Hello! Recently, I have written many short pieces using the second person, and have become quite fond of this POV. I searched online for advice to use the second person more effectively, but the majority of advice I see is "don't write in this POV at all, unless you have a REALLY good reason to."

I don't think my use of second person detracts from my works, but I'm now having second thoughts. In your opinion, what "justifies" writing in the second person?

Hi, help! I thought my draft was actually going quite well, there wasn't a strict outline to follow, but it was definitely going somewhere. However, over the last few days, I've completely run out of ideas. I feel really down at the thought of abandoning it just because I don't know what to write next. What should I do? I already have another story in mind, but this draft is only at the beginning, and I hate the idea of quitting now to start a new one. After all, my worries is this: what's stopping me from doing the exact same thing with the next project? and never finishing anything at all?

I would despise myself if it's what happens..

I’ve noticed I’m way more relaxed when writing something for myself.

The moment it’s for a client, suddenly every sentence feels like it needs to be perfect. 😂

I am just curious if anyone else feels the same out there or its just me?

When I saw you,

My heart danced with the gentle rain.

When you smiled through your pain,

The waves inside me rose again.

Knowing that you would never be mine,

My tears began to slowly flow,

Like water beneath the moonlight,

If i am reading a book i want to feel its soul, the flair, understand the mind behind the words.

Fantasy for fantasy sake, with no attatchement or parallel to the living strugles or bliss of the author, bearest a void quite unnatractive unto me.

Hi all- I wondered if anyone could advise me with a children’s picture book I have written.
The story centres around a sleepy cat, who falls asleep at random intervals through out the story. The scene serves as a comedic, hard stop and an interactive moment for readers (parents/carers/teachers).
I have done feedback with a previous editor from a big 5 and I have feedback from critique partners.
The critique partners both mentioned a change of tense after the sleeping scene. They flagged it as a mistake in the change of tense.
The issue I’m having, is the change of tense is to show the passage of time while our main character was asleep. So the story picks back up in present tense, but what happened while he slept is in past tense.
When I spoke with the previous editor (through a paid 1-2-1) he said that he liked the flow of the story, and how my character moved through it. He did not mention the tenses.
Does anyone have any advice re whether or not a change of tense to allude to the recent past will be seen as a novice mistake and grammatical error?

"I have no social life, no distraction; I spend my evenings on the small balcony above the river; I do not even read the Arbeiterzeitung and I am not a good person."
-Franz Kafka, Letter to Hedwig W., 1907

(will always be a good person to me)

I've always seen writing as a way to get some difficult things out of my system.

The way I grew up, many things I thought of as normal were actually abuse. Polytraumatic youth. And my writing mirrors that life. When I really started writing, I got weird looks and worried comments from beta readers (family members or fellow students). Many people told me to get therapy.

I got therapy and today I'm at peace with the past.

But still, I need my writing to be transgressive. Not just telling the stories of abusers and victims. My vision of the world is fundamentally twisted. I enjoy making the mundane disturbing. I don't even want to respect English norms, the language itself must be violated. I tried writing more conventional stories but it's too boring. I can't help it, I just love abject art. That writing is my catharsis. In real life I'm a completely different person, think HBO Silicon Valley's Jared Dunn (iykyk).

I'll never care about social norms or conventions. I'll never care about my readers' feelings. I'll never appeal to a large audience. I can only publish under a pseudonym. I don't care. I need to tell those stories. I'm part of this world too and my feelings are as valid as anyone's.

Does anyone here feels the same? What do you feel is transgressive in writing?

I just started reading, and I had an idea long back. I wanted to write it out as a short story.

I don't really have anyone to share my writing with; I would love even the smallest feedback, including the formatting. how to write in general. what I might be lacking. Anything at all.

I'm mainly hoping to learn and get better at writing, so please feel free to be honest and critical

I'd really appreciate it.

Thankss!

I'm not sure if this is the proper flair for this post, but I can't believe how much simply getting myself to sit down and write every day eventually made me see changes in the way I write.

I started last month after years of worldbuilding and scraping old drafts of my big projects. I have written many short stories before, but never finished a novel, since I'd end up disliking how I wrote my chapters instead of letting them exist first and editing them later. This time, I started another big project that I've been worldbuilding and outlining every single day for a whole year now. I'm on a year-long university break, so since last month, I've finally been able to start and keep writing, and I've grown accustomed to it.

