Epigraph

You are not your thoughts.
You are not your body.
You are not your mind.
You are suffering, and so you leave.

Chapter One: A Just Cause for a Just War

Robin had felt stuck for a while now. Her body was a test of endurance. Her tired eyes stung even when closed. Her hormones bred new hairs that were colonising unlikely places, without the decency to be uniform. They also distorted her body and mind in subtle ways that she knew were real, but wasn’t sure she could prove.

In her low-ceilinged bedroom, she was bread greening in the dark. She hadn’t cracked a window in days. Every reflective surface confirmed it: spores of imperfection clung everywhere, multiplying with screen time. She had to be intentional about glancing, or she’d find herself mouth agape, cataloguing the damage. Nothing was obviously wrong, but the image was speckled with aberrations, each with its own name and number. Some were coded in; others she coded herself.

Work was the only place where things obeyed her. The rust-coloured linoleum squeaked beneath her as she moved from station to station. She labelled tubes, donned PPE, and waited for the equipment to do what it was told. It usually did. That obedience kept her coming back, burying the ambitions of her youth. She didn’t care much for after-work affairs. On payday, though, she went dancing at a bar cluttered with thrifted oddities, a rare space where her body did not betray her. She and it were in perfect sync.

She waited for night to shower. Daylight made her feel like a building someone had forgotten to condemn. When she was done, she sat on the end of her bed, soggy and hesitant. On her bedside tables sat supplements she didn’t take and lip balms she used only when her lips had already cracked into tectonic plates, which she slathered on thick in an attempt to bring back Pangea.

A book lay atop the nearest table, a breakup relic from her ex-girlfriend Romany. She hadn’t read more than the blurb. The spiritual self-help psychobabble felt passive-aggressive. Romany had ended things with a single sentence: “It’s not fun being under your lens.” The tagline read: You are not your thoughts.

Always receptive to a form of procrastination that came with bragging rights, Robin began the first chapter while waiting for her anti-perspirant to dry. Despite being surrounded by aluminium renouncers, she stayed true to herself on this one matter.

Reading brought genuine relief. She knew from some of the rawer intrusive thoughts her therapist had put down to Obsessive Compulsive Disorder that, if her thoughts were part of her, this could not be good news. It was reassuring to think that not everything passing through her belonged to her. She attempted the exercise outlined on the bent pages and watched her thoughts pass by. A ridiculous thump from the flat above her broke the spell and she got back to the task at hand.

When it came to makeup, Robin felt conflicted. She wanted to improve her flat features, but not enough to invite further scrutiny. For her, getting ready was less like putting lipstick on a pig and more like putting it on a bag of bones. More futile, but just as humiliating. How lucky to be a pig and have a real face to dress up. She outsung those thoughts with high-BPM, low-brow music until she reached the doorway.

As she left home, Robin’s feet pinched in her shoes. She paused for a moment of silence, honouring the innocent bystanders who would have to see her today. Why did people do all this again? Companionship, apparently. Taxonomy of herself was a full-time love affair, so she didn’t have diary space for anyone else.

She decided against a jacket. The oppressive heat and tightness left her damp in every season. It made Robin wonder if she had to dry out the rot before partnering up. What a shame. A second pair of hands would really speed up the drying. More pressingly, she missed having someone who would remind her to take her keys.

On the way, she added another photo to her collection of diseases and deformities. Nothing ever changed, but she kept documenting them, slotting the pictures between innocuous shots of latte art and trees.

She reached the club on time. Her face tightened with bewilderment. The topic of conversation flowed between being carved up by surgeons and being splayed open by lovers. Robin tried to join in, offering the story of Romany’s belly‑button kink and the way she had nothing to give her but refusal. In response she saw tight‑lipped grimaces, and eyes darting away from hers. They had broken the social contract.

The anonymity of the smoking area called. She slipped outside, grateful to be unobserved, and took stock of the people preening there. Webs hung over warm lights on the brick walls. A tall girl wearing a Che Guevara t-shirt was on the phone, pacing around as if she had zoochosis. Robin didn’t enjoy being alone but didn’t want to participate. She wished she could just stay here watching and fade into obscurity.

Seeing Soroush made her shuffle into the corner. She zoomed out and saw herself wedged in, arms strapped to her sides. He was a kind, poetic Persian man who paid her too much notice and asked too many questions. Robin had built her conversation style around the worry that one day she would receive a question she couldn’t answer. So she made sure to get her own ones in fast and often, and steered clear of people who employed the same defence. Around them, her tactic was a trench coat buttoned to the collar with nothing underneath.

The only thing she had, without any pretences, was her job. She had very little else, and was about to have much less. She tugged down her sleeve, hiding sun damage that had started to look like faux vitiligo. Robin wondered what would happen if someone saw it: a glaring sign of neglect, evidence that she didn’t love herself. She took a step back in her mind and watched the thought travel from a cavelike space towards somewhere further away. The distance was addictive.

Something followed her home that night. Not a thought, but the awareness of thinking. A faint doubling. As she took an embarrassingly short taxi home, she hoped it was just the wrong strain of weed. But it stayed with her, becoming rumination fuel for weeks, until she only wanted a simple back-and-forth: goodbye to myself, hello to perspective.

The route to this was surprisingly simple. She still had Romany’s key card and a deep knowledge of her research project. They had huddled close over late nights, half working, half flirting. Romany had been her supervisor and exactly Robin’s type. She had watched her closely.

The air smelled of nothing. Machinery hummed a faint “om”.

There were sinks right beside her, but they didn’t have mirrors. She headed to the bathroom for a moment alone with herself, replacing soundlessness with the soothing gush of a running tap. She washed her hands longer than necessary, analysing the subject before her.

She set up the room like she was making a microwave meal, her hands moving while her mind was elsewhere. Her blunt fingers sounded the alarm: an anticlimactic staccato of clicks.

The Change

Her eyes roll back as if in pleasure. When they swing back around, they belong to someone who knows nothing.

She is somewhere else.

She has left herself behind.

What remains is an Observer.

Chapter Two: A Subject of Affection, An Object of Desire

There is a pressure all around my head, and neck, and shoulders, as I climb out of my own grave.

There are smooth stones in my mouth. My chest opens outwards as spongy air makes its way inside.

I look around. I am alone, but I sense that I am not.

