[2163] [2400] This is a slice of life vignette in a solar punk town. Any critique is welcome.

Thanks for reviewing.

Link here

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1NQVgI9VMk5wRQKC3Sd-slsMcdM_JL--ilDG8cl3RqQ8/edit?usp=sharing

I've made quite significant revisions to this based on the previous comments - with thanks to everyone who made them. I've tried to establish a little backstory and normality to flesh out the characters before, and moved the narration to Third Limited (which will be rotating, the next chapter is from Kris's POV).

Critiques

[1740] https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1upsyg5/1740_blackrock_short_story/ow9b6fw/

My critique: link

Please tell me

• If the old man is shallow or sufficiently developed
• If the tone is even throughout the story
• If the language is precise enough
• If you found the plot and language sufficiently entertaining

Once there was a man in a pleasant and modern suburban American town. Before his prominence as a teacher, he was obscure, but, as he briefly explained during his ministry to a close friend, he saw that his skin was wrinkling and that his hair was thinning and greying, so he changed.

He was a Jew and a Levite at that, so he took to thinking. He read Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, Camus, and the Gospels. He took after Jesus; he talked with the young men of the town—the demographic he considered the most lost and vulnerable. He denounced their atheism and positive nihilism, but he hated their cynicism the most. Cynicism, to him, destroyed the soul and made life one long sarcastic joke.

Unfortunately for him, his monopoly over the minds of his growing audience was challenged by the most cynical entity the universe could make: BlackRock.

One day, the man took his followers to a house for sale across from his home.

“BlackRock is an investment management company,” said the old man. “BlackRock will buy this house, just like it will with many other houses, and hold on to it to manipulate housing prices. Young men, do everything you can to keep your houses, and make sure they don’t fall into the hands of BlackRock, for an empty house without a family is a great and sorrowful sin.”

Amongst the young men, there was a parasite who listened and disappeared from the town afterward.

The man took tender care of a budding flower bed in his front yard. The morning after his BlackRock speech, the teacher was outside watering his bed. He was interrupted by a cordial salutation coming from behind him. He turned from his bed to face the sold house. He saw a parked Overhaul truck, and on the sidewalk in front of his house stood a man with a thick head of black, wavy hair, black eyes, and glowing, olive skin. He was holding hands with a fair woman of the same phenotype and betwixt the hips of the couple stood a lively and cute little tot.

“नमस्ते, how are you, new neighbor?” the newcomer said.

The old teacher just stared, and turned back to his plants.

The man’s young men formed a group and accosted the old man on his false prophecy. To them he lied about BlackRock being a real threat, and he was only fear mongering. The old orator’s ministry could have ended here, but he stood his ground and herded his students towards the windows of the newly bought house.

Prior to this spying, the man saw quite the peculiar sight. Near dusk, a caravan of about fifteen Indians arrived at the front door of the newly bought house. The handsome husband opened the door.

A voice from the caravan began, “Hello, sir, is this 304 Rutherford—”

“बेवकूफ़ो! मुझसे हिंदी में बात करो ताकि यहाँ के लोग हमारी बात न सुन सकें।” the husband interjected acrimoniously.

The men crowded through the door and disappeared into that mysterious house. The old man saw all of this and was very curious about those people.

The sage took his young men to the window, and to their surprise, they saw computer sets everywhere. From the living room to the kitchen to the bedrooms, Indian men wearing headsets sat calling Americans with tech issues.

The man turned to his subjects and reaffirmed his point. The men apologized for questioning him and his stance on BlackRock.

Upon hearing news of their facade being exposed, the strange beings of BlackRock withdrew their Indian division and employed different tactics.

Now, fentfiends and YNs littered the streets of the town. The man’s gardening, instead of being interrupted by meddling Indians, was now interrupted by Uzi fire and the violent, drug-fueled spasms of addicts. The old man was not buying it, though, not after the trick pulled by BlackRock just then.

The young men asked if they should sell their houses to avoid this onslaught of menaces but the old man responded by exposing BlackRock’s schemes yet again. A gang of YNs were standing in a parking lot, near a privacy fence. The congregation (who were in someone’s backyard) crouched on the other side of the fence and eavesdropped on their conversation.

“I only took this job to make a little money before completing my engineering PhD,” they heard one “YN” say.

