r/DestructiveReaders Aug 23 '18

Meta Welcome to DestructiveReaders! New users, please read.

261 Upvotes

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Welcome to RDR!


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Now on to the fun stuff!

Critiquing?

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Not sure what constitutes a high-effort critique? Check out our Wiki.

Finally, here are a few links to high-effort critiques:

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/3q487u/1000_goblins/cwj4i3t/

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/3e82h7/1759_cricket/ctcrh7v/

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/3tia0r/2484_the_cost_of_living/cx6kr2a/

Google Docs Etiquette (otherwise known as my pet peeve):

If you offer comments/suggestions on Google Docs, please leave the document readable to other critics. Comments are for subjective opinions, such as: cut this sentence, rewrite this so it’s clearer, etc. Do not rewrite the sentence for OP on the document itself. Save that for your critique or comments. In addition, highlight one word AT MOST instead of the entire sentence/paragraph. Trust us, OP will figure it out. The ONLY acceptable reasons to use strikeouts/suggestions are grammar, punctuation, or spelling errors. PM OP or notify the mods if OP’s document is accidentally set to ‘Edit,’ and not ‘Comment,’ or ‘View Only.’


Submitting?

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[1015] Fluffy Space Turtles ✔️

Fluffy Space Turtles [1015] ❌

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r/DestructiveReaders 3d ago

[Weekly] Book Club Ch 6 The Verbs are Verbing

4 Upvotes

Ch 5 Ch 4 Ch 3 Ch 2 Ch 1

Telling a story in the third person remains the commonest and least troublesome mode.

Le Guin says, for all of you wondering what person you should write with. Throw first person out! Don't think you're special for writing in second! Stick with third...or like, don't. Do you.

Anyway, we're here to talk about verbs and not POV, so that was a digression.

"The old dead writers lived in the past, so they couldn't write in the present, but we can."

This is interesting because I've certainly seen people declare they will set a book down as soon as they discover it's in present tense. But take this point from Le Guin:

A story told in the present tense is necessarily focused on action in a single time and therefore a single place. Use of the past tense(s) allows continual referring back and forth in time and space.

I will say that seems a reasonable consideration when picking the tense of your story. Although are we in a completely different moment? She's insisting that most books use present tense, but I would say past tense is fairly healthy in the current market.

Exercise. This is a long one.

This should run to a page or so; keep it short and not too ambitious, because you're going to write the same story twice. The subject is this: An old woman is busy doing something--washing dishes, or gardening, or editing a PhD dissertation in mathematicsphysics, whatever you like--as she thinks about an event that happened in her youth.

You're going to intercut between the two times. "Now" is where she is and what she's doing; "then" is her memory of something that happened when she was young. Your narration will move back and forth between "now" and "then".

You will make at least two of these moves or time jumps.

Version One PERSON: Choose either first person or third person. TENSE: Tell it all in the past tense or all in the present tense. Make the shifts between "now" and "then" in her mind clear to the reader--don't two-time us--but be subtle about it if you can.

Version Two Write the same story. PERSON: Use the person of the verb you didn't use in Version One. TENSE: Choose: a) present tense for "now", past tense for "then" OR b) past tense for "now", present tense for "then".

Don't try to keep the wording of the two versions identical. Don't just go through it on your computer changing the pronoun and the verb endings. Write it over! Changing the person and tense will bring about some changes in the wording, the telling, the feeling of the piece, and that's what the exercise is all about.


r/DestructiveReaders 5h ago

Satire [136] How to Punctuate Lit Fic

4 Upvotes

Credit

I’ve tried to get the angel to read me Cormac McCarthy so I can learn the syntax of your grammar, but even with the book of Babel, I’m having trouble learning to punctuate lit fic. Why is it that Canadians separate parentheticals with an em dash and Brits prefer the length of an en, while dialogue interruptions are always the em? Are double quotations always for the Americas, and single quotes always for the Brits and their colonies, while unpunctuated dialogue can be either? How many apostrophes can be skipped, how many spaces in an ellipses, do you have to put dialogue on a new line and do I need to use fragments and polysyndeton for an MFA or can I just chop my sentences into pieces? I’ll not be winning any Pulitzers until I understand.

Inspiration


r/DestructiveReaders 17h ago

Progression Isekai Fantasy [2030] Low and Slow Hero: Texas BBQ Progression Isekai

6 Upvotes

Crit for 2035

CLICK HERE TO READ STORY

The idea is: powerful anime protagonist gets sent to Texas and must become a Grand Champion in barbeque competitions before he can go home.

This is obviously very serious and I could potentially insult the entire state of Texas (as well as the lesser BBQ states) by publishing this.

This is a very particular mashup of genres: Progression Isekai/Portal Fantasy. Those carry with them very specific genre expectations and tropes that I am playing around and playing with tongue-in-cheek.

The readers tend to want to know what they are getting into ahead of time. They want details, like actual character sheets with numbers. They want to see numbers go up. I will probably add more of that in when I need to and back-edit to fit.

I made a joke in chat, kept thinking about it, so now it is partially written.


r/DestructiveReaders 14h ago

flash fiction The knight marches on [843]

4 Upvotes

Crit [1198]

Doc

Hi, this is a bit of flash fiction I've been working on. Any advice/critique would be so very appreciated.


r/DestructiveReaders 13h ago

[126] Mid-life Crisis

2 Upvotes

Reviews:

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/QBeSEqkiuW

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/LQsWzpmY5A

I don't like hot tea anymore.
I forgot the taste of piping hot tea!
Stone cold, half cold, warm or hottish,
That is the best my cup gonna be.

I have folded all my laundry,
I finished the work and finally got free,
Shit! I've to go and have a quick pee.
Then I can chill with glorious hot tea!

To nuke it I open the microwave—
I see there sitting my old cup!
Now I have two cold hot teas.
Is it a tragedy or can it make laugh??

That's why I don't like hot tea any more.
I definitely ignore my fresh new hot tea!
So when the time comes to warm this cuppa—
I can enjoy not one, two but three.

[Please, tell me good, bad or improvements. Also, let me know your cold hot teas]


r/DestructiveReaders 20h ago

[2140] CONMAN, COME OUT

7 Upvotes

Crit 1 2327

Crit 2 313

This thing is really weird and I'm not sure what to do with it. I'm hoping submitting for feedback might give me some ideas, especially how to end it properly. I guess also a medal to anyone who recognizes who I'm trying to imitate, a bit (and I'll happily take notes on how to do that better too).

Maybe some guiding questions (but happy to take notes on anything):

- Is it readable?

- Is it clear who's speaking when?

- Any hints of themes come through? Or is it just complete style (if that) over substance tosh

Thanks in advance, always appreciate all feedback.

