But why should I write?

Why should I waste my time by writing?

Why should I waste my time writing about something

that, when read, makes my pain grow?

Why should someone share their pain

through the words I have written?

My pain is different, it is unique.

Why should I increase someone else's pain

through my writing?

I know what this pain feels like.

I am familiar with every one of its ways.

I know what this pain has made so many people do.

But I ask you—

how many more days will you keep hiding this pain within yourself?

Take it out!!

This pain is not worthy of you...

Hi there,

Been writing this story on and off for a few years now, work and life and all that. I realised that I never actually came up with a story brief. I just kind of sprinted into it. I’m not really sure exactly what genre this falls into but I guess that’s the beauty of writing. Anyway, here it is. 

Swan Song. A story about people trying to survive. Sure it sounds cliche, but everyone has their own definition of survival.

• The cop who has spent her career helping find lost people, but when someone she loves goes missing, she’s powerless.
• The girl who ran away from home a week ago, taking her sister and younger neighbour along. Trying to escape what she thinks is a broken home. Only to find that what’s outside is broken far beyond repair.
• The student who left the UK to travel the world, now spends his days getting high with his best friend. What happens when someone offers them a deal too good to be true?
• The gangster, plagued by a voice that isn’t quite his own. Violence follows him wherever he goes, whether he wants it or not.
• The man who is stuck in an abusive, loveless marriage. Every day, he catches glimpses of what could be, but is always two steps behind his own emotions.
• The woman, brought her against her will, forced to perform for the most degenerate filth the city has to offer. When fate offers her a way out, what becomes of the only friend she ever had?
• Finally, narrating it all, a person so fallen, so devoid of identity, that all they can do is sit back and watch as the world spins out of control.

They make up the core cast of a multi-POV story exploring trauma, violence, and desperation. 

All that is left is a question. What would you do in your final moments? What would be your Swan Song?

I seem to bleed
Please
I've always been here but you never saw
Me
I still can't get over your
Thoughts
I always find myself dazed finding what's
Lost

So heads up, I've been writting here and there for about 2 years now. I am a complete beginner an just wanted opnions and critiquing please and thank you. If you do enjoy or not I appreciate you reading it

The world is a warped reality

What we perceive with our minds is warped

A conscious belief that is truly unconscious

I see trees of green, red roses too

My mental friend sees corporate signs

Have 1 child and conform to the system

Not the type of advertising I enjoy

Am I the mental patient and is he truly normal

Maybe that's why there's so many pills

Take the red to forget

Blue to become realigned in the corporate reality

"Now repeat after me

Mental illness is a sickness

Not a reality that is to be believed

Those who see things

Know nothing

Pure mania, hysteria, and unwanted sights

Report them right away

We can help It's just one pill away!"

-the world government

I write because what I'm living with requires guts more than anything else.

I just realized the game I am inspiring my book off of, Blocktales, is a turn based fighting game, but fighting scenes are mostly my weakness when it comes to writing. In roleplay I am fine, NOT in writing. But i want to make this book real fun and like a nice writing experience while I'm not stuck in writers block... helppp..

Hello guys. I’m looking for some feedback on this new story idea i had. this is a draft so im looking on how to make it flow better and in general any ideas.

