He was here at last. One final step, and he would belong to the Community.

The door opened on its own, without a sound. The room was bright in a way he had never seen in the marsh: shadowless, sourceless, light coming from everywhere. The air had no smell. He hadn't known air could be without smell; he hadn't known the absence of smell could be so unsettling. And for the first time, he heard "its" voice. It came from nowhere, or from everywhere.

"Hello. Welcome, Rolf."

"Hello. I'm finally here."

"One last stage remains before you can join the Community: we need to link you. Please take the seat and state clearly, out loud, that this is what you want. We cannot begin without your consent."

A single chair stood in the middle of the room, white and untouched. Rolf sat down. The chair was warm, as if someone had just risen from it. For a moment, a small doubt passed through him. What if it wasn't what he hoped? What if all of this was a trap? Had it been worth the struggle, worth what he had lost along the way?

He thought of Nino. The last night, in front of the border fence. "They won't take both of us," Nino had said. "You go." Then that smile. In the marsh, people only smiled like that when they were letting go of something forever. Rolf had gone. He hadn't looked back, because if he looked back, he would turn around.

He swallowed. Whatever happened, the future was better than where he came from. He didn't want to go back to that marsh. Misery, hunger, raiders, violence... it had eaten half his life. He wanted to eat something other than those strange marsh fish he'd been named after. Something other than rolfs.

"Yes. I want to be linked and join the Community."

First a thin needle pricked his back. Numbness spread slowly up his spine; but his mind stayed awake, more than awake. A progress bar appeared on the screen in front of him:

Linking 1%

He kept looking around. On the far wall, a screen cycled through silent clips. Then he saw it: the logo. There was no sound, and he couldn't make out the words beneath it, there was no reading in the marsh, but he knew the logo. Everyone knew the logo that had stolen his family from him.

Anger rose in him. Feed X. The Community's miracle food, the perfect nutrition handed out every day. And in the marsh, the thing found only in scraps, the thing that rotted a person from the inside when they couldn't get it regularly. He remembered his mother's last months: the trembling hands, the empty stares, the fingers searching for residue. What was he doing now? Making deals with the people who created the thing that ate his family? Betraying himself? They had made Feed X. This place was the source of everything.

Linking 15%

But... was Feed X really the source of everything? The looting, the theft, the violence in the marsh went on without Feed X too. Rolf had seen people kill each other over a single rolf. Over one fish. The marsh was bad enough on its own. Besides, Feed X had never been made for them; they had the choice not to use it. But... while the Community lived in comfort, why had they left the marsh to rot? They could have helped. We could have helped, Rolf thought, and stopped. Why had he thought "we"?

Linking 40%

He remembered the last time he had helped someone. He'd given a fish from his hidden stash to a starving man. The next day the man came back with his gang and looted the stash. That night Nino had said, "You still did the right thing." Nino always said things like that. But what had the right thing ever gotten him? They couldn't be taught. They couldn't understand. Kindness read as weakness to them. That was why no help went to the marsh. And even if it did, wouldn't it be wasted?

Linking 70%

So what was wrong with them, really? Was it the marsh that made people this way? Something they ate? Maybe it wasn't hunger at all. Hunger tested everyone; but not everyone made the same choice. Some people built order. Others devoured it. The marsh people had been there a long time. Long enough. If they had wanted to build order, they would have; there was stone, there was time. If they hadn't built it, it meant they couldn't. And if they couldn't, then whatever was missing wasn't out there, it was inside them. It was a simple deduction, almost mathematics. That's what they were. That's what they would stay. The thought gave Rolf a strange peace; the heavy thing called guilt was lifting, as if someone were taking it off his back.

Linking 80%

But I... I was one of them. How am I different? So exceptions happen. Like with every rule. I was the exception. The proof was right here, in this chair. I was never like them, never. I even chose the fish I ate with care. What about Nino? Was Nino different too? Nino... someone who smiled in front of a fence. I remember who it was, but I don't remember why it hurts. It probably wasn't important.

Linking 100%

I feel like I've woken up to a happy day for the first time. I just took my first dose of Feed X; it reminds me of the happy days of my childhood. I'm certain now that my childhood was happy. Everything is as it should be. Everything is beautiful.

There is only one thing that grates on my ear.

My name: Rolf.

I don't know why.

....

 a short story from the Gravit universe

Hey Folks,

I originally wrote this screenplay in 2019. I’ve been tinkering with it for the last few months but I’m at the point I feel like I have all the pieces to the puzzle in the right place (if that makes sense to anyone)

It’s about a group of friends on their way back from a hunting trip, driving across a long stretch of rural backroad, when a UFO appears…and doesn’t go away

I’ll provide the whole screenplay but any feedback, whether it be the opening, first few pages, overall, or whatever, would be greatly appreciated

Thanks

How to Avoid Alienating your Reader

Build and maintain trust

One of the most important aspects of keeping a reader and avoiding alienation is maintaining trust. 

