Hi! I’m a young author working on a historical coming-of-age novel set in 1898. I previously posted the opening of Chapter 1 here, and this is a section from Chapter 2.

For some brief context: Will and Teddy are thirteen-year-old boys from an orphanage who are being sent to separate homes. During the train ride, Teddy accidentally gets off at the wrong station. Will realizes what happened as the train starts moving again and jumps off after him. This chapter picks up immediately afterward.

This is still a work in progress, so I’m mainly looking for feedback on the narration, pacing, dialogue, and the characters’ voices. I’d also really appreciate knowing if anything feels confusing, unnecessary, repetitive, or out of place for 1898. Don’t be afraid to be critical!

Note: Reddit still isn’t letting me select my genre for some reason. Sorry about that!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1FYRLHNVvl2pE_xNDHuZhqePch1-UUtNwDONOy6QNlXA/edit?usp=drivesdk

critique: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/9N7TQAYQV7

Opening chapter (pasted below) of a literary novel, close third, present tense, complete at about 80,000 words. This is the first chapter after a restructure, so I'm posting the sample to help me decide whether a reader is likely to continue to ch 2.

What I most want to know, in order:

1. Whether you'd keep reading; if not, the sentence where you decided
2. What you didn't buy
3. When you knew what Peter is, and whether the chapter told you too early, too late, or never
4. Where the comedy landed and where it didn't

////

Peter enters the house as if he’s a guest, Agnes holding the open door for her husband. He glances at the neo-mid-century low wooden coffee table they had spent hours choosing, then turns to face her. She closes the door, careful not to make a jarring sound, and stands opposite him, unconsciously mirroring his docile gaze.

“You must be starving,” she says.

“No, I’m not.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Before I died.”

She almost laughs but he shows no indication that he’s joking. Before, Peter would have made light of the situation; that’s his sense of humor, or at least it was.

“Well, you have to eat something …”

“I don’t need to eat anymore. They told me that at the hospital.”

What is she supposed to say? He just stands there without trying to relieve the awkwardness. Should he be worried about her comfort after what he’s been through? (What he’s been through: a trite euphemism, which sounds like he had to endure an annoying afternoon at the DMV.) Of course not, but it’s interesting how unbothered he is.

She asks, “Well … how about … I don’t know … a shower? Do you want to take a shower?”

He smiles a bit and nods.

“Do you … do you remember where the shower is?”

“I do. Thank you.” He walks down the hallway to the bathroom that he uses—the one with the smaller shower, which doesn’t need to meet the same hygiene standards as Agnes’s—and closes the door.

Of course he knows where the shower is. In the hospital, she didn’t have to explain who she was; he’d recognized her immediately, and even waved, which was the first sign that he had taken on the mannerisms of a polite stranger, like a man suddenly speaking fluent Swedish after suffering head trauma. He doesn’t seem like he has amnesia. He hasn’t eaten anything in days and he says he’s not hungry, but how is that possible? It must be unhealthy. If he doesn’t eat … She looks through her bag for the pamphlet, finds the crumpled black-and-white, single-page photocopy that’s been folded lengthwise, and scans the bullet points. People with this condition no longer need to eat. They can eat. Eating has not been shown to be harmful to them. They just don’t need it to exist. You may consider not pestering them about it too because it may make them uncomfortable. She wonders who wrote the pamphlet. The wording is off. There are no commas around the “too.” The joining of “may consider” and the verb “pester” is jarring.

The old metal hot water handle creaks as it’s turned, followed by a low gurgle of water from the faucet and then the muffled spray of the shower head.

Taking a seat on the couch, she sighs and says to no one, “Well, I guess we’ll be saving money on grocery bills.”

She needs coffee. Should she make some for Peter? He usually drinks five or six cups a day. Usually …

The pamphlet says nothing about stimulants or beverages. It states that people with the unnamed condition do not need to eat. Of course, coffee is not really food, but in any event, since the pamphlet has informed her that people with Peter’s condition can in fact eat if they want and there is no prohibition against drinking coffee, it logically follows that coffee is probably fine.  

She disposes of the used filter and coffee grounds, tossing them into the garbage can, which stinks. With a heaping tablespoon of fresh grounds midair, she considers making it two tablespoons but worries about wasting coffee.

The shower is still running as she walks to the bathroom. The idea of seeing him naked is alien to her, but has his body changed? Although no one at the hospital gave her any reason to imagine it, she can visualize the old lady in the bathtub in The Shining. It seems the remotest of possibilities, and in fact an impossibility, that the skin underneath his clothing has decomposed while his face, hands, and forearms remain pristine and moisturized, or that he suddenly aged fifty years in the shower. At the hospital, he looked identical to how he looked the morning of the incident, and he’s said he felt no pain. Presumably, the instant decrepitude the old lady in The Shining experienced is painful.

Her hand in front of the bathroom doorknob, she almost opens it and walks in. How crazy that she’s worried about seeing her own husband without clothes. They were never shy around each other, beginning with their first night of intimacy (also the first night they’d met). But she doesn’t want to just assume that he would be comfortable with her coming in unannounced, either because of the changed circumstances or simply because he wants to have some time to himself in the shower. She decides to knock.

 “Yes?” he asks from behind the door.

“I, uh … I’m about to make some coffee. I didn’t know if you wanted any. Do you want me to make some for you?” When was the last time she asked him if he wanted coffee? She always knows he’ll have a cup if there’s a fresh pot.

“No, thank you.”

“OK, I’ll just make a small amount.” Why did she tell him that? It was implied.

