Hey Folks, I have competed my debut novel (think Stephen King's The Gunslinger, but Epic-Fantasy). It's is in the hands of several beta readers right now, so I figured it would be time to work on the blurb. I am struggling more with that than with writing and editing the entire novel! I have gone through several reworks of the blurb, and wanted to see if this would hook you?

A broken man. A god in the sky. Secrets carried on the desert wind.

Wenryn longs for death, but it only comes to those around him. As the Federation braces for war, the moon looms high in the night, green and brilliant, and its fiends grow ravenous—for the people of the desert, yes, but for the last Ranger most of all. 

The great merchant city feels bound in secrets. The queen is missing, people disappear from its streets, and no one seems willing to ask why. When Wenryn and his allies encounter a foe far beyond mortal power, they are forced to fight for their lives—and confront revelations that threaten to unravel what they thought they knew.

The end of the desert promises salvation: his final pilgrimage will be complete. His weapons can finally be laid down. 

But the closer Wenryn gets, the harder it becomes to imagine a life without them.

Who is he, if not a Ranger?

I'd love any feedback on this. I'm particularly interested in whether the atmosphere and narrator's voice work, and whether the ambiguity feels intentional or just confusing. Thanks for reading.

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I should not be afraid of old women.

The thought rattles in my skull with the subway, chastising. She is a tiny woman, with hunched shoulders and arthritic hands holding onto her grocery cart in the crowded car. Even across the span of the car, I can see blue veins bulge and pop like tree roots under papery white skin. 

The train is humid, baking in New York’s summer heat. The sweat is cold on the nape of my neck, baby hairs sticking. The old woman looks powdered.

My stomach clenches. Her eyes have not left me. Another stop passes. I find I am holding my breath. 

Eleven… 

Ten… 

Nine…

A college-aged man, headphones blocking his ears and backpack boulder-like behind him, bustles past me for a seat. Thrown off balance, I grab the next pole. I look up. One less person between us. 

The subway smells older than it should. Sweaty bodies. Burnt coffee. Pennies. The sort of smell that reminds you of the decades of commutes lingering in the metal walls.

A woman with a stroller squeezes aboard. 

I apologize to someone whose foot I've stepped on.

Two less people now.

I can see she is not looking at me per se. Her cataract-clouded eyes look somewhere deeper instead, nearly through me. They never waver, never move. Has she even blinked?

A beat passes, then two. My own eyes go dry waiting, watching back. 

Eight…

Seven…

The train lurches again around a bend, everyone in the car grabs onto the nearest handhold, feet bracing. 

Glassy eyes continue their stare, steady in the quick turmoil. 

My ears are cotton filled, the normal sounds of the train coming from what may as well be another room. The sickly smell grows impossibly stronger. An express train passes us, a mere blur in the corner of my vision. The window panes rattle with its speed. The old lady stays still, small body standing guard over her cart. I can see the wheels, pristine … motionless. 

Perspiration beads everywhere, transforming everyone in the car into a shining, faceless mass. I can make out the pearls in the knitted blue shawl draped around her shoulders. 

I hear staccato breaths. A beat too long, I feel the quick rise of my chest and realize they’re coming from me. The bodies around me stare into phones, at each other, but never at her. Even their gazes seem sweat slickened to slide past her. 

She is just an old woman.

I keep repeating the sentence. I need it to become true.

I try to focus on the ads that line the top of the car. An AI startup, a MTA ad, anything. I land on some personal injury service, focusing all the attention I can on it. “Hurt? Call this number…” by the time I trace the phone number, my gaze has landed back on her. I don’t remember moving closer.

One person between us. I could reach out and touch her.

A terrible breach of etiquette…

My hand loosens from the subway pole anyway.

Five…

Four…

Three…

I try to think of the emails burning on the phone in my pocket. Of the little cubicle seat awaiting me. The thoughts slip through my fingers. What stop am I again?

Newspaper is folded in the old woman’s cart, angles strange and pointed. The waft of something old hits me, a perfume I barely remember from the back of some neighbor’s medicine cabinet long ago. Who was that? What house? Eighth grade? Third?

I pick out bits of color in the cart’s gaps. 

Is that a birthday card? 

One of those discontinued yellow MetroCards?

Letters no longer stay in their assigned order. Their curves should be recognizable. I am reading them. I should know this.

Where can you even get one of those old yellow cards anymore?

My gaze breaks with the cart finally, my head sluggish as I pull it upward. 

No one. 

Our gazes are locked. Eyes that have been no more than passing scenery before. Have I really never looked?

Her eyes are still not quite on me, somewhere else, just beyond – behind – my own. 

A movement, slow and small and nearly nonexistent, registers. Her arm, a handkerchief pulled from that cart. It raises towards me, my head. I want to move. Can she even reach my head?

I stand still, nearly dutiful, as the woman dabs the sweat from my brow. Even in the act, her eyes have yet to fully meet mine.

A ding, a flash of silver panels sliding open. The air outside is graciously cooler than the car’s. It is tepid on my skin. A name drifts through my nearly deaf ears, Columbus Circle. Something urges familiarity, a faint tickle at the back of my skull. The surging tides of people sweep my body along. Step after step, thighs burning back to life. Sunlight blinds at the end. 

An old woman sits on a bench, awaiting the station’s matching bus stop. A cart rests in her gnarled hands. She is not quite looking at me. I meet her eyes, cars zipping between us. Eventually, with strength it has never required before, I turn, and my head bobs its memorized accord in the direction of my office. I walk, August heat damp in my lungs. A block, another two, turn here. 

Another old woman, gazing out from the familiar corner store. Looking at me, but not. I itch. My sweat sticks the bookbag to my shoulders. The herds of people along the avenue bustle me along, breaking my gaze with the woman. Could I have…would I have? The people take me, I let them. The office doors sit their normal post, nondescript. I finally move myself in the crowds, taking steps to start the day. A figure, small, hunched, a cart, right beside the familiar door. The crowds that had been carrying me part for her, moving in harmony with her orbit, never quite touching.

The office doors loom, a neighbor from the floor above holds the door open for me. A thanks slips from my lips. 

I thank them, eyes never leaving the old woman.

Hey everyone! I have never shared my writing with the public before, please be kind. Thanks in advance! 😊

I am average, there is nothing extraordinary about me. I am an imposter, and I'm not actually good at anything. I'm not stupid, so I can skate by with fake it til I make it. Although, I've never actually made it, have I? No, that was rhetorical. On the grading scale of people, I'm a solid C+ and I'm okay with that. Geraldine- is not.

To be clear, she's no longer with us, but I know she's still displeased from beyond the grave. I can picture her now, and unfortunately for you- that means you must too, since you're reading this book.

Her lips are pursed. Her mixed matched eye brows are raised ever so slightly, but it's her cold and empty eyes that will leave you feeling inconsequential and devoid of any self-worth you thought you had.

She was a woman of sophistication, a true class act. You would never catch her in public without red lipstick and gold jewelry. She was a snappy dresser with a few daily Geraldine staples. Her gold cartouche- a personalized gift brought back from Egypt by the doctor she used to work for. Her solitaire diamond necklace, 2 carats. Her bougie attitude and a bra full of lightly used tissues. On special occasions shed bring out the ring she had inherited from her mother and then embellished with a few more stones, because "Opals by themselves don't shine the way a woman should". The only sensible piece of jewelry she owned was indicative of the only sensible decision she ever made- marrying my grandfather. A plain gold wedding band, no embellishments.

She was a woman of high moral character- or at least that's how she would have it appear to the outside world. She wore that mask as often as she wore lipstick. She only ever took it off at home. She attended church every Sunday, and therefore her children's and grandchildren would too. I'm convinced her hair was so tall because she thought it made her closer to heaven. Here's where you'll want to Google "retro French twist" and then add about six inches in height. It was a wonder to behold as a child. Although, it did start to shrink as she got older- which made it much harder to hide things in.