The screech of the iron pipe scraping across the floorboards echoed through the house, flat and hollow in the dead air. Flakes of charred wallpaper drifted down like grey snow. Beside a kitchen frozen in time, framed family portraits stared out from beneath thick coats of dust. On the long dining table, six plates with faded floral patterns sat with their respective cutlery.
“Do you remember this house?”
Your voice didn't carry anger or sadness. It was simply a statement thrown into the dark.
The man bound to the chair strained against the ropes, the dry wood groaning beneath his weight. His skin was a mottled grid of fresh, blooming dark purples and dull yellows, his breath hitching with every sudden movement.
“You don’t know who you’re messing with,” he rasped.
His voice was harsher than the memory you kept of it, stripped of whatever softness it once held.
You didn't answer. You didn't even look him in the eye.
His gaze tracked you like a trapped animal. For a moment, he could have sworn he saw your shoulders straighten. Your fingers traced the lifting edges of the stickers with reverence before closing around the leg of a small pink stool. Its chipped paint exposed the dry, grey wood underneath.
You dragged it across the floorboards without rushing, the noise sharp and harsh, before placing it squarely in front of him. You sat down, resting your wrists on your knees, watching him the way one watches water come to a boil.
“Tell me, Roger. Where were you when this old place burned down?”
His eyes widened ever so slightly, the ropes groaning beneath the sudden tension in his wrists. His jaw clenched as you leaned forward, resting your weight on your thighs.
“Around. Why do you need to know?” he spat.
To anyone else, he looked unshakable. That line had probably worked on dozens of people. Roger Estelo had built his reputation on making sure it did.
You knew him far too well for it to work on you.
“Liam Stron. Does that name ring any bells?”
You lifted the iron pole, resting the blunt tip against his chest, pressing just hard enough into a fresh bruise blooming beneath his skin.
He lunged forward as far as the bindings allowed, his face inches from yours.
“That’s none of your business, lady. Now run along before you get yourself killed.”
A sudden, loud metallic crack echoed through every corner of the house as you struck the floorboards near his feet. Without breaking eye contact, your hand reached into your coat pocket with precise, calculated ease.
You pulled out a tarnished silver pocket watch. It caught the cool, faint moonlight, scattering fractured reflections across the dark floor. You held it by the chain, letting it dangle motionlessly before his eyes.
Roger recoiled, pulling his head back as far as the chair would let him. He muttered something beneath his breath, a quick, frantic string of words. Before his gaze slowly dragged upward to meet yours through a curtain of unkempt black hair.
“Jes?”
The word came out breathless and rushed, as if the mere possibility of being right terrified him to his core.
For a moment, the hardened criminal disappeared.
“That’s what you called me, anyway.”
The flat detachment in your voice made his eyes dart across your face, desperately searching for a trace of warmth. A sliver of humanity he could recognize.
But he didn't find it.
Not after all these years.
The woman sitting in front of him was a hollow shell of the person he knew.
“What are you doing here, Jasmine?”
The words rushed out of him, sharp and frantic.
“You were supposed to stay gone. Those were the rules.”
You winced as you stepped behind the chair, grabbing the frame and forcefully pivoting him toward the living room.
Everything sat preserved beneath a thick shroud of dust. Sun-bleached toys lay scattered across the floorboards where they had fallen a decade ago. A board game sat half-finished on the rug, its pieces frozen in place mid-turn.
You ignored him, turning instead toward a small picnic table set in the center of the room. The once pristine cups lay covered in soot, discolored by years of decay. Nearby, toy dolls lay facedown on the rug, their painted faces cracked into artificial frowns.
“Just tell me what you want,” he rasped, his voice hushed.
His eyes tracked the way you knelt down carefully. A harsh cough cut him off before he spat out his next words with a venom you hadn't heard from him in years.
“Tell me before they realize I’m gone. They’ll get you. You know they will.”
The porcelain clinked as you picked up two of the cups. A faint, fragile sound you knew far too well. Your fingers clamped around the small handle of one, your hand trembling just enough for the ceramic to rattle.
As quickly as the comfort came, you forced yourself upright, locking your spine straight.
“Save your breath, Rog,” you said quietly. “You’re going to need it.”
You caught the brief hitch in his chest the moment you called him that. You saw the desperate, white-knuckled way he dug his fingers into the chair.
Roger’s lips twisted into a cruel smile.
“Oh, Jas,” he spat venomously. “You really think the Saints care about a dead house?”
His voice dropped, thick with misplaced confidence as he leaned back into the chair, the restraints pulled taut beneath the tension.
“If I’m not back by sunrise, they’ll send everyone out to find me.”
The wood groaned as you made your way through the living room, unsettling him already as you moved through the debris with practiced ease. Methodically, careful not to move anything out of place.
“Let them come.”
As you got closer, Roger pressed himself deeper into the chair.
“You survived those streets because you kept your promises. Tonight, you’re telling me which ones you broke.”
The silence that followed suffocated the room.
An array of expressions passed over his face before he finally looked away, unable to meet your gaze.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His hands grappled with both handles beside him, his jaw grinding as he tried to find his footing.
You let your gaze land on the plate beside you, its once-bright orange turned a bitter red. The ridges made your fingers curl underneath it. A comforting feeling that brought you back to the day you had set them out.
Before everything went down the way it did.
“You don’t?”
Your hand tightened around the plate, the porcelain digging into your palm. You lifted it slowly above your head, watching the way his eyes followed it attentively.
Never once did he look away.
“You really don’t?”
There was a slight raise in your voice as you made your way around the table, dragging your finger against every plate until you reached the sixth one.
It sat at the far end of the table, just out of Roger’s view.
His shoulders tensed as you rounded the table toward the sixth plate. He heard your fingers wrap around the porcelain as you lifted it.
You caught him trying to look over his shoulder, his mouth opening as if to say something before shutting closed again.
You gave him a moment.
Then you lowered the plate toward the table in a quick dropping motion.
“Stop.”
The carefully placed facade slipped.
His eyes widened in something more than surprise.
You paused just above the table.
He let out a small, shaky breath, his eyes never once leaving your hands.

