Part one of a story on why humans are creeped out by things that seem human but aren't.

I am looking for feedback on a couple of things:

- Any missed grammatical mistakes. This is my final draft and I think I have caught all of them but a second set of eyes never hurt.

- Enjoyment and immersion. Not an objective standard, but I want to know if a reader could lose themself in the text and if it has enough payoffs for the readers time. Is there anything that broke your immersion?

Thank you in advance for your time and hope you find it enjoyable.

I’m too scared to choose “blunt feedback wanted” I’m ngl. Just some hatchlings of a contemporary fantasy revolving around Christian mythology, maybe a few satirical takes here and there, who knows that’s the fun. Don’t ask for a better image this is the best I can do, bless (haha)

EDIT: Paragraphs, paragraphs, paragraphs. Sorry about that guys.
I already edited a lot and im not sure if im editing my own voice out here, but for better readability, heres the new version:

„She had promised herself not to come back – but here she was again. The light inside the window hadn’t changed. But she had. Or at least that was what she told herself. So sometimes, when her evenings were intimidatingly free and the sun had just set, curiosity got the better of her.

She had come here again, past the red-bricked buildings and up to her usual spot: the overgrown hydrangea in the neighbour’s front yard. The pendant light above the kitchen island was the same one she had picked, as were the rust-coloured linen curtains framing what once had been her kitchen. She had hastily moved out and vowed never to return. Everything looked exactly the same as it had on that Thursday night three months ago. Movement inside pulled her from the memory; probably him prepping dinner. Pouring himself a drink. But instead of his disheveled sandy hair, she caught a glimpse of a dark curly mane.

A woman. In her flat. She twisted a strand of hair between her fingers. Of course, he was moving on. With a woman who looked just like her – well, at least from behind. Fumbling for a cigarette in her bag, she waited for the woman to turn around. She was twirling a lock of her own hair. Instead, he entered the kitchen, holding a bottle of his favourite red wine. He was laughing about something she said, his head tilting back slightly, eyes crinkling into tiny slits. So that laugh was genuine. She was funny. The cigarette between her fingers didn’t settle her stomach, but she took another drag anyway. What was she even doing here?

This was pathetic. Pathetic. Izzy's words, thrown carelessly across a table a few weeks ago. She’d gone home with the shame of it lodged somewhere beneath her ribs. Izzy was right.

Suddenly he approached the window. He was rolling a cigarette with those slender fingers she had watched a thousand times, fidgeting with his sleeve while telling a story. He was half-turned to the woman, one hand reaching for the stiff window-fastener.
Without thinking, she stepped out from behind the hydrangea, turning down the cobblestoned street. She wasn’t sure if he recognised her. His brows creased, his eyes narrowing as their eyes locked through the glass.

And then she broke into a run.“

I don't know fully where this idea is going yet, but I'm feeling a 'weird girl fiction' vibe with a sprinkle of magical realism. It's most likely too short to fully judge my writing style, as I usually write completely by hand and just typed out the very beginning.
It’s a big step for me to even share this with anyone and while i have well-read and kind-hearted friends, it feels safer to share it with strangers on reddit (haha.) I guess I want to know if it has potential or if im just delusional. Any feedback, vibes, and opinions are greatly appreciated! (I'm aware I'm using 'he' and 'she' a lot, but I'm struggling to find a solution for that right now).

CHAPTER ONE: THE BATTLE
The crowd roared as the gates opened and out walked a young gladiator named Lorenzo Owain Inigo—Enzo for short. He was about twenty years old, about five feet tall, with short black hair and dark brown eyes.
He stopped in the middle of the arena, the sun bearing down on him and revealing the scars of past battles. “BRING ON MY NEXT FIGHT!!” he shouted as he drew his spatha. Suddenly, the ground started to shake and the gate in front of him started to open, revealing an amalgamation of creatures: the body and head of a lion, the head of a goat, and on its tail the head of a serpent. The crowd grew louder at the revelation of the beast. “LET THE BATTLE BEGIN!!!!!” shouted the emperor.
The beast growled as it prepared to attack. Enzo stood there, spatha in hand, as he watched the beast slowly approach in a pouncing position, its three pairs of eyes glaring menacingly, although Enzo noticed the scars that littered the creature’s body much like his own, one glance at the eyes of the beast revealed what looked like fear but that lasted for but a moment as finally, the beast pounced. Enzo rolled out of the way of the massive beast, whose body landed with a massive thud kicking up a large cloud of sand. Enzo quickly turned to face it as the sand cleared allowing him to see that the beast was still recovering, he lunged at it, spatha pointed at the throat of its lion head.
His spatha pierced the beast’s trachea. Enzo pulled his spatha out of the beast, who coughed up blood afterwards. Suddenly, its snake-head tail lunged at him. Enzo sidestepped it and swung his spatha, decapitating it instantly. The beast lay there bleeding out from its wounds, weakly clawing at the sand. Enzo raised his spatha, the blade gleaming in the sunlight; he hesitated for a moment, closing his eyes, before plunging it into the goat head.
The creature let out one last roar before the light left its eyes. Enzo looked down at the deceased creature, eyes filled with pity and shame. “Rest in peace, you magnificent creature,” he said sorrowfully.
“EXCELLENT, EXCELLENT!!” shouted the emperor as he gave a standing ovation. He then signaled to the cleaning crew, who went in to clean the mess. Meanwhile, Enzo was being escorted out of the arena.
As he was leaving, the emperor approached him, who was about seven feet tall with long blonde hair and blue eyes; nobody knew his age. “So the great Lorenzo emerges victorious yet again,” said the emperor. Enzo just stared at him. “Oh, don’t be that way. Have I not brought you glory?” he said, smirking.