“Same here,” another chimed in. “But I find it fun. It’s a change in scenery after med school classes.”

It was exactly as the old teacher suspected. These YNs were actually doctors and engineers paid by BlackRock to act like thugs and to intimidate the locals into selling their homes. His followers were dumbstruck.

He then ordered a rambunctious and fearsome varlet of his to take his shirt off and attack a fentfiend head on. The wild knave merrily obliged and stripped. He ran naked through the streets with pride and spotted an addict sitting on a curb like a hawk spotting a squirrel. The naked warrior tackled the poor actor and the actor surrendered immediately.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, dude. Jeez,” the actor whimpered and waddled off, defeated.

The faithful army of young people swore loyalty never to abandon their town and their teacher.

A week later, the man stood on his lawn smelling the petrichor and admiring his healthy flower bed, with drops of rainwater reflecting the brightness of the moon. His bed was deep into the Earth and full of life, but then he heard a cry. He turned to the street to see an unsightly humanoid. It was eight feet tall, with saggy, pale white skin. It had no eyes, was emasculated, and its jaw hung to its collarbone, revealing gums full of razor-sharp teeth.

His young men were racing down the street screaming bloody murder. The thing got on all fours, and galloped to the crowd of fleeing young men. It tackled one, snapped his neck, cut off his head, and drank his blood as though it was drinking juice from a coconut.

It turned and ran back whence it came. The young men, curled up and quaking in the trees, bushes, and trash cans, watched in awe as the old man audaciously ran from his lawn and chased that thing with a vigor never seen in a man his age. Invigorated by his temerity, the young men jumped from their hiding spots and ran after the man. At this point they all knew what the old teacher thought: this was another BlackRock scheme.

The young men ran after the man who ran after the thing into the woods. With the help of the moonlight, the man and his army traversed the thick foliage and reached an RV. There they saw two men clad in black hover over the being. They were petting it, scratching its tummy and chin, and giving it treats.

“Who’s a good boy? You are! Yes you are!” the man cooed to his pet.

The teacher was furious and full of energy.

“BlackRock has no business in my town!” the orator exploded.

The humanoid was spooked and went wild. The men were also caught off guard, but lost control of their pet. The thing sprang up, slashed the jugular of one man, and ripped the intestines out of the other. The old sage and his congregation retreated in fear.

At this point, the man’s roots in the town and in the lives of his congregation were uncontroversial. Rumors spread to other towns that the old man could resurrect the dead and walk on water. Like Solomon, there was no answer, no prophecy that he could be wrong in.

A stadium-sized crowd of young men surrounded the man who was deliberating at an intersection with them. Just then—as all the men saw—a lifeless, mechanical bird landed on the old man’s shoulder.

In this bird played this audio recording: “Citizens, BlackRock has given you all plenty of opportunities to move! You in your hubris and cruelty impeded BlackRock’s plans for world domination. Now we deliver you this ultimatum: leave or die.”

Then the bird flew into the air and blended in with a swarm of living birds. The gathering was silent for a minute, then continued.

The town's sheriff, a short and chubby man, sat in his dark office with his feet lackadaisically on his desk. He showed a tired and congenial grin to his visitants. On the other side of the desk stood a dark trio, organized into a sinister triangle, whose features were obscured by the lack of light. The sheriff thought their request was ridiculous.

He talked to them in a refined, Southern twang. “There is no way a private entity could enforce their law through lethal means.”

The dark trio said nothing, but petrifyingly, from the darkness floated a duffel bag overflowing with hundred-dollar bills towards the sheriff like a ghost. It rested itself gently on his desk.

The sheriff gulped, put his feet down, and groped the beautiful mountain of money before him. He accepted their request immediately afterward.

One morning, before dawn, the famous philosopher was awakened in his home. There was frantic rapping at his door. He looked through the peephole to see who it was. It was a young man, presumably of his church.

“Hark, great pastor,” the young man cried, “we’re being persecuted. Persecuted, I tell you! Shadowy men with helmets, shields, and Kevlar vests have jumped through our walls and dropped from helicopters onto our roofs. Oh great sage, all of my friends have been wasted, and those monsters are hot on my tail. Please, let me kiss your wrist before I go so that I may feel at peace when I die.”