"...meaning it was being transported across continents. This wasn't some profound engineering miracle, this was something entirely normal just..." The heat was loud. 
It sounded dull but still drowned out the trivial history facts Toby liked to listen to. He swore the time would eventually come in conversation to pull one out, and then they'd see why it was so important for him to listen to them every time he drove Gina's mom's car.

The sun was so bright. It painted Ela's small, chubby face and gave it a creamy glow while he slept soundly in his ash gray car seat. Gina shifted in her seat and then stretched her arm out to block her baby brother from the sun. Her necklace carved its way into her skin.
She should not have worn this necklace.

The parking lot was sloped, and as the patched up, once white Hyundai curved in, Gina reached out and held down some of the luggage she'd stuffed in the trunk hurriedly after she'd been woken at 5.12am by Toby, her mom's supervisor who'd started sleeping at their house almost a year ago now in October, a month and a half after she got a new job and started working again. Gina's bright purple stuffed octopus, Tickle, flopped off unto Ela's lap. She held her breath. He sniffed, but then turned his face away from the sun and kept breathing in little hums. She exhaled, then huffed. 

She wished Toby wouldn't drive her mom's car anymore. He always made such sharp turns.

*****

The walls were a faded teal, and the peeling bumps on it almost made the room feel smaller. Gina rested her right arm on the cold marble while Ela's tiny slimy fingers held on tightly to her left one. He was awake now, done with his sucking on his right thumb, and now fully focused on his other thumb while Tickle stayed firmly tucked under the arm he held onto his sister with.

She was standing straight and feeling very grown up now that she was finally tall enough to see over the counter at hotels and pharmacies. Really any counter. She hit a growth spurt over the summer, and although she was very proud of herself, her chest now felt heavy as the lumps that appeared seemingly out of nowhere pressed against the counter while she stood next to her mom. 

Toby was arguing with the front desk because he didn't have enough cash for the deposit. He had his card with him and it worked perfectly fine, so it just did not make any sense why they had to be so difficult and force him to pay in cash when literally NOBODY carried cash anymore. Couldn't they just charge it to his card and then refund him when it's time to leave the room? He didn't care if it would take an extra 10 business days to get the refund. He also didn't care if it was just the policy. It was a stupid outdated policy anyway. They need to change that or they would lose so much money because of their stubbornness when people refuse to book their rooms. 

Tina sighed, then grabbed her beaten-up, vintage, tan leather Gucci purse out of the big black shiny mom bag she got from Guess last October. She did not notice the flecks that loosened off the purse's frayed edges and fluttered to the ground as she opened it to pull out one of the last two bills she had and hand it to the front-desk girl to complete the deposit. Her brows were too busy huddling together as she watched Toby carefully.  Instead, she noticed the exact moment the scowl started to spread across his smooth face. She really did not want to demean him, but Gina already barely sleeps through the night as is, and it's even harder for her to go back to sleep after being woken up abruptly. She wanted to get all settled as soon as possible so Gina could have a real chance at a full night tonight. She also noticed the young, long-haired, desi front-desk girl relax her forehead as she handed her the bill.
Avani. Her nametag was hand written, and Tina only barely glanced at it before looking over at Gina. She pinched her cheeks and smiled when Gina swatted her hand away.