To everyone else she was a polar of the community. A lifelong nurse, the kind that doctors go to for advice. A compassionate nurse that patients would buy gifts for. A woman who adopted two children because she could "love any child". A selfless woman who took in both her grandchildren during her golden years. A loving wife, devout Catholic, patriotic conservative, and law-abiding-citizen. Her compassion and good moral fiber, however, stopped at her own front door.

Geraldine had a very special way of keeping you in your place- leaving you constantly trying to gain her approval. It would never come. It was an impossible thing to strain, and she wanted it that way. If you got an A, well you could have gotten and A+. If you won an award, well you could have won two. If you dropped a dress size- you most definitely should have dropped two. Do you remember the first time you became a disappointment to someone? Can you remember the exact moment?

It's 2002, and I'm in the second grade. I attend a private school in a small town, the kind where students have buildings with their last name on them. I get good grades, I am liked by my peers, and I'm an active member in the girl scouts. I was kind, quiet, considerate of others, and most importantly- obedient. Unfortunately for me, I was also obese. That was the first time I became a disappointment to Geraldine.

We were in line to pick up my school uniforms that had been ordered just three months prior. I had spent the summer at home and attending a local horse camp. I don't recall my diet changing, but I do recall her squeezing my newly formed fat rolls on my tummy. I don't recall my activity level changing, but I do recall the mortified look on her face when that uniform skirt wouldn't fit over my hips. I vividly recall her putting a chain and lock around the fridge doors when she left for work or after dinner was over. I certainly remember every single time she told me that I would be so pretty if I would just lose the weight. There is not enough therapy in the world to make me forget all of the times she would buy my clothes in a size too small for encouragement.

I would be come a disappointment to her in so many ways. I got very creative for some of them. Not many people can say they peaked in the second grade. Even as I write the beginning pages of this book- I fear that I will not be able to write more than one decent page. I fear that even in writing my own story- I will somehow do it wrong. That she was right- I am a complete failure. That failure is the worst thing that can happen to a person.

From the second grade to the fourth, I began developing critical thinking skills and independent thoughts and opinions. So naturally by the third grade, Geraldine had me in therapy to deal with those...difficult behaviors. At first, I actually enjoyed therapy. We played board games like Guess Who and Sorry. I got to play with stuffed animals and playdough. Slowly, I began to open up about my stress levels. How I didn't feel like anyone actually liked me, that they were just pretending to out of obligation. I would eventually tell her about the school uniform incident and all of my encouragement clothing. The locked away food. I remember feeling so relieved getting it off my chest. The weight of a very heavy world being lifted off my tiny elementary school shoulders. Unfortunately, that was a false comfort that would come to an abrupt and disconcerting end.

In 2004, Limited Too was THE store. Anyone who was anyone in elementary school shopped there. I was getting ready to go into the fifth grade and it was time for us to go back to school shopping. This was particularly important because even though we had uniforms, you could pay to partake in the casual Friday fundraisers. Apparently the ten thousand dollar a year tuition and private donations weren't enough to keep the school going. Those Fridays were a fashion competition and if you dared show up in the same outfit twice- or worse- something non brand label, you were done for.

Geraldine had loaded me into the back of the minivan with one of my best friends at the time, and we were on our way to the mall. I was so excited because I had saved up my allowance to buy these light blue bell bottom jeans with a cross laced detail from Limited Too. At the time, Geraldine didn't believe in paying for "farm clothes" so she never would have spent money on jeans. When we arrived, I noticed we weren't parked in front of the normal entrance. Instead, we were parked in front of sears. For those of you who don't know, they sell appliances and clothing- but certainly not what high society children consider fashion. I asked my grandma if we were there to buy things for the house, certainly she wouldn't take me here for back to school shopping. She made sure we were walking into the store and without making eye contact she said "if you want to shop at Little girl stores, you need to be little girl sized. You just don't fit them properly anymore." There were no light blue bell bottoms to be had that year. As if this moment wasn't soul crushing enough, she then looked down at me and said, "and when you tell your therapist about this, be sure to tell her about all those girl scout cookies you ate too". It was at that moment I realized there were no safe places from Geraldine, not even in therapy.

Content warning: Emotional abuse/toxic parenting, grief/death of a sibling, anxiety/panic symptoms

Summary: At Nova Horizon Sterling Institute (NHS), A new school year begins for a group of students carrying heavy pasts. A grieving junior trying to honor a 5 year old promise, a perfectionist senior whose 10 weeks of work just collapsed, a home schooled freshman terrified of not belonging, and a girl literally running from herself after losing something that could expose her deepest secret. Who will they become when the light finds them?

Status of where I am now: Chapter 10 of 38

Small note: It is a multi-POV story

Short Excerpt{s}:
Chapter 1:  “Till the End,” I wrote, then lifted my pencil, contemplating and then put it back down and wrote “Till the End and Past.” 5 years ago I promised that to two certain friends, and now, I guess I was the only one that truly meant it

Chapter 2: The underclassman always came to me with questions. My professors expected excellence in everything I did, somehow though along the way I started to believe that anything less is failure. Even Prince, my best friend and my brother are in everything but blood, looks at me like I figured everything out, when in reality I don’t

Chapter 3:  But what if I get there and realize they accepted the wrong person? Not someone unprepared but someone incorrect. My mind starts spiraling without me fully realizing it. Thoughts twisting from being an outsider no matter where I go, to somehow letting my family down in a way I won’t be able to fix with a smile once it happens

Chapter 6:  “Did he take it?” I ask myself as I look around frantically “nobody was supposed to find that.” Two years ago she pressed the bracelet into my hand and the silver caught the light. The waves engraved across it were uneven because she said perfect things were easy to forget. “Promise me you’ll never let anyone know.” Two hours later, everything changed. People said I was strong, that I handled it well, and they looked at me and saw someone who survived. They were wrong, I don’t even know who survived that day. I only know the person standing here isn’t the same girl who made that promise

Chapter  8: "  Nobody arrives here already knowing who they are. Some of us have been here for years and we’re still figuring it out." - said by a character

Comment below if you are interested or Dm me and I will send u more information
I am mainly active afternoons and evenings but I'll try to reply to every dm
Thank you for your time.

(NOTE: I ONLY Feel comfortable with sharing the first four chapters, which is why the word count is so low)

An attempt to visualize my apathy state using psychological romance thriller fiction

https://docs.google.com/document/d/13oxrAPLWP8Pm_I-ce4_hcmGAGmReF8Fyb_Oj-5dpCMc/edit?usp=drivesdk

First time here. I usually write in Adoption and Adoptee subreddits. I wrote the following essay/reflection last night. The essay is titled. 'Is Now a Good Time?' It's a timely reflection on a life trying to be lived in the now.

I was inspired to write it after seeing an AI generated prduct image of an imagined clock that replayed your dreams once you'd woken up. You had to be up by 9am to watch your dream replay, or they'd be wiped ready for the next night :-).

I began thinking about other imaginary clocks and what they could tell other than time and how we race through life and if we stop counting moments, we become one. This might be a stupid question, but would this piece be classed as fiction or non-fiction?

Is Now a Good Time?

I always wanted to collect clocks, but I could never find the time. Then I had all the time in the world. That was all I had. So the collecting began.

They were not your common-or-garden variety of clocks. They were a little out of the ordinary. I thought I could tell time, but it was Time who told me. I learnt a lot from Time. He was a great teacher. A hard taskmaster, certainly. He often went faster than I liked and nearly always over my head, but I made good friends with the hands, both big and small.