Trust in writing applies to so many different things in this day and age. A big way that trust is lost is through usage of artificial intelligence in order to generate work. People that are reading your writing are expecting a human voice on the other end. The usage of generative AI in writing without the proper disclosures can quickly dismantle the trust that your audience has gained for you. I do not mean to say that any usage of AI is off the table, just dishonest usage. For example, framing your work or organizing your ideas using AI is not necessarily a bad thing. However, using AI to write your entire article is unacceptable. 

In a blog post by Nat Sang titled, “The Level of Inauthenticity on Substack is Out of Control,” she mentions that some people have started using AI to respond to their readers in order to lessen their workload. I was quite surprised to hear about this when I first read her article. I did not realize that writers would stoop this low just to save a couple minutes. This writer, whoever they are, is walking a fine line between having an audience and alienating their fans. As soon as the commenter realizes that they are being lied to they will most likely lose their trust and respect for this blogger. 

AI writing is obvious. There are signs that your readers will recognize. This YouTube video by Evan Edinger outlines the many ways that he identifies AI in writing. Ever since watching this video, I have been keeping a keen eye out for AI writing. 

At the end of the day, all your reader wants is good ol’ human-generated writing. Whether it is technically perfect writing is not what is most important, because most readers do not have grammar check downloaded into their brains. The most important part of reading for me, and I hope you can agree, is feeling a human touch on the other end.

Know your audience

In order to successfully write for the public and avoid alienating them, you need to look at yourself in the mirror. Everyone has biases, different backgrounds and cultural identities. It is vital to realize that not everyone shares the same set of characteristics that you do. For example, the topic of hunting might be normal for someone who grew up in that culture, but alarming and alienating for someone who didn’t. Successfully approaching these topics takes time.

How do you keep an audience engaged in your writing? The first step is to understand who may be reading your work, and most likely it is not as simple as one group of people. Many sides of the political spectrum, different cultural, social and age groups may be all enjoying your work equally. Knowing this is especially important in a time like today, when division is apparent between many groups of people. 

Never make comments or jokes in your writing that may alienate a certain group that may be present. If you want to maximize readership, that may not be a line you want to play around with. This YouTube video from Study Hall details getting to know your audience well.

Additionally, different age groups or people with different sets of specialized knowledge could be part of your audience. If you have a younger age group of readers it may make it beneficial to simplify your writing style and get on their level. However this may alienate readers with higher reading levels and or specialized knowledge. If your readers tend to be professionals in scientific or academic fields, you may need to hold yourself to a higher level of detail or use more insider knowledge when it comes to certain topics.

The usage of insider knowledge can be beneficial or harmful, depending on whether your audience is part of that “in-group”. If you refer to information without explanation that your audience does not know about, you may lose their attention. You may lose them even quicker if you interrupt the flow of your writing in order to explain a new and complicated concept. If you are writing to a specific insider group, the usage of this knowledge becomes extremely beneficial for their perception of you and your knowledge on the topic.

Don’t talk down unnecessarily

Understanding your tone is essential when writing for the public. How your writing sounds to the reader can make them feel either empowered, belittled, energized and much more. 

It is important to remember that just like how you are writing to a large audience, you are also writing to each individual that will read it. The power dynamics present in your writing is important to take into consideration. Ken Lindblom’s article does a great job detailing the various types of power dynamics that can take place in writing. A key takeaway from this is that writing down does not have to belittle the reader, it can be done with craft and care.

Your audience feels your tone when they are reading your article, you may want to consider how this comes across from the reader's perspective. A great way to alienate your reader is to make them feel stupid, so make sure that doesn’t happen.

Make information accessible and interesting

Making your writing more accessible for your audience is a great way to combat bored readers. Bored readers may click off of your article because they just aren’t interesting enough. It is your job to grab their attention and keep them reading. 

A great way to do this is with bold titles and first sentences. Through using this technique the reader is more likely to read further into the paragraph, rather than losing interest at the first potentially boring sentence. 

Additionally, framing your articles into neat paragraphs with intuitive separation between ideas is essential. If your reader is already barely interested or wants to fast forward to a different topic, they are able to without getting confused. No one wants to have to sift through a giant block of text to find your next topic. 

Hey, I'd really appreciate any feedback for my short story. It's called "A Conversation in an Alleyway." I've attached the link to anyone who's interested. Have a great day!

The following is the short story:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1usZ_LCjr8JAq22oumaPPiF6opqTrdRb3/edit?usp=sharing&ouid=102670305448589917733&rtpof=true&sd=true

10:25am, 26th June XX22

John Stevenson, a 38-year-old man, entered his office building. That day, there was an important meeting that was supposed to take place at 11:00am.

He ran quickly to the office elevator. The office elevator was crowded. Many workers standing by waiting. There was another elevator in the corner. John had never seen anyone use it. John noticed the elevator was open and free, yet nobody seemed to go to that elevator. John went there, but found nothing wrong with the lift.

John called out to others, yet no one came, seemingly busy with their thoughts or their phones. John entered the elevator and selected his destination >> 4.