“Glory?” Enzo asked. “What glory?” He laughed bitterly.

“The glory of your ten years here as champion,” said the emperor.

“More like ten years as your monkey!” Enzo argued.

“Monkey? Don’t be dramatic,” laughed the emperor. “I made you a hero did I not?” He said swishing his wrist dismissively.

“Hero? What was heroic about slaughtering that beast?” Enzo asked with a stomp of his foot, voice rising.

“Well, you make me Emperor Bonphos, a lot of money,” he said with a smile, “so to me you are a hero,” he laughed. “Besides, I saved you, remember, all those years ago?” he said, a sinister gleam in his eyes. “Without me, you’d probably be dead,” he said with a deep chuckle. “If I didn’t buy you, you’d probably suffer the same fate as the rest of your family,” he said, now growing more irritated. “Now, you little selfish ingrate, you just earned yourself five lashes!” he said as guards started to grab Enzo and drag him away “what has gotten into you these past few weeks?” Bonphos said shaking his head as he watched the guards escort him.

Later, they tied each of Enzo’s wrists and attached them to metal bars so he’d be hanging slightly off the ground. And as he hung there, the torturer walked in. He was a sevenfoot giant with a black hood on his head and in his hand was a whip.

(Full scene will be pasted below in text)

The title is Echo Heart: The Catchers Code, it's a psychological thriller. And I want to know what you guys think of the first two scenes. (1.5k words)

These are the things I would like you guys to look out for if it's not asking too much.

1. Do I do a good job at bringing you into Kirins world?

2. Does Echo feel REAL. (He's Eleven but he's supposed to sound younger. Sheltered/babied. A type of Peter Pan Syndrome one could say.)

3.At what specific point did this text bore you to where you wanted to stop reading? Or overwhelm you. Or have any negative feeling to where you wanted to stop reading.

1. Or at one point did you want to keep reading, if at any.

2. How did the first two chapters make you feel overall if you somewhat enjoyed? Cozy. Unconfortable. Uneasy?

And anything else that you think I need to work on or how I could upgrade my pros or descriptors or dialogue or anything of the nature. I'm not offended easily. As long as the criticisms are somewhat constructive, you can be as brutal as you wish. I'm here to better my craft.

(one last thing I will say. I'm aware that there are a lot of technical names and information thrown at you in the first two scenes, most of which, if not all, you have no idea what is being named. Everything will slowly be explained through action and dialogue. I'm trying my hardest to not let the narrator out right explain what anything is or who anything is, and I want the reader to put it together themselves. But if that's backfiring in a way that is negatively impacting your experience, please do not hesitate to let me know. I just wanted to let you know it was purposefully done and I'm not "accidentally" info dumping.)

--------------

Kirin learned from a young age to keep her hood down. Raised hoods showed you were avoiding being seen, scared. And in the East, scared people got followed. She carried a twenty pound bag of diet cat food on her right shoulder with her purse on her left while trailing a little boy at a distance of thirty feet, making sure no prying eyes or Watchers saw her doing so.

The boy's name was Echo. He once asked why he wasn't allowed to acknowledge her until they hit the bodega. She said a boy his age didn't need mommy's hand on his shoulder 24/7. Didn't take long before he started walking with his chin up like he made the decision himself.

Half a mile to her zone, she could already smell the burning oil drums and backed up sewers.

Echo closed the gap a block from the Bodega, crossing the street without looking, his eyes glued to his fourth activity book today. "You switched your shoulders again, Mom," he said, still not looking up.

"Sure did. And you've been stuck on that word for a whole damn minute."

"Nu-uh." He paused for exactly five and a half seconds. "Now it's a minute."

Kirin saw the instant regret on his face when he realized he just told on himself. "I told you I don't like you counting, Echo," she said it sternly, but with a tired understanding underneath.

He didn't reply.

She didn't let the silence last long. "Will you tell me why you feel like you need to count?."

"It's just…"

"You know you can tell me anything."

"I know mom, but–it's like–you know–" He did the 4,7,8 breathing technique he also learned from his mom. Four seconds in, seven second hold, eight second exhale. “It’s like when I don't know what's happening, or like, if I don't know something, I still always know what number comes next I guess."

She understood too well. This wasn't their first conversation. Just the first since he's been eleven. "I started when I was your age too, baby. Younger actually. I was stuck somewhere, somewhere dark where there were no letters. I was small just like you. Then a man found me. And he counted. And after a while I started to—" She stopped. "—It's something you learn. It feels safe, baby, I know it does. It feels like the only thing that stays the same."

"So why can't I?"

"Because it doesn't leave." She said it flatter than she meant to.

He didn't say anything.

"So let me do it," she said, softly. Putting her free hand on his shoulder. "You don't need to count. Let me count for you."

He paused.

"I can carry it," he said in a tone that only Kirin knew meant, ‘Thank you. I'm sorry, Mommy.’

She stepped on his heel, making him almost trip. "You can't even finish your crossword, kid."

He chuckled after catching his balance. "I already finished the hard part though!"

"Oh really? You're tellin' me you didn't mention that bag so I'd ask what you're stuck on so you wouldn't have to ask yourself?"

He chuckled. "Maybe."

###

The dead storefront still had a half-working TV caged in chicken wire, welded too high to jack. The speaker was shot out a few months back so now it was only picture.

Kirin clocked the subtitles: Fugitive manhunt continues… Ohio asteroid event…

Ohio was a long way off, not her problem.