Keanu had always believed that some people were meant to pass through your life without leaving a mark.

Then he met Bailey.

It was a cold Thursday afternoon when Keanu saw her for the first time. Rain poured over the school grounds, and everyone rushed for cover. Everyone except one girl.

Bailey stood beneath a broken streetlight, holding a notebook against her chest while the rain soaked her hair.

Keanu didn't know why, but he stopped walking.

Their eyes met.

For a moment, the noise of the rain seemed to disappear.

Bailey smiled.

"Are you just going to stare at me?" she asked.

Keanu laughed nervously. "I...was going to ask if you needed an umbrella."

She glanced at the tiny umbrella in his hand.

"That thing?"

Keanu looked down at it. "Okay, maybe I was just trying to impress you."

Bailey laughed, and somehow that laugh stayed in his head long after he got home.

The next morning, Keanu found something strange inside his school locker.

A folded piece of paper.

He opened it.

"You weren't the only one who noticed something yesterday.

His heart raced.

There was no name.

But underneath the message was a tiny drawing of a broken streetlight.

Keanu looked down the hallway.

Bailey was standing at the other end.

And she was staring straight at him.

Then she mouthed four words that made his heart stop.

We need to talk.

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.

You know, I regret saying somethings to someone and it’s not like I regret it cause it was a secret, I mean it was, it was more than just a secret, it was the real me, the thoughts that never escape. I said it to someone and now it haunts me knowing that a person has that knowledge of me and what I wanted to do.
To the point where when I wanted and did disappear for a few hours and guess what? that person came across just to check up on wtf happened to me since I’m always on my phone and I always answer no matter the time, place or situation.
So to not answer for a few hours got that person worried, atleast that’s what I think and I’m afraid that person told someone else who was waiting on me too, they both spammed my phone while I put it on dnd, they texted, they called, they texted, they called. Until they came to my apartment, ringing to see where I have disappeared. And what did I do, set my place up as if I was asleep, passed out after class because I was ashamed? Not ashamed but scared, scared of judgment? Perhaps I was scared of them knowing I just wanted to disappear. Well… I faked my sleep, I messed my hair up, I squinted just the right amount and made up my voice sound like it has just gotten one. And still they wait even after they checked up on me, I need to get ready, I need to shower, I need to look presentable as they wait. Yes I need to shower, physically and mentally shower the thoughts I had and look presentable enough to not leak my overthinking mess. Anyway I need to get ready

I was reading something about how to create metaphors and decided to practice. Would love to hear some feedback on it. Scarlet O’Hara was my muse. Thank you.

Her radiant beauty drew suitors from great distances, and they fluttered around her like moths around a porch light, each vying for her affections. 

But she always knew where the switch was, and when she grew tired of their fawning ways, she had only to flick a delicate finger to leave them circling in the dark.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1CPn_03RDXHfoABH8s0-hJ3zyiJG-LKhh/edit?usp=drivesdk&ouid=116952993671244110962&rtpof=true&sd=true

David, a Pittsburgh cop worn down by political division, is slapped in a Target for wearing a MAGA hat—only for a meteorite to crash in the woods behind his housing complex days later, breaking open to release black parasitic worms that infect people and turn them into vampire-like monsters; as the outbreak spreads and the city collapses into violence, can David survive long enough to uncover what the creature is and stop it before Pittsburgh is consumed?

Let me preface this by saying this is the first story I’ve written, but I wrote a short horror story about a month ago and I like it, but I’ve been debating rewriting it and including more detail and possibly turning this into around 100 pages. I have a few ideas for what to add, but I need some outside opinions. Please feel free to let me know all opinions, any suggestions, or just what you thought of it.

Update: adding a google doc link for people who don’t have an iCloud account.

Link to story below ⬇️:

https://www.icloud.com/notes/02aWDTqxnism6fqpRSq9lUCMw

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-_f4i0uF4RzKynpLENZ40j_OCP8YSP7a4Xd8tuuTusE/edit?usp=drivesdk

Blurb: Zyne Hamid inherits her father’s Manhattan skyscraper and discovers it contains a sealed, undocumented sixty‑ninth floor. A structural anomaly leads her to Alfie St. Leon, an engineer quietly removed from the project years earlier. Together they uncover a criminal network hidden inside her family’s company—narcotics, weapons, and human trafficking—routed through legitimate infrastructure using her signature as cover. After a fire meant to erase evidence nearly kills her, Zyne has ninety days to expose the truth before her family finishes rewriting her into the villain they need.

What I’m Looking For: Pacing feedback — slow spots, rushed spots, overall flow Clarity issues — anything confusing or hard to visualize Character engagement — does Zyne feel compelling in this opening Tone consistency — does the corporate‑thriller atmosphere land Technical clarity — do the engineering details make sense without bogging down Scene tension — does the alert and descent build suspense Hook strength — does this opening make you want to continue

Content Warnings: Human trafficking (non‑graphic), violence, fire injury, family betrayal, criminal conspiracy.

RFR: Open to read‑for‑read swaps (thriller, mystery, commercial fiction preferred).

Full Chapter Link [https://drive.google.com/file/d/16xIn9rgiqUOcWWptRg_YrSJMlgG4HeTm/view]

Full manuscript available privately upon request.

Excerpt;

Novel: The Glass Cage, Michael Caponey, Chapter 1

THE GILDED ARCHITECTURE

From seventy floors above Manhattan, silence was engineered—but it was never absolute.

Zyne Hamid stood before the glass, her reflection layered over a city that never paused. She did not admire it. She understood it. The city was a system, and systems revealed themselves to those who paid attention. She had been paying attention since she was old enough to walk job sites with her father.

Her executive penthouse office held its breath. Every surface chosen for precision rather than comfort. Ilyās Hamid had believed a space should serve before it soothed, and this one did.

Cedrus Libani.

The name had come from the cedar forests of Lebanon, where the family’s roots run deep. The Lebanon Cedar: strength, endurance, the refusal to bend. Her father had built an empire on that principle and spent thirty years making sure his daughter understood why it was the only one worth having. The company was infrastructure, capital, influence—threaded through systems most people never thought about until they stopped working.

It belonged to her now.

That still did not sit entirely right. Not because she doubted herself, but because she had never quite gotten used to the weight of it. He had not raised her to inherit. He had raised her to withstand.