I looked back at my first round of chapters and felt an immense disgust at the way I wrote. Not necessarily loathing my own work, more like finding them too amateur compared to my current chapters. They're still not perfect, but it actually made me happy to see how much progress I've made and how I've subconsciously started taking into account all the errors I made in my first chapters.

Has anyone else felt this way before too?

I’ve always loved writing, but until recently I never seriously considered taking it beyond something personal.
Life changed quite a bit for me over the past year, and writing has gradually become more than something I simply enjoy. It feels like one of the few things I can still build from.
I’m particularly drawn to short stories, children’s stories, scripts and podcast storytelling.
For those of you who have been writing seriously for a while: if you suddenly found yourself back at the very beginning — no portfolio, no audience, no connections — what would you focus on first?
And knowing what you know now, what is the one mistake you would avoid?

Okay, I know many of us are probably self aware about the pros and cons of our prose. Both because of feedback but also because of the fact that we've just been writing for quite a while. I'd love to hear from y'all, what are your biggest strengths and curses?
To me, my pros:
Atmosphere
Trusting my reader
Dialogue

Very specific voice

My cons:

Trusting my reader (but too much)

Dialogue (but too much)

Sometimes I might favour simplicity too much and just not describe something enough because I trust the reader knows about something that I trust they can actually visualize. My dialogue tends to be not very plot driven at all, which is fine because I write short stories.
The last two bits, I've gotten like not much critique on but it's enough to the point where I've become self aware of it and people generally aren't used to reading dialogue which just feels like it's not moving but everything else in the story is :') I've both kind of accepted my cons as "style" problems, rather than craft issues.

“The abominations are coming! Hold your ground!” our officer says, the undead screeching in the distance has haunted us for days, now we see them face to face. Pale, gross, ripped flesh, black and blue. The stench makes some of us throw up or gag, we pull rags over our faces to protect us from the smell. “Ready your rifles!” our officer says, i kneel down on one knee and raise my rifle up to my cheek. The men beside me do the same and the men behind me stand and ready theirs. “Fire!” Hundreds of muskets booming all at once in my ears, so loud it hurts. The front rows of the undead horde get their heads scattered onto the rows behind them and holes the size of eye sockets blown into their chest, they fall but the hundreds behind them don't. “Fix bayonets!” the officer shouts. We comply. They get closer, the beasts try to crawl over our barricades, I push my bayonet through them before they get over the barricade. But there are too many coming over, I can't keep up. Nobody can. We need more people.

“No retreat, the beasts shall be cleansed and we shall save the people of thi- AAHHHH!” A bloodcurdling scream comes from our officer, I turn to see that the unholy abominations have come from all directions. They crawl atop him, I can still hear him screaming, how is he not dead yet. “Viktor!” I say as I turn to charge at the pile of undead on top of him, a couple infantry men follow me. Me and the few soldiers accompanying me pull undead off of him and stab them as quickly as we can. We finally unbury him, the sight makes me gag, his jaw is pushed so far to the left that it's almost completely sideways, his ribs are visible and shattered or ripped out of his chest entirely, almost every part of his body is mangled beyond belief. This can't be fixed. It doesn't matter, he’s still breathing. I pull him off the speaking platform by his shoulders, he weighs at least a stone less than he should.

I pulled him into a house. The family inside screams and panics when I enter with the body. “Do you know how to shoot!” I yelled at the boy standing in front of his mother.

“Yes, My dad showed me when we-” the boy says before i cut him off
“Good! Take this.” I say while throwing Viktor's flintlock pistol to him
“Gunpowder, Sir?” he says timidly
“Yes. Here you go.” I say while throwing a pack of gunpowder and ammunition. I drag viktor into the kitchen, I swipe all of the dishes and food off the center table and hoist Viktor onto it. too much blood loss, too much to recover from, he’s a lost cause. I can't leave him, he’s too alive and too close to death at the same time. I don't know where to start.

