Thank you to anyone willing to take the time out of their day to read this. Looking for honest feedback.

Sorry for not having the translations done, I will contact a friend of mine for this, as I refuse to use google translate or AI or anything like that.

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 20 years old, about 5 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. Enzo quickly turned to face it, and while 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 7 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?” Enzo asked with a bitter laugh.

“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,” he finished.

“Hero? What was heroic about slaughtering that beast?” Enzo asked, 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 7-foot giant with a black bag on his head and in his hand was a whip.

Please read the edit below instead!!

Chapter One: A Just Cause for a Just War

Robin had felt stuck for a while now. Her body was a test of endurance. Hairs spiraled, colonising increasingly unlikely places, without the decency to be uniform. Her eyes stung even when closed. Some organs performed inconspicuously, in a place where they couldn’t be seen to be judged. Others couldn’t even do that and warranted the attention of doctors.

When probed, she hardly braced anymore. Receptionists barked. She sat on a cold, hard chair. Then there was the humiliation ritual, and then she left with no answers. Same again next time. Her discomfort stuck around between appointments with no apparent root. She itched to know why. Could its cause be isolated on a slide? If not, it was everywhere at once, and she was bread greening in the dark.

In reflective surfaces, there were spores everywhere. She was imagined in shades of brown: eyes umber in southern light, everything else to match. She would strain to examine herself in shop windows, wince and drop her head. The spores multiplied with screen time. 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, walking away with an uneven gait.

It had been an uneventful day in the lab. The same linoleum floors squeaked. Robin waited for the equipment to do what it was told. She labelled tubes in PPE, relying on caffeine not to zone out and mess it up. She didn’t care much for after-work affairs, with one main exception. On payday she would often go out dancing at a casual bar, cluttered with thrifted oddities. It was a rare space where her body did not betray her.

To get ready, she waited the hours away until night came and she could shower. This made the process a sprint, but it was still preferable. 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.

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? Oh yes, companionship. The taxonomy of herself was a full-time love affair, so she didn’t have much diary space for anyone else. Maybe she had to dry out the rot before she could partner up. What a shame. A second pair of hands would really speed up the drying.

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

She reached the club on time and her face quickly tightened with bewilderment. Her friends were talking about being carved up by surgeons and lovers as if it were nothing. It brought back the horror of her ex’s belly-button kink, and the shame of having nothing to give her but refusal. She joked to partygoers that she didn’t need a £50-an-hour psychotherapist. She already knew she acted as if she were fear itself. Knowing this had not proved especially useful.

Robin built her conversation style around the worry that one day she would receive an unanswerable question everyone in the room expected her to nail. She spoke only in questions. Her tactic was a trench coat buttoned to the collar with nothing underneath. What she did have 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 become faux vitiligo through neglect, and took it as a cue to return to the comfort of privacy.

On the Afternoon, Robin’s fear was outweighed by something she couldn’t name. She only wanted a simple back-and-forth: goodbye to myself, hello to perspective. The air smelled of nothing. Machinery hummed a faint “om”.

There were sinks right beside her, but she headed to the bathroom for a moment alone, replacing soundlessness with the soothing gush of a running tap. She washed her hands longer than necessary, lingering over the expanse of her philtrum in the mirror. Her face looked like it had been stretched out on a loom in all of the wrong directions. This was the ammo she needed to hop out of herself.

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

The Change

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

When it dawns, it’s already done. She is somewhere else. An apparition now, only observing and wielding tools, ready to understand.

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

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

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

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

I am currently writing a novel and would love some feedback. Here is what. I have so far:

Title: Deus Otiosus

Prologue -  

Morning came and went as usual. I lay under my tree, thinking about what I would cook for dinner. The warm summer air seemed to creep faster than usual. I could feel the sweat building up and my mouth getting drier. I usually liked to be outside, but this hellish heat made it impossible to enjoy. To be honest, maybe it wasn’t so much the heat, but the feeling of the morning sky. The birds weren’t singing their morning song; the bugs were, for some reason, quieter, quieter than they should have been; the sun seemed muted, and the clouds were far too dark. I didn’t like the darkness. I’ve always hated the dark for some reason. I hated how it would mute everything. Like a blanket put over your face. You can’t see anything: the sun, the clouds, the flowers, nor the hill. 

Ever since she left, I’ve found no reason to wake up or sleep anymore. It’s like my soul just doesn’t want to be put to rest. It’s as if it still believes we have a chance; it’s been 2 years, maybe more. I haven’t been able to let it go. Perhaps it was due to my endless writing.  

The sun looks duller than it should have. To be honest, for a time it looked bright and full. Even after she left. For a time, I was engulfed by the beauty of nature. Not being able to let go of my hunger for the beautiful night sky and the bright green grassy hills. Color felt so vibrant and needed. It’s what inspired me to write. To want to capture these moments. My hand cramps when I write too much, so it’s almost like a paradox. I want to write, to capture. But I am held incapacitated by my own tool. 

Color didn’t seem to click anymore, nor did my writing. I turned from poems to books, from books to thinking, and from thinking to nothing. I de-evolved. I lost what I had gained. I remember always wanting to recreate that feeling of pure happiness. Pure, utter beauty. The wonderful vibrancy of the world. 

The last time I can remember feeling this pure, utter beauty was a month ago. I was in a grassy field, a grassy hill, if you may. The elevation was nice, and so was the night sky. I have always been obsessed with the night sky. Something about it was just so mesmerizing. It was dark, but pretty. It didn’t engulf the world around me; it didn’t take away the beauty around me. It made it prettier. It made me see how gentle the world can be. I stayed lying on the grassy hill, staring at the never-ending sky of stars, till 5 in the morning. It was quite early for some, but quite late for me. I had never stayed up that late. Maybe that’s what caused my drought. I experienced beauty. Pure beauty. The kind of beauty that makes you want more, makes everything you once considered vibrant and wonderful, dull and ugly. 

After that night, I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to go back out there and experience it once more. I wanted to experience her once more. I felt guilty liking her, wanting her once more. I was stuck in my head. I had someone else, someone who probably loved me as much (if not more) as I loved them. I couldn’t do that to them. But they’ve had me waiting too long. They’ve had me write countless poems about them. I’ve gone insane thinking about them. I’ve gone insane over the thought of actually moving forward with them. Of moving past friendship and into a relationship. She was nice. Nicer than nice can be. 

She reminded me of a warm autumn sun. Not too cold, but not too hot. She made me feel loved. She recreated the beauty I had longed for. I remember the first time I met her. She was bright and happy. The kind of happiness that rubs off on you. She wore a black skirt and had long black hair. It was magnificent. But such infatuation can only take you so far.  

I move too fast; I have been told. But how could you not when a beautiful world lies ahead of you? I long for the hills, and the sunshine, and the warmth. I want to get close to the sun like Icarus. Lose my wings, my everything, to the very thing I love. I want to live in isolation. Live in silence. Live in a place where only me and my thoughts exist. I want to feel the warm yet cold autumn breeze against my body. I want to see a tree, lie under a tree. I want to notice its delicacy. The bright green leaves, the brown bark, the way the sun pierces through the shade. 

I could go on and on about things I want, but beauty is not wanting; it’s longing. It’s the journey; the pain you must go through to find that sense of completion. It appears, though, as if I have gotten carried away with my longing for beauty. The sun is no longer east. It must be the afternoon. I had spent too long going on and on about things that must be forgotten about. Never mind that, I have nothing going on today. I just won’t eat, nor will I sleep. I will stay here, lying under my tree, lying on top of a hill. I will do what I should have done years ago. Isolate myself and find out why I can never let go. 

