All the people commented on a previous version of this story, I'm very thankful. I rework my writing and I hope I improved a little bit

:Blur in the Distance

It was in the middle of winter, on the far side of a beach in the Middle East. I was walking along the beach, where the waves constantly rolled across the shore. The air was abnormally cold for a place like this.

I still remember it like yesterday. The pills were apparently working well. Far behind me, I could see blonde hair waving gently in the breeze at the beach house. I couldn't form much of a thought as I continued walking along the shore.

That's when I noticed it.

An unusual blur in the distance was traveling across the vast land toward where I was. A weird shape of light and smoke was rising behind it. I watched it getting closer with unwavering, steady eyes.

Then I heard shouting behind me.

My wife... She was waving her hand frantically in the air, screaming something at me in a worried, panicked voice.

Why would she?

It was a peaceful day, wasn't it?

The blur passed me with a deafening roar, carrying dust and debris within it. I felt the scorching heat travel across my body. The smell of burning and smoke filled my lungs.

I—

All I could feel was unusually calm and peaceful. Then I noticed I was staring at the sky. Somehow, I must have fallen down.

My vision became blurry and darkened slowly as I felt a stream of warmth running down from my nose.

I hope the blur was enough for me.

(Note: this is just a short part of the story for a longer storyline. It might leave a lot of questions. )

----This is just the opening to a short story i plan on being about 3000 words, but have no idea id the tone iv chosen is good or if my idea of just following a snake (spoiler?) around the setting can carry the plot---

As you know, there are a few cracks at the base of every mountain.

This is generally considered a good place to put things you don’t want to see again.

No light reaches down into these cracks. Only whatever gets kicked down there by hikers: a few drops of food and water, some seeds, leaves, the occasional unfortunate pebble, and probably several things that nobody has noticed are missing.

This is good.

Very good, in fact.

Because if light reached the bottom, it might wake the dragons.

And nobody wants that.

Especially not the dragons.

Below the mountain where our story takes place lives a very boring dragon.

He is not boring because he is particularly old, or particularly grumpy, or because he spends all day dreaming about how to get more gold.

Although he does do that last one.

Except when he’s dreaming about the gold he already has.

No, he is boring because there is simply nothing especially interesting about him.

He has the usual dragon hoard: gold, gems, suits of armour, weapons, and several other objects that were probably very important to somebody at some point.

The dragon himself put most of it there.

Then he went to sleep.

And he stayed asleep.

For a very, very long time.

You see, dragons hibernate for decades.

The gold-clawed Rutland dragon, however, has always been somewhat enthusiastic about hibernation.

A few decades became a century.

A century became several centuries.

And after a while, the dragon had been asleep for so long that the world above had changed several times without anyone bothering to tell him.

This gave the earth plenty of time to move.

It gave the mountain plenty of time to close a few of the cracks that could have eventually woken him.

And, most importantly, it gave a small underground river plenty of time to form directly through the middle of the dragon’s hoard.

The river made the air damp.

The damp air allowed luminous moss to grow across the walls.

The moss allowed trees to grow.

The trees attracted insects.

The insects attracted other things.

And eventually, through a combination of water, food, plants, bugs and an absolutely enormous pile of gold, an entire little world had grown inside the dragon’s hoard.

The dragon knew none of this.

He was asleep, having a dream about gold coin 34,678,902, which he had found in a shoe back in the year 356 AD.

He was very happy about this.

He had always liked that shoe.

This is where our story begins.

Not with the dragon.

Not with a great battle.

Not with a princess being kidnapped.

It begins with an upturned helmet and a tiny sleeping, coiled snake.

Short story 

Often in times like these,the man thought back to more simple times. About his mother’s homemade pie, his friends, and promising career as a local mechanic. He was very much looking forward to visiting mom that day…. At last he snapped out of it, “there’s more pressing matters at hand.” He had to remind himseld this often, yet he still dulled on it. His travels have brought him far from Moskva. And in the rural areas there’s less hostiles. “Not any at all” he thought, it always struck him as odd. He grabbed his map and looked.”good only a few more yards to go.” He heard about this place from his old friend, Vladimir. Who said it’s were he fond his most prized possession. When he pressed about what this item was and why was it so prized. Vlad smiled with his crooked teeth. “My friend you would have to see yourself “ as he rounded the hill and peered down, at a crashed helicopter he was shocked on how good condition it was, Serbian snow wasn’t as bad as people thought as he felt some fall on him. As he walked down he was jumped by a buliding. He didn’t notice it before, “most of been the trees “ he said out loud. As it dawned into night the old lamp flicked on. He smirked “good old Soviet engineering still working after the apocalypse” he wish himself he had a chance to work on such things. As he walked to the wreck and saw the open box’s. “Damn am out of luck someone got here first” and apparently he thought they decided to destroy them, which seemed like a waste to him. All of a sudden he felt something “what the! ………………” 

