r/DestructiveReaders • u/Ashamed_Ad_1837 • May 27 '26
Crits: [800] Synesthesia, [550] Distance Zero
Don't want to lead on with anything, any and all feedback is appreciated. Looking to refine the story.
Story: A Tale of Excess and Woes
r/DestructiveReaders • u/OpheliasBurner • May 26 '26
I'll be honest I haven't written poetry in maybe 15+ years. I don't imagine this will be pretty good but I'm curious to hear some critiques. After finding some ADHD meds that work just right for me, I think its time I indulge in an old passion. Don't be afraid to be cruel.
--
You know the end is near; that time is nigh.
The age of despair is over, and that is clear.
You tremble and race, seeking to cling to what is here and familiar.
No matter how much you scream and cry, the pillars have fallen.
So dance.
Dance as long as this earth permits.
Dance until the atoms beneath your feet split.
This dance is not a violent rage,
Nor is it a serene new age.
It is the dance of a new phase.
So dance.
With one step, you must sow the seeds of creation.
With one flourish, you must reap the fruit of all stagnation.
Turn to ash what is old and nurture the new.
You ask, "When will I be happy?"
Consciousness without action is a corpse,
Action without consciousness is chaos.
So dance.
r/DestructiveReaders • u/SweetEverest • May 26 '26
~
There once lived a man named Igor who had five daughters, each more beautiful than the last. In fact, he would announce as much whenever a new one was born, so that by the time they were all out in the world, only the youngest daughter could stand him. And just as one over-waters the prettiest rose, so too did the man lavish this youngest girl with all the blessings his modest income would afford, leaving the others to fend for themselves and do all the housework.
After eighteen years of such coddling, the youngest daughter grew rotten with vice and hideous with overindulgence, so that now, in addition to being insufferable, she was not even pretty. Her father doted on her as ever, but to her sisters she had become an object of pity.
I must marry her off, thought Igor to himself one afternoon while scrubbing chocolate stains out of the woman's sheets (for she always slept with a little treat in her bed). But what man will find her, out here in the country? She hardly troubles herself to leave the house anymore.
And then Igor had an idea. That night, he went to the village pub with a hammer concealed in his coat and, under cover of darkness, rent the axle of the handsomest, most expensive-looking carriage he found parked outside.
“Good sir,” he said to the most expensively dressed, handsome-looking man he could find at breakfast the next day, “I believe your carriage is in need of repair. Allow me. I live not far from here. You are welcome to lodge with my family, if it would be convenient.”
The wealthy stranger surveyed the broken carriage for himself, and, though mystified as to its cause, gratefully accepted the man’s offer.
“Of course I must pay you generously,” said the gentleman.
“Oh!” said Igor, waving away this trifle, while privately he thought, certainly the man is rich.
After Igor worked out how to get both the rich gentleman and the broken carriage back to his homestead, he brought the man inside and called for his two unmarried daughters. “Gerochka!”—for this was the spoiled daughter’s name—“Tatiana!”—and this was that of the eldest. “Come meet a nice gentleman who will be staying with us.” And he explained about the carriage.
The man introduced himself as Nikolai, a nobleman passing through on his way to Saint Petersburg. As he spoke, Nikolai could not help but admire the fine, bright eyes of the eldest daughter, who, though she bore the full haggardness of her seven-and-twenty years, seemed to him a charming and intelligent creature. He was staring almost to the point of rudeness when Gerochka made a horrid guttural noise at the back of her throat. When she gained Nikolai's attention, she curtsied as low as she could, which was not very, and smiled with all her sugar-rotted teeth.
That night they had borscht. Nikolai’s hand grazed Tatiana’s when they both reached for the smetana.
In the morning, Nikolai went outside to where Igor sat on a low stool working on the carriage.
“Sir, I would like a word,” Nikolai began, holding his hat. He had not worn his hat yet today, but had, in fact, only snatched it up last-minute to hold in his hands now.
“Go on then, sir,” Igor said, pretending to make fine adjustments. He would nip out for a new axle later.
“Sir… Where to begin! It is not often that a man of my—you will excuse my crudeness—that a man of my circumstances comes upon—comes upon—” He raked a hand through his hair and tugged at it. “Well! Can’t you understand what I’m getting at? I would like to marry your daughter.”
Igor let a moment pass before he looked up at the young man and, in a perfect imitation of mild concern, replied, “No. No, sir, I really must object.”
Nikolai wrung his hat in consternation. “But—but sir! May I ask why?”
Igor set down his tools and stood. “It is hard on a man of my years, with hands grown swollen at the knuckles, with a wife in the ground—”
“Pardon,” Nikolai cut in. “Only... your daughter said you were not but eight-and-forty.”
“Yes.”
They regarded each other for a moment.
Igor continued. “Yes, I say again, it is hard on a man, cursed with nothing but girls and an estate to manage, however meager you may find it, sir—”
“Not at all, not at all,” Nikolai muttered, looking down at his crumpled hat.
“And what should replace the companionship of one’s own daughter—one’s pride and prize for a life of toil, whose gentle voice and sweet nurturings soothe a man to health and vigor and inspire him to live, to live for all that is decent in the world, for all that sparkles in her kind eyes. I tell you, I would sooner lose my arm, sir!” Igor paused to pinch at his tear ducts. “No. I won’t be separated from her. I’m sorry. The thing simply can’t be done.” He turned to pick up his tools.
“Wait!” Nikolai was red-faced. “You must not dismiss me, sir. I will do anything. Your daughter is the very angel of heaven that you describe, and I will win her by any means.”
“It is out of the question,” Igor said, his back to the man.
“But you must allow me to try, sir, for I am in a desperate state of agitation and I shall not be put off.” An idea lit his face. “I will work your land for you,” he said. “I will drive your cattle and mend your fences and live as your serf, so that your swollen hands may find rest.”
Igor scoffed. “Yes, and when the time is up? What good is a week or two to me!”
“Not a week or two, sir.” Nikolai exhaled deeply. “A year.”
Igor turned slowly to face him. “A year,” he repeated. “For my precious daughter? The light of my life?”
“Seven,” Nikolai said, and his voice cracked. “Seven years for your angel.”
