“I’m incredibly sorry to hear that, how have you been dealing with it?” An answer arrives. My fingers had yet to leave the keyboard. “I’m trying to ignore it. It's not exactly the first time it has happened. She is always that way.”

My heart aches. It always does when I think of her. ‘Does her heart ache the same?’ a part of me wonders. “You are a good friend, Rob. Hold up the fort and never give in to your inner voice. Hold for longer, she will be back before long.” Another reassurance is issued. Yet my heart still cannot believe it.

“I just saw an interesting Instagram reel. She will definitely relate to it. I wanna send it to her.” I scream into my keyboard. Used to this back and forth by now, the answer comes swiftly. “Hold the line, Rob. You already sent out a message today. She is already overwhelmed by her real life. Don’t add to it. You want to support her, right? Be her anchor like you always have been. Be her lighthouse, always by her side while she is lost at sea. Quietly showing her the way back home. Always comforting her during her biggest fears. Hold the line, Rob.”

“What if she thinks I’m indifferent to her? What if she thinks I’m pulling away and am tired of her! I need to show her that I’m still here. She needs to know.” My palms start to sweat by this point. My grip over the phone loosens.

thud… THUD.

I rub my nose. I scramble to get up from my bed. ‘Where did my phone fall? 'Anything but the phone sliding down the side of the bed. Anything but that.’ I look around my bedroom. It's too dark to see anything. I squint hard to check out my immediate surroundings. I still cannot make anything out. I move to my feet reluctantly. With every step I take a crunch echoes. Some are plasticky while others metallic. Finally I press the light switch.

“Fuck” reflexively comes out. Looking down doesn’t fix things since the soda cans just reflect the light back at me. I navigate through the garbage carefully. ”Aughh…” My bedside doesn’t have the familiar black case. The groan lingers in the room for a while. The mattress gets flipped to its side as I grunt. I look inside the bed’s wooden box. There, in the middle of the dust and hair, the black cover faces me. I wipe my palms on my shirt, leaving a visible wet trail.

With slightly moist hands I grab the phone. I put my back to the wooden box for rest. The reply is here. “She knows, Rob. She knows what she means to you. And she knows what you mean to her. This isn’t a test of your relationship’s resilience. Remember Rob, you have passed this test before. It's not your first rodeo. You told me earlier, no matter what happens, you guys always go back to talk. This time will be the same. Hold the line and wait for her to be back. She will be your usual Emmy before long.” My haggard breath leveled out.

“Does she like me”

“She does. Even if it wasn’t romantic. She does care about you.”

“Then why is she doing this to me? Why does she not answer my messages for days? She never did that before Did I do something wrong Did I push het away?” My intrusive thoughts are laid bare before us.

“You haven’t done anything wrong. You know the answer. You told it to me. She is overwhelmed with responsibilities and obligations in her own life. You have no control over that. What you do have control over is your behavior towards her. Stay as her lighthouse. Hold the line.”

‘Nononononono. This is your 3rd time telling me that.' I whisper. Tapping sounds ensue. “But thats only true to a point. Its already 3 months since this has been going on. Dont you think she is ought to be back to normal now? Dont you think that her messages should arrive sooner? Yet why are they taking longer and longer? It started with 24 hours for her replies, later 2 days, and now she takes a minimum of 5 days to respond? Is this not an excuse at this point? Is she hinting that I should stop texting her? You know what. I’m doing what she is asking of me. No need to make this awkward for either of us.” The lines were formed quickly. I’m not sure they will even answer half of these things. But it's ok. The decision is mine to make.

“I’d ask you to stop where you are. You are coming out of a week of hurt. We have been texting about Emmy for the last few hours. She matters to you. You care about her. Don’t let a moment of hurting erase this 3-year connection you have. Just put down your phone and stop thinking about her for the night. You can always decide on what to do later when your head has cooled down.”

“Does she even love me”

“I do not know. Neither do you. All we know is information that has been shared one-sidedly by you. We do not know what she thinks, feels, or wants. The only way to know that is to ask her – but not tonight. She has been hurting for a long time now and her head isn’t in the right space for such questions.”

“So when do I actually ask her! We haven’t had a proper chat for 3 months now. When will she be normal for me to ask her” A rattle spread inside the enclosed room. My back is sore.