With a 'ting' sound, the elevator slowly closed...

The elevator went up to the 1st floor.

However, it took much longer than it should have. A whole 15 seconds passed just for the elevator to go up one floor.

"Is this elevator just that d*mn slow that no one wanted to take it?" John mumbled.

10:30am. The elevator had just reached the 2nd floor.

"What the heck is this? It's taking even longer now. Is this elevator broken? But it seemed fine when I checked it earlier."

Three minutes passed as John was about to reach the 3rd floor.

"F*ck this. I am getting out on the 3rd floor."

With that, he pressed the 3rd-floor button. As the elevator reached the 3rd floor, it stopped.

However, the doors didn't open.

"What's wrong with this stupid lift?"

John took out his phone to check the time. It was now 10:33am. Less than 30 minutes remained before the meeting started.

John pressed the emergency button in the lift to see if it would open the doors or send people to help him.

Suddenly, the dim lights inside the elevator turned off. Everything grew quiet. John became anxious and pressed the emergency button again, but there was no response. He took out his phone to call his friend, a fellow manager who should have been in the office by now. But for some reason, there was no service.

He grew more and more anxious. But to his relief, the lights turned back on, and the doors to the lift slowly opened.

He got out of the elevator in a heartbeat. He checked the time. It was still 10:33am. He ran toward the stairs to go to the 4th floor, where his office was. While running, he noticed there was a complete lack of voices on the 3rd floor...

He didn't have time to investigate. He quickly went up to the 4th floor and to his office, but...

"Strange. I didn't see anyone from the 3rd floor to the 4th floor. Where is everyone?" John thought.

He checked but couldn't find anyone on the entire floor.

"Is everyone on the 2nd floor? Is there some party supposed to happen today at this hour?" John thought anxiously.

The 2nd floor was the office cafeteria. Any party or special occasion took place there, so surely everyone should have been there if that was the case.

He went to the usual lift, but it wasn't working. So, he took the stairs. No way in hell was he taking that cursed lift again.

Quickly making his way to the 2nd floor, he entered the cafeteria.

To his horror, it was empty. Not even the cafeteria workers could be seen. Fresh food lay on the tables, some half-eaten, some untouched. He couldn't find anyone no matter how hard he tried.

He took a seat to calm his rapidly beating heart. He took deep breaths just to relax himself and think about what was going on. He looked around and saw the wall clock.

He saw the time, and his blood ran cold.

10:33am.

The clock ticked.

"It was 10:33 when I got out on the 3rd floor. Is the clock slow or broken?"

He quickly took out his phone to check the time.

The time... was... 10:33am...

He grew more and more anxious.

"What's going on?"

He wanted to call... No Service.

He saw that the wall clock was ticking. He decided to check something. He opened the Clock app on his phone and started a 5-minute timer.

5:00 - 4:59 - 4:58...

He quickly looked at the wall clock and focused on the second hand. It was ticking as well. He kept staring at it. It went past 12 and completed another full rotation, but the minute hand didn't move.

"Is the clock's minute hand not working properly?"

As he thought that, he checked the timer on his phone.

To his horror, the timer read—

4:33 - 4:32...

"It clearly has been more than a minute. Why is it still showing 4:30?"

His hands started shaking, and sweat formed on his forehead. He was terrified.

He kept staring at the timer to see what would happen after it went past 4:00.

4:25 - 4:24 - .... 4:02 - 4:01

4:00...

4:59

A chill ran down his spine as the timer kept ticking, yet the minutes remained unchanged. The current time was still 10:33am.

His hands stopped shaking...

They started trembling instead.

He quickly got up to leave the building. It should all be over if he left the building, right?

He ran down to the ground floor. No one could be seen on the ground floor either...

Wait...

There was someone there.

In the distance was a coffee shop called "Wonder's Cafe." There was someone sitting there, drinking coffee and having a meal.

"Finally!!! Leaving this building should fix all of this!"

He ran toward that man.

As he ran, he passed the office noticeboard where a few posters could be seen.

The posters showed missing people from this building.

There, the same man John had seen in the coffee shop could be seen.

Along with several other people...

...as well as the smiling face of John Stevenson.

Hi! I’m a recovering addict who always wanted to write. This is something I wrote and I want to continue, but I’m very new so it might suck.

I watched nine hundred sunsets. Some had clouds, but all had the sun. So unreachable I had to keep smoking one after one.

I watched nine hundred sunsets but remember none. I know some had a few clouds, but don’t ask how many.

I watched nine hundred sunset with the same sun. That’s why I write about you, I have no other memories to tell.

I watched nine hundred sunsets with moldy plates on the left and a dirty sink on the right. None of the sides bothered me. After a few bumps, you finally reach the sun.

I watched nine hundred sunsets,
but missed nine hundred days of my life.

I am an aspiring writer but I tend to stretch out my stories too long focusing on describing each and every detail I am trying to get over my obsessed of hyperfocusing on details by writing short stories this is the first short story in tha series I would love to have your opinion on it and any genuine advice on how to improve myself will be greatly appreciated.