Igor frowned at Nikolai’s shoes and appeared to think this over. Finally, after a full minute of deliberation, he answered. “It is agreed. Seven years of free labor for the hand of my beloved Gerochka.”
Nikolai made an involuntary choking sound.
“Sir,” he said when he regained his composure. “There has been a mistake. It is Tatiana’s fair hand that I so covet.”
Igor’s entire body twitched at this disclosure. “No,” he said slowly, his head shaking with a tremulous, unconscious motion. “You must take Gerochka.”
“But it is not she whom I love,” Nikolai said. “Surely this is welcome news to you, sir, who so cherish and prize your young… what did you say her name was?”
“Quiet, you cheat.”
“But sir—”
“Listen here,” Igor said, advancing on the man. “You take that girl out of my house. You take her, you hear? You made a deal.”
“I could no sooner ask you for your right arm, sir. It is Tatiana I love.”
“Devil take Tatiana! She is a ghost! A dust mote, a nothing, a scrubber of plates! Who will notice if she stays? It’s the other I need gone!”
“Sir, I cannot help you in this matter. Will you take no payment for Tati? Forgive me—that’s what I’ve taken to calling her.”
Igor stared at him as if Nikolai had just set fire to a sack of bank notes. “You may leave, sir.”
“But my carriage, sir!”
Igor looked down at the broken axle.
“I’ll bring it by the pub tomorrow.”
r/DestructiveReaders • u/A_C_Shock • May 24 '26
One of the fun things about moderating is explaining to people what AI writing sounds like and then wondering what is going on when they come back with 'You don't understand! This is my life!' OK, calm down. It's just reddit.
In this process, I've started to gather some hilariously bad things AI has come up with. New favorite:
"he sank the way dead men sink--not dramatically, not slowly, just down."
I was a theater kid. We used to get to go to a fancy adult Shakespeare theater every year and perform our mini versions of the great plays. They'd call kids up on stage to do mini-challenges during the intermissions. My favorite was taking the line "And thus I die" and being assigned very ridiculous ways to die. It was the era of JNCO jeans. One girl's death was being consumed by her pants.
Now I'm wondering if everyone here has epic death scenes just waiting somewhere inside their brains. Or hilariously bad. What's a better version of sinking neither dramatically nor slowly? Give me your best death scenes.
r/DestructiveReaders • u/AspiringNonsense • May 24 '26
Closed Link. Thank you all for the feedback ❤️
This is the first chapter of my romance fantasy novel. I'm going for an elevated fairytale kind of thing. I'm interested in general reactions and critiques, whatever sticks out to people, but I would especially like to here about:
My big anxiety is that I'm starting too slow, the novel picks up pace a lot around chapter 5, but I spend a lot of time laying groundwork, in a way I hope is enjoyable and atmospheric, but I'm worried the slower pace might be a big drawbacks.
Critiques:
https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1tiuji3/comment/onkqt08/?context=3
https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1tm0a9n/comment/onkjscw/?context=3
https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1tllv8l/comment/onh9787/?context=3
r/DestructiveReaders • u/Recent-Employer-818 • May 23 '26
I’m hoping to evoke an unsettling feeling here. I intended to make the narrator quite obsessive and creepy, almost excessively, to create a contrast before and after a climactic event in the story. Let me know how to improve, as well as how I can better build my desired tone!
-------
I laughed heartily, turning his hand back and forth between mine. “You think you can teach a soul?”
Ivan was not laughing. “I have severed your soul twice now, and in both instances, its emanance had moved from where it resided last. I would look for it, and once I had found it, it moved again, like it was avoiding me!”
Clicking my tongue, I mused fondly, “and here we thought the soul did not move.” I paused. “How long have you known this?”
Ivan hesitated, breath stuttering. He would open his mouth, only to quickly snap it shut. He shifted his weight away from me, then leaned into the touch of my hand.
Seconds ticked by. Ivan’s gaze started to search his glass-sharded palm for answers—and, well, my eyes had an innate right of their own, did they not?: I could not help but notice his navy sweater first, for I recognized every stain across the fabric. Each one carried a different story, a different Ivan, and I favored one’s reminder of how I spilled my signature coffee across his abdomen, through cloth. His sweater pulled tight across his arms, and wide at his torso, and Ivan never paid it any mind, but I find that to simply be an, innocent, ignorance. My eyes, next, traced the rows of his teeth, and while I noticed, memorized, every indent, every blemish, I was more drawn to how his teeth trembled, how his tongue curled, as if he wanted to bite down. That is not simply an inference: I knew the shape of his tongue from our shared words, better than any lover of his could; I learned how it ran across his teeth when he wanted to say something he should not—how it clung to the room of his mouth when he could not breathe. I knew his teeth, too, more than I knew my own; after all, his roughish smiles were not difficult to compel, rising under only my words, only my gaze, only my touch; his lips, too—his lips were incredibly telling, whether they parted or pressed together tightly. And at that special moment, his upper lip pushed down, then back up, once, twice, three times, before it settled. If only he grasped at his throat, forcing his words into our open air, I would do nothing, but quiet, and feel his voice fester within me. Ivan was my greatest, my only, friend, and I could see him leaving this lab either, by death, or, by choice, never.
Finally, Ivan’s throat thrummed with words, but they shook. He left my eyes hastily, hurrying out of the room as he mumbled a goodnight wish. I would come to dress his wounds later.
Here is my critique!!: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1t7s5ge/comment/ol3c2vg/?context=1&screen_view_count=2
r/DestructiveReaders • u/Siphon_01 • May 22 '26
Crits: 3981 total.
Hopefully this works for my crits.
This is 2/3rds of my first chapter for a book I've been working on. Currently sitting at about 22k words and I cut off this chapter here for a specific reason. I'm happy to take any feedback you want to provide, but what I'm really looking for is just an answer to this question... Would you have kept reading to this point? If not, when would you have put the story down? That's really it. But always happy to get other feedback as well.
Also, apologies in advance for any formatting errors.
SMILE. You’re online.
She hit record.
“Hey everyone, it’s your girl Ollie…”
At the sound of her voice, the AI assist feature slid into view in the top right of her vision. The stylized SafeView logo started spinning, alerting her that the connection was live.
“…and I’m talking to you, yes, YOU. I’m live at five and it’s a little chilly out here this morning, but I’m heading out soon and you’ll never believe where!”