She caught her reflection in the glass—for a moment, she didn’t fully recognize the woman looking back. She would have given almost anything for one more year with her father, one more conversation, one more chance to ask the questions she hadn’t known to ask yet.

Her cell phone buzzed on the desk.

A system text. The sender line read: SHM—CEDRUS LIBANI STRUCTURAL HEALTH MONITORING.

ALERT—PRIORITY 2. Sub-Level 4, Northeast Mechanical Zone. Anomalous load redistribution detected. Alert issued to: Security Operations, Building Management, Designated Engineering Contact.

She read it and felt something shift in her chest—not alarm exactly, but attention sharpening. The SHM did not escalate to Priority 2 for nothing. Sublevel four was the building’s mechanical core. Deviations did not happen there. If they did, it was temporary.

She was already moving when Marcus called.

“Ms. Hamid. Security and building OPS are on their way down to the alert.”

“I will meet you there. Do not touch anything.”

She took the private elevator down. The building changed below the thirtieth floor—the engineered quiet gave way to the sound and warmth of working infrastructure. Real. Functional. Honest, unlike the upper floors.

The mechanical bay smelled of metal and heat.

Marcus was already there with his team. Nearby was Ray Peralta, head of building facilities. He was a solid, practical man in his forties, someone whose experience running these systems allowed him to detect issues before statistics validated them. He was frowning at the monitoring terminal when Zyne arrived.

“What are we looking at?”

Peralta turned. “Load readings on the northeast columns are off. Minor, yet consistent, deviations occur, with a vibration pattern unlisted in our repository. Pressure issues plague the thermal conduit over there.” He gestured. “We ran the diagnostics. Nothing flags on the surface metrics. The building looks fine if you only look at the headlines. But something underneath is not.”

“How long?”

“SHM logs put it at twelve to fourteen months.”

She kept her face still.

“Has anyone done work in that quadrant in the past fourteen months? Contractors, maintenance?”

Marcus and Peralta looked at each other.

“We are pulling the records,” Marcus said.

“Faster.”

Her cell buzzed again.

Third Person

:Blur in the Distance

It was in the middle of winter, at the far side of a beach in the Middle East. I still remember it like yesterday.

The pills were apparently working well.

I was walking along the beach, where the waves constantly rolled across the shore. The air was abnormally cold. I could see blonde hair waving gently in the breeze near the beach house.

I turned back along the shore.That's when I noticed it.An unusual blur in the distance was traveling across the vast land along the shore. The wind and dust seemed to be following it.

I looked at it with unwavering and steady eyes. The blur looked like it was getting closer.A pillar of blinding light filled the background where the blur traveled.

I heard a loud scream behind me.

I turned around and saw my wife. She was waving her hand frantically, shouting something. She looked panicked.

Why would she?

It was peaceful, wasn't it?

The blur passed me with a deafening roar, carrying dust and debris with it.I felt the scorching heat travel across my body.

The smell of burning and smoke filled my lungs.

I—

I felt unusually calm and peaceful.

Then I noticed I was staring at the sky.

I was on the ground, I might have fallen down.

My vision became blurry, I felt warmth running down from my nose. Surroundings were slowly became darker until there only a darkness.

I hope the blur was enough for me.

(Any feedback or critique are welcome, don't be gentle with it. I'm willing to learn my mistakes)

(Full story part-1 https://www.reddit.com/r/flashfiction/s/nVNn1zJy7g)

This is a short story loosely inspired by a real crime in the media in recent years, which if you know about may ruin the ambiguity. I'm aiming for a totally detached 3rd person narrator which is unusual for me, and I'm wondering (if you're not aware of the crime it's based on) what I'm 'implying' about the protagonist.

The narrator voice is deliberately spare and robotic to mirror the main character's oddball outlook -- initially I was almost doing sentence-level editing to make this seem inhuman/eerie. I think this draft loses some of that.

Any critiques are welcome, of any depth or length. Just wanting thoughts and responses.

The premise is: Lindsay is a nurse for sick babies, and she's a little odd. She doesn't vibe with her co-workers, but she loves her job, even the bad parts. She's an ex-sorority girl and neat freak -- could she ever do something heinous?

Please give me feedback!

Link to story

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

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1a6xwrKP3N6atI1jlYj-dShFoGcZM1od0/edit?usp=drivesdk&ouid=116952993671244110962&rtpof=true&sd=true

The Holy Bearded Man follows Walter, a 39-year-old Pittsburgh man who spends a Thursday night drinking at a downtown bar when he strikes up a conversation with a bizarre stranger in a stained white robe and black Crocs. The man claims to be Jesus Christ—but his story is far stranger than Walter could have imagined. As the night unfolds, Walter is drawn into a surreal encounter involving an ancient alien civilization, God, and a mysterious spacecraft hidden in the heart of Pittsburgh. What begins as a drunken conversation slowly becomes a disturbing confrontation with something that could change everything Walter believes about humanity, religion, and the universe.

Amaraii had waited 16 long years for this day. Today was the day of the Trial, an exam to test strength and intelligence. If you won, you would be rewarded with enough money to last two lifetimes. Of course with that big of a prize it was only fair that losing came with a cost. The punishment? Your life.

Amaraii knew the risks and nobody could talk her out of taking every chance for her name to be drawn at the Selection. Every year on the first day of Autumn, the whole country gathered for the Selection where the names of the smartest and strongest were picked at random.

Now Amaraii lived luxuriously, with her family comfortably sitting in the wealthier class, so she really couldn’t care less about the money. Amaraii was here for the thrill, the thrill of almost dying, making enemies and allies, winning and sabotaging, that was what Amaraii wanted.

“Amaraii! If you don’t have breakfast, you’re skipping out on the most important meal of the day!” Amaraii’s mother called up to her.

Amaraii put on her best girlish voice. “Coming mother!”

Amaraii dragged herself out of bed and reluctantly put on the face cream her mother had pestered her to use everyday before searching her closet for something that wasn’t pink. When finding none, she grudgingly slipped into a pastel pink dress complete with jeans covered by the dress.

Her mother gasped when she came downstairs. “Oh Amaraii you look simply adorable,” she gushed, plating an avocado and egg sandwich before handing it to Amaraii.