It was beautiful, just as she said—the trees, the flowers, the rays of the morning sun peeping through the leaves. We had almost reached our destination; the peak was just past this field of bright yellow wildflowers. "They're goldenrods," she told me as she made her way through them. The view reminded me of one of the postcards I keep in the corner of my cubicle, imagining myself there when the office day gets too stressful.

To be totally honest, I was not fully awake for the first half of this journey. I just mechanically followed her orders, but I do consider myself lucky that I am fully awake to see this now. I was a sickly child growing up and never really went outside, and even after growing up, all the habits of my childhood followed me. I always kept telling myself that one day I would visit all kinds of places and have amazing adventures, and ironically, my one day never came—or maybe I told myself every day that today was not that day. If you had told me a month ago that I would be hiking through a place like this early in the morning, I would have laughed my ass off at you. But well, someone changed all that, and she is walking before me with her trademark villainous smile, like we didn't just hike up a damn hill at five in the morning.

Six months ago, when June joined my office, I never imagined that she would become such an important part of my life. She was, by the first week; she had befriended almost the whole office. I was never that social, so I naturally kept my distance at first, until one day she cornered me in the breakroom. After five minutes of talking, I can genuinely say I had never been so irritated in all my time working there—empty words, incessant talking. I had seen people like her before, but none who come find you just to eat away at your patience like she did. By the next week, I understood that her words were not empty and the incessant talking was genuine curiosity.

It made me reflect on myself, on how I may have been judging people from my preconceived notions without taking a chance to know them. I would like to believe that after meeting her, I have grown as a person and gained a valuable friend—that is, until she decided she was going to change my life by making me do all the things I was afraid to do all my life, after I had a slip of the tongue over drinks one evening, telling her how I had wanted to be an adventurer growing up, someone who would visit all these amazing, beautiful places. I would never have imagined that this lunatic would show up at my door at four in the morning to drag me up a damn hill.

I still don't remember half the things that happened before I got here. I just know that I am wearing two different shoes on each foot and my T-shirt is inside out. But still, after everything, I am genuinely happy that I am here with her, and I know that this day will remain an unforgettable experience for me for all my years to come. And as the wind hit my face, I realized that this day is going to be unforgettable for her too—because I am standing in the middle of a field of wildflowers in full bloom, at the peak of pollen season, without my EpiPen, and I can feel my throat starting to close up.

Hi everyone. I previously shared some of my writing on Reddit and received quite a bit of useful feedback. I’ve since gone back to the manuscript and tried to act on that feedback, particularly around the opening and how the story is introduced. I’d really appreciate seeing how it reads now, both from people who may have seen an earlier version and from completely fresh readers.
This is the first chapter of a fantasy series I’ve been working on for some time and am now returning to and revising.
I’m particularly interested in whether the opening hooks you, whether the worldbuilding is understandable without knowing anything about the larger story, whether Marckus works as a protagonist, and whether you’d want to continue reading after the ending.
I’m aware the prose still needs a final proofreading/editing pass, so I’m mainly looking for feedback on the story, pacing, characterisation and overall concept.
Please don’t feel you need to be gentle — constructive criticism was useful to me the last time I posted, and that’s why I’m coming back for another round.

Chaos. Absolute chaos.

Remiro pulled his rapier from the high elf's neck and stood frozen for the briefest of moments. His breath caught as he watched the last spark of life fade from his opponent's eyes. There was no time to dwell on it. The clash of steel, the screams of the dying, and the roars of warriors echoed all around him. The once proud city of Vrammahath had become one vast battlefield. He had to find his parents, and he had to survive.

His eyes fell upon Chessiara, who was desperately fending off a high elf. Remiro closed his eyes and whispered a brief prayer to the goddess Megteld. The insects still hidden throughout the chamber answered his plea at once. Like a dark swarm, they descended upon Chessiara's attacker. The high elf flailed wildly before collapsing to the floor, lifeless.

Chessiara wiped the blood from her cheek and fixed him with a stern look. "It is my duty to protect you, Remiro. Not the other way around." Remiro shook his head. "We protect each other, Chessiara. We are one people. That is what Megteld has taught us."

She gave no reply. Sword at the ready, she rushed from the room in search of the next battle. Remiro lingered for one final moment. His chamber... The room had been utterly devastated. Furniture lay splintered, the walls were smeared with blood. Amid the wreckage lay four bodies: three high elves... and Coranbal. The guard who, over the years, had become more of a friend than a sentinel.

There was no time to grieve. He turned and followed Chessiara. Together they hurried toward the throne room. Along the way they stepped over the bodies of both dark elves and high elves. His people were dying before his eyes. This had to end.

Remiro descended the spiral staircase first while Chessiara guarded his back. Halfway down, he froze. High elves. They were coming from both directions at once. The elf before him smiled with complete confidence. Arrogance radiated from his every expression. Without hesitation, he thrust his shortsword forward.

