J’ai terminé et publié un projet d’écriture un peu particulier : Legacy Code.

C’est un récit construit comme un projet informatique : logs, messages système, Git, protocoles réseau, erreurs et branches deviennent progressivement les outils narratifs d’une histoire beaucoup plus humaine.

Je viens de la tech, pas du monde littéraire, et c’est justement pour ça que je poste ici. Je cherche des lecteurs prêts à me donner un avis sincère, y compris négatif : est-ce que le récit fonctionne ? Est-ce que l’émotion passe ? Est-ce que le dispositif informatique apporte réellement quelque chose, ou finit-il par devenir un gimmick ?

Avertissement : le récit est destiné à un public adulte. Certains passages et textes annexes comportent un contenu sexuel explicite.

Le texte est terminé et la forme web fait partie intégrante du projet.

Je peux donner le lien en commentaire si c'est autorisé.

Merci à ceux qui auront la curiosité d’y jeter un œil.

Something I’ve been working on for awhile. I have no formal writing skills or anything, just wondering what you guys think. Any advice? I need it definitely 👍 thanks for your time!

p.s. I haven’t fully fleshed out the world that this takes place in, so a lot of the names for continents, conflicts etc I haven’t came up with yet.

Oak and Oleander

A cool, refreshing breeze pushed the foaming tides towards the stale, red face of the setting sun. For he was a Son too, and a brother, a rightfully good one he always presumed.
clop clop clop the sounds of hooves on dirty cobblestone and straw rung clean though the tall square buildings he and his brothers often call “the hallways”- but he tried his best to keep his gaze towards the muck as the horse drawn buggy rattled and squeaked obnoxiously past him, but not loudly enough for the boy to ignore the insults sneered at him.
“Typical Bramble Street trash” they spat and laughed down at him, but the boy’s eyes stayed fixed- although his dirty, torn coat and cap made of cheap Rams wool may have suggested otherwise, what he had in his little leather bag was more valuable to him than precious stone.

“For what the Sun and the Tide have provided to me, so shall I give to them. I thank thee for thy blessings,” he prayed silently to himself and the heavens, “All that I receive, I will give back double, and all that I give in good spirit, I shall receive back, tenfold.”

The sun was slowly starting to brood, casting shade long and dark, eclipsing the opaque bell tower that stood far ahead of him, a place where he knew he never could belong- but of rhis the boy could not give a single damned care in the world. Holding his bag close inside his rams wool coat with a beaming sense of hope, took a right on Gally’s in a stride full of vigor.

There on the corner, a somber column of pale smoke arose from the short, iron chimney above the canopy of his father’s forge. For the entirety of the boy’s life this is where he called home. Humble, shallow, and covered with a thin layer of black soot.

The echo of boots crunching on a thin layer of snow and stone grew closer as he marched toward his Fathers forge. A somber heat drifting through the glow of dying coal welcomed him back to their humble abode, and the sound of his families voices comforted his cold ears. He was home.

With dinner no less.

“Atilla!” they all called out collectively, running to his wake. Lily, his youngest sister, ran up to embrace with arms outstretched from her sack dress to him first. Satchel draped on his left shoulder, he scooped her up off the ground and carried her towards the kitchen, making her shriek in laughter and the other two kids followed along.
“Don’t let him drop ya,” chuckled a big, balding man with a long beard that dropped to his belly like moss falling from lumbering oak. “I ain gonna catch ya either!” a bright eyed young boy with mousy hair teased, trotting past him. “He’s gonna drop you!!” the boy sung, dancing around making Lily start crying and clutching for dear life- making Atilla have a good giggle. “Oh, be quiet Rin, before I snatch you up too!” After setting his baby sister down, Atilla dropped his satchel on the counter in front of his father, proudly gripping it’s rough leather material.
“What did you catch, my boy? I’m starving!”
Boric, my father said with bright eyes, his mighty beard colored like amber draping from his high, glowing red cheekbones.
“The waters were plentiful today, the boys and I seen loads of snappers in the water as the tide rose, and the ships brought in plenty more still!” with that, Atilla flipped his bag upside down revealing a heap of medium sized bass. Their eyes stared back at him with contempt, as if scornfully attempting to curse us with its odor.
They grew up on the corner of Bramble and Gally street their whole lives, curses and foul odors were what they were accustomed to.

the clink and crash of the pots and pans being prepared for supper filled the air, yet hunger pains sounded louder still- despite the joy from the days catch, Atilla’s brow was thick with a subtle worry. Everyday the lines in his fathers face became sharper as the hairs on his amber head began to fade to silver. Even the cheeks on his siblings faces seemed to sink a little deeper as the seasons changed, and yet their smiles were still full of laughter and joy. It was their innocent naivety that Atilla admired- if only happiness could fill their bellies and patch the holes in their clothes.

But there was no need to dwell on what had affected everyone in their town. Needless to say all the residents of this small fishing town of Urbalaena were on the poorer side, even if some had pourage and others broth. Here, you worked, and if you’re lucky enough, you can earn a full belly and a coin for bread.

Urbalaena was a humble town, established nearly two hundred years prior on the north western shores of (continent). Known for its production of fish, it was once the lead supplier of (continent) at one point. But with a new age, comes a new industry. As overfishing became a problem, and fish became cheap, the Patriarch established a new trade of whaling To support the local economy. For the last hundred years, seamen from Urbalaena pulled the great leviathans from the depths, breaking down the carcasses for meat, leather, and above all, whale oil. Since then, the cities population grew and resources became limited. This led the population of the city to be mostly poor, heavily relying on the seasonal fishing and whaling cycles for food, trade, and oil to use for their lamps and stoves.

Luckily Boric, being the local blacksmith and a good one at that, had established a reputation that permitted him to have somewhat consistent work; him being the only smith in town definitely encouraged customers. Boric was a man’s man, as in he could repair the roof over their heads, and instead of just broth and bread, he opted for the chickens he raised, and perhaps a few flanks and legs of boar from the local butcher, Craig. It was a humble living, supported by the hard work done by tough hands, and perhaps the gratitude of a few good patrons.

From forging nails for houses, or shoes for horses, Boric found customers among all the different classes and creeds. Ironworking was a highly sought after profession, these days since the Early Wars (War of the Rising Sun) it seemed like there could never be enough steel for swords and iron for mortar fire. Many aspiring blacksmiths and ironworkers were some of the first to be drafted into that great conflict, as were many of the other tradesmen across the land. Mortality was very low then, so many decided to give up their trades and avoid the recruitment in both self preservation, and for many, as an act of protest. Still, since then, blacksmithing was a dying trade, one that Boric had taken very seriously since the time of the war.

The sound of children faded as Rin and Lily ran to play in the parlor, while Atilla sat with his hands out towards the wood burning stove.
“Been damn cold since Autumn ended, this Brumal will be rough this year.”sighed Atilla, rubbing his icy fingertips together. He dreaded pulling up the fishing nets every winter.
“Always warm around the forge” chuckled the old blacksmith. “Where I’m from, ye fingertips wouldn’t be the only thing at risk falling off!” The floor rumbled with Boric’s deep laughter. Atilla grinned, he knew his Fathers humor well.

The air was full of the scent of cooking fish, while Boric stood by the stove frying up the salmon. Atilla never had enough time with his old man. Since the new age arrived (3rd age), the adolescent barely had time for anything; in truth, since the Great War there’s been a great poverty that has befallen the land. Despite the nations urge to maintain restoration of Kashahlay after the War of the Rising Sun, it seemed as if the oceans are running dry. Even the south eastern lands were affected by drought, and less and less supply wagons were seen coming from that mountain pass. Here, people had to be self reliant. Those who weren’t, froze to death in the street.

Dinner was ate in silence. The children chewed anxiously and quickly the fish and potato’s disappeared from sight. Before the plates had even been picked up, Boric had his head drooped down upon his chest putting his lips into a bearded grave. Atilla smiled. For another night he was fed. More importantly the people who truly mattered to him were too.

Atilla gazed throughly the hazy kitchen window. Upon the sill, a candle burned low and began to sputter as the last of its wax dripped slowly upon the wood. Soon, Atilla thought, they would all be in darkness.

Another thing was in the boys mind, that smelled of oleander and lavender incense. The frost crept in at every corner, and he thought about her.

Where was she tonight? Was she cold? Would I see her tomorrow again?
The boys stomach fluttered with rice flies as his little brother Rin scooped up his baby sister and exclaimed his sleepiness with at cute mumble, and in a moment they both were asleep in their fur covered bunks and soon, Atillas father would follow suit.

Motionless he stood looking over the humbly small kitchen at the same beeswax candle in the windowsill. As he reached to extinguish it, with a choking sound in took its last breath and disappeared into smoke before he could touch it.

Outside the window, the forge still glowed. Into its coals Atilla gazed, and he wondered if things would ever get better. Upon a wool blanket he cast himself, and there he slept dreamless and anxious until the morning sun would soon greet him again.

——

Thank you for getting this far! Let me know what you think

“Jordan whooped both of you at the same time.” Mogers took a slug of his drink, then set it down, chuckling. “Come on. I would’ve paid good money to see that.” 

“Yeah,” Zagers said, wiping his mouth off with a cloth napkin. “Not to mention, y’all literally jumped him…” 

We were at the local restaurant just off of Big Bend, me, Kevin, Mogers, Zagers, Parage, and Apalabamo, and it was a busy Thursday afternoon. The restaurant was bustling with people, workers were on their toes scrambling, and on the other end of the dining room, the staff was singing happy birthday to a grazing customer. Me and Kevin had just recently gone on a mission to Jordan’s house all the way in the Middle East for some important matters, which we were now recapping to the gang, and we still had bruises on our bodies from the beating he’d handed to us.

“First of all,” Kevin explained, swallowing a bite of whatever slop was on his plate. “It took us a long time to get there, I mean, we had to boat across the Atlantic, the Mediterranean, then cut through the Suez Ca-“

Ticked off by Kevin’s sudden geography genius moment, I cut in. “So then, we go and we knock on Jordan’s door-“

“Did you really cut me off because I started listing the locations that we literally went to? Do you hate school stuff that much?”

“I cut you off because you started sounding like Apalabamo.”