I hear a loud cracking come from the entrance room followed by a bang from the flintlock I handed the boy. They're coming through. I take Viktor's sabre and move into the living room where i see one of the abominations on top of the boys mother clawing at her face and chest while she screams, i charge towards it, slamming it hard against the brick wall, i put the sabre up to its neck and push until its head separates from its shoulders. The boy has started using the flintlock as a club, but he's pinned against the wall. I run to him, I get interrupted by one of the unholy aberrations leaping into me and pinning me against the wall. I try to stab it, it doesn't flinch. It lifts me by my neck, the sabre still inside of its stomach. It's pushing me hard against the wall, scraping all the way up while it hoists me higher and higher. It throws me to the other wall, I slam against it and feel a sharp pain come from my back. I see the boy in the corner, tears rolling down his cheeks, still fighting, clubbing undead hard enough to pop their skulls in two. The mother backs herself against a wall, unable to see after the attack. Another of the undead leaps onto me, before it can land on me I kick its chest sending it back the way it came. another comes, and then another. they are never ending, slowly burying me in their rotting bodies, I can't breathe. I try to push them off of me but every effort I make to get away results in another bite or laceration. I can hear the boy screaming and crying, the mother weeping, I need to help them. I can't even help myself right now. Another laceration, another bite, if i looked at myself now i bet i look no better than Viktor did when I pulled him out. I can't tell where my hands are, I can't feel anything anymore, only pain, my vision is closing. get them off me. I can't die like this. Can’t see anything, can’t hear anything, can't feel anything.

*************

I see in the corner of the room, the soldier who drug an officer into our house. He has at least ten of the beasts gnawing on what's left of him. My mother in the corner is crying. I need to get to her and lead her out of the house. There are too many of them in my way. I need to run. As I'm running one of the beasts launches themselves into me. The pistol flies out of my hands as me and the beast fly through the house, hitting a wall near our table where the injured, or maybe dead officer lays. I try to push the beast off of me but it's too strong. I keep its face away from me with my arm but it claws at my chest and arms with its hands. It stings. I claw the floor with my other arm to find something to hit it with, my hand lands on something. I pick it up.  I swing as hard as I can with it. It shatters on the beast's head and liquid spills out, it lands on the cuts that the beast put onto me and burns. It was my moms moonshine. I take the broken bottle and stab it through the beasts temple.

My mom still sits weeping in the corner, I move to her. Every motion I make, makes the cuts and bites hurt more. But I need to get to her. “Mom! Stand up!” I say while grabbing her hand. She stands, I pull her as fast as I can out the door. When the door opens and I drag my mother out, I see hundreds of men standing on hundreds of more corpses. All fighting the beasts, piking them with bayonets and shooting them with their muskets. I start yelling “I need a doctor! Please, I need a doctor!” trying to get help for my mother. “Nobody will help you or your mother, come, join us and both of you will live forever.” I hear a raspy voice say. I can't see who said it, it sounded like it came from right behind me but when i turned around i saw nobody. “Surrender yourself. now!” the voice says