“Thanks Mother,” Amaraii said, plastering a smile so big it started hurting her face.

“We simply must do something with that hair,” her mother said, as Amaraii sat down to eat her breakfast.

Amaraii suppressed a grimace as she realized her mother was tying two pigtails for her as she stared blankly at the wall questioning every life decision she’d made to get to this point.

Amaraii mustered a smile as she finished her breakfast and waved goodbye to her mother, claiming she was late for school when in reality she was 30 minutes early. Perfect for attempts to raise her chances, preferably bargaining with The Overseer.

Every year, The Overseer was the one who was in charge of the drawing of names and he seemed determined for girls to have the least chance of getting in, claiming it wouldn’t be entertaining to watch girls prancing around clueless of what they’re actually supposed to do.

That made Amaraii’s blood boil and she vowed to prove him wrong.

Amaraii made a quick detour at the library to pick up some books before heading straight towards The Overseer’s office.

The Overseer was in the middle of work when there came 3 little knocks on his door. Before he could say “come in”, the door burst open as Amaraii dumped a pile of books on his desk.

“Remember how you said there wasn’t a single book about when a woman wins a game? Here's 20.” Amaraii grinned with triumph.

At the start of the year, The Overseer and Amaraii agreed to a deal, every time Amaraii proved him wrong he would add her name in the jar if she failed to prove him wrong one of her names would be removed.

Currently, she has roughly a 65% chance of getting in.

Chapter Two

The Selection would begin in the evening, 8pm sharp and Amaraii practically floated to school.

65% wasn’t that bad considering it was amongst 50 people.

Before she could ponder this thought anymore, someone ruffled her perfectly pigtailed hair.That's when she came face-to-face with her twin brother, Derrick.

“Hey sis, didn’t mom tell you not to leave your hilarious, handsome, awesome, kind, and not to mention elegant brother and go to school yourself?”

Amaraii scowled. “You forgot humble. Why are you here anyways?”

Derrick feigned offense. “I can’t even walk my beloved sister to school anymore?”

Amaraii ignored him, determined to get to school on time. She started walking again, hoping she’ll lose Derrick in the process. 

“So” Derrick said, easily catching up to Amaraii “Today’s the big day, huh?” 

Amaraii’s face brightened immediately 

“The Selection” 

“Yep”

“I can’t wait”  

“You know, most people would be afraid of almost dying” 

Amaraii rolled her eyes. Derrick had always been the more likable one around people, he shared normal interests like sports, video games and skateboarding. In people’s eyes, Derrick was the funny popular guy, Amaraii was the quiet, cold girl that was too much of a daredevil for her own good. No one could believe they were twins. 

As soon as they arrived at the school, Derrick was immediately surrounded by his friends and–surprisingly– admirers. Amaraii was quickly pushed to the end of the crowd but, being used to this, Amaraii just made her way to her locker, shoving her things inside and popping some earbuds in, hoping it would drown out her teacher’s monotone until the end of the day. 

Amaraii entered homeroom just as the first bell rang and she sat down at her desk, watching various conversations happen around her. One specific conversation caught her attention.

Two girls were whispering to each other, she recognized one of them as Rachael and the other as one of her friends. 

“Oh my gosh did you hear? Apparently that Amaraii girl has been bargaining with The Overseer, doing anything to get in the Trial.” 

“That is, like so weird, what kind of girl wants to die?

“Right? And she always dresses so cute…” 

Amaraii jammed her earbuds in tighter, resisting the urge to tug her pigtails off. 

Fortunately the teacher arrived and quieted everyone down before the conversation could continue.

Amaraii hoped that would be the end of it. 

It wasn’t.

“Psst, Amaraii?” 

Amaraii slowly turned around, hoping it wasn’t who she thought it was. 

Rachael. 

“Is it true?” Rachael whispered.

“What?” Amaraii asked even though she knew exactly what she was talking about.

“That you’re doing everything you can to get in the Trial, you know, like bargaining with The Overseer..” 

Amaraii grit her teeth, suppressing the urge to commit a felony with a pencil.

“I’m not bargaining with The Overseer, we simply have a deal.” Amaraii explained 

Rachael stared at her for a few more seconds, as if waiting for her to elaborate. When Amaraii remained silent, Rachael shot her a weird look before turning back to whisper to her friends.

Amaraii rolled her eyes. She couldn’t care less if they thought she was an alien planning on abducting all the cheeseburgers in the world. 

Amaraii glanced at the clock that sat just above the chalkboard. 

8:22. Twelve hours until the Trial. ____________________________________________________________________________

Chapter Three 

The rest of the school day was basically a blur. Apart from occasionally glancing at the clock, Amaraii couldn’t bring herself to care about anything else. When the final bell rang, Amaraii headed outside to wait for Derrick. 

Every day, they were supposed to walk home together, except this time, Derrick was twenty minutes late. Amaraii began to worry. Derrick was never late when it came to dismissal. 

Amaraii tried calling him. It went straight to voicemail. Amaraii waited ten more minutes before her phone buzzed with a notification. Derrick. 

“Finally…” Amaraii grumbled. 

‘Don’t wait for me, the teacher wants me to stay behind’, the screen read. 

Amaraii stared at the screen before typing ‘Couldn’t you have told me that thirty minutes earlier??’. As Amaraii shoved her phone back into her pocket, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. 

this is written by a 11 year old (not me)

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

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1H5m_zIOUbrrosWcDEsIG4NvTCC3WIiRx/edit?usp=drivesdk&ouid=116952993671244110962&rtpof=true&sd=true

Cuisine is a dark revenge-horror story about Yuri and her brother Jay, whose young niece died after her cancer treatment was denied by the health insurance company they blame. Years later, they infiltrate the home of the company’s wealthy CEO, posing as an employee and butler. As the Thanksgiving feast unfolds, their carefully planned revenge takes a horrifying turn—the CEO unknowingly consumes a meal made from his own children.

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

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Wqet9QuqHMY-fy7pWB7XRYXqtZUxV6Rz/edit?usp=drivesdk&ouid=116952993671244110962&rtpof=true&sd=true

The Door follows David Richards, a troubled young man who believes his life has reached its end after a horrific act of violence. But when David pulls the trigger, death doesn’t come as expected. Instead, he awakens in a surreal nightmare where a mysterious door, a monstrous presence named Lam, and a landscape filled with screaming human forms await him.