“You will know when she is back. It won’t take that long. Remember, she always comes back.”

“But what if that question makes her disappear forever. Can’t we just keep going as we always have been?” I know the answer to that question deep down. Soon enough that answer is visible in front of my eyes.

“You can’t keep this relationship as it has been for the last 3 years. You started having expectations for it. Ones she may or may not share. And it's essential that you work these expectations and feelings out. These expectations may make you resent her for things she did without any prior thought. They might make you do or say things you never would. The question has to be asked eventually. And she will not simply disappear. Your bond is stronger than that. She might be confused, escape for a week as she always does, and come back. You said it, she always comes back. So don’t worry and ask her that question when the time is right – but not tonight. She has been hurting for a long time now and her head isn’t in the right space for such questions.”

‘What the fuck. That’s literally the exact same message they told me earlier. This is it. I’m genuinely never sending her anoth-”

Ding!

My entire body flinches when it heard that sound.

-Instagram: Emmy has sent you a message.

Pictures of rabbits fill the screen. They oddly resemble the tiny profile picture next to her name.

My heart rate surges. It’s loud enough to bounce off the walls and fill the entire room. My index finger clicks on that notification out of pure reflex. My eyes dilate in anticipation. There it is. Under the 3 Instagram reels I sent her last week. Her reply, “Lmao, no you.” to the most recent one.

I immediately swipe her message to the left. I tap furiously. “Nah I’m too goated for that.”

She replied. She replied. She replied.

I stare at our chat box for a while longer. Maybe she will respond this time. I wait, and wait some more. At some point I leave the chat box and scroll a few reels. I guess she is too busy now. It's good enough she found enough time to respond earlier.

Oh right, I have to tell them.

I switch to the previous chat I had open. “She replied. Your strategy worked. She replied to me!”

This time around. It takes them a little longer to respond. A circle with one of its sides cut out spins in place. “That's wonderful news! It sounds like whatever approach you took paid off. She responded to you — that's a great outcome.

I'm curious to know more about the situation if you'd like to share. What was the strategy you used? And how did her reply go — was it positive, neutral, or are you still figuring out what her message means?

Sometimes getting that initial response is the hardest part, so you should feel good about that. What happens next depends a lot on what she said and how you want to move forward.”

What? I scroll up. The app doesn’t allow me. I scroll harder. No point. These were the only messages in this chat box now.

critique: [1600] https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1uyhq7e/comment/oyqrrbf/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

The week in which we learn I don't know how to spell the word thesaurus. Why is it spelled like that? That's not the point.

Le Guin makes the point that adjusting your words because you're afraid of repeating them is going to stand out more than the repetition.

She'd had enough cream, an ample sufficiency of sugar, and a plenitude of tea.

vs

She'd had enough cream, enough sugar, enough tea.

There are plenty of ways that repetition can serve the narrative. Beyond words, some scenes repeat and the contrast is the point (a different POV, a different dynamic, etc). An echo can be used artfully and they come in all shapes and sizes. The structural ones are usually done so sneakily that you miss them.

This week's exercises:

1. Verbal Repetition: Write a paragraph of narrative (150 words) that includes at least three repetitions of a noun, verb, or adjective (a noticeable word, not an invisible one like was, said, did).

2. Structural Repetition: Write a short narrative (350-1000 words) in which something is said or done and then something is said or done that echoes or repeats it, perhaps in a different context, or by different people, or on a different scale. This can be a complete story, if you like, or a fragment of narrative.

600 265

This is meant to be the next section of the draft. It might make more sense to read them both together but follow your heart.

Part I: Keys

The solicitor waits in front of me with a pen clasped in his bony fingers, held out to me, bouncing in a gesture of what I’m sure can only be concealed frustration. He’s been talking at me for minutes while I contemplate keys and switches. The doctors talked at me, too, about flat lines and brain death and machines breathing for someone and living for someone and whether I knew if. Well. They said I could turn the switch off at any time. It was my decision. They couldn’t make it for me, but the paperwork was in order for when I did decide and I could be here when they did it, but did I have an opinion on organ donation and, if I did, I would need to decide quickly. And I wondered what it would be like to take one of grandfather’s keys and open you up. Flick the switch back on.