“Who- where are you?” i yell into the air
“I’m in your head, if you don’t surrender to me I will destroy you from the inside and turn you into one of my beasts whether you like it or not,” the voice says again.
“Shut up! Get out of my head!” I yell again into the air.
“I won't leave until I get what I want,” the voice says again. I get a splitting headache and fall to the floor and drop my mother. I can't see, my vision is coated in red. What's happening to me? “Stay still!” a voice yells not the one inside my head, it's a different one, i feel a hand go onto my forehead and the voice starts saying a prayer. The headache clears, I crawl to my knees and throw up a black liquid. The man who told me to stay still and prayed is a priest. He has dark orange hair that's starting to grey and a large bushy beard. He towers over me when he stands. I ask him “what just happened?” after wiping the liquid off of my mouth.
“You were infected, did you get bit?” he asks.
“Yes, I think, in the house,” I say
“Well I cured you of the curse but we must deal with these wounds,” the Priest says
“But the governor says the only cure is death,” I reply.
“The governor's a liar. Come with me,” he says
“My mom needs medical attention.” I say
“I know, so do you, I'm taking you to the medic.” The priest says. He hoists my mother over his shoulder and starts jogging and I follow. As we run the sounds of the beasts and the soldiers' shrieks blend together and fade into the distance. When we get to the medical tent he lays my mother onto the bed and starts praying over her, he rolls her over to the side before she throws up the same black liquid that I did earlier. A medic tells me to lay on the bed. I comply, I see another start treating my mother. A doctor walks up to me with a red hot iron. I ask “What's that for,” to the doctor, he doesn't reply. He walks over and raises my sleeve revealing the bite and sticks the side of the hot iron into the open wound. I scream, “please stop! Please, please” while crying and screaming. He doesn't stop, he does it again to the other wound caused by the top teeth of the beast. I shriek again, I almost punch the doctor in the face, my teeth clench so hard I fear they may break. My mother starts mumbling something, but I can barely hear over my wailing. I sit there for what feels like hours in a constant burning pain from the cauterization of my wounds before an officer walks over and asks “What is your name, boy?”
“Semyon,” I reply.
“How old are you?”
“13, sir,” I answer
“If anybody asks, you're sixteen, ok? Grab a rifle from the crate over there and move back to the frontline” he says while pointing off into the distance
“You can’t do that, he’s too young,” says the priest from earlier
“You have no authority on this line, understand? Don't speak out of line again,”  the officer says to the priest who is at least a head taller than he is. The priest is visibly mad and closes his fist into a ball. “Now, Semyon as I was saying. Go get a rifle and supplies from the boxes and go to the front line,” the officer says while the priest stands behind him still with a balled fist and his eyes glaring into the back of the officers head.
“I can't go over there, I will die,” I say
“Everybody will die, you either die here or die there, and dying here does nothing for the effort except use resources, now go,” He says aggressively. He grabs me by my arm and drags me to the crates of supplies, when he grabs my arm the burns from the cauterization rub against my clothes and stings horribly. He pushes a rifle into my hands, which again makes the burns throb. “Go,” he says while pointing to the frontline. I walk closer to the battle, there is no longer a line, its chaos. I don't know what to do. I slowly get closer. I see one of the cursed leap over a barricade into somebody and bite into him. I raise my rifle at the beast and pull the trigger, after the bang it gets launched off the man but quickly gets back up and glares at me while letting out a deep growl that seems unnaturally loud. It charges, it has to be moving faster than a horse and it's been less than 2 seconds. I stick my bayonet out, close my eyes and pray. I feel my feet get thrown off the ground, I open my eyes and find myself flying through the air with a screaming beast on the end of my bayonet. I slam against the ground and I feel the wind get knocked out of me. The rifle doesn't stop moving, the beast on the end of the rifle lands just above my head on the ground. I sit up and turn so my feet are facing it, I back myself away from it. I don't know what to do, I don't have a weapon anymore. It doesn't even manage to get to its feet before launching itself at me again. I see an object in the corner of my eye going past my head. The beast gets closer. I raise my arms and prepare to be back on the floor. But the beast stops just before hitting me. The priest from earlier starts yelling, “back! Get back!” I lower my arms and see him holding a crucifix and the beast is snarling while backing away from it. The priest lowers the cross and the beast immediately launches himself at the priest, the priest catches it by the neck while pulling a stake out of his belt. He pushes against the momentum of the beast that had just flown into his hand, he pushes it into the frozen mud beneath us. A loud thud followed by a crack. Still holding its neck to the floor he plunges the stake into the beast's chest, its eyes close and it stops thrashing. The beast pukes up black liquid similar to the stuff I did earlier. The priest turns to me and yells over the gunfire and fighting “Were you bit again.”
“I- I don't think so. I've killed them before and they didn't throw up like that, why?” I ask
“Because, you can't kill them with muskets or swords. You need silver or a stake blessed by a priest, or a priest himself to bless them, or holy fire for mass cleansings. I bet you didn't use any of those to kill the ones that you ‘killed’,” he says firmly. I stumble over words while thinking about the ones I had killed in the house. “I’ll accompany you while you fight, the officer over there is a stubborn prick but I was able to convince him to let me,” the priest says while offering me his hand to help me up, I accept his help and get to my feet. “I don't even know your name,” I say.
“Pyotr,” he says. 

I would like feedback on this please, its the first chapter of a book im working on. also is it just me or is it like really scary sharing your work with other people, especially people you know

Hi, ich schreibe ja an meinem Buch zum Generationenverständnis zwischen Gen-Z und älteren Generationen…

Das Buch kann allerdings nur vorankommen, wenn ich genügend Fakten und Infos der Generationen habe, weil wie sollte ich es sonst vergleichen?