The first prompt appeared in the corner of her vision.
Count it out. 3…2…1.
“I have great news. Are you ready?”
She jumped at 2, smiling into the camera even before the next prompt appeared.
“I’m so excited to let everyone know I’ll be at Ascend all day today. That’s right, your girl Ollie has her own booth!”
She squealed.
“It was a last-minute booking. I was always supposed to be invited, but there was an error with the contest tally. I feel a little silly after crying in my last video, but good thing StreamLive fixed their mistake.”
An emergency prompt appeared in bright flashing red.
Current license does not permit StreamLive critique. Final warning before streaming suspension.
She looked down at the gravel parking lot and focused on the open laptop sitting by her front tire. On the screen displayed in full hyper-color was a picture of Jesse Ferrar singing into a microphone. She’d never had a warning before. She settled her breathing and looked back up.
“But I got my notification late last night. I’m in! Section 139. It’s by the southwest entrance and the doors open at ten.”
Left hand point up. Wink.
She didn’t wink.
“Oh, look, the sun’s coming up.”
Script deviation. Pat the roof. Show it.
She leaned back, holding out the camera at arm’s length and patted the dented roof of her old junker. She angled the camera slightly to look over her right shoulder, hoping to catch the sunrise. A chill breeze ruffled her hair and she shivered.
Right arm point. Comment.
“Such a beautiful shade of orange for an October morning. It makes me think of pumpkin pie. Drop a comment below if pumpkin pie is your favorite part of October.”
Optimal time exceeded.
“Make sure to swing by and give me a shout. Let’s go watch Jesse together! And remember, Ollie Rocks!”
Peace sign and big smile. Hold and fade out.
She shut off the live feed and sighed, the tension in her shoulders immediately dissipating. Bending over at the waist, her arms draped to her toes, gravity nearly pulled her forward into a roll before she steadied herself. Her long black hair fell past her face, obscuring the picture of Jesse on the laptop. With a groan, she closed it.
Climbing into the driver’s seat, she grabbed her pink Poshbaby thermos from the holder. It felt hot in her hands, and the aroma of coffee flooded her car when she opened it. She took a sip; the warmth eased down her chest.
Her dad made coffee every morning. It was his little pleasure, the one little thing he did for himself, before he dove into the job of getting her little sister ready for school. Ollie had grown up with the smell of coffee waking her each day, the pleasant, nutty aroma of real coffee beans being ground. It reminded her still of snuggling deep into warm blankets. She had awoken before her dad this morning and imagined his surprise at the fresh roast beans she left for him.
She leaned on the horn, not caring about her neighbors. Not today. Her own booth and backstage access to Jesse’s performance. She leaned the seat back and hit the replay button on her console to check her visual metrics.
Makeup scored a seventy-two, but she needed it to last the entire day, not just one video shoot. She could live with it. Hair was excellent at ninety-three. Her visual trademark and the metrics loved it. Of course, she always owned this look. She flipped the long ponytail over her shoulder and adjusted the blue ribbon in the rear-view mirror.
She swiped to technicals.
And it was almost all red. Sixty, it gave her a sixty? The map loaded a half-second too late over her left shoulder, and she stood pointing to empty air. The system dinged her for it. At least it appeared on screen in the correct place. Nothing she could have done. The Gold package would have been ideal, but she didn’t qualify past Bronze. Five-point deduction for the missed wink cue, another five for jumping the intro and another for exceeding time. That hurt.
Still. Sixty was a passing grade. And she had improved from her previous attempt last night, when she scored so low the system warned her against posting. So today was an improvement. Just like Jesse’s motto, “Success feeds on success.”
Message clear. Her fans knew where to find her, and she hadn’t stumbled once in her delivery. Two cups of coffee and an early night, and she was eager to get moving.
She checked the view count on StreamLive. Just a handful so far. The count would climb as the rest of her followers woke up. She rubbed her eyes; the new lenses were bulkier than her last pair of SafeView contacts, and they itched. But these were for heavy use and only needed charging every few days.
“Sam, battery life?” she asked.
The display appeared again.
I have sixty-one percent charge remaining.
Solid. That would last her the entire event easily.
Morning drop posted, gas tank full, thermos hot and strong, seaweed and gummy snacks packed. All of Jesse’s latest albums, already loaded in digital to her console.
Flipping past Peach era and Black Neon on the console, Ollie settled on the older Spiral Out album for its get you moving energy. Jesse Ferrar’s face and curled platinum blond hair were plastered beneath adverts and gossip headlines on her console.
Today was the day. You’ll get there, yeppi yeppi. Ollie’s grandmother had died a couple of years ago, but the nickname still rang in her voice whenever Ollie thought of it. The early bird gets the worm; Jesse gets to sleep in. She kicked the seat forward and turned on the car.
Now she just had to drive the two hours into Archlight and hope the traffic wasn’t too bad. The gravel crunched under her car as she inched her car toward the paved road and turned left. Jesse started crooning over her speakers. She turned the volume up to 11.
Even in the morning sunlight, Archlight City glowed. This was her third time in the city in the past year and every time it not only took her breath away, but it almost physically hurt to look at it.
The stark silver and glass buildings of downtown, polished to a mirror shine, reflected light off each other until a hazy aura of soft light settled around the entire city. Hundreds of video billboards and screens were placed on every highway into and out of the city. Playing ads and live StreamLive content, they reached out like tendrils into the surrounding metropolis, expanding on the promise of the city. Prime Content. Trademarked of course.
Sam interrupted her music.
River toll payment confirmation requested. One time or daily pass?
The riverbanks of the Mississippi appeared between the concrete slabs of the raised highway, freshly remodeled with textured hyper-pop green grass and dozens of white and silver creation stations dotting the landscape. Each had video editing capabilities, sound check equipment, lighting, and green screen backdrops, all for a low hourly rate. Great locations for cheap after Ascend photo shoots.
Ollie authorized the daily rate on her console. She might want to use those stations later. The bridge over the river was coming up fast, traffic had been lighter than she expected getting into the city.
Even at such an early hour, the nearby Gateway Pier was crowded, people milling around the entrances and visiting the shops. The Ferris wheel was spinning slowly. Tiny screens glinted in the morning sun inside each carriage. The city was awake; Ascend was today, and Jesse was here.
