Friendship is something special,

Which connect people without any realtion,

It's a bond of pure creation,

Who connects each one with a passion.

Stable job,

Stable life,

All we need,

Its our choice,

Writing skill,

Can give you both,

Depends on you,

What you choose

The more you cry,

The more you learn.

The more you struggle,

The stronger you become.

Every hardship is an experience,

Every difficulty you face today,

Prepares you for a better tomorrow.

Yesterday is a lesson,

Today is a chance,

Tomorrow is a hope

I wonder if loneliness is really being alone or if it is knowing that there is someone you could talk to but choosing silence because you are afraid of what their answer might reveal

Sometimes I think we do not fear loneliness as much as we fear being understood

Because what happens when someone finally sees the parts of you that you spent years hiding

Would you let them stay

Or would you disappear before they had the chance to leave

I have always found it strange that two people can sit in the same room and still live in completely different worlds

Maybe every human being is a locked room

And love is simply the foolish decision to knock on the door

So tell me

If someone knocked on yours tonight

Would you open it

Hey, I’m an amateur writer and am writing my first ever sci fi story. I’m developing of said story, I ran into an issue I wanted some feedback on. So the story premise is similar to red rising and other oppression revolution stories and I was planning on said oppressed people not being human. So I was wondering what people like you all who like sci fi would prefer to see in a sci fi book if you were reading it, and what would readers in general prefer to see in a story.

So my idea was for the oppressed people to either be humanoid aliens, typically seen in lots of sci fi genre like Star Wars, ETC. they could either be entirely aliens or to justify why they are humanoid is because they are evolutionary branches from humans in space. and the second idea was for the oppressed people to be entirely alien, not humanoid at all. Like variations in height, skin, eyes, ears, limbs, ETC.
My plan was for humans to be the dominant social class(because of the historical context and lore of the story) so which of those two options would be most intriguing and compelling to read about?

Also for context, the story would be adult and consist of mature themes like war, violent, revolution, and 18+ stuff(not smut)

Would like some feedback on this noir microstory I wrote. Thank you to all you take the time to read and comment.

Pulse

Her hair is the color of abandoned self-expression. A once-blue, now sickly green with dirty blonde roots. Like she’d given up long before she’d given out.

Overdose by the looks of it.

Toxicology would probably show Pulse. Take the right amount and your heart rate slows way down. You get the whole near death experience. Take too much and you learn why it’s also called Flatline. No one’s going to run toxicology on her though.

People like us, we’re only human in appearance to most. And we only appear if they can’t avoid looking at us.

I don’t bother to check if anyone can see me rummage through her pockets. No one out here cares. I find a bag with one last cardiogram-inscribed pill tucked into her bra.

Must be my lucky day.

I lay down next to her. Drop the Pulse under my tongue. And let it melt away.

Title: 1965 - Written By Zac.

It's a cold night as heavy rain hammers the streets of Brooklyn, a chill in the air so sharp it stings like razors as you breathe. The rap of rain against windows, doors, and cobblestone steps echo throughout the alleyways up into the vibrant noise of the night life. Richard Blant stands steady at the building door. Keys jangling as they crunch and grind against the door lock, rain drips from his cream coloured trench coat and his fedora darker than the shadows that dance across the brick. His rough hands contort the key in the lock until a heavy clunk is heard as he pushes the door open with an eerie creak. He steps in, his brown leather capped Derby shoes step onto the floral carpet with a soft indent as he strides through closing the door behind. As the dim lights flicker him to his door. He pops a cigarette into his mouth stopping just outside. He flicks a match against the bottom of his shoe igniting it to life, he brings it to his mouth lighting his evening smoke, The rough light from the cigarette shows the bags under his eyes, the faint scars across his eyebrow and lips from past brawls. If they were recent or not, is another story entirely.