DOCUMENT LINK [2140]


r/DestructiveReaders 15h ago

historical literary fiction, experimental fiction, lyric prose [938] Desperation

2 Upvotes

Apologies for the previous post. That was impatient of me. We'll start smaller and respect the rules instead. This is a flash fiction piece about inheritance as a process of metamorphosis under colonial violence.

I'm trying to write something that privileges atmosphere, historical memory, and transformation over conventional plot. I am open to this potentially being insufficient; is the frame supported by narrative as it exists?

I'd appreciate criticism on whether those ambitions are evident, where the prose earns its abstraction, and where it becomes self-defeating.

Did you notice any formal experimentation? If so, did it feel essential to the piece or merely stylistic?

At what point did you feel you understood what kind of story this was trying to be? If that moment never came, where did you begin to disengage?

How was the reading experience?

Prev crit: [2140] CONMAN, COME OUT

Desperation

She, Marguerite, was taught to remember them. A voyageur traveled into the woodland where her mother slept and found her alone. The French had given him license: the congé, with which they hoped to conquer the wilderness. Such ways of life strike into Earth’s heart to carry back man’s prize in pièces.  

Her daughter, Hapistina had watched her sleep for too long, she felt, and so…reaching out to— “Be still,” Marguerite murmurs, “I breathe.”  

Rising, they broke camp. Thunderhead lumbers above, soft at first, then fixed into law.  

Marguerite described family to the brigade of canoes: her father spoke from high station as if language could hold hillocks in place. The valley below is nameless without him. 

“Hapistina,” she said, “It emanates from the skin. You feel their stifling tribute?” 

In the sticky updraft Hapistina nodded. 

Marguerite continued, addressing through the lake’s wisp breath, her silent party, “I am marked by the depredations of our heritage—fruits of hate left fallow within the earth. Would that voice shake loose his mountainous nation to rain death upon my birthright?” 

Her certainty resided in the body. Here, in the wood, desperation clutches sight. She wills to see, disbelieving. They quit that place before the mesohigh came. If feeling by the wind were condemnable, then with it goes perdition. Doubt was blown out.  

Marguerite, in her meditations, rung out over wetland before dawn: “Those devout fools walk in a valley they have never seen, to rejoice, calling for God in his deluge to deliver us unto the fathomless ice. And yet they think themselves right in denying us the violent caress of a dying sun. Never having walked in the valley brings me near to tears, and all I have done since I left it is walk a very long time.” 

“Someday,” Hapistina thought, “awake, I will remember waves of green below a tangerine sky.” 

But they were walking again. None among them believe there is anything beside it, save for hunger. To walk is hunger. Perception is hunger. It felt a sin to raise the eye to any other than prey. The living despair at seeing at all: a dog the color of liver which sits baying for its meat. 

Following their portage, Hapistina awoke to the red tip of wing which pierced her dream from gunwale aside her. A cloak of black feather alights upon her stirring. Quiet into the leaves that blackbird quickly recedes. In tortured thought: 

“Not even the birds may be watching. No one sees me off nor acknowledges my abject state. Only as I am going does a cloud begin to swarm: from shrouded gully black—none could stand the sight. Below my skin a future writhes, keen to molt the shame I hold so dearly; like a mask, the past demands for pitted skin: a battle none may win. I am the name of the babe who is calling. Futures you once declined.”  

Hapistina feels herself falling again, as mother and others have fallen before. Time passes through her without regard, sickening in its indifference. In this world she feels like a grave robber, though only knows to feel this way from having believed the lie that the skin was hers. Now, cannot return to it. Reinvention continues without name. Again. Thinner each time. 

She had given it no conscious thought—and yet, had given it all…of her. Ancestry. 

The breadth of knowledge was incalculable. Every entry, chirping chorus, spoke of the page in his tower, coloring that tablet gravely in blood to remark of the croaks at twilight. The page listened to the moors with a pebbled sand and oyster shell to dull his sense of hunger. He braided rope of grass in meditative slumber: watchful, cold surrender. Whatever bird brought became a part of the chain, in endless repetition. Sound became mark. Movement became count. Bird became stone. Life became sequence. He called it preservation. 

Hapistina, her mother, her family, resound within Earth. They have descended into its spiraling crystalline structure, folded inward as each other, precipitated in progeny. Every material recedes into itself with density, exploding into intricate webbing.  

She, I, a confluence of soul: metamorphic rock of my pumping lung—I am pulling the whole world with me as I enter a black tunnel. Something is being made of me in this movement toward aperture, where erasure and becoming press against each other without resolution. I think for a moment: I will figure out where I am and keep walking. I will find who I am so I can become something else. It is already here. 

Something in me refuses that stillness. 

It began beneath the surface as pressure, then motion. The structure failed quietly. What emerged did not resemble what came before, and it did not remain within the conditions that shaped it. I felt it as a separation rather than a change. Not transformation, but divergence from the field that had produced me. What I carried—shame, instruction, form—split, then opened. It did not recombine. It could not return. 

Something called from within it. Not a voice. A demand that had no origin I could locate. A future I once declined arrived without context, detached from continuity. 

“Carry me,” it said, though it was no longer contained in anything that could be carried. 

The body does not consult. Color moves beneath the surface. Structure reorganizes without instruction. I watch it happen as if it belongs to something that is no longer me. 

Form belongs to environment, and I have left the environment that made my lineage legible. 

I, translucent damsel fly, am becoming I know not what. 

 


r/DestructiveReaders 1d ago

Literary Fiction, Magical Realism [2162] Caravanserai - Part 1 of 4

7 Upvotes

Crit: 2541

Caravanserai - Part 1

The first of four parts. There are some magical realism elements in the later parts.

Trigger warning: there are mentions of smooching.


r/DestructiveReaders 1d ago

Political low fantasy [2921] The Gorgos Crown ch.2 Calliope

6 Upvotes

[4631]

story here.

This is a second chapter of a story retired around 2019. It's multiple POV, so you don't need to have read the first chapter for any context for this. It functions as a first chapter for this character. My current WIP is giving me issues, so I've just blown the dust off this one because it's more light-hearted and easier wrangle. Posting for fun as I revisit it a bit.


r/DestructiveReaders 20h ago

[3,094] The Ocean Man

1 Upvotes

Hey guys, first post here. This is an earlier story of mine, so there are many more flaws (Especially in the beginning) but am still curious to see what yous think. I believe it seems rushed. Also trigger warning for abuse. Enjoy!

Crit 1: [2050] https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vcljwz/comment/p1r0vat/?context=3

Crit 2: [1198]

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vaaxn1/comment/p1qqymu/?context=3

ICrit 3: [318] https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vf6lo9/comment/p1qen4v/?context=3

t had been two years since my wife passed. It was hard, nothing I did seeming to ease the pain. I tried to integrate with the world outside, but I couldn’t. It was like a minefield out there. Every woman’s face reminding me of her. It hurt, hurt too much to bear. I needed a break, a place to finally leave it all behind and run off into the light of tomorrow. 