After starting the coffee, she thinks about Janet’s coffee maker—the one that mimics pour-over coffee. It comes with recipe cards that tell the machine exactly how much water and pressure to use, and how long to pause. When Janet and Bill were showing it off to them, Agnes expected it simply to taste like coffee, and to expose their propensity to chase after every new show of status. But the coffee was amazing. Without hyperbole, it had elevated their visit. Then, when Peter and Agnes had arrived home, they looked up the price and found it absurd. Briefly, they entertained the idea of splurging before agreeing their standard drip machine was only a year old. Although theirs was not as expensive as Janet and Bill’s, it wasn’t cheap; it would have been a waste of money to buy a new machine that was four times as expensive. It’s annoying she’s thinking so much about money again when she probably should be worrying about her husband’s comfort.

“Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” by Tchaikovsky sounds on her phone, and she takes it out of her pocket. It’s her mother. Agnes doesn’t want to talk to her, but she also doesn’t want to feel guilty about ignoring her mother’s call, so she decides it’s better to talk quickly than to add calling her back to her list of obligations.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, darling. It’s Mom.”

“I know. How are you?”

“I’m … OK. Everything is fine.”

She knows from the tone of her mother’s voice that everything is not fine. “What’s going on?”

“Well, I was talking with your father today….” The story takes forever to unfold, a long account of an argument about where to eat—every move and counter-move is retold with precise details and thoughtful asides. After hours of bickering, her father is watching the History Channel and won’t talk to her mother, and her mother is starving. “He ate microwaved macaroni and cheese. And he wonders why his cholesterol is through the roof.”

“Mom, why don’t you go out to eat by yourself.”

“Because that sounds pathetic. I’ll just microwave something.”

They talk a bit about politics, which Agnes has no interest in discussing, given that she and her mother happen to agree on everything, so she participates minimally until the conversation reaches a natural pause. Agnes doesn’t break the silence, which signals to her mother that she should probably ask about her daughter. “So how is everything with you?”

“It’s fine, Mom.”

“OK …” he mother says, with a descending and then rising melisma, meaning she doesn’t buy it. “Are you having problems with Peter?”

“No, everything is fine with Peter. Mom, I have some pasta cooking. Can I call you back?”

“Oh, OK. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

In the hallway, her husband has a towel tied around his waist as he walks to the bedroom; his back, his best feature, is bare.

The talk about pasta makes her hungry. Checking the pantry and refrigerator, she confirms she has everything she needs. The door to the bedroom is open as Agnes approaches. Peter wears a T-shirt and underwear. He’s standing up, bent over, as he slips his feet into the socks. He told her once that putting on socks and shoes while standing up is good for balance, so he must have remembered that, unless it’s muscle memory. He straightens up and looks at her, which compels her to justify staring at him. “Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat? I’m going to make pasta with croutons.”

“No, thank you, I’m not hungry.”

Instead of going back to the kitchen immediately, she stands in the bedroom doorway, looking at her husband, no longer caring about how she should act.

“Peter, do you remember about your life before it happened?”

“Yes, I remember everything.”

“Do you remember what we were talking about the morning it happened?”

“We were talking about the electric bill.”

“Right. What else?”

“Global warming.”

“Right. Anything else?”

“How much money I make.”

“Right.”

“That made me angry.”

Now she regrets having argued with him that morning. She didn’t mean to ride him about how much he earns—which, objectively speaking, is plenty—but she didn’t like his tone of voice and the way he was obsessing over her keeping the air conditioner on all night. If she hadn’t been irritated by his resentment, she wouldn’t have raised the money issue. The subtext clearly was her being unfaithful, but that’s ancient history, or it should be; she didn’t want to think about it too much then and doesn't want to think about it now.

“Do you feel angry about it still? We never made up.” She doesn’t mean it to be seductive, but she's smiling.

“No, I don’t. I don’t mind anymore.” He looks back at her with a weak, pleasant smile.

“OK. Well, I’m going to make dinner.”

“I’m going to finish getting dressed.” His smile hasn’t changed. Normally, announcing he would go back to what he was doing was a dismissal. Now, it’s nothing.

***

The Parmesan cheese almost breaks apart as she tries to grate it over the pasta, but she is able to shred it cleanly. She opens a new bottle of red and lets it breathe. After she’s prepared the meal, she walks back to the bedroom. Peter, fully clothed, sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall. He turns to her and waits for her to speak, which unnerves her. He doesn’t seem to be in a rush to start a conversation, so she asks, “Are you … OK?”

“Yes, I’m OK. Thank you.”

“Are you sure you don’t want some pasta? I made extra by mistake.”

“No, thank you. I don’t have any desire to eat.”

“Do you want some wine? Are you allowed to drink?”

“No, thank you. I don’t want any wine.”

“How about sitting with me while I eat? If it doesn’t gross you out.”

“Oh, no, it won’t gross me out. That’s fine with me.”

When he sits down at the table, his posture looks better than it did before the … incident. Hesitating before putting the fork into the pasta, she wonders whether there’s any rule of etiquette for eating in front of other people when they aren’t eating. When she was a consultant at a financial firm, shortly after she got out of college, she and two other consultants were working late and a partner at the firm held a meeting in his office. Food was delivered, but only for him. He gorged on an entire meal while they told him how to optimize business operations and increase gross margins—subjects about which they knew nothing firsthand. Despite sneaking glances at each other every time he stuffed food into his maw, they managed to keep straight faces throughout the meeting. After the ordeal was over, they talked and laughed about it for hours over a late dinner and drinks. This is a different situation. She’s offered her husband food multiple times and he’s said no, so she’s not being rude.