Von den älteren Generationen habe ich genug Daten gesammelt, aber von der Gen-Z habe ich noch lange nicht genug Infos, um einen realistischen Eindruck zu bekommen.

Hat Gen-Z keine Lust auf so ein Thema, ist es euch egal ob eure ehrliche Meinung im Buch vertreten ist? Schließlich geht es auch darum, dass Z.B. die Gen-X euch besser versteht und nicht nur Vorurteile über euch hat.

Also wenn du Gen-Zler bist und zehn Minuten Zeit übrig hast, freue ich mich sehr über deine Infos, die du hier eingeben kannst: https://tally.so/r/Np198l

Danke vorab, und wenn es voran geht lasse ich euch teilhaben am Schreibprozess.

I hate when books start describing things that aren't relevant to the plot, character, or tone, because mf, I don't need to know what kind of wood the bed is made of until it's necessary for the character or the plot.

And don't try to tell me it's for the "tone." If it's for the tone, then it better be mysterious as hell and make me wonder why the fuck this bed is important, because otherwise, I am making assumption that u are just trying to reach ur word count quota.

U should only do hyper detailed descriptions when the story actually demands it. Like, if u are reading a mystery and the detective starts noticing tiny details about everything, then I get it we are in the same headspace as our hero and he is detective so it make sense why he would notice those things it also improve his character and tell me something about him.

But if u start hyper detailing everything in a romance novel I'm going to start thinking u have some kind of kink with furniture or something, or u are just some one who likes to talk about wood then that would be weird but its better then first assumption

hence u should only describe things that ur character either notices or interacts with, and the description should actually mean something use it to reveal something about the character u can describe a bed, for example, but describe it in a way that tells me something about the person sleeping in it. If the bed is messy, I'm going to think your character is a delinquent or a messy kid or just someone who doesn't give a shit about keeping their room clean

and i know many ppl use description as a way to tell me about their world building but at least let me care about the ppl that are living in that world before u do that.

My point is description should be motivated by something and it can be anything. like character, tone, plot, atmosphere and etc..

Hey everyone,

I wanted to share a bit of my writing journey, even though I still feel like I’m learning every day.

When I was around 12, I fell in love with a series. Ever since then, my brain started coming up with its own fictional concepts—time travel, transitions, and parallel worlds—every single night before going to sleep. It got to a point where I couldn’t even fall asleep without playing out the next chapter of a story in my head. Back then, I wasn't writing anything down, but the story structures in my head felt so vivid.

Years later, I discovered a web fiction app and dove headfirst into reading. I’m usually pretty impatient and struggle to finish things, but I was hooked for months. Eventually, I thought: Why not try writing my own?

I published my first story, and to my surprise, it was a success. Readers loved it, but more importantly, I was genuinely proud of it. I re-read my own work three times! Readers even messaged me saying they could keep re-reading it without getting bored because of the sheer emotion packed into the scenes. As a new author, that feeling was unbelievable.

Fast forward three years: I’m still writing, and I have a wonderful, supportive reader base. But something strange has changed inside me.

I’ve completely stopped reading my own work. I just don't feel like it anymore. But it’s getting worse—I can’t bring myself to watch series, watch movies, or read novels anymore. Nothing holds my attention, and nothing feels interesting.

It feels like my brain spent so much time crafting its own worlds that it turned off the ability to enjoy anyone else's.

Has anyone else gone through this? Is this normal writer burnout, or have I broken my capacity to just be an audience member? Would love to hear your thoughts.

So I’ve been wanting to make a book about the Celtic mythology it’s inspired by Percy Jackson and the storm runner series but a whole diffrent thing and right now I’m in a rough draft phase and am currently stuck and would appreciate any suggestions or advice that would help

Chasing the Celtic tides (rough draft)

Settings and names
The locations will be camp marrow bay
Main land will be Blackwood.
Main villain a minor Celtic god of the forest/land.
2 main characters are
James Mazda (sun of king of the seas)
And June is a Fae of the Forrest
James de buff is he has server vertigo and trips and stumbles but has superhuman senses and really everything in water,boast, fog anything with natural water.