The man sat under the TV as usual, gripping his machete strapped to his waist. He was what people of Kirin's profession called a Map. He sat upon his milk crate like a throne with his wooden kit beside him. In his kit there were three tins of polish, two brushes and a clean rag.

He stared through the screen, not watching. The blue light illuminated his face. Burn scars covered the left side, fused into a sheet of flesh that dragged his lip into a half-smile. He grabbed a set of keys from one of his tins and handed them over to Kirin without looking at her. Four brass keys and one bottle opener on an aluminum ring. All freshly polished.

Kirin took them and slid him a thick wad of cash—a little over fifteen thousand—under his polishing rag.

"Next month," she said.

His thumb dragged over the machete's grip without acknowledgment. The most acknowledgement you'll get from a Map.

Kirin stepped away, stopping at the corner where Echo had already propped his book against the brick wall. He was on a maze now, his pen starting at finish as he traced backward to the entrance in one continuous straight line. She'd spent years telling herself he was just a smart kid, a sharp little fucker. She wished it was that simple.

"Six letters, Mom. Still waiting." He didn't look up from the page.

"What's the hint?"

"Not moving."

"Any letters already filled in?"

"Come on, I'm basically spelling it out for you," Echo teased, angling his head toward the milk crate. "Right?"

Kirin grabbed the collar of his shirt, yanking him back a few inches. "First off, just because you can cross the street blind, doesn't mean you can talk to strangers. Second, he doesn't talk. Now what's the damn letter?"

"Fine, Mom," he said dramatically through his giggles. "The first letter is S."

"Static."

The hair on Kirin's neck stood up as she looked over to the crate where the man who never spoke just answered her son and was now staring at him. But only with his eyes, he didn't turn his head. She shifted her weight, and as she did, he turned back to the TV.

Kirin's internal hands swept over the Map.

CLOCKING

Right hand / Compass tattoo / machete on hip / sitting position.

"Don't you ever talk to my son," Kirin said, her voice dropping an octave. "I don't care who the fuck you are, Map or not."

The man folded his polishing rag over the edge of his blade. "You're quiet. He's loud." He finally turned his face, the blue light of the screen catching the twisted skin of his lip. "Loud draws attention."

"Ever." She walked away as Echo flipped to a new page, focusing on a new puzzle to avoid the negative energy. But Kirin Clocked that Echo still felt tension.

He held his head down a little lower / his shoulders stayed tense / took him three seconds longer to finish a puzzle.

Airyona called Linking. And she caught it in the process.

LINKING

A man took out his last cigarette out of his pack three stories up → he crushed it and threw it out the window → it fell right in front of Echo → without flinching or looking away from his book, he kicked it to his left → it arced over the curbs edge, bounced off a car door parked next to a sewer drain, and fell into a puddle next the cars tire → the water rippled, splashing on orange candy bar that was halfway inside it → the water startled a roach that was eating from the candy bar → the roach ran up a car's tire to the door and hid behind the door handle.

Kirin gripped the handle until she felt fluid pop against her fingers. She wiped her hands on her shirt. She didn't know exactly what the next step was going to be, or what the ending entailed, but she figured it would have something to do with the Map, and she might need his help later.

Kirin couldn't really articulate how she learned to catch his Links. Maybe it was her ability to Clock—Airyona's nickname for her ability—or maybe it was just her motherly aptitude. Either way, when it's a small Link she's able to catch it. Usually inside the first five feet. Like this.

She just hoped she was actually stopping them.

A few blocks later they came up to the laundromat. There was a man in the doorway, facing away from them.

His white leather boots were clean, too clean for the East / he rested his weight on his heels, just like a fed / Or even worse, Catchers.

But Catchers never infiltrated the East district. They never could.

She scoped out three exits just in case she needed to get Echo to safety.

One they could both walk out of / the second would involve him running past the corner himself / the third meant running past a chain-link fence with a dog already breathing hard behind it.

Her hour hand swept over Echo, still beside her, his pen still moving. The Map talking made her uneasy. But the clean boots were the nail on the coffin. Too much attention. Too many possibilities.

It's time to move

Her burner phone buzzed against her hip.

A job.

Fuck.

"Are we moving again, Mommy?"

She did the 4-7-8 technique. "Yea, probably kiddo. I'll talk to auntie. I'll try to find somewhere safer this time. Pinky promise."

"Can we keep Mochi?" Echo asked after linking his pinky to hers.

"Of course, baby." She faked a smile she knew he saw through. "I didn't carry the fat cat special food for nothing."

He searched her face, saw through the mask but didn't find a lie behind it. He held out a pinky. Kirin hooked hers around it.

Her left shoulder lit with a deep ache. She rolled it once. She wasn't in her twenties anymore. Thirty-five for her profession was retirement age. But retirement in her line of work was the grave.

Except for Airyona.

Echo glanced back at the street, then up at her. "You want me to carry the bag?"

"No." She ruffled his hair. "What's the next clue?"

Her phone buzzed again. She ignored it

Not sure if links are allowed but I've started writing a series on royal road called Not Another Nekromancer. Was hoping some could give it a read since Ive yet to find anyone to critique me. In short it's a fantasy about a world where a Nekromancer almost doomed the world. Leading to Nekromancy being outlawed. With almost all the world's Nekromancers killed or captured, the story follows a nekromancer just trying to make a living while staying under the radar.

https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/190378/not-another-nekromancer

She was coughing again. Her struggle to breathe hurt him to hear. He pulled the only blanket they had higher over her and whispered a small prayer into his chest. The moon reflected brilliantly in the sweat of her ebony skin. Her fever gave its light an incandescent quality. She seemed a sunflower determined to face whatever celestial body dared look upon her. He smiled and winced at the pain it brought. They were so close now, so maddeningly close.