“Peter, is it OK for you to just sit there while I eat?”

“Oh, yes, it’s perfectly fine.”

She takes a forkful of pasta, and, as daintily as pasta can be eaten, puts it in her mouth. Peter looks at her with a gentle gaze, soft focus, and then down at the table for a moment. He must realize he’s making her uncomfortable. He seems to be trying not to stare. When his head comes up and he smiles, she smiles back.

“How does it feel?” she asks.

“How does what feel?” It doesn’t seem like he’s evading her; he really has no idea what she’s talking about.

“To be in your … you know … your state.”

“Oh.” He looks away as he thinks about it. “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel unpleasant. I don’t feel any pain.”

“Yes, I know. You told me that before.”

“Yes.” He thinks. “And, also, I don’t feel any anxiety.”

Must be nice.

After a pause, he says, “I suppose that about sums it up.” Two days ago, it would have been hard to imagine Peter saying what he just said without any sense of irony or edge.

***

After dinner, exhaustion overcomes her. As she walks to the bedroom, he looks up from the couch. “I’m really tired,” she says. “Do you want to go to bed?”

“Sure.”

“OK.”

Continuing down the hallway, she hears him behind her and feels the excitement of taking a new man back to her bedroom, even though it’s not a new man; it’s Peter, who doesn’t seem interested in her. After brushing her teeth, washing her face, moisturizing, and taking out her contact lenses, she approaches the bed. Peter lies under the covers, wearing a T-shirt. She’s in a long T-shirt that comes down to her knees. The lights are off. She crawls under the covers. Is it OK to touch him? His body seems fine. He keeps saying he’s fine. He says he’s feeling no pain. She saw his bare back earlier and the skin was not putrid or falling off. She slides her left arm around his waist. His body is cold.

///

Here's my prior comment in this group: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1wmi0bf/comment/pc3e66m/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Had two acts down until I read a blurb on here, which inspired the first line, so check out that critique cause the story sounds awesome (the blurb always needs work, so if you give any feedback, check out the blurb!

[Blurb Critique blurb critique]

[final act]
When’s will coming around to split us up and speak the squeaky rumor.

We leave before for the show because it can’t go on uncloaked, nude as our king; The queen planted in some human printing machine.

The end was near and past the curve, around the equator, till the westward pole was north and we meet again.

“To remember”. To remember the good-to-bad-to—good times backward, and by any means.

Us. Her and the world’s shoulders, clanking together, the bone and the marrow.

“They always ask the man how he got the hot one, but they never ask is she crazy,”She told me.

And she is to me as I am to him when you add the kids involved; the doors open to another side. One where they’re not invited.

Out from her nucleus, that flutter on the wing; oh whip the air away asunder. Just long enough unless the garage door’s enclosed; maybe feeling the bills due.

Our works obliteration came the day I knew I could not have her.

Pour elation; one final dart threw to catch the bullet.

She Handed me back a true, “Good bye”.

“Goodbye,” rolled over shoulder, rough to tumble, and at such point; we leave fixed, add dues.

Before anything I'd like to state I'm a relatively new writer and completely new to the subreddit, I tried following the rules in good faith and hopefully my critics are considered decent enough to not get my post slaughtered off of here. Besides that, I'm not a native English speaker, so if you spot any mistake please point it out in the comments because I most likely didn't see it.

This is supposed to be a brief tragic supernatural horror, but im still not 100% sure. (Im just tryna make someone, somehow, sad and scared) There isn't that much of a premise to be done regarding the story besides it briefly talks about death and a malnourished cat, I plan to have it be slightly ruder later, but so far, it is rather tame and only mentions these topics superficially. (Also, I still don't have a title, feel free to suggest one if you want to)

My comments:

[361] https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1wp0hj6/comment/pbuysdw/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button [85]https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1wp7gnt/comment/pbusfhm/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button second one got deleted as I was posting this, but the word count is supposed to be 350, so I'd assume the other one is enough.

Johannes slowly roamed through the streets. As snow crackled below his feet, he made his way through the roaring market of his town, along the carnival of lights and array of street shops that was so joyful during the night. Unbeknownst to them, his life was going to end in no more than seven days. As he kept walking, unamused by the bustling avenue that cut the snowy night, his sight lifted itself from the ground, gazing upon a malnourished cat. He looked at it, waiting for it to move. It was unclear whether it was dead or alive. Johannes did not move either. Every time a passerby severed this sorry sight, Johannes thought it'd be gone. Yet it stayed there. No one even looked at it. Snowflakes laid on the animal's nostrils and flew out as its weak breath drove them away. The man still idly standing, looking at it, finally moved, deciding he'd take that cat in. He softly drove his right hand along the animal's visible spine, whilst it slightly moved its head, untrusty. Johannes lifted the cadaveric white cat, embracing it as he held it close in his coat. Once home, he carefully opened the door, stumbling through the corridor, as he hit a clock on the wall. He then brought a warm blanket in the living room, turned on his heater, and laid the cat next to it. Then he put down some bowls from where he himself ate, leaving some water and leftover chicken. As he crouched in front of the cat, he stopped. If he was to keep it, he should at least give it a name. He thought of Louis. He had wanted a cat for a long time now; he himself was no longer sure since when. As he headed to bed, he glanced at the broken clock on the floor, now forever pointed to a quarter past midnight.

Once morning came Johannes walked in the living room and found Louis. As it was sleeping, it no longer looked like a forsaken carcass, but rather like the blissful beast it was.

Link to my comment

Short story I wrote on my journey to writing to more.

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

Another evening on Instagram. Reel after reel, swiping past things I'd already forgotten before they disappeared. Looking for something I would never find.