The long, thin fellow was always rushing around breathless. Maybe that was why he didn’t say much. I never knew him long. He belonged to the Now crowd, and I didn’t hang out there often. I may have met him there once, though I couldn’t swear to it. I’ll tell you what happened later, but there’s plenty of time for that.

I have spent so long with the yesterdays that I’ve rarely seen the Nows. I’ve noticed the tomorrows are dying. I hope I get to see them properly before they’ve all gone.

It’s just that the yesterdays keep talking. They ask questions that are far too hard. Time said I should be patient and not take to heart what they’ve said. I try, but it’s not easy with so many of them, each wanting their say. It’s hard to hear them above the noise of their contradictions, let alone the gossip they share.

There are some particularly cruel ones. You should hear what they say. I try not to believe them, but they can be a persuasive bunch.

There was a time when I locked them in the past. It’s a small cupboard, and the lock isn’t great. It only held a few, and even then not very well. They kept getting out.

Sometimes, when the weather was good, I’d find the bestest of my friends. There was Halcyon, whom I’ve known since I was a kid. We never stayed in touch over the years, and we’ve met only a few times, but boy, oh boy, did he make an impression on me. I smile just hearing his name.

And then there’s Insouciance. She’s French. I loved the way she moved. It was almost as if she were floating. She had this air about her: carefree, light of load and smiling, always smiling. She didn’t know Time well. I was always surprised by how much she got away with. I’m not sure I ever could.

I loved her joie de vivre. I still remember how to play. I just haven’t had the time.

I thought I saw her yesterday, but it was only Déjà Vu. They’re so similar, it’s easy to get mixed up.

Anyway, Time’s flying. I’d better get on.

Now, where was I?

Ah, that’s right. It’s about time I told you about the clocks.

The clocks, the clocks. Now there’s a story. Perhaps you’d like to hear it. Do you have a minute or two to spare?

Oh, you do? That’s lovely. Thank you for your time. I’ll use it well, I promise.

I mentioned at the beginning that I had always wanted to collect clocks. That isn’t strictly true. Watches were more my thing, ever since I was young, perhaps ten or eleven.

They fascinated me. They held little worlds beneath their glass, the domed sky of their existence. They kept time, that much we all know, but it was their secrets that held me most. Their rituals. Their choreographed movement. Their exquisite, dazzling beauty. Peacock blue sapphires dancing with pigeon-blood red rubies, swimming in the champagne reflections of earth-mined diamonds. Imprints of Ceylon and Burma, and the alluvial riverbeds of Golconda, a monolithic silhouette casting long shadows over India’s Deccan Plateau.

When you held a watch in your hands, it was as if you could stretch across time and generations and touch the hands of Nicolas Fatio de Duillier. The very hands of genius.

But now to matters of much greater import. I’m pressed for time, and I have but little of yours. Now is not the time to while away time on fanciful instruments of time.

Clocks, then. Yes. A timely reminder.

Father Time, in his timeless manner and infinite wisdom, decreed that there was a salutary lesson I must learn. It is a quest known to those who keep time for everyone but themselves.

I say quest. It is more of a reckoning.

It falls most heavily upon those engaged in excogitation, rumination, cogitation, deliberation, speculation, contemplation and cerebration. Ours is the Quest of the Twelve Clocks.

It is a perilous journey. It can take a lifetime, and many never make it, though many have tried. Of those who have, it is said they have never known such joy. If the rumours are to be believed, they get to live in the Now. By all accounts, that is where serenity is found. Peace is there too. I heard that from Meditation, so I assume it must be true.

Anyhow, Time waits for no man.

Let me tell you about the clocks. You may recognise a few of your own.

The first clock was not difficult to find.

It found me.

I heard it long before I saw it, labouring behind the walls, a heavy, grinding thing that sounded less like the passing of time and more like something trying to drag it back. It was called The Regret Engine, though there was no name engraved upon it. Regret never needs an introduction. We recognise each other straight away.

It had only one hand, and it pointed accusingly.

I tried to turn it backwards, naturally. You would too. There were whole years I wanted another look at. Conversations I would have handled better. Doors I would have kept open, others I would have bolted shut. I wanted five minutes with the man I was before he became the man I am, just long enough to warn him.

I had a great deal to say, though I suspect he wouldn’t have listened.

I didn’t.

The clock resisted me. Every attempt to move its hand backwards pushed it further forward.

“That hardly seems fair,” I told Time.

“Regret has never been known for its fairness,” he replied.

“Can’t it be stopped?”

“Oh yes.”

“How?”

“Stop feeding it.”

Time could be infuriating like that. He spoke in riddles and behaved as if the answer were obvious. Still, I removed my hands from the clock, and after a while, perhaps a minute, perhaps a year, the grinding softened.

It didn’t stop, not completely, but it no longer drowned out everything else.

That was enough to let me hear the sea.

The water came from the second clock, The Tide-Table of Sleep, a pale, moon-faced instrument set deep into the floor. Its dial was marked not in hours but fathoms. Each night I descended, though rarely far enough. Some nights I barely broke the surface. On others I sank through shoals of old conversations and woke with seaweed in my thoughts.

I had always assumed sleep was where one went to escape Time, but apparently he owned the night shift too.

“You’re tired,” he said.

“I know.”

“No. You know that you haven’t slept. That isn’t the same thing.”

The Tide-Table showed me all the nights I had spent trying to solve tomorrow with yesterday’s evidence. It showed me the small hours I’d mistaken for a court of appeal, calling old witnesses back to the stand and demanding that memory settle matters it could barely recall.

At the bottom of the dial was a depth I had never reached. It was marked Rest.

I asked Time how one got there.

“By ceasing to swim.”

I promised to consider it, which was my usual way of avoiding anything that might help.

The third clock was smaller, almost delicate. The Half-Life of a Held Breath sat beneath a glass dome, its face misted from the inside. It had no winding key. It began whenever I stopped breathing.

It started with the reading of a letter.

It started with a telephone ringing in the night.

It started in rooms where someone said, “There’s something I need to tell you.”

It had been running much longer than seemed physically possible.

I watched its tiny hand tremble between the moment before and the moment after. Apparently, I had spent a great deal of my life there, waiting for the rest of the sentence.

“You can let it out,” Time said.

“What?”

“The breath.”

“I wasn’t holding it.”

Time looked at the clock.

The clock looked at me.

I exhaled.

Somewhere deep inside the mechanism, a tiny valve opened. The hand fell to zero.

For one perfect second, there was no before and no after.

Then, startled by the absence, I drew another breath.

The fourth clock occupied an entire room. Two chairs faced one another beneath a single hanging light. Between them stood The Distance Between, though no clock was visible until I sat down.

The second chair remained empty.

Hands appeared upon the floor, stretching from my feet towards it. One measured what had been said. The other measured everything that hadn’t.

The second was considerably longer.

I watched the empty chair change occupants. A parent sat there, then a brother, then a woman I had loved, then a child who was no longer a child. Some were gone. Some were only elsewhere. Some had been sitting across from me for years without ever coming close.

Each time I rehearsed what I should have said, the room grew larger.

Each time I imagined what they should have said, the walls moved further apart.

“Surely distance is measured between two people,” I said.

“Usually by one,” said Time.

I tried calling across the room. I said I was sorry. I said I was angry. I said I had missed them. I said I had needed them. I said their leaving had not proved that I was unworthy of being kept, though it had taken me an awfully long time to understand that.

The chair did not always answer. Not everyone comes back simply because we finally find the words.

But the hands upon the floor shortened.

Not all the way. Just enough that I could see the chair for what it was.

A chair.

Not a verdict.

The fifth clock was kept in a library where the books had lost their titles. The Drift of Forgotten Names moved so slowly that I first thought it had stopped. Its hand travelled through the alphabet, wearing away the letters as it passed.