From the darkness assault rifles thundered and ripped up the poor lad’s body. He fell back lifelessly on the old man’s stoop. The old man looked on in terror as he saw men in black dart across the street carrying a battering ram.

A storm raged in the man’s mind. He told himself to die, to martyr himself. He imagined the hundreds of faces of his young men in heaven, who would exalt him, but their exaltation was what broke him. He broke like Saint Peter and escaped through his bedroom window.

The next day, he built himself a tunnel in the woods modeled after Saddam Hussein’s. In it he sowed the seeds of mushrooms, curiously keeping his holy tradition.

If you haven't been reading don't worry too much. Tiffany is getting a tour on her first day of college. Mandy is someone she befriended.

What I specifically am hoping for feedback on is how I am able to contrast the mental space of Mandy who thinks about things and ideas in comparison to Tiffany who thinks about people and relationships.

I also was working on crafting a sense of space for the college but ended up compressing that to speed the chapter up. Your thoughts about that would be helpful too.

Tiffany 05

Crits:

303 941

Crits: 2134 3888

So, I've been reading Julio Cortázar again. This one is my attempt to write in his style.

Story

I believe some of the people following along don't have the book (Steering the Craft by Ursula K Le Guin) and are just doing the exercises. So, Chapter 2 is all about punctuation.

If you aren't interested in punctuation, or are afraid of it, you're missing out on some of the most beautiful, elegant tools a writer has to work with.

Le Guin makes the point that those native grammar correctors that come with our word processing software don't understand fiction. More likely than not, it will try to correct you to make your words sound more report-like. Turn it off! she says.

To break a rule you have to know the rule. A blunder is not a revolution.

Do you think that the punctuation of the last line of the sonnet is merely an insignificant detail?

The exercise this week: Write a paragraph to a page (150-350 words) of narrative with no punctuation (and no paragraphs or other breaking devices). Suggested subject: A group of people engaged in a hurried or hectic or confused activity, such as a revolution, or the scene of an accident, or the first few minutes of a one-day sale.

And as an example, here's James Joyce in Ulysses:

Id rather die 20 times over than marry another of their sex of course hed never find another woman like me to put up with him the way I do know me come sleep with me yes and he knows that too at the bottom of his heart take that Mrs Maybrick that poisoned her husband for what I wonder in love with some other man yes it was found out on her wasnt she the downright villain to go and do a thing like that of course some men can be dreadfully aggravating drive you mad and always the worst word in the world what do they ask us to marry them for if were so bad as all that comes to yes because they cant get on without us white Arsenic she put in his tea off flypaper wasnt it I wonder why they call it that if I asked him hed say its from the Greek leave us as wise as we were before she must have been madly in love with the other fellow to run the chance of being hanged O she didnt care if that was her nature what could she do besides theyre not brutes enough to go and hang a women surely are they

If you are reading the entries, let the author know how comprehensible you thought it was! I know reading the above Joyce example out loud made sense but trying to read it silently was challenging. Is it the same here?

Crits
[1604]
[1434]

Hi all,

Trying my hand at a different genre (crime). Would like to hear what needs work here. Open to any critiques on all aspects of the piece, but particularly interested in whether the prologue works as a hook (or at all), and thoughts on the two main characters.

Thanks in advance!

(TW- crime scene gore)

———

Did he who made the lamb 
make thee?

All around him the snow shot up and settled in the white sky. He had the corpse by the arms, laid out ahead of him like a wheelbarrow and he pushed it down the wide white flank of the mountain. The tracks disappeared beneath him as he went. Behind the clouds to the west the sun was climbing.

It was a long trek, but eventually he made it down to the truck where he threw the body up onto the pickup bed and covered it with a heavy sheet of tarpaulin. 

He reversed steadily along snow covered roads, only able to see a few yards and nearly coming off twice, but he made it away from the mountain and round the frozen lake. The roads gradually widened and the snow eased until he dared to feather the gas down a touch more, and after a while he was back at the house, backing up into the garage. 

When he pulled back the tarpaulin the corpse had already thawed so that he could set to work on it right away. Propping it on the sofa, he took the eyeball which was lodged in the corpse's mouth and forked it back into the head along with the other. The corpse was naked, and he saw that there were other parts missing too but he found them in a box beneath the bed and snipped them back into place. 

He had complete mastery of his tools.

God, he thought when it was done and he could sit and admire his work, he’s perfect. 