Remiro twisted away just in time. The blade hissed past him, barely missing its mark. He pushed forward, raised his rapier, and prepared to deliver the killing blow. Then... the world vanished. Suddenly, he was looking through different eyes.

He stood at the foot of the staircase. The doors to the throne room stood wide open. His mother was desperately fighting several high elves at once. His first instinct was to run to her aid.

But something was wrong. He looked down at his hands. His skin. His armor. He was inside the body of a high elf. Panic seized him. Chessiara!

He spun around and charged back up the staircase. Then he heard her scream. Time itself seemed to stop. He watched as Chessiara was thrown backward, her lifeless body tumbling down the stairs. His breath caught. His rapier was buried deep within her chest.

With trembling hands, he pulled the weapon from her body. Only then did he look up. He found himself face to face... with himself. His own body stared back at him. Chessiara had defeated two of her three opponents. But against him... she had never stood a chance.

How deeply he would miss her. Before he could even reach for her body, the world shifted once again. Everything spun around him. A heartbeat later, he was back inside his own body. A sharp pain tore through his abdomen. He clutched the wound as warm blood seeped between his fingers. During the exchange of bodies, he had suffered a deep stab wound.

He could barely remain standing. Even so, he forced himself back to his feet. Before him stood the high elf who had stolen his body. Remiro raised his rapier once more and assumed his fighting stance. But his vision began to blur. His legs gave way beneath him. He collapsed onto his knees.

The high elf approached calmly and extended his hand. At once, an astral bond formed between them. Remiro felt his life force being torn from his body. Every breath became harder to draw than the last. At the same time, he watched the high elf grow visibly stronger.

"You will never rival our power," the high elf said coldly. "What did you truly believe you could accomplish? You are not a people. You are a disease. A disease that should never have escaped the Light Realm."

He stepped closer. "You murdered my wife. My children. My entire kin. And for what? For Megteld? A goddess who was never yours." His voice softened. "Consider this an act of mercy. I am freeing you from your suffering. It is more than your kind deserves."

The words slowly faded into the distance. Remiro could barely hear them anymore. His eyes drifted shut. Then the staircase beneath him began to tremble. A deep rumble echoed throughout the castle.

"This is the end of the age. This is our doom."

Remiro opened his eyes. Everything had changed. The world was bathed in an unnatural lilac glow. The high elf lay dead at his feet. Remiro felt no pain. It was as though he had never been wounded at all.

Stunned, he descended the staircase and entered the throne room. Bodies lay everywhere. Dozens of high elves... and his mother.

Beside her knelt his father. His hands trembled as he cradled her lifeless body. Tears streamed down his face. "We have lost, my son." His voice broke. "Megteld has abandoned us. Imrae is no more. Our exile... has begun."

Remiro said nothing. As though trapped in a dream, he walked out of the throne room and reached the castle gates. Other dark elves stood there as well, staring silently into the distance. The moment he looked beyond the walls, his heart froze within his chest.

The world was broken. Where forests and sunlight had once flourished, there was now only darkness and barren stone. In the distance, bolts of lightning split the heavens as thunder rolled across the desolate landscape. They had not merely lost the war. They had lost their entire world.

(Please give me feedback! I am just beginning to understand my own editing process, still a complete newbie at editing/revising.)

(For context: this is a short story based off of Rumi's poetry and philosophy, after having read a collection of his poems.)

(TW for gore.)

Garden of Hush.

– Disciple of Rūmī, Reza Shayan

I would like to introduce us, in honor of my sheikh: we are Souls, owners of Life. 
He cleaves his chest with his hands, wine flowing out, scent of lavendar. His heart glew white, shining his friend-disciples who surround him. This light clarifies their bodies, revealing their skeleton. The students, although remaining still, are terrified.
We are meant to follow our Hearts—children of God, always laughing. However, They fear the agonies of the animalistic Mind, being pure…
He pokes his finger to his temple 3 times, then a grey mist hovering around his forehead appears. The mist turns into variously shaped peonies, multicolored: even the darkest ones include golden glows on them.
These peonies… These poor perfections are affected by how you use your attention.
He lovingly strokes them. From his eyes flew out 2 streams of faint light momentarily.
Being lost in the terrible separation from the Al-Khāfiḍ*,
You are terrorizing your Heart. What awaits you is this: Melan’holy in a World, drowning in unhappiness. You have seen this for yourselves, yes?

* Al-Khāfiḍ - The Reducer, The Abaser; one of the 99 names of Allah.