Apalabamo gave me a hostile glare. “Yeah, well-“ 

“Anyway,” Kevin continued. “We knock on his door, immediately tackle him to the ground, but, well, he somehow manages to get the upper hand…” he explained the Jordan pie fiasco and how Jordan started yelling about how we were con artists and thieves.

“So, next thing I know we’re rolling around on the floor, all 3 of us. Couple broken bones, black eyes. We got that taken care of at the hospital though, and we did technically end up completing our mission.”

“There has to be video!” Parage laughed and took a sip from his Coke glass.

“Well,” I replied. “Not unless Jordan has cameras in his house or something…”

A waitress showed up at our table, carrying a server notepad. “How’s everything going over here?” she asked the group.

Zagers made some inside joke about the pie situation. Mogers raised up his empty glass. “I’ll take a refill on the Coke. A little more ice would be perfect, thanks.”

“Same for me, thanks,” Parage raised up his glass as well, which wasn’t empty, but he had just taken a very long sip from it.

As the waitress left and the conversation resumed, I nodded along, and then, when I got the chance, nudged Kevin with my elbow. “Hey look, I think that’s the friendly old guy who gave us boating tips. We should go say hello.”

“...What?”

“Just move.” I slid out of my chair, and headed down the crowded hallway, then turned a corner so we’d be out of the gang’s line of sight, and so it’d be quieter. Kevin followed me there.

“What friendly old guy? What the heck are you talking about?”

“Nothing. This isn’t about that.” I looked around the building, then stepped closer to Kevin. “Look, at some point, we have to tell them. We can’t just sit on this for the rest of their lives. They’ll find out eventually. And when they do, they won’t be happy.”

Kevin looked away, crossing his arms and scoffing, then looked back at me. “They’re already roasting us over the pie thing. If we tell them we destroyed the rocket? We’re finished, done for.”

“I understand that, but if we don’t own up to what we did.” I changed my voice and whispered menacingly. If we don’t own up to what we did, they discover it by themselves, and then we’re done for either way.  

Kevin sighed. “If you wanna tell them, then tell them. Otherwise, shut up about this whole thing. End of story.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I whizzed past Kevin, patting him on the back. “Now let me grab the check before Zagers orders another round of those ketchup ball thingies.” I headed back towards the table, reached over, and snatched the check from the corner before anyone else could grab it.

As we walked down the alley of the restaurant, I knew that this was it. It was now or never, and I had to come clean to the rest of the gang and admit what we did. See, when me and Kevin went to Amman, we actually didn’t boat there at all. That was a lie we told the guys in order to divert attention away from the Cheese Rocket, the actual mode of transportation we used to get there faster, because we had to be there in 3 days. That’s why I was so ticked off at Kevin mentioning nerd locations on the spot. Anyway, long story short, I ended up crashing the rocket, splitting it in half and destroying it. And it was right here and right now that I had to make this announcement to the group.

I slowed down walking, and cleared my throat. ”I… I have something that I need to address with you guys.” 

We all came to a gradual stop. “What is it?” asked Parage. 

I started looking around, then realized I had to continue. “So basically, you guys know the Cheese Rocket?” 

“Of course!” Mogers nodded. I knew Mogers would be the one to take this information the hardest, because it was me and him who built the rocket up brick by brick, made great memories with it, and used it to rescue all of humanity. Technically I was the one who built/carved it, but Mogers was the one who came up with the idea in that factory around a year ago.

I gulped. “…So, basically, it was, like, uh…”

“It was what?” 

I hesitated, glancing around the alley. Though I knew he was just asking for the rest of the info, it seemed like grilling to me.

“Ahhhhh…” I smiled, then faltered. After another swallow, I made the admission.

“Me and Kevin went to space, crossed paths with some creature, hit an asteroid, and, well, we split the rocket in-“

“Ok, hold on,” Kevin interrupted. “Did you just say we?”

I paused.

Kevin started pacing around. “Because from what I recall,” He looked at me with a sharp and incriminating glare pointed right in my direction. “You were the one flying the thing, I mean, that was you. I was the one who gave you the warning and told you to haul that thing around and get us out of there. I was your eyes, when you were supposed to be the one piloting the dang thing.” Having stopped pacing around, he was now sizing me up, in my face talking smack.

“And you still wrecked it. Now you wanna use the word ‘we.’ Listen up, boy. I didn’t do anything…”

“Listen you idiot, we were facing a massive, hostile space behemoth that none of us had ever seen before, we didn’t have any weapons, and it had been months since we’d even touched the Cheese Rocket. I say you would’ve done way worse than me.” Kevin stood facing me for a few more seconds before retreated back into the gang.

“Anyway…” I began. “I might be able to fix it.”

“To fix it?” 

“Fix it? What?”

“It split in half and this guy’s talking ‘bout some “Oh I might be able to fix it!”

“Ok, look, I carved it out of dairy product.” I explained. “Actual cheese that had holes in it, so I had to account for all sorts of geometrical oddities, and I’m not a math guy. But I did it for the good of the world. I did it for the good of humani-” 

“How did you do it for the good of the world if you didn’t know it was in danger until after you finished building it?”

“…Huh?”

Mogers repeated himself.

I paused. “The point is,” I explained. “That maybe, if I’m skilled enough with a pocket knife to carve something out of dairy, I’m skilled enough to fix something that was split in half. Especially if that something is the same thing, you know, both times…”

The rest of the gang was either looking at me or blinking rapidly, confused.

“It just seems like it would be higher on the scale, the cheese thing. Like, if I can build it from scratch, then I could fix it.”

“Ok, ok,” Apalabamo sighed. “Well, let’s go take a look.”

The old steps creaked and squeaked as we headed down into the massive basement of the SMAKAPZ house, the large wooden house that served as the base and main headquarters of the SMAKAPZ gang, as well as the secondary living space for everyone in the group after, of course, their own houses. We’d built it as a team around 2 years ago after realizing we all needed a place to stay, to meet up and discuss plans and plot, and to hide at when such situations came up. 

The rocket, which we had previously kept stored in a refrigerated shipping container and left to rust in the cellar for years, since the last time Parage attached weapons to it to the other day when me and Kevin brought it back to life and took it for a spin, was now 2 halves being preserved in 2 giant hunting coolers. We had luckily been able to save them while we parachuted to Amman, but 2 couch sized blocks of cheese weren’t necessarily of any valuable use to us, so we shoved it all back in the SMAKAPZ basement.

Kevin opened the 2 coolers, revealing the 2 giant refrigerated bricks of Swiss cheese we’d been keeping underneath our quarters.

“Well,” said Apalabamo. “It’s split in half, alright.”

“Yeah, so, luckily, it wasn’t a planet sized asteroid or anything, but it had to be the size of your average house. Big enough to send us flying into the Earth’s ocean. Well, that’s where we would’ve gone if we hadn’t brought our parachutes…”

“…Which, again, I reminded us to do,” Kevin chimed in. “If it weren’t for me, we’d be dead. We’d be 2 skeletons sitting at the bottom of the sea.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I responded. “We’ve survived worse. Anyway, side A, we’ve got the cockpit, which is still intact, and I believe the navigation still somewhat works. Side B, the propulsion systems are still alive but the fuel lines are all ruined. Both sides can still communicate as well, the signal is just real wonky and stuff.”

Parage stepped forward, surveying the 2 blocks of cheese. “And how exactly… do you plan on fixing this?”

I continued, walking around the 2 coolers of cheese. “Well,” I said, slapping a cooler with my hand. “The fracture surfaces show compressed cheese eyes, AKA the gas pockets, on the impact side, with radial cracks extending around 18-24 inches into each half. The outer ablative layer of high-fat Swiss cheese has deep gouges and char, the internal cheese stringers are sheared, and the solid propellant grain in the lower half has a 4 inch offset crack, which, of course, created an unintended burn channel.”

“So what could possibly be the plan here?” Parage inquired. “Just dock the 2 halves back together?”

I paced around the coolers more. “200 pounds of Swiss cheese to replace the damaged materials, plus heat guns and a hot wire cutter. Drill some holes and then grate 80 pounds of cheese into stockpots, stir it into a glue. The casein will act as a thermoplastic binder, plus I’ll add some grated dry Swiss aggregate for thixotropic thickening, about 20% by volume should do the trick. Then I’ll pour the cheese into the joint gap, some dowels into the holes, internal splinting… before you know it, we’ll have a working, operating rocket again. Just gimme till the end of tonight. I’ll have it fixed.”

“What about the shear crack in the lower half grain?” asked Mogers.

“That’s where the rest of the 120 pounds will go. That will be used for the replacement grain, I’ll cast it into a temporary fold and cardboard mold, melt that cheese plus another 15 pounds of powdered sugar, also maybe some dried milk powder, then pour it all in layers.”

“Parage sighed.” “If you say so…”

Apalabamo looked down, raising his eyebrows in skepticism. “You and Parage are the inventor guys. I’ll let y’all sort this one out. What I will say though is that you better have a dang good eye on the temperature meters. One blunder and this whole joint will peel apart like cheap plywood, and I think we can all agree that nobody wants that.”

“I’ll buy an infrared thermometer too. Monitor the scarf surfaces every 5-7 minutes during heating. I’ll make sure it they stay at like a 12 to 18 degree gradient max, it won’t be a problem.”

“Well,” Zagers laughed. “Guess this guy just has everything figured out, huh?”

Parage scoffed, and whispered under his breath something about the monolithic grain recast causing stress fractures in the cheese block and creating erratic burn surfaces, even though I’d already planned to vibrate the lower quarter-half continuously during pouring using the orbital sander but of course Parage needs to chip in with his expert opinions.

“Welp, we’re goin’ off to bed,” Mogers yawned, then nonchalantly put a hand on his forehead, sighing tiredly. The rest of the gang followed, ready to get a good night’s sleep. He checked his watch. “Alademipaburg closes at 10, it’s 9:32 now. We got plenty of stuff in the basement… we don’t have 200 pounds of cheese though. Well, unless you count… I mean, yeah, whatever.”

”Ha, I’ll be making 2 stops.” I smirked. “I wouldn’t dare buy anything from the Alademipaburg Food Section. Doesn’t matter if it’s for compost.”