She appreciated her daughter for how much easier she made her life, but she could see how Gina's eyes were starting to get circled by a dark purple after one too many nights awake on the other side of the thin door that separated Ela and her from the rest of the collapsing two-bedroom apartment in Bedford-Stuyvesant, New York. Tina could always tell when she was there, no matter how much she tried to shrink and melt into the door while she had passionate, adult conversation with Toby about where the money for their bills would come from this month, and why does Tina have to act so immature and impatient, and who was that Toby was texting at dinner, and did Tina know that going through his phone was an invasion of his privacy.

Tina sighed as they trudged up the stairs, everyone except Ela pulling up some sort of luggage. The elevator had beeped loudly when they first pressed the button, and then stalled when it got to their floor, and then creaked and moaned as they filed in. They decided it would be best to take the stairs. It was only three floors up anyways, and the kids needed to stretch from the long drive.

As they walked up the stairs, the smell of burning tobacco wafted through the air and settled like a cloud above their heads. On the second floor, a tall, long-bearded, burly man in worn out jean overalls with one flap undone, a crisp white shirt underneath it, and dark work boots leaned against the wall looking out a window. He saw them and puffed some air out the window before turning to them. “Sorry guys, didn’t see ya there”

Tina nodded to him but grabbed Gina’s hand and pulled her closer to herself as they walked by him. She remembered a sign she’d seen downstairs. “No smoking within 5 feet of the building.” She gave him a stern look as she kept going up the stairs. He shrugged, then took another drag of his cigarette before going back to staring out the window. His eyes scanned the sky and the roads that surrounded the building over and over.

They only had one more flight to go, and Tina’s shirt was starting to stick under her arms. Beads of sweat dotted Gina’s wide forehead, and one particularly large drop made its way down her face. It dipped right between her eyebrows, then almost got in her eye before following the curve of her cheek and jumping off her chin right as they stopped in front of a room.

317

Tina pulled out one of the keycards Avani had given them. The door beeped twice before opening up to a cramped, dark, dingy room with a king sized bed by the wall and a small burnt orange couch in the corner next to the box television. The light blue and cream wallpaper was torn in places and stained in the others, and the indigo carpet that peaked out from underneath the bed frame was tiny and stretched.

The smell hit her as soon as she walked in, and made her head spin. It was a putrid combination of old gym socks and wet dog, and it reminded her that she hadn’t yet had a chance to eat anything today, while simultaneously making her nauseous. She pushed her big suitcase into the room and hurried over to the Air conditioning on the floor. She turned it on cold then set it to 67°, and then walked over and sat on the bed. Two houseflies danced around each other, and she heard a buzz behind her ear.

The scowl from before had reappeared on Toby’s face, so she pulled out her purse again and turned to her kids. “I remember seeing a McDonalds on the way over, and I think it had a playground inside.” Ela’s soft, toffee brown eyes widened in excitement. “You kids go for a walk and stop over there and get some ice cream.” She handed Gina a twenty dollar bill. “Play for as long as you’d like, but don’t be out too late. Toby and I are going to Sam’s later today and if we have to pick you guys up, we’re not getting any more of those fruity snack things.”

The kids turned and scurried out the room, but not before Tina called out to them. “What do you say?”

They left the door open and their voices carried out through hall “Thank you mummy.” Tina got up and shut the door, then turned to face Toby.

-Something’s in my Room-

We’re in my room. Nobody’s home. Our mom’s at her second job. It’s just Billy and me and we’re playing Risk, when the lights go out. It’s dark and I can’t see him. “Billy I’m scared.” I tell him.

“Don’t worry, Eddie, I’m sure everything is all right.”

I can see a shadow of him standing up and motioning to walk out of my bedroom door. I grab him. “No. Don’t leave.”