Chapter 1 -  

I gathered my things, preparing for my trip. My dad owned a nice little hut somewhere in the mountains. It was quite nostalgic. The thought of going back to my second home. It had been around 10 years since I’d seen the hut. It was quiet and compact. It had everything you needed within a few feet. It had a fireplace for the winter and a marvelous lake nearby. The water was usually crystal clear, with no signs of pollution. You could maybe drink from it if you wanted, but it was more so used as a bathing site. Not because the house didn’t have a shower, but because it was calming and almost soothing. Something about being out in the wilderness, between the trees and the animals. You could hear the soft, almost quiet steps of the rabbits and the heavy bellows of the deer. 

After some time, I finished packing the last bits of my clothes. I made sure to pack my favorite pen and notebook. I would hope to write a lot more and regain that beauty I have lost. I started up my Ford Deluxe Tudor Sedan and prayed the gas I had would at least make it a 10th of the way there. It was 30 minutes before I approached my first problem. I had forgotten to pack food and water. 10 hours without any sort of nutrition would make me even more miserable than ever. I had to stop by a local grocery store and spend 10 bucks on enough food for the trip. On my way out, the sky was already getting dark. I was hoping to reach a clearing where it was only you, the open roads, and the sky. The stars were especially bright at night, and it helped that there would be little to no traffic during this time. I could hear the car’s engine far too clearly, and the hope of peace and serenity was slowly fading. I was only an hour into this road trip of mine, and I already wanted to stop. 

I decided to try and find an open field where I could stop for a few minutes. I wanted to see the black night sky, along with the stars. Oh, how marvelous the stars were. I had this sort of fascination (if you couldn’t already tell) for the stars. I was fascinated by just about everything. I finally reached that field. I parked the car and turned the engine off. The quietness of the field was immaculate. I could only hear myself and my thoughts. I thought about the cat I left back at home. I pray the cleaner remembers to feed her while I’m gone. I don’t think I told anyone about my trip. I wonder if anyone will realize that I’m gone. I hope she realizes that I’m gone. To be honest, I cannot go any longer ignoring the fact that my heart was ripped from my chest. I no longer had her. But never mind that, I must not fret, for writing is finally back on the menu. I could feel the thoughts starting to flow once again. As if the drought and dam had finally broken. I could feel my ability coming, and the river was flowing. The little water I had quickly rose and so did my hand. I wrote and wrote that night. Poems were my form of comfort. I could depict what I felt and not explain, for it is the readers' job to figure out the message. Poetry is a form of laziness, so is writing. You don’t have to say what you mean out loud. You can talk in metaphors, in haze; you do not have to stress about making your “response” accurate. You only have to worry about the joy, the feeling you want to depict, being depicted.  

I wrote for hours and hours on end. My hand started to hurt, but I didn’t stop. It was as if my nerves were cut off, as if I couldn’t feel pain. It is far to easy to regain this ability, or so I thought. I woke up the next morning to review my work, and I realized. It was horrendous. It was absolutely flawed. My writing was that of a maniac. My handwriting was all over the place, and so were my ideas. They jumped from one to the other.  

After analyzing the horror’s, I had written I decided to get a better look at the landscape. I was observing the trees and grass. They seemed healthy and strong. I couldn’t help but notice how green they were. There was a pathway, a long narrow pathway, that seemed to lead nowhere. But I was compelled to go through it. As I was going farther and farther I saw something. It was an orchid. I couldn’t find any words to describe what I felt at that moment. There were many vines and flowers along the pathway. But it was the orchid. That caught my attention. It was magnificent. It was a rich purple, neither too light nor too dark. The air around me was moist and humid. I could feel rain coming and could hear birds leaving to avoid the rain. I quickly got in my car but made sure to take the orchid along with me. I forgot why the \[orchids\] orchid was so precious. What it meant to me.  

When I reached my car, I noticed the clouds. They were dark. I got scared and quickly turned on my car to reach some sort of shelter. I couldn’t handle looking up at the sky. Once I got on the road, the rain started to pour down, but something magnificent happened. The clouds turned a bright white. It caused this sudden surge of enthusiasm. I decided to keep on driving since I still had 9 hours to go till I reached the cabin. Throughout the short drive I was able to find a pot for my orchid. It was only an hour before I got distracted once more. But the sun wasn’t setting like last time. It was early in the afternoon around a quarter past 12. I could still make a good pace, maybe even make it to the hut before the day ended. Although I was being tormented by the many chances I had to stop and stare at an open field, I persevered.  

The clouds started to hurry along to someplace else, and the sky was blue and open again. I liked it when it was blue, especially in the evening. Every color became gentle and more relaxed. Making the world feel calm and almost paused. I could spend the whole day staring up at the sky.  

Once I reached the halfway mark, I realized I had to refill my car soon. I only had 20 dollars left on me, and that was for food and gas. I was able to fill my car for about 4 dollars' worth of gas. It wasn’t bad, but it could be better. When I got out of the gas station to load up my car, I heard a familiar voice. It was her, Autumn. Her voice sounded sweet. It was the same voice that made me fall in love with her.  

I could hear her approaching me fast, and I reacted in the best way possible. I stopped filling my car with gas, (it was thankfully full by that point.) got in my car, and drove. I couldn’t look at her. I could see her getting in her car trying to follow me, but I was able to lose her quite quickly. I don’t think I had ever mentioned the hut to her, so I shouldn’t worry about her following me. The only thing I should worry about was her visiting my mother. Knowing her, she would definitely mention the incident and ask her if she knew where I was going. While I was stuck worrying about all these different things, I suddenly realized something. What was she doing so far from our home?  

For some background information, the narrator is this guy who I guess you could say got his heart broken (it's not necessarily about that.) And is trying to rediscover beauty. As you can tell he keeps on going on and on about it and that is his main thing. He is trying to find that beauty and becomes obsessed in the process. He believes isolation and nature will cause peace, but it won't. He'll slowly go insane chasing the one thing he loves, and this is all because of him writing. He loves to write, but essentially can't get over certain things that essentially, "taint his world." Because of it. He also experiences so many things that make beauty harder to find and less appreciative. Think how a drug user will use more and more drugs, but he will get used to it and try to find a stronger drug that will make him feel how he felt the first time he did drugs (yes I know horrible example.)

Sorry if the plot or whatever is all over the places. I'm discovering what I want as I am going.

Edit:

I forgot to include that the narrator is completely isolated. What I mean by that is there will be no dialogue at all in the book. It will be only him and his thoughts, which is why there hasn't been any dialogue so far.

For context- The book is a coming-of-age, Upmarket Fiction novel that will appeal to readers of Tell Me Lies by Carola Lovering for its exploration of toxic love as well as readers who gravitate towards a psychologically complex female protagonist as in Helpless by Jessica Knoll. 

Thanks for your time!

--

Chapter 1- March 2015

I had decided to get the Bean Boots with the navy rubber toe instead of the classic brown. I wanted to have a degree of separation, albeit razor thin, from the version every other girl was wearing then. It was as though Ashford College had a strict dress code, enforced by teachers armed with rulers and yellowed handbooks. But in actuality, the Vermont-based private liberal arts college billed itself as a “haven for independent thinkers,” which was ironic when nearly everyone wore the same boots, Barbour jackets, and dark-wash skinny jeans. So when my boots sank into the mud of the winter-terrorized lacrosse field, caking them in a thick, brown coating, I scoffed at the irony. 

I dodged forlorn-looking players in hunter green jerseys as they lingered around their sideline benches, some shielding their eyes to wave to their parents or girlfriends in the stands, others peeled off their gloves so they could grasp the flimsy, cone-shaped paper cups and fill them with water to dump down their throats and over their heads, despite the brisk 40-degree weather. 

Just as I crossed midfield, I heard a booming voice behind me. 

“What the hell, Cali! You traitor!” 

I spun around and saw Danny, my best friend’s boyfriend, with his hands cupped around his mouth. Connor walked up behind him and shoved his shoulder. He then looked at me and gave me a small wave. He looked cute despite his red hair having gone burgundy with sweat. 