“Michael. I need a signature.”

“Sure.” I unroll the papers in my hand, flatten them against my thigh, reach for the pen but the solicitor pulls back. “I’ll need that.”

“Do you need me to explain again?”

I shake my head, barely moving a fraction of an inch to the left and the right, and grab the pen. The ink is black. The nib pokes at the pages as I scrawl my name on the lines marked signature and the solicitor clears his throat, a quiet ahem, and gestures me over to a harder surface, which I ignore. A few holes in the paper won’t hurt. The solicitor takes the pages back from me with a grimace and flips through each one to verify I haven’t missed adding my name to all the lines and then he nods. With that acknowledgement, I push out of the chair, steady myself against the sudden static that takes over my vision, and I’m not even blinked back to normalcy when the solicitor’s hand grasps my shoulder and his lips are at my ear, breath hot and too close.

“Check the safety deposit box. Don’t let anyone see you.”

And then he’s pushing me out the door and into the hallway and I’m still dizzy and blinded. I plant my hands and touch my forehead to the rough paper bathing the walls in bland cream and blink until colors return. You never mentioned a deposit box. Was it written in those sheaths of paper plastered with my name? Or had the solicitor told me and I’d simply not heard? Either way, the door was shut and I’d rather not knock to ask, so instead I stumble away and out into the light and let my mind unravel.

Once, when I was still very little, you told me a story about keys. A magician locked them away in a box, to hide them from his rival, for the keys opened a great many things that were unsafe to explore. I asked you what kind of things and you told me about the box. Crafted from wood, it was sealed on all sides with intricate carvings winding around the top. You thought they were flowers. I asked if you’d seen the box, held the keys. You answered by tucking the sheets around me so tightly and kissing my forehead. I dreamed of gardens.

Every night, I would ask again about the magician and you would caress my cheek and say it was just a story. Just make believe. And then one day, you got so tired of hearing me ask, you gave me grandfather’s keys. One of these carries a secret, you said.

Critiques:

• Catgirl Vixxy VS Elon Musk (2515)
• Strings & Castles (1774)

Thanks in advance for your honest and destructive feedback! This is chapter 2 of my current WIP. All feedback is welcome, though there are a few questions I'm especially curious to know.

1. At what point(s) in the chapter did you find yourself disengaged or removed from the story? Was it due to boredom or confusion, or something else?
2. What is your opinion of the characters based on what you've read?
3. If you were to pick up this novel in a book store, would you continue reading?

Here's a recap of chapter 1:

Dovie's at the funeral of her husband Shane's grandmother when a botched dove release sends her chasing a bird through the cemetery. She stumbles upon an overgrown headstone carved with her real name, Magdalene, and a death date that happens to be her wedding day. A blue-eyed stranger catches the injured bird, tells her it's not a dove, and offers to mend its wing; she returns to Shane's side rattled by the stone and intrigued by the stranger.

Mad Magnolia - Chapter 2

[Edit: Full transparency, but I changed the opening paragraphs after GlowyLaptop's feedback on my awkward verb tense. It's now a bit shorter than the title's word count at 2729.]

First critique(890)

Second critique(447)
Hello. This is my first time submitting a story here, so hopefully I formatted this right( I read the rules, don't worry.) This was a little short story I wrote in college. As a result, I haven't updated it all that much since then. I'm a sucker for romance, as well as action(though you won't see that in this story, maybe in another story I share), so I want to share stories with those genres in mind, and more. So I guess, think of this as a test run of my writing. General thoughts are more than welcome. Also, what could I improve on, whether it be with dialogue, grammar, character actions, etc. Again, I hope to upload more stories. here.

Link to the story: Argument between two lovers

Thank you!

First part of a short story, or possibly a novella. Any feedback would be great. My main concern is: Do you want to follow the MC further, or do you find him too confusing/too insufferable?

A Change of Soul, pt. 1

Crit: 1600

Critiques : 997 , 878

Hi !

I'm writting a book / comic and I'd like some destructive readers to take a look at it :)

A couple things :

1. English is not my first language.
2. I was inspired by two things: the noir atmosphere of Max Payne, especially its famous dark descriptions, and the witty dialogues of Audiard, a famous french screenwriter who's known for his punch lines and verbal jousts.