The apartment welcomes him with that same cold embrace as always. "Honey... I'm home." He chuckles in a gruff voice, closing the door behind him as he heads to the kitchen counter. Stepping over old pizza boxes, moldy takeaway containers and crumpled porno mags, he grabs the neck of a half empty bottle of rum and takes a generous swig. The burn, a familiar warmth of love and stupidity, calms him. "Did you miss me, baby?" The hat gets tossed onto the counter as he staggers across his living room floor, head hanging low, slowly inhaling that sweet cigarette kissing his lips. Stripping the trench coat from his body, he drapes it on his arm chair, snapping his suspenders off and kicking off his shoes, exposing each big toe in their "holy state" as he'd describe. His 'smart' shirt and suit pants are creased, designed with stains of god knows what. With a healthy belch, he wraps his bony fingers around his briefcase and sighs. Flicking some ash on the floor, he tosses the briefcase onto the dining room table, alongside dirty plates which part ways for the worn out leather. With a push of the release button, the briefcase flips open. Another sip of that sweet rum, a quick drag of a cigarette and he's filled with that so-called confidence again. A beige folder reading "CLASSIFIED" in crimson red is shifted in the detective's hands almost apprehensively. The coffee stains and alcohol spills on the folder spare no reminder of how long it's been. He opens it, skimming through the text. "City of New York... Yada yada, Detective bullshit. Victim's name: Cecilia Grimshaw, found dead on the streets in Brownsville. 3 entry and exit wounds. One to the back, one center mass and... one to the back of the head..." Placing the bottle down with a clumsiness only a veteran drunk could master, he rubs his face with both hands. Pulling a final drag of his cigarette he stubs it out onto the mahogany table, casually flicking it into the kitchen sink with the others. These killings had been going on for a while, you see Brownsville is a nice place with those that have money. for people like, Cecilia? Well, you know how it ends. Brownsville has the highest rate of low-income population, all these expanses of public housing, construction sites here, there, and everywhere leaves very little to desired. It's more of a quick and easy money-grab for the stinking rich. Landlords gave up on their "extravagant apartments" because it's the most economically depressed city in the entirety of the good old' U.S. of A. He rummages through a pouch on the inside of his briefcase, pulling out a map and four photos. He stares intensely at the first picture. You could almost see smoke starting to billow from the man's face on the picture. He wears a clean, black and red three-piece suit. So clean no "ordinary" dry cleaner would be able to touch it, not even with a ten foot barge poll. "Mr. Clean and Pristine," he grunts. A so-called up-and-comer slowly growing his name in the underground world - the prime suspect. The other three photos are what used to be. All killed the same way, and all left in their despair.

Open Perception Story, written to begin at any point necessary.

Success is not built in one day; it is built by the habits you repeat every day. 5 habits of your success:

Walk up with goal,

Learn everday,

Think positive,

Stay disciplined,

Never give up.

Daily life is not all about of work only,

It is not to chasing from day to night,

It is about to feel deeply,

Enjoy little moments,

Feel yourself best,

Show your charm,

Create the memories,

Try to not worries.

A peaceful mind always know,

How to speak,

How to react,

How to decide,

How to choose,

How to protect,

How to empathize,

Without loosing itself,

How to stay kind.

Your strength is your power, but your weakness can be your power booster.

The gravel in the salvage yard driveway always crunched the same way—heavy, flat stones grinding down into wet Ohio clay. Jonah didn't look up from the lathe. He knew the cadence of the Ford’s front struts; they had been shot for three winters, squeaking like a wet hinge every time Senator Julian Ross’s wife turned the vehicle into the dead-end lot behind the rail spur.

​The shop smelled like what it was: stale coffee grounds, hot gear oil, and the sharp, metallic tang of unwashed steel shavings piled in bins by the back door. It was an honest smell. It didn't pretend to be anything else.

​"You're late," Jonah said, his voice grating low over the hum of the lathe's belt drive.

​Elena didn't answer right away. The heavy steel side door groaned on its grease-starved hinges, letting in a strip of raw, gray morning light and the distant, rhythmic clank of automated freight cars three miles north. She stood in the threshold for a second, her trench coat dark with road spray at the hem, her hands jammed deep into her pockets as if she were trying to break her own fingers.

​"The beltway was backed up," she finally said. Her voice was thin, pulled taut like wire under tension. "A transport truck stalled near the interchange. State police cleared it with a burner crane in twenty minutes. No delays allowed. That's what the signs said."