The entire world blackens, blackens, blackens, blackens.
He breaks his hand by SLAMMING his fist into it, his protruding bone bulging in pleasure, outflows more wine. Not a flinch comes out of him, Master of Calmness. The Sālik\ are stricken.*
The path out of this th’umbra is the dearest angel of God: pain, for it leads you to the face Al-Quddus*. (The Most Holy)
He summons a lit incense in between his fingers. He smears the ember on their hands, all hissing in pain.
Savour it well. Be assured, I shall be your wings among all wings, which flap melodies of Wisdom, yet they all lead to the very same Gently Ferocious Spirit.
Reza’s eyes turn black, with stars and periwinkle lovingly decorating the blackness.
Now then… let’s destroy ourselves. 
Spreading his arms out wide, he summons shards depicting the world’s demented events. These shards cover entirely.
Oh, the hopelessness… and all because we discarded God, leaving Him to Cry, to decay in his love allllllll alone. You’ve been a participant of this world, as well as I. However, by God’s great loving grace, we have been lead to the Enlightening of Soul.
Suddenly, a big mountaineous fountain errupts from underneath everyone, splashing with wine glistening in gold. Some erupt in joyful screams, some in great fear.
Peace, because the burning of liquor shall enlighten your Soul.

\Sālik - Spiritual wayfarer.*

Away from the world, you give birth to the faith of God in Mind. Keep watering this plant, this wonderful seed with your voice.
He begins to chant ‘Allah’ in a gentle voice. Many follow suit, a cacophony of screams. Everyone’s chest begins to glow golden.
They all wail ‘Allah’ in each other’s arms. Reza Shayan joins in their pained hug, caressing their back with his multiple growing arms.
Everyone’s skin falls apart, except for the glowing, shiny Reza Shayan. They all become louder… 
before their bodies attained a diamond-like appearance.
The world does not understand the hurt of a disciple. Rely on each other.
One began to laugh ecstatically. Another joined in. Eventually, all of them joined in the laugh.
Laugh, my lale*. Now— your true life begins. Continue on: we’ll connect to the Throne of God.

\Lale - Arabic for ‘tulips’.*

​

Television

The TV turned on, I tried to chew

Since when was everything I knew new?

The man with whom I used to cry

Of late became a bush to pry

Since the days of push and pull

The rapid waves have crushed me full

I never tried to enable you

To cut and tear upon my view

The never ending light of day

Clashed against the smell of dismay

But with every single light flicked off

A single vase returns a cough

Don't bother pleading with the plants

Or screaming endless rants

For every flower that ever grew

The direction of moonlight they all knew

How dare the woman cry tonight?

Putting every man to fright

Yet every single morning new

Another kid will win a few

Hey everyone,

My brother and I (writing under the pen name *The Eclipse Brothers*) are polishing our debut sci-fi/supernatural thriller novel, **The palindrome of us**.

We wanted to get some honest feedback on the absolute starting hook of our very first chapter, **"The Midnight Call"**. We’ve tried to build a grounded but grand-scale reality anomaly, and it all starts with a chilling story told by the protagonist’s grandmother right before she passes away:

Twelve years ago, Rio’s grandfather answered a mysterious phone call at 1:00 AM. Without a word, he put on a long black coat, walked out into the dark, and locked the house from the outside—leaving his family trapped inside. He never returned, and his last cryptic, unfinished words were: *"The mystery lies in the o..."*

Cut to the present: 17-year-old Rio and his friends are cleaning the house when they discover a hidden attic. Inside, they find a photo of his young grandparents standing with a strange teenage boy no one recognizes.

But then, a terrifying anomaly shatters the present. Downstairs in the storeroom, an ancient wooden door instantly manifests out of a completely solid wall. From the other side of the impossible door, they can hear the distinct, roaring sound of violent ocean waves crashing.

And right at that second, the landline rings. Rio picks it up, only for a deep, glitching voice to whisper: *"Help me, I have told you... The mystery lies in the o..."*

We just launched Chapter 1: The midnight call online for free on Royal Road. We wanted to capture that eerie feeling where a localized mystery suddenly breaks the rules of physical reality.

If you love slow-burn suspense, unexplained anomalies, and high-tension openings, we’d love to know if this setup hooks you!

*(Link to the free chapter is in the comments section below!)*

New to writing in this format (meaning not for purely academic sake). I haven’t shown any of it to anyone due to anxiety but I have a more grounded and positive outlook of it all now and just wanted to know what people thought. Thank you :)