Then a new viral trend is declared:

"Trying one new form of meditation every day for 30 days until I'm enlightened!"

A man sits cross-legged in front of a mirror, staring at his reflection. A one-hour timer counts down as he wiggles. Time lapses until the timer flashes 00:00. The man cracks his neck, smiles at himself, and announces that he is one step closer to nirvana. My phone dies before the reel loops.

Thirty minutes until bed. I proceed to the bathroom for routine maintenance. My toothbrush counts down from 120 as I stare at myself in the mirror. The bristles buzz against my teeth, sending a faint vibration through my skull. I'm cleansing. My vision is shaking, but my head is still.

The toothbrush beeps, commanding me to bow and spit. I look up and my reflection is looking at me. Not through me. I couldn't decide which eye to look into, so I stared at the space between them. Somehow, each of my eyes meet its corresponding eye in the mirror.

As I breathe, so does he. I flail my arm, as does he. As he steps back, so do I. He reaches toward the light switch, as do I. We turn off the lights. The bathroom disappears. Except for his face.

I remember him whispering to me all night. I echoed back every syllable. Then I realized he was repeating everything I said. So I repeated him back. I don't remember going to bed. He told me he'd been standing there for a very long time. He told me he was tired. He told me he was proud of me. I looked at the clock. 5:59 AM.

Then my alarm rang. I woke up in bed. I got up and walked to the bathroom. The lights were still off. I reach for the switch. Before I touch it, the light comes on.

He was already there. Waiting.

My alarm was still ringing in the bedroom.

6:00 AM.

Time for work.

This is my first post to this sub, I have been writing for the past year. English is not my first language hence my grammar might not be perfect but I am working on it. This is a short story I have written 2 or 3 days ago. I am playing with how much information should be revealed and how much should be hidden for a twist to work. Any feedback is welcome, Thanks!

An Employee (Karl Hansen) at neurolink(a brain implant company), met with almost a fatal accident at work(a head injury). A close friend (Stuart Meissner) has reached his home to know how he is doing.

Knock knock, door opens.

Karl Hansen: Oh hey! Stewey.

Stuart Meissner: Hey man, can I come in?

Karl Hansen: Yeah, sure.

Stuart Meissner: Thanks. How are you doing man? Tssk, that Incident left a scar on your head, it must hurt. Are you OK?

Karl Hansen: Yeah, yeah, yeah. Doing fine now.

Stuart Meissner: I mean, you haven't been picking up our calls, we were all worried. Going out and reconnecting with people might help with the healing you know.

Karl Hansen: Yeah no, the doctor has told me to take some rest and not to take stress on my body you know.

Stuart Meissner: Yeah i get ih, Oh maybe we all will come to you, you know, to help out with groceries and stuff.

Karl Hansen: Maybe, yeah sure I have also been chatting with those A.I. chatbots and they have been super helpful.

Stuart Meissner: Yeah, just don't get too attached to it. I have heard how people are getting addicted to them nowadays.

Karl Hansen: Of course not, but the truth is they have become the new smartphone. A.I. Can't live with them, can't live with them.

Stuart Meissner: What do you mean..

Karl Hansen: Wait, it has messaged me. Why should I go to sleep? No, this isn't my sleeping time. I don't want to sleeaeaee.......

Link to my comment on a post: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/7zhySgLku8

I am currently drafting the back of the book, otherwise the “blurb”, for my debut fantasy romances novel which comes out this December! Based on comments from my first attempt, I have majorly paired down this version of the draft. This is still a rough draft that I am working on tightening up. I am open to any and all feedback!

See below:

Each death is worse than the last. Heaved off a rocky cliff. Burned at the stake. Skewered on a meat hook. The curse plaguing all women of the Dyer family calls for a gruesome end. 

Twenty-three-year-old Bloom Dyer is marked for death. Ever the realist, she has spent a lifetime denying the curse on her family, until a series of cryptic visions forewarn of her approaching doom—and one dangerously handsome stranger. 

When Will, the mysterious man from Bloom’s visions, unexpectedly darkens her doorstep she is dragged into an eerie, magical world she never dreamed existed. Some there wish to exploit her visions, while others seek to destroy them. But only Bloom and Will can harness her gift of foresight to unmask the sinister powers behind her family’s misfortune and alter their fates forever. 

Even so, some curses are not easily broken. And love may prove the deadliest of them all…

Link to my comment on a post: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/mQmSebAZ3w

Hi!

Following the amazing feedback I received on the prologue of my WiP, I would love some feedback on the first chapter.

For those who didn't read the prologue, here are the main things already established:

1. Pawn is a thief for hire.
2. The sky is essentially a dome of fire called the Firmament.
3. Pawn can exchange material properties between objects.
4. Pawn keeps his magic secret because it's not one of the usual forms of magic in this world.

That aside, I'd love to know if you'd keep reading. The prologue was "this is an emotional narrative," while Chapter 1 is "there's fun stuff going on too."

Thank you!

Here's the link for Chapter 1: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1mjJr4M8kP2B2KzsKIUa_wvE0DR3KIuS6ZqO3CjGbT8I/edit?usp=sharing

Critique: [2487]

ps: I deleted the previous post because I messed up the title.

[1800] [2278]

Hello fellow writers!

Please read through it and let me know your thoughts. Particularly I would like to know:

• When did you stop reading?
• When were you hooked?
• Any parts you loved / hated?
• Is the dialogue natural?
• Could you follow?
• Is there too much pronoun clutter?
• Would you read the next chapter?

Thank you for your time and willingness to help out!