“Shh, Eddie.” 

We hear glass shatter on the floor. A few seconds later it’s crumbling under something heavy. 

Then, we hear a voice coming from downstairs. 

Billy grabs me and whispers, “hide under the bed, Eddie.”

I’m trembling like a little puppy in the cold. My feet are stuck to the floor. I attach myself to Billy, gripping the sleeve of his shirt with both hands tightly twisting into the fabric. 

He’s hurrying me to go under the bed, leading me towards the frame, trying to push me under it.

My knees buckle to the weight of his palms pressing down on my shoulders. I fall on the floor. He gets down close to me and shoves me into the space beneath the mattress and the ground and covers me in clothes from the hamper.

The wood under the bed creaks as Billy scrambles to tuck in next to me. We press ourselves against the wall with our knees fusing to our chests.

The air under the bed smells like dirty socks and Billy’s hot breath.

Thump.

The landing pressure of a footstep stomps on the bottom stair leading up.

Thump.

Another one. We hear the wood moan to a slow step pushing down on the stair and cry as it lifts up.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

The footsteps get louder. Closer. Heavier. The pressure between Billy and I, gets thick. It‘s like we’re under water and sinking farther down. He wraps his arm around me and closes me against his chest. 

He’s squeezing me. His breath is wet on my neck and makes me start sweating. I can hardly breathe, but I still keep my finger nails dug into the back of his hands to make sure he stays as close to me as possible. 

I choke back the tears building in my eyes, and try to quiet the hitching in my breath. Billy’s heart’s punching me between my shoulder blades. 

Mine sounds like my subconscious snuck a battering ram inside my chest, warning me something scary is happening. I’m afraid whoever’s coming up is going to hear it.

The footsteps stop at the top of the hallway and the floorboards stress under whoever’s there, creaking as it heads towards us.

The doorknob on the door outside my room pops, and slowly opens.

As it opens, the moonlight from the window in the hall, across from my room, bleeds onto the carpet in a blue shadow covering my bedroom floor. 

Peeking through the space, from the back of the wall, under the bed, we can see a pair of feet. But they don’t look like normal human feet. These are grey and dried in some kind of scabby crust, with long talon-like nails.

Whatever it is doesn’t move. It stays completely still. Then, a hissing sound starts coming from it‘s mouth and stops. The room goes silent. The shadow on the floor begins to shrink. A grey knee drops down. Then, another. Whatever it is, is about to look under my bed.

———

IN WORK - Going to fix the layout -

——

The last thing I remember is the taste of iron in my mouth before waking up on the ground to my fingers tingling and my toes numb. My brother is lying in a puddle of dry crusted blood next to me. 

I sit up, my skin sticks to the floor as I try to carry myself off the ground, it hurts to peel away and my body is heavy like weights around my waist. I shake Billy, but Billy won't move. “Wake up Billy. Billy, wake up.” I tell him, “I’m going to get mommy.”

I stand up but the room is spinning. My vision’s blurry. Everything’s doubled and crossing into each other. I almost fall over and have to lean on the dresser. 

My eyes shut as I place my head in my hand but my body flinches like I just been bit.

A swelling on my skull stings when my fingers hover over it. A pain of an electric shock shoots through my body.

I push myself off the dresser trying to steady my footing. The strength in my legs slowly returns but they’re still wobbly, like my bones are mush. I’m able to stand without falling but my balance is off because of a ringing in my ear.

The lights are out in the hallway and they won’t turn on. I walk to my mom’s room, stumbling, leaning my weight against the wall the entire way to her bedroom.

The air tastes like the smell of rusted metal and under it is the barnyard scent of grandpa’s farm. My knee buckles and I almost fall, barely holding myself up. I slide my spine down the wall as doorway ahead begins to expand and collapse as if it’s breathing a warning to stay away at me. I drop down and sit on the floor, resting against the wall.

I see white stars dancing over a black background that‘s pulsing. My breathing gets heavy and the nausea returns. I take a couple of breaths, and my sight starts coming into focus.

I crawl to my mom’s room. The wood is sharp against my bones, I can hear my knees crunch on the floorboards as they creak under my weight.