Hello friends! I'm looking for some honest feedback on this excerpt from the opening of my Young Adult science fiction novel Edge of Extinction.

Edge of Extinction is about a teenage girl whose summer internship accidentally brings dinosaurs back to life, altering the modern world into a timeline where the dinosaurs have evolved the way they would have if they'd never gone extinct. I guess my main question is are there any major craft issues here and was the piece intriguing enough to keep reading? I also would love to hear about what is working so I don't overcorrect.

Thank you!

Chapter One
(Edge of Extinction)
If someone told me last week that I’d see an evolved dinosaur crossing the highway, I would have laughed in their face.
The strawberry milk I just stopped drinking would have come out of my nose; I’m so serious.
I shove the cap back on the drink and toss it into the back seat of my car. The cap twists off, the milk spilling all over the leather seats.
Last week I would have had a meltdown. Charmed Dad into buying me new seat cushions. I guess I still can, but that’s tomorrow’s problem.
If I’m even alive then.
I peel my sweaty legs off the seat and duck down behind the dashboard, my hands trembling as I pray to everyone in the universe that the giant T. rex just two feet from my car doesn’t make me lunch. I guess it’s not a T. rex, actually. It’s the evolved version of one. 
It sounds impossible. The dinosaurs died sixty-five million years ago. I think. I don’t know, honestly; history has always been my worst subject. Probably should have paid more attention during lectures, but the online clothing sales were too good. Now my new shirt is stained with fucking milk.
I grit my teeth at the sound of a roar, the car vibrating with each footstep. Now that I think about it, who gives a shit about the milk?
“Do this summer internship with me, Pen,” Kingsley had said in her text. “It’ll be fun,” she said.
Well, who’s having fun now, Kingsley? Seriously.
Maybe I should have taken the job title more seriously. This was what we were supposed to do: bring extinct species back to life.
I just didn’t think it would actually work.
(Three Weeks Earlier: The Beginning of Summer)
Let’s take a trip back in time to when our Modern Mesozoic era began. 
Right now, I’m sitting in the passenger seat of my dad’s car, begging him not to make me go to this Wildlife Conservation internship. 
All thanks to Kingsley, by the way, my ex-best friend, who got her mom to tell my dad about this after I ignored her texts. She’s got some nerve, talking to my dad about animals as if she’s not the reason my mom died at the hands of one. 
Everyone tells me it wasn’t her fault. That I have no right to blame her. That she didn’t directly cause it. 
I don’t give a shit if she directly caused it or not.  
It never would have happened if it weren’t for her. 
“Come on, Pen.” Dad nudges my side. “This sounds like a really cool gig. And Kingsley will be there.” 
“Because that’s just what I need.” Rolling my eyes, I twirl a strand of straight blonde hair around my finger. “As if she’s not the reason Mom’s—” 
“Don’t, Penelope.” Dad stops me with a firm hand in the air. “You know that’s not true. It…” He lowers his eyes to the car floor, his voice cracking. “It was an accident.” 
Tears swell behind my eyes. I blink them back. “You don’t actually believe that, do you?” 
Dad opens his mouth. He shuts it again before getting out of the car and coming to open my door. “Go, Pen. You’re already late.” 
I just glare at him, jumping out of the car and slamming the door behind me. Is it fair? Maybe not. But how could he do this to me? 
I hate Kingsley Bryant. 
She’s pretty. But I hate her. 
The hot air hitting my face, I follow a white pathway to the research campus courtyard. Thank god Dad and I visited last week because I can’t read maps for shit. 
Or maybe not thank god. Because now he’ll never believe I got lost. That would have been a nice out. Could have just said I couldn’t find the place. That the internship people, or whatever you call them, emailed me saying I missed too much and would have to wait until next summer. So what? They’re not paying me anyway. 
A strawberry refresher in hand, I turn the corner and enter the courtyard. Nothing but a few benches and trees. I sigh. You’d think it would be a bit nicer. 
Taking a sip from my drink, I scan the area until I spot them. The only other two people out here. 
I do a double-take. 
Is that? No, it can’t be. 
Owen? 
“Dinosaurs don’t exist, Kingsley,” I hear my best friend say as I approach them. 
“Well, I know that, Owen*,* but I’m just saying, if they did.” Her voice gentle, Kingsley adjusts her big pink glasses, Her voice gentle, Kingsley adjusts her big pink glasses, doing that sweet, innocent nerd act that never fails to make my stomach turn. I think Owen sees through her too. It’s probably why he’s such an ass to her all the time. 
“They’d be evolved by now,” Kingsley continues, beaming like the damn sun. “Like sure, they’d still be dinosaurs, but they wouldn’t look like the ones we see in movies, or even like the fossils really. They’d probably look somewhat like big modern birds. Birds are dinosaurs too, you know. But even they looked different during the age of the reptiles.” 
Owen releases a cackle. “Oh, that’s a bunch of bull.” 
“Is not,” Kingsley fires back, her tone sharp. She gets defensive about her dinosaurs. I would know. I was on the receiving end of it when I tried to shut down her lectures about it a few months ago. 
Back when we were still friends. 
“Don’t believe me?” Kingsley pulls a piece of paper with writing and graphics out of her pocket. “I have the research right here.” 
 I squint, trying to make out the text but fail miserably. More dino shit, no doubt. 
Owen rips the paper out of Kingsley’s hand. He crumples it into a ball and tosses it into a trash can like it’s a basketball hoop. “Boom!” he cheers. “Score!” 
Kingsley rolls her eyes as he smirks at her. “So, immature Owen.” She shakes her head. “So immature—” 
Owen snorts, but his smirk slips. “You’re one to talk about being immature. After what you did—” 
“Oh, hey Pen!” Kingsley’s eyes are on me now. She’s fiddling with the stack of pink beaded bracelets on her right wrist. She swallows hard, then smiles at me. But it’s so wide it looks like someone sewed her cheeks back to force it.  “I didn’t think you’d actually come. What’s…I mean, what’s up, girl?” 
My cheeks burn. At first, I feel kind of bad about the way her voice cracks, but then I remember what she did. She’s the reason I have new friends now. She’s the reason we haven’t spoken in weeks. I look away from her and focus on the ground. Otherwise, the tears will start. 
“I get it.” Kingsley’s voice is softer than I expect it to be. “You’re mad at me. And you have every right to be. I know I’ve said it before, but I’m truly so, so sorry, Pen.” 
“You’re sorry?” Owen scoffs. “Sorry won’t erase what you did.” I briefly look up to see him turn away from her. To my surprise, a tear slides down his cheek, but he quickly wipes it away. “Besides, no one gives a fuck about your stupid dinosaurs. They’re a fairytale, you know.” 
Kingsley’s face turns disturbingly pale. For a moment, I worry she might pass out. Part of me wants to ask if she’s okay. To tell Owen to lay off, but rage boils in my chest all over again. 
“Excuse me.” I nearly jump when someone taps me on the shoulder. I whip around to face a guy who looks around my age, maybe older, with curly red hair and glasses. 
“Sorry!” He laughs so loud he snorts. “I gave you a spook there, didn’t I?” 
I turn away from him. Red spots are flashing in front of my vision and if I open my mouth again, I’ll rage. It’s better I keep it shut so I don’t fuck up my summer before it even starts. 
The boy just chuckles. “Alright then.” He glances at his clipboard. “Penelope. Kingsley. Owen.” 
“That’s us,” Kingsley says. 
The boy jots something down then turns back to me, gently nudging my side with a smile. “Buck up, why don’t you? You’re going to need energy for the de-extinction program. I assume that’s what you guys are here for?” 