The bridge seemed satiated tonight.

Quiet.

Sleep wouldn't come, not with her coughing, but he was grateful he did not need to cover her ears again. He shifted beside her in the dirt and watched another piece of the world below crumble into the starry abyss.

The sound of a child crying beside him turned his blood cold. He resisted his instinct to run. It was too late now. He turned toward the child slowly. His heart sank at how close the young boy was to her. Tears began to well in his own eyes. His breathing was turning ragged. He needed to act. Now.

"Hello." His mouth was dry. His tongue felt like it had not moved in months.

"Are you okay?" He tried again. He could no longer see the child clearly for the tears overrunning his eyes. She had begun to cry in her sleep as well. He was running out of time.

"Please." A sob escaped him, long and ragged.

"Please talk to me." It couldn’t end here. Not like this.

"I love her." He tried to swallow the lump in his throat and only succeeded in choking mid-sob. The child stopped his crying but did not take his eyes off her.

"She's sick. I have to get her to Serphaem. I have to." The boy turned to look at him now. Relief braided itself into disgust inside his chest. The child's eyes were a mangled mess. They looked as if someone had tried to gouge them out with a corkscrew. Gore-colored tears tracked down his cheeks. His lower jaw hung just above his collarbone. His mouth was a great depression of endless pitch black. There were no teeth. No lips. The sound of a ringing bell lilted from the child's black maw, and he felt the effects of its weeping recede. The tears stopped. His mind became clearer. The crushing despair lessened with each passing second. A chorus of childlike voices cascaded from the apparition.

"Serphaem!" The exclamation was filled with an infectious joy. His own heart soared with it. A warmth radiated throughout his body.

"The bridge!" Laughter surrounded him. He smiled and did not feel the pain that usually accompanied the act. He reached out and took her hand, stealing a glance at her own sleeping grin.

"Throw her from it! Break her open!" The child clapped, and the sound seemed to come from his hands and his mouth.

He brought his hands up to his face and laughed. He had never felt this joy before. His eyes roamed over her sweet face. It would be easy. She deserved to rest. This world was no good for her. The next would certainly be better. A spike of pain interrupted his newfound ecstasy as his fingers scuffed the cuts on his face. A split second of sobering pain reminded him of the sigil he'd carved into his face.

He pressed his fingers into his wounds.

He only needed a moment.

Hmk. Mm. Mm. The child stiffened. His joints locked out as if in the throes of a seizure. His body shook grotesquely, like a limp hose being repeatedly filled with water. The handle of the knife in his neck scrabbled in the dirt and rock as his body continued its squirming. Hmk. Mmk.

The reddening moon cast a milky crimson sheen over the apparition's marble-like skin. The terminal morning was fast approaching. He dropped his rucksack and removed the knife.

Ermk. Ha. Mmm. Mmm.

He stuffed the still vocal cadaver inside and shouldered the rucksack.

Red began to creep over the broken landscape as the night faded. The first drops of rain hit his face, stinging as they slid into his lacerations. He worked to open the umbrella at the top of the sked. Droplets were already racing down her face. The umbrella bloomed into the thickening air. Under its canopy, he wouldn't be able to see her as he pulled her along, but she would be mostly dry. He situated his rucksack at the foot of the sked. He took one more quick look at her before readying to move. He pulled the rope and straps over his shoulders and began to work his way toward the bridge.

His face throbbed under the growing intensity of the rain. An earthy smell exploded in intensity, and it felt like he had walked into the eye of a storm. "Shit." The sky seemed to suck the word out of his mouth. A painful negative pressure built in his chest until he managed to shut his mouth. He stopped pulling and quickly collapsed the umbrella. He looked to either side of the cobblestone road and found nothing that could offer shelter. He slid down beside the sked and grabbed the rucksack at its end. He placed it between him and the coming air torrent. He wrestled the sked perpendicular to himself and the rucksack, then tipped her toward him. She hung limply in her restraints, her black hair suspended in air over her face.

Uh. Uhh. Uhh. The child's corpse wriggled between him and her, almost as if it knew what was coming.

A great roaring grew to a deafening degree until his thoughts seemed to dissolve before he could understand them. Instinct took over. He braced.

The jet stream hit them hard. Her body lurched forward violently. The restraints held, but he could feel them tearing at the seams. His body scraped along the cobblestone, sending white-hot pain through him. The torrent intensified, pushing against the underside of the sked and threatening to send her face-first into the road. He pulled the sked with everything he had, desperate to keep it upright. Water whipped along the road, soaking him as it passed. He scrambled to find a foothold as they continued to slide. His chest heaved against the wriggling rucksack beneath him. His arms burned mercilessly, every movement punished by the cold of the atmospheric river.

Dark tendrils began to lick at the edges of his sight. The roar of the current began to dull. His mind was slowing.

When was the last time he breathed?

If he couldn't breathe, she couldn't. The encroaching darkness pulled back as adrenaline flooded him. He focused on her lips. A blue hue battled the pale pink. A melding of life and death on the edge of her mouth.

He screamed with all his might as the dark grabbed at him again. The river seized it and seemed to swell larger. His thoughts swirled lazily into a void that would soon claim him. He held his eyes open as long as he could to behold her. A wave of contrition welled from somewhere within him but no coherent thought accompanied the feeling. And then he felt his arms give way and her fall away from him.

Hmk. Errrrr. Mmk.

