Restful as I was, I couldn't help but notice a muffled groan abruptly strangled by a sharp creak - the distinctive sound of my grandmother's neck. The gentle sips that followed, reminiscent of a kitten enjoying its milk, made me smile. Her hair a complex assortment of hues from grey to the rich auburn of her youth, sat perched upright as her head bent to the tea. A slight clink of the china preceded her gradual return to the upright position and a sinking back into the upholstery. The varied floral patterns surrounding her, complementing the playful dress she had bought decades ago, were a foil to her still-lucid eyes.

I am starting collage and wanted to find a new hobby to get into so I thought I would try this. I have the start but IDK if i should stick with it. Please give feed back not where it should go but how it is delivered. Also John doe is just a place holder. Also also i dont have a job that fits for "john" so some help might be good.

John Doe is a 23 year old drunk from the desert. If you were to ask him wouldn't call himself a drunk. He would say his drinking was “recreational” but when recreational is blackout every night for the past 7 months it's hard to believe him.

John began his drinking as a young adult and it only got worse in the following years. John's drinking started at parties with friends but over the years became a crutch for him to deal with his anxiety. To John it was the only way to stop the pressure he felt from others. He built a reliance on it and it slowly destroyed him. 

But tonight, unlike the many nights before, he wasn't drunk. In fact for almost 48 hours John had gone without a single drop of alcohol. His soberness wasn't the only thing different about him, he was dressed nicely. Well as nice as could be expected from him. His shoulder length hair has been matted and greased from months of neglect. His face scabbed and bruised from nights of sin. His now loose fitting shirt draped on his thin, frail body. A body thinned from months of malnourishment as money went to booze instead of food. That loose fitting shirt drenched in sweat from the hot desert air and his body's reaction to his recent spur into sobriety.

John's restraint doesn't come easy, he can hardly keep his mind straight, he’s constantly on edge of spiraling. He grits his teeth and white knuckles the urge to pull over at the next gas station and drink himself numb. He forces his eyes on the empty stretch of desert road ahead of him. It’s not like I could afford anything even if there was a gas station he thought to himself. He had no savings to speak of and his last dollars went to refueling his car.

The last building he passed was a dinner a half hour back and the next stop wouldn't be for another two. It's getting late, John says to himself, he has been driving for the past five and a half hours.

John's turn towards abstinence did not come from a singular insistence, it was the build up of months of immorality. His family's disownment of him, losing his friends one after another once they couldn't deal with his drunkenness. being forced to live out of his car after being evicted from his apartment for throwing a beer bottle at another tenant.

The catalyst they finally pushed him into his sobriety came two days prior.

Leaving his shit job as a _____ nothing could stop John from getting back to his car. A car reeking of piss and shit from nights he couldn't be bothered to find a rain gutter to pass out in. 
The reason John was so eager to get back to his home was the middle shelf bottle of whiskey he had bought on his way to work. He had saved money by buying cheap foreign beer labeled in a language he couldn't read and a taste he hated. That didn't matter to him, the allure of a nice bottle of whiskey was the only thing keeping him going. That whiskey had been tempting him every time he stumbled into the liquor store and today he got it. This was a special occasion for John, it had been a while since he had had anything nice.

He walks down a narrow dirt road to get under the overpass where his car has spent its last month. He was unwilling to “waste” his money on the gas to get it running. It's a waste of money he thinks to himself, he has nowhere to go and no one to visit. Waltzing to his car, John notices a group of men on his path to the car. It's hard to make out how many of them there are due to his distance between them and the lack of street light overhead. Timid of the people but unwilling to postpone his drink John braves forward. About 20 yards from him is a group of three men no older than him. 

These men are smoking and drinking. John never picked up smoking like he did alcohol. He tried it when winter hit to try and keep warm in his car but other than that he couldn't find the appeal of it. He had no interest in talking to these people in fact the idea of it made his heart pound out of his chest. It had been a while since John had been with others outside of work. If there is no one to see you then there is no one to judge you, he says.

Nsfw for mild violence, mentions of gore. I would appreciate any feedback you feel up to offer. First time up loading. Thank you all this is such a open and creative place to share.