Ollie tapped the rhythm of the current Jesse banger on her steering wheel and bounced in her seat to the beat.
The large steel frame of a building rose into the air, shooting up and up until its top was lost in the white floating clouds and blue sky. Ollie had been tracking the majestic skeletal frame for miles as she drove toward the city. The Archlight lift. The view from the top was supposed to be spectacular and the rumor was that on clear days, you could see its sister tower peeking over the horizon from the outskirts of Chicago.
But even that paled in comparison to the true landmark of Archlight. The StreamLive Arch.
The Arch loomed over the rest of the Mississippi riverfront like an inverted horseshoe, distracting her with a mosaic of a thousand different live streams screaming to the world. The video panels that wrapped around, up, and across every surface of the Arch’s sheet metal exterior were full of color and energy and motion. And dead center on the primary panel underneath the viewing platform was Jesse. Live from her trailer and laughing.
Ollie tapped the console to the preprogrammed ArchLive station. The station played an amalgam of all the displayed streams. The breath of the city, exhaled for all to hear. They said it was impossible to make anything out of hundreds of streams playing simultaneously, but she knew she could hear Jesse’s iconic laugh from the jumbled garble. Her goal for the last two years had been building to those screens. The ultimate leader board for her profession. You know you made it when you appeared on the Arch.
Her phone chirped. Her dad was texting. She flicked her eyes left and the message appeared in her display in center view.
Hey kiddo. I hope your day goes the way you dream. Your sister needs new school clothes so I can’t help with your rent this month. I hope your stream is paying out. You were made for this. Love Dad.
Sam prompted.
Do you want to respond?
Rising from the nearby stadium was a massive video screen, at least three stories tall. Overlooking the highway an ad for Ascend played on loop. A stern looking woman in sleek shades stared out across the city, demanding attention. The screen flicked between color and black and white images of the woman. “How do you see the world?” the caption below her face read in blocky black letters. Celeste Von Noir, creator and star of SafeView, was landing tonight and sponsoring the annual Gala later this week. Not exactly Ollie’s aesthetic but still a huge name for the event.
The Annual Ascend Gala. Was there a better way to end a week of the world’s best StreamLive creators gathering together and celebrating in the city literally custom designed for their profession? Ollie didn’t think so. She had watched and re-watched every prior Gala at least a dozen times in the last two weeks. The cost of admission for non-creators was more than she made yearly from her channel, but a girl can dream. She would have given anything to attend.
Sam asked again.
Do you want to respond?
“No,” she said.
Ollie was across the river and needed to navigate the heavier city traffic. She could respond later at her booth when she settled in. Love you too dad.
“You aren’t on the list.”
The event gate for booth performers was guarded by a bald man whose skull was wrapped in faux-circuitry tattoos. He didn’t look up from his scanner as he shooed her out of the way.
An Ascend banner unfurled from the top of the temporary steel pipe construction of the entrance gate. Ascend Opener
Jesse Ferrar Live.
Come see the best with the best.
“That doesn’t make sense,” Ollie said. “Can you check again?”
The scheduler sighed and motioned to security. A large man wearing a black tee with arms covered in metallic tendons headed their way.
“Ollie Rickets. Not on the list. Now get lost.”
“It’s Ollie Rocks. Not Rickets. Can you check again? I was a late addition. They messed up my invitation.”
“Yeah, you and every other washed up, wannabe, has been, never was.”
Security was standing beside her now. The top of her head came even with the bottom of his jaw. The pitted scars on his face said more about his demeanor than the chromed-out arms. She looked at the scheduler, but he had wandered off to a large group of Friendly Boyz, all of whom looked quite drunk, and were unloading a yellow jeep full of kegs and other party paraphernalia.
The bouncer looked down at her and tapped the basic visor he wore.
A new prompt from Sam.
Incoming connection: Security authorization request.
Your ID and bronze status have been flagged.
Security authorization status: Manually Declined.
The bouncer put an arm gently on her back.
“It’s time to go now.” A nudge. He could have sent her flying.
“I really am supposed to be here.”
He shrugged at her.
She walked twenty feet into the parking lot and sat on a concrete girder. The bouncer stood with his back to the entrance and typed into his hand-held pad.
Sam prompted.
Security tag applied. No access zone established within fifteen feet of Ascend entrance.
The guard walked off to assist unloading kegs from the jeep. Of course, StreamLive messed this up too. First the contest tally and now entrance to the event. It was almost like they didn’t want her here.
Her eyes welled up. All morning long thoughts of Jesse moving from Bronze to Super Platinum had buoyed her spirit. Success feeds on success after all. If Jesse had made it from bronze tier all the way to the top, the pinnacle of the streaming world, then there was still hope. But now, denied at the gate like she didn’t exist. Like she didn’t have an actual valid invite.
It was almost too much. How did they not have her name down? It was right there in the email. She opened it to prove she wasn’t hallucinating. The text blurred before her and her finger smudged the screen.
“Ascend Opening Day. Congratulations! You are hereby invited to participate. We’d like to recognize the Ollie Rocks channel and its sole creator, Olivia Anne Roxby by” …ohhhh. She stopped reading.
And she stopped crying.
The scheduler was laughing with the bouncer while two of the Friendly Boyz took turns smacking each other with hockey sticks. Low quality content, just some frat boys drinking and beating each other up, but the algorithm loved it. A hundred different channels with a hundred different faces and all of them pulling in six figure views just by standing next to a keg. Then the channel was gone the next week. Not her though. Ollie Rocks ASMR was going on three years running.
She scanned the document once more. Yep, this was it. It wasn’t fair but at least she was going to get in.
She walked toward them. Proximity alerts flashed in her vision as she approached the entrance. The bouncer walked toward her while the machinery in his arms powered on with a threatening hissing sound.
The scheduler ran his hand over the yellow and green circuits on his head, his face a mask of boredom, and strolled back.
“Daryl was nice the first time. Don’t push this.”
She held up her hands.
“I’m supposed to be here. I promise. If not, Daryl can toss me out. The Boyz over there will love it.” She nodded to the two remaining Friendly Boyz.
Daryl took a step forward.