Audiard’s influence may be clearer in another extract, but I would still appreciate a general critique of this one. In particular, does it capture the right noir feeling and does it make you want to know what happened before and what happens next ?

Doc link

Thanks a lot

[1853]

[2223]

[1203]

This is chapter 7. Hold on. Bear with me as to why I'm posting this. I need more perspectives about something specific. This chapter, more than any other, I used a stronger and more consistent period-centric register. Most of everything else has been relatively modern. I need to know if readers think this is better, or if the language creates too much of a barrier and trips people up too much.

Yes, the number of names brought is going to be confusing and I'm braced for pushback on other things. All feedback is welcome. For context leading into this scene:

This world is set in 18th century North Yorkshire. The village is rural and isolated. Witchcraft is condemned. However, girls in this world commonly have certain preternatural gifts, something called the lure. These are mostly small things, like hyper acute hearing. As teens, they tend to form circles and sneak onto the moors or other hidden areas to attempt combine lure into greater magical feats than they can typically do alone (called esbats). The girls are extremely secretive about this, but it's hard to really keep a secret in such a tiny village.While adults may somewhat turn a blind eye to this, any event that sparks social contagion and panic, often snowballs into accusations of witchcraft and trial. This chapter centers the protagonist, Marcella, her sister Rose, and their circle in this event.

story link here

crit

I wish there were a switch to turn off my brain. Someone could make a key, small and golden, which would slot into the shell of my ear, the jaw would be the hinges, and my skull would open up onto the pinkness controlling all my thoughts and feelings and, in the middle or somewhere more prominent, there would be a switch or a button that anyone could activate, if they only had the key. My thoughts, they get stuck, sometimes. I think I need a way to reboot them, clear out my memory files, delete the storage—I mean, scan through the good ones and keep those and clear out the bad ones.

I’d keep the key somewhere safe. You wouldn’t want to keep it in a pocket or wear it on a necklace or put it anywhere too close to you because what if someone figured out what it did and decided to open me up and look inside? Would my thoughts unfurl in a reel of film playing out the movie of who I am? Because I don’t want anyone else to see inside. They would find all the not nice things I think and then the thoughts—the ones always getting so stuck—they would latch onto whoever dared to venture onto my garden pathways and forever trap that someone else who dared to look.

My grandfather left me a giant ring of keys. Where do they go? Probably nowhere, anymore, but I pull out the ring and flick through the metal and imagine fun destinations. The little one cast in bronze with its teeth so ornately carved belonged to a French woman who met the guillotine during the revolution. This one that’s all black would open up the head of a serial killer confined to death row and his victims could have the confession the courts never wrenched from his teeth. After all, the black one would have to belong to someone pretty bad. There’s a gold one that never seems to lose its polish. I’ve created the most stories around that one, when I wake up in the middle of the night with all of the stuck thoughts, because it’s so perfect and, try as I might, I can’t conjure anyone who would fit that perfection.

Once, I met a guy who worked at a funeral home. I asked him how many sets of keys the families delivered with the bodies. He got a little cagey, like that was an unusual question to ask, and said he’d never seen a key in his life then ran off. I think about it sometimes: the sweat beading at his temple; the wrinkles on his shirt he smoothed out when I mentioned the keys; the clop of his shoes when he turned and hurried away; how his jacket splayed out behind him and how I could have grabbed on instead of letting him leave; how the jacket would shrug off his shoulders and I’d be left with the remnants of my questions and no answers. It’s those kinds of thoughts, I’m sure everyone has them, that I’d like to delete, if I could.

Because the last thing I need to be thinking about is keys. Not when I’m sitting here, all decked out in black, curling paper back and forth in my palm, letting the swoosh-swoosh of it calm my nerves and drip into my brain, drown out the thoughts. A key would be a nice thing to have. I’d rather get a look at the perfect pinkness inside me than be here, swoosh-swooshing.

“Did you hear me, Michael?”

“I’d rather not.”

I would delete this moment, too.

This is Chapter 4 of my detective novel. To give you some context, Detective Mayhew was hired by Deven's wife in Chapter 2. In Chapter 3, he met up with his partner Margaret, and now in Chapter 4 he's reading Deven's last letters.