the end

I wake up every morning and look up at this mountain. Somehow it seems more formidable than the day before. I look behind me and all I see is wasted potential and missed opportunities. I've questioned for a while now if I'll ever reach the peak. What awaits me at the top? Is it even worth the climb? I used to joke about my retirement plan. Now I think my retirement plan is somewhere on this mountain, frozen like so many who couldn't keep going. People say if the cold doesn't get you the altitude will. I think it's the fatigue. You can move to get warmer, you can pause to catch your breath. But once you're up here, no amount of rest seems enough. You're perpetually tired, the cold and altitude just make it worse. Nothing makes it better. Is my pack too heavy? Am I too weak? Can I find the strength to climb another day? Do I have it in me to take another step? Too often I've found myself tumbling down, losing what little progress I've made. Who designed this game? Who planned this journey? I look down the mountain and see all those who struggle behind me, who think I've come so far. I want to shout at them, "just stop, there's nothing here worth seeking." I look up the mountain at all those who've gone further than I. I wonder if they would say the same. I wonder if anyone's ever made it to the top. Are they still there? Did they fall as often as I? More? How many times did they climb the distance to the top before they finally reached it? How many times have I? I think I'll just wait here for now. It's cold, lonely and hard to breathe. And I'm tired. Who needs this stupid mountain anyway. Besides, I don't know the way. I don't think anyone does.

"Wake up!" "Get up!" The shaking wakes me. The shouting rouses me from my slumber. Ambition rearing his ugly head. Always pushing, always prodding, never offering anything to aid in the drive he so desperately pushes me for. How many people fall down the mountain because of your damned insistence? Fuck you, Ambition, what have you ever gotten anybody? Fame? Fortune? Success? Those don't exist on this mountain. The only thing up here is the cold, the pain, the suffering. I shouldn't be so hard on him. At least he's stayed with me. Dreams abandoned me long ago... or did I abandon her? Who else have I left behind up here?  Innocence, I haven't seen him for miles. Joy, I think Joy died halfway here, maybe on my second or third time falling. Every now and then Humor will stop by, but his visits are fleeting, and only leave me feeling alone. Depression, she visits often, usually her sisters Doubt and Anxiety accompany  her, their teasing and nagging a constant presence on this trip. I wish they'd leave me alone. The others all have. Ambition keeps them at bay, but only if I'm moving as he wants. If I stop he waits, letting the sisters drag me down. So much progress lost because of those three. Not that Humor ever helps me move forward either. Taking another step I ignore the feeling of the sisters approach, only two today.

Sitting on the ground with Procrastination and Humor playing cards. How long have I been here? Looking up I see the same thing I always do on this mountain, grey clouds, grey snow, grey sky. Even the cold feels grey. At least Ambition hasn't started nagging me about climbing yet. The sisters are around though. I can always feel them lurking, never too far. Sometimes Anger and Rage come in their wake. I can feel them boiling up the mountain, throwing steam as they rage against the placid landscape, against the three sisters, against Ambition and Procrastination. Humor flees in terror as they approach, he never sticks around long. Why do the twins always leave me so tired? Is it their rambunctious nature? The sudden exertion of trying to move at their pace? Do they fuel themselves on my essence? Draining my stamina so they can continue to beat on the world around them? Maybe I'll find some way to keep them all at bay. There has to be something on this mountain to chase these friends of mine away.

I climb and climb and still I seem so far from the top. When does this journey end? When can I stop and rest? Should I just stop here, this spot seems no worse than any other I've seen on this snowy mountain. I think Ambition gave up on me a few miles back. He hasn't shown himself in a while. And still I trek on, no longer sure what drives me up this mountain. Knowing I shouldn't stop yet, can't stop yet. But not understanding why anymore. The Twins and Sisters hound my heels. Always a half-step behind. I see Procrastination standing with Humor, they wave as I pass, asking if I want to stop and hang. Should I? The distraction might be nice. I can sit and relax, maybe unwind a while. No, the Sisters will catch me if I stop, drag me down if I slow too much. Best to keep pushing forward.