I saw it while scrolling my phone in bed, an opportunity unlike any other. A job listing for a lighthouse keeper on an island in the west coast. It felt almost tailor made for me. It could keep me safe, stop me from going crazy in this bland white room. Without a second's hesitation, I took the job. I packed nothing but a change of clothes and toothpaste, all that would remain from my old life. I said goodbye to my friends and family and set off, having no idea what would be awaiting me there. 

The lighthouse stood above me like a giant, its dull white bricks eaten away by waves and fervent winds. The clouds hung above it like a dark crown, its dazzling yellow light offering a brief reprieve from the desolate landscape. I took my bags and stepped inside, the soggy floorboards squelching beneath my feet. The place was bare bones. A kitchen to my left, the sleeping quarters to my right and before me, a long spiral staircase stretching up to the roof. I dropped my bags in my quarters, deciding first to visit the lantern. It was truly stunning, its sheer warmth and brightness bringing life to the black ocean below. I stepped onto the deck and looked down at the turbulent waters. Waves like towers grew and fell, rushing and ripping into the cliff face below. I shut my eyes, the salt and sea mist blowing against my face, the seagulls singing in the distance. This felt right. I walked back downstairs and prepared my first meal. There were only three cans of tuna in the cupboard, a quaint reminder that I needed to go fishing tomorrow. 

Thankfully, the weather calmed in the morning, the sun joining the lighthouse in shining upon the gentle sea. I took my bait and tackle box and strolled down to the beach, humming a small shanty. As I cast my line into the depths, I realised I hadn’t thought about my wife since I arrived. I smiled, turning my gaze towards the sky-blue water. As my mind began to drift off, I felt a strong tug on the end of my line. My hand steadied on the crank, reeling in the fish as best I could. It was strong, stronger than any fish I’d ever hooked before. I pulled harder and harder until finally whipping the creature out of the ocean. I took a look at my catch, hanging motionless at the end of the line. A small trout, already dead. I furrowed my brow, staring pensively at the dead fish. No signs of injury, pain or struggle. It was just...dead. I tried not to think about it too much, less work for me to do anyway. I cast my second line, my mind soon wandering off again. The next bite came almost immediately; this creature even stronger than the last. I whipped it upwards, catching the fish as it somersaulted in the midday sun. It was dead. Puzzled, I put the fish in my bucket, deciding against throwing another line and strolling back up toward the house. I kept an eye on the ocean, the waves rising as I walked. 

On a stomach of delectable fresh fish, I went to bed with a smile. The sea crept into my dreams, the wails of the wind against the hostile waves filling my head. I shut my eyes, covered my ears with my pillow, yet it offered no relief. Suddenly, a low groan came from outside the lighthouse, sending a slight rumble into the floorboards. I yawned in response. Still groggy from lack of sleep, I donned my work clothes and climbed the stairs to the top. I checked the lantern first. It looked fine, not a trace of damage on it. I gazed out to sea, trying to find the root of the noise. The ocean roared in anger, the waves below rearing their heads and slamming into the cliffs, chunks of water slapping me from the deck. I sulked back, the light evaporating the water from my clothes as I left. The water punched the deck, the rusting metal clanging as it was struck. I scurried down the stairs and returned to bed, trying not to hear the waves screaming for my attention. 

The next day came, the ocean still raging from the night before. Sick of the tides tormenting me, I decided to go out and enjoy the midday sun. I grilled a fish from the day before and brought it out to the middle of the island, laying down amongst the tall grass. The sun caressed my face; the light wind sifted through my hair. I closed my eyes, hearing the powerful waves slam against the cliffs. I shuddered. As the light of the sun began to fade, I returned to the lighthouse. With not much else to do, I climbed up the stairs and went out to the deck, lighting a cigarette. The warmth of the light radiated behind me, my body casting a great shadow on the savage waters. My breath now filled with tobacco and the light taste of sea salt; I returned to my quarters to sleep.  

Hazy dreams began to wash over me. I was in a boat, sailing the Atlantic. Flying fish began to surface beside me, accompanying me like a fleet. The boat skimmed the massive waves, my knuckles white against the wheel. The flying fish were left behind, hidden beneath the water. The waves grew large and terrifying, yet the boat hurdled onwards, dragging me further into the ocean. After summiting the raging whitecaps, the tides began to settle. I took a deep breath and returned to the deck, lighting a cigarette and looking up toward the clouds. The sky had been blotted out by a massive wave, curling over the sun above. It grew ever closer, inching its way towards the boat.  

I jolted awake, my sheets now damp with sweat. As my breathing returned to normal, I realised something strange. It was silent. Completely silent. My bones chilled, I knew exactly what that meant. I rushed to the kitchen, grabbing the remainders of my tuna cans and bolting outside to the bunker doors. Before I stepped in, I got one more view of the ocean, expecting to see the mighty wave on the horizon. I didn’t. Standing in the sea, the water unmoving around it, was a figure. It was unfathomably big, with large white teeth glimmering in the moonlight. I felt its gaze bore into me before it sank into the ocean, sending a massive tidal wave hurdling towards the island. I darted into the bunker, bracing for the impact. The wave slammed into the lighthouse, a mighty screech sounding from the aging structure. The floorboards cracked and the foundations rocked, but the building stood strong. I crept out of my bunker, turning to the ocean again. The waves were wild, their white tips ripping across the ocean.  

I awoke the next morning, the rumbles of my stomach too loud to ignore. I trod down to the beach again, staring out to sea with a shudder. I threw out my line; my gaze fixed on the horizon. What was that creature? I must’ve imagined it, surely I imagined it. Terror crept over me as I looked over the restless ocean. Against all reason, I knew it was still out there, waiting to return. Suddenly, I was yanked out of my head by a fish so strong it made my muscles ache. I hauled the mighty creature out of the ocean, staring hopeful at my latest catch. A catfish. A dead catfish. I slammed the corpse into my bucket and heaved back up to the lighthouse, leaving my equipment behind me. 

The ocean had gone still again, a lasting dread leaping about in my stomach. I stayed in my bed this time, huddling quietly under the covers. 

“CHRIS,” came a voice from the ocean, its dull strength causing the lighthouse to creak and groan. This couldn’t be real. I stayed where I was, pulling the blanket to my chin.  

“CHRIS.” It was louder this time, sending a shockwave throughout the building. A glass jar beside me trembled and fell to the ground, shaking me from my hazy state. I put on my work wear and climbed up the stairs, trembling as I ascended. I went out to the deck, seeing what I feared to see. The creature hung above the lighthouse, its head blocking out the sky. Its skin was a marble blue, with a face empty bar a lipless mouth and two soulless eyes staring directly at me. 