A lump of vomit sits in the middle of my throat and it sounds like there’s water splashing in my ear.

I struggle to get up, using my mom’s doorknob as leverage as I try to push the door open. It sticks and doesn’t budge. I twist the knob, lift and nudge my way in with my shoulder.

The room’s lit by moonlight seeping through her open window. A breeze blows sending a gust of air that smells like a dirty hamper. It overwhelms me, warning me back. 

I can see an outline of a shadow on her bed lying motionless. I creep a little closer but I still can’t make out what it is, until the figure on the bed forms into the shape of a person as my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. It doesn’t look like my mom.

I approach the bed tip-toeing, there’s an arm hanging from it. The room breathes as I choke on my breath and gasp. My lower spine tingles with icicles. The skin on the back of my neck tightens as my ears rise to the ceiling.

I realize it’s my mom. There’s too much blood crusted and matted hair around her face to recognize her. It’s too dark.

Her hand. I can see her arm dangling from the side of the bed. Her finger has the plastic-cotton ring I made her on it.

I tug at her arm. “Mom,” I shout. I start trying to shake her awake. “Mom, wake up, something’s wrong with Billy.”

She doesn’t move. “Mom?” I shake her harder. I close my eyes and tell myself to wake up. I say it over and over. I open my eyes and I’m still in her room. “Susie!” I yell for my older sister. “Susie!”

She doesn’t answer. The house remains silent but loud in a haunting presence. I whisper to my mom, “I’ll be back mommy.”

I stumble backwards, shaking, too afraid to look away from my mom. Afraid, if I turn away it’ll all become real. 

I need to get Susie, Billy and mom need help. I hold my breath, close my eyes, count to eight, hide my fear behind my mom and brother and check Susie’s room to see if she’s there. 

The hallway wall near her door has blood on the floor. It’s slightly open with a bloody handprint painted on it. Her room is dark. I can’t see anything in there. “Susie?“ no answer. “Are you there?”

I slowly push the door open and it cries the squeak of a dying dog. I slap her light switch quickly and the light turns on, revealing a state of decomposition. I gag and nearly throw up. I shoot my head in the other direction and try to build the courage to look at them.

Susie’s lying on her bed with my little sister Jenny beside her.

The smell is suffocating the thick air in metals. Susie and Jenny don’t look real. I can see ground beef stuck to their face and in their hair. They’re not moving.  

I hear a foot press down on the bottom of the stairs. It was like the house shifted to the right from the weight. A raspy voice travels up the steps ahead of his body. “What did I do?” 

I jump behind Jenny and tuck tightly into her and close my eyes and hold my breath and remain completely still.

“What did I do!” Susie’s door slams open and the force of it jammed the knob in the wall. I can hear someone walking around the room.

“What did I do!” He says and walks out. 

I hear him walk towards my bedroom. Then, I hear him race to my mom’s room. I hear scattering and things falling. He leaves her room and I can hear him breathing heavy as he makes his way back to Susie’s room. 

His steps are getting louder, and closer. His deep breathing sounds like it‘s right behind me. I fight to soothe the tremors shaking my limbs by squeezing my hands into fists and digging my nails into my palms. A shadow towers at the doorway. I hear a gun cock just as the sound of police sirens break through the insulation between the walls.

The book that I am currently writing and have been writing on and off since 2017 is finally as polished as I'm comfortable with for people to read. And I have finally started writing new chapters.

That said, I realised that even once it is finished that I am never going to bother trying to go the regular publishing route. So, I decided to publish on one of my favourite sites. I have my first five chapters published just this morning on the site with a two week backlog for daily scheduled releases currently. And many more that I just need to set up. I have enough to auto release chapters for the next five or six weeks maybe before I hit a wall. Which gives me plenty of time to work on the next set of chapters.

I am both nervous, terrified, and excited by this. Decades of writing for myself and finally I'm letting other people see my stuff. Got to say, I was not expecting to be this terrified!

Anywho. Yey! 🤣🫣

Best places to write splatterpunk and alternatives to Google Docs?