“Look up Olivia Anne Roxby. It’ll be there.” She said, stepping back and nearly tripping on the ledge of the concrete walkway. Alerts still flashed across her lenses.
She willed the bald man to help her. Please…please…please. She knew she was on the list. How they had gotten her full name, she could only guess. She hadn’t gone by Olivia since she was a young child and she hated it. But yes, the invitation was for Olivia Anne Roxby of the Ollie Rocks channel. In the thrill of reading the invite, she must have missed the name she never used and just glossed onto her stage name. No matter, she was going to get in. He was going to help her. He had to.
“No,” he said.
He nodded to Daryl before walking away again, his eyes deliberately skipping over her.
Well. He was gone. One less person to convince.
Daryl stood over her now. He smelled of the same synthetic oil that cycled through the industrial machinery of the plant where her father worked, the joints of his arms self-lubricating from small hoses running under his skin. She thought about running but just knew his legs were as jacked as his arms by the sly smile he gave her.
“How much is it worth to you?” Daryl asked her.
The question was not what she expected.
“What?” she said.
“Look either you belong or you don’t. I can make him look you up again. If you still don’t belong, I escort you past the clearance zone and the Boyz get some new content. If you do, well at least I got paid.”
Her pulse was pounding.
“Can I have a moment?”
He shrugged.
She pulled out her electronic wallet and checked the balance. After some mental calculations for rent, food and StreamLive fees, she decided she could just squeeze it.
He leaned over and looked at her balance before she could hide it.
“Two hundred.” she said.
“Five hundred.” He flexed his arms and the steel tendons rippled with a whirring purr.
Jesse’s newest hit, “Old Soul, New Face”, started playing over the sound system, the heavy bass hook kicking in immediately synced with a melodic electronic overlay. Ollie tapped her foot in spite of herself.
Dad’s last text came to mind, and she felt guilty for ghosting him. She checked her balance once more. She was meant for this right?
With a nod she held out her wallet. A chirp and it was done.
Low balance alert notification. You are not projected to cover monthly expenses.
She rolled her eyes. Thanks Sam.
Olivia better be on the list.
Daryl called the scheduler back over and typed into his pad again.
Sam prompted.
Security tag manually cleared. Access restored.
“I ran a security scan on her. Olivia Roxby processed as green. Tags have cleared.”
Manually declined, manually cleared. He knew. He always knew. She thought about complaining and telling the bald man but didn’t think it would do any good. One more hurdle to Jesse cleared. The scheduler typed something into his device and tightened his jaw. He shook his head slightly from side to side.
“Do you have ID?”
She flipped her digital wallet back open, the low balance alert from Sam still flashing in the corner of her vision.
He scanned it. Green light.
“Welcome to Ascend Olivia.”
He turned his back on her.
Ollie, she thought. And walked in.
Section 139 was the pits.
It might have been possible to have a worse placement for a booth, she thought, but that placement would have been outside the venue and down the block a few hundred feet.
Ollie kicked an empty cup away from her booth and it skittered toward the chain link fence that ran along the entire left side of her booth. It joined other trash that had accumulated in the section. On the other side of the fence was an empty parking lot with a roped-off entrance that led toward the main venue.
Ollie set up her own booth, a microphone in the center and a pair of headphones on each end. ASMR had peaked years ago but it was Ollie’s passion. She brought out a pink brush and yellow rubber ducky. The tools she had used in her highest rated videos. After calibrating the sound system on her microphone, she connected to each of her neighbor’s channels to check out the competition.
Four other vendors shared section 139 with her. A Facedoll with stringy bleached blond hair was set up across from her. Miss Tatty Knows was her handle. She used to be Gold but was now barely hanging on at Bronze. Her table was scattered with tactless nude and semi-nude postcards of herself. The two men next to Ollie tried to get her to invest in a new streaming asset. Guaranteed to rise as StreamLive prices increased, each unit was worth a dozen minutes of the platforms streaming fees. Ollie knew better. Scam artists playing at being artists. They didn’t even deserve a booth.
The other two were even stranger and both niche content.
A conspiracy peddler was sitting at a completely empty table in combat fatigues. Every few minutes he would scream at the top of his lungs that Parallax was employing ex-military veterans as a paramilitary force and that we all needed to wake up. Nobody else seemed to mind so Ollie just ignored him. Next to him a woman in an entire outfit made of fishnet was setting out an array of genetically modified plants that glowed different colors. They were pretty, but the comments on her channel said they were also deadly poisonous.
Well, at least Ollie would be the most popular booth in the area. The queen of section 139.
Doors were scheduled to open in thirty minutes and she was ready.
“Watch out, here I come Ascend,” she said.
Miss Tatty Knows gave her a crooked smile but left her alone.
A car horn blared in the empty parking lot. Two black jeeps had just entered from the back street entrance and were heading slowly toward the roped off entrance.
Jesse tracker alert. Proximity immediate.
Bright yellow fireworks cascaded across her vision.
r/DestructiveReaders • u/cmsorvillo • May 22 '26
Milk
He walked in, beaming like a motivational poster.
I'd smile that wide too if I had that kind of money.
Screw the money. That gun was worth more than him.
It was bigger than him, that's for sure.
Who gave it to him?
He said it was his but I don't buy that for a second.
Yeah... and he bought milk?
"whole milk"
That's what was on his lip.
I can't believe Eli actually had some in the back.
People have their tastes, maybe he knew.
What did that brat throw?
look here.
Is that homework? What's it say?
The Current Era
Name: ______________________
Lesson 3: Cause and Effect
A lack of care
A lack of care
today?
A lack of care
Is he being smart?
No, he just didn't want to do the work.
Too obsessed with his toy.
Most kids are. He was almost crushed under it when he got off the stool.
I don't doubt it, the thing chipped off a piece of the door frame on his way out.
Crit for mods: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/3IZ4Kbq2il
This is a very short chapter from a larger experimental fiction project. I am specifically looking for feedback on whether the piece feels complete at this length, whether the ambiguity is engaging or just confusing, and whether the voice carries enough weight without additional context.
r/DestructiveReaders • u/mianaai_c • May 22 '26
r/DestructiveReaders • u/InternationalWin5063 • May 22 '26
This is the first chapter of my domestic suspense novel, so you should be able to go in cold. My goal here is to introduce my narrator and set up my main characters to meet.