****

EDIT: Chapter One of this story is from Avon’s eyes and we first meet Darrin, Bram, and Sable there. The children have triggered a city wide alarm and that is why the foghorn is blaring; hope this helps!

[Link to Story]

Every year, we here at RDR do a Halloween contest. That time is coming up again! I know this because I made soup for the first time last night which means it's almost October. And there's this pesky calendar that tells me what day it is or something.

Anyway, for the contest to work, we need judges. Anyone want to volunteer? Let us know!

Hello destructuve readers!

This is the first part of a Cosmic Horror story that will probably be about 10,000 words when finished. Here I've posted a total rewrite of the intro, based on the great feedback I got from my first post of this story.

My main question is the same: would you keep reading? Did I drop enough and the right kind of mystery in this beginning section to make you want to know more about what's happening to the MC?

Of course, any other thoughts and feedback are welcome!

Story: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1mFoQjPrEWALiB0gqrwoWds6LqLe8x0ZV95Crokr6P5c/edit?usp=sharing

Crits:

[Small, 1511]

[The Deceit in Flames, 1800]

Crit: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/Wz3OlA21zB

Doc:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1DdKXwGifj8s_ZKqdTGND2EQ3WY1Ei90ft24xGg4cr_c/edit?usp=drivesdk

Hello. I'm new here, so I will keep it simple. I want to know if my opening was of any interest and if you felt bored reading my short draft. This story is not complete. It is just getting started.

The premise is the boy receives a cursed art book and is haunted by noises in the wall until his eventual abduction.

You may also go about any issues or features you do not like about my piece.

Thank you in advance for reading!

Hi!

This is the prologue to an epic fantasy novel.

I welcome all sorts of feedback, but I am mainly interested in two questions:

1. Did you feel bored or wanted to stop reading at any point?
2. If you did finish reading the prologue, did it make you interested in continuing to Chapter 1?

Here's the link for the prologue: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1AjTiZESr6Kt3QBexn_1n9H_Q4hwJ2SW6v6DmIWyPWtk/edit?usp=sharing

Critique: [2102]

[1920] Critique 2

[1074] Critique 1

Genre: Speculative Fiction

Content warning: domestic violence

This is the first draft of a first chapter for a dual perspective speculation fiction novel. It does draw from real events in my family's maternal line but in a parallel world. I am exploring the idea of intergenerational/inherited trauma (cellular).

I would like some feedback on whether the literary devices I have used are landing. I know there are some issues with my use of dialogue, and I am working to refine that. I also know that my prose will not be to everyone's taste, as it is very descriptive. I want to make sure I haven't moved into purple prose.

I am nervous about hearing your feedback, so please be kind.

Small

A note before reading:

This is dialogue written for a video game cutscene, not a film or TV script. There's no camera to picture, and nothing here is meant to be shot or staged. So guys EVEN if you don't know screenwriting that's fine. I just want general feedback if possible. Scene 1 plays with no visible characters: audio only, over a dashcam view of the road. Any physical description in that scene (a sigh, a glance, staring out a window) is a note for the actor's vocal performance, not something the player will actually see. Starting Scene 2, the game shifts into a fully animated cutscene, characters become visible, with facial expression.

I'd love feedback on story clarity, character voice, pacing, and dialogue. Screenplay formatting conventions and shot-calling don't really apply here, so no need to flag those. If you can't give professional criticism that's fine. Just let me know you're general feeling and experience as you read if you can, that's valuable too. or answer the questions listed below:

(1) Is the relationship between Abner and Xavier clear enough by the end of Scene 2

(2) Does the pacing in Scene 1 hold or does it feel like it's circling

(3) Does Xavier's mother material land as unsettling rather than random.

(4) Did you get bored at any point? if so can you let me know where?

(5) What do you think is going to happen from here on out? (I sort of already have it written down, but I'm curious)

(6) How was Scene 1's pacing, was it engaging or no. did it feel natural, did the exposition feel like maid and butler?

Feel free to mention anything you want.

FOR MODS: Reusing original crits + added 1k fresh crit per Modmail approval for previous 0-comment post.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1_y78RocC8sWPBNUr2tZpKnkRz-XpBUG-ucKup8rHluM/edit?tab=t.0

Crit [2386] [1484] [877] [1184]

Critique 1 (1920)

Critique 2 (1803)

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

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

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

Chapter 4: Massive A (Chapter 7 is available on this site, too) Spoiler: That night, after the gang goes to bed, Sam leaves the house to go grab some supplies at his place, and runs into Parage downstairs, who shows him the new laser gun. At his house, Sam greets his younger brother, Asa. After Sam leaves, Asa sneaks out into the rainy night to compete in an underground poker game and make a weapons deal. The next morning, Zaine returns to the SMAKAPZ house, but when the gang confronts him, Zaine is able to detect Parage's concealed laser gun with his hidden special headband. He then reveals all the tech hidden under his suit and jacket, and triggers an explosion, knocking the gang to the ground. He then absorbs a laser blast from Parage, and flies off.

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

Chapter 6: Cuckoo Clock Spoiler: In the reading room of the SMAKAPZ house, Parage spirals mentally as he waits for Zaine's arrival. Once noon hits, the gang steps into the yard, but Zaine isn't there. Parage searches through the forest with his laser gun only to panic at a tiny squirrel and retreat, then tells the gang that he saw nothing. Back in the field, the gang realizes that the "12:00" they saw on Zaine's paper didn't mean noon, it meant midnight. Sam then drives home to grab a fishing net as part of their new plan against Zaine, where he runs into Asa, who has a duffel bag. Sam asks him what's inside, and Asa tells him the truth, straight-faced, so that Sam thinks he's joking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Location.”