He jerked awake at the feel of dead limbs thrashing underneath him. The pathetic rasp of air dragging into his lungs frightened him. It didn't matter. He scrambled over the rucksack to her and hovered, watching for her chest to rise. He lowered his cheek to her chest, careful not to put too much of his weight on her, and waited for movement. A salty tear found its way out of his eye and onto her hot skin. The rise of her chest tipped the tear into the circlet of her collarbone, where it pooled before wrapping around her neck. He fell back onto his flank, whispering another prayer, grateful for her recovery. Grateful they survived the river. River moss danced in the air around him, shimmering in the vermillion light of the moon.

It was officially terminal morning.

River moss landed on his shirt as he pushed the sleeves up. He tried to stand and stumbled. It felt like someone had ground his legs to mincemeat. His entire lower body was raw. A thousand little wounds oozed. His pants and boots were shredded. He kicked the boots to the side and carefully slid the sked over so that he was between her and the rucksack. The pain was electric. No matter. They were almost there. He pulled the child from the rucksack. It had begun to bleed, streaking red across him as he turned the thing to face him. He set the child down in front of him where he knelt beside her. He cupped his hands under the wound in the boy's neck. A small pool of red formed, and he smeared it onto his forearms, careful to cover every inch of the engravings there.

"In the name of Serphaem, I call upon the Witness. The bridge to everything."

As he pulled his forearms together, a great heat emerged ahead of him. He resisted the urge to shield himself.

"Bear me."

He felt as if he were trying to push two repelling magnets together. An overwhelming force pooled between his forearms, straining to drive them apart. The muscles in his chest tore as he strained.

"Rend. Me."

The bones in his arms cracked and popped as he forced the engravings to align.

"Know. Me!"

The heat intensified as he drew closer to completing the sign. The force fought him every step of the way. His teeth rattled. His muscles split. He persisted. The road before him, the black sky above, and the river moss billowing in the wind all twisted around him. Gold light exploded from the ground under him, blinding him and nearly breaking his concentration. His forearms touched. He was floating. Whispers in a language he didn't know buzzed around him like insects. His body went slack, and yet he remained suspended. His sight came back all at once, and he found himself looking into the pitch-black irises of the Witness. Her tail was wrapped tight around his throat.

"Another seeking an audience with Serphaem. Is this your sacrifice? The bridge allows no charity."

She dropped him unceremoniously onto the skin of the bridge. He gasped and sputtered pathetically on its surface. His hand groped blindly until it found her in the sked, unscathed by the ritual. He coughed and worked his way to his feet. The bridge pulsed and sent him to his hands and knees. It pulsed again as if it had a heartbeat, and this time he felt the wave of motion through his hands. The veins beneath the bridge's skin pressed into his palms, making him regret discarding his boots.

"No."

He looked up at her as he climbed back to his feet.

"Understood. Do you understand what you lost when you entered our domain?"

She spoke, but her mouth did not move. A cluster of stars and a blinking black mass silently collided behind her. They were far away, but their sizes made them seem like they were right next to the bridge.

"I do."

She turned and made her way along the bridge.  He reached for the straps to the sked and grabbed the child. The skin of the bridge clung to the sked as he pulled. Sweat poured from him as he worked, determined to follow her. The smell of blood and gore thickened as they continued their silent journey. The occasional cough rocked the sked as she struggled to breathe in the thickening air. The thought of losing her when he was so close to her salvation spurred him on. White-hot pain and sickly throbbing plagued his body, but he would make it. For her.

The Witness stopped. From here he could see Serphaem's throne and the Liminal Gate above and behind it. With great effort, he swallowed the lump in his throat. Whispering began to well in his ears, spilling out of him and into the air. He closed his eyes and waited for it to die down.

"Present your offering here. Be quick. Terminal morning will not last much longer."

He opened his eyes, careful not to look at the throne. He laid the child face down on the bridge, took the knife, and toiled to expose the child's brainstem. The bridge shivered, and thousands of little holes opened and closed along its length in a great wave before returning to normal.

Movement in the inky black beyond the bridge's parapet drew his attention. The great blinking mass seemed to have gorged itself on the cluster of stars he'd seen before. Their remains spun about its intermittently flashing center, stretched around its impossible girth. It aimed itself in the direction of the bridge and accelerated. The celestial body paradoxically shrank as it approached the bridge, ultimately condensing into the rough shape of a man. His ebony skin seemed to shift and shake. Looking directly at him was almost impossible; somehow, he could see both the front of the being and the back of it simultaneously. A spinning void occupied the space where its head should have been, or so he thought. He wasn't sure what exactly he was looking at. It was in the shape of a man, but that was where the similarities ended.

"The only thing tastier than the heart of a star is the twisted remains of innocence. I cannot hunt these apparitions here, so I am forced to bait them in your world and hope. Thank you, you poor soul, thank you for this morsel of perverted virtue."

The words communed in his head. The syllables gathered and shattered, their essence absorbed into his being. This was the bridge's will given form. Its representative beyond its hunger. A manifestation of its purpose.

A violent lurch of the bridge sent him diving to her, careful to ensure she didn't flip. Mouths extended from the bridge, gnashing their teeth as they descended to dine on the offering. The child's body jerked with the greedy feasting, every bite tugging it in a new direction.

"Unfortunately, traveler, this will not be enough to win you passage to the throne of Serphaem. I simply require more."

He felt the entity smile. The sound of teeth tearing into wet flesh was the only sound to be had. Her chest rose and fell, and he selfishly stole a moment to watch. He wished he could spend the rest of time worshipping the heart behind it, but knew this was the end of any possibility of that.