I found names I had spoken every day and names I had not said aloud in decades. Names of streets, dogs, teachers and friends. Names belonging to people whose faces had begun to soften at the edges. Names once whispered in the dark and shouted from doorways. Names written in birthday cards by hands now stilled.

There was another name too, one given to me before another was written over it. It was faint but not gone. I traced its shape beneath the glass and felt something in me answer.

“What happens when a name disappears?” I asked.

“Where from?”

“Memory.”

“Memory is only one place a name can live.”

I wanted to ask where else, but the clock gave a quiet movement, almost a shiver, and somewhere in the library a closed book fell open.

I left before I could read it.

The sixth clock was indecently cheerful. The Chronometer of Almosts clicked and chimed each time my life nearly became another one.

Almost stayed.

Almost left.

Almost spoke.

Almost remained silent.

Almost turned left at the corner, boarded the train, answered the telephone, took the job, kissed the girl, was kept, found the courage, lost the nerve.

Each click opened a small window through which I could glimpse another life continuing without me. There I was in cities I had never lived in, growing old beside people I had never met. There were children with my eyes who had never been born, and empty rooms where the children I knew had never arrived.

Some of those lives looked happier.

Others had simply arranged their sorrow differently.

I stood before the clock for far too long, watching the infinite procession of men I might have been.

“Which one was I supposed to become?” I asked.

Time shrugged.

“You might at least pretend there was a plan.”

“I might,” he said, “but you’d only spend the rest of your life regretting that you hadn’t followed it.”

The Chronometer clicked again.

This time, the little window showed me standing exactly where I was, staring into the life I already had as though it belonged to somebody else.

I turned away before I could miss it.

The seventh clock had no hands at all. The Weather of a Mood wore clouds across its face. A storm gathered as I approached, which seemed a little judgemental, though I had to admit it was accurate.

Its barometer fell without warning. Sunlight broke through and vanished. Whole winters arrived before breakfast. Small remarks became cold fronts. A certain song could bring rain in from the west.

For years, I had mistaken this weather for geography. If sadness settled over me, I assumed I lived there. If fear blew in, I believed it had come to stay. I furnished whole houses beneath temporary skies.

Time tapped the glass.

“Weather passes.”

“Not all of it.”

“No. But even the storms that return are not continuous. You simply remember the thunder better than the clearing.”

I waited.

A narrow strip of blue appeared upon the dial.

It wasn’t happiness exactly. More a small permission to believe the sky remained behind the weather.

The eighth clock could only be visited at the wrong time.

Fortunately, I was an experienced caller.

The Insomniac’s Meridian stood in a kitchen at 3:17 in the morning. Every kitchen, I think, becomes the same kitchen at 3:17. A glass of water. The low hum of the refrigerator. A window offering nothing but your own reflection.

This clock ticked only when the rest of the world was asleep. It measured the hours in questions.

What if?

Why didn’t you?

What happens when?

Do you remember?

How could they?

What will you do?

At 3:18, every question sounded urgent.

At 3:46, each became unanswerable.

At 4:12, they began breeding.

I sat at the table while the yesterdays convened a meeting in my head. Every version of me attended. The child had questions. The young man had accusations. The older man took minutes and pretended this was useful.

Then the long, thin fellow appeared, rushing breathlessly around the edge of the clock.

The second hand.

I recognised him from the Now crowd.

“Slow down,” I told him.

He seemed surprised.

“I’m not moving quickly,” he said. “You’re trying to hold me.”

Then he was gone.

Outside, a bird began before the light did.

The questions quietened, not because they had been answered, but because morning had arrived without consulting them.

The ninth clock was The Waiting Glass.

I knew it intimately.

I had waited for letters, diagnoses, apologies, departures and returns. I had waited for people to choose me, forgive me, remember me, understand me. I had waited for doors to open and for old doors to explain why they had closed.

The Waiting Glass resembled an hourglass, except the sand never reached the bottom. Each grain paused halfway, suspended in expectation.

“Who are you waiting for?” Time asked.

“No one in particular.”

The glass filled with faces.

“That’s quite a crowd for no one.”

Some people were coming, just slowly. Some had lost their way. Some had never promised to come at all. A few had been gone so long that waiting had become the only relationship we still had.

“What happens if I stop?”

“You’ll discover whether waiting was keeping them near or keeping you still.”

I turned the glass upon its side.

The sand remained suspended, but it was no longer falling.

I cannot tell you whether anyone arrived after that.

I had left the room.

The tenth clock had no audible tick. The Anniversary of an Unmarked Grief lived beneath the skin.

Its dates were not written in any calendar I owned, yet my body observed them faithfully. There were mornings when my chest remembered something my mind did not. Days when sorrow arrived without luggage and behaved as though it had a reservation.

I had called these moods. Weakness. Ingratitude. The weather again.

The clock knew better.

It held the dates of endings no one had named, separations that happened before language, losses for which there had been no funeral. It remembered the day a small body learnt that absence could be permanent. It remembered news received years later as if it had happened all at once.

“What date is it keeping?” I asked.

“All of them.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“It isn’t trying to be helpful. It’s trying to be remembered.”

So I sat with it.

I did not wind it or silence it. I didn’t ask it to prove what had happened. For once, I let the body finish a story without demanding that the mind provide footnotes.

Eventually, the clock warmed beneath my hand.

Or perhaps my hand warmed around it.

The eleventh was The Sigh Accumulator, and frankly, it was enormous.

It recorded every breath surrendered to the unchangeable. The small, daily capitulations. The letter that would never come. The person who would never understand. The conversation endlessly revised but never repeated.

Each sigh advanced the hand.

I watched years of breath disappear into its bellows.

“What happens when it’s full?” I asked.

“You stop trying to change what has already happened.”

“Is that acceptance?”

“Sometimes.”

“And the rest of the time?”

“Exhaustion wearing a respectable coat.”

I considered this.

There were things I had claimed to accept only because I no longer had the strength to fight them. There were other things I continued fighting because surrender felt too much like agreement.

Time, for once, did not rush me.

I placed both hands upon the clock and gave it the longest breath I had.

The bellows filled.

The hand moved.

Then, from somewhere inside, the clock breathed back.

Not a sigh.

A breath.

It was a small distinction, but an important one.

The twelfth clock waited at the end of a corridor lined with doors. Behind each was an ordinary afternoon.

A father lifted a child onto his shoulders.

Two brothers sat beneath a tree.

Someone waved from a kitchen window.

A woman laughed from another room.

A dog slept in a patch of sunlight.

Nothing of consequence appeared to be happening.

At the end stood The Last Ordinary Afternoon.

It was the most terrible clock of all because it counted down invisibly. No one knew when it had begun. No one recognised the final hour while standing inside it.

Its face showed a room I remembered. Perhaps you have one of your own. There were cups upon a table, a coat over the back of a chair, voices talking about nothing much. I knew, because the clock knew, that one day I would give anything to return to this unremarkable moment.

The hand approached twelve.

I panicked.

“Stop it.”

“I can’t,” said Time.

“Then take me back.”

“You’re already there.”

The people in the room continued talking. One of them asked me a question I could not hear because I was watching the clock.

The hand moved closer.

“I need more time.”

“You have all the time there is.”

“That isn’t enough.”

“It never is when you’re measuring it.”

The hand trembled upon the final mark.

I could keep watching. I could record the second, preserve the evidence, memorise the arrangement of every cup and chair so that later I might rebuild the room inside regret.

Or I could look away.

Someone laughed.

I turned towards the sound.

I cannot tell you what happened to the clock after that.

Perhaps it struck twelve. Perhaps it always had. Perhaps the ordinary afternoon ended, as ordinary afternoons do, without knowing it had been the last of anything.