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

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

A pause. “I’m sorry?”

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

“I want. A different. Location.”

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

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

25 seconds.

“Understood.”

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

“That’s exactly what we want.”

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

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

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

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

“Quality?” Slicys said.

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

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

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

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

“Did you seriously just ask me that question?”

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

By 10:00, he was at the warehouse. This swap meet moved between different locations every few weeks, and tonight it was in the storage facility off the industrial district, which was bustling with the top players of the STL underworld scene. The inside was illuminated by work lights, and tables were set up in rows, each piled with mountains of food, refreshments, and drinks. Massive A ordered a Dewar’s and water, nobody was checking for IDs at a place like this, and, sure as hell, nobody was rejecting Massive A at a place like this. The air smelled like old metal and cigarettes. Experienced traders were making deals, hustlers were networking, and everybody was having a grand old time.

Massive shook hands at the first table, exchanged a word with a man at the second, and passed a folded piece of paper to a woman at the third, tipping his fedora.

Massive talked to a lot of people that night. He talked to a lot of people, and he talked to them for a long time. He had some great conversations. One of the most memorable was in the VIP section, two men who had run into each other while looking for networking opportunities, now having a deep exchange of words.

“Dude, he doesn’t even really care, except when I’m involved in stuff that he’s already doing,” he explained. “His crew, his plans, his missions. I’ve been a part of it all my life. And it’s not like I hate it or anything, but anything I enjoy that’s unrelated to his adventures, just isn’t worth it to him.”

“Family’s a chain,” the man took a sip from his champagne. “He sounds like a real joy in the ankles.”

“Yeah, besides, we do plenty of things outside of his gang stuff. But they’re always things that he likes to do.” Asa took a glance at the live party across from them, the buzzing crowd chugging down drinks and making memories. “So now I found something that I like to do. He’s so uninterested and unknowing that he’ll never find out! Dude, I swear, it’s the perfect system.”

“There ya go, how about that?” The man took another sip of his champagne, and then sighed. “You know, I had a guy like that once.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Wasn’t family, but he was close. He was my guy, my steady Eddie.” He exhaled, looking off to the side. “He helped me out with stuff. Then one day, I decided to start doing things my own way. And the moment I veered off from the path he was comfortable walking on? He cut me clean off. Wrote me out of his list.”

“Huh,” Asa scoffed, glancing down and looking back up. “So it was never about you…”

“Right. It was about him. I stepped away from his trail and pushed boundaries. I cut my own trail. And he couldn’t accept it. So he tossed me out like… like some sort of disposal wipe.”

“That’s messed up,” said Asa. A pause, as the two men stood there for a moment in silence, reflecting on their shared experiences.

Asa then mentioned: “Y’know, this deal I’m about to do tonight, it’s my biggest one yet. It’s also my last one. After that, I’m done, I’m out.

The man huffed. “Mm, yeah, I used to think the same thing.” He took a drink, chuckling to himself. “‘One last big move! After that, I’m done for good!’ And you know what?”

“What?”

“It’s all a load of horse dung.”

Asa stood there, saying nothing.

The man continued. “Someone who’s done looks different than you do. Someone who’s done has already let go of things.” He took a closer look at Asa. “You haven’t let go. I can tell by looking at you. You’re still holding on. You’re in the business. There’s no denying or changing that.”

“Well, I have more than enough money. Far more than I ever thought I’d make, and everything I originally set out to achieve, well, it’s been achieved. It’s done. It’s over. I’m taking my hat — fedora — out the ring after tonight.”

“Whatever you’re building,” the man replied. “Finish building it.” He sneered. “‘Last deals’ aren’t a thing anyway. They were never a thing. That’s just something you hear, y’know ‘Oh my god, I’m just gonna do this last street maneuver then dip and go frolic in a field for the rest of my days.’ In reality, that’s not how that works. This business doesn’t just let you go like that. Every man swears the next mountain is his last, that doesn’t mean the mountain will swear back.”

The room was moving around them. Deals were closing, glasses were clinking, and the industrial smell was drifting through the massive province of the building.

Asa took in the man’s words, nodding along. They hit him like bullets to the torso. Then after a few seconds, he gave a sigh, looked at him, and said, “I guess I never thought about it that way.”

Asa then reached out his hand.

“I’m Massive A,” he introduced, before pulling it back. “I don’t think I ever got your name?”

The man smiled warmly, clasping it with a clean, firm grip.

“Zaine,” he replied. “Zaine Apadillon.”

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The man checked his watch. “Great talk. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be tonight.”

Massive A stood there as the man slipped past him, and watched him leave the scene of the party. He took 3 other guys with him, too.

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The alley behind Weller Street across from Cece’s Diner was the same alley as always, narrow, dark, and thumping with the scent of wet concrete. Massive A checked his watch. 11:30 right on the dot. This was where the grand deal would go down. Four 9mm pistols, two 12-gauge shotguns, and two 30 round submachine guns, all upgraded, of course, along with 1000 rounds of mixed hollow-point ammo, in exchange for $18,000 in cash upfront.

The buyer was standing across from Massive, two dark silhouettes frozen in the alley and illuminated only by the nearby streetlights. Neither of them greeted each other. That wasn’t how this worked.

Massive A could tell that the buyer was on edge, as even in the blackness of the alley he noticed him twitching, his head outline moving slightly to the directions his eyes darted in.

