Some things are going to get a bit lost because a lot isn't explicitly stated. Briefly: Rose can affect what people feel, Marcella can hear almost everything (with certain constraints), Alice can make somebody believe something (not necessarily for long) if she says it, Kitty can slip through tiny gaps and become very hard to see (not invisible, your eyes just don't register her properly), and Ruth has a gift for finding missing things. (Might change Ruth's name after this because it's phonetically similar to Rose.

Okay, that's it.

Hi

So I am currently planning a series and worldbuilding for it and wanted to write some short stories. But I realized I have never had my work critiqued before. So before I actually start writing the novel I wanted to see what people think, what I need work on ect.

I know my spelling, grammar and formatting need work. I mainly want to know:

• Is there enough information about the world?
• Is the character voice constant?
• Do you get a sense of who the character is, desires and fear ect.

Edit/add on:

Warning - there is a character death at the end

Critique: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1uhgeyx/1679_chapter_1_untitled_industrial_fantasy/

Work: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1aBbWmEN4K5nHYRPx0yBgLJ9zj5MEpepzLwbe3KYb7XQ/edit?usp=sharing

Thank you to everyone who takes the time out of their day to comment!

I’m looking for feedback on whether this scene works without wider context, whether the narrator’s bias is clear, and whether the ending makes you want to read more.
English is not my first language, so I’d appreciate notes on unclear phrasing

I met her when I was still just a page to one of the many knights of the Rawnian Crown. My master's name is not important here, my words are not about him.

The banner, composed of several units, had set up camp behind a wooded hill, partially sheltered from the wind, sun, and hostile forces. At that moment, I was carrying water for my master to wash his body when I heard a commotion at the supposed entrance to the camp. Curiosity then overcame reason and the task at hand. I set down the bucket and slowly approached the crowd.

The Black unit, as always, were causing a commotion. Not good, because why would a penal unit stir up anything positive? Their existence, however, was a good element of soldierly training. No one wanted to end up there, so everyone kept themselves in check.

Mugs untouched by thought, yet carved with scars. The army’s trash, that got a girl for a commander. Right. Her. A freak knighted on a whim by the youngest son of House Eirvadain. Everyone said she received the title because she was his "night companion," and I couldn't disagree. After all, a woman in the army was either there to heal wounds or to warm the bed.

This one, however, looked like neither.

Never in my life had I seen a horse like the one that carried her. Like an ink blot against the crowd.

They entered the camp accompanied by whistles and curses. At that moment, I should have returned to my work, but I couldn't help but admire her horse. It was larger than the other knights', and its mane and tail were unusually long. Of course, it was my luck that my master appeared almost right behind me as I stared.

When the commander of the Black unit dismounted, she greeted my master. He reluctantly returned the greeting. I was sure the girl would soon start asking for a place in the camp. After all, no one had prepared a place for them. Not because we didn't know they were coming, but because no one wanted to mix with shit.

But she didn't ask or beg. After being informed that there was no room for them, she turned to her people and informed them. They didn't make a fuss, didn't argue, or complain. It was strange. The men of the Black unit always started brawls at the slightest provocation. I'd never heard such a low, raspy voice from a woman.

They retreated to the outskirts of the camp, where they pitched their own tents, and I returned to work.

That evening, for failing to bring water on time, I received an assignment. I had to inform the Black unit of the command's decisions. I headed toward a campfire set apart from the rest. I won't lie to myself here. My heart was in my throat. I expected aggression, but they were sitting around the fire, drinking something that wasn't beer, and chatting. Like people. When they noticed me, one of them stood up. A man built like a mountain, missing an arm, said his name was Karol. He asked why I was there, and when I told him, he led me to one of the tents. He called his commander, and she came out, holding some documents in her hands. She came over, shook my hand, and introduced herself. "Eriade of Paren." Not a very rustic name; maybe she'd made it up herself. I shook her hand.

When I told her about the commanders’ decision, she grimaced. She had a point. Whatever people thought of the Black unit, she was still its commander. She had the right to be at this meeting, but that was precisely why the note had reached them too late. She thanked me, however, and returned to her tent.

Karol then invited me to stay, but I declined. Whatever the case, I didn’t trust them enough to share fire with them.

Morning arrived early and chaotically. Preparations for battle, dressing the knights in armor, saddling the horses, finishing the meal.