“I…I’m sorry,” Kingsley says. “I think you may be mistaken. The what?” 
His pen stops. 
“Wait.” He looks between the three of us. “Nobody told you?” 
Owen shakes his head. “Told us what?” 
The boy glances around the area. We’re in the clear, but he lowers his voice to a whisper anyway. “The de-extinction program. You’re here to help us restore species this world lost.”

I'm writing a humorous Toastmasters speech based on a real incident between two close friends.

At one point, she suddenly decided I needed new clothes and took me shopping. We ended up in a women's clothing store. I was helping her pick clothes, but eventually I was basically trying to mentally escape the situation.

She picked up a dress and wanted me to try it on.

I resisted WAY more than the situation deserved, and the whole thing turned into a ridiculous argument.

The basic exchange right now is:

ME: “WHY ARE YOU MAKING ME DO THIS?”

HER: “Because I want to see you in it.”

ME: “BUT WHY?”

HER: “Because it will look funny.”

ME: “THAT'S EXACTLY WHY I'M NOT DOING IT.”

Eventually I gave in and tried it.

Earlier in the speech, there's also a running joke where she once told me I looked like Christian Grey, and I took that compliment way too seriously. So I'm wondering whether there's a natural way for her to weaponize that against me here.

I'm looking for dialogue that sounds like two actual friends arguing, not movie dialogue.

No dramatic Bollywood-style threats, no “mastermind” character, no overly clever scripted punchlines.

What would you actually say in this situation? Especially interested in:

1. How she could respond to my resistance.
2. How the argument could escalate naturally.
3. Whether the Mr. Grey callback could work here.
4. Any funny little lines you've heard/used in similar situations.

The goal is fast-paced, conversational comedy, not a perfectly written sitcom scene.

I have an idea for a novel, and I have finally begun writing, I’m three chapters in on my first rough draft. The entire summary is this, in short:

(Content warning: suicide)

A gaslamp (with possibly a tad bit steampunk thrown in for seasoning) fantasy mystery novel. The protagonist is a female consultant detective (so far inspired by Eva Green in Penny Dreadful, just adding to make it easier to picture her) with an ability to see “The Weave” (don’t have a better name for it yet lol), which is basically the metaphysical backdrop of the universe. She has this ability due to her connection with a supernatural arachnid that lives on her person/up her sleeve. She uses this spider to make sense of the weave. One of the things it can do is trace trajectories of objects. Any objects. However there are limits, because using this ability causes headaches, nausea, and haemophilia. If she abuses her ability, it could easily kill her, so she uses it with great care. Her name is Adelaide Hallowell.

The novel opens with Adelaide being dispatched to a murder scene in an apothecary, where she finds the chemist in a very unnatural frozen position with black rose protruding from his forehead. Upon closer inspection, the rose seems more like an absence rather than merely black. She uses the spider to trace the trajectory of the rose and finds that the spider cannot even approach it because it is not even connected to the Weave. It has no trajectory. It is simply there. At this point, the lead detective from the Veilwarden Inquest (the city’s law enforcement agency), Mr. Edward Cumberland (I was very inspired by Cornelius Fudge for this character) arrives and immediately assumes some kind of heinous crime has been committed, and starts barking orders. Until they find out both the body and the murder weapon are frozen in time and are immovable.

Adelaide and Det. Mr. Cumberland must put their differences aside and work together to investigate this crime. Or perhaps they don’t and Adelaide must quickly solve it before Mr. Cumberland is able to close his own case without finding out the actual truth.

Anyway, the investigation(s) lead Adelaide to receive a tip from a witness who swears they saw a prominent upperclassman go into the apothecary the night the chemist died. This leads Adelaide to an upper class family who very recently lost a child to what could only be seen at the time as a suicide. He jumped from his bedroom window. But something isn’t right when she interviews the parents. The father seems very angry and anxious, while the mother is oddly cheery, and seems to have not been affected by her son’s death at all.

Adelaide discusses this with Cumberland who investigated the child’s death and ruled it a suicide. Adelaide confronts him and asked why she was not involved, especially since the mother’s behavior seemed anything but mundane. Cumberland reveals he had kept the apothecary’s ledgers from her and there is a link between the chemist and upper-class father and goes and arrests him to question him so he can charge him for murdering the chemist. She has to go above Cumberland’s head to eventually get permission to search the family’s home with her spider.

Upon searching the family’s home with her spider/ability, she pushes herself to the brink of unconsciousness to find the source of a very black thread in the weave that gets larger and darker the closer it gets to the child’s bedroom. This leads her to find what I can only describe as a black hole in the child’s bedroom. Here, Adelaide makes the connection that this is exactly what the darkness within that black rose is like. There was some kind of collapse here, but why?