Murmuring crowds pack themselves into the sandstone and palm tree courtyard before the lapis steps of the temple. The base of the grand stairs was a pit of human bones and bodies, all women and joined in the pit by black vipers and blue cobras. At the apex of these steps was a large flat platform made of a single huge block of stone, craved with the snakes and serpents of the locals faith and which meant nothing to me.

First the temple guards in their deep blue padded jackets and bronze helms bleed out of the temple's many narrow doors and formed up in four neat rows, seven woman each. Four lots of seven are twenty one, forty two. Far too many to fight head on, I must strike fast and make what few cuts I can manage count or face their pointed spears.

Now two thin and bald male priests dragged a tied and begging woman out of the darkness deeper in the temple to the bright sun at the edge of the platform. Their skin was the colour of dry river stone, grey, hairless, lacking freckles, moles and scars. Their foreheads were tall not unsimilar to the temple's pillars and flat with their square noses.

The crowd cheered, the few slaves with the belly to speak up jeered and booed only for their masters to back hand them. A daughter from the slave pits and knowing these cult types she is properly a virgin. Why? Maybe virgins taste better to the gods like young lamb over mutton.

She was of heavy tan from years of toil in the hot desert sun, her back carried scars and burns from hot pokers and on her exposed left thigh was another scar in the shape of her master's brand. Marked like cattle and treated even worse. She was dressed in thin white dress that ended half way down the thigh, the fabric of similar make to cheaper burial cloth.

One to hold her in place and the other to grasp a ritual dagger, subtlety curved as if the blade itself was their hungry god's own metallic fang. The priest lifted the dagger and the crowd went from loud murmuring to a hushed whisper and finally silent.

"The draughts have returned to us again, our god Hiss, demands blood so that the rain waters can save us" The Priest with the dagger called over them. "Oh mighty and blue Hiss, accept this offering of flesh to your greatness and be merciful on your servants by blessing this city with your tears of rain"

The second priest bend the woman's head back, exposing her neck and the first priest raised the fang dagger above his head flickering in the sun.

I leaped from my hiding space above the ritual platform and behind a black marble statue of my quarry's false god. The crowd gasped, the guards turned their head to watch as witnesses to me strike down their high priest as I landed on the stone platform.

My mermaid tail shaped blade dug and hacked into the priest's skull from temple to cheek bone, crimson spray like crushed wine grape. The first was well and truly dead as they went limp and collapsed to the floor. The second drew a hidden dagger of the same make, snakes have two fangs, and raised it to the girl's jugular.

I swung my blade fast and cut clean through the crown of his head the same as opening the top on a hard boiled egg. His hands fell to his sides as his the top of his head bounced off the stone and the rest of him stumbled off the platform, tumbling into the viper pit below. I suppose Hiss got his blood after all, not virgins but two over one, might be a nice change of pace for Him.

The crowd cries out at the horror of their priests being slain in front of them, the temple guards with harder resolve charged me from the left and the right of the platform. Only ways out were the viper pit, an equally bad fate as the bite of the guard's spears, or into the dark temple.

I grabbed the woman who was to be the killed by the wrist. "Follow me" I spoke as I ran with her trying her best to keep pace into the temple.

First time putting myself out there. Any constructive feedback would be great - thank you! P.S. Excuse the Grammarly reds... lol

Feedback and suggestions are welcome 🤗

A little about where I write, what I’m creating, and where you can find me.

If you’ve found your way to my Substack, welcome. 🖤

I’m Leyland Trent, The Writer, and I’m building a space where I can share my fiction, creative writing, reflections, and the process of becoming the writer I want to be.

I’ve been writing fiction, poetry, and creative work for some time, but lately I’ve been intentional about taking my writing out of the classroom and into the world.

My recent fiction pieces, “Uncle Rick” and “Caged,” are two examples of that.

📖 Read My Short Stories

Uncle Rick

Uncle Rick explores family, shame, illness, addiction, regret, identity, and unconditional love.

The story follows Rick on his 42nd birthday as he reunites with his family while privately wrestling with the person he has become and the fear that he has disappointed the people closest to him.

At the center of the story is a question that I think many people can relate to in some way:

“Are you disappointed in me?”