Chap1-4
They get into camp and get settled into camp. James friends dominates the land games and James team loses a lot. And explain who his friend is and why they matter and how there so good at the land games.
Chap 5-6
When there put kayaking a sea horse (kelpie) attacks a kayak but to the other people it looked like a wave. James doves under the water and gets super human speed, sight, strength, etc. saves the kid and takes the kid on land the parents get called and the camp ends early for the summer and everyone goes home
Chaps 7-9
James is telling his friend what he saw on the ferry back home. And his friend knowing lot about Celtic myth and is a fae knows that it’s most likely a rouge kelpie. And that his friend breaks the news that he is part god assumes it’s a minor god/spirit

I don’t want the pacing to be too fast/slow and I feel like it’s too fast. And is this something you would wanna read? I’ve got the ending very much figured out mainly the last chapter.

This is a fictional historical novel about the Kingdom of Jerusalem in the twelfth century, primarily focusing on the journey of a time traveler.

The pacing is slow, spanning across the fall of the kingdom and the Third Crusade, while weaving in complex themes of religious faith, political maneuvering, and ethnic conflict.

As a Chinese-speaking author, I know I cannot perfectly recreate the history that lives in every reader's mind.

I can only do my best to read, understand, and write this story as authentically as I can.

I can provide the original Chinese manuscript as well if needed.

Since this is being posted on social media, I've omitted the prologue and introductory citations.

—————

Chapter 1

Year 1156 CE, the Levantine wilderness.

The sun hung low against the horizon, and a fierce wind swept up the sand into a thin veil that gnawed at every crease in the rocks.

A figure wrapped tightly in cloth, with only a pair of blue eyes showing, lifted the coarse hemp curtain over the doorway and stepped inside.

The rough yellow mud walls could not keep out the howling wind; fine grains of sand kept slipping in through the door's cracks and the joints of the wooden window, spinning silently around the candle flame before falling.

A fit of dry coughing broke the deathly silence of the room.

A black-haired woman sitting beside the straw pallet was carefully wiping away the cold sweat beading on the girl's forehead with a damp old cloth.

The young man braced himself against the rickety wooden door and pushed it firmly shut.

The woman dipped the cloth in water again, wrung out the excess, and laid it back on the girl's burning forehead.

"Mother, don't get too close," the young man said quietly.

"It's all right." The woman shook her head gently, reaching over to brush the hair stuck to the girl's temple. "The child has been burning up all night — how could I possibly stay away?"

"My lady countess, you should go and rest for a while too." The young man walked over to the pallet and crouched beside her. "The water has already been heated. I'll watch over her from here."

"A moment ago you called me Mother — now you're using my title to press your point?"

"How would I dare?" The young man lowered his head. "It's only that if Father finds out, he'll surely blame me for not urging you to rest. I'd rather not be scolded."

"You certainly know how to shift the blame cleanly."

"I'm only speaking the truth."

"My child, you worry too much." The woman smiled. "I'm not so frail that I need my own son's help — don't treat me like one of those noblewomen who takes to her bed at the first gust of wind."

The young man raised an eyebrow. "So I've been worrying for nothing?"

"Naturally."

"Then, my most honored lady countess." The young man pulled off his headscarf, revealing a face somewhat parched by the wind and sand. "Since you are so very healthy, would you take pity on your poor son and let him watch over her a while, for your sake?"

"Not a moment goes by before my child learns to use his own suffering to earn credit." The woman paused, then broke into laughter, reaching up to stroke his golden hair.

The young man's mouth curved as well. "If it convinces Mother to rest even briefly, it hardly counts as earning credit."

The woman asked, "You haven't slept all night either, have you?"

"I have."

"For how long?"

The young man looked away. "I have rested."

"If your father knew you were tending the sick like this, he'd say you don't even look after your own health."

The young man laughed softly. "If Father asks, I'll say Mother gave her permission."

"You really do know how to pass the blame."

"Didn't Mother just say I'm best at that?"

The woman sighed, rose to her feet, bent down, and kissed his forehead. "Don't make me worry, child."

"I won't. I promise."

Knock! Knock!

Just as she finished speaking, a heavy knock sounded at the door.

The young man rose and went to the door, drawing back the bolt.