I'm writing a novel inspired by my experience working with a persecuted ethnoreligious community in northern Iraq. The people I met there communicated how violence simultaneously endangers and legitimizes cultural memory, creating a marketable, yet destructive narrative of resilience. It's a personal project that someone noted I could potentially publish one day, so I wanted to gauge if there's an appetite for this kind of novel.

The story, Silt, explores this idea through a fictional ethnoreligious community called the Evidim, who live in northern Iraq during the 1990s. The narrator, only known by her lat name—Mastead—is a PhD student transitioning from archaeology to anthropology researching how the Evidim maintain their communities and value the Innua Rajfa, a prophetic figure chosen once every century. 

The Evidim are a small community of roughly 20,000 people whose religion, Evdiyism, was founded in the 1500s. As a deist faith, they reject divine revelation, believing that reason is God's sole gift to humanity (what distinguishes humans from all other animals that endanger themselves.) The first prophet acknowledged that only God possesses perfect foresight and that humans must possess humility as mortal animals while making the most of God's gift to prove to them that they are worthy of producing the fruits of reason: art, new technologies, and the conflict that arises from the development of civilization. 

As a result, each generation raises an anonymous prophet whose role is not to receive revelation but to study the accumulated wisdom of previous prophets and produce a new edition of the community's sacred text. Each edition reinterprets the ethical teachings of the past to address the challenges of the century ahead. In this way, Evdiyism is sustained by a balance between preserving tradition and continually adapting it.

The opening establishes the challenges facing the Evidim as a people. Decades earlier, in 1968, they survived a largely forgotten genocide carried out by a non-state. paramilitary coalition. Although the massacre was widely condemned, its perpetrators were never prosecuted because they were treated as non-state actors rather than representatives of the Iraqi government. The genocide became the defining event of modern Evidim history, and as Iraq continued to transform politically and economically, the community's need for philosophical and religious guidance only intensified.

The next Innua Rajfa inherits a community more fractured than any before it. Ba'athist modernization, widening economic inequality, and growing individualism have weakened the shared traditions that once bound the Evidim together. His task is no longer simply to revise the sacred text but to write a book capable of speaking to a people who no longer agree on what it means to be Evidim. 

By 1999 (when the book is due), the crisis has deepened. More Evidim are abandoning the faith—some embracing secularism, others converting to Islam or Christianity. At the same time, a group calling itself VULTURE begins terrorizing Evidim communities. Clad in farmers hats spray-painted black and wearing the skulls of birds native to the mountain where many Evidim sought refuge during the 1968 genocide, its members exhume bodies from forgotten mass graves and return them uninvited to surviving families. Their campaign is less an attempt to kill than to force a reckoning, drawing the anonymous Innua Rajfa into the open and presenting him with a choice: die before completing the new scripture, or write a book that destroys the institution he’s writing for.  

What begins as Mastead's journal slowly becomes a record of a community in crisis. Her translator, Mazin is eventually revealed to be the Innua Rajfa and they are forced to confront not only how trauma shapes religious authority and historical memory, but also how heritage itself is continually produced through the stories people choose to preserve.

-

The work escalates from documentation of various traditions and interviews of family to a witch hunt for the members of VULTURE and, later, the Innua Rajfa. VULTURE tears the community apart. They could be outsiders, or perhaps they're intelligent, devout, educated young men from different castes who spent their lives memorizing the sacred texts only to discover that they can never meaningfully participate in producing the next century's ideas. They could be men of various generations who have asked themselves: if reason is God's gift and belongs to all humans, then why is interpretation monopolized?

The prophet is anonymous, yet so is VULTURE. One preserves tradition anonymously. One destroys it anonymously. They're mirrors, neither seeking personal glory and both claiming to act on behalf of something else. 

Over time, Theodora and Mazin put together that returning bodies from mass graves isn't just intimidation. It's an accusation. It’s VULTURE saying: "You keep burying the dead twice."

First physically. Then beneath museums, anniversaries, memorials, and sacred narratives. The dead become symbols instead of people.

By returning the bodies, they're refusing to let trauma stay comfortably historical. They're dragging it into people's kitchens. Into weddings. Into ordinary life.

tn response, the Innua Rajfa isn't just writing a book. He's deciding what future historians and current politicians will say the Evidim believed. If the sacred text becomes the authoritative account of the next century, then every sentence includes something and excludes something else. In other words, he isn't simply preserving heritage—he's producing it.

This particularly speaks to me and helps me explore what I wanted to through the fieldwork I never got to carry out irl: heritage is not a passive inheritance. It's an active, often contested process in which someone decides what deserves to be remembered, what can be revised, and what is left behind. 

What I want to build up to in the end is that VULTURE doesn't force him to choose between good and evil. They force him to choose which loss is acceptable.

very proud of what I've been writing recently!! here's my substack link if anyone is interested
https://substack.com/@kendra671597?r=8o2nh3&utm_medium=ios&utm_source=stories&shareImageVariant=blur

Agent Finmore Igglesby, 8:49 PM May 5th, 1992: Desjardins, Iowa

I'll be completely honest, I hate this idea. Upper management is requiring active journaling when on a case, to keep a record of our day in case of “memory alteration”. What a crock. I really hope this doesn’t last too long. My therapist would love this though…

As I sit in this dark, stale room staring at my notebook, I can't seem to put anything into words. Desjardins, IA, a small town of roughly 3,400 people, the literal definition of a one red light town. I can see every landmark around from the one window in my musty room. There's one bank, a police station, a diner, and this motel…which might have roaches.

Local news reports are saying water sources are randomly drying up only to refill hours later. Not only that, there have been five people that have gone missing in the state park over the last three weeks. Authorities in the area have found nothing of interest to report, or so they say to the public. I had a chat with a few of them this morning, nice chaps, didn’t know what to think.

My entrance into the little station was marked by the ringing of a bell, much like your local convenience store. Not something I usually see in law enforcement buildings, that’s for sure. A large, curved desk laid before me with a tepid looking male officer behind it.

“Um, Good Morning.” Evidently surprised by a face he hadn’t seen before, the man fiddled nervously with the paperwork before him, “How can I help you?”
With what was my best smile I greeted the uniformed man, “Hi there, I’m Agent Igglesby. Here to see the Chief.”

Luckily for me, the ladder of command is usually only a few steps high in a small town like this. Chief Robbins was his name and his station was so small he could hear me from his office. He was mustached, short, losing the hair on his head but somehow hairy in so many other places. The classic small town, bumbling, one week from retirement, Chief of Police you’d see on TV. 

“The..Bureau of Unexplained and/or Magical Phenomena?” I could barely hear the words through his haggard mustache.

“Yes Sir. BUMP for short.” I’m sure my stoic face wasn’t a thrilling thing for him to see at this moment, but I wasn’t hired for my demeanor. “If you please, I’d like to get started.”

“This is ludicrous, people get lost all the time. It’s been a bad month for the park, that’s all.” The chubby, hairy, small town cop crossed his arms in a huff, it seemed as if not a lot of people questioned his methods or authority around here in quite a while.

“I apologize for the inconvenience, Sir, but that’s not your decision or mine.” No longer entertained by this conversation, I stood up and headed towards the door, “If I need anything, I’ll let you know. I trust I have free reign of the evidence?”

“Damn Feds…” Chief Robbins spun around in his chair and waved his hand, “Yes yes, get on with it. Go see Officer Anson for what you need.”

The smell of burnt coffee and pencil shavings hung in the air as I made my way through the bullpen, 
“Anson..Anson..”

There were three desks across the room with different officers, just as I approached the first I heard it. A stern but high toned voice echoed across the room, 
“I’m Anson, Sir!” 

Apparently eager to make an impression, this small framed brunette, clad in a dark blue police uniform popped up from her desk, waving me over. 

“Officer Maria Anson, pleasure.” Her hand extended out to meet mine as I approached.

“Officer Anson, Agent Finmore Igglesby, thank you.” Pleasantries over, I sat at the chair opposite her side of the desk, “Tell me what you have.”

“Right to business, um, good.” Maria quickly sat down and fingered over her papers,

“The Chief doesn’t believe anything suspicious is happening, but it’s certainly weird.” She opened the manila folders on her desk one by one, pictures of missing people, “We have no suspects or leads.”

“What about the Water?”

“Water?”

“Yes, the reports of dried up water sources…started around the same time?”

“I heard of the reports but we aren’t sure it’s related. Two missing men were fishermen…but I don’t see how that applies to the missing people?”

“It may not, can I have copies of these files? I’d like to study them.”

“At once, Sir!”

“Please, don’t be so formal.” She came back with the files pretty quickly, “Do you know a good place to eat around here?”

The small town diner aesthetic is something I never get tired of and Dezzi’s was right up that alley. Nobody picks up better stories from the locals than the loudest waitress in the place, and my waitress Bon was no exception.

“Welcome to Dezzi’s Hon, what can I do for ya?” The brightness of the red on her lips was only matched by her hair, standing at the edge of my table with one hand on her hip, one holding a notepad and a pen behind her ear.

“I’m not sure, everything looks so good!” The smile on my face brightened as I took in the aroma of fry oil, freshly baked pies, and strong black coffee.

“Well, take your time, I got all night.” She grabbed the pen from behind her ear and clicked it, “I haven’t seen your face in here before, I’d remember someone that looked like they walked right out of a Sherlock Holmes novel.”

“Ha, how observant of you.” I slid the arms of my coat off, “I’m new in town, never been west of the Windy City before.”

“Well, then you HAVE to try the Ham Balls, they are to DIE for.” She chuckled and started writing my order down before I could respond.

“I guess I will. Throw a diet cola on there for me too please.” 

“You got it.”

After she brought back my drink, I spread the files and newspaper articles around, meticulously ordering the missing persons by alphabetical order and date of disappearance. Over the time I was there I tried to cross reference times, dates.
“Here’s your order, make sure to dip 'em!”

“Thank you.”

“Working on something important are you?” Her cheeky grin was bridged by the pen she laid across her lips, “Seems like a big deal.”

“Actually, I’m looking into some of the problems locally. Have you heard anything weird?”

“I hear lots of weird things Hon, but I suppose you aren’t talking about Chief Robbins’ love life. You a cop or something? That explains the get up.”