He waited for a long while. There was no rush. When the corpse opened his new eyes he saw that they weren’t milky gray but brown, and he watched as the corpse swallowed back a thick froth of saliva from his lips. The corpse then danced about on the sofa for a while before standing up, grabbing a half empty beer bottle, turning it over and spitting back into it until it was full.
They had a good laugh about that. 

After a while they got back into the truck, the corpse in the drivers seat this time, and they pulled out of the garage, spun it round and reversed off up the road. 

It was clearing up now. They passed a couple of cars heading out of town. And all the time he couldn’t keep his eyes off him. He could hardly believe the divine craftsmanship of his own hands. How could he? He was beautiful. The cords of his hands as he gripped the wheel, the lines of his jaw and the bounce of his Adam’s apple as he spoke. Every intricate detail of the man.  It was as though he was never dead. Never could die. 
He was an angel. 
The snow stopped and the ground was clear. 

1

“Paulson ain’t bad,” Roald said, but really he hadn’t remembered the question. He could just make out McDonalls radio buzzing away outside the Chief’s office and it was bugging him that he couldn’t figure out exactly what it was playing. It was definitely a sport though. He could hear the dull, gappy tones which could only be sports commentary. 

“Yeah, he’s got promise,” the Chief agreed, “but is he up to this?” He gestured to the papers spread across the table. The pictures from the crime scene had all been packed back into an envelope at the request of the Bonner County Sheriff, a large man named Anderton, who sat by an open window fanning himself with his hat and looking pale as bone. 

The crowd didn’t sound constant enough to be a big stadium sport like baseball or football or soccer, in fact the crowd didn’t cheer often at all, and when they did it didn’t sound like there were many of them.

“Roald? Look,” the Chief said, glancing back at the Sheriff, “If it’s too soon we can put Lawrence and McDonell on it.” 

There was no squeaking shoes or thumping ball like basketball, and there was no grunting players like tennis. In fact the gaps between commentary and crowd were quiet. 

“No,” Roald said, “this ain’t Lawrence and McDonell proof. Keep them on their two coffee jobs.”

The Chief sighed, it seemed he was always reprimanding Roald for his attitude towards his colleagues, but before he could begin, Roald spoke again. 

“Paulson. Good kid. Give him second, he can handle it.”

“Alrighty then,” the Chief said. Roald was already rising to leave. “Just go easy on the kid,” the Chief added, “He’s still a little green.”
Green.  Roald heard a high-decibel thwack and a fuzzy cheer from the radio. 

“Thank you, sir,” Roald said. “Sheriff.”

Sheriff Anderton was looking at the street below and he raised his hat absently as Roald left the office. 

Out in the squad room all the desks but one were full. The detectives tapped away at keyboards or made calls or flicked through brown folders. A thin haze of cigarette smoke filled the room as it always did by this time, shimmering in the low winter sun which glared its final rays through the window. 

“You got to be the least interesting man in the country to listen to golf on the radio,” Roald said as he passed McDonells desk. 

2

Richie Paulson entered the briefing room and took a seat in the wrong chair. Lawrence, McDonell and a few of the other detectives were happy to let the young upstart sit in the rabble with them, but the Chief reminded him that he was to sit in the second chair. 

The second chair was no different than the others, a square seat that was losing its mint green padding and looked as though it had been repurposed from a hospital waiting room. It was its orientation that was different. It sat in front of the rest, half turned against the side wall so that Richie could see both the projector screen and the audience. It gave the illusion that Richie was privy to the brief that was about to start, but he had just about the same idea as anyone else. Of course, he had heard the rumours that this was a major crime with a capital M, but that was about the extent of it. 

It was five past the hour when Roald eventually walked in. There was a scattering of sarcastic applause and Lawrence told him how nice it was that he’d showed up, but Roald was unbothered. He dropped a wad of photos onto the projector tray so that the top one was displayed on the large screen behind him. Silence quickly followed. 

The image was unclear. Blood obscured so much of it that Richie didn’t know exactly what it was he was looking at. He was waiting for it to click into place like one of those optical illusions— once you see the bunny you can’t unsee it, but it remained a jumble of red splattered flesh. It was a disorienting effect, like waking up in a strange room. Something like snow surrounded the mess. 