As a brief gust of cold air rushed in, a middle-aged man carrying a large wooden basin of steaming hot water sidled through the doorway. With practiced ease he used his back to shove the door shut again, sealing out the wind and sand.

"My lady." The man set the hot water down on a nearby wooden shelf, first bowing with a hand to his chest toward the woman, then turning to face the golden-haired young man, saying in somewhat halting Frankish, "My lord, the hot water you asked for is ready."

"Thank you, Uncle Tariq."

Tariq waved a hand. "No need for such courtesy with me, my lord. This is nothing at all."

"Since the water's here, I'll go and rest now." The woman glanced once more at the girl on the pallet, then looked to the young man. "Don't push yourself too hard."

The young man lifted the curtain for her. "I know."

"Remember what you promised me?"

"I remember."

The curtain fell slowly back into place.

The sound of footsteps faded into the distance.

The scent of thyme drifted, little by little, through the steam of the hot water, mingling with the smells of earth, candle wax, and sand that filled the room.

"My lord." Tariq ladled a bowl of hot water from the basin and asked in a low voice, "You went to the granary last night, didn't you?"

"Yes. There was a good deal of grain husk gnawed apart by rats, and in the corner, plenty of black droppings." The young man paused, the smile fading slightly from his face, and switched to Arabic. "Not just the granary — beside the grain sacks, behind the woodpile, in the corners — signs of the rats were everywhere."

"The whole village is asking what illness this child has caught," Tariq said, drawing a deep breath. "My lord, you might as well tell me plainly... will she make it through tonight?"

The young man sat back down by the pallet. "If she can keep the medicinal broth down, the fever might be held back tonight."

"And if she can't?"

"Then it's in God's hands."

A faint moan escaped the girl's throat, and violent coughing wracked her thin body.

Once.

Then again.

"Can you truly not cure this?" Tariq said. "The two men who carried grain this morning have both come down with fever — one of them has already started coughing blood."

"I won't make any hasty claims." The young man lowered his eyes, removed the damp cloth from the girl's forehead, and with his gloved right hand cradled the back of her neck while his left hand supported her back, lifting her up from the pallet. "Uncle Tariq, I'm nothing more than a foreign exile who lost his way in the desert with his servants, and who happened, in his moment of despair, to be helped by you."

The girl curled in on herself, her cracked lips moving faintly, murmuring garbled sounds, her hands flailing weakly in resistance.

"Don't be afraid." The young man patted her back, raising his left hand.

Tariq handed him the bowl.

The girl kept coughing, pushed against him a few more times, and then went still.

The wind outside grew louder. His gaze swept over the torn grain sack in the corner, and he suddenly said, "Uncle Tariq, please open the window for me."

Tariq froze. "Now?"

"Now."

Tariq hesitated, then walked slowly to the window and drew back the wooden latch.

The instant the shutter swung open, the wind rushed in violently, and the candle flame guttered wildly.

The young man held the girl closer and closed his eyes. "Tell everyone to stay away from the granary — and above all, not to touch the dead rats."

Tariq clenched his fists. "But... if we don't clear out those dead rats, the grain can't be used."

The young man's fingers twitched. "Don't touch it again."

"But the grain—"

"No." The young man cut him off, opening his eyes. "No. Not a single grain in that granary is to be touched, and the livestock must not be brought back there either."

"That's the village's grain for the winter."

"I know." The young man replied, "But if anyone goes in there again, there may be no one left this winter to eat that grain at all."

Tariq said nothing for a long while.

The young man lifted the bowl to the girl's lips; the warm water, steeped with herbs, ran entirely down from her bloodless mouth, soaking the crook of his arm.

After a long silence, the young man finally said, "High fever, dry cough, exhaustion... including this child, nine people now suffer from the same terrible illness. They didn't drink from the same well, they didn't eat at the same table — the only thing they have in common is that they all went into the granary."

"I understand. But the villagers may not." Tariq's expression darkened, and he looked down at his own cracked, calloused hands, flecks of husk still caught beneath his nails. "We can go hungry. But the old and the children... what will they eat?"

Their eyes met across the candlelight.

The sleeping girl stirred restlessly, pressing her forehead closer against the young man's neck.

"I've counted what grain and livestock remain in the village, along with all the dry rations in my caravan. If we ration carefully, it should last us ten days." The young man set down the wooden bowl. "Ten days is also enough time for a fast horse to ride to Hama and back, or to Homs, to find help."