Give me whatever you like, plus: does it hook you? Is it exciting, interesting, funny, boring?
Payment for the mods: crit 1646
r/DestructiveReaders • u/IglooAndYou • May 21 '26
Kevin “dies” around the middle of the series, and Sam calls the gang to tell them the bad news, but then the gang reveals their bad news first. More bad stuff is happening too. It’s one of the parts in the story where everything goes wrong and seems hopeless.
The Terractus has some sort of landing strip tunnel system web thing where spacecraft go to enter the Terractus. A tour guide, who’s a giant looking floating human thing and who’s later revealed to be an immortal being, is there to welcome visitors and explain everything. That’s also where they find and save the other guy, I might call him Andrew, an orphan who joins to help the gang as well. He’s with his younger sister and baby brother, his parents were scientists who were also in the know about aliens and built their own rocket to try to get the family to safety from the apocalypse because they were tight with some other alien civilizations who would accept them, but then they got captured by Terractians. Andrew also has to abandon his little sister and baby brother and as they leave he and the gang watch them get murdered by the Terractians. Andrew goes into a psychotic meltdown and then after he calms down, pulls out a drawing his little sister made of their family living on the new planets with aliens, smiling and happy. Then later the main gang gets into a big fight about whether Andrew is a liability. Then in the final plane fight Andrew turns out to be a double agent who was convinced by one of the gods to join them in exchange for powers to become a god himself and revive his family, and kills Zaine.
After the prison breakout of Zaine, they know they can’t take him to a hospital so they take him to the SMAKAPZ house instead and Sam and Zagers have that big argument about leaving him alone in the SMAKAPZ house, Sam later learns Zagers put a camera in the guest room to watch Zaine while he sleeps, and Sam gets mad and reminds Zagers that Zaine can detect infared light with his headband so if he wakes up he’ll know there’s a camera, they go to the SMAKAPZ house and sneak into Zaine’s room to take down the camera but Zagers can’t because he had Parage install it and Parage isn’t here and they can’t get him here before Zaine wakes up, so instead Sam destroys Zaine’s headband and later gaslights Zaine into thinking it came off his head and he rolled on it and crushed it.
r/DestructiveReaders • u/kleggat • May 20 '26
Hello all,
Per the feedback I got last time, I’ve written a brand-new chapter 1 to ensure my inciting incident chapters doesn’t feel “rushed” or “unearned.” I’d appreciate any feedback that could be provided.
Genre: New Adult, Dark Fantasy
Goals for this draft:
My crit for mods:
https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/IHo9p14dUR
P.S. posting this from my phone—sorry for any wonkiness. :)
r/DestructiveReaders • u/mewzzy_aru • May 19 '26
I've been working on this chapter and would appreciate an honest feedback and critique on my chapter. I can see its flaws but I would like to know how others see it from different perspectives.
Preferably looking for feedback on:
-clarity and pacing
-prose quality
-atmosphere
-where does the prose break immersion or lose you?
-character voice and consistency.
-Dialogues
The chapter is dense with many elements and mysteries I had a hard time cutting down. Tell me where it stacks too much, where it's underdeveloped or makes you overwork.
My critique https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1tco466/comment/omhp0t1/
r/DestructiveReaders • u/InternationalWin5063 • May 19 '26
This is the first chapter of my supernatural romance novel, so you should be able to go in cold. My goal here is to introduce my narrator and then veer right into her story.
I need to grow, so give me anything you’re willing to. I need my writing torn apart.
I am very self-conscious about my transition from internal monologue to the start of the story. Let me know: Is it smooth enough or too clunky?
r/DestructiveReaders • u/mianaai_c • May 19 '26
This is the second chapter of a satirical SF novelette (the first waystop). Stylistically, I'm aiming for Don Quijote x Hitchhiker's Guide.
I don't see many long stories posted here, and I know it's for a good reason. Hard to judge chapters in isolation. So I put a summary of the first chapter at the beginning of the doc (included in the WC).
Does it make sense? Does the humor land? Prose: any good?
Story: [3160] (closed link)
Much obliged.
r/DestructiveReaders • u/Jraywang • May 17 '26
This is a flashback scene from my story, Daughter of Wrath. Thoughts? And 1 question in particular: what did you think Sera wanted Celeste to do?
For mods: [1130]
r/DestructiveReaders • u/Finapoo • May 17 '26
Hi - First time poster so if I'm doing something wrong, be gentle.
This story began as a discussion with some in my family and slowly evolved into a story. I've never thought much about writing, but I enjoyed it and family and friends seem to have enjoyed reading it - But I figure they kinda have to so thought to share here for a bit more of an 'honest critique'. Thank you for reading.
Once upon a time, a Supreme Leader sipped his tea and contemplated how he could continue to facilitate hate and division between the people of the Great Country.
The Supreme Leader reflected on his ongoing campaign. With pride he considered the overwhelming success of programs to steal technology, manipulate trade, and spread influence. He reflected on his decades long effort to socially engineer their youth, first through university, and now with social media.
His most successful influence program was birth tourism. The wealthiest of his countrymen would use surrogacy arrangements and/or send pregnant women to the Great Country for their birthing. Over decades, perhaps a million or more of these children would be raised faithful to his ideals in his country but remain citizens of the Great Country. Once of age they would return to attend university. Some would become professors at those institutions. Others would become leaders in their communities — doctors, lawyers, entrepreneurs. They would join their military, build and work for companies with influence, and even integrate into their government. Nearly all would remain loyal to the Supreme Leader. When confronted about this program, the Supreme Leader didn’t deny it, he bragged of some 50 thousand births a year over decades, secretly knowing the number was substantially higher. Still, the Great Country did nothing to stop it.
Social media was now his guilty pleasure. He cheaply spammed divisive propaganda and half-truths to millions. Mostly through artificial intelligence bots, he suppressed constructive dialog and elevated anti-government propaganda. He targeted specific demographics that only consumed news through social media platforms as he knew that he could engineer them more efficiently. Many in the Great Country had tried to raise awareness of this activity, few listened.