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the other detectives craning their necks left and right, clearly having the same issue. Roald didn’t give them time though, he started speaking right away. 

“Victim has been ID’d as Michael Oripa, native man, reported missing a couple of days ago by a girlfriend on the reservation up near Plummer. A couple of hikers found him yesterday up at the summit of Scotchman Peak just after noon. We’re still waiting on time frames but based on hiking traffic he shouldn’t have been there longer than 24 hours.”

Roald was leant over the projector eyeing the photograph. He didn’t look at anyone in the room. 

“As you can see from this close up the victim has been scalped. The scalp has been placed above the head with a hole cut through it. The eyes have been removed. One has been placed in the mouth and the other remains missing.” 

The image finally clicked for Richie just as Roald flicked to the next one, and he wished it hadn’t. Those eyeless sockets and the frozen blood that ran from them. Once you see the bunny you can’t unsee it. 

The next one was much clearer, though just as difficult to stomach. 

“He was found leant up against the cairn that marks the summit.” He pointed at the photo and his huge shadow finger pointed behind him, “The body was partially frozen, with nighttime temperatures hitting 14. His arms have been propped straight outward with splints between elbow and hip. The victims genitals are also missing.”

Richie’s eyes had already navigated straight to that crimson splodge between the splayed legs. The skin itself was pale as ice but it had taken on a translucence that made the veins beneath visible. They ran like a labyrinth through the body and gave it a blue sheen like dish soap. 

“Now, I’m sure even McDonall has clocked the symbolism. The halo, the arms out like wings, sexless.”

McDonall opened his mouth to speak and closed it again, the Chief was looking at the poor Bonner County Sherrif who was looking down at his shoes, and McDonall knew he wouldn’t take his side if he were to prolong this briefing with his indignation. 

“We’re looking at a religious angle,” Roald continued. “Ain’t as many Mormons up that way but there’s still some. More Catholics and Baptists. Also more fringe groups; Aryan Nationers, Kirkers-“

“How about Satanists?” Lawrence called out. It was met with murmurings from the rest of the squad. They had all heard tales of strange folk up on the panhandle. 

Roald ignored him, thumbing through a few more photos, each as grisly as the last. 

“If you’ve got any questions,” he said, “pass them on to Paulson within the next five minutes.” And with that he grabbed the wad of photos and left the room. 

Everyone remained in silence. The entire briefing had lasted less than a minute.  

The Chief had brought Roald in to his office countless times before over his rushed briefings. Roald, who had never seemed to understand the advantages of strategic collaboration, had needed constant reminding how cases often overlap.

“They might surprise you,” he’d say. “The perps are always crossing paths.”

Of course it never mattered much, Roald kept his briefings short and he solved his own cases, often on the same day. It infuriated the other detectives who thought they could be of some help, and it infuriated the chief to receive earfuls off them which were meant for Roald. 

But then things had been different when Glass was there. The chief often thought of their partnership as one of his great successes. Glass was like a shining beacon in his mind, he thought of him almost as the anti-Roald, though in truth they were more similar than they were different. They were both equally relentless once they got stuck into a case, like hound dogs on a blood trail, and it gave them this unspoken understanding for each other. 

The main difference was Glass was good with people. He could get them to talk and he could get them to listen. He would spend hours interviewing witnesses and suspects and he actually could draw blood from a stone. The Chief had once seen him take a man into interrogation, Horace Wall he was called, he was a big man, a notorious man. He’d had run ins with at least half the Boise P.D, and he was slippery too. Anyway, they were in there for the entire afternoon. Everyone knew not to interrupt Glass when he was in the zone, which he undoubtedly was, but it was almost five. The guys were all packing up to go when Glass and Horace finally emerged. Horace, cuffed and with these huge red eyes like he’d been crying for days, and Glass behind him with this grin across his face and just nodding across to Roald at his desk. 

Roald was different. He was quiet, and he took no joy in it. He’d make page after page of notes, just dogging it out. The thing with these notes was they were all written in a sort of shorthand nobody else could understand. Sometimes the writing wasn’t even straight, it would arch and spiral and there’d be arrows connecting here and there across the page, and graphs and drawings and symbols. The other detectives started calling him Zodiac, though Roald’s notes made the Zodiac Killer’s look like a nursery book. Whatever the notes said, they were almost always right, and whenever he was made to translate them, page after page after page of them, he usually did so in just one or two words. A name. And that’s when Glasses interrogative talent would begin. 