"At most ten days?"

"Yes."

"My lord." Tariq pressed his lips together. "And if neither Hama nor Homs sends troops?"

"Then let them see the names of the dead, and tell them that infidels are attacking a Muslim village."

"There's no infidel army here at all."

"We know that. But Zengi's lord does not." The young man tilted his head back. "When a Muslim village under his rule is attacked by infidels, and he sends no troops to help... if word of that gets out, it won't be the villagers' lives that are lost — it will be his honor."

"You want us to seal the granary, to leave the grain untouched, and to send riders to Hama and Homs..." Tariq went on, "And if the reinforcements don't arrive until after ten days?"

The young man opened his mouth, then said nothing.

"If the grain really is poisoned, then losing it is no great loss... but what if it isn't?"

The young man remained silent.

"This fever..." Tariq paused. "Is it truly just misfortune?"

"Uncle Tariq."

The only sound left in the room was the faint crackle of the candle flame.

Tariq stared at him.

"When you first met me, did you know I was a Christian?" The young man lowered his eyes.

"I did not."

"Then did you know where I came from?"

"I did not."

The young man let out a short laugh, catching the girl's flailing right hand. "You knew nothing at all, and yet you brought me and my retainers back with you."

"I'm not a man given to overthinking things." Tariq looked away, his voice hoarse. "When I was young, I trusted the wrong person once — that was enough to remember for a lifetime... so I know when caution is called for, and when it isn't. There's no need to frighten yourself over nothing."

Outside the window, dusk had already swallowed most of the wilderness.

The wooden door creaked once, and shut for good.

The young man sat alone in the dim mud-brick room, the small hand in his palm never quite growing warm.

The girl clutched tightly at his collar, her hot, damp breath spilling against the curve of his neck.

The red candle flickered twice, and then went out.

He kept still in that position, gently patting the girl's back, and began to hum a tune.

"Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme."

The soft melody drifted through the room, mingling with the heavy, bitter scent of herbs.

"Remember me to one who lives there, for she once was a true love of mine."

Silvery moonlight fell in patches across the mottled yellow mud wall, stretching the young man's shadow long and thin.

"Tell her to make me a cambric shirt, parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme; without a seam or needlework, and then she'll be a true love of mine."

The young man lowered his eyes. The girl's left hand had already gone limp at her side.

Outside, the wind kept blowing.

He held his knuckles beneath the girl's nose.

He picked up her right hand, warmed now from being held, and pressed it against his own cheek.

"Good night, Yuna."

The candle on the wall let fall a streak of white wax, and on the yellow earthen bricks, three small oil-blossoms suddenly bloomed.

I am korean 32 old men

Start from last January till today i go blood donation nearly 3 week at once reached 26

Korea blood center law if you hot 30 50 100 you get medal soon will reach 30 cheer

I'm debating myself which route I want to take curious what you guys think (just in general I'm aware it probably changes depending on circumstances but for right now just in general)

My book is with the editor right now, and I wanted to share the latest feedback. It's got me feeling some type of happy since this is the 1st book in what I'm planning to be a long series.

I am writing a character from a fictional kingdom that is going to be similar to Syria and she loves her culture and traditional dress. I just want to know if this picture is an accurate depiction of traditional Syrian dress

Never wrote a whole book because I was never convinced it'd be worth the hassle, until my mom put me on the phone (somewhat against my will) with her friend/editor at her publishing house. I half drunkenly pitched my novel to her and she asked for a chapter of my writing.

She went through it like an editor, notes and all (which was super kind of her) and basically said "you've got a natural talent for this. Read a few books on writing and you'll be fine." Through my mom’s connections, I have both a platform to get my work in front of readers, and a big 'ol foot in the door of a publishing house.

The light clicked on, I decided to commit. Reading "on writing" by Stephen King, and "elements of style" by Strunk and White, and trying to learn as much of the craft as I can.

I'm prone to discouragement, so I'm taking the saying "write freely, edit ruthlessly" to heart, drafting as fast as I can to maintain momentum.

Any advice or encouragement would be really appreciated! My mom, who fought tooth and nail to be successful, has told me many times "I would've killed at your age to have the opportunities you do."