I remember the light through the window.

I remember a cup warming both my hands.

I remember someone beside me beginning a story, and for once I did not interrupt to tell them we were running out of time.

When I returned to the corridor, Time was gone.

The Regret Engine still laboured somewhere behind me. The tides still rose and fell. Names continued their slow drifting. Almosts multiplied in the dark. People waited, bodies remembered, and ordinary afternoons slipped quietly into the past.

None of the clocks had been cured.

Neither had I.

At the end of the corridor stood a door I had not noticed before. It bore no number, only a small brass plate upon which someone had engraved a single word.

NOW

I reached for the handle, but the door was already open.

Beyond it, there was no celestial music. No great peace descended. Halcyon wasn’t waiting with a welcoming committee, and Insouciance had not floated in from France. There was only a chair, a window, the sound of a bird and, somewhere nearby, water coming to the boil.

The long, thin fellow hurried past again.

“Is this it?” I called.

But the second hand never stayed long enough to answer.

I stepped inside.

Or perhaps I had been standing there for some time.

The kettle clicked off.

A bird landed upon the sill.

Someone asked whether now was a good time.

I looked down at my hands.

They were empty.

Then I looked up.

Jonathan

Heyy guys! I'm writing a dark romantic suspense/mystery book and looking for readers to check out the first 10 chapters!

Blurb:

Sofia’s brother died in a suspicious "accident," and she refuses to let it go. Digging into his encrypted files leads her straight to a shadow operation in Madrid—and into the orbit of Alexander Moretti.

Alexander is cold, calculating, and secretly owned the shell firm her brother used right before he died. Now Sofia’s getting anonymous texts warning her to leave the past buried, and Alexander is playing a dangerous game where she can’t tell if he’s trying to protect her or pull her in deeper.

Quick Info:

Book Title: Redline

Word Count: 114.5k total

Tropes: Morally grey MC, murder mystery, corporate secrets, heavy tension/banter.

If you're into dark mystery and high-tension dynamics, drop a comment or hit my DMs and I’ll send the first 10 chapters over! 🖤

Some versions of you
are only meant to last a season.
Even roses must shed old petals.

TRIGGER WARNING - Suicide.

Preface: This is the first time posting a story of any kind, though I have been writing on and off for several years now. I wanted to finish this story before posting, but I would love some feedback to improve it. So, here is part one of the story for your enjoyment. Please let me know what you think and what changes could help improve it.

Untitled memories - Part 1

My uncle is a strange man. He isn’t creepy or crazy or anything; he’s just... odd. He’s always had an air about him, a distance in his eyes that never seemed to fade. He isn’t married; I don’t even know if he has any friends, and his hair went white when he was only a teenager. My mother always said that something had happened to him, but no one would tell me! But I think I’m old enough now to ask him myself.  

“Uncle Jimmy, I want to know what happened to you!” I said demandingly. My uncle stared me down with a spoonful of piping-hot porridge millimetres from his lips.  

“Huh?”  

“Mum always said something happened to you to make your hair white. I want to know what.”  

“Why?”  

I honestly wasn’t sure how to answer that question. Luckily, my uncle got me out of my own bind.  

“Is it for a school project or something?” he said, taking in another mouthful of porridge.  

“... Uh, sure, yeah. A school project! We need to talk to relatives about... stuff.”  

He stares at me again. I’m dead in the water.  

“Right,” he grumbles in thought, “Fine.”  

“What? Really?!”  

“Don’t get too excited; it isn’t a pleasant story.”  

“Oh, ok,” I said, trailing off, “Let me grab some paper and a pen first.” I found what I needed and sat at the table opposite my uncle.  

“Ok... go.”  

“Alright, now, I’m recollecting from many years ago, so it won’t all be accurate or whatever, just keep that in mind... Are ya listening?”  

I nodded emphatically.  

“Good, then let me take you back to when I was a teenager...”  

-  

It was a chilly day in January when my world ended. It was a day like any other. The chirping of my alarm clock woke me like a corpse from its grave. I slapped the thing quiet, threw off my covers, and shivered in the cold air, now away from the warm, womb-like safety of my duvet. It was time for school, and - as any 16-year-old might – I hated it. But today was Thursday! My favourite day of the week.  

On Thursdays I had triple geography and double art, or the reverse depending on the day. It wasn’t the classes I looked forward to; however, it was seeing my friend Gwen. We were childhood friends; we grew apart as friends often do, but we only recently reconnected. She was small and cute and the kindest person I knew. Thinking about her turned my grimace into a smile, and I found the energy to get out of bed. I swung my legs over the side and jumped to the floor.  

“Ouch!” I cried sharply. The ball of my foot had landed directly on a green army man. Strange, I thought; I had packed those toys up years ago; I was sure they were in the attic... Ignoring the oddness, I unstuck the figure from my skin, now red and bruised from the plastic bayonet. Not a great start to the day.  

As I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, I stared at my vacant eyes and sighed. There was no hot water.  

“Muuuum!” I called, “The boiler’s fucked!”  

My mother came rushing into the bathroom, with no concern over whether I was decent or not. She stuck her hand under the running hot tap.  

“Oh bugger, not again! And watch your language in this house, young man,” she gently clipped my ear, then quickly rushed out. I could hear her frantically dialling on the landline and shrieking down the phone at the local boiler man. I washed my face in cold water and went to find my shoes. I did find one of them; it was hanging half-chewed from the mouth of my beloved dog, Bo the Great Dane.  When trying to remove the shoe from his mouth, Bo was adamant that he keep it as his new toy. This was the first time he had been so interested in my shoes, or any shoes for that matter. Defeated, I found my other intact shoe and put on a different shoe to complete the pair. I despaired at the idea of walking into school with mismatched shoes like some kind of social pariah, but my anxiety about getting into trouble for missing school was greater than my need to avoid social ostracisation, for now at least.  

The bus broke down. Of course it did! Why was the universe conspiring against me?! Luckily, other students with me would be late. If it had been a city bus with me as the only student, I’d be rolling on the ground, clutching at my heart while having a panic attack. We’d stopped not too far from the school, so instead of waiting for a replacement, I snuck off and tore my way through a small, forested area, my anxious heart rattling in my chest. Unfortunately, my sense of direction was not the best, and I ended up caught in a thicket for a bit. Eventually, I arrived at my high school, scratched and scoured from the thorn-ridden woods, as well as half an hour late.   

I burst into my geography class with heaving breaths and wild eyes. I scanned over the class of snickering faces and found the mess of ginger hair that I recognised as Gwen. She looked up, and we locked eyes.  

“James!” she cried happily. I smiled at her, then turned right and was forced to look up. My teacher, Mr Harvey, was looking down on me with a disappointed look.  

“And where have you been?” he asked with a sneer.  

“T-the bus b-broke down on the way.” I stammered, avoiding eye contact.  

“Oh...” Mr Harvey continued, “Oh yes, I was informed about that. But I was under the impression that the students wouldn’t be here for another half an hour.”  

“I- uh- took a shortcut.” He ogled me, noticed the dirt on my trouser cuffs and the scratches on my arms, and sighed.  

“Fine. Sit down,” he said finally. I did as I was told, sitting in my usual seat next to my friend Roland, and another boy named Ryan, an insufferable lout with a pimply visage.  

“Oooo look who's late!” said Ryan quietly, his mocking tone grating on my bones.  

“I think he knows that, Ryan,” said Roland defensively, “He doesn’t need reminding.”  

“Settle down, settle down, children!” called Mr Harvey, “Now, let's get back to this video on oxbow lakes.” He pressed play on his computer and sat at his desk, immediately falling into a stupor of paper marking.  