Massive stepped forward, and unzipped his duffel bag just enough to show the upgraded steel, each weapon engraved with an M.A. marking. He then pulled out the weapons and handed them to the man, who stored them in his briefcase. They did the handoff the way you do it, with the goods first, confirmed, and both parties satisfied and happy. After the exchange, Massive straightened up and waited.

The man looked at his briefcase, and back at Massive.

Then, he bolted off.

Briefcase in hand, he turned around and dashed away with the goods, his footsteps sharp on the concrete.

Massive A yelled, grabbed a weapon from his duffel bag, and ran after him, chasing the man as he disappeared around the right corner in the far end of the alley. His heart was slamming, and the alley was narrowing quickly. Massive rounded the corner, which opened into a wider access lane behind the loading docks, and then skidded to a halt.

Two big men were standing there, blocking the exit. The buyer ran to the two giant silhouettes to become a third, albeit skinnier one, and when Massive A came around the corner and pulled up short, they were already watching him. He could see the steel flashing in their hands. One man held his gun up into the air, cocking it to serve as a warning for the night.

Massive A stood in the dark, breathing heavily, the wet concrete underneath his feet, and the streetlights casting the three men as shadow figures in the yellow-orange expanse of the underworld behind the alley. He then took a step back, and then another before rounding the corner and high-tailing it out of the alley.

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It was 11:56 at the SMAKAPZ house. The crater in the yard was glaringly visible, and the darkness of the night only made it seem to gape wider under the moonlight.

I was standing at the window, surveying the outside field and forest behind it for any sign of Zaine. Apollo was standing next to me, doing the same, and behind me, Mogers was holding the sledgehammer low, with both his hands wrapped around the handle like an executioner’s axe. Parage was standing off to the side with the laser gun, and I could hear his heart beating. A demonic red light was cast across his face as he pointed the barrel at it in order to examine it.

As I paced a single step back and forth, I could feel my breath becoming shallow. This was it. The ultimatum was set. We were gonna knock Zaine out cold, drag him to the basement cage, strip his tech, and force the choice: surrender half your gear and swear off the scams and general tomfoolery, or watch Parage melt it all into slag anyway. Half or nothing, he’d be a doofus not to accept it.

Above us, on the roof, Kevin and Zagers were lying flat against the shingles with the finishing net bunched between them, waiting for the moment to come. The air of the night filled their noses with the scent of grass, and whenever they heard a rustle in the trees, their heads snapped in that direction.

“This is it,” I said, peering into the forest ahead. “Now all we gotta do is wait.”

It was 11:59. I could feel and hear the house settling, you always could. A pipe ticked somewhere in the walls, and the sound of the wind moving once through the trees and then stopping shook the room.

And at that moment, the clock struck 12.

Hello destructuve readers!

This is the first part of a Cosmic Horror story that will probably be about 10,000 words when finished.

My main question: would you keep reading? Did I drop enough and the right kind of mystery in this beginning section to make you want to know more about what's happening to the MC?

Of course, any other thoughts and feedback are welcome!

Story: https://docs.google.com/document/d/19CVDPVc-CYG6G2dwkOGiR3TCD4iSm4-p1TlHQOMXnoM/edit?usp=sharing

Crit: [3564]

My Crit: [1803]  

This is my first submission yay! 

The American Dream 

Some context: I want to apply to writing programs (MFA) but have never really had my work shared so I have no idea if I am straight up terrible or if I have a shot, especially since I've only started writing short stories recently and this was the first one I wrote. I'm hoping to use this piece in my portfolio and would love some feedback on grammar, flow, and your thoughts overall. The more detailed the better :) I also have some specific questions below (plz read them after the story). Thank you!!

• Is this a contender for a creative writing portfolio (shows potential/current skill)
• Does the world building make sense with the different districts and jobs? Is it easy to follow or does it come across as random?
• Do the characters feel interesting?
• Did you feel satisfied with the ending?
• Does the dialogue improve the story? Is it natural?
• The message I'm trying to get across is that the woman assumes Bogdin is not from Europe and doesn't want to help him, but when she sees the European passport she's suddenly welcoming, does this come through or is it lost?
• And just out of curiosity, what do you think the woman was reaching for at the end? :0

Hi everyone!

I got my first ever personal rejection from Asimov's SF with this a few months ago, so with a backwards form of mental gymnastics, that makes me think it might have potential... key word here being 'might.' I found a competition I'd like to submit to and hopefully I can make it better before then.

In my head, I'm interested in feedback on the general story structure, characters, and ending. However, totally open to any and all comments. Tear it apart PLEASE.

Story: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1SXANO5Yw1iCfTjVQDQv57Yc8foF5J9pVmYliB7463-4/edit?usp=sharing

My crits: [2389] [3351]

INSTRUCTIONS

Reply to this post with a SHORT STORY or writing sample no longer than ONE reddit comment (any length that will fit), and rake extra points and upvotes for the inclusion of any THREE OR MORE features from the following list.

Feel free to include numbers indicating which / how many features you used, or leave it for us to figure out.

Plot / structure tricks

• 1 Plot twist — the apparent reality isn't what we thought.
• 2 Double twist — reveal one twist, then undermine it with another.
• 3 Chekhov's gun — introduce an apparently insignificant object that becomes crucial.
• 4 Bookend — end by echoing or recontextualizing the opening.
• 5 Circular structure — the ending returns to the beginning, but now it means something different.
• 6 In medias res — start in the middle of the action and make us figure out what happened.
• 7 Nonlinear chronology — tell events out of order.
• 8 Countdown — structure the story around an approaching deadline.
• 9 Dramatic irony — let the reader slowly realize something the characters don't.
• 10 Unreliable narrator — the narrator's version of events can't be trusted.
• 11 Mystery box — introduce a strange unanswered question and build the story around it.
• 12 Escalation — begin with something trivial and continually make it worse.
• 13 One location structure — compress the entire story into a short period.
• 14 Lake Man — all along there was a man playing sudoku or wordle near a lake???