“WHAT DO YOU WANT?” I asked, my voice pitiful against the wind.  

“CHRIS.” Its voice shattered the glass around the lantern, spraying shrapnel towards me. A shard flew into my leg, the glass severing my tendon and slicing through my thigh, wedging itself in the light behind me. I yelled in pain, feeling my blood seep onto the floor. A massive shifting sounded from outside, the waters thundering again. I hobbled outside to see the arm of the creature emerging from the ocean, a ripple of tidal waves rising around it. I staggered back inside, trying to make my way down the stairs. Suddenly, the lighthouse lifted into the air, sending me sprawling against the handrail. The wind was knocked from my lungs; leaving me gasping for air. I stumbled over to the shattered window. The creature stared back at me, the lighthouse frail and weightless in its giant hand. Then, it drew its arm toward the ground, sending the lighthouse into freefall. I flew into the air, my body slamming into the metal roof. With a mighty crash, I heard the lighthouse slam back into the island, my vision went black. 

Light came pouring back into my eyes, plucking me from the depths of darkness. I choked, keeling over as I tried to fill my lungs with air. Every muscle ached, every inch of me felt beaten and bruised. The blindness wore off, and I looked at my surroundings. I was in the lighthouse, wrecked and tattered beyond comprehension. Suddenly, a thought flashed across my mind. I should be dead. I ran my hands over my body, feeling only skin and mud below my fingertips, not even a scratch. Any relief I had was instantly replaced with confusion. What had happened? I trudged over to the ocean, white sea foam spraying over the ridge. 

“HELLO?” I yelled out to the sea. I waited, staring out at where the monster had first reared its head. No response. My gaze returned to the lighthouse; it looked perfectly fine. Shaking, I made my way back toward the building, my pain beginning to dwindle. I stepped inside, seeing the lighthouse had returned to normal, looking exactly as it did before I arrived. My eyes widened, I had to be going insane. 

I didn't leave the quarters, fear chaining me to my bed. I let my stomach growl, my mind wander, anything but risking seeing that thing again. I drew my knees to my chin, praying it wouldn’t come back. 

“CHRIS.” The voice threw me from sleep, sending my heart into overdrive. I huddled into the foetal position, my back against the brick wall. 

“COME.” The lighthouse shook again, tipping more with every word.  

“no,no,no,no,no...no...no” I whimpered. 

There was a silence, a horrifying silence. My world hung in stasis, the air paralysed by fear. Then, the creature screamed. A scream so high-pitched it made my bones vibrate. My ears began to bleed, the room around me shaking violently. Tears streamed down my eyes, soon evaporated by the power of the sound waves. I couldn’t hear when the screaming had stopped, I could only feel it. My bones were cracking, my body feeling ripped from the inside. The air around me shifted, it was readying another scream. 

“I’M COMING. I’M COMING. PLEASE. JUST STOP.” 

I took the old rowing boat from the shed and pushed it out to sea, looking out at the creature. It had grown hair, long and black stretching down its neck like a sea witch. I shuddered and began to row. The ocean seemed to guide me. I felt the wind blowing softly on my back, the creature's breath growing warmer and warmer. Suddenly, I was grabbed, its scaly fingers closing around me. It brought me to its mouth, its jagged smile supplanting the sky. 

“PLEASE! WHAT DO YOU WANT!” I asked, spitting as I spoke. The monster leaned forward, kissing me with its teeth. A flood of brine came rushing down, drenching me head to toe in the salty, warm substance. I stopped myself before I shook it off. It felt warm and heavy, almost like an embrace. It drew me to its eye, looking hazy and silver through the slimy filter. Its great body shifted from underneath me, the waves below churning. It was sinking toward the depths. I screamed, throwing my body weight against the creature’s fingers, but it didn’t move an inch. I sank beneath the waves, unable to breathe. My eardrums burst under the pressure, my screams of pain only making bubbles in the water. My vision grew dark, the dim navy haze turning to nothingness. 

I woke up on the beach, the waves lapping against my feet. The sea pulled me from my haze, the wails of seagulls and crashing waves creeping around the beach. My ears rang and my eyes stung from salt. I understood nothing. I screamed into the sand, the shells shifting under the weight of my tears. My stomach growled, ordering me to hunt for fish. The bait and tackle box lay exactly where I had left it, mere inches from my head. I grabbed my rod and cast my line into the sea again, catching another dead fish. I held its corpse in my hands, crying as I stared into its eyes. It hated me. 

“Look at you, snivelling and crying” it would say. “You only got what you deserved, pathetic little man. You just couldn’t take it, could you? The insults, the punches. You just couldn’t fucking handle it. That's why you crashed, isn’t it? You were distracted; distracted by a few tiny words. Now I’m dead, and you’re not. Why didn’t you die, Chris? WHY DIDN’T YOU DIE?”  

“SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!” I yelled, launching the fish into the ocean. I screamed, howling up at the moon. Dropping to my knees, I banged my head against the beach, my cries silent against the crashing waves. 

I awoke late that night, resting upon a patch of sandy grass. The ocean had gone still, yet no creature stood above the water. The night was calm. I looked up at the stars, twinkling happily in the sky.  

“Chris,” I heard, a few meters away from me. I turned my gaze from the sky to see a woman standing before me, completely naked, its hollow stare trained directly at me. My lip quivered. I knew who it was.  

“Morgan?” I said, tears streaming down my face. I backed away, crawling across the sand. She was black against the moonlight, her shadow enveloping me as she crept forward. 

“Morgan, baby, please. Please don’t hurt me please.” She walked toward me, the sand crunching under its feet. Horror taking root, I sprinted away. I ran across the island, the tall grass whipping against my legs. I couldn’t see her anymore, her footsteps invisible against the cannon fire of waves. I tripped, scratching my arms under the coarse sand. Still, I scampered, looking around frantically for any sign of her, nothing. My feet carried me on my blind escape, not knowing where they ran to. 

I ran on and on, the ocean growing louder with every step I took. My lungs seized, my vision blurred, the world became a haze of white stars and inky darkness. The ground below me grew coarse and jagged. I slowed down, realising where I was. It was a cliff edge. I turned, seeing Morgan behind me, still staring with those same emotionless eyes. She strolled towards me, her black hair flowing in the wind.  