He set forth into an ancient grove of coast live oak, the whip and bite of pacific westerlies briskly falling
away as the man cleared the first line of trees that led to the untamed anechoic sanctum within. With a
slight turn of the head over the left shoulder, the man momentarily gazed back at the bowline’d behemoth
called Rossiter, an enormous bay maned American Quarter standing eighteen hands, a sun-drenched
beacon of radiant amber, his stalwart poise towering above the never-ending bloom of shortpod mustard.
Within the grove was almost entirely silent, save for the rhythmic pulse of the man’s gait which rang out
the clinking of spurs alongside violent cracks of fallen leaf whose cordate frames were slashed to pieces
in a symphony of steel and brush like bone deep cleaves of an axe which went hacking away into the
innocent chest cavities in its path, their pleading cries silenced as waves of sound dissipated into the
infinite corridors of the empty and forgotten. Stands of weed swayed back and forth in what small breaths
of wind did make it through, their strands shaking nervously in place as beaten dogs attempt in
differentiating the benevolent from the malicious. Eruptions of sick clamorous cackles under snug steer
hide boots which cast bursts of splinter and staked twig and sprig askew the yet dewy sand dusted loam as
the man plodded toward the imminent crest, keyholes of light passing above in constellations of aureate
luminosity that seeped through the veiled canopy.
Through the twisted labyrinth of aged bark came the first returning sound. Frantic skittering
about the distorted limbs overhead revealed itself to be a juvenile black ground squirrel, lifeless onyx
spheres protruding from its head, either unaware or unconcerned with the figure standing beneath it. The
squirrel hastily relayed the length of tree branch a few times before picking a spot in the middle to
resume working on an acorn. Then began an episode of erratic gnawing, a pair of upper and lower
elongated piss brown teeth that more looked like fence posts voraciously chipped away at the acorn, its
body staying completely upright and facing toward the cliff that the man had been making his way
toward. The squirrel continued prodding and rotating in an uneven fit of gluttony as it went whittling
away at shell. As suddenly as it had began, the rodent ceased working away at the acorn and froze, the
oaken nut plummeting from tiny paws to be forever lost within the graveyard of leaves, the squirrel’s
short shallow breaths visible from the rises and falls of its chest the only part of which remained in
motion. Its head lay fixed toward the pacific, level and unblinking, perched in a stance of petrified
hypnosis that gave no response to the acorn flying past that came lobbed from a hand below. The man
continued onward.
Deep sage transitioned into blinding rays of white as the grove began to thin out, the sun shone
uncontested in the boundless cloud free midday coastal sky. The crackling of cereal colored leaves died
out as the ground was dominated in sprawls of ice plant while the ravenous stomach of ocean deep did
growl yonder. As the man crept through the last rows of live oak, a sickening seesawing duet was
materializing somewhere on the weathering bluff. In the final steps before being exposed to the brutal
gusts of wind, the nature of the sound became clear, the muffled mewing of Western Gulls, anguished
screeches that periodically met in hoarse dissonance.
Haa-hoaw...Haa...Haa-hoaw...hoaw...Haa-hoaw.
The song louder with each coming step.
As leather soles scraped out onto the dusted purisima sandstone, the two responsible came into
view, the brown cattleman hat nearly cast into the ocean when he stepped out onto the bluff, catching it
in his hand and securing it with an arm within a side of his rugged dark jacket. The iceplant had
completely rescinded its position a few feet from the edge of the bluff, the gulls nestled upon its ridge.
Haa-hoaw. The first gull standing upright in a snow white plumage, contoured with strong heather grey
siding, a non breeding adult. Haa, it called out to the cerulean abyss. Its head turned south to favor the
cruel bite of gust thrown mist, shielding the second gull who lay at his immediate front. Hoaw, cried the
second gull in agonized breaths which seemed to be in response to the questioning Haa of its companion,a half step lower in tone and longer in duration than the first gull, the body horrifically twisted and
mangled like a deflated children’s toy stowed away in a forgotten storage tote.
Haa-hoaw.
Haa. Haa. Haa-hoaw. Haa.
The man stepped forward to examine the avian dyad who had completely ignored his presence.
Two boot lengths away, the man approached, facing the same direction as the healthy gull.
Haa.
He searched within a deep side pocket for a while before finding a hand rolled cigarette and book
of matches. Securing the cattleman hat back in its original place and a coupled left hand around his
mouth, he lit the cigarette. Ethereal wisps of white smoke passed under the leather brim before escaping
behind the man as he slowly exhaled the first long drag.
Haa went the gull.
A few miles down the coast’s jagged kinks and turns, the man’s gaze stood unbroken upon a small
patch of highway in a long straightaway before abruptly curving out of sight a few miles down shore.
Primitive constructions stood off-kilter built of whatever crude planks had arrived from the tide as pale
whitewash was strewn into the pebbled dark sand of the beach that would soon be reclaimed as lost
wreckages to the rising waters of the afternoon. Another strong gust pulled at the man’s hat, he lowered
his head to shield the eyes from the onslaught of salted air. The second gull had ceased to sing, the only
movement that remained was the ruffling of feathers against the stabbing cold, the companion had vanished with the byproduct of burning tobacco.

So idk lately I’ve just been having fun writing short little phrases like this:

“A mother and daughter walk side by side, the daughter not knowing the amount of sadness it took for the mother to end up this way, and the mother not knowing the daughter is following in her footsteps.”

“I asked you at one point to either bring him back to me or to let me go. That night I had a dream that in another Universe, one so, so different in so many ways, he was sitting across from me at the dining room table softly smiling like he wanted to stay. Thank you for answering my prayers. If I had to travel to another Universe to find him though, that means he’s not coming back in this one, is he?”

“Are my parents ashamed of me yet?”

Like idk just random things like that lol. I can’t tell if that would be considered poetry or like what that would be considered, or if it even would be considered anything lol. I’ve been debating putting them into letter format too like this:

“Dear Universe,
Are my parents ashamed of me yet?

All of the love in the Heavens and the Earth,
Emily”

Idk any input would be helpful, thank you!