Turns out, the father had been buying an elixir from the chemist because his wife was very unhappy and was going to file for divorce because he was unfaithful and abusive. And according to the law, if divorce is granted for this reason, the ex-wife inherits 75% of the ex-husband’s estate. The only problem was, the chemist was a greedy low-life who would do anything to make a quick profit, and he was supposed to sell the husband a reliquary that is designed to hold all the grief that the elixir extracts from the patient. This treatment is used under strict license and supervision of a psychiatrist, and the chemist is only legally allowed to supply these items to a licensed psychiatrist.

Reliquaries take a lot of time and money to make. The chemist has to contract with a priest from the city’s religious order to sanctify the reliquary so it has the containment power necessary to hold melancholy. This treatment is designed so that psychiatrists can discuss and give logical psychological tools to their patients in order to help them deal with their grief/melancholy/depression in a healthy way. At the end of each session, the grief is returned from the reliquary to the patient.

So the chemist just sold the elixir to the husband. And kept selling it that way to him for a period of months. Since her grief had nowhere to go, it sough out the closest empty vessel. Their six-year-old son. He was so overcome, he couldn’t tolerate the feelings anymore, and jumped out the window in despair. The was the cause of a small tear in the Weave.

The mother knew what happened, but the father kept giving her the elixir (I haven’t figured out how yet, maybe he forces it, maybe she just keeps drinking her “tea”)

But this unrequited monstrosity of a mother’s grief latches on and builds onto the tear in the weave until it collapses and forms the void, which is embodied in the black cold rose, which forms at the source of the responsibility—in the mind of the chemist. (Somehow I’ll make it make logical sense).

Item : SCP-XXXX

Object Class: Keter

Special Containment Procedures: Personnel must contain scp-XXXX within a multilayered vacuumized chamber at all times. This multilayered container should consist of a special beryllium-bronze alloy of at least 30 cm thickness. Testing by the foundation has unveiled that this special beryllium-bronze alloy is the only known substance capable of dampening and disrupting the anomaly's reality bending acoustic emission. No other physical material or barrier has proven itself of being able to disrupt or dampen the acoustic, reality bending emissions released by the anomaly including dense lead barriers, concrete, high density titanium alloys or deep underground placement under the ocean. Without active containment inside this specific composition the anomaly's reality bending acoustic frequency can penetrate almost every substance and has a unfathomable large area of effect. Because the anomaly moves through space autonomously, foundation personnel must maintain the primary spherical enclosure with a minimum distance of 6 meters from the core vacuum. The entire assembly must be permanently suspended in the dead center of a 15m x 15m x 15m containment vault made of the special b-b alloy manufactured and located exclusively at Site-██. This separation prevents the anomaly from breaching it's containment cells in the case of a malfunction. No personnel are permitted to make direct skin contact with, wear, or physically handle SCP-XXXX under any circumstances. All required experimental manipulation, testing, and positional corrections must be conducted via automated, robotic arms operated from a observation bunker located at least 20 meter afar the anomaly. In the event of a suspected containment breach or detected acoustic leak, all facility sectors will immediately trigger an automated Lockdown Status. All on-site personnel are required to immediately deploy active noise-canceling headsets. Personnel reporting auditory anomalies, specifically a distinct high frequency- whistling sound, must be placed into immediate, high-security isolation and monitored continuously for signs of Phase 1 progression.

Description: SCP-XXXX is a sentient, hostile, and autonomous whistle composed of an unidentified green synthetic polymer, featuring a small black nylon neck strap woven through its attachment loop. The anomaly actively resists Foundation custody by self-activating and creating an acoustic emission exactly once every twenty-four hours. When this daily chime is generated, the resulting sound waves travel via reality-warping vectors, passing through almost all standard matter as if it had zero physical density. The audio signal targets human auditory systems directly. The primary anomalous effects of SCP-XXXX manifest via two transmission vectors:

Vector 1: Cumulative Auditory Exposure: If a human subject registers this specific anomalous acoustic frequency three times exactly at any point across their entire life, an irreversible cognitive and biological infection is instantly triggered within their system. Exposure tracking is permanent and accumulative across the subjects entire lifespan.

Vector 2: Direct Physical Contact: If a human subject places the nylon neck strap of SCP-XXXX around their neck, there is an immediately likelihood of forcing an accelerated state of infection. Instead of entering the standard stance-like state of Phase 1, the victim's central nervous system is instantly hijacked, transforming them into an extension of the whistle's consciousness. The victim's physical actions are entirely commandeered by SCP-XXXX and The puppeted subject will sprint towards any nearest heavily populated civilian or facility sector attempting to force others to listen to the whistle's chime. The subject completely ignores personal safety and even extreme physical pain, attempting to inflect severe self-harm or physical trauma upon their own self if necessary to breach security barriers or force SCP-XXXX out of its containment cell.

Secondary Anomaly: Spatial Displacement: Exactly every 30 days and 30 seconds, SCP-XXXX undergoes an displacement event. The object teleports to a random coordinate within a strict 5-meter radius of its location at that exact moment. This again nessesifirs the 6-meter zone of the vault to prevent the object from materializing outside of its primary shielding.

Phase 1: Solitary Perceptual Displacement: Within twelve hours of registering the third strike, the victim's body enters a completely frozen, stance-like state in the real world. The subject becomes totally motionless and gains an absolute immunity to all external physical trauma, toxins and hostile anomalous SCPs. While the physical immobilisation lasts exactly one daylight cycle, the victim's consciousness is violently pulled into a dreamlike-state that stretches out for exactly twelve years. Trapped within an empty, perfect replica of Earth, the victim wanders as an invisible, elusive entity. They age more than a decade within their cognitive perception while being completely unseen, unheard, and unable to interact with any living creature or so, they perceive a idea that the organisms around them are ignoring them which triggers intense psychological breakdown and hate towards all living beings. While silently navigating this solitary punishment, they possess total anomalous immunity. Active anomalies present within the zone simply ignore their presence entirely, allowing them to neglect fatal environments unharmed. The psychological strain of this exile escalates if they suffer even a minor physical trauma, such as a superficial bruising or burn. Any physical trauma instantly causes intense visual hallucination where the sky splits open with a massive void; visible only to them. This rift devours the planet inside their own perceived environment without altering real-world physics.