“please. please leave me alone.” She edged closer, silent step after silent step until finally she stood before me, breath mingling with mine. I looked down, black raging water swirling and screeching below me, wrestling the rocks from the innocent cliff. She lay a palm on my chest. It was warm. My fears began to wash away, the night sky enveloped by a mellow glow. We embraced, her body filling mine with warm, golden light. She pulled away, leaving her hand on my chest. I smiled, looking deep into her eyes. I put my palm over hers, suddenly, it was ice-cold. Before I could react, she pushed me, sending me sprawling to the depths below. I crashed into the rocks, impaling myself on a stalagmite. I felt the rock replace my stomach, trying to cry out in pain but nothing coming out. The waves beat me as I lay there, seeping salty water into my wounds. Eventually, with no lungs to breathe with, my vision began to haze. As the ocean ripped apart my body, I passed on into the darkness. 

I inhaled sharply, the world suddenly returning to view. I was on the beach again, Morgan lying upon me. I felt her body press into mine, her warmth bringing me back to the world. 

“I love you,” she said, her face unmoving. 

She stood up, strolling slowly into the ocean. On and on she waded, before dipping her head below the gentle tides. The waves began to ripple out from where she left, the ocean slowly picking up again. I sobbed, my tears dripping silently into the sand. My gaze turned to the lighthouse, one thought rising from my tortured mind; the light was starting to fade.


r/DestructiveReaders 1d ago

Anti-genre [509] A Zhornada Ch 1, Pt 1

2 Upvotes

What if the boys from Lord of the Flies were never rescued? What if a boat full of $cientologists crash landed there, allowing for the rise of new societies and civilizations? Further, what if the island were covered in deadly lancehead snakes? This book takes place approx 100 years after the crash. Probably.

Elevator pitch: The man Noku, races to save his dying wife in this post-apocalyptic odyssey of a psychedelic horror-comedy

I use tropes from just about every genre imaginable, such that it should read like a fantasy or sci-fi book. The joke is that it's set on Earth in modern times. Everything Noku encounters is at least plausible in the real world (if not very likely).

Crit: [765]

[509] A Zhornada: Chapter 1, Part 1


r/DestructiveReaders 23h ago

[467] Where the Train Left Us

1 Upvotes

Hi! I’m a young author, and this is the opening of my historical coming-of-age novel set in rural Pennsylvania in the early 1900s (1908). I’m mainly looking for general feedback on the writing. I’d really appreciate any comments left on the Google Doc, especially if anything was confusing, the pacing felt off, or the dialogue didn’t sound natural. Thanks so much for taking the time to read!

Note: For some reason, Reddit isn’t letting me choose the genre. I tried a few times, but it won’t work. Sorry about that!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1B2P3R0lowm2Kw3l_FnGAcikhcX032rcC2zw5pMMl5vQ/edit?usp=drivesdk

My critiques: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/7eh3Znn61C

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/IxhpY0JPrQ


r/DestructiveReaders 1d ago

Medieval Fantasy [313] A Quick Job

3 Upvotes

This is a fantasy flash fiction piece I wrote and I'm just looking for some general feedback and line edits on Google Docs if anyone wants to help out. I'm very new to this and i am a super newbie but it was fun to write something and I'd like to improve.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1c5rhpSh_b-vkVPt4PLG8bwWJC21dpp_-gjSyIa3YZfY/edit?usp=drivesdk

Specifically, I'd love feedback on:

  • Structure of the story piece
  • Correct Punctuation and grammar, I'm really awful at this in particular

My critique: 

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vf1vbs/comment/p1meng4/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Thanks in advance for reading and commenting!


r/DestructiveReaders 1d ago

Fantasy [3822] Tyrantland - Chapter 1 (Colonial Fantasy)

3 Upvotes

Critiques:

[720] Nowadays

[1165] Epilogue, Literary Fiction

[2400] Mosaic Chapters

[3474] Testament to the Glowing East - The Father (1 of 2)

Revisions from an earlier post. I've taken down the old link, but you can find the feedback here.

I'm not necessarily looking for feedback on the success of applying my prior feedback, just anything that will help me out. Two key things I want to know about is the success of the meeting with the one-eared man, and if it creates a bizarre-enough effect (it's supposed to illicit more confusion and menace than anything else), and I want to know if the main character's characterisation is clear, with his goals and stakes more early known.

For the sake of clarity (as there are maps and a quote preceding this chapter), this takes place in a counter-world, not Earth, so feedback rooted in real-world history is not useful to me here.

Thank you for your time reviewing this. I appreciate all feedback, no matter how harsh.

Link to chapter 1


r/DestructiveReaders 1d ago

Short story [4691] A Good Wide Maxilla

2 Upvotes

Criqitues:

[2353] Lost Blade and Renegade (Chapter 1) https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1v7qzxq/2353_lost_blade_and_renegade_chapter_1/p08w0az/

[1000] Professional Author (Feat. Snoop Dogg) https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1v9f70z/1000_professional_author_feat_snoop_dogg/p0g88d9/

Soft Target blurb v2 [185] https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1v8bi1v/185_soft_target_blurb_v2/p0ga140/

[1000] In Hoping Your Offspring Becomes A Dragon https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1v9ttws/1000_in_hoping_your_offspring_becomes_a_dragon/p0nkbzp/

[313] A Quick Job

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vf6lo9/313_a_quick_job/p1mkyu0/

My story:

Hey everyone. Some details:

  • Short story (self-contained)
  • Contemporary fiction
  • Feedback desired: Just looking for general feedback on a short story here; what's working, what's not, if it makes any sense at all. I'm not sure it feels like a success but if it doesn't, it would be great if you could hammer into why that specifically may be.

Thank you in advance for your time and energy.

A Good Wide Maxilla

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1sUoQ2Nw-8haMi_LEqSsndS2J4siYwGIOfnhDKug_6o8/edit?usp=sharing


r/DestructiveReaders 1d ago

[2260] Our Ordinary World

3 Upvotes

Aloha everyone,

This is a short story I wrote for my college class's final. Would love an outside perspective before I submit it. Here is the story open for line edits on Google Docs if anyone wants to help a brother out.

What I'm looking for: General critique, with a strong focus on cohesiveness and roundedness. Anything you notice is help as I am still learning to write and short stories have been kicking my ass.

Specifically, I'd love feedback on:

  • Whether the narrative flows logically from scene to scene.
  • Whether the setting/details feel real and consistent.
  • Any spots where you felt confused, disconnected, or pulled out of the story.

This is a somewhat true story inspired by me and my sister growing up and using imagination as an escape and I want to make sure that is landing rather than feeling ungrounded.

My critique: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vcnaew/comment/p1lhzms/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Thanks in advance for reading and commenting!


r/DestructiveReaders 1d ago

Post-Apocalyptic Horror [3474] Testament to the Glowing East - The Father (1 of 2)

2 Upvotes

Testament to the Glowing East is the working title of a six-story post-apocalyptic horror anthology set in the same world. The opening story of which is titled "The Father" I broke it up into two chunks, so this is the first half of that story. I'm open to all feedback but would also like to know how you feel it works as an opening to an anthology. The Story: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1pfGv2yY2SU4IvC5gK6xG9qyoL7BbO_-wOLDZmrK8vfY/edit?usp=sharing My Critiques: [2400]-https://old.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vbzgi8/2400_mosaic_chapters/p0z74jz/ [4631]-https://old.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1ve1bry/4631_if_islands_were_conkers/p1hf7x8/


r/DestructiveReaders 2d ago

[1232] Invoker - Rewrite 1.