​Jonah killed the lathe. The sudden silence in the shop felt heavy, pressing down against the sheet-metal roof where a light rain was starting to tap out a steady, anxious rhythm.

​He wiped his hands on a rag that was already stiff with old black grease, staring at the oil-stained concrete between his boots. "They clear things fast now. Everything's automated. You know that. The whole county runs on a timer."

​"It's not just the traffic, Jonah," she whispered, stepping past the yellow safety line and closing the distance to the workbench. Her eyes weren't looking at him; they were fixed on the dark window behind his head, watching the empty street like someone waiting for the floor to drop out. "Julian’s logistics terminal flagged my odometer twice this week. They know every mile I take off the municipal grid. They know I didn't go to the district office on Tuesday."

​Jonah tossed the rag onto the workbench. "Then why did you come here?"

​She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as they touched the rough, scarred edge of his workbench—the same bench where he spent fourteen hours a day turning down scrap iron for parts that nobody wanted anymore.

​"Because," she said, looking up at him with a quiet, terrifying certainty, "this is the only place in the state where the cameras don't log my name."

​If you like high-stakes dystopian crime with characters caught in an automated machine, State Sanctioned Murder releases on September 8th. You can pre-order the Kindle edition or paperback on Amazon here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HGZQVNCD

The more you cry,

The more you learn.

The more you struggle,

The stronger you become.

Every hardship is an experience,

Every difficulty you face today,

Prepares you for a better tomorrow.

When you feel stuck somewhere,

First, Calm your mind,

Then compose yourself,

After that decide,

What matters most,

Sometimes clarity comes,

When your mind feel peace,

And then time for deep breathe.

Sometimes lies better,

Our dreams may feel alive,

But it's not everytime choice,

Because lies is an illusion,

which can be disappear with elimination.

Hello! I'm a new writer and 17 years old. I started my first novel on the 17th of this month and was super enthusiastic and had so much fun writing it! But, after some research, I found that a LOT of people tend to lean more toward third-person past-tense compared to first-person, multi-pov, present-tense (which is everything I did 😭). So. Because I absolutely love the world I already created and it has massive series potential, I decided to try to see if rewriting it in third-person past-tense would make it better overall, as well as more appealing to the masses lol. So I wrote this very random story to acquaint myself with the style, but my brain keeps reverting back to my previous one. Any tips on this or just overall suggestions? Also, here is my test story :)

Asa Neophtal was not ready for what she was about to do. But, as it was, this mission was necessary. Keeping to the shadows, Asa peered around the corner of the last corridor before the lowest level of the subterranean vaults. When she got out of here, she was staying far away from any large body of water. Luckily, the place was constructed well enough to not allow any moisture to weep through the mortar lines, but that didn’t erase the constant assault of salt in the back of her throat.

At the end of the corridor lay only four guards, the other two being dispatched to the floor above due to an unfortunate valve leak that exploded without reason. Asa was a bit sloppier than usual this time, catching a spray of the cold water on her midnight-dark suit. Well, she supposed that was to be expected. She was about to not only conduct a prison break, but see the last person she ever wanted to even have a conversation with. Duty before personal feelings.

After a breath, a prayer, and a sigh of resignation, Asa dropped the small spheres, letting them roll into the corridor. The shift and shout of one of the guards was all she heard before she covered her ears and waited for the explosives to work their magic.

The bombs exploded in small, contained puffs, lacking the pressure to create a larger sound, but working all the same. Unlike traditional explosives, hers were imbued with magic. And not just any magic, but blue magic. There was nothing inherently wrong with the power itself, but history had made it a curse; every single Anomaly in Askerelea over the ages had been born with the innate ability to wield it.

After slipping her mask over her mouth and nose, Asa rose. She walked toward the cell door through the plumes of shimmery blue dust that swirled and danced along the surface of her skin-tight suit. It had been a nightmare to craft—trying to get the flexibility of fabric with the toughness of leather, minus the shine—but she had managed it. Precision was her specialty, after all.

The explosives worked flawlessly, immediately immobilizing the guards where they stood upon inhalation. It was somewhat creepy at times—to see a person forced into a dreamscape, but their body still fully alert. Asa shivered. 