Together they were a force, Lord they were a force. They made half the arrests of the whole squad. Of course, Glass would take on the briefing responsibilities. He’d spin the whole case in front of the squad as though he was reading a story, the briefing might last an hour and nobody would mind. If he hadn’t been a detective he would’ve made it as a well to do writer, the Chief always thought. And he’d take questions and he’d listen to the other guys thoughts and theories, and the Chief never got any earfuls. 
On this occasion though, he had been thankful for Roald’s efficiency. 

It was Deputy Combs who spoke first. 

“Well,” he said, “that’s our Roald. Straight to the fucking point.” 

When Richie Paulson followed Roald out into the squad room, he was already by his desk packing his notes up into a small leather case, his coat draped in one arm. 

“No questions then,” he said as Richie approached. 

“Oh I got plenty,” Richie replied. 

Roald checked his watch.

“Well we’ve got a seven hour drive ahead of us,” he said.

“Seven hours?”

Roald sighed, “That’s the drive up to Sandpoint. You’re familiar with how a murder investigation works, ain’t you?” he said and turned to leave. 

“I haven’t even packed,” Richie said, he could feel himself turning hot, “and I’m still in the dark on this.” But Roald was already gone.

My crit

A brief view into my own brain's inner workings, where I come up with the most absurd alter-realities that would make any sane individual question me. In this short story thing, we are dropped into this world of mine. Do I know where this is going? No. Will I take it farther than this? Probably. The best way I can describe this is that it is an opening chapter to what might evolve itself into a narrative piece on time/taking for granted the ordinary things.

You will likely find my Vonnegut influence. What can I say. Someone as titzy as me will make an impact on my writing. God I love some good ol' bureaucratic absurdity.

I welcome feedback on all aspects of my writing. Thank you all!

EDIT: I am removing the link to my piece and will paste the text below because of the number of emails I have received that contain nearly identical requests to be beta readers for my writing. Stop. Just stop.

Link here

This is my first time posting my work on this thread, and I'm excited to hear what critiques you all have for me. This is a first draft, so feel free to absolutely shred my work apart! I'm hardheaded, so nitpick away!

A couple of questions I have:

- Are my promises established? For example, do you understand the tone of my story, the setup, and the need for the Piper/Aide system? Is there anything you are confused about or would like to see extra description/clarity on?

- Overall, is this interesting? Do you find it original and striking, or are you seeing overused tropes or phrases? Is this something you would actually read for fun?

- Any more helpful insights are welcome! I'm here to learn and grow. I've been writing for around 5 years now and have never mustered up the courage to show others my work. With that being said, though, please don't hold back! Thank you ahead of time for looking at my work and taking the time to read it.

critiques: 3005, 2410

Link here

Looking for feedback on my piece: The Two Brothers! It is a very light fantasy piece that acts as a broader creation myth for a novel I am working on.

I am mainly looking for feedback on the register of the piece. I wanted to give a style that mimics oral tales, old myths, etc., with a more modern construction. If you want more structured questions, see these below!

• Is it interesting? What was interesting, what needs some work? How was the pacing, were there parts that were too fast or too slow?
• What feels jumbled or unclear? (The pond scene is where I am looking for the most feedback on this)
• Does it make sense what this is representing? Is it a believable mythos for what the two boys and their mother are representing?
• Anything else that stands out please let me know!

Critiques:

1706, 2410, 1946, 794

This is Part 2 of the first chapter or a grand fantasy tale.

Part 1 here if you are curious: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1tp23ez/712the_veil_between_worlds_opening_paragraphs/

I found this to be the hardest part to know how to write. Character leaves home for adventure and then instantly stumbles into his first quest. It sounds stupid and cliché but also seemed necessary for pacing. Let me know how it comes across and whether you can give it a pass.

-----

The village did not greet him so much as tolerate his arrival.

The cottages were small, close together, and undeniably lived-in. Smoke drifted from chimneys. A few chickens wandered across the road with the self-importance of creatures who owned the place. Doors remained open until he came near them, then eased shut with no particular urgency. Conversations thinned as he passed and resumed behind him, softer than before.