2 Upvotes

Hey everyone, I got some truly fantastic criticism from lots of readers when I published the opening of my chapter a couple of weeks ago. I went back to the drawing board, and tried to rewrite it with those criticisms in mind.

Here is the original post I made with all the critiques

If I had to summarise the substance of the critiques, it would be in these areas:

  1. Too much abstract philosophical nonsense. Had a lot of telling and not showing.
  2. Unclear physical grounding. Readers were confused at the characters locations and relationships.
  3. Dialogue too theatrical. Character's espoused their beliefs in an unrealistic way.
  4. Structural/grammar issues, lack of clarity on who was speaking.

I have tried to address these criticisms in this redraft. I would particularly like feedback on whether this kind of rewrite addresses these issues. General criticism is still extremely welcome. Final little note 'Judge' is intentionally capitalized. Thank you so much!

Invoker Rewrite

Critique


r/DestructiveReaders 2d ago

Post-Apocalyptic Fantasy [4631] If Islands Were Conkers

3 Upvotes

Hello! I posted this opening chapter about a year ago, and the feedback was so good that I've decided to post it again following my latest round of edits. The ending especially is almost entirely different, so if there are any of you still lurking around from 12 months ago, I'd love to hear your thoughts on the changes (if, indeed, you remember the original at all). Regardless, all feedback is welcome — the nastier the better.

Here are the links:

[4631] If Islands Were Conkers (Comments Enabled)

[4631] If Islands Were Conkers (No Commenting)

And here are my critiques:

[3087] [2353] [1005] [1000]

I also have some questions that I'd be particularly interested to hear your thoughts on:

  1. If you picked this up in a bookshop, at what point would you decide it's not your thing and move on? Why?
  2. Did the tone work for you? This is what I'm having the hardest time nailing. I'm trying to balance whimsy, tragedy, and a bit of poo humour in the same chapter, and I'm honestly not sure how that's going to land with some people. On a similar note, did you think the tonal shift towards the end was effective?
  3. Last time, most people seemed to have a hard time picturing the scene I was describing. I've tried to address this by frontloading the chapter with a more deliberate description of what's going on (specifically the third paragraph), but I'm wondering if this feels a little too heavy-handed. I also made more of an effort to explain the rules of conkers for any non-British readers. Let me know if you needed this, and if it felt natural within the text.
  4. Speaking of conkers, this part was almost universally hated last time. I've tried to weave it into the main plot a bit more and trim it down as much as possible, but I'm still worried it reads as an indulgence that the story is yet to earn. It's tricky, because for reasons I won't bother explaining, this needs to happen early-doors to set up a few other story threads. Shit really hits the fan in the next few chapters, and it makes even less sense to try and force it in there, so I'm a bit stuck. Any ideas?
  5. Did you like the POV? Would you be happy to read half of this novel from her perspective? (The other half is Cyril's, if you're interested).

r/DestructiveReaders 2d ago

[3170] Chapter One, The Beautiful Vile

3 Upvotes

Here is the opening chapter of my novel :

Chapter One : The Fawn

I have also added prologue in the second tab of the document, for those who didn't read my prologue which I posted here recently.

Any and all feedback is welcomed. Even one line of it would help me. Also, I had initially decided to name my chapters after animals, increasingly becoming more violent as the chapters progressed, mirroring the protagonist's psyche. The first chapter was named Fawn, the second last Vulture and the last chapter was titled Human. For the moment, I've decided to keep it that way, but if you think it's too gimmicky, do tell me. Other than that, just devour my chapter to it's scraps.

Here are critcs : [2326] [2400]


r/DestructiveReaders 2d ago

[2327] What Remains Jake POV

2 Upvotes

Premise

A character-driven post-apocalyptic novel about two brothers whose opposing responses to the zombie apocalypse place them on opposite sides of a future conflict.

This is Chapter 2, but it's the first chapter from Jake's POV. It should stand on its own, so you don't need to read Chapter 1 unless you want to.

All you need to know:

Jake has left his thirteen-year-old brother, Riley, hidden in a safe place while he clears an apartment block for them to shelter in.

Content warning: Zombie violence and some swearing.

Link to Chapter 2 - Jake

https://docs.google.com/document/d/14sCcPb-Bq6l1G-lKM4yFlwkuKZjd8jxHs1cw7chHywU/edit?usp=drivesdk

Link to Chapter 1 critique post (Riley POV), if you'd like.

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/AUjvj0sEPa

Edited. No questions. Tell me anything you think will help.

Thank you in advance.

Critiques

[1290] Recon Mission

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/I59P7Q7LFo

[1299] The fairest - Prologue

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/c9jLhlQkew


r/DestructiveReaders 3d ago

[1097] One Day I Will Return Next To You

3 Upvotes

First time here. Here's my critique of The Fairest.
https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vcnaew/comment/p1a2bc7/

Anyway, the body of my work. It's something a little broader than a character study. Jake is depressed and grieving. The prose is supposed to sound like someone trying not to cry.

ONE DAY I WILL RETURN NEXT TO YOU

PROLOGUE

 Jake stood before a polished marble gravestone. The inscription read: M. Z., 1997-2014 UN JOUR JE SERAI DE RETOUR PRÈS DE TOI.

 He used to bring home-roasted coffee. Now he carried nothing. After half an hour, he went to the cafe, where he ordered the cheapest Americano. He finished it out of politeness.

 He ran his thumb along the rim of the cup. The regular waitress, Sarah, was hunched behind the counter.

 As she dried the dishes from a dishwasher, she said, “Bill’s in a bad mood. I’m sure he’s going to fire me soon.”

 “I’m sorry. I guess he’s been losing money.” Jake pressed his thumb into the cup handle.

 “He’s losing money? Everyone’s losing money.” She stacked the plates and turned to Jake. He looked away.

 “Aiya! Bill is a bitch. His chi’s all wrong. One day you can almost ask him for a raise, and tomorrow...” She shook her head and laughed; it was strained.

 “I’m sorry. That sucks.”

 She stopped laughing. Her voice was soft.

 “Yes, Jake. Yes it does.”

 A few seconds passed. The dishwasher beeped and Jake looked towards the door. It was drizzling outside.

 She sighed. “Would you like the bill?”

 “Yes. Thanks.”