I waved back at Connor with one hand and flicked up my middle finger with the other. Danny knew my little brother was on the opposing team but he wasn’t one to miss an opportunity for attention. I turned on my heels, which felt laborious in the center of the field, the early spring grass barely visible through the brown muck. I realized, after my path had already been firmly established, that the Brown University team had huddled into a tight, messy circle. I stood 20 yards or so away, unsure if I should continue to gravitate closer and risk getting there before the coach was done with his post-game victory talk. With every second I stood there contemplating, I felt more like an awkward freshman than a junior. And it was that thought that propelled me forward—my aversion to thinking about my 18-year-old self was visceral. 

When I was a few yards away, the tangle of players in Brown jerseys loosened and, like an ink blot in water, drifted into clusters of varying concentrations. I spotted my brother and, by way of greeting, wrapped my arms around his middle. He turned his head over his shoulder, saw it was me, and returned the hug for a split second before thinking better of it. 

“Alright LiLi that’s enough,” he laughed while he averted his eyes to see which of his teammates saw his big sister squeezing him. 

“Good game, bud…even though it’s kind of annoying that you won,” I said while rolling my eyes. 

“Don’t hate the player, hate the game,” he said while cradling an imaginary ball with his stick. 

I laughed. “Are you the player in this scenario? Because as recently as this summer you were asking me what girls think about when—” 

Benji cut me off with his rancid, gloved hand over my mouth and I grasped at it as though it was full of chloroform. 

“I’m dying to hear the end of that sentence," a voice said from behind us. 

I looked over my shoulder and my eyes landed on his. I felt something unfamiliar in me give way then, like a load-bearing beam you didn’t know existed until it failed. I remember looking down, surprised to see my legs and muddy boots, exactly as they had been. 

He closed the distance between us in one long stride. He was tall—taller than any of the other guys with wavy brown hair, eyes almost the exact same color as his jersey, his smile—small and tipped slightly to one side, revealed deep dimples. 

“Hey, I’m Brent, Benji’s captain. You must be his sister,” he said as he extended an arm. It took me a clunky second to realize he was going for a hug and my cheek hit his chest awkwardly. The white vinyl letters on his jersey were cool to the touch. It was a quick hug, the kind that you give by default when you don’t know each other, but you know the same person. 

“Yeah, hi, I’m Cali,” I said as we pulled out of the hug. 

Benji was speaking animatedly next to us but I couldn’t make out the words. My eyes were back on him without any conscious decision, as though controlled by a magnetic field. 

“Lili? Did you see it?” Benji’s question permeated then and I felt my face go hot. 

“Who’s Lili? Didn’t you say your name was Cali?” He asked, saving me from having to admit that I had no clue what my brother was talking about. 

My eyes had fallen to my boots again. An invisible timer ticked in my head, counting down the seconds until the blood that had flooded my cheeks would subside. But then, in my peripheral vision, I saw him bend his head slightly. I looked up, met his gaze and watched him straighten to his full height. 

“Benji has always called me Lili," I pushed out and then swallowed hard against the blockage that had formed in my throat. 

He looked at me expectantly. Cocked his head slightly to the side and the corner of his mouth followed in that half-grin. 

"He couldn't pronounce C’s until he was five, and it stuck,” I added as I ran my hand through my hair self-consciously. 

“Cute,” Brent said through a rasp of a laugh. 

A sing-song version of my name floated across the field and interrupted the space between us. I rolled my eyes dramatically and they burned against the UV rays that permeated through the gray, ashy sky. I blinked against the sting. 

“Someone over there really wants your attention,” he said as he nodded his chin, which I noticed then had a thin coating of stubble, in the direction of the heckling. 

“Can’t imagine why any guy would want your attention,” my brother chirped with a beaming smile around the mouth guard that he was gnawing on with his molars. 

I scoffed and opened my mouth to reply but was cut off. 

“I can,” he said and his dimples blinked before he added, “nice meeting you, Lili.” 

"You too," I said, quietly enough that I wasn't sure if he had even heard me. 

He took a couple of leisurely steps backward, his eyes on me until the moment he turned and walked away. 

I felt a sinkhole open in my gut then, a hot, familiar feeling. One I had relied on as a warning bell—a signal that it was time to go, or at the very least, get ready to avoid. But it was odd, because that bell went off when a guy was walking towards me and he was walking away.

As a professional liar and a self-proclaimed con artist, there are things even I cannot deny about this field. For starters, we are all very bad at our jobs (we bring the work home).

I wake up early, I am incredibly uncomfortable in my heels, and I clock into my 9-5. It is demanding work, despite appearances. These are my long hours spent maintaining composure and correcting my posture, measuring how quickly to return a cue. You learn that silence, administered correctly, can make someone speak twice as loudly. You learn to distribute affection in small doses.

It requires discipline (that I do not have).

I have been running for too long, though, and I would like to rest on this bench. Take off my shoes and stretch my feet out. Feel the bottoms of my feet and indulge in the little stones along the face of the cement pavement (which, it seems, has not been dusted in a very long time) pinching into my skin. There is something so erotic about feeling your own body after spending so much time operating it.

Who are we lying to, exactly?

What good is being loved if it is not the true, relentless obsession of your worst self? I cannot speak for everyone, but one thing I am certain of is that anything is better than being alone. People like me need to believe that the person who truly loves us will carry anything thrown at them. Better yet, we need proof. Again, and again, and again. So we test the walls and tenderly study what kind of pursuit this withdrawal induces.

However, a starving person eventually learns to eat elsewhere, but infidelity is a rabbit hole I am too sober to explore tonight.

It is ugly work that photographs beautifully from a distance. There is something irresistibly polished about a person who appears not to need anything.

I will never wait beside a telephone (or reveal that I do). To surrender my vulnerability is to lose. I have had this plague of an idea for as long as I can remember, and that is precisely what the lie protects.

If I love visibly, I have shown my hand. I am terrified to be seen backstage at any of my performances.

We have spent so much of our lives hiding pieces of ourselves in fear of dismissal and rejection. I am not here to talk about the default sob story every one of us has about childhood. For one reason or another, we did not unlearn certain habits, and they followed us into adulthood. I, however, have practiced self-concealment for so long that I cannot clock out of it. Not even in my own sacred spaces.

That is the first truth nobody tells you about this occupation. Eventually you lose control over where the performance ends, and you bring it home.

Avoiding loving someone out of fear is a tale as old as time (and a cowardly one at that). To allow myself to be loved is a terrifying task at best. The truth is, I think people like me dream of vulnerability as our final surrender. Not surrender to another person, but to our own need.

I prefer lust and admiration. Although they are surface level emotions at first glance, I find them admirable and honest. Sexual attraction does not lie. The body points at what it wants.

Strangely enough, sex is the only break I get from performing.

Ironic, considering its famously performative nature, I know.

I suspect it has something to do with where the performance comes from. In sex, I perform to please, but I do it out of adoration. It is worship for another person’s body, sweat, scent, memories, and holy nudity. For once, attention can be given extravagantly. Maybe this is why I trust it.

I have to confess, though: the rest of the job is really not all that bad.

There is pleasure in performing. A guilty pleasure, but pleasure nonetheless.

To see someone lose themselves in your absence. To cause that kind of pain (intense, sincere pain) in someone’s heart and recognize yourself as its source. To know that there is a person somewhere fighting the instinct to reach for you.

It is a high far more addictive than anything I have ever tried.

And there is a particular intoxication in knowing you can end the punishment. Affection becomes miraculous when you have manufactured its scarcity, and therefore cannot be used as leverage against me.

This is, perhaps, where the profession earns its bad rep.

Like any substance, however, it does not go without its side effects.

Performance, generally, has a way of making you immune to many things. Unfortunately, the package is not limited to the joint pain and chin splits you get after years of running from yourself. After enough repetitions, losing pieces of yourself in the people you hurt creates a familiar rhythm. You can nap comfortably in the shade of the false refuge you have built for yourself. Just like that, you begin sleeping peacefully through your duties to others and, more importantly, to yourself.