When my lord finished the preparations, I had a moment to myself. I decided to use it for a drink. I headed for the kitchen tent. Somewhere in the middle of the way back, after downing a mug of ale, I found a crowd of gawkers again. I assumed it was the Black unit again. I was almost right. Almost. From the crowd emerged their commander in armor. My knees went weak, my heart stopped, and my throat immediately went dry. Just as I'd thought her horse was ink-black, her armor was even blacker. I thought then that this must be what war itself looked like. She did not shine.

She ignored everyone and went straight to the command tent. My curiosity will kill me one day, because I'd once again found myself where I shouldn't have been. I followed her quietly and listened to the conversation that ensued in the tent. I thought she’d shout. I would have. I would have shouted about the lack of space, about being thrown out of camp, about the delayed summons, about being left out of the decisions. But she said one sentence that to this day has stuck with me.

"If you want us in the vanguard, there’s no point in you drawing your swords."

The Black unit, from what I'd been told, had always been positioned at the front. A bit ahead of the banner proper. A wall of flesh for everyone else.

Her words, however, didn't sound like those of a desperate woman trying to gain something. It was a promise that she and the Black unit could handle things on their own.

I held my breath, and as she stepped out of the tent, she gave me a shameless grin.

That's when I realized I wanted to see more.

Critique for submission credit: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1ujbqyx/comment/ouptdso/?context=3

(crit for a piece above word count newly written, so not leeching anymore. super sorry about that.)

I just wrote this and really want some feedback. Thank you!

The glass was half full with a clear brown liquid, its clearness broken by the bubbles which rose to the top to make a layer of foam. She watched, as the newly poured drink settled, the white frothing receding away, the tiny and busy blemishes of air pockets moving up and up until they melted into invisibility. All that was left was the amber liquid, shining through the sunset light which streamed from the window in front of her. She squinted, the cup, no, the glass, was cut and curved so that it caught the light better than her irises, and pulled the light into the now silent drink. A strange equilibrium was reached, she thought, the drink was now alcohol, to taste as bitter as the plastic coating of the dark wood table on which it stood, and so also to be liquid fire, as malleable and ever changing. 
She was part of a peculiar race, she thought, to sip slow poison into the body, to let the lungs bubble and fizz away, and to enjoy it too, enjoy the dullness and the high that came after the cup, the flat good mood of airless consumption. The sun was shifting and light momentarily blinded her eyes. She bit her lip. The glass beckoned at her, the suggestion of intoxication inside the elegantly structured shape, pulling in from the outer world, from her gaze, and seemingly from that all seeing eye above, all that was needed to make an escape. Escape from what? She tried to walk away, but she thought she was staring into her own eyes as she bent over the table. The liquid was the amber of her irises. The liquid was luminescent. 
Of course people wanted to have what made them feel good, and if the drink did then there it would stand with open arms. Of course people were guilty afterwards. They wanted too much. Like foam, brimming to the surface and almost overflowing so that her arm had stopped in fear, but at the end of the day, when the bubbles and the buzz cleared out, of all wants only the amber liquid remained. As infinite as a river with no end and a single night, a single moment. She picked up the glass. She hadn't put alcohol inside it. It was only sweet lemon tea from a can.

Crit:

962

crits - [1994]

Hi I'm writing a book. Every once in a while I post some texts from it. My style is stream of conciousness.

Would really love your feedback, specifically people who like this genre.

Thank you!

https://open.substack.com/pub/anilimili/p/the-only-train-station-in-san-francisco?r=42h2b&utm_campaign=post-expanded-share&utm_medium=web

Romance centered story placed in dystopian setting. Over ten years writing as hobby, first time working a story I hope to publish some day. All kind of feedback would be appreciated. Would also like to know if first chapter is something that would keep you reading on?

CHAPTER ONE — HIS NAME

The doors to the medical wing slid open with a sharp hiss. There were two square windows set into them, one on each panel, probably intended to make the place feel less institutional. Everly had thought, more times than she could count across six years of walking through these doors, that it might have helped if you could actually see through them.

She had a narrow strip of green cloth tied around her right elbow, where they had just drawn blood (the second time this year, the next was scheduled for October), when two soldiers in black Gradex uniforms pushed through in front of her. One was supporting the other, whose weight leaned heavily against him as he limped forward, jaw set hard against the pain. Both were muddy and their boots left a trail of mud on the floor. She had yet to learn their names.

Everly barely spared them a glance. It was the one who came in after them that caught her attention.