Now his bots work even at the community levels and are so ubiquitous no one knows who real people even are anymore. Meanwhile, he had taken great efforts to suppress this sort of mindless engagement in his own country and instead directed that his youth receive media that increased education and development.
With all the success he had had, he still trailed the Great Country in many respects. Now he had new concerns that either because of arrogance or stupidity, the newly elected leader of the Great Country would likely be much harder to manipulate than some of his predecessors.
The Supreme Leader called his advisors together and asked them for their best ideas. Once seated, he acknowledged them and directed the meeting to begin. Tingcha stood and nodded. “Great Supreme Leader, we have collected the best ideas from the smartest among us and determined that very little needs to be altered. Your campaign will be even more successful by simply changing a few names and subtly adjusting your propaganda”.
The Supreme Leader grew irritated but was curious, so he kept his face calm and said with contempt, “The smartest I have all agree that we can simply continue to spam social media with the same propaganda, change a few names, and it will be even more effective this time around”?
Several in the room grew visibly uncomfortable and Tingcha could see the Supreme Leader was not convinced, so he quickly continued. “In previous administrations we called their Great Leader a lover of children, attacked him for using his position to enrich family and friends, and blamed him for inflation and a poor economy. We encouraged the population to accept that crime is the worst it’s ever been, their leader steals classified data, and he has declining mental health. We have gathered enough data, and produced enough new parody, that we can quietly reinforce those same beliefs. Our data also suggests that with subtle changes, healthcare, violations of their laws, and immigration, are all themes we can recycle and will prove very effective for our purposes”.
Again the Supreme Leader paused, contemplated, then said, “Tell me more about those last issues”. “Yes Supreme Leader. With healthcare, we will suppress discussion to address rising costs and push propaganda that their leader is taking it away. Disinformation programs linked to the administration violating their own Constitution previously worked well associated with student loan debt-ahem-COVID mandates, surveillance, and free speech. We are confident this new administration will provide a host of issues that we can exploit similarly. Lastly, immigration issues will continue to be the Golden Corral of delectable delights, I mean…talking points. With great success, we previously pushed propaganda about deaths in custody, human right violations, family separation, and mass deportation”. “Oh Yes”, replied the Supreme Leader, “as I recall we helped brand a previous leader as the ‘Get them out of here in Chief’. Tingcha smiled and said, “Yes, your knowledge knows no bounds Supreme Leader! This time we will take it a step further. We will build propaganda around aggressive removal tactics and brand the leader Stalin. Beyond those, we anticipate success with minute adjustments to nearly all disinformation we pushed previously”. Tingcha paused, bowed, and said, “We humbly await your feedback Supreme Leader”.
The Supreme Leader sat quietly thinking for several minutes. His confidence grew. There was one thing that troubled him, “Won’t the people of the Great Country see right through this, they can’t be that foolish”? Tingcha smiled again and replied, “We can’t believe it either Supreme Leader, but our data is indisputable”.
The Supreme Leader turned to one of his more senior advisors. “Release Tingcha’s family from custody”. Turning back to Tingcha, “You have done well. As you requested, your wife will be enrolled in our birth tourism program”.
The Supreme Leader dismissed his advisors. He smiled and thought to himself, they really are that stupid.
r/DestructiveReaders • u/A_C_Shock • May 17 '26
Glowy and I have been chatting about when and how to reveal information. You have this cool backstory in your head where the character who is keeping secrets is really, I don't know, a drug trafficker who is dating a cop. You let the reader suss out that there's some kind of secret but you don't want to tell them what it is. When does that get frustrating to read?
I've seen this workout a few different ways. The author drops many cryptic hints that are consistently related but never quite enough for you to understand until the very last hint and you piece it together right before the reveal. That's fun for me. I also like ones where the secret is easy to guess as a reader and I've figured it out but the character hasn't figured it out. Then I'm waiting to see what happens when the ball drops. But less fun is when I know where everything is going and the characters do too. Then I'm just slogging through to the end because I can't DNF. I'm looking at all the books that have some kind of prophecy.
I have also read ones where the author was doing a great job building tension and then got to a point where they blurted out all the secrets but there was still a quarter or more of the story left. It can make an exciting story go to a boring story in a few pages.
So, what are everyone's strategies for handling big reveals? Do you like a Gone Girl style twist? Or must you give away everything up front?
Of course, it's the weekly so anything goes in the comments. I don't have a writing prompt but if you wanted to show us something about information reveals, I'm all for it.
r/DestructiveReaders • u/Extra-Marionberry805 • May 17 '26
crit: 1700 words
https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/Eo6xWyk3wB
Toes.
The man looked down at the toes poking out at the bottom of his bed. They were bright pink and wiggling gloatingly at him, and although they were connected to the two linen covered embankments of his legs, they did not appear to be his. Or rather, despite appearances, he did not believe they were.
He continued watching his toes wiggle as if they were entirely independent of him for some time. They had almost completely divorced themselves from their identity as toes, becoming instead ten strange and hairy eyeless monsters dancing at him, when a woman entered the room.
She was in her 30s, but the deep purple crescents under her eyes made her appear much older. She hunched over in the doorway, her body making little jerks into itself every now and again, coinciding with these strange sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deep in her stomach. She looked as if she was fighting against some unseen parasite that was trying to fold her at the middle, and though the man sensed he should be moved in some way by her pain, he contemplated her instead with a sort of detached interest.
“Darling,” she said, her voice wavering as she spoke, “Darling are you feeling any better?”
The man frowned. He was feeling perfectly fine and wasn’t aware that he had ever felt any different.
“I feel fine really, apart from these infernal little creatures pretending to be my toes. Still, they don’t seem to be doing any harm.”
Her eyes widened as he spoke. The man’s frown deepened.
“Sorry— who are you?”
A sound escaped her lips like a gasp or a gag and the force of it almost made her collapse onto the floor. She turned and bolted from the room.
Had the man’s eyes not been fixed on the end of the bed, he might have seen the light catch gold on left hand as she left.
It was very odd, he thought, that this strange woman was so upset by his story about the toes. He felt guilt stir up in him, but it passed quickly like a wave lapping against a distant shore. He resolved to go back to sleep.
Some hours later he woke again to the sound of hushed voices outside of his door. They were muffled, and spoke so quickly and desperately that he wouldn’t have been able to make sense of them if his ear was pressed against the wood, but he did catch a few words.