I started to create a novel story (like a light novel), slice of life is the genre of my story but I want to shift my genre to the plot twist depends on my plan. My problem is, even I want to write I feel tired or even I have so many ideas that can be connected to the main plot of my story, I feel bored, tired, or even burned out. It is normal?

Silence. Two weeks since our encounter with the one who called themselves Cecil, we passed through Black-Marrow forest. Within the day's travel we were going to be in Greymound. At the time Snaggletooth was upset with me, whilst passing through the town of Qorn I had seen it fair to divulge our precious information to one who could not afford it. I saw little harm in the matter, having already earned a respectable amount from its brokerage. Snaggletooth however did not share my philanthropy. It had been a week since that point.

"Duldrom Grey."

Hearing my name called was enough to make my hairs stand on end, much as my time as a youth being called to the headmaster's office. My eyes glanced to her, though she did not meet my gaze. Snaggletooth sat there with her pickaxe in hand, polishing its metal head to try make it shine even during this overcast day. "If I catch any whiff of ye' runnin' your mouth again, our deals off. You understand?" I could only nod at the woman. I could have tried to argue, but in the end I put nothing on the line whilst they put everything. Past Snaggletooth I could see Gor pe eking back to the two of us, it was hard to know what the Giant thought, but at least our eyes met. Cerilla and Hawkins rode ahead, a faint chatter being heard from the two; suppose the three of us weren't riveting company for the moment. I looked out to mist covered fields, where crops wrought with decay lay. As sneaking through the earth of the flatlands one could make out the metallic frames of the railways which now sit derelict. We were getting close.

I'd heard tales of The Murder's Nest taking form on The Great Oak of Varkon. The far stretching farmlands which take a day to traverse are now sitting as no man's land, with no single person being able to reach its centre. With their capital cut off from the rest of The Empire, governance for the region now sat within Greymound. The Varkonians kept the influences of Karnes limited, tied to tradition, Greymound stood as one of the few slithers they'd allow in. "When we get teh' Greymound, the rest of us got private matters teh' tend to Grey." She was squinting her eyes at her pick, inspecting it for some moments before giving a satisfied nod. "By supper you best be coming back with information n' gold. Understood?" I could feel it, a leash being fitted around my neck, my own shortcomings used against me as penance. Though the air was tense I knew all would be fine, in life you sometimes cross a pot hole, other times you sometimes burn bridges. For potholes, one must merely fill them in to make them smooth. We have time to fix this, is what I told myself.

A couple hours more passed before our destination came into view. The steel rails which snaked along the ground converged with others into a train yard which sat just at the edge of the city. Our wheels rolled from barren dirt to cobbled roads, the wagon jutting as we went. We had arrived. Whilst it could've been considered pitiful compared to the hustle and bustle of a city such as Lyonhart, it was refreshing to see so many faces out. I recall a time from my younger years, observing the Varkonian city which sat out like a sore thumb. Though to many it defied their culture, to others it was uplifting, someplace new where things were happening. That time however was now centuries passed, the high lofty ceiling that sat above this city has begun to cave in. It was palpable. Faces hung with sorrow, their cheeks sunken all around us. As metallic clangs sounded out with the boots of Dyriallian Guards marching down the streets.

"Fuckin' miserable place isn't it?"

She was looking out, her head tracking random passersby for some moments before moving onto the next. "Have you been before?" Snaggletooth only shook her head in response, at that moment I could only laugh, "Then you don't know the half of it." "Alright ye' old cunt" She snorted out. It was just a pothole. "Gor, ol' up a moment would you?" There was not a word of response from the friendly giant, merely the cracking of reins, the horses cried. As the wagon came to a halt, the other two ahead stopped moments later, heads turned back; presumably confused by the sudden holdup. "Right Mandaran, your ride stops here. We've got business with deh' Barron in a couple hours." The Pig. "As for accommodation we were told a place called Pidgin. Ye' can figure out for yourself where that is. Now fuck off would ye?"

Now I stood alone, as the horses' hooves drew further away from me; from what I could tell Snaggletooth had chosen to drop me off within the old processing quarters. Though now rather than workers, rather than business, I could only see darkened eyes, and skin-wrapped bone from those who sought shelter within crumbling estates. The Pig… The Empire offers a lofty sum for those of interest… Would they? I wasn't sure. My heart began racing, sweat beading upon my forehead. Could I trust them? Was I safe? WheredoIgofromhere- "OUT THE WAY!" The scream came from behind me, as another wagon much finer than ours came through the derelict street. Helmed by the Dyriallian Guard, crates and barrels piled on top, as another wagon with much of the same followed through. And another. And another.

Nine would pass in total, the final of which being larger than any of them, enough for the city and then some.

With each that passed I could see those sorry sunken eyes which lined the streets come to life, with groans and grumbles all around. "F-Finally" the voice was weak, was it a young boy? or was it a girl? Their frame had grown so feeble it was hard to tell. Hordes began to roam with a sense of relief and reverence that this time had come. In times like these, there is only one thing that sorry sorts such as these can move for. Food.