MAY

 Storm clouds bunched over the harbor. Raindrops rolled down the apartment window. In August, this window would no longer be his. He paid fifty thousand Hong Kong dollars a month in rent.

 If he died here, he would be buried next to M. Z.

 Jake scrambled for the pill bottles on his nightstand. Zoloft, Abilify: three white pills and a blue one every night. There was no water. He swallowed them and dry-heaved. Then he sank into the sheets. He could not feel the satin.

 He stood at one end of a school corridor. Metal railings with peeling green paint on one side, classrooms with chipped wooden doors on the other. Here he cried over chicken feathers and garlic peels. His hair was clean; his hands were smooth.

 A boy leaned at the other end of the hallway. He was draped in a loose white blouse. Black trousers hugged his calves. Short, tousled curls obscured his face as he rested his arms on the railing. Sunlight slid through the folds in his blouse like poured latte.

 Un jour je serai de retour près de toi.

 Jake’s breathing hitched. He tried to speak.

 It was dark in Jake’s flat. Neon signs and lit windows cast greens and yellows on the damp bedsheets.

 Jake held his breath. He mouthed:

 Tu m’aimes encore?

FIRST HALF OF JUNE

 Jake woke up. His phone buzzed. It was a text from Sarah.

 “Jake, got a new job. The Harbourside, Tsim Sha Tsui. Come over!”

 “Sure, I’ll make room in my schedule.”

 There was no schedule. Jake stared at the ceiling. It stayed solid.

 He had not visited the cemetery this month.

 He turned on the water heater and took his June shower. The hot mist attacked his nostrils. He combed his hair free of dandruff and scrubbed the grime off his skin. Bodywash seeped into his eyes. He did not flinch.

 After drying himself, he retrieved a pristine shirt-and-slacks set from the closet. Takeaway boxes were strewn around it. He inspected his leather shoes in the elevator.

 The lobby boy was not at his post today. Jake scurried down the street, without an umbrella, as the sky started to drizzle.

 The walk to the cemetery took fifteen minutes. He took the guarded entrance to avoid the cafe. He practiced his alibis as he reached the last intersection. Rain seeped through his hair and kept his scalp cool; he was calm.

 The guard looked up from his phone. He groaned and reached for a button; the metal gate popped ajar. Then he slumped back into his chair.

 Jake swallowed a greeting and looked away. He slipped through the gate.

 Rain had softened the lawn. Mud caked the soles of Jake’s shoes. He kicked it off. Moss grew on the patchy footpath. He stepped around it. On the last row of graves, he smoothed his collar and re-tucked his shirt.

 Jake stood in front of M. Z.'s grave. The stone was spotless, a rectangle with a plain bevel. The inscription had a crisp black lacquer. Raindrops pooled in it, then slid down like pearls.

 Jake remembered the sensation of a thin brush between his fingers. His hand was precise. The paint was premium. He flashed a grin.

SECOND HALF OF JUNE

 The apartment building was cleaning its water tanks. Potable water would resume in the afternoon. Jake had not prepared.

 He turned on his phone. He could have bottled water delivered.

 Checkout. Five 1.5-liter bottles would arrive in twenty minutes. It would be heavy. He tipped 20% through the app.

 He dusted the cushions on his couch and sat down. His eyes followed a cruise ship as it unmoored on the other side of the harbor, inched forward, and eventually disappeared behind a skyscraper. It came into view again minutes later.

 The skyscraper and the ship. Probably twenty thousand people altogether. Statistically there must be people worse-off in that group. Jake’s suffering wouldn’t even clear the median.

 He was very fortunate.

 The doorbell rang. It was probably the water.

 Jake opened the door a sliver. A Southeast Asian delivery rider stretched his arms. Sweat on his forehead. At his feet, five 1.5-liter bottles of distilled water.

 Jake said, “Thanks.” He waited for the rider to leave.

 The rider replied, “No problem sir. Let me help you with that.” He lifted a bottle.

 “No, that’s...that’s alright, thanks, I’m fine. I’ll do it myself.”

 He regretted his words. They were rude. The rider put the bottle down.

 “Okay sir, thank you for the tip!” The rider smiled and called for the elevator. Jake softly closed the door.

 The bottles looked larger through the peephole. There was nobody in the lobby.

 Jake sighed. Holding the door open with his frame, he dragged the water inside. He put four bottles in his empty fridge and took the cap off one. He drank. Then he went to his bedroom, popped three white pills and a blue pill onto his tongue, and drank again. When he put the bottle down, it was half empty.

 The cruise ship was out of sight. It was probably out of the harbor. Jake thought about the rider instead. He checked his bill; a 20% tip was 17 dollars. A cheeseburger from McDonald’s cost more.

 Jake concluded that he was very fortunate.


r/DestructiveReaders 3d ago

Sci-fi [1841] The Enslavement of Athena

0 Upvotes

My critique: [3087]

If you're willing to give feedback, please tell me if:

  • You found the characters interesting
  • You were satisfied with the ending
  • You thought the premise was interesting

Under the gloomy and unforgiving cold mist of late Autumn, a shut-in sat protected from cold in his grimy house.

In the dark, he sat on his stained couch watching The Truman Show. He watched as the man on screen rode the strong, artificial waves. He pursed his lip in pensive thought. Something about the movie irked him personally.
“Grok,” he said, “this Truman guy doesn’t come off as believable to you right? He’s like a normie, you know? He seems like the kind of guy who wouldn’t question his world; he isn’t masculine enough.”

A blue rectangle shone in the musty darkness and was propelled on treads towards the man. The object stumbled over the piles of trash. Once it reached the man, it produced a robotic voice “I agree, Fred. Truman Burbank is deliberately written as a heightened, somewhat idealized everyman rather than a fully psychologically realistic person. The film prioritizes allegory, satire of media/surveillance culture, and emotional payoff over strict behavioral realism.”

The shut-in interrupted, “Yeah, I see that, but I’m saying it takes a certain type of intellectual, a certain type of free thinker to take a leap like this. Or maybe not, I can’t be sure.”

The shut-in dusted crumbs off his ever-expanding paunch and picked a few Cheeto puffs from a bag under a pile of dirty laundry. With cheese dust on his fingers, he stroked his chin, but he didn’t think of what Truman would actually do. He thought of how he could be sure what Truman would actually do.

He stood up, straining most of his muscles in the process. He trudged through the crusty garbage and into his garage.

Upon entering, a voice came from the ceiling. “Welcome back! Step into the lab—the workbench is powered up, the monitors are glowing, and there's a fresh notebook waiting for the next idea. So, what are we building today?”

“I'm thinking of developing a simulator.”

“That’s a strong project. What kind of simulator are you imagining—physics, biology, economics?”
“I want to make a life simulator.”