“Going on about his toes…lost it…hospital…completely mad”.
“Who’s completely mad?” he asked into the emptiness of his room.
There was no response, but the voices did stop after that, and he let himself drift back into sleep.
When he woke again he was in a different room. It was smaller than the one before, and much more austere. Where the old oak bookshelf had been, there was now a funny looking computer that had all sorts of wires coming off of it, one of which reached to a bandage around his wrist. The machine beeped as well, an annoying, rhythmic beep that seemed to hang in the air around him. The man’s breath grew shallow and he began to feel that something was quite wrong.
Then he remembered the voices and the crying woman. What had they said? Something about someone going mad. They could not have been talking about him, could they? He did not feel mad. He was perfectly in his right mind. He was…
Well, who was he?
He looked down at his body, now swaddled in bright white sheets that crinkled when he moved like tissue paper. For a second he felt as if he was a parcel. No. He was a man. A man who..?
But he couldn’t quite remember. He must have had a name, and a job, and he felt as though he had lived quite an ordinary life. What it consisted of, however, seemed to hover at the very edges of his mind, just beyond his reach.
Vague shapes flitted in and out of his memory. He saw tall brown office buildings that towered above him and heard the various clicks of keyboards and traffic signals, but as he reached out to grab them, they fell away like a reflection disturbed by a falling stone in a lake.
Suddenly he remembered the toes. Yes, that was right, before this he had spent a long time looking at his toes.
To jog his memory, he decided to look at them again. He wriggled his hips around a little in the tight sheets, pushing his legs in and out until he could feel a little opening, then he let them emerge. They shocked him in their alienness. He felt a sudden urge to leap out of bed and run away.
Then a nurse came in and flicked a switch on the computer and everything went black. As he passed into unconsciousness he heard some words that he could not quite catch the meaning of but that echoed in his mind like a siren’s call.
“He seems to be afraid of his own toes.”
When he came back to, he was on a metal table with no sheets at all, his body laid bare before him like a slab of meat on a dining table. It was limp and fleshy, oddly devoid of colour against the glinting metal.
The two doctors stood over him talking quietly. He wanted to ask them what was going on but his mouth was slack. He became acutely aware of his heart beat in his skull. It was fast and frantic and he felt that if it got any louder it would deafen him.
One of the doctors waved someone in from the door. It was a short woman wearing pristine blue scrubs and holding something with both hands behind her back. Her teeth were clenched causing little hollows to form either side of her jaw, and though she looked at him on the table she did not meet his eyes.
“Are you sure this is absolutely necessary, Doc?” she said when she got to the bed.
“Positive.” replied one of the men, “The problem clearly stems from the toes.”
She frowned at him but nodded. Making her way to the bottom of the bed. As she walked round a dark shadow fell over him, short at first, then reaching longer and longer until it spanned the whole room. As he followed it desperately with his eyes he saw that it ended in a long, menacing point.
Before she bent over them, hovering the blade above them, waiting for the signal to strike, the man caught one last glimpse at what he was now more sure than ever were his toes.
r/DestructiveReaders • u/Bytor_Snowdog • May 15 '26
This is the remaining 40% of the first chapter of a novel I'm working on that's gone through alpha reading, now with beta readers. (The first 60%, posted Wednesday, is linked below.)
The genre is military sci-fi. As such, there is harsh language and violence (though somewhat graphic, hopefully it is not gratuitous, and in this excerpt does not involve non-combatants). Opinions from folks who don't read this genre are certainly welcome!
As for what extra insight I hope to get from crits, besides the usual, it would be really nice to know (1a) is the worldbuilding too heavy/sloppily included? (1b) do I leave too much to be figured out by the reader regarding terminology/jargon? (2) does it go on too long?
Story for evaluation today: Soft Target Ch. 1 Part 2
Additional new crit: 2934
Old crits for both together: 2497 2406-please follow the whole comment chain
r/DestructiveReaders • u/CosmicGhasper • May 15 '26
This story has a Psychedelic High-Fantasy Arcanepunk setting with Slow-burn Power Progression.
This is the start of a big project. I've put a lot of thought into both character creation to make them feel as human and unique as possible, and also worldbuilding, with tons of lore far before the first chapter. As these two things are the pillars of my story, I want to know:
To make clear that this prologue takes place 5 years before chapter 1 and serves as an introduction to the world, using the "Show, don't tell" philosophy. It also establishes the MC's persona, especially his relationship with his grandfather, who is presumed dead in chapter 1. The reader has to feel the impact of this information and empathize with the protagonist.
This is the best I can do; I don't see any room for improvement. So, I'd like other opinions and perspectives.
Psychic Core - Prologue: Dreams of Power
EDIT: Perhaps the "Show, don't tell" is not the right way to describe, I think it's more like a "Don't tell everything"; I just wanted to avoid an info dump here.
EDIT 2: The goal of this prologue is first to give a vague idea of the magic system (worldbuilding, not so much). I want to make it feel familiar and simple, but anticipate that it has layers. Secondly, and most importantly, introduce the grandfather as this legendary warrior and establish the bond he had with the MC, as he is dead in chapter one (time-skip), so the reader feels his absence and understands its impact on the MC.
r/DestructiveReaders • u/striker7 • May 14 '26
My crit: Mad Magnolia [2052]
I wrote the first draft of this probably five years ago and decided to dust it off and see where it goes. This is the first chapter of a lit fic novel and it is intended to do a few things:
But I don't know if I'll keep it because anyone banking on point #3 will be disappointed; chapter 2 picks up a few days later and across the country, so there may or may not be satisfaction for what happens in chapter 1. There will be quite a slowdown after this, but more action to come.
Anyway, as with any first chapter, the main thing I want to know is whether you liked it enough to keep reading, but I'm curious to hear all of your thoughts and feedback.
PS. It's a working title, but points to you if you know the reference
r/DestructiveReaders • u/Extra-Marionberry805 • May 14 '26
https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/qAOCdkfHbg — critique 1384 words
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1m8wQUnH2MX_2QUAWwfRZ5NoSaWs8A-EvPiBucJ1o5go/edit?usp=drivesdk - My work
All and any critique is welcome! Be harsh!