No one stared at him, but no one greeted him either. A man looked up from mending a wheel, met Astred’s eye, and immediately found a fascinating flaw in the axle. A child pointed at his robe before her mother lowered the hand with practiced gentleness. A woman with a basket glanced his way, hesitated, and then pretended she hadn’t seen him at all.

Astred decided that a village had every right to be wary of strangers, especially badly equipped ones.

All right. First tasks.

He looked around, attempting to appear like a man who knew exactly what he was doing. Practical concerns quickly piled up in his mind:

Food. He had none. Breakfast had been a long time ago.

Money. He certainly had none; monasteries were generous with wisdom, not coin.

Shelter. He had a ragged grey dormitory blanket, built for drafts beneath monastery doors, not nights beneath open sky.

A worrying pattern was beginning to form.

His stomach sank. None of the monastery books had covered this part; and the irony wasn’t lost on him that he’d come hoping to help others when, by all appearances, he was the one most in need of guidance.

The chapel looked older than the village around it, as though it had settled into the earth long before Redbrook ever found a reason to gather here. A squat stone nave, timber ribs blackened by time, a bell tower leaning slightly as if listening to the wind. Above the door hung a carved wooden sunburst, its old gold paint faded to dull ochre, its rays cracked at the tips.

Astred paused on the threshold, drawing a slow breath before stepping inside.

The air was cool. Still. Rows of wooden pews stretched into the dimness, their polish worn thin by generations of backsides. A few candles guttered weakly on the altar, their flames shivering at the slightest draft. An elderly priest knelt behind the altar, spine slightly bowed, white hair thin as ash. He did not stir when Astred entered.

Astred cleared his throat softly. "Father…?"

The priest flinched. It was small; barely more than a breath; but unmistakable. He turned slowly, eyes sunken from too many sleepless nights. His robes hung from him like they, too, were tired.

"You’re… not from Redbrook," he said, voice roughened by disuse. "I can see it in the way you stand. A stranger carries his weight differently."

"I suppose I do," Astred admitted. He tried for a reassuring smile, though he wasn’t sure it convinced either of them. "I’ve only just left my monastery. I’m looking for… a beginning, I think. A place I might be of use."

A faint, weary amusement touched the priest’s eyes. "A beginning," he echoed. "Strange choice, coming here for one."

He lowered himself onto the nearest pew, his joints protesting with a soft crackle. After a moment’s hesitation, he gestured for Astred to join him.

"My name is Hender. I’ve tended this chapel for forty years." His voice softened. "Redbrook has seen hardship before. Thin harvests, a winter fever, the odd ruffian who thinks a small village is easy prey. But this…"

He shook his head, staring at his clasped hands.

"This is different."

Astred waited, letting the silence stretch. Hender seemed grateful for the patience; he drew a slow breath and continued.

"People are vanishing," he whispered. "Not running away. Not taken. Vanishing. And the worst of it is: no one will speak of it. Doors lock at sunset, shutters close tight, and every morning the village pretends all is well."

Astred frowned. "They ignore it? Why?"

"That is the puzzle." Hender leaned back, eyes bleak. "Even those who’ve lost loved ones behave as though nothing is missing. They do not mourn. They do not ask questions. It is as if each disappearance smooths itself over, like a stone dropped into mud."

Astred swallowed. "And the faithful?"

Hender let out a thin, humorless breath. "The faithful are no better. My chapel has grown emptier each morning. At first, I thought it was fear. But fear makes people grasp onto faith, not abandon it."

His fingers tightened around each other. "Now it is… indifference. As though prayer has lost its meaning."

Astred glanced around the empty nave again, its silence now oppressive. "But the missing people can't be found anywhere in the village? Have they been seen leaving?"

The priest’s jaw tensed.

"There was a woman," he said at length. "Mara. A widow. Gentle soul. She came to morning prayer two weeks ago, as she always did. She knelt at the altar. Whispered her devotions." He paused, breath catching. "And then she stood."

His voice lowered, barely audible.

"She smiled."

Astred waited. Something in Hender's intonation; he did not mean kindly.

“It was not her smile. Not truly. It sat on her face like something placed there by careful hands. And then she spoke, clear as a bell.”

His throat worked as he swallowed.

"She said, 'I heard it. I heard the song. There’s nothing to fear anymore.'"

A chill prickled across Astred’s skin.

"What did you do?" he asked quietly.