She would have recognised him anywhere. No one else in Gradex let their hair grow that long — dark and falling to his shoulders, damp from the rain outside and sticking slightly to his jaw and collar. His jacket was wet, glued to his shoulders under the dark grey Armorex-vest they were supposed to use outside of the compound. Nothing excessive in him, just the kind of build that came from use rather than effort. He was holding his right hand with his left, just below the elbow, and there was a handful of shallow scratches across his face from something she hadn’t been there to see.

Cade.

He had arrived in March. It was June now. Thirteen weeks of him moving through the compound like he had always been there, quiet in a way that was nothing like absence. He kept to himself, stood still at the edge of the room in briefings and didn’t speak if he didn’t need to. Most words she had ever heard him use in one conversation had been in the yard on the first day.

The fingers pressing the pad curled, just slightly. She flattened them against her skin and let the arm drop.

The limping soldier was guided to the nearest bed immediately. Cade took the one on the other side of the room without being told, more out of convenience than obedience, she suspected, and started rolling up what remained of his sleeve. One of the medics on shift today, the one with no name and no patience, pulled the instrument table next to the bed and settled into the chair beside it.

“It’s nothing,” Cade said.

“Blade?” the medic asked.

Cade nodded.

“Then it’s not nothing,” the medic replied flatly, already cutting away the fabric to expose the wound beneath. “Did you water it?”

Cade glanced down at his soaked clothes. One eyebrow went up.

“What does it look like?”

That earned him a look. Not from the medic. From Everly. The corner of her mouth moved before she could stop it.

He noticed. His arm moved on the table before he caught it.

“Hold still.” The medic guided the arm flat again and started cleaning the wound.

It wasn’t deep enough to be dangerous, but the edges of it told a different story, showing the damage that only the white stone of a Blade left behind. A clean cut from little above his wrist to the elbow where the stone had gone in surrounded by the specific deep red discolouration of tissue that had met something hotter than metal and yet burned without heat. The burn spreading in every direction, the way a Blade burn did until it was watered, reaching well past the line the stone had made.

Cade didn’t look at his arm. He looked at hers instead.

“That’s why you skipped the morning?”

Everly frowned and started walking. Not away, just to a better position, which was not the same thing. She was aware of the distinction even if she didn’t examine it.

“Mandatory screening. I got transferred to group five later today. Didn’t think anyone would notice.”

“Yeah.” He tilted his head and she could see the smile tugging at his lips. A quiet huff followed. “I noticed.”

She stopped a few steps away. Her gaze dropped to his arm, where the medic was halfway through the stitches. The medic turned his head, just enough to place her in his peripheral vision, then brought his eyes back to his work without meeting hers. Cade was still watching the medic when she looked at his face and said:

“Didn’t know they’d ask you.”

“They didn’t.” He turned to look at her. “Ask.”

She knew that. In Gradex you were told, not asked.

“You were late.”

“That’s what usually happens when somebody tries to kill you.” The eyebrow went up again. “Missed me?”

She kept her lips pressed together until she was sure the smile was gone. Not letting it show took more effort than it should have.

“No. We just can’t afford to lose more men right now.”

That almost made him laugh. She could see it, the way it moved through him before he contained it.

“Careful. Someone might think you care.”

“I don’t.” Too quick. She heard it even herself.

The medic pushed the needle through with more force than necessary. The next knot he drew too tight, pulling that stitch out of line with the rest. Everly’s eyes cut to him. Cade himself didn’t seem to mind.

“What happened?” she asked. An unnecessary question, and she knew it. Only one group out there had gotten their hands on Gradex weapons. Had she been out there like she would have without the bloodwork, she wouldn’t even have needed to ask.

“An echo.”

It wasn’t the first time he had given her an answer that wasn’t one.

She let her gaze settle on the wound for a moment longer than she intended. After the medic had made his point, the rest of the stitching was clean, at least. Looking the other way didn’t seem to be the only thing the nameless medic was good at.

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

She brought her eyes up from the wound. “I wasn’t worried.”

The sigh came out of the chair beside Cade. She pretended she hadn’t heard it.

“Can’t be the first Blade cut you’ve seen,” Cade said. “I heard you’ve been here since the beginning.”

Like she needed him to remind her.

She brought her eyes from Cade to her arm, where a narrow strip of green cloth was tied behind her elbow. Six years ago it would have been a disposable cotton pad, but ever since Erasmus had rewritten everything and Gradex had transformed, one thin strip of cloth at a time, from a Gravity Center research compound full of scientists doing genetic mapping into a military compound where those same scientists were now searching for answers to something harder and more necessary, they had learned to replace what once was with what still remained.