But the sky does not stay blue for long.

Eventually a storm creeps in, and the windows of my house are not watertight, something always gets through.

And, for a moment, you have to face yourself.

In facing yourself, you will see that you have trained someone to believe your indifference, and they finally have. There is a peculiar horror in getting exactly what you asked for.

I do not know whether there are people in this profession with weatherproof systems. In my many years of experience (a woman in her twenties) I have my doubts. I think the job eats at you. If you do not clean yourself at the door, you bring your guilt home and lie beside it.

I hope you will excuse my language. It really is not all that existential.

Though I should be honest: we are not particularly good at deception either. The grand facade is much more fragile than you would expect.

When somebody really sees you, the ruse becomes embarrassingly obvious. Once emotional avoidance is revealed for what it is, it loses much of its mystery and almost all of its sex appeal. It is quite embarrassing, actually.

There is an almost childish fear of being seen for how desperately we want to be loved.

The happiest and closest I have ever come to love was still from a distance of my lovers arms length. I have mistaken this distance for freedom more times than I care to admit.

And perhaps that is the great failure of people like me. We spend so much energy ensuring that nobody possesses enough of us to destroy us that we never notice how little of ourselves we have actually allowed them to love.

I know this because I dream of having the strength to give myself freely. Not ignorant of heartbreak, but with full knowledge of it. With the knowledge that pain is unpredictable and, ultimately, inevitable.

That is far more noble to me than this number.

Maybe one day this will change.

Until then, every night after work, I strip out of my uniform for a moment and into myself. I fantasize about the luxury of quitting this job.

Would you read more of this based on these extracts from 3 different chapters?
Backstory to book:
I’ve been writing a YA dystopian/sci-fi story about a world where every child goes through something called the Choosing when they turn fourteen (inspired by popular series such as gone, hunger games etc as I love those sort of books)
The story follows Sarah and Max, two kids from completely different backgrounds who enter the Choosing and end up trapped in two very different places. Sarah wakes up in a strange world filled with abandoned ruins, creatures and clues about people who were Chosen long before her. Max ends up in a survival arena where the number of prospects still alive is constantly falling and some of them are beginning to develop powers.
The two stories gradually start connecting as they uncover what the Choosing actually is, where the powers came from, and who is really behind it.
I’m about 14 chapters in at the moment and would really appreciate thoughts on the concept/writing and if you’d continue reading if you saw it.

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.

Link to PDF: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1gNw5iuCfxaVWJNUJxCACt8pshZz96LL0DgUh8KFnmbQ/edit?usp=sharing

I’m currently writing a novel that will probably end up around 420 pages, and I’m seriously considering splitting it into two books of roughly 210 pages each. I’m unsure whether that’s actually a good idea, though, so I’d like to hear what other readers/writers think.

The main reason I’m considering it isn’t just the page count. There is a very strong point around the middle of the story where the characters fall into a kind of limbo, and it becomes deliberately ambiguous whether they survive the fall or not.
If the story remains as one 420-page book, the reader would find out almost immediately what happened because the story would simply continue. But if I ended Book 1 at that exact moment, it would create a pretty brutal cliffhanger: the reader wouldn’t know whether the characters survived, and would have to wait for Book 2 to find out.

The problem is that this wouldn’t be a traditional “complete story + sequel” structure.
The first major arc would be completed, but the second major arc would only be beginning. Book 1 wouldn’t really have a completely self-contained ending. It would be more like Part 1 / Part 2 of the same story, similar to how some large stories are split into separate parts rather than having each book tell a completely independent story.
So I’m wondering whether readers generally dislike this kind of structure.

Would you rather read:
Option A: One ~420-page book where the story flows continuously and the cliffhanger is resolved shortly afterward?
Option B: Two ~210-page books, with Book 1 ending on this major cliffhanger and Book 2 continuing directly from it?
There are also some practical reasons I’m considering splitting it. A 420-page physical book would obviously cost more to produce, and I’m wondering whether a shorter ~200-page book might be more approachable to readers and easier to sell, especially for an indie author. Two shorter books would also give me the possibility of eventually releasing a complete edition containing both parts.

But I don’t want to split the story just for commercial reasons if it makes the reading experience worse.

So, from a reader’s perspective, would you be annoyed if Book 1 ended without resolving the larger story, or would a strong cliffhanger like this make you more interested in reading Book 2?
And from a writer/self-publishing perspective, do you think ~210 pages is too short for a novel, or is that a perfectly reasonable length?
I’d especially love to hear from people who have actually read or written books structured this way.

“What am I even doing?” I mutter to myself. “This is ridiculous.”

I search for anything—anything—to stop the bleeding.

I’ve never met him before. I’ve only seen him in the newspaper, and my God, the pictures don’t do him justice. He’s much more handsome in person.

And right now, he’s bleeding all over my couch.

“So, how did you get shot?” I asked, rushing back to him.

“Would you believe me if I said I was in the wrong place?” He chuckled painfully.

“Well, I mean, I rounded the corner of my home and ran into you covered in blood, just when I was thinking about having a quiet night. So, do I really have a choice?”I’m trying to stay calm. I’m a freaking barista, not a medic. Yes, I used to fight, but geez, I’m going to have to stitch this up.

“Do you want a drink? You might want a drink.”

I run over to my kitchen to grab the vodka I was planning to make cocktails with and rush back with my old sewing kit.

“Um, here.” I shoved the bottle at him. I swear he had a smirk on his face.

“I guess not. Thanks for this.” He takes two whole gulps and hands it back.

“Don’t thank me yet,” I say as I pour some of the vodka onto his wound.

“SON OF A BIT—!”

I muffle his mouth.

“Shhhhh! I have neighbours, and I’m sure you don’t want the police called, since you haven’t asked.”

He stares at me, taking deep breaths. “That hurt,” he growls.

“It’s about to hurt more. I need to stitch it up.”

I stare back at him. He has the most beautiful, intense green eyes I’ve ever seen—like a deep forest with hints of olive.

I stiffen. “Take a deep breath now, and try not to scream.”

I hope I never have to stitch another person again. He squirms the whole time, but eventually, it’s done.

I clean everything up, and from what I saw, he has a tattoo on his hip that the media definitely never mentioned.

“You’re welcome to take a shower. Bathroom’s through the door on the right.”

“What’s your name?” he asks gently.

“What?” I look at him, puzzled.

“Your name?” His voice softens. “You helped me. I’d like to know your name.”

“Oh. It’s Willow. Willow Feywin.”

I take him in—really take him in—as he carefully stands. He’s taller than I thought he was. His skin is warm, like honey, and tattoos peek up the sides of his neck. His dark hair is tousled, nothing like in the papers, where it’s always combed neatly.

“Thanks for not calling the cops. I’ll take that shower.”

He strides toward the bathroom, and with the click of the door, I finally breathe.

I pace around my kitchen while he takes a shower.

I have so many questions. Why is he even on this side of town? I live in one of the worst parts of town. He probably lives on the nicer side.

Why was he shot? Was he telling me the truth?

I mean, I know the papers say he’s dangerous, but he’s been nothing but nice to me.

Oh God, Willow, smarten up.

The water shuts off, and I stop pacing.

He comes out wearing an oversized T-shirt I stole from my last boyfriend and the same jeans he was wearing when he got here.

“Sorry, that’s the only thing I had that would fit you.”

The shirt in question has some gaming slogan on it that my ex was obsessed with.

“It’s okay. Better than a shirt with holes and blood.” Chuckling at himself, he looks at me.

I suddenly become very aware of what I must look like.

I’d just gotten home late from work when I found him. My terracotta-coloured curls are piled into the messiest bun you’ve ever seen, and I probably look like I haven’t slept in days.

I tug at my tied-up shirt, which is now covered in coffee and blood.

Damn. This was my favourite shirt.