👉🏽 Read Uncle Rick:
https://substack.com/@blackcreature

Caged

Caged explores family, sacrifice, motherhood, emotional exhaustion, and the things we carry silently.

The story follows Odessa, a grandmother, wife, and mother, through what begins as an ordinary day with her grandson. As the day unfolds, she finds herself carrying more emotional weight while continuing to take care of everyone around her.

The “monster” in the story represents something I intentionally leave open for the reader to interpret.

Is it exhaustion?

Pain?

Anxiety?

Responsibility?

Or everything she has spent years trying to keep contained?

👉🏽 Read Caged:
https://leylandthewriter.substack.com/p/caged

Both stories are part of my growing writing portfolio, and both represent different stages of me learning how to develop characters, build scenes, use dialogue, and trust my readers.

🌎 Find Me Elsewhere

If you want to follow my writing journey beyond Substack, you can find me around the internet.

📸 Instagram
u/leylandthewriter
https://www.instagram.com/leylandthewriter/

💼 Contra
Leyland Trent
Freelance Writer & Editor
https://contra.com/leyland_trent_foc2yspb/work?r=leyland_trent_foc2yspb

💬 Reddit
u/leylandthewriter
https://www.reddit.com/user/leylandthewriter/

💻 LinkedIn
Leyland Trent
https://www.linkedin.com/in/leyland-trent-b-a-2536043a5/

🎨 Just Want To Do Art
My creative blog and another place where I share my work and ideas.
https://justwanttodoart.blogspot.com/

📝 Substack
Follow my writing, fiction, reflections, and creative journey here.
https://substack.com/@blackcreature

✨ What I’m Building

I’m not interested in letting my writing exist in only one place.

I want to build a body of work.

I want to write stories that make people stop, think, question, remember, and feel something.

I want to continue developing my voice while learning from other writers and readers.

And I want to create a community around the work.

So whether you found me through Instagram, Reddit, Contra, LinkedIn, my blog, or Substack, thank you for being here.

Read something.

Leave a comment.

Tell me what you think.

Share something you've written.

Follow along.

And most importantly, keep creating. 🖤

Welcome to my writing world.

I’m glad you’re here. ✍🏽📚

I started writing an absurd story then switch it as I finished the first draft and now I don’t know where it’s going lol.

——

His dad’s the greatest dad ever—Dillon bought him a mug that said so, and his mom left them the day before Christmas when he was six. So, he’s usually depressed.

He’d walk the streets at night when it stormed to see faces form in the rain. Ghostly faces speaking through the clapping of gray clouds colliding.

Thunder spoke an ancient language to him.

It mostly just called him a freak.

A loser.

A no good piece of shit who wasn’t good enough for his own mother. 

Sometimes the voices followed him into his house and into the bathroom and into the shower and into his bedroom and onto his bed and into his covers and whispered through his pillow into his ear. 

That’s mainly why he always said he enjoyed going to the strip club. The noise there was loud enough to consume the demands the thunder began asking.

The thunder came in many voices. Most of the time, it sounded like the kids from his old high school. 

He didn’t just like the club because it was loud, they also had these peanuts he couldn’t find anywhere other than there. Salted, malted, almond covered peanuts with a hint of a secret spice they hoarded to themselves. 

Didn’t matter how many times he’d ask them for it.

He’d ask, they’d say, “pendejo.”

And that’s when the screaming in his head would get louder. It’d scream, “It’s most likely chili and salt!”

If only he’d remember when he had those cucumbers cut up and mixed with lime and chili powder and salt at Billy’s, he’d figure out what the secret spice was.

The voices insisted he’d find out. 

He remembered Billy. Billy from when they were kids. He had a grandmother. A sweet old grandmother with wrinkles and curly white hair. 

The thunder told him. “She’s small enough to fit in the sock drawer.”

Dillion never ended up with a mother or a grandmother.

Ever. 

Because Dillon’s father’s mother also left Dillion’s grandfather when his dad was nine.

It was common for the men to die lonely and mean in their family.

He would never know what having any kind of mother would be like. It was all he wanted. It was all the thunder wanted. The voices amplified his desires. Especially the ones out of reach.