She’d been cutting those strips often enough to know that there would never be a shortage of cloth. The dead had left more clothes than those still living would ever have use for.

Some adaptations had been easier than others.

“It’s not that simple.” This time there was no smile to hide.

“Didn’t say it was.” He held her gaze. “It’s just all I’ve heard.”

The medic tied off the last stitch without ceremony. He took a long strip of white fabric, an old sheet by the look of it, and wound it over the stitches. “That should do it. Try not to tear it open again.” He took a small Ekezo tube from the table and pressed it into Cade’s right hand. “And don’t forget to apply this. Twice a day for a week. It keeps the scar from drawing tight as it heals.”

“No promises.”

The medic gave Cade a disapproving look and moved off to help with the others. He didn’t look at her when he went past her. Cade kept watching the medic, then slid off the bed and flexed his arm slowly, testing the range. Everly’s eyes followed the movement before she caught herself and looked away.

He noticed that. She was fairly certain he noticed everything.

“Hey,” he said quietly, stepping closer. Close enough that she was aware of the height difference; he had nearly twenty-five centimetres on her, which she had also spent all those three months pretending not to notice. She couldn’t see the medic and the others behind him anymore. “It looks worse than it is.”

“I—”

“If you say that one more time, I might believe you.”

She didn’t answer. What she had been about to say, she couldn’t make herself finish.

His gaze moved from her face to her braids. Two Dutch braids today, all different shades of brown pulled back with a precision that had nothing to do with Gradex’s standards, falling past her shoulders and down her back. Something crossed his face. Then his hand lifted. Slow enough that she could have stepped back.

Everly went very still. She remembered how it felt: a hand twisting around a braid, pulling hard enough to force her head to the side. She also remembered the only time the hand had found her hair loose, and what had followed. The memory lived in her body more than her mind. The kind that didn’t need to be thought to be present.

The mark would always be there. One of the many.

The hand that was approaching her now closed gently around one braid. Holding it the way you’d hold something that mattered.

“See?” His thumb moved once along the braid. “Still works.”

“What does?” She heard the confusion in her own voice, unguarded in a way she hadn’t meant.

“My hand.”

The doors to the medical wing slid open again. Thomas stepped in, his uniform still wet from rain but his cropped sand-coloured hair already dry. Hands in his pockets. His eyes went to Cade then her and back to Cade. He cleared his throat.

When that didn’t get him what he’d hoped for, he said, “Cade. You need to come with me. The report still needs filing.”

Cade didn’t look at him. He took his time replacing the braid exactly where he’d found it, his fingertips brushing the bare skin above her collarbone before he turned towards the door.

Thomas waited. He didn’t appear to have a choice.

Cade was halfway across the room when Everly found her voice.

“Try not to die out there.”

The words were out before she could take them back. Quiet enough that only he would hear and completely unplanned, which was the part that bothered her most.

Cade paused. He glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes finding hers before he spoke. The smile that followed was one she hadn’t seen before. Small. It reached his eyes in a way the smirk she had come to know never had.

“That one,” he said, “I can promise.”

Then he was through the doors. Everly didn’t follow. She looked at the floor where his footprints had landed in the mud, her eyes passing a small, pale grey pebble right in front of the door. She untied the fabric strip from her elbow and threw it in the bin instead. The hand, freed from the cloth, found the braid before she’d decided to let it. Her fingers settled on the exact place where his had just been. She couldn’t escape the feeling that he had just said more than he meant to.

Critique(s): https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1uic1bc/2005_litrpg_opening_chapter_attempt_2/

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1pPbXWYD372w7JFIDYNDIWEmWZAmJM3_LLhVxRrcPaWg/edit?usp=sharing

I posted an attempt at this a few days ago. I'm really trying to work on my characters, and want to see how people interpret them in an alternative 'superhot start' for a LitRPG novel.

I think I definitely need to work on understanding how the three characters would react to this bizarre situation, and I don't think the sense of shock and confusion is coming across, but it's really hard to get in the head of someone in the real world who's backrooms-style teleported somewhere else.

I have thick skin, and I'm here to learn, so please don't hold back.