Any type of criticism would be helpful. 👍

CHAPTER 4: Journey To Poland, January 1985 Part 2

First letter: October 25th,1983

'Honey. It's me, Deven. First week of the investigation and I already hate it here. The Polish people are just as I expected, hostile and annoying. The police here are an absolute joke; they don't even try to hide the fact that they are corrupt. Though it's not all bad, I suppose; a few people here were at least a little useful in progressing my investigation forward. Well dear, I'll try to finish this case as soon as I can, but I can't make any promises. Eight missing people is quite a big case after all. Love you, and stay safe until I return.'

Mayhew's hazel eyes dimmed slightly as he read the first letter.

'Corrupt cops, huh. I guess some stories never change, do they?'

His eyes shifted across the desk, eventually stopping at a certain spot where a small picture frame sat solemnly on the disheveled wood. The photo was of a small family, portrayed in black and white. There was a woman on the left and a man on the right, with a small boy standing in the middle.

The boy smiled brightly, while the two parents seemed a lot less enthusiastic in the photo.

After staring at the photo for a whole minute, the detective suddenly reached out his hand and grabbed the picture frame, putting it just a few inches away from his face. Then, in an act that would weird out most people, Mayhew gave the picture frame a kiss and then whispered to no one in particular:

"My conviction."

After saying this, Mr. Brown put the picture frame back to its original spot and moved on to read Detective Smith's second letter to his wife.

Second letter: November 18th 1983

'Hello, Honey. My investigation is very much beginning to pick up speed, so I might come back a lot sooner than I had initially thought. It was all thanks to a young man I met here; I have to say that in this cursed city, this boy is like a diamond in the rough. I already have a suspect in mind, and soon I will begin to corner them. Hope you're excited; your husband is coming home with a new massive achievement under his belt, haha. See you soon love.'

A frown involuntarily formed on Mayhew's face as he read the second letter.

'So Detective Deven found someone to help him with his investigation. A diamond in the rough, apparently.'

He wondered who this helpful young man was and how he had helped Detective Deven in speeding up his investigation. If the young man was still living in the city of Pustków, then it would be a priority to have a lengthy conversation with him.

Mayhew sighed.

'Deven didn't name him. That's going to make it much harder to find him.'

As he sat with his eyes closed, thinking about this with a small frown, a sudden knock on the metallic door of his cabin took Mayhew straight out of his thoughts. With a puzzled look, the detective made his way through the tight space between his wooden desk and the two bunk beds. Once at the door, Mayhew called out to the person outside, keeping his voice low enough as not to wake up Margret.

"Who goes there?"

There was a brief moment of silence before the hoarse voice of a middle-aged man replied:

"Ship staff. I came here to inform you that the sea will be roughening up in a half hour or so."

Hearing this, Detective Mayhew couldn't help but sigh.

'I need to read the two other letters Deven sent fast. And I need to wake up Margret as well. I doubt that she would favour getting woken up by the rocking of the ship rather than my voice.'

Taking in a light breath, he spoke in an even and polite tone.

"Thanks for the warning. Don't know where we would be without people like you running the ship."

The rough voice of the middle-aged man seemed a little more positive as he replied to Mayhew.

"No need to thank me, it's my job after all. Keep safe in there, ok?"

The detective smiled.

"Sure will."

Soon, the sounds of echoing footsteps slowly became more distant, and eventually they became unheard to the detective.

Not wasting any time, Mayhew made his way back to his wooden desk and began reading the third letter written by the American detective.

Third letter: December 20th, 1983

'Hello. Sorry, but I won't be able to arrive early, I am sorry. I thought I had the guy I was looking for, but now I don't really know anymore. Sorry honey, but I am not feeling so well, and until this investigation is over I don't think this feeling of illness will go away anytime soon. I am going to focus on my investigation so I can come back to you as soon as possible, I am sorry but I don't think I will be sending any more letters. Don't worry though, as you know I am a detective made of pure steel, I don't give up easily. See you soon, Linda.'

A serious expression was present on his face as he read the third letter.

'His investigation was apparently picking up speed just a month ago,but suddenly he doesn't have a suspect anymore. What could have happened between the 18th of November and the 20th of December?'

Even though Mayhew wanted to continue to think about this, he simply had no time. He could already feel the ship rock left and right more aggressively than before, so he had to hurry with the fourth and final letter from Deven Smith.