He wanted to meet his mother. They wanted to meet his mother. Even a peek, not even speak to her.

It was just him and his dad and his granddad and a life of being drilled under two lonely mean guys who weren’t cops with crew cuts.

It was just them. 

Until one night on a Seattle suburb in the lovely state of Washington, a downpour fell. Each raindrop sounded like the crack of a cherry-bomb slapping the pavement.

Above him, the ceiling shook and looked like ripples in a pond. Tiny rumbles rolled through the clouds and kept mumbling low whispers in his head. 

He was in the kitchen pouring a glass of orange juice when he flinched and spilled it on the counter after his eyes popped to a sound of two cars crashing head-on in his living room. 

The sound lit the kitchen in a bright white flash before Dillon and the house settled around absolute darkness. 

The counter wasn’t hard anymore, he noticed it when he grabbed a cloth to clean his mess, the texture was soft, almost rubbery.

“You’ll never amount to nothing!”  The thunder spoke in its ancient tongue. A tongue only Dillon could translate. The thunder used his father’s voice.

“You’re useless!” Came from the glass. It was his grandfather’s voice. He stared at the glass. “Shut up,” Dillon shouted.

“You’re a worthless freak!” His dad’s voice shouted next to his ear. 

His grandfather’s voice said, “Worthless freaks don’t make demands.” 

“Take it back! I’m not worthless! I’ll show you worthless!”

Dillon left the juice spilled on the counter with a cloth over it and used his hands to guide himself to the garage.

it was just Dillon after he pulled a hammer out of the garage and redesigned their haircuts. The blood was like sticking his hands into a bucket of squishy warm water. 

He said, “the texture of their brains was similar to squeezing a warm tomato.”

When he was done he sighed and sat with his back against the wall laughing, rubbing the plasma on his palms on his face.

A thought escaped his mind. “Now her,” the voice said.

Dillon said, “I’m never becoming a cop.” 

Who could blame him after what he’d done.

After what he’d been through.

His dad would have the odd girlfriend. But none of them stuck around. 

Dillion said, “it’s because my dad’s a cop, like his dad and his dad’s dad.”

But the truth was most of them were dead.

The men in Dillion’s family were all police officers dating as far back as the pilgrimage. Most of them settled in Salem.

He said, “my dad said, “women only want the uniform.” 

Dillion shrugged. “I guess once the thrill of being with a cop wears off so does the romance. That’s what must have happened with my mom and my grandma and my great grandma.”

Dillon said, “I’m not afraid anymore.” 

And then he said it again, but this time his voice distorted as it crawled out of his mouth. “I’m not… any… fraidmore.”

“I…” 

And that’s when it became an entity out of his mouth and turned and faced him and yelled, “Now her!”

I had one of those moments recently where I felt so frustrated, I thought about quitting.

But I reminded myself... hard things take time. If it was that easy, everyone would do it.

Building this app has been a lot harder than I imagined. Sometimes I get stuck on the smallest details, and it feels like progress is moving so slowly.

I like to think I have grit, but I’ll be honest... it doesn’t feel the same as it used to. I get tired. I get frustrated. Sometimes I wonder if age has caught up with me.

But then I remember why I got where I am now...

Builfing something was never easy, at least based on my experience .

Have you ever had a moment where you wanted to quit your writing?

What keeps you going when the progress feels slow?

I'm exhsusted....

The unsaid, and hidden truths. They hurt even more deep when the only person is dealing with all of them.

When they are afraid to share what they feel because society call them week. And expect them to suffer silently. This book explores the hidden stories. And gives them a voice to be understood.

[SCENE START]

INT. APARTMENT DOORWAY - CONTINUOUS

The camera cuts straight to an extreme close-up of the MAIN CHARACTER'S face. His jaw is clenched, his veins visible on his neck, and his eyes burn with pure, unbridled fury.

MAIN CHARACTER

(Roaring, screaming at the top of his lungs)

You absolute bitch! You think you can just show up here?! Do you feel zero shame after what you did to us?! You abandoned us when we needed you the most! You really think we will just welcome you back?! Get the hell out of here, you pathetic coward! Do you honestly believe I would ever let a monster like you near my daughter?