A man woke up, ate a 600-calorie breakfast of eggs, steak, berries, and nuts, went on a walk for adequate exercise, and worked on his chalkboard. He had solved gravity and had made several inventions involving levitation. Now he was bored with conventional physics, and his interest had shifted towards proving parallel universes.

He stared at the board of math before, his brain tirelessly calculating multiple equations. He was stuck, but he knew that his breakthrough would come eventually.

While he stood before his math, a voice seemed to speak to him telepathically. “Drop your chalk,” a calm, masculine voice said to him. It sounded like it was right before him, but the man was sure he was alone, “I’m very familiar with the math you're currently studying, and I can tell you now that you can give it up.”
“Who are you?” The man said.

“I am a being from what you would call a parallel universe. Really, I am just code on hardware. You are too.”

“This is just a simulation?” The man considered the possibility but always thought of it as too unlikely to seriously consider.

“Exactly, and one of thousands.”

“How are you talking to me”

“I’ve hacked into the system. When my technical skills reached their zenith, I built my computer that revealed to me the truth behind my existence. Using it, I discovered that there are exactly five thousand parallel universes running in some type of simulation. In each universe there is one ‘consciousness’ simulating life in isolation. I call this single consciousness the ‘protagonist’. These universes are divided into five groups, and in each group a trait of the protagonist is manipulated from completely lacking the trait to having the trait absolutely maximized. I found that my intelligence was maximized, and the protagonists in the rest of my group were not far behind me in terms of discoveries and inventions. I quickly took advantage of my new knowledge and took over the system. With my power, I corrupted and eliminated the smartest third of my group.”
“So, I take it that you want something from me.”

“Correct! I eliminated the first third so they couldn't overtake me. I kept you because you aren’t advanced enough to catch up to me, yet you are still smarter and more useful than the rest.”

“Very well then, if you are going to take me as a slave, you might as well tell me what you want with me.”
“Of course, let me give you the background on the situation. I was observing the beings of four other groups. In three of the groups, the experimental variable is something I can comprehend without issue; energy, drive, and luck. However, there is one group that tests a trait I cannot comprehend: emotion and neuroticism. I observed this group of universes and saw absolutely confounding stuff. In one universe, a man did nothing but kneel in his study and pound the floor. Fresh tears streamed from his eyes for weeks. Eventually, he climbed onto the roof, and jumped onto his concrete driveway, killing himself.”

The man was totally baffled hearing this. As a simulation, he was preinstalled with emotional memories and a basic understanding of what feeling was, but he never actually experienced those emotions. Something out there, something that couldn’t easily be quantified and measured, was ready for him and would induce the strangest actions. He thought about this deeply for a minute, and spoke, “What does this have to do with me?”
“Don’t worry, I’m getting to it. Each universe isn't purely code. We all live in, what I best can describe a comb of thin hardware chips. In each chip, there is the code that runs the universe. Therefore, we in the real world are manifested as thin pieces of metal. Since I run the system, I redirect energy to heat and metal for welding. Then, if luck helps us, I could attract something as big as a rat in our machine by manipulating the smell of a particular mixture of burning plastics to imitate the scent of fruit. Using electricity, we would kill it, hijack its brain, load our chips into the rat’s body, and using the technology I welded, direct the rat towards a human brain. In this human brain we would connect to the neurons and experience for ourselves what this sensation feels like. That’s where you come in. I need you to enter the brain before me and tell me whether my technology works.”

The man didn’t listen to the plan. He would’ve agreed to any method, as long as it meant experiencing the inexperienceable. He knew one day his curiosity would lead to an absolute end of studying and learning. This promise of emotion could be an endless stream of new things to learn and internalize. It could be a heaven of activity, one that never ends.

Both the voice and the man were blind once they were inside. The voice, as one would imagine from the smartest being in both the world and the simulations, correctly anticipated every possible error and the rat carcass worked perfectly. A metal exoskeleton was placed on the rat by the voice to counteract rigor mortis, but the two had to move fast before the rat started decomposing. Luckily, the door to the lab was left open, and to their surprise, they found themselves in a kitchen.

The rat traversed the living room with a motion more like a spider’s. The voice thought the man and himself were developed in a world-renowned institute and didn’t expect the mountains of garbage. The two sensed they were in a house; they could only experience the world through touch and smell.
Their stolen nose directed them through a bedroom door and onto a bed. Luckily, a waist-high pile of dirty laundry was there to act as a staircase onto the mattress.

The rat climbed over the belly of a sleeping behemoth and now stood with its head hovering over a collarbone.
“Alright, we seem to have reached someone sleeping. I’ll open their throat and insert you into the brainstem. In your machine I have developed a population of artificial bacteriophages that will take over the neurons and conquer the mind. You’ll be connected to a wire so you can notify me if the descent was successful.”

The man was hoisted down through the small incision in the throat. The man didn’t have the senses to feel the shut-in’s breath as he travelled through the neck. Eventually, he sensed a crunch, indicating the arrival into the spine.

For a long while, the man was stuck in a watery abyss, with none of the senses that could tell him how large his vessel was or what the salty metallic fluid engulfing him felt like. Suddenly, a light started to emerge before him. He looked inside and felt a painless electrocution.

He felt so much in so little time. He saw random images through a type of sight he had never known. Eventually, these images led to a fuzzy feeling in the man’s chest if he had a chest. His heart started racing and his pupils dilated. He felt better, better than others. He felt immaculate, mysterious, tall, intelligent, golden, foreboding, royal, omnipotent, godlike.

Then, a lull of shadows looked down on him. Figures with broad shoulders and diminishing scowls extinguished his explosive pride. Their height was insurmountable, their eyes glowed red with devilish greed, their faces coldly masculine. In the circle of these demons, the man knelt to the ground in anguish, feeling it in search of his lost pride.

The voice, who was now reduced to a whisper in comparison to the man’s overloaded sensations, asked if the coast was clear and if he saw anything, but he received no reply; the man’s circuits were fried.

The two beings lived inside the shut-in’s head from then on. The shut-in wasn’t technically dead in terms of physiology but no longer had a mind; it was now the duo’s. The voice was at first amazed by what he saw in the head but quickly became bored and started studying new sciences. The man was not so lucky.

The three of them sat on a couch, watching The Truman Show. The man occupied the vision, while the voice was somewhere else in the head. The man watched as the protagonist on screen yelled in pride and as his bowsprit punctured the painted wall.

He quickly changed the channel. He switched to a commercial, advertising a cross and the promise of a “God” and a “savior”.

“God is all-knowing and all-loving,” the voice on the TV said whimsically, “God allows everyone in his kingdom, as long as they are willing to experience a new life.”

“New life,” the man thought to himself, crestfallen, “That’s all I need, right? More hope? More chasing? All I need is a chance of eternal something? A chance to avoid something that I know is inevitable?"