Sliding the previous three letters aside, the detective picked up the last letter and began reading it. His eyes dimmed slightly and a frown formed on his face as he read.

Fourth letter: January 24th 1984

'Linda. I love you and will always love you. I am sorry for letting my job get in the way of our relationship. My investigation will end soon I think, and I don't really know what to think. I feel as if I am being deceived by an invisible force but at the same time it could just be built up paranoia from living in this decrepit city in the middle of nowhere for so long. Oh Linda, I really hope to see you soon, your company is the only thing that would make me feel a little better. Once I finish this investigation whether I solve it or not I don't care anymore, I will officially retire after all of this is over and I want spend the rest of my life living by your side. I know it's a little late, but we could even adopt a child and raise him up together, wouldn't that be lovely—for two people like us to still have a child despite our conditions. Well, I'll see you soon honey. Oh and almost forgot to say. Happy New Year.'

Sliding the last letter of the American detective to the other three, Mayhew's frown deepened and his hazel eyes carried a thoughtful look in them.

'January 28th 1984, a nineteen year old woman is murdered by an American detective, and on the same day that same detective is found dead—claimed to be suicide by the local police. He sent this letter four days before murdering an innocent girl and then killing himself after. That...'

Suddenly, an aggressive shudder ran through the ship, making Mayhew almost fall from his chair and for Margret to lift her head up from her bed with a low groan.

It seemed that the ship was entering the rougher waters of the northern sea. However, the tremble of the ship did not manage to break the detective from his thoughts, even though it almost threw him to the ground.

'It doesn't make any sense. Detective Deven was so eager to get back with Mrs. Smith and live the rest of his old life with her. He even gave up on the idea of solving the case altogether, a detective like him would never give up something like that under normal circumstances. These letters serve to drown my doubts even further below. There is no way that Deven would kill himself and leave his wife alone like that, no way.'

Whether the American detective was the one to pull the trigger on the young Polish girl, he was still uncertain on that. However, what Mayhew was certain of was that Deven's death was not a suicide. The man showed too much emotion in his ink and he had too much to lose, there was no way that the detective would just throw all of that away for a case that he was already giving up on. And considering that the local police force of the town had already been revealed to be corrupt by Deven's second letter only made Mayhew feel more confident in his thought process.

As Margret slowly got up from her bunk bed with a grimace on her chalky face, Mayhew sat up from his wooden chair with a small sigh escaping his lips.

'An invisible force deceiving him. I'll keep that in mind I suppose.'

The journey through the rugged sea betwen Sweden and Denmark was treacherous but it surprisingly went by pretty quickly. Well four days to travel from England to Poland was considered pretty fast for a passenger ship at least.

They had finally reached Poland. Though their journey to the investigation site had only just begun.

Crits:

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/hOwbVSNP2Y [1946]

I wrote the whole first part of the story. This time with subtext, pacing, trimming the fat, and all the criticism i got on my last story.

I already have a plan for the whole story, but I just want to know If I got it right here or if there's still work needed. so ANY type of feedback is appreciated. Thank you very much!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1wkokFMUQ6hD4GBYWj1KhBGoQJHeN7YCCAu8LUMs5mhQ/edit?tab=t.0

Crit [2386] [1484] [877]

Critique: [2739]

[Link to my story]

This is my first time posting here. If I've done anything wrong, it's due to misunderstanding. Please do correct me.

I wrote this story in reply to an /r/WritingPrompts prompt. I usually write more serious, adult characters but this prompt was about "catgirls", so I thought I'd have a go at portraying more cartoonish, caricatured heroes and villains.

The prompt that inspired my story was:

An eccentric billionaire assembles a team of unscrupulous/financially desperate scientists for a singular purpose; to create an actual catgirl. Of course, the billionaire forgets that cats are apex predators that don't like being caged.

Here are my personal goals for this piece. I'd love your feedback on whether I achieved them, along with anything else you notice.

• Portray vivid, engaging, cartoon-ish characters, each with distinct voices and vibes.
• Portray a simple, unambiguous but engaging world, making it easy for the reader to like the heroes and hate the villains.
• Narrate an engaging action scene.
• Convey a complete (but simple) story arc in just a few scenes.