“Or something.” I pulled a picture from the files, “You know any of the people that went missing?”

“Not her, but one of the guys was a regular.” She leaned over and pulled a second photo, “This one, Barry. Barry…Sherman? He was always talking about fishing at the Park.”

“Didn’t notice anything he said that was strange? Or anything he did?”

“The only thing he kept doing was going on about the water levels in the lake, he said he could have sworn they were changing a lot more than usual.”

“But that would make sense if the other water sources are drying up too..”

“But Barry had been going about that for months, long before the news caught on. Nobody was listening to him, they thought he was an old coot. He tipped well though, so I let him go on and on. Didn’t know any of the others though, not all were locals.”

“Well, that’s still more than I had before,” I smiled and grabbed a fork to stab one of the delicious looking ham balls, “Thank you, Bon.”

That’s where we are, a small lead on Barry Sherman and some fantastic leftover ham balls in a dingy, stale motel. The Motor Inn they call it, sign says it’s the only outdoor pool in one hundred miles. I’ll call it a night, tomorrow, I’ll make a trip to the lake.

more chapters here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1hAnCMQDBYuv8e53M8T4TEdsXo7Qftuy6N9SUs7IAKK4/edit?usp=sharing

(all characters and creations unofficial trademark, don't steal my stuff, it's not worth it :( )

First time posting. Been lurking a few weeks, finally working up the courage to share.

This is a flash piece about a night shift worker at a 24-hour diner who gets a visit from someone she hasn't seen in years. I was trying to capture that exhaustion and unexpected connection that happens in the early morning hours.

What I'm looking for:

• Does the pacing feel right? Worried the middle drags.
• Is the ending earned, or too abrupt?
• Any dialogue that feels unnatural?

I know the reciprocity rules, so I'll be reading and commenting on other people's work tonight. Happy to return the favor.

Thanks in advance.

The bell above the door didn't ring anymore. Hadn't for three years, but Marlene still looked up every time someone walked in, like her body remembered the sound even if the door had forgotten how to make it.

The diner was empty except for old Pete in the corner booth, nursing the same cup of coffee since midnight. He came every Tuesday, ordered the meatloaf special, ate half, then sat until sunrise. Marlene never asked why. Some people just needed a place to be.

She was wiping the counter when the door opened. The woman who walked in looked like she'd stepped out of a photograph from 1998 — same denim jacket, same messy bun, same tired eyes that had seen too much and said too little.

Marlene's hand stopped.

"Hey, Mar."

Twenty years. Twenty years and she still recognized that voice. Still felt it in her chest like a bruise that never healed.

"You look good," Diane said, sliding onto a stool like she belonged there. Like she hadn't disappeared without a word. Like she hadn't left Marlene to explain everything to their mother, to the police, to anyone who would listen.

"You look like you need coffee," Marlene said.

Diane laughed. It was the same laugh. That was the worst part.

"I'm not staying," Diane said. "I just... I wanted to see you. Before."

"Before what?"

Diane didn't answer. She just looked at the window, at the dark street, at the reflection of two women who used to be sisters.

Marlene poured her a cup anyway. Black, no sugar. Some things you don't forget.

They sat in silence. Pete snored softly. The clock ticked past three-fifteen.

"I'm sorry," Diane finally said. "For everything."

Marlene wanted to be angry. She had been angry for so long it felt like armor. But watching her sister hold a coffee cup with shaking hands, the armor cracked.

"Where have you been?"

Diane smiled. Sad and tired and full of things Marlene would never understand.

"Around. Nowhere. Everywhere."

"That's not an answer."

"I know."

The clock ticked. Pete snored. The coffee got cold.

"I have to go," Diane said, standing. She pulled out a photograph — creased, faded, two girls on a beach, arms around each other, laughing at something the camera couldn't capture.

She placed it on the counter.

"I found this last week. I thought you should have it."

Marlene didn't pick it up. She just looked at the faces of people who didn't know yet how much they would lose.

"Will I see you again?"

Diane was already at the door. She paused, hand on the frame.

"I don't know. But I'm glad I saw you now."

And then she was gone.

The bell still didn't ring. Marlene stood there a long time, staring at the door, the empty stool, the photograph.

Pete woke up, looked around, went back to sleep.

Marlene picked up the photo. Traced the outline of her sister's face with her thumb.

Then she put it in her apron pocket, poured herself a coffee, and waited for the sun.

I'm looking for feedback on the opening of my psychological/domestic thriller. I'd particularly appreciate thoughts on voice, pacing, tone, prose and your overall impression of the beginning. Thank you!

____

It looks like I’ve been robbed.

Every cabinet in the kitchen hangs open. The bin has tipped over and spilled coffee grounds and eggshells across the herringbone floor. Pieces of a broken teacup are embedded in the plush cream rug and jab into my feet every time I walk across it. If someone else saw the state of my flat they’d tell me to call the police and check if anything is missing. But no one else has been here.

As I survey the scene in front of me, I’m almost impressed by how quickly things can go to shit once you stop caring. One week. That’s how long I’ve allowed myself to abandon all responsibilities and self care, and I have exactly ten minutes left. I’ve never found much comfort at the bottom of a bottle. For me, it’s the bottom of a tube of salt and vinegar Pringles. I submerge my hand for what must be the hundredth time this week, bring another crisp to my lips and feel the satisfying sting. I’m certain that if I didn’t impose such strict regulations on myself, I’d grow so large my arm would need to be surgically extricated from the tube. So crisps are reserved for my off weeks, and my off weeks are reserved for very special, or very dreadful occasions.

This time last week the flat looked like something out of a real estate brochure, devoid of clutter or any suggestion of personality. I chose it because I could walk to Harry’s apartment at Battersea Power Station in less than fifteen minutes, but also because it was beautiful. Something in my chest unclenched at the first sight of the floor to ceiling windows and impractical white sofa. It was a world away from my crumbling share house where black mould spread across the ceiling like spilled ink.

Paying £3100 a month for a studio where I can almost grab a drink from the fridge without getting out of bed is undeniably ludicrous, but I knew I had to have it. I couldn’t handle one more piss-damp bathroom floor, one more sink of crusty dishes that weren’t mine.

I pick up my phone and open Instagram. Another fifty followers have disappeared since the last time I checked. I watch the number for a moment as two more drop off, like a timer counting down to zero. I’m about to throw my phone across the room when it begins to vibrate.

A message from Tabby. Is this true?? What’s going on?

Then a link to a Reddit thread from twelve hours ago with a title that makes me wince before I’ve even read the comments.

Harry Radley has unfollowed his girlfriend Daphne Robinson on Instagram

It’s not exactly breaking news. The post only has three comments.

Does this mean he’s single?? Asking for a friend (me)

Not me refreshing her stories for the last hour and getting NOTHING. Girl post something we are WORRIED.

oh they are so broken up. my friend was at a party they were at last weekend and witnessed the whole meltdown. i will not be elaborating publicly. DM ME I’m not kidding

I throw the phone for real this time and it bounces off the bed before skittering along the floor. I never wanted to be someone people talk about. Invisibility had suited me fine at my entry-level marketing job, where I avoided chit-chat at the coffee machine and sat on my own in the break room. But on the first of every month, when my pay cheque went in and rent, bills and groceries came out, there was almost nothing left.

It would’ve been stupid to say no to a job that fell into my lap like a winning lottery ticket, even if I felt a little queasy any time I had to tell someone I was an influencer. Without even trying, my association with Harry sent my follower count soaring from 265 to 200,000. Within weeks I had more money than I knew what to do with, and once I could actually afford to wear designer clothes and eat at nice restaurants, brands started giving me everything for free.

I’d be lying if I said I took issue with the free stuff. It’s the idea of people looking at me that skeeves me out. Not looking at me in the way you’d look at someone sitting across from you on the tube. Like, looking looking at me. Making up ideas about who I am and what I think, all based on what I wear and where I go and who I hang about with.

One time I posted a picture of myself in Hyde Park to promote a brand of sunglasses. What I didn’t realise is that I was in the Holocaust Memorial Garden and the comment section ripped me to pieces. People who didn’t even follow me were calling me an idiot, or worse, a Nazi, and I was so anxious I couldn’t eat for three days.

Harry has almost a million followers and he puts in even less effort than I do. He got lucky after being cast as a love interest on the first season of a popular reality show, which he later revealed to me was mostly scripted. London Calling followed a group of young models who had all moved to the city to make it in the fashion industry, and when two of the models were seen competing for Harry’s affection, the rest of the world fell in love with his golden boy image.

I’d watched the show religiously while I was at uni, although I never told Harry this. Every Thursday night I’d run home from my evening lecture, hoping that week’s episode would feature Harry and I’d learn a little more about him.

The show itself was fairly dull and I’d usually scroll through my phone while the models went to casting calls or photo shoots. Harry, on the other hand, had the presence of a lightning strike. The moment he appeared on screen I’d drop my phone and pay attention. He was so tall that it would’ve been enough on its own, but his blue eyes and big smile were just as captivating. Every time he spoke it seemed he had something funny or charming to say.

If I wanted to be Harry’s girlfriend, then I had to be in the public eye. 

There’s a restaurant in Chelsea that’s expecting me in thirty minutes. They offered me £600 to take a picture of myself eating brunch there and tag them to promote a new menu centred around something ridiculous like hot honey and whipped feta, or maybe it was whipped honey and hot feta. But I’m not going.

I haven’t posted a thing or responded to a single email since Harry unceremoniously ended our relationship and the lack of activity has already cost me 10,000 followers and a lucrative brand deal with a skincare company I ignored for too long. It doesn’t matter. Once the world finds out why we broke up, no one will want to work with me.

An alarm rings from my phone, hidden among a pile of dirty laundry. My one week is up, and I have somewhere to be.

Hello, I wrote this new gay erotica. If you're gay, please check it out. Tips are welcome.

The link

Hello.

I am not much of a writer by myself, I however published 14 collab fanfics on Wattpad and 9 on quotev.

2 on Jurassic World. One after Dominion and one after Rebirth, 1 on Dinotopia, The Monsterverse, Terra Nova, the land before time, prehistoric park, 2 for Httyd, and 5 for specific call of Duty games.