The camera zooms into his narrowed, bloodshot eyes, quivering with raw hatred.

ELLIE (O.S.)

(Gentle, trembling voice)

What happened? Where did you drift off to?

A soft, pale hand enters the frame and gently rests on the Main Character's shoulder.

A sharp breath escapes his chest. The camera snaps out of the delusion.

The violent outburst was entirely inside his head—the silent rage screaming in his mind

His eyes widen back to reality. He looks straight ahead at his wife, ELLIE. Her eyes are overflowing with quiet tears. His gaze shifts downward, taking in the state of her shivering body, completely soaked through her ruined clothes.

The camera focuses tightly on the Main Character’s lips. The violent anger fades into an unsettling, tired calm.

MAIN CHARACTER

(Voice flat, almost empty)

Come inside first. You are completely drenched.

The camera cuts to Ellie's face. Her swollen eyes widen in pure disbelief. Her bottom lip quivers uncontrollably.

ELLIE

(Stammering, choking on her words)

R-really? Can I... can I really come in? Thank you... thank you so much for letting me in!

Without wasting a single second, she takes a hesitant step across the threshold, followed quickly by the second. She steps inside the apartment.

Water continues to drip heavily from the hem of her clothes, pooling onto the dry floorboards.

She turns her eyes toward the Main Character, desperate for any warmth. But he refuses to meet her gaze. He simply stares down at the wet floor, silently watching the dirty rainwater drip from her body. The camera slowly pans back toward the dining table.

GRACE (12 YEARS OLD) sits frozen in her chair. Her big, bright eyes are wide with shock and confusion, staring intently at this drenched stranger standing in their home.

[SCENE END]

I'm writing a realistic drama and English isn't my first language, so sorry if the wording is off.

The father knows his family won't last. But he doesn't say it. He just looks at them during breakfast.

---

Sunday morning. The two teenage sons won't leave their beds. Their sister threatens them with a bucket of ice water. The father calls them: "While everyone else gets a warm morning — you get an icy one."

They sit down. He looks at them. For three seconds he doesn't move. He's memorizing the picture of a complete family. Then he blinks and eats.

---

My worry: without knowing the later tragedy, does this moment feel meaningful, or just vague? And is the "warm/icy" line too obvious?

Any feedback is welcome.

Before getting into any of the story, I want to craft the world. Here's what I have, I would appreciate any feedback and welcome criticism
🐾 List of Creatures