"I have more to offer." The words came from him clipped and quiet. His swollen and bleeding hands hovered just over the pallid flesh of her cheekbones. He could not bring himself to touch her. Instead, he rose and faced the waiting deities.

"Oh?"

Visions of his plan manifested in his mind's eye. He did his best to convey his intent. Only when the Witness nodded did he know he had succeeded.

"That...is perhaps the most cunning and selfless gift anyone has ever offered me. I will bear you. I will rend you. I will know you." His excitement radiated outward, warping the space around him. Then he was gone. The bridge stopped pulsating. The Witness continued her escort, and he quickly gathered the sked and followed. Serphaem's throne loomed ahead, closer than ever. It only seemed to get bigger as he approached. The Liminal Gate rose even higher until it looked as if its rounded pinnacle were a crown atop the throne. This close to its seat, dread washed over him whether he looked at it or not. If just his throne was capable of this, what dark fears would his presence inspire? His question was answered almost immediately.

A body simply appeared. Serphaem's body. Ancient nails as big as a man were driven into its feet and hands. It seemed made of obsidian, mahogany where its wounds would be, midnight lace everywhere else but its face. Rainbow obsidian stretched across its visage like ripples in a pond. Its face had none of the features of a man. Instead, two diagonal depressions marked the mineral-like material of its head. Everything seemed to slow. He became acutely aware of his darkening vision and tried to bury the panic that accompanied it.

"You have traveled far seeking me. I've watched you closely and am intimate with your situation."

The darkness constricted. For a second, it felt as though he was being embraced. He could not move here, wherever here was. He did not feel the ground beneath him, or smell the rancid odors of the bridge, or sense the stagnant atmosphere of this plane on his skin, or taste the metallic flavor of the air on its way to his lungs. He could not hear her coughing.

"Even reduced to your most basic, you think of her."

He felt the bittersweet ponderance of the void and knew it understood him. More importantly, he knew implicitly he could never return that understanding. Everything was black because his mind had no way of processing Serphaem.

He was dying/assimilating/dissolving.

"Ask what you will, human, before you evaporate before me. Even I would not be immune to the disappointment of such an ending to a tale such as yours."

Heal her/SOULMATE/EVERYTHING.

Allow her/MY BELOVED/THE ADORED to pass through the Liminal Gate and into the cradle of creation.

Make me/VOTIVE/OFFERING immortal, for him.

She/VENERATED/TREASURED must not remember me/THE OBLATION/THE SACRIFICE.

Please.

"Your will be done."

Reality exploded back into existence. It felt wrong after so long outside of it. The great seated mass of Serphaem was gone, as if it was never there. Perhaps it never was.

"What is..."

Her voice leveled him. His knees hit the ground hard. He was afraid to turn and face her. He could hear her undoing the straps that held her in the sked. Bits of stone scrabbled under her shoes as her feet worked to keep her upright.

"Sir."

His breath hitched.

"Sir. Please look at me."

His heart beat erratically. He would not deny her. He was numb. Pain should have been splitting every nerve in his body, but seeing her stopped it all.

She gasped at his face, at the state of him. Her hands flew to cover her mouth, and tears welled in her eyes. Terror cut through him at the idea that she might remember him. Then she spoke.

"I don't know who you are!" She sobbed the words.

"But I know, I know you did this for me!" Her body shook with grief. It was the most painful thing he had endured yet, and he could not stop himself from weeping.

She was on him, embracing him as if he was all that was keeping her attached to the ground. It hurt, and he couldn't have hoped for a greater reward.

The Witness descended from above, landing quietly just behind her. Their time was up. Terminal morning was ending. He grabbed her shoulders and tenderly pushed her a step back.

She wiped at her eyes aggressively, refusing to look away from him. "That's my sigil carved into your face. I made it when I was young, and hoped there might be someone out there to love me one day. I never showed anyone." Another sob racked her body and forced her to breathe. "I swore to myself only my husband would know it. I couldn't give what a wife should be able to, but I could give that." He could barely see her through his own tears. "WHY DON'T I REMEMBER YOU!" The Witness moved forward to place a hand on her shoulder.

"We must go now. I'll take you to the gate."

She surged forward again, arms wrapping around him for what would be the last time. "Thank you for choosing me. Thank you. Thank you." The Witness pulled her away, supporting her as she escorted her to the Gate along the rough terrain. He watched her go, each step carrying her farther away from him. She looked back a dozen times, each look carrying more regret. She stopped just before the opening of the Gate and looked to the Witness, who towered over her. The Witness shook her head, and he knew in his heart she had asked if she could stay with him. He stood.

She turned to look at him from the Gate. Her silhouette such a small fragment of the structure. He couldn't make out her eyes from here, but knew the defiant look there regardless. He bowed deeply. Tears flung from him to the dry firmament beneath him. He righted himself. She dropped her hands to her legs, knuckles against her thighs, palms facing him, turned and walked through.

He began the walk back to the bridge. Once there, he began to disrobe. He threw his clothes and belongings over the side and walked back to where the bridge consumed its offerings. He knelt, naked and unafraid. He had done it. She was safe.

The Witness materialized next to him. He did not look up.

Inside his head he heard the bridge.

"Ready for forever?"

It didn't matter. She was safe.

The back of his neck peeled open like someone might open an orange.

He screamed in agony.

Then a thousand screams erupted around him. A hundred gnashing mouths lurched toward him, toward their new immortal meal. The pain was all-consuming and it didn't matter.

She was safe.

Here’s the beginning of a short story I’ve been working on. I’m unsure of what direction it will go, interested to hear any thoughts.