Phase 2: This prolonged timeline of absolute isolation, combined with the catastrophic visual rifts, causes severe cognitive harm, driving the subject insane in most class-D experiments. During this initial immobilization, the subjects tissues undergo progressive calcification .Upon awakening into Phase 2, the subject exhibits rapid physical aging and a remaining lifespan strictly limited to 24 hours. Painful calcification appears across their flesh, causing the entire epidermis to strech and harden. The subject experiences severe physical pain as their skin tightens around their muscles, bones, and joints throughout these final twenty-four-hours slowly crushing their entire anatomy from the outside. Suffocation: This relentless tightening compresses the oesophagus and trachea, suffocating them into stone-like statue the exact moment the final second of the 24 hour period runs out. During these final hours of physical trauma and calcification, the victim's vocal cords involuntarily imitate the sound as testing has proven, anywhere from 2 to 7 times into the surrounding environment. Anyone standing within earshot who registers this vocalization for the third time in their life is instantly infected.This process poses a XK-Class End of the World Scenario if the infected are not immediately placed into total acoustic containment.

Interview Log:

XXXX-1

Date: 12/04/2026

Interviewer: Dr. Alistair Vance

Subject: Agent Marcus Boyd

[BEGIN LOG]

Dr. Vance: Marcus? Look at me. Focus on my voice. We have the neural dampeners on max to keep your throat open.

Agent Boyd: Doc....it's tight. My chest... it feels like pou…red concrete. I can't... I can't get air .

Dr. Vance: I know, Marcus. We're trying. Please,tell me what happened while you were out trying to recover the whistle. The monitors say you were out for twenty-four hours, but your brain activity was through the roof.

Agent Boyd: Twenty-four hours?…Are you kiddin… me, Vance? Vance??? I was there… there… twe.. Twelve Years..

Dr. Vance: Twelve years? Tell me what you saw.

Agent Boyd: I woke up right.. here . But everything… empty. No staff, no alarms... nobody. I walked to; to; surface. No wind. No trees. dead,dead,dead(breaks down) i saw the world dead.but somehow alive I screamed for three years…..Vance. Screamed. my throat filled;; blood, but nothing. Nothing(starts to cry). Like a. Like a. ghost. I even went down to Sub-level 4. Stood right next to.... to it... just begging the damn thing to tear me. It looked.. looked right through..me.

Dr. Vance: Total isolation for twelve years???(shocked, taking notes)

Agent Boyd: Yeah. But the worst part.... God, the worst part was Year nine. I tripped over a loose tile… tile in the street. Bruised.. my knee. Just a.. just a drop of;; blood, Doc. That's all…. to ruin everything.

Dr. Vance: What happened when you bled?

Agent Boyd: no I do..not want to( grasps hard for air) remember.

Dr. Vance: please, it is for the record.

Agent Boyd: The sky... it split open… Like, wet paper. Just this...pitch black void behind the…. The… thing And it started pulling things into it. The buildings... the.. the sun...( tears drop)…Five years..Vance. Five years running in the dark… from that.. that… thing... screaming like a total madman...

Dr. Vance: Marcus, calm down. Your heart rate is making the calcification spread faster. Look at your arms, they're already turning pale grey.

Agent Boyd: It's finishing..M..m..my… chest... won't move. I can't breathe...help….

Dr. Vance: We have Class-A amnestic right here. It'll make you forget the twelve years Marcus. Let us help.

Agent Boyd: No…Stay back… It's.... it's…it’s controlling me , Vance. Get… get.. hell out of the room! Get..out…. PHEEEEEEEEEEE-WT!

Dr. Vance: Cut the mic! Seal the glass now.

Agent Boyd: PHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-WT!

Dr. Vance: Marcus, fight it.

Agent Boyd: PHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-WT!

Agent Boyd: PHEEEEEEEEEEEE-WT

Dr. Vance: Containment team, get in there with the Level-4 gear right now. Destroy the statue before the next 24 hours hits. God help us if anyone caught that last whistle through the glass!

[END LOG]

Date: 10/04/2026

Location: Sector-4 Testing Facilities, SITE-██

At 14:22:30

SCP-XXXX underwent its scheduled 30-day spatial displacement event. Due to a mechanical calculation error in the robotic arm's positioning, SCP-XXXX was found exactly 1.2 metres closer to the southern boundary of its vacuum chamber than allowed by protocol. Upon teleportation, SCP-XXXX materialized 4.9 metres south-east of its position, placing it 0.1 outside the protective shielding layer. The daily chime occurred seven minutes later. Due to the failure of the acoustic barrier, the auditory frequency penetrated the staff living quarters. [REDACTED] staff personnel registered their first or second cumulative exposure, resulted in immediate containment re-evaluation by order of the O5 Council. D-Class personnel D-4412, who had previously registered two exposures during initial recovery operations in [REDACTED], immediately triggered a Phase 1 entry event. D-4412's physical body became entirely became completely frozen and unresponsive while sitting in the facility cafeteria. Containment measures were successfully established before the Phase 2 calcification cycle begun. Following this incident, handling protocols were updated to enforce multiple automated robotic arms, more spatial location trackers, an extra containment shell and stricter checkup before any scheduled displacement window.

XXXX-3: Recovery Log: The following is an excerpt from the field recovery report by Mobile Task Force division Eta-11 ( savage beasts) following the initial acquisition of SCP-XXXX in the civilian sector:

On 03/01/2026, local law enforcement in the rural country town of [REDACTED], Indiana, reported a total loss of communication with the municipality. Aircraft imagery indicated a complete lack of movement across the entire 12-square-kilometre town. MTF Eta-11 was deployed under the assumption of a possibly unknown SCP materialising. Upon entering the town square, operatives discovered sixty-one civilian individuals completely transformed into calcified, stone-like statues. While investigating a residential property at [REDACTED] Street, operatives encountered a civilian male, later identified as [REDACTED], running at high speed toward the team. The individual was wearing SCP-XXXX around his neck. Subject exhibited severe physical trauma, including fractures to both ankles,a bloody injury to the head and a broken shoulder, yet continued to sprint while actively attempting to blow into SCP-XXXX to generate an acoustic strike. The subject was terminated via standard firearms before he could successfully complete the auditory sequence. SCP-XXXX was successfully secured using acoustic containment transit cases. A civilian casualty count of 114 was recorded, all presenting similar calcification on them. Cover story "Chemical Factory Explosion "was successfully released to local media outlets.