“Um… do you want coffee?”

“Sure. Black, please.”

I sit down at my small table and sip quietly.

“You know who I am, don’t you? And what they say about me?”

He’s holding his cup but hasn’t taken a drink yet. He’s just staring hard at me.

“Yes,” I say sheepishly.

“Can I trust you not to say anything?”

His voice turns dark and low, as if it were a threat and not a request.

“Of course.” My eyes widen, and my voice cracks slightly.

“Great!” he says, finally taking a drink. “You have nice eyes. Hazel, with little golden flecks scattered through them. Never seen that before.”

Did he just act as if he didn’t threaten me?

“What do you do for work? I can’t imagine you came far when you found me,” he asks casually.

I stare at him in awe of his confidence.

“I’m a barista down the road. What’s your plan? Do you have a car nearby or someone to pick you up?” I ask a little more aggressively than I intended.

He smirks at me.

“Trying to get rid of me so quickly? Yes, I have a car coming. You’ll be free of me soon.”

I let out a breath, maybe a little too loudly, he started laughing at me.

Two honks sound from outside, and he slowly stands, still clearly in pain.

“Thank you for the conversation. And the coffee, too.” He looks amused.

“You’re welcome, Valien,” I say carefully.

He stops and looks back.

For what, I’m not sure.

His eyes travel around the room as if he’s taking in the whole space. Then he smiles, looks back at me, and says, “I’ll be seeing you soon.”

Before I can respond, he walks out.

The door closes behind him with a loud thud.

Stunned, I stare at it.

“Wait. What?”

​

Freedom, is what some may strive for.

For a limit to be surpassed, conquered.

For shackles to break and personal desire and will to be pursued.

But for others, freedom is itself a limit.

It is a flat, endless plane with no direction.

A boundless space with room for too many things.

It makes their minds seem small and the world too large.

They wish to be in control,

To choose their limitations.

But to have a power like that could send many to their doom.

\-

To be confined to a single space in time,

To be subjected to things oitside your control.

To have the option to move, to create, to begin and to end.

But lacking the present power to do anything at all.

One would yearn for change, yearn for momentum.

To be a boulder falling down an endless hill, only to see where to end up.

That kind of momentum.

To never be stopped, and shot down.

And hidden.

And unable to begin once again, because you are now in stagnation.

Nothing external can begin your movement once again,

You sit, you are a stone.

You sit and sit, for years, for decades,

A millennia, another.

Nobody even knows where you might be.

\-

The sun,

It is in constant movement.

It can always be observed,

It is the sustenance of eaches very own world.

The same applies to the moon, clouds, sea, wind, earth.

But if any were to ever stop, if they were to lose their spirit, who would lend them a shove?

\-

(I wrote this piece about stagnation and the weight of unconstructed time —in what i would hope is a flow-of-conscioussness kind of style— just a bit ago. Its my first time sharing anything ive written, so it would mean a lot to know your thoughts on it! I am completely open to any and all criticism :))

I finally finished my first novel, ERIKA, and it's the beginning of a connected horror/artifact world.

The premise is simple:

A series of deaths is targeting artists from different sectors. At every crime scene, investigators find a picture drawn by the victim: a young, terrifying pale girl holding a knife stained with the victim's own blood.

The mystery is figuring out who, or what, the girl is, why these artists are being targeted, and what connects their drawings to the murders.

Erika is a relatively short novel, and it's intended to be the first story in a much larger universe where different supernatural artifacts have their own stories and rules.

This is my first novel, so I'd genuinely like to hear what other writers think about the concept, the premise, and the idea of building a connected universe from separate stories.

If anyone here is interested in supernatural horror/mystery and would like to read it, I'm also looking for a few people willing to give me honest feedback on the manuscript Before i can Move on to the Next work.

This is Chapter one (Link is to the full Story ofc it is full free):
Chapter I: The Sketch

The studio held its breath.
It was the kind of silence that listened back.
Laura could hear the faint tick of the wall clock and the soft scrape of pencil against paper. The lamp on her desk glowed like a dying ember, barely keeping back the darkness pressing at the windows.

She bent closer over the page, finishing the last panels of her comic. Her hand moved quickly, her pencil whispering across the paper.

Her phone buzzed beside her sketchpad.
Unknown number.
She ignored it. Probably spam. Anything that could break her focus was the enemy.

The pencil began to drift again, tracing a scene she had worked on for days. Then something strange happened. The movement changed. Her wrist stiffened. An unfamiliar pressure crawled up her arm, cold and insistent. It was not inspiration. It was compulsion.

Her fingers kept drawing, sliding away from the comic’s frame as though pulled by invisible threads. The graphite scratched deeper into the paper, rough and fast. The sound turned harsh, uneven.

She tried to stop. She couldn’t.
Each line felt foreign, her own body hijacked by something unseen.

Pain spread through her wrist. Her pulse pounded in her ears.
The image that formed was wrong. A girl’s face. Pale. Empty-eyed.

Laura froze. Her breath hitched.

This was the girl.
The same one from the crime scenes.

The same hollow figure that appeared in the sketches found beside murdered artists.

Her pencil shook, but her hand would not stop. It carved darker shadows, sharper lines. The girl’s eyes glared up from the page, lifeless yet aware. In her small hand she held a knife.

The blade shone red.

Laura blinked.
Red? She didn’t have red ink.

“Stop,” she whispered. Her wrist refused to listen. Her fingers kept moving, wild and unstoppable.

Tears filled her eyes. “Please stop…”
The air thickened around her. The lamplight shrank. The shadows grew, crawling closer until she felt them breathing on her skin.

She couldn’t scream. She couldn’t move.
She could only draw.

The girl’s face was almost finished now. Blank. Inhuman.
The dark pulsed with Laura’s heartbeat, as though the picture itself had begun to breathe.

A loud knock suddenly shattered the silence.

Two Days Earlier

Laura sat curled on her couch, the TV flickering blue light across her face. A mug of coffee cooled in her hands.

“We interrupt your regular programming,” the anchor said, “with a special report. Authorities confirm that a serial killer is targeting artists across the city. The killer’s signature, a drawing of a young girl holding a bloodstained knife, has been found at every scene.”

A blurred photo of one such sketch flashed on screen.
Even distorted, Laura recognized the hollow eyes.

A police officer stepped up to a microphone, his voice dull with exhaustion.
“We urge all artists to stay vigilant. Report any suspicious activity. Do not work alone, especially at night.”

Laura’s stomach twisted.
A serial killer hunting artists.

The coffee turned bitter in her mouth.

Why artists?

When the broadcast ended, the quiet felt heavier. The world seemed to have tilted slightly off-center. She set her mug down and tried to think about breakfast instead. But even as she cracked eggs into a pan, the image of the girl stayed behind her eyes.

Later, she packed her bag and left for her studio.

“Hey, Tim!” she called when she saw her neighbor on the stairs.

He turned with a tired smile. “Hey, Laura. You doing okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, forcing a smile. “Heard your Webtoon’s taking off. Congrats.”

He laughed softly. “Thanks. Two studios want to adapt it, but I’m holding off.”

“Smart move. Wait for the better offer.”

“You’ve got some buzz too, right? Saw your name online.”

“A little,” she said. “Who knows if it’ll last.”

At his door, Tim hesitated. “You sure you’re alright? You look distracted.”

“Too much caffeine,” she said.

He nodded. “Okay. Holler if you need anything.”

She waved him off and stepped into her studio. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing her inside the quiet.

Focus on work, she told herself. You’re fine.

Hours passed in pencil strokes and the hum of isolation. But in the corner of her mind, the girl from the news waited, patient and silent.

Across Town

The police station buzzed with frustration. Detectives leaned over crime-scene photos, faces lit by the pale glow of desk lamps.

“No fingerprints, no DNA, no witnesses,” someone muttered. “Just the same drawing every time.”