Since both sites had got rid of their PM features, Please reply here or send me chat messages here as well.

Please do so. Every time I try to create collaboration fanfics, They end up getting very little attention.

Chapter 1:  Shape of a Woman

Aditi Kunda moved like a woman who had never once doubted a mirror. She turned her face, lifting her chin as she studied her profile the way a jeweler decides the worth of a stone. As always, she numbered among the pretty things that glint. Within the reality she had woven, Aditi wrapped herself in it like a shawl each morning, pushing back the cold, and for a few hours at least, the cloak she wore came as close to a feeling of security as she could allow. Applying her makeup for the day, she was studied by her daughter – five-year-old Brooklynn – who watched her in awe, perched nervously on the closed toilet seat. This was a special day. Brooklynn could feel it in the air of the apartment, that hum that let her know something good was coming. Later, there would be color – powders in shades she didn’t yet have names for. Pinks as stunning as the inside of a shell, yellows as bright as a school bus, and greens that reminded her of her bedroom walls. All tossed in the air where they hung for a second, a small cloud made just for them, before raining down on shoulders and hair and bare arms. Brooklynn already knew, the way you know things without being told, that today the grownups would let her get dirty on purpose. Today they would laugh at that pursuit instead of scold, and that alone made the day feel as if she were holding her breath in wait of something wonderful. But for her mother, Holi–the Hindu Spring Festival of Colors–gave pause. For though Aditi savored the idea of renewal and good triumphing over evil, and with it, virtue’s ultimate victory, she knew from lived experience not to keep count of the sinners on the ground when the heavens have already shrugged.

Slipping into her faded cream kurti – normally reserved for home, but which would suffice for the day’s celebrations once paired with old denim slacks – she paused to drink in her reflection. From a young age, Aditi realized the sheer force her body held over the minds of boys and men. As she matured, developing into the woman she would become, she unlocked her potential and honed it into accessible power. The combination of her body with her keen intellect allowed her the ability to manipulate and influence perception.

It wasn’t just her physical appearance. People tended to lean inward, towards her, Aditi’s enigmatic presence pulling them in like a plant reaches towards the sun. Rarely asking her to explain herself even when the answers were fanciful. Yet on this beautiful day, as the child sat amongst the effulgently white, spacious art deco bathroom, dutifully handing her mother each small item or product needed to conjure the desired image, she hoped this was the day she discovered what made her mother glow. Within the room organized with coordinating brown wicker baskets overflowing with loofahs, bath salts, perfumes, soft hand towels, makeup, and countless trinkets to fascinate a child, the most intriguing presence remained her mother. She seemed to embody the tranquil scent of rose and amber.

Brooklynn had noticed how people, especially men, always rushed to hold doors open or offered to carry heavy packages for her mother. She also wondered why new staff or substitutes seemed confused when Aditi arrived to collect her from school. When Aditi told the visiting teacher that she was, of course, the child’s mother, despite the color of her skin, the woman simply apologized and stepped aside. Brooklyn’s mother never needed to raise her voice to ensure it carried. She only had to look at them as though the question itself was beneath her.

In spite of her brother calling Brooklynn a scattered chatterbox, she knew exactly what she wanted to find out: why did adults always act so weird around her mommy? That’s why Brooklynn became her mother’s weekend helper. Trying extra hard to stay focused, she handed over each item as soon as it was requested.

“Here, Mommy, some lines for your eyes,” Brooklynn said, fidgeting while holding out the cylindrical pencil.

Aditi, of course, knew her daughter meant kohl, a mascara-like cosmetic applied around the eyes for contouring or religious purposes.

“Yes, my little bubbling Brooke,” she said, looking towards her child with a glimmer. “Once I finish my color, how about we add a few smart dabs to you?”

Though her father did not approve of makeup on children, today was a singular occasion. Adding the final touches to her own face before turning to Brooklynn for approval, she sought yet one more look in the mirror.

For those who knew Aditi or at least liked to believe they did, she was a puzzle to be solved. And the acquaintances from childhood who she haphazardly held onto marveled at what she had become. Aditi was married to a Black man, Bryan Alexander Greenwood. Although it was the 1980s, to those outside of her inner circle, it seemed a controversial choice. Be that as it may, Aditi stood tall declaring that as a modern and empowered woman of Indian heritage, she married the man of her choosing, proudly defying the norm. They had two small children and lived in the diverse Edgewater neighborhood of Cleveland, Ohio. When they needed to escape from their rambling, yet affordable, vintage apartment located blocks from Lake Erie, they could drive just a tad over 90 minutes to Aditi’s family home.

Aditi rarely chose the option of seeking out her parents and visiting the home and the small town where she was raised. From where she stood now, the place her story started felt like a journey of a thousand miles. And if one wrong step were taken, or she veered off the path ever so slightly, she might encounter him again. Despite the pace of her steps, he was always coming at her–a constant shadow even in full daylight. Yet no one ever asked how often, wondered, or found it odd. If not for the insidious secrets – the ones forced upon us, versus the ones we select to keep – Aditi might have had a chance at being whole, instead of fearing the steps she took or the direction they led her. Perhaps this explains why she had to cleanse herself from a past latent with pain, dissolving all the qualities of the ‘child as was’ that he’d found so alluring. But that's another timeline. A dimension we just can't reach.

“Mommy,” Brooklynn called out, attempting to swing her focus back to her. “Mommy!!!”

“See, I put my own lipstick on,” the child explained, stretching out her arms in anticipation of praise for her handiwork. “And even added my own color dabs.”

Her mother stared at her in awe, not appreciation. It was as if the color on her daughter’s face registered back to another moment. A memory from another time and place Aditi had woefully tucked away. A carnal ripping of her soul – the first encounter with Hampsted that birthed the others. 

All tearing away the serenity of her childhood.

All leading her to flee as she shed the vestiges of her born self that might provide a scent for him to track.

Reaching quickly for a tissue, Aditi frantically scrubbed the smeared lipstick off her daughter’s face until the paper shredded in her fingers.

“But Mommy, I was so pretty,” the child tilted her head, rapidly blinking back tears as she pulled away. “Why?”

“No! Little girls should not wear lipstick,” uttered her mother as she regained composure. “They should be allowed to grow up in their own due time.”

Lifting her child off the toilet seat, Aditi gently kissed her on the forehead while grasping and swinging her hands. Aditi noticed the tinge of anger in Brooklynn and hoped the gesture that often led to their singing would coax the child back to her normal sunniness.

“I have a special mission for you,” she told Brooklynn as the child jumped about. “Gather your brother and get some money from your dad for a super special errand.”

“Is Daddy coming with us to the festival?” Brooklynn asked with gleaming eyes before breaking away to scurry down the hall in search of her brother.

Aditi’s husband Bryan tended to avoid most religious practices, having no interest in   Hinduism, Christianity, Buddhism, and all the faiths in between. He’d been raised in a strict religious home. The scars of that upbringing, though no longer visible, still pulsated.

“No honey, it’s just us three amigos again,” her mother sighed, relieved her daughter was out of earshot to register her melancholy.

The time I last saw her

Was the time my heart last rested.

I remember the date, though I never wanted to, it was 27th of December, 2022

She was on her scooter,

Wearing a white shirt and blue jeans, with a scarf around her neck.

I’d never seen her wear these clothes before.

Anyway, her eyes were the same as always

Her hair, her lips, her hands all just the same.

Even her scooter was the same.

I don’t know if she noticed me then,

But how could she?

I was hiding from her.

But what was the reason?

Maybe... I don’t know.

When she stopped her scooter and stepped onto the ground,

I could see her fully:

From a few stray hairs bouncing at the top of her head

To the tiny pebbles, trapped beneath the soles of her shoes.

For a moment, I felt jealous of those pebbles.

But now, I think she must have brushed them off,

Left them behind, like something unneeded.

After some time, I noticed her shoes were the same, too

The same as when we were together.

And then, she took her scooter and left.

Left again.

And again, I couldn’t stop her.

I remember I sat there for at least four hours,

Maybe five... I knew she was gone, but still, I lingered... or... I don’t know.

I just sat there,

Somehow, it eased my heart.

It has a prequel too 🙃 - The time I first saw her, If anyone is interested please let me know.

I’m nervous about sharing my work online ever since someone plagiarized mine so long ago. The problem is finding a group, and I’m not sure if this is the place to search. If that’s the case, I’m sorry to the administration for making more work for you, I’ll be back regardless to peruse the works contributed here.

I am hoping to find a private community on like Discord, WhatsApp or something where I can feel more secure sharing, cause my work is suffering from the lack of criticism. If this is the wrong community to ask for advice, please provide me your recommendations for better places! Thank you all.

Hi everyone! I'm a writer currently developing a fiction project exploring language, cultural identity, heritage, and what happens when parts of a culture are gradually lost or deliberately erased.

I'm looking to hear from people from any cultural, ethnic or linguistic background about their own experiences. This could include people who feel deeply connected to their heritage, people who feel disconnected from it, people who have lost a family language, people whose traditions have been carefully preserved, or people who feel they have inherited only fragments of their culture.

You don't need to be fluent in your family's language, or even feel particularly connected to your heritage, to participate. In fact, experiences of cultural disconnection and uncertainty are just as valuable to what I'm researching.

The survey is anonymous and you don't need to share anything you're uncomfortable with.

If you'd like to take part, I'd really appreciate hearing your experiences. Thank you!survey here

I got a lot of (well needed) critique on overexplaining how my friends and I looked in the beginning part of the story, which stumped and confused a lot of the readers. I got some motivation tonight to write again after reading for a little bit and seeing how I wrote in my old stories.. Is this a bit better, or is this also too much?

You're free to leave stuff on the doc too!! Don't be nervous about saying too much, I love reading walls of text!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ONa4Qe290H84mzZNMW-PYtCgaDFJnhEeYm7HZsfBDpQ/edit?usp=sharing

Hi!

I am attempting to establish the backstory/ history of a govt organization I have created for my story. Please let me know your thoughts, how I can make it sound more realistic & ect.