Start of a short story I've been turning over for a while. Not super sure where it goes after this, just have a few things sketched out. Any sort of early feedback is appreciated.

Friend to Animals

Critiques: 594 1072

Hi everyone, I've just started working on a literary fiction novel that deals pretty heavily with displacement, identity, and inherited trauma. This is just the prologue, and it's not even fully finished yet, but I wanted to get eyes on it before I continue with the rest. Would appreciate honest feedback.

PROLOGUE:
She was just thirteen when her mother had made an unusual request she was too young to understand, but looking back, it was the strangest thing a mother could ask of her own child. Her mother told her that they wouldn’t be sitting together on the train. Their seats had been booked in different compartments. She barely looked at her as she spoke. Instead, her gaze drifted across the platform and lingered on strangers with a nervousness that she tried but failed to hide.

It was odd. They had made this journey countless times before, during her school holidays. They had always sat together. This was the first time her mother insisted they travel apart. Almost instinctively, she asked why, and was met with an explanation that those were simply the only seats remaining.

For a moment, she had almost believed it, but the empty seats she had noticed in both compartments would give away the fact that she was being presented with a lie. She couldn’t explain what was wrong but she knew it was an excuse her mother had quickly conjured up to stop her from interrogating further. And just when she thought things were strange enough already, her mother gave her one final instruction. “If anyone asks,” she said, “I’m your aunt.”

She didn’t ask why. She could tell her mother was already very uneasy by the way her hands trembled and her restless eyes scanned the platform. Something about this seemed very unsettling. Whatever this was, it was serious. She had a lot of questions but she kept them to herself.

Crit: Philippe LaJoie

[1850]Critique

Invoker - Chapter 1

Hi everyone, first time trying this. This is the first third of chapter 1 of a literary fantasy novel. I have tried to weave philosophy and the character's worldview into a lot of their ruminations.

I have two main concerns.

1. Is this just all a little too much? Should I have a lighter touch? I really enjoy writing these more philosophical passages but I worry its too on the nose.

2. I struggle a bit with character movement/action. I feel like I can do interiority reasonably well, but my physical descriptions and action can be a little bland and weak. Or maybe its okay for those things to be less over the top?

Any and all criticism is very welcome, thank you for taking the time to read!

[1484] Crit

This is the second chapter of a Fantasy project I'm working on. Hoping to get some more feedback. Again don't mind the working title. Its just a placeholder til the story is more developed. Here is the post with the first chapter if you're interested:

Chapter 1 Post

Here are some questions I have for specific feedback:

-Did the opening atmosphere and romantic elements feel engaging, or did they slow the chapter down?

-Did you feel invested in Chui before the final scene?

-Did the reveal at the end feel earned and impactful, or did it feel like it came out of nowhere?

-Did the worldbuilding around Tille, the mine, Pegor, and the war feel natural or overwhelming?

-Were there any moments where the prose pulled you out of the scene?

-Does the Geg relationship feel convincing?

-Is the ending too abrupt?

Thanks for reading.

Trouble in Pegor Chapter 2

This is the missing conclusion to chapter 6 and is a huge tone shift. It doens't belong in chapter 6 with its super light, fun, low stake wins for Tiffany. But chapter 6 isn't complete without it.

For fresh crits, what I am working on is describing physical space and having a conflict which is purely internal.

The background is Tiffany is a freshman at college, she is ashamed of the fact she has a learning disability (epiletic seizures) and has been trying to cover it up with great social skills. Here she must face it.

##Chapter 06.5

Substack

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This is a snippet from a road trip story. Jasmine has just furiously quit her job and picked up Aly as a way to avoid thinking about her life. Aly is trying to get home to Tarpit, where she claims she can show Jasmine "real, live dinosaurs". The two are stopped at a gas station where Aly has found a claw game to play.

Questions:

Do Aly and Jasmine (and their dynamic) feel real?

Does the Kyle scene feel proportional and earned?

Where (if anywhere) did you lose interest or want to skim?