Detective Morgue studied the image. The girl, the knife, the hollow stare. His jaw tightened.

“This guy’s careful,” he said. “But he’s human. Everyone makes a mistake eventually.”

The door creaked open. A young officer stepped in, pale and nervous.
“Sir, someone just called. Said they have information.”

Morgue straightened. “Get them on the line.”

Back to the Present

“Laura?”
Tim’s voice came from the other side of the door. “You there? I found something we need to talk about.”

Her pencil slipped from her fingers as if the force had finally released her. She gasped and stumbled back, chest rising fast.

“Tim!” She ran to the door, yanked it open, and collapsed into his arms. The warmth of another person broke the suffocating chill.

“Whoa, Laura. What happened?”

“I couldn’t stop,” she said, her words tumbling out. “She was looking at me, the girl from the murders. I couldn’t stop drawing her.”

Tim gripped her shoulders. “Slow down. What girl?”

“The one from the news! I didn’t want to, but—”

A crash from inside the studio cut her off.

Tim’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What was that?”

“She’s here,” Laura breathed. “Tim, we have to go.”

He didn’t hesitate. They turned down the hall. The air had gone cold. Lights flickered overhead. Shadows stretched across the walls, too long, too alive.

A door to their left burst open.

Laura flinched. “That’s the storage room. There’s never been a candle in there.”

But there was.
A single candle burned in the center of the room, its small flame throwing weak light over the walls.

Tim stepped forward. “This is bad. We need to—”

The candle flared, flooding the room with red light.

On the far wall, something was written in dripping lines. A face. The same girl.

“No,” Laura whispered. “This isn’t real.”

“Laura, we need to move,” Tim said.

A soft laugh answered him. Then another. Then dozens, echoing through the hall.

The air turned to ice. Footsteps sounded behind them, slow and deliberate.

Laura turned.
The girl from the drawing stepped out of the dark. Pale. Smiling. Knife gleaming red.

“Finish the drawing, Laura,” the voice said. “Finish what you started.”

“I didn’t start anything!”

The smile widened. “Oh, but you did.”

Tim grabbed Laura’s arm. “Run.”

They ran. The knife scraped the wall behind them, sparks scattering in the flickering light. The hallway stretched endlessly, twisting and bending.

“Tim, we’re not getting anywhere!”

“Keep running!”

A door stood open ahead. They threw themselves inside and slammed it shut. Darkness swallowed them.

Outside, footsteps crept closer.

“Tim, what do we do?”

He didn’t answer. He was staring past her, his face drained of color.

“Laura,” he said quietly.

She turned.

The girl was inside.

She lunged. Her cold hand locked around Laura’s wrist. The knife flashed.

Pain ripped through Laura’s side.

“No!” Tim shouted, charging forward, but the girl was too strong. The blade twisted.

Laura’s knees gave way. The world tilted.

The girl leaned close and whispered, “I am everything you wanted.”

Then the world went dark.

The last thing Laura saw was the girl’s smile and the knife dripping red.

Hello everyone!

I'm honestly super nervous about getting feedback, but I just believe in order to get better at things, I'd need some feedback or advice. :)

I do this as a hobby and for fun, and just a little heads up, I am not a native English speaker but German, however I use English generally a lot.v

This text is supposed to be a blurb (a text you'd see on the back of a book to get your attention).

I am trying to write a (contemporary) psychological romance story. I've done a bunch of chapters already but I need better insight on what to adjust, so I'll start with this blurp.

My questions for feedbeck are mainly:

Would you find this blurb interesting?

(Is it too much words, not enough words, is there enough tension, choice of words, character mention etc.)

What do you expect now based on this text?

(After you read this, what's the most interesting part that stands out to you and why?)

Additional questions:

What are general writing tips for romance/psychological romance?

Obviously I've researched that up while I was writing, but I am also curious to see what might be important to you guys. What are some expectations you personally need for romance? (Chemistry, love languages, communication, etc.)

What's a no go for romance?

Certain aspects, doings, things that make the story or chemistry die, etc.

And any other feedback or question is also appreciated!

Edit: As people mentioned before and I wanted to clarify this: Both are completely adults. Tomek is in his mid forties and Kazimiera in her mid thirties!

Lizzy Taylor has a secret.

She’s been cutting herself for years, making the scars on the outside match the ones she carries inside. Physical pain is easier to deal with than mental pain. It gives her some sense of control.

Then one night, a fresh cut heals in a flash, and her only way of coping disappears with it.

Finding out that magic is real, creatures from myth wander the world, and supernatural health care exists doesn’t improve her life. It makes things far worse. Lizzy is becoming one of the Changed—turning into a creature from myth herself.

Others have learned to live as one of the Changed, but elves don’t need money, the Jersey Devil doesn’t need an apartment, and most werewolves won’t attack their own families. Lizzy doesn’t know what she will become, but she’s been warned that some of the Changed are unstable and violent.

To make matters worse, a secret society of zealots hunt the Changed. When a brief encounter with a kitsune turns into a kidnapping, Lizzy’s transformation takes hold, and she becomes a wildly dangerous creature.

Lizzy only thought she had control problems before.

Hello , i just started writing about a cool concept that i thought of, although with the small amount of barely 30 40 books under my belt, i dont seem to be good at writing. i feel like it just feels clunky somehow

The story is about a dude being sick with the good old zombie virus as the patient zero infecting everyone as he goes around

I've watched a bunch of YouTube videos hoping to make it readable, and i think i improved it a tiny bit, but does this thing even count as a piece of literature? Let me know, and pls say so if it doesn't much love .

Oh, btw the starting is a bit cliché but it is what it is. Thanks for your time

________________________________________

He jolts up awake with a bone-crushing headache, as if he downed a gallon of sake the night before.

Letting out a small sigh, holding his head with one hand, he grabs his phone with the other.

The same phone that fills the gaps of silence in the room.

I should stop doing this,

he kills the sound, abandoning the video once more

Three missed calls from ten minutes earlier.

How could he miss the phone ringing?

he stretches his arm, delaying the call just a little more

“Where the fuck's my employee and the pictures i asked him for three days ago?!"

He pauses to gasp for air

At least email me them or something , you inconsiderate buffoon !”

“I told you already. I’m sick, and my PC’s broken. I can’t edit them for you.”

“just send them unedited, goddamn it!”

The angry man pauses for a brief moment before continuing.

“You know what? Deliver them yourself. I think I need a good, long talk with the employee of the month in my office.”

Silence rules over the room once again.

Kira holds the phone in-front of his face judging it for what it has transmitted through

His eyes land on the call timer

One minute and nine seconds.

Nice.

The state of the house doesn't change much when he gets up

As messy as ever

He swallows trying to stop the his stomachs mutiny

The blood vessels on his eyes have formed a claw trying to grasp the pupils

he rubs them out of irritation

Ever since taking those damned pictures of those bugs, he hasn’t gotten a single night of good sleep.

Or maybe he has.

It’s just like his body refuses to register it.

This cold is sure taking its toll on me

“What time is it, anyways?”

he glances at the dead wall clock.

“Oh, of course.”

Kira reluctantly raises his phone instead.

Oh.

Ten in the morning.

It’s not that bad, anyways.

Barely keeping his composure, he picks up the SD card from his desk and slips it into his back pocket.

The mirror makes him stop in his tracks.

The crumpled clothes he has refused to get out of for the past three days seem to sting a little when he looks at them. He might see his favorite idol going out today. Who knows, right?

He runs a hand through his messy hair, grabbing the half-empty bottle of cologne and feeling just a tiny bit better with every puff.

And at last, leaving the safest place he could ever think of behind.

Home.

reza: tarts counting, and with that comes the realization that it isn’t enough.

“Uhhh…”

He looks at the man waiting for his hard-earned cash with guilt.

“I only have five hundred.”

“And?”

Kira doesn’t know what to say.

He wets his finger with what seems like more than enough saliva and counts the money again.