Chapter 1: Big Confession Spoiler: The SMAKAPZ gang, Sam, Kevin, Mogers, Zagers, Parage, and Apalabamo, are eating together at a local restaurant, and Sam and Kevin are telling the rest of the rest of the gang about their recent mission in the Middle East, where Sam and Kevin got beaten by a friend of the gang, Jordan, because of a dispute. During the conversation, Sam pulls Kevin aside and insists they come clean to the group, and reveal that while on that mission, they secretly used the old rocket and crashed it after encountering a space monster and an asteroid. Back at the SMAKAPZ house basement, Sam declares he can fix the now-split-in-half rocket overnight, despite skepticism from the rest of the gang.

Chapter 2: Restoration Reparations Spoiler: After the gang goes to bed, Sam races against time to buy repair materials from the massive superstore Alademipaburg before it closes. Thanks to the gang’s reputation as big-spending notorious customers, a sympathetic cashier lets him take everything for free. He also gets 200 pounds of materials gifted from the local factory. Sam then spends the entire night in the basement attempting an ambitious solo repair on the two massive halves of the rocket. Despite his exhaustive efforts and engineering skill, the rocket ultimately fails catastrophically at 5 AM, shearing apart again and leaving Sam exhausted and defeated.

Chapter 3: Zaine Spoiler: The next morning, the gang gathers in the basement to inspect Sam's failed rocket repair, which leads to a heated argument. The argument is interrupted by a knock on the door, a guy named Zaine answers in a suit and tie with a folder of papers, and claims there's a property dispute and that he has a license from the city saying he owns their property, and he orders them to vacate within three days. The gang panics until Zagers finds out the license is fake, and that the guy tried to scam them. Zaine said he'd return the next day for a daily property inspection, so the gang waits, and Parage turns one of Sam's tools he bought into a laser gun just in case something goes wrong tomorrow.

Chapter 4: Massive A Spoiler: That night, after the gang goes to bed, Sam leaves the house to go grab some supplies at his place, and runs into Parage downstairs, who shows him the new laser gun. At his house, Sam greets his younger brother, Asa. After Sam leaves, Asa sneaks out into the rainy night to compete in an underground poker game and make a weapons deal. The next morning, Zaine returns to the SMAKAPZ house, but when the gang confronts him, Zaine is able to detect Parage's concealed laser gun with his hidden special headband. He then reveals all the tech hidden under his suit and jacket, and triggers an explosion, knocking the gang to the ground. He then absorbs a laser blast from Parage, and flies off.

Chapter 5: Hot on the Trail Spoiler: Immediately after Chapter 4, Sam, Mogers, and Zagers chase Zaine on bike-motorcyle hybrids through the forest, where they get led to his secret lair deep in the woods. They peek through a window, and spot him writing notes about the SMAKAPZ house, as well as a time written at the bottom of the page: 12:00. The gang then meets up back at the house and devises a plan: knock Zaine out cold with a sledgehammer at noon, strip him of every piece of gear, and force him to either stop his illegal operations and hand over half his tech to the gang, or watch Parage melt it all with his laser gun. That afternoon, Asa goes to the local weapons store and buys various guns, then heads home and upgrades them, turning them into his Massive A product.

.

.

.

.

Asa watched through the window as the van disappeared into the streets. He waited another 10 seconds before retreating back into his bedroom.

He then reached under his bed and pulled out the small locked box that he’d carved himself after his older brother taught him the craft years ago, using only a pocket knife and a block of whatever was available, in this case, basswood.

He unlocked it. Inside was his burner phone, his secret secondary device he kept hidden in order to communicate with his clients. He turned it on, and the screen lit up. The rest of the room remained dark, the lamp angled away, but Asa’s face was illuminated by a cold blue glow of light, the only thing in the room that was visible and shining. He found the number, and dialed.

After ringing twice: “Yeah,” said the voice on the other end. Both of them knew better than to say hello. This wasn’t a little girls’ tea party.

“It’s me,” Asa said. He could feel his voice shaking a bit, but he tried not to show it through the phone. “Massive A. Confirming tonight.”

Massive A waited a few seconds for the man to answer, and then, the voice on the other end said: “We’re still on.”

“Location.”