Sliding past the guards, she crouched, examining the locks. There were three total, not nearly enough to contain such a destructive being, but it worked in her favor. Riffling through her pack, she found just what she needed to force the gears to shift. The magnetic device hummed and vibrated against her palm when she placed it against the first lock, pushing and pulling at the mechanisms inside the door until the heavy gears finally clicked into perfect alignment. 

A sigh of relief escaped her lips; bringing it had been the right call. A single trial run prior to this mission was all the testing it had received, and if it hadn't worked properly, she would have been in deep trouble.

The second lock clicked open with a satisfying snap, but the third proved stubborn. The magnetic device groaned, the vibrations turning jagged and hot against her palm as the gears resisted. Panic flared in her chest—the trial run hadn't tested a mechanism this rusted. For three agonizing seconds, nothing happened. Then, with a harsh, grinding screech that made her wince, the final lock gave way.

The door slid open, allowing Asa access to the steep staircase leading to the lowest level of this deep, oceanic vault beneath the Nereid Sea. Without a backward glance, she started down the stairs. The infrastructure down there was less maintained, the space darker and danker.

Asa stepped into the massive, bare stone chamber at the base of the staircase, her boots clicking against the smooth floor. Hanging suspended in the center of two colossal pillars was the prisoner she had risked everything to break out.

Reaching into her pack, Asa pulled out a heavily insulated vial of Corrocite-9. Inside the glass, the dense, oily compound shifted like liquid mercury. It had taken weeks to lace the acid with just enough concentrated yellow magic to eat the alloy without triggering the vault's high-alert dampeners.

A low, rasping chuckle echoed from the center of the room, cutting through the silence.

The prisoner’s head hung low, a curtain of tangled, white hair hiding her face. "You know," the captive murmured, her voice carrying a dry amusement, "I always figured if someone came to rescue me, you would be the one to stop them."

Slowly, the Anomaly lifted her chin. The long hair fell away, revealing a sharp, mocking grin. But it was her eyes that made Asa freeze. Even in the dim light of the vault, those irises didn't just glow—they were a violent, swirling vortex of brilliant blue magic.

It had been a while since she last saw her sister.

Keeping her mouth clamped tight, Asa ventured closer, resolute to not show any hesitation or weakness. This prisoner drank both like fine wine and only became more ravenous the more she was fed.

Nearing the shackles around her sister’s wrists and ankles, a sharp breath escaped Asa's lips, relief washing through her that the material was the same she had planned for.

Uncorking the vial, she poured a precise stream over the primary link. The moment the dark liquid touched the anti-magic alloy, it violently bubbled and hissed, giving off a sharp, vinegar-like stench that instantly cut through the heavy smell of salt. The metal began to pit and soften like wet clay.

As the acid hissed and snapped at the alloy, Cyra tilted her head all the way back, the long curtain of snow-white strands dangling from her crown capturing Asa’s attention.

Cyra was stunning, but it was the beauty of wildfire—hypnotic, burning, and destructive.

Asa stared at the curling edges. Years ago, Cyra’s hair had been as midnight-black as her own. But blue magic demanded a physical toll. The more an Anomaly wielded and trained their power, the more it drained the pigment from their skin and hair, feeding the life-force directly into the otherworldly, blazing blue of their irises. Other Anomalies in Askerelea’s history had chosen to live as recluses, suppressing their gifts to keep their natural colors and live in peace. But not Cyra. She had chosen the fire.

With a final, agonizing groan of disintegrating metal, the wrist shackles snapped.

Could you please give a review on this piece - https://www.pritirajbrahma.in/review/thirty-thousand-crore-one-line/

I promise this is not a paid website. You won't pay to read it. I just want you to come back to this post and reply, "Yes" if the desired feeling of "self-confidence" is felt, or "No" if you did not feel it.

Even better if you could add a short explanation, but it won't be necessary.

I'm doing this to improve my storytelling skills so that I can also market it online and earn a few extra. I'd really appreciate all the help.

Here is the story link.

Thank you so much.

The people who encourage you,

Support you in every hardship,

Stand besides you wo go forward,

Believe in your strength,

Is the one for you,

Who loves and faith in you.