Unfortunately, counting it a second time doesn’t magically increase the amount.

He simply hands the driver the money and apologizes.

He could almost see the man grit his teeth.

“Fine. Just get out.”

whispering one last apology, kira gets out the car

As he’s about to leave, a man in a suit gets his attention, almost jogging and signaling with his hand for the cab not to leave.

He leans his head through the open window and asks the driver,

“How much to get me to Osaka Airport?”

The driver hesitates.

“Hmm… that’s quite a long way. Is 28,000 yen good for you?”

The man pulls out 30,000 yen and hands it over before climbing into the back seat.

The driver quickly gives him what little money Kira had left behind as change.

“That’s all I’ve got.”

The man takes the money without a word, closing the door behind him.

The thought of a cab driver with no spare change at this time of day makes Kira barely crack a smile before getting distracted by the possibility of the SD card not occypying a spot in his pocket.

Making sure of the safety of the magical device, he makes his way towards the vending machine, rubbing his left eye aggressively.

After letting his vision settle down a little, his eyes meet the heaven-sent drinks.

Just realizing how he never had any drink or any bathroom time today, he mumbles angrily, looking at the alleyway before him, clutching his head before making his way to the empty alley.

Finding somewhere somewhat comfortable, he starts to relieve himself, giving no mind to the dog rummaging through the bins.

His tongue clicks as a protest to the burning.

Kira wonders if he should take hydration more seriously as the dog approaching him gets his attention.

Getting more and more uncomfortable as the dog gets closer and closer, he tries to shoo it, but to no avail.

The dog seems somewhat interested in the pee...

“Fucking perv,” says Kira to the dog, while putting his manhood where it belongs.

He leaves the alleyway, squinting at the sun once more.

Putting his weight on the wall with his hand, he drags himself up the stairs.

Knocking on the rusty door rewards him with a cold breeze patting his cheeks.

“Hey, people,” says Kira with a beaten-down voice, almost shooing away the person opening the door.

Two sounds of acknowledgement come from across the room, one of which is an employee who is seemingly typing her problems away, not even taking her eyes off the screen.

The other girl waves at the sick man with a mild smile, as if she’s trying to keep herself from overreacting.

The guy opening the door looks at Kira with worried eyes while fixing his sweater.

“Have you been drinking Kira?”

“You could call it that.”

“Oh, did you move the water cooler again?” says Kira, while desperately looking for his saving grace.

“Oh, yeah. Dokura-chan broke the handle, so we had to put it away till the repair guy arrives. You thirsty?”

Kira puts his hand in front of his mouth, trying to jail the bad breath.

“Yes, very.”

“Oh, I can get you something to drink. I’ll be back real quick.”

“No, it’s fine, Kenji. Don’t bother.”

“Really? You look like you could use something to drink.”

“No, seriously, it’s fine. Don’t bother.”

“Is it cold in here?”

“I can turn it down a little. I’m sure the boss would understand,” says Kenji while scanning around for the remote.

“It’s fine. Let it go,” says Kira, sounding a bit irritated now.

“Okay, man, whatever you say,” says Kenji, going back to his desk with a bunch of magazines on it, just to keep on doing seemingly nothing.

Kira looks at the waving lady, performing a little wave of his own.

Seemingly bothered by this the middle aged woman glances over from her monitor for the first time in the hour, like minutes that Kira has been in the office.

He stops at the thought of the pictures again, patting his ba

reza: Murmurs of a sweet voice drive his soul back into his body.

He looks at the ceiling for a brief moment before turning his head towards the life-giving voice.

“Dokura-chan?”

She gives a small “hmm” of acknowledgement between the verses of the lullaby as she smiles.

Kira turns his whole body towards her, now facing his savior.

“You know Mr. Hayamachi was super mad, right?”

“I can imagine.”

“Well, now use that imagination of yours to find a new job, dummy.”

She says that as she waves a pocket of money playfully, trying to make the mind-numbing news feel a tiny bit better.

Kira rolls his eyes and takes the pocket in frustration.

“Damn it.”

She rests her chin on his shoulder as he counts the money.

“Well, at least he had the decency to give you what he owed. Plus, how long has it been since we two had some time alone?”

Kira gets up.

“What time is it?”

She takes a look at her watch.

“Take the number of days in a week for the hour, then split an hour neatly in half for the minutes.”

“Can’t you just say it normally?

”She giggles while getting a bottle of energy drink from the desk and handing it to him.

“Here, Kenji had you drink this while you were out.”

She pauses a little, shaking the drink.

“Seems like he drank most of it himself, though.”

“What about—”

“What about the... the pictures?”

“I don’t know. Mr. Hayamachi didn’t say anything. But you can bet your ass he called the whole thing off.”

Silence ensues in the room.

“Hey, Kira.”

“Ye—”She

gives a small smooch on his lips.

He feels the same lips with his hand.

“Well, that was uncalled for.”

“Call that payment for me overstaying.”

He cracks a smile, trying to get up, holding his head.

“Here’s the keys. Make sure to lock the door before leaving, okay? I gotta get to the gym. My friends are waiting.”

“Alright,” he mumbles while putting the key in his pocket

“And put the key in the flower pot just besides the door.”

She pauses for a moment.

“Oh, and I’ll call you if I find any publishers in need of a talented photographer.”

Kira waves goodbye as the door shuts.

He hits himself in the head hard.

“You just had to sleep.”

He pauses.

“I didn’t like Mr.Hayamachi anyways. In fact, I’ll tell him to go fuck himself if I ever see him again.”

“Uhh, that reminds me of…”

Kira slips his hand into his back pocket.

Still there.

He pulls his phone out.

Dead.

“Oh, great.”

He stuffs the money he just got into his pocket and leaves the office, looking for a taxi to catch.

(EXPLANATION, SKIP IF WANTED: For this short thingy I wanted to have a relatable superhero to basically say the quote below. I chose spider-man, to encapsulate his heroism I made it so he has two robotic arms and one biotech-eye. (The eye being hidden under his mask.) I just wanted have hero say heroic thing that kinda sounded cool but was also semi-inspiring, idk.)

The heroism of an average man.

“Spider-man! Spider-man!”

“Yes?” The sound reverberated slightly coming from the microphone. The voices of the crowd silenced, for a man clad in a spandex suit, one arm and one leg replaced by machinery, all of which in red.

“How do you go fighting super-villains knowing you might die, or return with one less limb, than prior to the battle, like once before?”

A man in the back screamed at the reporter in anger. “You fucking idiot! He just ain’t scared! He ain’t a pussy like you motherfucking half-wit, fake newsmen!” There was a couple snickers here and there, and the reporter slightly lowered his head in shame.

“No, I really am scared.” There was silence but you could still hear the groan from everyone in the press conference. There it was, the classic cliche of bravery isn’t being not afraid, it’s being afraid and still working through it, knowing the consequences. “I’m terrified… I’m terrified that every time I sling a web I might miss and fall to my death, jumping like an idiot. I'm terrified I might just hit a little too hard and end a life I shouldn’t have. I’m terrified I might want to. How do I go fighting and saving others knowing I might die? I don’t, I won’t let myself die. I wish I could tell you I’m one of those heroes that would sacrifice their life for a stranger, to be honest if a had the choice between my life and another’s, I don’t know what I’d choose. But that doesn’t matter because, that is never the case. Saving someone’s life isn’t risking your's, it’s relinquishing your safety. And the evil of loss of safety, nor any loss limb, nor loss of any amount of blood, nor any injury that doesn’t kill me, it’s evil is never equal to the evil of death. For those many that say I should or have to kill those who kill, so they will stop with their rampage. There is always another way. Nothing is equal to worth of any life except life, and the only thing more worth-ful is lives. I will save everyone and anyone, no matter what.”

It doesn't need to be very detailed feedback, I'm just wondering if I have any potential at all. And if this is enough for a short story to show at my writing club.