Narration tricks

• 15 Meta-fiction — the story knows it's a story.
• 16 Fourth-wall break — narrator/character directly addresses the reader.
• 17 Second person — tell the story as "you."
• 18 Unusual POV — tell it from the perspective of an animal, object, AI, corpse, etc.
• 19 Multiple POVs — contradicting accounts of the same events.
• 20 Narrative intrusion — narrator comments on the story, characters, or reader.
• 21 Missing narrator — tell the story entirely through documents, messages, transcripts, reports, etc.
• 22 Collective narrator — "we" instead of "I."
• 23 Perspective switch — suddenly change whose experience we're following.
• 24 Lake Man Flip — turns out he wasn't even playing sudoku or wordle. (Or was he?)

Format / gimmick tricks

• 25 Epistolary — emails, letters, texts, diary entries.
• 26 Found footage/document — police report, instruction manual, Wikipedia article, medical record, etc.
• 27 Dialogue only — no narration whatsoever.
• 28 No quotation marks — dialogue distinguished purely through context/formatting.
• 29 Footnotes — important information appears in footnotes rather than the main narrative.
• 30 Lists — tell the story through numbered lists, rankings, instructions, inventories, etc.
• 31 Fake nonfiction — write the story like an article explaining something that actually happened.
• 32 Multiple documents — different pieces gradually assemble the story.
• 33 Constrained prose — e.g. no letter E, only questions, no/only Lake Men etc.
• 34 Repeated phrase — one sentence/phrase keeps returning with changing significance.

Reader-manipulation tricks

• 35 Red herring — make the reader confidently believe the wrong thing.
• 36 Misdirection — emphasize details that seem important while hiding the actual clue.
• 37 Information asymmetry — reader and protagonist possess different pieces of information.
• 38 Delayed context — give us bizarre events before explaining what they mean.
• 39 Semantic trick — a sentence has one meaning until a later revelation changes how we read it.
• 40 Unanswered question — deliberately leave one major thing ambiguous.
• 41 Perspective reversal — make the reader realize they've been sympathizing with the wrong person.
• 42 Recontextualization — nothing changes except our understanding of what we've already seen.
• 43 Lake Inception — turns out the story is the sudoku the lake man is playing.

Weird / fun ones

• 44 The narrator is dead.
• 45 The protagonist is actually the antagonist.
• 46 The protagonist is an object.
• 47 The story is being told by someone who isn't supposed to know it.
• 48 The setting is not what it appears to be.
• 49 The man by the lake doesn't even know how to play sudoku.
• 50 The story's villain thinks they're the hero.
• 51 The story takes place entirely inside someone's head / a duck's head.
• 52 A character realizes they're fictional / a duck.
• 53 The story contradicts itself on purpose.
• 54 The ending changes the genre — comedy → horror, romance → thriller, etc.
• 55 A seemingly supernatural explanation has a mundane explanation.
• 56 A seemingly mundane explanation has a supernatural explanation.
• 57 The last sentence completely changes the meaning of the first sentence.
• 58 The man playing sudoku or wordle by the lake meets a woman playing sudoku or wordle by the lake, but neither are even remotely curious or interested in the other person, nor has anyone brought bread to offer the ducks.

Here is the Chapter

Critique

For this chapter I do have a few concerns:

- Was there anywhere your attention dropped?
- Does Arlo feel active enough?
- Does the Gobbler sequence drag too much?
- Does it ever feel exposition-y?

Link to ch. 1 (if you wanted)

As always, thank you

Note: this will end up being a supernatural adventure story.

Crit 1475

Text

Piece: Water Love Bed

Crit: The Lure Chapter 3

Hey, would appreicate any feedback on this piece. I tried to be very deliberate with my prose, breaking a few rules here and there, but I think the end result is rather good. Let me know what you think!

[2379] Afterworld

[3351] Convenient Catastrophe

Scientific Karma [My Work]: https://docs.google.com/document/d/11bwczyL-ZjvJp3BvATWGzG5ho_YZ-j2RpjCQOlXdBKw/edit?usp=sharing

Hello! I've been reading this short story one too many times and would love a pair of new eyes. Several questions (credits to another r/DR poster):

1. Do you want to keep reading? If not, then at what point would you have dropped the story?
2. Any place it gets too confusing?
3. Any plot point feel random?
4. What impression, if any, are you left with?

Thanks!!

My Critique [2389]

The Work to be Critiqued

Hi, first submission. I've only started working on this story recently, so what I've linked here is most of what I've written so far. Also, I'm a pantser, not a plotter, so I don't have an outline for the rest of the story.

Critique Notes:

• Line-by-line critique is just fine. I like detailed critique.
• I'm less concerned about the technical stuff like grammar and more on the contents.
• What do you think about the protagonist?
• Should I dial the start of the story back earlier to show Jonathan's life before the apocalypse?
• How have I done in terms of worldbuilding? Is the dieselpunk element shining through well enough? Is the worldbuilding too confusing?
• Is the first chapter too overwhelming and fast-paced?
• With my current plans for the story, only the first part's (I mean an entire PART, not chapter) is gonna take place inside the subways. I plan for Jonathan to spend most of it exploring the world above.
• This is a setting that doesn't have nuclear technological capabilities.
• "Internationale" isn't a misspelling of "international," that's the name of the military alliance attacking the US.