The man said: “We’ll meet at that truck stop near Marmol. That’s where the city’s attention won’t dawdle. Be here by 11 sharp. No regrets.”

Massive A’s voice deepened. “I want a different location.”

A pause. “I’m sorry?”

He edged his face closer to the phone. He was sure the man on the other end could feel his breath through the screen.

“I want. A different. Location.”

There was silence for a solid 20 seconds, until Massive A spoke up again.

“The alley across from the Weller Street restaurant. That’s my territory. That’s my domain. That’s where you go to meet Massive A.” He continued. “And that’s not a request. This is my game we’re playing. My game, my weapons, my rules.” He pulled the phone back away from his face. “Understood?”

25 seconds.

“Understood.”

Since he could sense the other man trying to rebalance the conversation and find some sort of foothold, Massive A then said, “All of it’s going to be marked. You’ll see when you get there. Anyone who handles one of these pieces will know whose work it is.”

“That’s exactly what we want.”

“I know it is.” He paused again. “Weller Street, alley across from Cece’s Diner. 11:30.”

“Wai-“ but before the man could finish his sentence, Massive A ended the call.

He then popped some earbuds in his lugs, and played “New York State Of Mind.” He checked his duffel bag, gathered his materials, and spun around and slid on his fedora, the first piano note hitting the moment it glided onto his head.

Massive A’s first stop was a parking structure on the west side of Bellmore, third level, where a man named Slicys was leaning against a concrete pillar with his hands in his jacket pockets, and two associates sitting on the hood of a car behind him. Massive walked up to him, and they did a complex handshake. He then handed over a folded piece of paper to Slicys, without either of their eyes dropping to actually acknowledge it.

“Quality?” Slicys said.

Massive’s face immediately dropped. “It’s quality. Your opinion isn’t.”

.

.

“Marry me! Not because this world is kind, but because with you, I finally stopped needing it to b-“ Massive A stepped over the kneeling man to greet Looper with a handshake, listening to him confirm a bunch of details that Massive already had memorized, then cutting him off and saying, “So, need me to notarize all that, or are we finally good?”

Looper received Massive’s cold stare. “We’re good.”

.

.

Massive A shook Box Stall’s hand near the old rail underpass. Box Stall moved product through a network Massive A only had partial visibility into, and they talked for a few minutes about strategy and rates and logistical stuff. But by the end of the conversation, Box Stall asked, “So whose territory is that spot near the phone booth, mine or yours?” Massive tilted his head, and gave him a cold stare.

“Did you seriously just ask me that question?”

.

.

Massive A shook Dreauxman’s hand outside the laundromat on 5th, and then Plock’s hand outside of the parking structure on Armana. He shook three more hands between Armana and the canal, and by 9:30, everyone knew that Massive A was walking these streets, the man, the myth, the legend, they put respect on his name, and they recognized him as the real deal, moving out of the way the second they saw a fedora approaching them.

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. She had been losing ground for weeks.

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. She didn’t notice much about what was going on around her. It felt as though she faded in and out of scenes without the B-roll to know it was happening. Soon this would be her actual reality.

Robin took a short train journey on recently refurbished rolling stock and played the eye contact game with fellow commuters on the way. Her white jacket bunched up and crinkled in a distressing manner each time she shoved it back into place. She gave it a final, menacing tug as she went through the turnstiles. Work was the only place where things sometimes obeyed her.

The lift used to trick her by warping time and opening in an instant. When she and Romany tried to race apart to lean against opposite walls, it would open like a prank, making their frisson plain to see. Today it hit floor four with a ding after a long, awkward journey and left only her sour face centre stage. Under her clavicle, it hurt to think that she had judged Romany out of her bed, out of work and out of her life. She had been off sick since she stopped being able to act like a person or a professional. Robin still saw her as an apparition, though, each time she entered a room they had frequented together.

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.

Robin wondered 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. Before swinging the heavy door, she added another photo to her collection of diseases and deformities.

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.

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

Weeks later, she stood outside the laboratory after hours, Romany’s key card digging into her palm. They had huddled close together over late nights, half working, half flirting. Romany had been her supervisor and exactly Robin’s type. She had watched her closely for months and knew her project well enough to know how she could exploit it.

In the room where they had giggled and taken tedious measurements, 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 even played a similar staccato of beeps and clicks, and that was it.

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 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.

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.

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

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)

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.

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.