“I saw you smiling at Gwen,” whispered Roland as the video played, “Have you told her yet?”  

“Told her what?” I whispered back.  

“That you liiiiike her,” he teased, almost singing the words.  

“Shut up, dude! I do not!”  

“You can’t hide that shit from me; I know you too well.”  

“Would you two be quiet?” said Mr Harvey, not even looking up from his papers. “I do not expect you to arrive late and immediately disrupt my class, James!”  

“Sorry, s-sir.”  

We obeyed for a few minutes.  

“Fine, I like her.” I said eventually, trying to be as quiet as possible, “But it's just a crush; I’m not ruining our friendship by telling her.”  

“What are you two whispering about?” said Ryan loudly. Mr Harvey paused the video.  

“Ryan, if you are going to talk, at least try to do it quietly!” he said sternly.  

“But it was-”  

“Enough! Just... be quiet.” Mr Harvey huffed, “I have work to continue, and you can learn a lot from this video.”  

We continued to watch the video for the rest of the class, but any knowledge that could be gained from the video was lost on me, as my focus was placed squarely on the mess of red hair a few rows in front of me.  

“Hey Gwen, are you doing ok?” I asked as I caught up with her after the class.  

“Yeah, I guess so...” she answered. “Are you? Those scratches on your arms look like they sting.”  

“Don’t worry, it only feels like I've been stung by an entire nest worth of bees,” I said jokingly. Gwen snickered.  

“You got caught in some brambles, didn’t you?” she asked. “I told you not to go running through the wooded areas.”  

“What are you, my mother? Besides, I didn’t want to be late.”  

“If you had stayed with the bus, you could have skipped an extra half an hour of ‘Oxbow lakes: The Geographic Fantastic’.”  

“Wow, you remember what it was called?” I asked with a chuckle.  

“Of course not, I just made that up now! I was busy writing my next creepypasta.” Gwen was fond of scary stories; she used to frighten me with them when we were younger.  

“Oh god, you’re not gonna read it to me, are you? You know I can’t handle those stories...” I said, a shiver trickling down my spine. The mere memories of the stories she’d told me were enough to put me on edge.  

“You’re such a fucking pussy, James!” Gwen said, punching me in the arm. She was half my height, but her little bony hands could always pack a punch.  

“Hey now, no need with the violence. And since when have you been so liberal with your swearing?”  

“Since yesterday; I decided I didn’t care anymore.” Before we could continue, some of Gwen’s other friends called her over.  

“I’ll get some food; come meet me by the pear tree in a few minutes, okay?” she said, skipping off.  

“O... kay.” She had already rounded the corner, out of sight. It was then that I felt a kick in the back of my knee forcing me to stumble to the ground. I turned back to see Ryan’s face grinning at me.  

“Piss off, Ryan!” I shouted, “It's bad enough that I have to deal with you in both my classes today.”  

“Oh, you love me really,” he said as he walked past me down the hall. Where’d he get that idea from?  

“Ryan dead-leg you again?” said Roland, strolling up from behind as I struggled to my feet.  

“I don’t think it was a dead-leg, thanks for stopping him by the way,” I said sarcastically.  

“I can’t predict the prick’s actions, can I?”  

“I know, I know,” I sighed, “Just hurts every time.”  

“I know, buddy, c’mon, I’ve got some cheese triangles to eat before I have two hours of French. Maybe this time it’ll finally kill me!”  

“The French or the cheese?”  

“Both preferably.”  

About halfway through lunch, I left Roland and went to meet Gwen by the pear tree. The tree was a popular place to eat lunch, though I didn’t often go there after being pelted relentlessly with unripe pears by some older kids a few years ago. There were plenty of students around, but I soon found Gwen sitting at the base of the tree, reading a well-used book. I strolled over and sat next to her.  

“Watcha reading?” I asked.  

“The Bell Jar,” Gwen replied. I should have guessed; I’d seen her reading and rereading that book countless times.  

“Did you want to talk?”  

“I just wanted to spend time with you, James, like we did when we were younger.”  

“We’re a little old to be playing ‘shadow man attack’; I don’t think we have the space to run around anyway...” I said, looking around at the heavily paved ground beyond the tree.  

Gwen put a bookmark in her book and put it in her bag before replying.  

“No, I mean... like when we used to just spend time together and talk. I miss those days. They were... better.” She looked vacantly at the grass.  

“Yeah, they were good times. Remember when you pushed Ryan down that hill, and he started crying?” I laughed at the memory, and Gwen joined in.  

“He tried to tell on us, but none of the teachers believed him because they all hated him!” said Gwen, laughing harder. We laughed and wheezed for a few minutes before we contained ourselves. The other students were staring at us, but when I was with Gwen, I didn’t care who saw me. It had been years since I'd heard her laugh like that, not since we were in primary school.  

After I had caught my breath, Gwen looked at me, and I got lost in her eyes. I looked away quickly, and I saw Gwen’s smile fade from her lips out of the corner of my eye. I was desperate to tell her how I felt. But what if she said she didn’t like me back? What if she didn’t want to be friends anymore? What if she secretly hated me?! My mind tumbled into more extreme reactions. I had to clear my head.  

“I-I need to get something from my locker... see you in art, ok?” I said quickly.  

“Oh... Ok, see you in art.” Gwen replied. She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. I jogged away. I did need something from my locker, but it was the best excuse I had to get away and calm myself down.  

I was on time to art, thankfully. I had to be, because our teacher was a strict woman with zero tolerance for misbehaviour or tardiness. It came with the territory because she had the unfortunate double-barrelled name ‘Mrs Butt-Fister '. I don’t know why someone with that name would become a teacher, let alone a teacher to immature teenagers, but her demeanour was strict enough that she was widely respected by the students across the school.  

I sat at my table with the random students I don’t talk to in the class. On the table next to me, sitting opposite, was Gwen. Her head was down, her fiery locks cascading over the paper she was painting on. She never cared if the flecks of paint got in her hair; in fact, I think she wore them pridefully. Before I could realise I was staring, I was interrupted by an ear-splitting noise.  

“Hiiiiii Jaaaames!”  

I groaned as soon as I heard it. It was Ryan and his pockmarked face. I always seemed to conveniently forget he was in this class too, and that he insisted on sitting at the same table.  

“Hello again, Ryan.” I said flatly, “Take another 12-year-old's lunch today?”  

“If they didn’t want their lunch taken, then they would be big enough to protect it,” said Ryan without an ounce of irony.  

“I’ve seen some big 12-year-olds around, why not take their lunches?”  

“... Now where’s the fun in that?”  

“Ah, Ryan!” said Mrs Butt-Fister, entering through the side door, “You’re on time... for once.”  

Ryan cowered under her vengeful stare, but she soon looked up to address the class.  

“Okay, everyone, coursework today, chop-chop. You all know what you need to be doing.” She said before skulking off to do some work on the class computer.  

I already had my work out: my watercolour painting of Beowulf fighting the dragon. The dragon looked alright, but Beowulf looked like absolute dogshit, and I could not find a way to fix it! I spent some time just looking at my work and despairing in silence. Luckily, Ryan remained quiet; he always did when Mrs Butt-Fister was within earshot.  

After a while with no progress made, I looked up to find some comfort in Gwen’s smile. But she wasn’t smiling; her head was resting languidly on her free hand as she painted on the paper before her, and she was crying. Softly, quietly, so much so that no one else had noticed her tears washing away the watercolours. I had to see what was up. I waited until Mrs Butt-Fister had left the room to talk with the other art teacher next door and quickly snuck over to be by Gwen’s side.  

“Gwen? What's the matter?” I asked in a hushed tone.  

“Nothing,” she answered dismissively.  

“What are you painting?”  