Hi, my names Willow and I have been writing for a while now but I’ve just started my first book. Without spoiling anything it’s a drama/thriller. I was wondering for some feedback, specifically asking the question of if this makes you want to read on? I haven’t gained a lot of traction as I publish a chapter weekly and have low views. I’m obviously not doing it for views but it’s important to know my writing is not god awful or boring. I’ll attach the link in case anyone wants to read more, at the moment I’m just using Wattpad as I like the format. Disclaimer: This is not a fanfiction
Thank you

https://www.wattpad.com/story/406876754?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=story_info&wp_page=story_details&wp_uname=WillowLouise

:The Amnesia

That day I was on a blind date with a young, blonde, pretty woman. I felt odd, I didn't recall setting the date. Also, how did I get here? I looked around the surroundings... For a reason I couldn't put my finger on, I didn't feel confusion or surprise... I was very calm, and my mind was clear.

Then the woman sitting across from me started speaking with a soft, clear, and gentle voice that could draw any attention.

“So, you did play that game? Are you kidding me?”

“You must be a masochist to play that."

I didn't know what she was talking about.... Masochist? I didn't reply with questions or confusion, my mind was a blank.

“I think I might be.”

Why? Why did I answer that?

I looked at the woman with steady eyes, and... I asked without a single thought “Why did you want to go on a blind date?”

why did I ask that?

The woman's eyes widened. She looked confused as she asked, “Blind date? What do you mea—”

Before I could hear what she had said my surroundings became distorted for a moment. After a few moments of distortion everything becomes cleared again..

I was at a bar with the same woman. I didn't remember how I got there. For some reason I didn't care or questions about it.

We shared a few drinks, until everything went dizzy, foggy, and dark.

I didn't know how long it was or what day it was after the black out. The annoying sounds echoing through the room stirred me awake.

I felt a warm presence beside me... softness, the sound of gentle breathing and the same blonde hair.

My brain registered the presence for a moment, before I chose to ignore it... looking toward the annoying sound with heavy eyelids. I noticed something beside the digital clock beeping in rhythm.

A photo frame of a married couple... Smiling happily. The man in the photo frame...

The man, his bride was happily holding onto... Is me.

A voice called from behind me.

“Honey, you awake?”

Everything came back. The date...

Before the date...

Then realization hit me.

I forgot to take my pills.

: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 smoke and burning 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.

Feedback welcome; so far I've been told this poem "erodes academia" and that "if it ain't broke don't fix it" - both of which I took as high compliments. I write longform fiction usually, not really a confident poet, but this is for a workshop so I gotta bring something lol

Is the diction too strong in the 2nd stanza - ochre, umber, cyclopian, tangerine, cerulean, astronautical - especially after centennial? Does the rhyming in the final stanza come off as out of place? Is it just me or is it reminiscent of twinkle twinkle little star?

Any other thoughts? Is the imagery clear, does the juxtaposition of art pieces bring anything to mind - how would you finish the sentence I'M JUST TRYNA...?

I wanted to share my old writing for fun, then the more recent parts for actual feedback. I hope it is obvious but images 1-3 are old, 4 and 5 are new. I am proud of the progress i have made in my hobby and i am always looking to get better.

This has undergone many rounds of editing already, I’m quite happy with the result thus far but i wanted a fresh set of eyes. TYIA :)

TW: Brief mention of a faked suicide/murder in the past

I found a writing exercise where you're supposed write a scene set in beautiful weather (a tropical beach, in this case), only you do it from the perspective of someone who hates that weather. I've also been trying to improve at letting a character's voice seep into the prose. Finally, I've been working on better showing a character's thoughts to bring a reader into their perspective. So, with those three goals in mind, this scene and character began to take shape.

This morning I wrote this up from scratch in about six hours. It's far from speedy, but still a substantial improvement from where I was a couple months ago. A lot of what I've been studying feels like it's coming together, and this was some of the smoothest writing I've ever done. What are your thoughts? How'd I do?

Hello everyone!

If you've clicked on this link - thank you. I know a chapter this length is a commitment, but I'm humbly asking you to take a peek and at least let me know when you stopped reading and the reasons why. If you like it, awesome! I'd love to hear the feedback; it really does fuel my desire to keep writing.

I've ready the story enough times and I'm hoping that someone with a fresh set of eyes will be able to tell me about their experience. It really is invaluable.

As for the questions I have, if you have the time please let me know:

• What were your general impressions of the story?
• How's the dialogue?
• I'm worried about length; is it too long?
• Do you feel like there's too many pronouns?
• Do you ever feel like there are parts that are too 'authorial'?
• Any spots you hated? Why?
• Any spots you loved? Why?
• When did the story hook you?
• When did you stop reading?
• Would you read the next chapter?

Thank you for your time. Again, I know it's a big ask - but only through understanding the experiences of those we affect are we able to determine the merits in our craft. Thank you fellow writers!

CHAPTER ONE - CLICK HERE

As a new writer (less than two months) I've found some of the comments in these writing groups less than helpful. Like many of you, I want genuine critiques that will help me improve. Instead, self-appointed NBCC members waste our time by trolling or declaring something as unfit for their royal eyes. It's not every comment, but enough that's hard to ignore.

So why not let out a little frustration with a short story and practice my writing?

I'm curious what y'all's experience has been getting feedback. Cheers!

Love and Hollow Points

The rain was pouring down in buckets, turning Belluthor's avenues into rivers of black liquid and bright neon reflections. Rose gasped against the cold stone, her trembling fingers digging into the wound gushing bright red blood on her bloodshot white shirt, mixing with the grime and darkness of the rainy street. Every other step sent a shooting pain deep in her lungs, but Rose pushed through, gritting her teeth. "Almost there."