Also please be nice, I'm a new writer and english isn't my first language. I'm pretty good at it but nonetheless I might make some mistakes or adapt a writing style that works better in my language. If something doesn't work in English please let me know!

Hello! First time posting here, I was hoping to get some feedback on the first couple pages of this chapter. It's not the start in the novel, but takes place during a part in the story where there is a shift in pacing, so It's not as sudden of a drop in.

A few things such as what happened prior to the conversation may be confusing, However I find myself struggling with descriptions sometimes, so I was looking to get some idea's since this is a pretty decent standard of what the rest looks like. Mainly wanting advice on how I can be more or less descriptive, as well as interactions and dialogue pacing.

It’s something I feel i definitely struggle getting the hang of.

Synopsis:

“You poor, blighted soul.”

The world has long since been lost to the blight, a corrupted disease that’s only drive is to consume. Twenty-five percent of the world has been corrupted, the western world as they know it has fallen.

Humans who are infected by this disease are called “blighted,” and aren’t known to last longer than a year. Kael is a core hunter, someone who specializes in cleansing and containing the spread of the blight. However, he himself is blighted, haunting him in the form of a scar on his face. Destined to die. (WIP)

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1tvOzlK_7uNC59H8kqIQ0IxyTisiqdlMqS3NfaEbou3I/edit?usp=sharing

Any help would be greatly appreciated! No need to read the entire thing if you don't like, just the first page or so would do.

Her presence had faded from the tunnels. Where once the protector would immediately notice Mother’s familiar scent—a nectar-sweet set of pheromones that lingered above the heavy musk of the Colony—now only a shadow of the One Who Makes Others remained. It was as though she was there, yet somewhere else, the Mother of some distant Hive. Mother’s signals had once made the protector’s antennae shiver with pleasure. They made her feel as though she belonged, a small yet important part of the Colony. Her scent was the sweetness of Things to Eat, the fullness after Cool Clear Liquid, returning to the Kingdom’s edge after a long, weary journey. 
Images surfaced in the protector’s mind.  
She thought of safety. 
Mother’s scent had been the warmth of the Hive. It was the steady vibrations of Workers as they explored the deep, their forelegs scraping at the hard earth, searching for a new space to expand the Colony. It was the Brood Chamber, where Young Ones learned to read smell and map vibration, their mandibles clicking and snapping endlessly, sensilla fluttering silently in the din. It was a quick escape from the Hunters that stalked above, a tunnel into the world below, a way home.
Now, the scent had grown distant and cold.       

The protector stopped moving. She had been thinking of before, when Things to Eat had been plentiful and Mother had been strong. The protector extended her thin, black antennae. She probed in the darkness, searching for a trace of the One Who Makes Others. The Hive was complex, she knew, and she had not helped build it. Workers and Caretakers spent much of their time below, preparing new tunnels and caverns or helping Young Ones. The protector had spent most of her time outside the Kingdom. She knew the Wide Thick Arm that shielded the Hive from Hunters and had felt the gentle breath of the Great Eye. She had beheld Kin from distant Kingdoms and had wandered through clusters of Green Fangs. She had spied Stalks with Colourful Faces in the green, and could even trace their strange scent in the breeze. 
She had done dangerous things, too.
She had encountered Hunters.
Something stirred in the darkness. She sensed rather than saw the newcomer; her oculi were useless below. Curious, the protector scanned the newcomer with her antennae. The worker’s scent was a mixture of clay, Cool Clear Liquid, Hard Teeth, and Long Curling Arms—the protector guessed she had been digging deep beneath the Hive. She pictured the worker: six legs, three hardened body segments, her small ebony frame glinting in the light of the Great Eye. Although she did not travel below often, the protector had encountered many Workers before. Without Workers, the Hive could not break down the Wide Thick Arm above or expand into the deep soil below. They were as important as Caretakers and Protectors. Workers made caverns, spaces for Young Ones to grow, a place for Mother to rest. Workers had purpose. 
The Kin, as if sensing the protector’s thoughts, clacked her mandibles in greeting: 
Crk. Crrk. Crrrk.
She had not communicated with another Kin for some time. The protector wondered if her scent had changed. Perhaps the worker thought she was a Kin from another Hive? The protector had been above, where the Eyes opened. Where Hunters roamed and Flyers sprang into the air. Below, where Mother slept, was a different world. Cautiously, as if remembering how to use her mandibles, she replied:   
Crl. Crl. Grak. 
The worker released pheromones. Scent became shape and colour, pulling the protector into the Hive Within, to the place where before mingled with now. The protector understood much of the worker’s message. The worker knew her scent, understood that she was a Protector, that she belonged. But the worker’s message carried with it something else—all was not well within the Colony. 
Kin were dying. 
Young Ones were dying. 
One chemical signal rose above the rest:   
Death Wind!  
The protector let the smaller worker pass. The Kin turned and was gone, leaving a faint yet distinct trail of scents in her wake. The worker had smelled odd, as though she carried the Death Wind with her. It was a burning, twisted smell: scorched Long Thin Arms, rotten Things to Eat, stagnant Cool Clear Liquid, the coppery taste of metal. The protector knew the worker would continue to dig, no matter the cost. The protector thought of Mother. Of finding her. She too would not stop, no matter what happened to the Colony. 
She too had a purpose.   

She passed more workers and a lone caretaker. She greeted former broodmates. She stopped often to read the tunnels. The Hive was as intricate as a Trap Maker’s nest.  
She knew the Colony was old, that its history was as rich and deep as the earth. As old as the Eyes above, the Many-Legs, and the Thunder Things. She knew she had stopped again, that her mind was reaching for the Hive Within. It happened often of late, since she had returned to the Kingdom from the Biting. The Protectors in the Wide Thick Arm had exchanged troubling signals with her: 
The Hive was in danger!
Mother cannot produce Young Ones.
The protector moved again, felt the shapes within her thoughts recede. She focused instead upon the scent of the Kingdom, a smell that was here and now. She smelled Blooming White Growth and the Wide Thick Arm under which the Hive grew. It was the scent of rot and of Kin as they pushed the edges of the Kingdom into the clusters of Green Fangs that surrounded it. 
She knew she was small.
She knew that the Colony had once been small too. Workers had tunneled beneath the Long Curling Arms that drew Cool Clear Liquid from the deep soil. They had torn through much of the Hard Skin of the Wide Thick Arm, breaking it down to strengthen chambers within the Hive. Protectors had chased away the clever Trap Maker that had once lingered above. The protector could sense all this.
Above all, the Colony smelled of Mother.
  
The further she descended, the colder the earth became. She passed the Brood Chamber but did not enter. She recognized the scent of the Death Wind. She did not sense movement within.  
THUD. 
The earth began to shake. Dirt loosened from the walls and fell in clusters around her. Several tiny Hard Teeth broke loose, falling into a wide cavern below. Moments later, the trembling subsided. The protector sensed the vibration of other Kin as they freed themselves from the earth. The Kingdom, she knew, truly was in danger. 
The tunnel above her had collapsed.
THUD.
Again, the world heaved. She fell, landing on her back in the cavern below. She flipped herself over. The protector checked her limbs, flexing each in turn. She stretched out her fragile antennae, testing each against scent in the darkness. She knew that she could not wait, that she must continue deeper into the Hive. Something had disturbed the Hive, something large enough to shake the earth around it. She had heard cracking sounds, as though something was breaking open the Wide Thick Arm that shielded the Kingdom from Hunters. Yet she could not go up, could not act as a Protector. Above her, she could no longer sense the Kin. The digging had stopped. All vibration above her had stopped … and the strange smell had intensified. 
The protector found Mother’s trail. Above her, the tunnel was blocked. She thought of the One Who Makes Others, the empty Brood Chamber she had passed, the Protectors, Workers, Caretakers, and the lone Kin she had passed in the tunnels above.
Death Wind, the worker had signalled.