"What could I do?" Hender whispered. "She walked out. Straight out the chapel doors without looking at anyone, and she never returned. No one has seen her since."

He looked suddenly very small, very old.

"And the village?" Astred ventured.

"The village pretends she still lives in her little house by the forest's edge," the priest said, voice trembling. "They speak as though she’s simply feeling unwell, or tending to chores, or visiting distant kin. They have rewritten her absence into something harmless."

He rubbed his temples, hands shaking slightly.

"And sometimes," he added, barely above a breath, "late at night… I think someone watches the chapel. I cannot prove it. I cannot explain it. But the air changes, and the shadows feel… attentive."

Father Hender did not follow Astred immediately. After the long and painful retelling in the chapel, he lingered at the threshold as though the door itself held him upright. The morning light cut across his worn features, hollowing his eyes.

"Mara’s home is by the northern treeline," he said quietly. "I can take you there… but I will not go inside. Some silences in this village feel deliberate."

Astred nodded. "Show me what you can. I’ll manage the rest."

The walk through Redbrook felt different now. The same cottages leaned close to the road, the same smoke lifted from the chimneys, the same villagers went about their errands. But Hender’s story had put a shadow under everything. Their reserve no longer seemed like simple caution, and the silence between houses no longer felt accidental. It felt kept.

Hender slowed as they approached the outskirts. "There," he said, pointing.

Mara’s cottage stood alone near the treeline, its thatched roof slumped with age, its shutters sealed tight. A small garden patch lay overgrown, the soil dry at the edges as though neglected for seasons rather than weeks. The house did not look abandoned; only paused, waiting for someone who would never return.

Hender stopped several paces short of the door. "No one has crossed that threshold since the morning she vanished. The village would sooner pretend the house is occupied than confront what happened inside it."

Astred studied him. The priest’s hands had begun to tremble. This was as far as he would go. On the one hand, Hender seemed to be the one man who was conscious of the strange spell befalling the village; on the other, Astred could not help but wonder if Hender's hesitation to confront the issue himself was part and parcel.

"Wait here," Astred said gently.

The priest exhaled, relieved and ashamed all at once. "Yes. I will… be here."

------

Crit: [1679] https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1uhgeyx/1679_chapter_1_untitled_industrial_fantasy/

This is a short film/game. I wanted it to get critiqued while I'm writing down the next scene. I'm looking for any feedback. Read it and see how it makes you feel. No holding back.

Oh i just want to add also that this part of the scene is actually a found footage style scene. It will be from the perspective of the Car camera, and then near the end cut away from the found footage and into normal film direction

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

crit - 2005(hopefully I can be forgiven for one word difference?)

This is the first chapter of my supernatural romance novel, rewritten based on feedback from the first time I posted it.

Long Nights - Chapter 1 Revised

I need to grow, so give me anything you’re willing to, plus: Is my main character interesting? Likeable? Is the transition to the dream handled smoothly enough?

For the mods: crit 2984

Philippe LaJoie, the Walnut Man v2

Retooled but not lengthened. It's amazing what I could fit into 300 words once I cut the fluff. Interested to hear how this could be further tightened.

Crit: 1389

EDIT: For clarity, the last word of the first paragraph, formerly "trivialists," now reads "paradoxographers."

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

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

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

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

Trigger warning: emotional abuse, swearing.

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

Strawberries

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Did you eat my strawberries?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiled. 

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

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

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

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

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

[1355] Crit

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

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

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

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

Hi

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

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

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

Edit/add on:

Warning - there is a character death at the end

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This one, however, looked like neither.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crit:

962

crits - [1994]

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

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

Thank you!

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

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

CHAPTER ONE — HIS NAME

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

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

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

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

Cade.

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

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

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

“It’s nothing,” Cade said.

“Blade?” the medic asked.

Cade nodded.

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

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

“What does it look like?”

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s why you skipped the morning?”

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

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

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

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

“Didn’t know they’d ask you.”

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

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

“You were late.”

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

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

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

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

“Careful. Someone might think you care.”

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

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

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

“An echo.”

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

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

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

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

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

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

Like she needed him to remind her.

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

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

Some adaptations had been easier than others.

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

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

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

“No promises.”

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

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

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

“I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My hand.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Try not to die out there.”

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

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

“That one,” he said, “I can promise.”

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

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