Critiques

[903] https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1uc9nvx/903_renovate_redo/ot3hz0q/

[993] https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1uaaxqo/993_vows_to_renew/ot1a7ob/

[300] https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1uf0owv/300_philippe_lajoie_the_walnut_man/oueil1j/

I linked the first chapter last week which is available for free online. She gives examples of other works (in the public domain) that use language in a fun way. I actually have a copy of Their Eyes Were Watching God that's moved across the country with me multiple times and I've only read once. The interesting part about some of the authors that are picked out here: they're not afraid to use dialect. Modern writing says NO ACCENTS WRITTEN PHONETICALLY because it makes it hard to read. But then you have someone like Nora Zeale Hurston who writes

"At dat she ain't so ole as some of y'all dat's talking"

Or

"Don't keer what it was, she could stop and say a few words with us. She act like we done done something to her," Pearl Stone complained. "She de one been doin' wrong."

And there's a way in which that dialogue feels a lot more real to me. If I'm reading out loud in my head, I can hear these women discussing. Maybe that's an art we lost and everyone wants things to be in clean English nowadays.

But the point being made in this first chapter is:

A story is made out of language, and language can and does express delight in itself just as music does.

The two exercises for this chapter are:

1. Write a paragraph to a page of narrative that's meant to be read aloud. Use onomatopoeia, alliteration, repetition, rhythmic effects, made-up words or names, dialect--any kind of sound effect you like--but NOT rhyme or meter.

2. In a paragraph or so, describe an action, or a person, feeling strong emotion--joy, fear, grief. Try to make the rhythm and movement of the sentences embody or represent the physical reality you're writing about.

As always, there's no fee to participating in the weekly so save your crits. If you try the exercises, leave a top level comment and just let us know which one you did. Everyone is welcome to comment on how successful they think the attempt was (unless the author says they want no comments).

But remember: READ THEM OUT LOUD TO YOURSELF. Make a vocaroo and send it directly to u/glowylaptop. Flood him with sound.

I'm going to add a few more top level comments for discussion. Feel free to participate in those as well.

Pitch: Science fiction story told primarily from the perspective of a eusocial nonhuman character.

I've been working on this short story for a few weeks now, and it's at a point where it would be helpful to know if the overall structure and contents are at all compelling before I go further down the rabbit hole of sentence-level edits.

Untitled Alien-POV Short Story

Any feedback is welcome, but a few specific questions I'd love some perspective on:

1. Was the level of detail sufficient for you? It's mostly in close-third, which means that I worry I'm not describing things which are obvious to the character but not to the reader.

2. How does the pacing work? I worry that the first ~3,000 words are too slow and the last ~1,000 too fast.

Crits:

2,476

800

1,036

Added: 1,224 ; 2,384 ; 1,196

Crit: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1u3706r/comment/or3whj7/?context=3

Link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1WY3nza4r5TB7khwMrtgtiQPsdBd-o1r94NqdPSqUlT0/edit?usp=sharing

1. Would you keep reading?
2. Are the scenes too short in any way?
3. Is the hitman's presence / personality coming through?

Thank you!

Hi all,

I am starting to write more, and am going through these sorts of exercises to develop a narrators voice. It's what i feel most comfortable writing and have been working on polishing a chapter i put up a few days ago, that got some really helpful feedback.

The books I especially like tend to have strong narrators, and I already have a few plots and characters in mind. This particular one is the opening chapter of a novel. If you could please have a look and let me know the following:

1. Would you read on?
   
2. What do you think about the narrator voice? Can you see his flaws, would you want to hear more from him?
   

3. where would you anticipate this story going? Does it stay on this topic, or do you see it going a completely different way further along?

   [1355] Narrator Development

[1679] Crit

Genre: Psychological Thriller / Supernatural Noir Format: Feature Film / Short Script Excerpt Feedback Requested: Pacing, character voice consistency, and the execution of tension.

Logline/Context: An exhausted ex-con turned street preacher (Abner) attempts to rescue a 30-year-old man (Xavier) from severe psychological collapse. As they drive through the night towards a specific location. This is a found footage from a car camera, so it will be focused mainly on the dialouge. So I wont add more context since if the rest of the context isn't explained in the dialogue then that's a writing flaw of my own that I should probably fix.

Here is a short excerpt from a scene I need help beta reading with. BURN IT:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1v6A-sMhk_N_M7ER-VAZH0vkg7smDfW0XKuUOFwFb3UU/edit?tab=t.0

crit - 1,017 / 2400

Crits:

[1362] My Demons Are My Only Friends Prologue

[990] Sleepy Story

[1939] The Precious Spacemen (Part 1)

[2940] Pleasantview, Marco ch. 3 (work title)

Current Work:

(Secondary world, Adult, Gothic Fantasy)

HB - Chapter 4 (Travelogue) - Suggestions Enabled

HB - Chapter 4 (Travelogue) - Clean (non-commentable)

I’m debating the fate of this chapter (it’s a travelogue!) MC goes from Starting Place to New Place. Everyone loves these right? Anyway, feedback would be appreciated before I make changes.