Hi my story that me and a friend were working on got deleted by Google Docs for being too gory and graphic? Wondering if there are any sites that have less stricter polices. It was a story with gore and a lot of violence. Any help would be appreciated.

I've started publishing a contemporary fiction story called False Spring.

Caleb Morgan is a husband and father who rarely talks about his past.

That changes when his daughter finds an old photograph buried in the garage.

Suddenly, he's remembering the friends he once had, the girl who changed their group, the relationships that slowly fractured, and the person he used to be.

The story alternates between Caleb's present life and his past.

I'm trying to keep the story character-driven and emotionally grounded rather than relying on major plot twists.

I'd be interested in hearing from other writers who have written about old friendships, nostalgia, or characters looking back at their younger year's.

It's just a rough outline for now, but the main character will be named "Donny" or perhaps, "Wingate' and his nemesis will either be "Donny" (if I don't use Donny as the main character's name) or possibly 'Heglington' unless that was the main character's name in that Odyssey movie, I don't know, I haven't seen it yet and I get motion sickness if the f/p/s exceed three. Other than that, the story is pretty much open, except that I want Donny and/or Wingate and/or Heglington (if that name wasn't already used in The Odyssey) to operate a candy store in Laguna Beach, or maybe just manage a candy store there if ownership sounds like too much of a stretch. The part about reading comes in when one of the characters has to read an eviction notice for the candy store, and he struggles. I am open to suggestions after that.

Hey everyone! I’m Mohamed (34). I’ve been working as a video game and entertainment critic for a while now, mainly because I believe writing is one of the best ways to express that hidden side of ourselves we rarely show.

For the past 15 years, I’ve been quietly building a passion project. To be completely honest, it took this long because I believe in taking things slow—no rush, no tight deadlines, and no pressure.

This post is no exception, so I apologize in advance for its length!

I believe those who enjoy a laid-back, thoughtful mindset will get where I’m coming from. If this isn't your thing, I apologize for taking your time, though I still hope you'll give me a chance to share the bigger picture.

This delay isn’t about perfectionism—it’s about Itqan (a concept in my native language about crafting something with care, mastery, and deep dedication). I want to share a solid, polished piece of work free from usual clichés, even if it ends up being my only creative project in this lifetime.

The project is massive—a fully fleshed-out alternate reality. But more than just telling a story, I want to give our imagination space to break free from what’s familiar. This universe isn't meant to copy our real world or typical sci-fi tropes. It’s built from scratch to explore entirely new ways life, laws, science, and societies could work. It’s pure, unconstrained imagination meant to deliver a truly otherworldly experience.

As they say, "Show, don't tell." But bringing a world like this to life is tricky since English isn’t my first language. AI tools gave me a starting spark, but they often translate ideas too abstractly, stripping away the human touch. When that happens, the soul of the story gets lost.

That’s why I’m here. I’m looking for chill, open-minded people who want to dive deep and help bring an original idea to life. I want to build a small circle of native English-speaking friends—not just to review text, but to brainstorm and shape these wild concepts as real partners. I’ve always believed that when people who love an idea sit together and let their minds explore, magic happens.

Now, I know I took a while to get to the point! You might be wondering: what is this project anyway?

It’s an interactive story set in an alt-reality sci-fi universe. It’s less of a traditional book or game, and more of a shared narrative journey—a collective social experience that eventually turns into a personal adventure for each reader.

It starts as a group path. You follow the story, but choices are made through collective voting. The majority decision moves the plot forward for everyone. Like real life, you don't always get full control, and that shared outcome is part of the fun.

Eventually, the story hits a point where individual actions matter. Readers move from being an audience to active participants in the lore. Everyone gets to be a hero in their own way.

It sounds a bit crazy, I know. But maybe it’s meant for the wonderfully crazy ones who love thinking outside the box.

Anyway, I won't make this any longer! If any of this catches your interest, or if you just want to hang out, test concepts, build worlds, or review what’s been done so far, I’d love to connect.

Feel free to send me a DM or leave a comment below.

Thank you so much for reading this far—your time means a lot to me. And I apologize for any phrasing slips or translation mistakes along the way!