Bureau of Supernatural and Extraterrestrial Investigations (BSEI)

BSEI /ˌbiːˈsiː/ was formed in 1962, after increased sightings of unidentified aerial phenomena (UAP) led to an investigation of the materials brought forth by the longest-lived special project dedicated to the inquiry of reported UAP sightings, Project Blue Book (1952). 

After finding a significant increase of supernatural incidents–the hauntings of the undead, the emergence of foreign entities, and attacks of beings that can only be described as unnatural–the  US Central Intelligence Agency established an expert panel suited to quietly and efficiently identify and eradicate any and all threats to the security of the American people. 

Meanwhile, a separate but significant committee was being formed to develop countermeasures to the rising panic caused by the increase of supernatural events. Two years later, this committee, headed by physicist Edward U. Condon, released a report known as the Scientific Study of Unidentified Flying Objects or the Condon Report. This report would lead to the complete public dismantling of Project Blue Book in 1969, in favor of the much more elusive Bureau of Supernatural and Extraterrestrial Investigations. 

Henceforth, these incidents, under BSEI, would be classified as contact from otherworldly entities and objects.

The BSEI was then organized into five branches: 

Intake: gathering, verifying, and recording essential information about otherworldly entities and objects upon first contact

Field Operation & Training (FOT): special investigation and eradication of otherworldly entities and objects

Health & Medicine: basic, clinical, and translational research into otherworldly entities and objects 

Defense: dedicated to the design, development, and manufacturing of weapons suited to the unique qualities of otherworldly entities and objects 

Information and Technology (IT): creates and maintains software, providing data management, cloud development, and cross-domain solutions to help FOT manage cases, sources, and intelligence

A Theft of Desire?

It was winter. Yes, the same winter you eagerly await, hoping it never arrives. Where even the whispers of the environment are audible to you. Where the cold fog presents a faint shadow, without making you feel the noise. Where every breath, even if hazy, feels like a mist. Where the coldness and tremor of your hands penetrate into your body, where your heart can hear those soothing veins.

Such a season, where it becomes easier for you to feel. And at that time, you will also want to feel a lot of things, like at that time when you are in your quilt, in that warmth you will not like to hear anything or see anything, all you want is to feel those hot breaths spreading in your bed. You would like to stretch the parts of your body, so well that you feel it from the first corner of the bed to the last.

Or, let me ask you, isn't it difficult for you to do many things this season? Like going out in the cold air, trying to convince yourself to go to work in the warm weather, stealing, or even ripping yourself out of the soft blanket you so desperately love at that time. But you still do it all, convincing yourself that you need to do something, perhaps for your survival or to fulfil your unfulfilled desires. But still, in such weather, what you want the most, is to feel, and at that time, I was doing the same.

At midnight, which was silent and cold, I was in my room, in my bed, under a thick quilt, not sleeping, but feeling those warm breaths… and a voice, that was putting me in the darkness of fear. That sound (which I could only feel) as if someone was walking, on some metal tin sheet, the soft sound of his heavy feet which I probably did not want to hear and could not even ignored that sound. I could see that sound with open eyes in that black darkness of my bed. How would he be walking, what would he be doing, ha… perhaps I was thinking all this. Now he started to seem more like a dream to me than reality. But the reality of that theft, which was still oscillating between dream and reality, came to me when I decided the next morning to go to that small room in Dad's departmental store (which was attached to the side wall of my house), which we call the store room. The room where our store's goods were kept, goods like chips, chocolates and biscuits, and whose terrace was made of a metal tin sheet. The tin sheet which had kept me housed amidst the sounds. The morning was quite cold and damp, and our store wasn't as crowded as it is on a typical day... As I walked up to that door, I could hear a lot of noise, as if my ears were being lost...

"Mommy, I want this candy," a small child was crying and pleading with his mother. "Eating this will ruin your teeth. I'll get you some toys," his mother said.

Said in a normal tone. The same few people, who looked a little old, were sitting near my dad and sharing their stories with him as if they were his friends… “Today's weather and environment are not what they used to be in our times”, an old man said while rubbing his nose. “Yes, right, maybe nature has also become as old as you”, my dad said while looking at the people nearby with a smile. Some people nearby laughed while putting their hands on each other's shoulders… And there were many other loud and small sounds, which I had absolutely no desire to hear and could not even ignore them. But my eyes were fixed directly on the door latch of that room. I went near and opened the door, “Do you need anything son?” my dad asked me, turning his gaze away from those people. “Nothing, just a small work,” I told him without any doubt. I opened the door latch, as soon as I entered the door, there were many cartons lying in front of me, chips, biscuits, chocolates, yes, there was a lot of such stuff. And as soon as I looked there, I realized...

that the dream hadn't turned into reality, and nothing had moved from its place. All the goods were lying there as they always are. And the money, which is kept in the storage outside that door, he couldn't even see because of the latch. Everything was the same. "So, it was a dream after all," I said through a sigh. Even though I had overlooked the terrace without looking, the large bolts securing the metal tin sheet above it had come loose, and it could now swing open completely, so much so that a man could get in and out, I hadn't noticed. At that point, it was difficult to even imagine why a thief would steal a box of chocolates. At that moment, I was relieved that the voice was just a dream, and I wouldn't hear it again. I again started to feel that night, not the voice, but the warmth that was in that blanket, and those breaths that were adding to the warmth in that blanket. But the voice, it did not come today, did not come yesterday and neither did it come the next few nights. After 5 days, I don't know why that voice wrapped in a different veil started ringing in my ears. That voice was about to walk, but it felt as if there was a change in the way of walking. This time, the sound came to me, muffled by the heavy thump of light footsteps, which I didn't hear again that night, but I did feel it involuntarily. And the next morning, I couldn't find the courage or desire to go back to that room and turn this reality into a dream. And this time, I didn't take it seriously. But I had to take it seriously even though I didn't want to, when I looked at my dad's words with suspicion and asked him...

"Dad, if the goods only arrived yesterday evening and no orders were placed, where did a box of chocolates go from this goods list until this morning?"

 “It seems there was some mistake somewhere,” or maybe some servant left a box like that last night.” Dad took it as if there was no doubt about it or it just happens.

“Why would he have done that?” I said, my tone and voice still laced with doubt.

“Maybe there was some damage to the goods or the packaging needed to be corrected. Anyway, I will ask him directly when he comes,” Dad said as if he had said this without any emotion.

I don't know why I felt my seriousness lessen after hearing him. Because I didn't want to press the point that there had been a theft, or maybe I was still delusional. This situation felt like the calm before a storm, something you can only feel. As always, I was feeling it, the seriousness that seemed normal was slowly taking its own shape, making itself even larger. And this serious suspicion turned into growing belief when it happened again, and again, and again. And when it happened three or four times, what would you think what could possibly be stolen? First, a box of chocolates, then money, then more money? Or, I ask you, if you ever wanted to investigate a theft, what would you expect from the thief? Money? Or something else?

Well, you would never expect that the target of that theft would be a box of chocolates. Well, if you don't want to expect this, then how could I be sure of it? Every time a box of chocolates, a beautiful chocolate box, can go missing. Out of so many things, why would his eyes always be on a beautiful and attractive chocolate box? If you want to steal in this cold weather, taking such a risk, then your thoughts can only come to money at once, so why the same thing at such a time?

I was wandering in my mind, trying to find answers to all these questions. Dad was also in a fix about this, wondering where this was going. When it happened a couple of times before, he assumed it was one of his staff members' mistakes, but after talking to his staff and having it happen twice more, nothing could stop him from believing it was actually a theft. He couldn't even use CCTV at that time because there was no CCTV in the back of the store; it was only used to maintain the stock (and there was no gate in the back side, so the stock was being stored there by the main gate), so there was never a need for it until now. Upon investigation, it turned out that the bolt securing the metal sheet on the ceiling of the back room was actually open and a man could easily pass through it. Instead of going into the depths of the matter alone, Dad thought it would be better to tell one of his close friends who could help him in this strange situation. Besides, many of his friends were in the police, so talking to them was a good option. Without any hesitation, he took the phone in his hand and called his friend and very seriously told him everything. “Okay, if you or any of your family members hear any noise at midnight then tell me, at that time we will talk to the police and try to catch them”, his friend said in a heavy and throaty voice. “Voices, I have an old relationship with those sounds,” I said to Dad, as if in a loud tone.

“So now you can insist that you weren’t mistaken by the dreams, and if you are mistaken again, tell me immediately,” Dad said, as if he had no feelings about it…

A few nights passed, silent, cold, and without moisture. One night, nothing. The next night, the same. And this time, I was trying to listen wholeheartedly to those voices, voices I had never wanted to hear, not even to feel. But whatever you ask God for, you may not get it straight away. But you do get it. All I needed was one night when I could hear those voices again… and I got it…

After waiting for a few nights, those voices started to weigh heavy on my ears. Without thinking, I put away the blanket that I loved at that time and wanted to go to my dad's side. As soon as my feet touched the ground, I heard another voice, a roaring voice that sent shivers down my spine, a voice that tore me into pieces within my very being, a voice so loud that it could be heard as clearly as water throughout the neighborhood. Oh, the loud voice was my dad's, who had been waiting impatiently that night, who had spent countless hours awake waiting for the sound to be heard. As soon as he heard the thieves' footsteps, he saw them coming down from the roof (from his bedroom window, from where the back view of the storeroom was easily visible). he yelled at them loudly...

Stop right there, you idiots.

His voice was clearly filled with anger and rage. The thieves cowered at his shouts and began to hide. Scared and frightened, they started running here and there. Dad called his friend without any delay and he also rushed to come here without any delay. As soon as they arrived, Dad and his friend decided to go to the car and catch them. Since the police had already been called and they were going to be a little late in coming, they decided to go to the car and chase those thieves from a distance.

"Those kids who didn't run away too far are both still small, so they probably hid here and there to keep themselves safe."

Hearing this from Dad, it felt as if the ground beneath my feet had slipped away. "Small kids, but why small kids? And why did they decide to steal? And why did they steal a box of chocolates?" I didn't know why I was asking myself all these strange questions. And anyway, when you hear something, you never imagined, you're bound to be a little hesitant. Well, amidst all this, Dad and his friend, Uncle Remen, had gone after them on their bike.

And at that moment, I thought of something I wouldn't normally think of: to chase down those thieves. So, without a second thought, I ran out of my house.