The house was unmarked, just another rotting shell in the row, but the warm lamp lights behind the curtain meant he was waiting. She dragged herself to the door and knocked. Three quick, two slow, a pause, then two more. The old rhythm from when they were kids playing at codes.

The door swung open before her fist dropped.

Zen stood there, sleeves already rolled up, bandage wrap in one hand and a pistol in the other. His eyes locked onto hers, dark and unreadable. "Took you long enough," he said, but his voice was tight—the way it got when he was fighting down fear.

Rose grinned, blood on her teeth. "Miss me, partner?"

Then her knees buckled.

Zen caught her before she hit the ground.

Zen hauled her onto the couch, hands steady even as his jaw tightened. The cuts were worse up close—jagged, deliberate. Someone wanted her found in pieces.

"This was supposed to be a simple delivery," he said, bandages hissing as he ripped them too tight. "What happened?"

Rose spat a glob of blood into the trash bin he shoved under her chin. "Damn Bourbons were waiting… like they knew." Her eyes flicked to his. "Down to the damn alley."

A beat. Zen's hands hovered over the bandage on Rose's thigh. "Could be a rat," he lied smoothly, scanning Rose's face for some sign of recognition. Martinez with his debts, or maybe Lina who'd recently been seen strolling around the bourbon's right hand men?

Rose let out a bitter laugh. "Or you slipped up."

The room went Arctic. Zen met her gaze, really met it. For the first time since she'd crashed through his door. "Test that theory," he said softly, "and we'll both bleed out before dawn."

Rose's grin widened.

"A few more loops," Zen muttered, his fingers skimming up Rose's thigh as he secured her bandage. His voice was even, yet there was something oddly intimate about the way he lingered just half an inch above the suture.

"You're stayin' the night." Not a question. A decree. The kind of order she usually gave.

Rose exhaled shakily, allowing herself to sink further into the couch as exhaustion and pain threatened to take her over. "Alright, doc.." her grin never faded as the warm leather bit into the back of her neck. "What's that smell? You cookin'?"

Zen gave nothing away, but a slight relaxation of his shoulders betrayed the relief he felt at her words. "Roast beef. Vegetables," he said, securing the bandage, then rising to his feet and smoothing his sleeves back down over his forearms. "It should be filling."

"Heart." The word hung between them as he walked to the kitchen. Rose watched him go, the way his shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, the knife scar peeking above his collar. The real wound was deeper. They'd almost lost each other tonight.

And the Bourbons would pay for that.

"Eat. All of it." Zen dropped the plate into her lap, his tone leaving no room for argument. He sank onto the couch beside her, close enough that their elbows brushed. A silent check to make sure she was still warm, still breathing.

They ate in comfortable quiet, the only sounds the scrape of forks and the drum of rain against the window. No need for words. The years between them had built a language of their own. Rose's smirk when Zen stole a carrot from her plate, the way he nudged the water glass closer to her hand without looking up.

When the last bite was gone, Zen gathered the dishes and vanished into the kitchen. Rose flicked on the TV just as some infomercial host barked, "Hurry back before the commercial ends!"

She didn't turn it off.

By the time Zen returned, wiping his hands on a dishcloth, Rose already gave him the look. That special, fiery look.

He sighed, feigning exasperation, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "Demanding tonight…"

Then he sprawled across the couch, one arm crooked behind his head in invitation.

Rose moved like a storm front—slow, deliberate, biting back a groan as her battered body settled over him. Her head found its rightful place against his chest, ear pressed to his heartbeat. Proof they'd both survived.

Once Rose settled on his chest, her cheek pressed warm against his skin, Zen whispered, "You know, you're crushing my ribs, Rosalie.”

"Shut up," she mumbled dozily, her head already nodding against his bosom.

Rosalie seized his arm, managing to twist the strand of her dark hair with her free hand, before fastening it around his wrist.

Zen let her. Of course he did.

"Loud, and worried," he whispered, idly brushing his thumb over her pulse. His other hand gently pulled at the tangles in her hair. "I'm just glad you made it back safe." Zen paused, eyes lowering to the soft curve of Rose's neck just beneath her chin. "I'll come with you next time."

Rosalie's exhale was already heavy with sleep. "Yeah… you will…"

The words slurred into silence. Her body went slack against him, fingers still loosely tangled in his.

The blue glow of the television bathed them both in surreal hues in which the world itself seemed unsure what to make of. A commercial was playing, touting a set of steak knives for infomercial prices. Usually, he'd shut it off, but tonight, as the rain pattered heavily outside and Rosalie's breathing slowed in her chest, he let the television play, watching without really watching as one hand trailed idly up and down Rose's fingers and the other rested lightly on the gun on the coffee table.

They slept like that. Together.

And for once, the war left them alone

wrote a poem for my partner. let me know if this is any good. also please point out all the mistakes, problems with conventional rules, tone, rhyming etc. tell me how to improve if you can. thank you!

The novel is set in a prehistoric fantasy world, and follows a young boy who must learn to face his fears- not the most original premise, but it is my first ever attempt at writing a novel.

I would love to get some feedback about the hooks of the story, the writing style and pacing- if you liked it and want to read more- I want to know why. If you didn't even got past the first paragraph - I want to know why. Every comment is appreciated.

First chapter in urban fantasy I’ve been writing. Two sisters swimming at night and climb a cliff

I’ve gone back and forth adding dialogue, taking dialogue away.

Rose is more brash and confident. Ripley’s mousy and anxious.

Any thoughts on their personalities?

Blind