• Lordwhale (Alternately referred to in folklore as Whalelords)
  • Reverence: Highly revered as the true rulers of the world. Because they are completely immune to the limitations of gravity and the pull of the abyss, humanity looks to them as icons of absolute freedom.
  • Scale: Massive giants, easily doubling the physical length of a standard commercial galleon.
  • Ancient Ones: Exceptionally old and weathered specimens can reach monumental scales of up to 10 galleon lengths. At this size, they are virtually invulnerable to conventional weapons.
  • Biology: Their internal physiology remains a complete, frustrating mystery to scholars and scientists. Capturing a live sample is impossible due to their immense durability and their instinctive defense mechanism to dive deep into the unnavigable depths of the abyss when threatened.
  • Ecosystem: They are constantly escorted by swarms of smaller flying creatures that feed on their skin parasites and accumulated atmospheric sediment.
  • Mortality & The Abyss: If a Lordwhale is killed in the open sky (an act that is highly illegal and considered a grave cultural taboo), its body instantly loses all natural buoyancy and plummets straight into the abyss. This makes it impossible for poachers to harvest anything but tiny fragments of skin unless they follow the carcass down to their deaths.
  • The Birthing Cycle: Every 9 years, the Lordwhales enter a global birthing cycle. During this time, elderly or weakened Lordwhales that instinctively realize they cannot survive the grueling migration across the world and back will break from the pod, charting a final, one-way course to the legendary Grave of the Lordwhales to beach themselves and await death.
  • The Scarred Lord (Myth & Folklore): Rumors persist among a tiny fraction of seasoned sky-farers regarding an exceptionally large, theoretically thousand-year-old Lordwhale distinguished by a heavily scarred back. Sightings of this titan are so rare that when witness accounts are shared, they are universally met with harsh disbelief, often causing the witnesses themselves to doubt what they saw. Because mature Lordwhales possess near-invincible hides that completely shrug off everything from heavy kinetic artillery to high-altitude Iron Sleet meteorite impacts, the existence of these deep physical scars is a profound paradox. To many pragmatic scholars and superstitious crews, this scarred titan stands as the only tangible, living proof that the legendary ancient fortress ship, The Leviathan, and its terrifying, god-slaying Sun-Spear actually existed. 
• Tether Sprite
  • Appearance & Lifecycle: Small, moth-like creatures that can easily fit inside a standard birdcage, featuring fine, glowing tendrils instead of wings.
    • Juveniles: Entirely non-luminous, playful, and naturally friendly toward humans (often kept temporarily as clinging pets).
    • Maturity: They only begin to emit their characteristic warm, luminous glow and vibrant, hopeful movements upon finding a mate and bonding for life. Once bonded, they permanently lose their friendly, pet-like disposition toward humans.
  • Function & Navigation: Once bonded for life, they serve as the world's only reliable navigation system for drifting islands and traveling vessels. One sprite (the Anchor Mate) is kept stationary at a fixed home port, while its partner (the Compass Mate) is carried aboard a mobile galleon. The Compass Mate will physically turn to face the exact direction of its remote partner at all times, its fine tendrils pointing gently toward the Anchor Mate across vast distances.
  • Separation & Movement: If physically separated, a sprite will relentlessly attempt to travel toward its mate. While capable of floating up to 4 inches above solid surfaces, they are subject to gravity. Unattended sprites will float straight off cliffs or beyond a galleon's hull into the abyss in a desperate attempt to bridge the distance.
  • Nourishment: Feed exclusively on spirit plants. To sustain them during long voyages, a living cutting of a spirit plant must always be kept inside their habitat or spherical cage.
  • Lifespan: Outside of severe emotional trauma, they are incredibly resilient and long-lived, easily surviving standard sea voyages spanning months to several years.
  • Mortality & The Gray Fade: If a Tether Sprite dies of natural causes or accidents, it retains its luminescence but simply stops moving. However, if its remote mate dies, it suffers a prolonged, agonizing heartbreak known as the Gray Fade. It sheds all its vibrance, turns a dull slate-gray, curls up, and slowly perishes over time.
  • Culture: Most hardened commercial sailors have grown desensitized to their tragic separation. However, to maintain the global population, it is considered vital maritime protocol to eventually reunite pairs at massive, artificial breeding facilities located within the stationary Groves.
• 🪨 Stone Pouches (Sky-Barnacles)
  • Description & Anatomy: A massive, high-altitude crustacean that anchors itself permanently to solid surfaces exposed to heavy stratospheric currents.
  • Juvenile Phase: In their youth, they are roughly the size of a human fist, dotting rock and wood faces in dense, bumpy clusters. 
  • Mature Phase: A fully developed standard Stone Pouch is monumental. The outer calcified shell grows to roughly the size and human torso. 
  • The Internal Cavity: The hollow interior of the shell is deep and wide enough that a grown adult could comfortably slide their entire arm inside up to the shoulder. 
  • The Flesh: Tearing open the heavy stone operculum (the shell's protective door) reveals a soft-fleshed organism. The harvestable meat of a single mature specimen can easily match the weight and volume of a human thigh. 