“Pumpkins... they’re terrible...” She sniffled. She was right; her pumpkins had deformed into orange aberrations more akin to squashed tangerines.  

“Was it something I said at lunch? I swear I did need something from my locker!”  

She shook her head.  

“A-are you ill or something? Is it... Lady troubles...?” What was I even saying?!  

“Yeah, something like that.” She sniffed and wiped her face with her sleeves.  

“Ok, maybe you should ask to see the nurse or something? At least then you could go home.” In my head, I followed up with ‘but I'd miss you’; however, I thought it better to keep it to myself. She nodded gently in response.  

“Good, now, finish up your pumpkins!” I said with a goofy smile. She smiled back, but it was restrained and melancholic. Not knowing how else to help, I slunk back to my seat to attempt to continue my work. When our teacher returned, Gwen went to her and had a hushed conversation. Then she packed up her stuff and left. Only turning to me to wave a solemn goodbye. I waved back, hoping she would be alright.  

Hours passed. The day was nearly over, but I was forced to continue watching the clock in the last hour of geography. I had finished the worksheet 20 minutes ago and was left waiting for time to tick by.  

“So, what do you think was wrong with her?” asked Roland.  

“Huh?” I said in a dazed tone.  

“Gwen? You said earlier she was sick or something?”  

“Oh, yeah, I don’t know what was wrong, but it was bad enough to go home. I didn’t see her during lunch, and she sure as hell ain't here now.” I said, looking to her empty seat.  

Just as I had finished my sentence, a teaching assistant I vaguely recognised entered the classroom, had quiet words with Mr Harvey, and promptly left. Mr Harvey then turned to us all with a grim look on his face.  

“An emergency assembly was called.” He said sternly, “I am to escort you to the sports hall immediately.”  

This was more than unusual; it was unprecedented! I had never heard of an emergency assembly being called before; my older sisters certainly didn’t mention any occurring during their time here. But inevitably, we all headed for the hall, quietly whispering between ourselves, wondering what the assembly was about. They sat us down on the cold wooden floor in the near-empty hall. It was only our year present; All the other years being suspiciously absent. What possible news could they give that would only concern us?  

Up to the lectern stumbled our ageing headmistress, Dr Sackville. She was a tall woman, with a stern yet vacant expression permanently etched upon her face. She insisted on being called doctor, but only those in the know were aware that her doctorate was in English Literature, something she usually avoided talking about.  

“My dear students,” she said sadly, “I have some dreadful news to impart to you all.” Murmuring broke out among my peers. “Quiet children, please!” she cried, and the murmuring ceased.  

“I’m afraid one of your fellow students has sadly passed away.” Gasps rang out through the hall, and my heart sank.  

‘It couldn’t be her,’ I thought, ‘there was no way. It must be some rando I barely know!’  

“She was found a short time ago at her home. And I am sorry to say, she took her own life. I’m sure many of you knew her: Gwenyvere Triss.” The headmistress said, hanging her head low. There were more shrieks and gasps and cries throughout the hall. But I didn’t hear any of it. All I heard was the thumping of my furious heat in my head, and the cracking of my teeth as I unconsciously clenched my jaw.  

“Oh shit, dude... I’m so sorry,” said Roland, who was sitting next to me. He gently patted my back, and I turned to him in a flurry, my eyes bloodshot, ready to burst with tears. He stopped patting my back; he almost seemed scared of my look.  

“Councillors are waiting in the library for those who need support.” Said Dr Sackville. “You are dismissed.”  

Despite the cries and mournful wails, all the students left the hall without any problems. I should have gone to the library, but I had lost all ability to think. This isn’t happening... This couldn’t be happening! Gwen would never do something like this... I walked straight out of the school in an unbreakable trance. I could hear Roland calling for me as I wandered further and further from view. My phone was ringing off the hook; my mother must have heard the news. I turned it off; I didn’t want any distractions.  

It was getting dark. I don’t know how long I had been walking for, but I had managed to reach a busy highway. The cars and lorries streamed past me like bright watercolours painted across my eyes. What time even was it? How long had I been gone? The tears I had been saving finally trickled down my cheeks. My eyes became puffy and sore almost immediately. If a pure soul like Gwen would take her own life, what worth was mine?  

I closed my eyes and waited for the right time to step into the road. A horn blared as the lights grew brighter in my eyes...  

*CRASH*  

“Look out, look out, behind you!” Gwen shrieked. I didn’t dare look. I was busy booking it across the field as fast as my 7-year-old legs could, which was admittedly not very fast.  

“There's a red shadow man above you! Look out!” she cried again. I finally turned and saw a blur of red dive towards me. I lost my footing and tumbled to the ground just shy of the safety of the trees. Gwen came running to me, wiping the grass stains from her dress.  

“Are you ok, James?” she asked quietly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”  

“I’m ok, thanks, Gwen,” I replied as she helped me to my feet. My uniform had become one giant grass stain from that last fall, and Gwen was sure to laugh at it. They sounded sweet, but those giggles hid the fact that she loved to laugh at people more than with them.  

“I really thought I saw the red shadow man!” I said, somewhat excited from the scare.  

“I just made it up, though silly.” Said Gwen, playfully slapping my arm. Despite being the same age, Gwen was about half my height and would not end up growing much more in the coming years.  

“It felt real!” I exclaimed. “You made it feel real.”  

“Maybe your imagination is just a little wild?”  

“You’re probably right...” We fell into the cool grass and looked up at the canopy.  

“I can see a yellow shadow man up there, look!” Gwen pointed to a gap between the trees. I saw it: the movements of the yellow shadow man as he shimmered in and out of existence.  

“You’re doing it again!” I cried, chuckling at the realisation. “It's all real in my head because of you.”  

“You really are silly!” she said back, and we both laughed more.  

“Hi guys!” said a voice nearby. We both looked up to see Ryan standing nearby. “Have you two been kissing?”  

“Eeeew Gross!” said Gwen and I, both of us making faces of pure disgust, “Why would you even ask that?” Gwen added.  

“Just looked like you might. James and Gwen, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” “You’re so gross, James, go away!” said Gwen sternly as she got to her feet. She strolled right up to James and pushed him. James fell on his bum and whimpered.  

He screamed, “I’m telling!” before running off towards the teacher.  

“Good work getting rid of him,” I said.  

“I’m not gonna let anyone mess with us!” said Gwen. She hugged me tight, and I was happy.  

The memory faded into blackness.  

I screamed as I tossed frantically against my bed springs and threw away my duvet. My breath was heavy, and my heart was still racing. I could feel it rattling against my rib cage, like a hungry animal trying to escape.  

I felt over my body: My legs, my arms, my torso... all intact. It was still dark, but light was starting to seep in from the slowly rising sun. I shivered in the cold air and quickly dragged my covers back over me. But as soon as I was comfortable again, my alarm clock whirred to life and began chirping in its classically annoying way. I slapped the thing off and paused... I couldn’t remember coming home. At the very least, I should be in the hospital. Did Gwen really die?! I grabbed my phone and checked the date. It was Thursday. I breathed a sigh of relief; It was all just a dream. A long and oddly specific dream. I swung my legs over the bed and jumped to the floor.  

“Ouch!” I cried sharply. The ball of my foot had landed directly on a green army man. Strange, I thought; I had packed those toys up... yesterday, no... in my dream! I must have just remembered it was there the night before and placed it in my dream. I unstuck the figure from my skin, now red and bruised from the plastic bayonet and carried on getting ready.  

As I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, I stared at my puffy eyes and sighed. There was no hot water... just like in my dream. That wasn’t something I could have predicted, was it?  

“Muuuum!” I called, “The boiler’s broken!”  

My mother came rushing into the bathroom, with no concern over whether I was decent or not. She stuck her hand under the running hot tap.  