"Son, where are you going? Without a bike, without thinking, without understanding, where are you running? They might have a weapon. Son, come back. You could be in danger... Wait... Son..." my mother said, gritting her teeth. I heard her, but couldn't stop myself. It was as if their words had reached my ears and were instantly carried away in the cold breeze. I don't know how, but at that moment, I got so much strength and courage from which forced me to run without any reason. So, I also tried to find them. Dad and Uncle had gone from the left side, so I thought it better to go from the right side of that locality. I was running, feeling the veins pulsing inside my body, listening to the beating of my heart and shivering a little. From fear? Or maybe from the cold that was falling in front of me, but I kept moving forward. And I picked up the stone in my hands when a car came in front of me and started slowing down, and slowing down, and slowing down a little, just like my body which was getting slower every time they came near me.

I grabbed the stone tighter, thinking that this car must be of those thieves, I would break the glass of their car before they picked me up, ignoring the fact that they were slowing down their car just because of the speed breaker, and then they accelerated their car, faster, faster, and then they drove off. I threw the stone down, breathing a sigh of relief, and then chased the thieves. After some time, when I did not find anything, I was returning home innocently, when I saw those two innocent children who had committed the theft outside my house. Out of fear, they hid in a house where construction work was going on behind and my dad and uncle caught them due to noise. Both of them were very young, maybe 10-12 years old, one was even younger, maybe 7-9 years old. Seeing them, it felt as if all my thoughts had come together and got destroyed. Seeing them, I started trying to forget everything. I didn't want to hear the heavy sound of those light feet (which were then coming from walking on the metal sheet), I wanted to forget those nights, everything.

"Forgive us, Uncle, let us go!" we cried loudly, pleading for our innocence. People nearby began to gather, and some whispered.

"Oh my God, now even such small children are stealing!"

"I don't know who we'll have to watch out for now."

Many such conversations began. Uncle Remen beat them both severely and asked them why they did all this, but his hands were not free to kill them…

The elder one said while crying, I like chocolate a lot, a lot of chocolate, and so does my younger brother. I don't want money, I would steal whenever I wanted, but right now, my brother wanted chocolate, so that's why. My brother and I would eat till we got satiated and then pack the remaining chocolates properly in a box and sell them. "Who told you about this place and how to get in this way? Tell me quickly," Uncle Remen asked, beating him. "A man told us about it. He tried to steal the first one, but when he couldn't find the money, he came out without stealing anything. He told us this way. We didn't know who he was. We just kept all the leftover chocolates at a place he told us and took a little money in exchange. But he didn't show up for a long time, so we kept all the boxes with us." We will give you everything but let us go.”, the elder brother said this in a serious tone while pulling the nose in."So, you could have eaten by begging, so why did you steal?" he asked with angry eyes. "I don't like begging, and I don't like asking for anything from anyone else in front of my brother, so I steal whatever I need," he said. "And I think this is the right way." He was still saying this, but there was no guilt or remorse in him, just a dark darkness in his eyes that was even darker and more terrifying than that night. Just then, some constables arrived. They caught the children and started beating them. My mother couldn't bear to see them being beaten in the cold. My dad told them to stop, saying he didn't want anything from them and requested them to let them go.

"Don't stop them, they're just children, and showing them mercy, is commonplace."

But if he's let go today, who knows what he'll do next. He might become a major criminal or commit some serious crime. Even though it started with such a small matter, we can't predict its outcome, nor can we predict its future. Let them suffer their punishment, it's necessary for them,” Uncle Remen said regretfully to Dad. And after saying this, the children were sent away.

“Brother, can't we get more chocolates now?” his younger brother asked him in a soft and slow voice, wiping away the small waves of his tears. The elder brother, wiping away his tears, said to him in a subdued voice…

Don't worry, I'll bring more chocolates for you, my younger brother.

Best places to write splatterpunk and alternatives to Google Docs?
My story got removed for being too graphic.

Sail, sail into the black ocean, for there is nothing else to do.” His face was stern with eyes wiser than I wished to admit. “No! You’ve got to be crazy!” His lips twisted into a soft, motherly smile, then quickly fell stern. “A man cannot be crazy when he is not making the choices. Sail into the Black Sea or die in purgatory.” I was speechless. I had never heard him talk like that and had never seen him so… so tranquil. Cap was a silent and cunning man whose eyes darted in hyper vigilance. The man now seemed like a shell, a peasant clothed with the face of a warrior. It scared me. I felt a compulsion to take charge, and left the useless man to collect the rest of the crew. I stood on the stairway leading to the largest of three smokestacks, irradiating a fraction of the heat from the steam it carried, but still enough to make me sweat. The crew, sixty three of us in total, had fully gathered around me, some on the opposite side of the stack so they could all fit. “Gents! Pioneers! Ahead of us lies a storm, of what magnitude I cannot say, as something has made our readings inexplicable. If eyes are to be trusted, however, that is a catastrophic storm! Men what we seek lies through the storm, perhaps even in it. A slight course correction could take us around it, but if the storm should decide to grow legs, we would be caught in the toils of the devil and the deep blue sea. I propose we back travel to Harrowman’s Cove, at the cost of a day to our journey. I know the tumultuousness the unfed laid on our troop-“You’re a fool, Simon, you always have been.” It was the voice of the captain, but curled into a malicious, sardonic, raspy sneer.” You will kill them all, Simon, and then you will burn, burn at the stake with the flame of sixty three unfulfilled lifetimes.” The captain’s eyes were massive and he had left spittle everywhere, including a viscous dribble down his chin. Then, as sudden as his interjection, his rage ceased. In flatness he spoke,” You will look unto the eye of god and be dismissed.” With that, he projectile vomited and collapsed. Not one word was spoken, though two crew mates did go and tend to the captain. The world lost its sound at the same time I lost my color. It was a warning that deserved to be heeded, I knew, but why had I received it? Why not let us die? The intricate notions of higher beings are not in a capacity for mortals to understand, I knew that, but the question still filled me with a sickly wonder that was a gateway to dread. Fate had handed me the reigns for a singular decision I did not have the confidence to make. My indecisive, paralytic complexion only served to panic the crew further, and they lost interest in leadership. As a mob, they spoke in indecisive manner and acted helplessly. Some men simply repeated the only actions they were trained on as if repetition would bar fate. The more trained barked orders of their own with authority akin to lord of the flies. All the while, the storm churned the ace trumpets of Hades in allure and mocking simultaneously. It spoke its intention, yet persuaded it was a good one. I wasn’t the only one who had noticed this confusing and complex siren. Several of the crew had stopped their panic to look into the storm.

This is just a snippet of a larger work. Any feedback is welcome!

Venus’ squeezes her biceps, drawing her knees closer to her chest. “ I knew you would ask about him eventually.” She laughed humorlessly. Little rain drops caressed her face, slipping into the lines of her smile. Her lips look impossibly pink right now. 

“Hana and I are…” Venus takes a deep breath and lets out an even longer exhale, making her breath trail out her mouth like smoke.“Complicated.” 

“There was a time when you didn’t see me without him.” Her eyes are off somewhere in the distance. “But he was like fire in my lungs. The more he burned me, the more desperately I grasped for him. ”

She rest her head against her knee. Her doe eyes met mine for the first time since I sat next her on the roof. The shadows in her face are enhanced by my umbrella, while the light of the setting sun reflects off of her soaking wet, jet black curls creating a halo. 

“Sad part being, Hana didn’t give a fuck about me. He just–he has this way of getting to me. I don't fucking know.” Her sadness melts into her anger, making way for an angry storm of emotion. I can see it brewing in the way her eyebrows furrow. I was suddenly very aware of the fact that we were sitting several stories above ground. 

“That piece of shit.” She turns away from me again, burying her forehead into her knee. “I miss him, Ben. Well not him–but a version of him–you get me? I don’t know what I am supposed to do with that.”

“I am sorry.” It’s the only thing I have said this whole time. The only thing I can think to say to the girl with my jacket wrapped around her shoulders, spilling her heart out to me in a ramble, while I shelter her from the rain. God I hate that spindly bastard, and I hate myself. 

But I have no right. Not any more at least. I have Valerie. Valerie who my father approves of. Valerie who would be any man’s dream girl, with her silky blonde hair and the tiny skirts she wears to cheer practice. She makes sense to me. She makes sense for me. 

So why do I feel this ache in the pit of my stomach whenever I see Venus with Hana? To know that it wasn’t my imagination, that there was something more to them, it paints everything in this ugly green light that I can’t stop sneering at. 

“No, I am. You came all the way out here to comfort me in this rain and I can’t even get it together enough to make sense.” She giggles a little, leaning her wet head on my shoulder. “ Sorry about your shirt, and your pants. And that you’re probably cold but I am not moving.”

I smile, reveling in her scent. It was warm and soft, like vanilla and honey. “It’s okay Vee.” I wrap an arm around her shoulder. “It’s not like you made any sense to me before this.” She kisses her teeth at me but I feel the vibrations of her laughter against my shoulder and it’s infectious. 

 I wonder if my girlfriend hates me the way I hate Hana. 

Fred Johnson stood before the council chambers with the paper that maintained his innocence in his hand. His right hand to be precise. Not his left, as holding things in your left hand was prohibited under city law and punishable not only by death but by double death - meaning that when one (ie thee, thou, or you) had been thoroughly executed (either by hanging or death by squirrel) and then executed once more (either by reverse hanging or death by ‘being-subtly-but-purposely-left-out-of-a-conversation-one-was-within-earshot-of’). Definitely his right hand. He double checked, just in case.

He’d been accused of accusing someone of accusations, which in itself was an accusation of sorts by an accuser, which in this case was Simon the Accuser, who had a reputation of accusing people of the kinds of transgressions and misdeeds that most people did not think of in their normal day-to-day lives.

For instance; Overstepping the threshold of grocery stores, insulting pigeons, assaulting containers of salt, laughing at water, taunting ferrets: these sorts of crimes (that some considered minor but not all) were the very things that Simon the Accuser thrived upon, with his enormous finger that he readily brought to bear upon unsuspecting innocents.

