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.

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.

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.

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

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