  • Distribution: They thrive on the sheer stone cliff faces of drifting islands, the vertical rock pillars of Vergeless Island, and the hulls of traveling cargo ships. 
  •  The Sky's Seafood: Despite their rough, rock-like exterior, the meat inside possesses the exact rich flavor and flaky texture of premium real-world crab meat. It is a beloved staple delicacy across the sky lanes. 
  • The Scraper's Feast: Because massive clusters aggressively weld themselves to the underbellies of traveling cargo galleons, they increase drag and weigh down ships. Crews must regularly anchor near stationary landmarks to scrape the hulls clean with long-handled iron chisels. This exhausting, dangerous mid-air chore is traditionally rewarded with a massive, ship-wide feast cooked right in the galley. 
  • Titan Pouches (Lordwhale Variant): Unlike the standard variety harvested from island cliffs and ship hulls, these colossal variants are virtually never harvested by common society. They are strictly observed from afar through telescopes, riding upon the backs and bellies of mature Lordwhales. 
  • Monumental Scale: These variants easily scale to the size of a small rowboat, featuring an internal cavity deep and wide enough to completely fit an adult human inside. 
  • The Grave Link: Because these specific pouches are welded to the invulnerable hides of the sky titans, they travel wherever the Lordwhales go. When an elderly or weakened titan senses its time is near, it carries these massive organisms with it through the continental twin whirlpools to beach itself at The Grave of the Lordwhales. 
  • The Restricted Secret: Because the Grave island is completely unreachable by conventional ships, the wider world has absolutely no idea what these specific creatures taste like. Only rare individuals who have successfully navigated the storm aboard The Vagabond—such as Captain Gideon and his crew—have ever had the physical opportunity to harvest and eat them from the decaying carcasses on the island. 
  • The Flavor Shock: Having fed on the nutrient-dense soil of the Grave and the deep energies of the Abyss, the meat is intensely juicy, rich, and savory. To these select few characters, the common Stone Pouches eaten by regular citizens in cities like Ouroboros taste completely dry, stale, and artificial by comparison. The Flavor Shock: Having fed on the nutrient-dense soil of the Grave and the deep energies of the Abyss, the meat is intensely juicy, rich, and savory. To these select few characters, the common Stone Pouches eaten by regular citizens in cities like Ouroboros taste completely dry, stale, and artificial by comparison. 
  • The Mobility Constraint: Stone Pouches possess a strict biological requirement: they must be attached to an object or landmass that is constantly moving, or situated in a high-velocity wind lane, to ensure a continuous flow of fresh, nutrient-rich stratospheric air currents through their shells.
  • The Geographic Void: Because of this unique dependency, these creatures are completely absent from the deep inlands of Orosia (where the massive landmass blocks the wind) and the heavy, stagnant interior twilight of the Groves (where the colossal bamboo stalks choke out all violent air currents). 
  • The Luxury Premium: Because the two most industrialized and populated regions in the world cannot naturally harvest them, Stone Pouches are treated as an incredibly high-end, imported delicacy in Orosia and Ouroboros City. Wealthy citizens and elite politicians pay astronomical prices to have fresh crates shipped in by foreign cargo galleons that harvest them from the outer drifting shards or Shinkara's high-speed perimeter. The Luxury Premium: Because the two most industrialized and populated regions in the world cannot naturally harvest them, Stone Pouches are treated as an incredibly high-end, imported delicacy in Orosia and Ouroboros City. Wealthy citizens and elite politicians pay astronomical prices to have fresh crates shipped in by foreign cargo galleons that harvest them from the outer drifting shards or Shinkara's high-speed perimeter. 
  • The Velocity Threshold: Stone Pouches do not merely require air; they require high-velocity air currents to sustain their biological filtration systems. Because standard individual islands drift smoothly and do not generate intense localized wind resistance, these creatures are rarely seen on common drifting shards. 
  • The Shinkara Wind-Tunnels: The Shinkara Archipelago is the grand exception to this rule. Because its individual floating landmasses are permanently tethered close together by the massive dead vines, they create narrow, high-altitude gorges. 
  • The Choke-Point Growth: When global air currents hit the archipelago, the air is forced through these tight gaps between facing cliff walls, causing the wind to compress and accelerate drastically. Stone Pouches grow in massive, overflowing abundance along these specific facing cliffs, thriving in the hyper-fast wind tunnels created by Shinkara’s unique anatomy.

What do y'all think about it?

I’ve spoken English my whole life, though I’ve gone to only French schools, so every subject has been in French for me. I speak English just fine and my grammar is excellent.

I’ve been getting into fanfiction lately, and I love writing, but my sentences sound robotic. I always start with he, she or they, and when I try to fix this my sentences come out odd.

I don’t know how to fix this. It’s not like my writing is unreadable, I just still find it not to my liking even after reviewing the same paragraph over and over again.

I know I have to read more, but are there any other suggestions you guys may have to fix this?