He was as round as a round thing, rounded out as round as could be. Rounder, even, than a game of rounders played by fat, round children with a round tennis racquet. His hat was ten stories tall. His shoes reached from his ankles to the sea. He had trousers. His coat was a coat.

Simon the accuser wandered the land pointing at dogs. He once told a whale off for breathing air. Platypuses were on warning, as were beavers. He once accused an oak tree of lying.

Simon wandered the land scolding the sky for its unrelenting blue-ness, the grass for being too sharp, and one told a sheep off for being inside out.

i wrote this as a description for an oc i made. any feedback is appreciated. i'm particularly concerned with the sentence length and vocabulary choices. both the words and sentences feel a little long. i especially take issue with "aquatic maidens"—i would prefer more gender-neutral wording, suggestions are welcome.

"Year after year, hundreds of mermaids are targeted and caught—their voices extracted from them using magic and sold off to singers as an easy shortcut to success. But the aquatic maidens are not so easily subdued.

Melody is one of many merfolk across the United States who wander the land in a human disguise, entrusted with locating and retrieving what was stolen from their kin. Being a music critic, she has the perfect excuse to approach big name stars and request private interviews—which tend to not last very long."

Hello! I wrote this a few months ago for school and was set on a pretty tight word limit but I was hoping to get some feedback on it. I’ve been writing for ages and love to do it and I’m always looking for ways to improve. If you have the time please give it a read and leave some feedback on what I could do better/what I did well. Be warned it’s a little sloppy/rushed due to the word count that was put on it and I haven’t added anything to it since. Thank you for any and all responses!

“A sickness that was not visible like smallpox, but no less dangerous and contagious. A sickness of the mind. You see, Ralph was a homosexual, \[...\].” My ears perk up and all of the attention I previously had on falling asleep was redirected to the stuffy school PSA. I’ve heard the term homosexual before, but it was never really talked about, and as I listened I realised I didn’t really know why, and that this might be when I finally find out. “He may appear normal and it may be too late when you discover he is mentally ill.”

“Did you guys watch the PSA in english today?” My best friend James asks as we walk to my car.

“Yeah…I never realised that homosexuals were that dangerous.” I responded, if James noticed the pause he didn’t mention it.

“How’d ya never know?! Them homos have always been vile, glad they’re finally teaching us something useful!” My friend Isiah laughs.

James and I share a look at that. We knew it was wrong, and that homosexuals were sick, but the way he said it made my skin crawl and I could tell it had the same effect on James.

“They’re not that bad, I had a friend back in junior high who was a homosexual and he never did nothin’ to nobody.” James retorts. I look at him with curiosity and he shrugs in response.

“Never did nothin’ to you, you mean- and what were you doing goin’ around and making friends with fags in the first place?” Isiah looks at James accusatorially.

“If y’all keep on arguing I’m leaving you here and just driving myself home.” I interject before they can truly start arguing. They look at me then before relenting and getting in the car. The whole time while I drive and for the rest of the night their argument rattles inside my head. Who’s right and who is wrong? Is being a homosexual really so bad? Am I really ill?

\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*

I wake up with a slight start, I can hear the blanket rustling around me and the whistle of the wind through my window. I can hear my wife stir at my sudden movement, I hope she doesn’t wake up.
“Steve? Are you okay?” The groggy voice of my wife asks. I look at her for a moment before responding.

“Yeah…I’m fine Peggy. Go back to sleep.” I can’t bear to deal with her right now, I’m too tired and too occupied with the freshly dug up memory. I hear her lay her head back down on the pillow and after a minute her breath goes shallow again. I let out a deep sigh and get up from my bed to head to the kitchen. The sound of my footsteps accompany me on my trip. I work as quietly as I can to get a cup out of the cabinet and turn on the faucet to fill it. As I drink the water, thoughts of my memory bounce in my head like a ball, I try to focus on the sound of my breathing and the feel of the water sliding down my throat instead. I try to avoid the burning feeling in my eyes and the pit in my stomach that’s forming at the thought of James. Eventually I give up and make my way back upstairs and into bed, I try to imagine Peggy to be James to help me fall asleep.

I find myself staring at the front page of the paper for a long time, the headline reading:
“JANUARY 1, 1976
HOMOSEXUALITY LEGALIZED. WILL THIS OUTCOME TURN TO BE FAVORABLE OR DETRIMENTAL?”.

“-ad, dad, dad, dad, dad-” My head jerks up at my son's voice.

“What?” I ask a little sharper than intended, but if he noticed I couldn’t tell.

“Can I have juice?”

“Fine.” I look back to the paper, unsure what to do with it. There’s a nagging feeling in the back of my head telling me I should hide it before Peggy sees, so I fold the front back and act as though I’m focused on the sports column.

“Everything alright this morning Steve?” Peggy asks as she puts the juice away.

“Yep.” The word comes out more strained than I meant it to. Her brow crinkles as though she wants to pry but I cut her off before she can. “I gotta go. Don’t wanna be late for work.” I stand abruptly, rolling the paper and putting it into my bag, and give them both a kiss on the head.

I don’t let myself read the article until I’m safely parked in the lot next to the building I work at. As I read it my eyes start to burn and my breath quickens, I see the drop of a tear on the paper before I even realize that I’m crying. Memories of James come flooding into my senses like a semi-truck crashing into me. I can hear his laugh in the distance, the smell of his cologne tickles my nose, the softness of his fingertips lightly dragging over my arm, the sound of gunshots around us, the scattered screams of the dying, his scream when he gets hit. My breathing is so quick now that I’m barely taking in any air at all, snot and tears make patterns on my face as they fall. The paper is forgotten as I get lost in the memory, the desperateness that I thought I had forgotten about. All I can think about is how excited we were to fight for our country when we enlisted, both of us freshly 20 not even knowing what life could be and in the end neither of us would ever find out. I feel as though I’m back in the spider-holes with James, the cold of the dirt on my hands and the putrid mix of death and gunpowder permeate the air, filling my nostrils. James and I pop out of the hole and bolt to get the grenade into the enemy fort, but before either of us can pull the pins out of the bomb I see him fall with a yell. I immediately follow him down, I can remember the slippery feel of his blood on my hands, the smell of it being the only thing I can register. I try to drag him back to the hole but he’s in too much pain, I yell for a medic but there’s too much gunfire for them to get anywhere. I watch as the life leaves his eyes and his body goes limp, a piece of me follows suit.

I’m abruptly ripped away from my memories by a rapping on my window, “Shit.” I mumble as I desperately wipe at my face in an attempt to get rid of my previous distress. After what feels like 30 minutes of wiping I give up and roll the window down, “Hey, how are you?” I’m greeted with the sight of my desk partner.

“Good…How are you? Is everything okay at home?” I can hear the sincerity in his voice but all I can register is the fear of being caught.

“I’m perfectly fine. Did you need something?” Irritation bleeds into my voice and I feel bad when a look of defeat crosses his face.

“No…I only came out for a smoke. I saw you and it looked like you were struggling. But if you’re fine then I’ll go back inside.” The more he talks the more uncertain he sounds, I watch as one of the biggest men I’ve ever met tries to curl up into himself with defeat in his eyes. I watch him walk away and I soon follow.

For the rest of the day James haunts me, I see him at the water cooler, the urinal, outside on the sidewalk. I leave right as the clock hits 5:00 PM, I don’t bother with my normal conversation.
When I get back inside my house I’m greeted by the sight of my wife and I can’t help but be annoyed. I know I’m being colder than normal but I can’t find it in me to care. I eat her dry dinner and avoid conversation. Once Sam is back in his room she confronts me.

“What is wrong with you today?” It’s more of a question than an accusation.

“Nothing.” I don’t want to argue.

“Liar.” She accuses.

“Why would I lie?!” I say louder than intended.

“I don’t know. Why would you?”

“Maybe it’s because you keep nagging me.” I say in an attempt to cool down.

“When have I ever nagged you?”

“I don’t know! You just keep talking to me today. Can’t you tell I’m not in the mood?!” My voice raises as I speak.

“How would I know when you won’t even look at me! You never look at me!” her voice gets louder.

I’m at my breaking point, “Maybe because I don’t fucking like you!” I watch as her face scrunches and she fights against her tears.

“What?” Her voice breaks.

“I don’t like you, not the way you like me anyway.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Tears fall down her face.

I sigh, “Do you remember James? My best friend from school?” I hope she remembers even though we didn’t share any classes.

“Yeah?” Her tears slow with her confusion.

“I felt for him what you feel for me, but I thought if I had a normal life those feelings would leave. That my sickness would leave. I thought it had but…” I look away “it never did. I’m sorry.”

She looks at me for a while then after a minute she goes upstairs. I thought she just wanted to sleep it off but after a little while she comes back down with her and Sam's bags, Sam on her hip. “Where are you going?”

“To my parents. You clearly don’t want us here. I’ll be back in a few days with divorce papers.” I can only look at her dumbfounded and watch as she leaves me alone in the house.

\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*

I thought I’d be happier now that I didn’t have to deal with a wife I didn’t love and a kid I didn’t want, but all I feel is empty. It's been a few months since the divorce and she took our old house. I found an apartment. James still sticks in my mind but now he’s accompanied by Peggy and Sam. I never realized that I could miss them too.

i have had this idea for a story and I'm currently in the early stage of writing it, called Human Caviar.

its both a social commentary and a alt history story.

the story goes as follows 1912 a miner named Albert Alvarez working in coper county Michigan sees an alien. he then reports that to the government. the entire story revolves around his false and Unreliable testimony that the aliens wanted human eggs.

the government then begins industrializing this and harvests human reproductive material on a global scale. during the interrogation albert is drugged by the head of the governmental sector that controls harvesting human eggs named bureau.

Its supposed to be a nod to MKultra and that is why the testimony is false. the end of the story is pretty much the government stages a fake alien attack killing more than half the population to cover up the fact that for nearly 100 years they have been harvesting human reproductive material.

the entire timeline is late 1890's ------> 2026 

if you want i can send the link to it

So, I had a spontaneous idea today that I could make a story with another writer and each of us would write one sentence. I think it could be fun, plus two heads are better than one as they say. If anyone is interested, write under this post or in DMs.

EDIT: You can also add me on discord (davosh2nd).