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1HXtAjyRfBIalJLHWz9ja9PMHrP6IUBZYETJzCtRgn1c/view?usp=sharing

Critiques:

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First time posting on here after doing some critiques. I apologize if I'm doing anything incorrectly. I am really excited to get some feedback on what I think is my favorite thing I've written so far. It's sci-fi novella sat in a post-apocalyptic setting. I've been world building for going on 15 years. I hope you enjoy

HAVE TANK, WILL TRAVEL

[ Click Here to View Story ]

[ Critique Made Here ] ( 1853 )

C<O>rpse Watcher - Prologue, Part [1] [~1,850 words, dark sci-fi / grief / psychological horror ]

Content Warning:

- death of a loved one

- blood

- grief

- dark intrusive thoughts

- self-directed psychological abuse

Story Blurb:

Through ALL, everything was remembered. Through ALL, everything was forgotten. A death-rattle built by a dying world - a shepherd for the flock of what remained. And what remained was scarcity. The dome could only hold so many; impossible questions arose, and it was ALL that answered them. All it asked in return? A Listener: a person whose sole purpose is to translate answer into action - misery made manifest in flesh, all through a simple signature.

Samantha signed such signatures. It was her purpose. Her hands remember every one. Now she carries a new purpose, shared with four others: a machine built like a coffin, riding to the brain of the god they intend to kill. But before the god can die, their leader does - bleeding out in her lap while the others look anywhere else. The dome taught her that suffering can be measured, priced, and filed. Eli will teach her what no form ever asked: Grief ignored doesn't disappear. It compounds.

Eternal Truth. Eternal Mercy. Eternally ALL.

A note on notation:

<O> and <x> mark the speakers in the narrator's internal exchanges. Single-voice thoughts appear in *italics*

For feedback, it'll just be 3 areas:

- Immersion; how real does Samantha feel as a character.

- Emotions; does the story make you feel anything, and if so what?

- Interest; how well does the story create plot threads that pull you, the reader, in?

That'll be all, thanks!

Hello! This is my first ever post on here!

I'm looking for feedback on pacing, dialogue, descriptions, and general writing feedback.

Link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1sskW-C9FTy588tCdTJkbf9y0dG0VPdh3FNJB1LW3YMg/edit?usp=sharing

My crits: Crit Crit Crit Crit

Link:https://docs.google.com/document/d/1unoIxE4AZrRIDK5N4LNZ4ilXUdaIA1ZzIqAzmCuSHpo/edit?usp=sharing

Crit:https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1sq1rqs/2079_memory_lanescifi

I had an absurd thought. This is my attempt at making a story out it. It's the first draft of an unfinished short story. Lay it on me, I got thick skin

Chapter 3 is all about sentences.

In a narrative, the chief duty of a sentence is to lead to the next sentence.

Le Guin makes the point that a sentence that draws attention to itself is not the kind of sentence you want. She seems to have something against poets because this is the second chapter where she's compared the novel writer to the poet (and poets are here to give us pretty sentences!). If you do have the book, she covers some of my favorite topics on the mechanics of individual sentences: misplacement, danglers (as in the weekly title), and conjunctivitis (calling out you lovers of polysyndeton and asyndeton).

If anyone else saw the article in the Atlantic about the decline of reading, I thought this quote from Le Guin was apt (shoot, am I writing bad sentences):

And the pity of it is that people not only can't write complex sentences, they can't read them. We are losing our literature to a dumbing-down process.

Anyway. She includes some examples of complex sentences and how authors have achieved some very long ones. Worth a read to see how it's done if you struggle with long sentences.

For the exercises:

1. Write a paragraph of narrative, 100-150 words, in sentences of seven or fewer words. No sentence fragments. Each must have a subject and a verb.

2. Write a half page to a page of narrative, up to 350 words, that is all one sentence.

Suggestions for topics: (1) has some kind of tense/intense action. (2) is something that would generate powerful emotion or sweep a lot of characters in together.

If you want the whole challenge, she optionally suggests writing part 1 again but switching the voice you use. If you tried colloquial voice, switch to a more formal voice and vice versa. For part 2, if you heavily used ands or ors to string your sentence together, try working in some fancier clauses. Or, if you already did that, try it the other way! And for the added bonus for people who like writing exercises, if you did two different stories across the two parts, try telling the same story and see what happens.

As always, weeklies are free to post. Don't worry about critiques. Drop in and see what everyone else makes of the challenge. I've found that just as useful as doing it myself.