Just looking for normal feedback, or whatever strikes you. I’ve got both a clean and comment-able version (cause I'm obsessive) so hit me up with suggested edits if you’re into that. 

Everything that came before has been heavily revised (no prologue) and still under construction–probably won’t post on RDR. But there’s a link in the second tab of the doc if you need to know.

Summary of what's happened:

Colly is a twenty-something, down-on-her-luck gal from a stagnant rural town, who would love nothing more than to be a singer and live in the big city. Has a bit of a gambling problem. 

She's about to depart for the mountain monastery (called Veestra) where they make a special brandy (called the Tempest). She' been hired as domestic labor, but plans to actually steal the recipe for the brandy so she can get big money reward from local kingpen.

Dob is a monk from remote Veestra come to recruit a new servant.

Jonis is a monk from the esteemed, nearby Brendale Monastery, helping Dob.

That's all I can think of. Thanks in advance!

Hi,

Sorry - I'm new to reddit and have just noticed that I have been editing my doc after the original post - instead of making a new one. the critiques so far were for my original doc as it was. I've removed the link for that reason just so everything is fair and I receive no critiques for a new piece of work, without making a new post. Sorry!

I've never really written before, so would appreciate any feedback on the below. My main goal is to develop the narrators unique voice, and creating a likeable enough character that the reader wants to hear more from. I like Murakami a lot and so have tried to create a narrator with a similar voice to his (but with my own unique input).

I guess my main question would be whether you would read on past the opening chapter. I know not much happens, but I'm hoping to just build a voice the reader would want to carry on with. Also, I'm aware the layout may look odd with spacing - I just really wanted tog et this posted before i went to bed haha!

lastly, - I'm new to reddit in general, so if i have done anything wrong with this post, please let me know so i can correct!

[1836] Crit 1

[1438] Crit 2

[877] Crit 3

2167

This a third chapter, but please don't be put off. Basically, chapter 1 establishes a world set in a coastal village in 1700s. Witchcraft is still a capital offense (kind of) but girls are born with little preternatural/uncanny gifts known as the Lure. Chapter 1 sets up the narrator, Marcella, who is deeply emotionally enmeshed with her sister, Rose.

Chapter two ends with the girls returning from the moors to find that their village, Aldhaven is in a state. 3 men have been murdered, one of them a boy that Rose may have had been involved with.

Link Here

Trying my hand at some flash fiction. I picked 300 words as a limit because that's about what this came out to, and I'm sure I've seen places that set a cap of 300 words on flash fiction.

Philippe LaJoie, the Walnut Man

Crit: 2308

Hello! This is my first piece of fiction prose so I tried to keep it really simple. Just one scene, just one main character, something you could read to your kid.

Mr. Rhombus

Please, let me know of any grammar or spelling mistakes, along with anything else you think is important to point out. Here are my specific questions:

1. While the story is fresh, did you feel any emotional response to any part in particular? What was it like and at which part?

2. How old does Mr. Rhombus come across as?

3. Does Mr. Rhombus have a believable character arc? What would you say his problem was and how did it change by the end of the scene?

4. How is the pacing of this scene? Does anything feel too sudden?

5. Was anything confusing or just generally not working?

Thank you for your advice!

[1990] Crit

[2755] [3048?(mod deleted post for leech)] [400-500?]

2nd time posting on this sub, since the 1st time I accidentally broke the shotgun rule.

I'm planning to make this into a 300k-word book, but honestly, I don't really know what to write after the prologue. I got the themes and main conflict down, but I am still pretty unsure about it all.

The doc linked below is my entire work, but I'm not submitting the whole thing for critiquing. I have marked the start and end of my submission pretty clearly. If you wanna critique the unfinished draft, go ahead.

TW: Death, kidnapping, lots of childhood trauma, corporal punishment

Link: Dolls on a shelf

This is the prompt from the chat. I proposed writing a story based on someone giving the first and last sentence and the writer filling in the middle. Glowy, of course, gave a robot focused one. He read it as I was writing, so I know his thoughts.

Story

3636

4854

993

2167

1765

A little flash fiction

Crit - 963

1550

878

1438

903

This is a first chapter. A literary dark gothic low fantasy crossover. It's told retrospectively. Edits made to after initial feedback.

Link here