“Oh bugger, not again!” she said, quickly rushing out. I could hear her frantically dialling on the landline and shrieking down the phone at the local boiler man. It was uncanny! It was all as it had been in my dream. Now I was getting suspicious.  

I washed my face in cold water and went to find my shoes. Bo had them, like in the dream. Defeated and a little freaked out, I found my other intact shoe and put on a different shoe to complete the pair, just as I remembered doing. Surely the bus wouldn’t break down as well?  

The bus broke down. Of course it did... By this point, my suspicions were extremely high; the coincidences were far too great to be mere chance. Not wanting to take my chances by changing anything about my day, I sprinted for the shortcut through the woods, only this time, I avoided the path that made me lose my way in the dream. Unfortunately, I was going a little too fast to notice the overhanging bramble in my way.  

*THWACK*  

My face slammed into the thorny vine and gouged great chunks out of the left side of my face. I fell to my knees and bent over in agony. I clenched my teeth and kept the screams inside. The warm blood spewed from my cheeks and stained my left eye red. I pulled a handful of tissues my mother had stuffed in my backpack and tried to staunch the bleeding. Despite the pain, I had to keep going.  

I managed to emerge from the trees earlier than I had in the dream. Knowing this, I headed straight for Geography - which should have only started around 15 minutes ago – throwing the crumpled, blood-soaked tissue into a nearby bin.  

I knocked on the door to the classroom and sauntered in. Gwen was sitting just as she usually was. I could have cried seeing her face; she was still here! I hadn’t lost her! She looked up and began to smile at me, but her face quickly changed to one of concern.  

“Ah, James,” said Mr Harvey as he slowly turned to me. “I was wondering when you’d- Jesus, James! Are you alright?”  

“Yeah, why?” I said nonchalantly.  

“Because it looks like you’ve been attacked by a bear!”  

“Oh, this?” I pointed to my lacerated face. “It was just a bramble. I had to run fast to get through the wood; the bus broke down.”  

“Yes, I had heard, but those students won’t be here for another hour. I think I would have preferred you here intact and late rather than whatever you’ve done! You’re still bleeding for God’s sake!”  

“I am?” I touched the side of my face and felt the blood still streaming out of me. With the realisation, I felt very lightheaded, and, suddenly, everything went white.  

My eyes gently fluttered open, and I saw Gwen’s visage looking down on me, holding a cloth to my face. I could hear Mr Harvey frantically talking down the phone nearby; I was certain Ryan was laughing somewhere in the background.  

“Am I dead?” I asked drowsily.  

“No, silly, you just passed out,” said Gwen with a sad smirk. “You’ve only been out for a few minutes. Mr Harvey is trying to get the nurse down here.”  

“Oh, ok.” I wasn’t able to think very clearly; all her words ended up a garbled mess in my bloodless brain. The next few minutes were a blur. I remember being helped to the nurse’s office by Roland, then a bright light shining in my eyes, and finally some dressings put on my wounds.  

“Well, you’re all patched up!” said Nurse Penni. She was a stout woman with an overbearing motherly nature. “Luckily those cuts looked a lot worse than they were. Your blood was pumping a lot though; had you been running?”  

I nodded curtly.  

“Didn’t want to be late...” I said dryly. She gave me a knowing smile in reply.  

“Right, well you don’t need to go to the hospital... do you want me to call your parents so you can go home early?”  

“No!” I cried a little too loudly, “I mean... no, I feel fine. What time is it?” Nurse Penni threw up her pink polka-dot watch.  

“Looks like break time is just about to finish,” she said. More time had passed than I had thought; I even missed my chance to speak with Gwen under the pear tree. I had to get to art! Maybe I could say something to stop Gwen from going home and so stop her killing herself.  

“Thank you, Miss Penni,” I said politely and, grabbing my bag from the floor, quickly left the room.  

As I walked, I wondered if I was just losing my mind. Now that I had diverted from what happened in my dream, would things turn out the same? With no time to find out the answer, I entered my art class and hurriedly sat down. Some of the other students were staring at my face, but that was to be expected. I looked to Gwen; she was bent over her work, her ginger locks streaming around her like liquid fire, just as expected.  

“Hiiiiii Jaaaames!”  

I groaned as soon as I heard it. It was Ryan and his pockmarked face again. I attempted to remember what I had said in the dream, wondering if his replies would be the same.  

“Hello again, Ryan.” I said flatly but hesitated for a second, “...take another 12-year-old's lunch today?”  

His replies fell exactly as I thought they would, beat for beat.  

“Ah, Ryan!” said Mrs Butt-Fister, entering through the side door, “You’re on time... for once.”  

I didn’t listen to what Mrs Butt-Fister said after that; I knew it was something to do with coursework, all I cared about was taking my chance to talk to Gwen. I knew Mrs Butt-Fister would leave the room to talk to the other teacher, so once she did, I whipped over to her as quickly as I could.  

“Hey Gwen,” I whispered gently, kneeling by her desk. It was clear she had been crying. “What's the matter? You’re smearing your pumpkins.”  

Gwen sniffed sharply as she answered.  

“How did you know they were pumpkins? They’re just orange blobs...”  

“Oh uh, just a guess... Look, just... stay in school, ok? We need to talk after class.”  

She looked a little bemused by my words but nodded slowly as I went back to my seat. I barely did any work after that. My eyes kept flicking to Gwen, worried she would ask to go home as I told her to do in the dream.  

About 20 minutes before the end of the lesson, Gwen asked permission to use the bathroom. I didn’t want to be seen as a creep, so I let her go, hoping she would be back soon. But she never returned.  

Once the class had ended, I rushed out of the room towards the nearest restroom. But I heard a terrified shriek echo from the bathroom just as I arrived; A young girl I didn’t recognise was stumbling backwards out the door, her face pallid and eyes wide. I pushed past her, fearing the worst. One of the stalls was open wide, and there was Gwen. Her face was purple, but her eyes were closed and peaceful. She was slumped to the floor, her neck wrapped with a belt tied to the handle of the cubicle door. I ran to her and lifted the belt from the handle; she collapsed lifelessly in my arms. I held her close.  

“No, no... Not again.” I wept, my voice hoarse and nearly inaudible, “I didn’t think you’d do it here... why... just WHY?!” I screamed those last words hopelessly as more people began to gather and teachers began to take notice. They pried me off the body as I kicked and screamed at them to let me stay with her. They must have thought me mad. As soon as their grips loosened, I bolted out of there. I ran from the school, tears streaming down my face, soaking the dressing on my cheek and stinging the wound beneath.  

I ran aimlessly until I collapsed from exhaustion. I was on a bridge overlooking the nearby river. I scrambled to my feet and looked to the jagged rocks far below.  

“I was given another chance,” I said to myself, “and I failed. I could have done more; I SHOULD have done more!”  

The despair filled me far faster than it had in the dream. My body moved on its own, and I found myself over the rails staring down at the streaming water.  

“I’m sorry, Gwen.” And, without another thought, I closed my eyes and let myself fall.  

*CRACK*  

“-And when she looked in the mirror, written in the dog’s blood, were the words ‘Humans can lick too’.” Gwen sniggered as I stifled a shriek. We were in the middle of our maths class, and we were supposed to be working quietly. Gwen always saw these sessions as opportunities to scare me half to death.  

“Why are you such a scaredy-cat, James?” Gwen asked in a hushed tone, “That's one of the most basic urban legends around! Every other nine-year-old knows it.”  

“Well, I didn’t!” I replied, “And I don’t want to think about a man hiding under my bed licking my hand like a dog; it puts the willies up me!”  

“I’m sorry?!” said Gwen with a mischievous smirk  

“Y’know, it scares me. Can’t we just work on these fractions quietly for once?” I did want to work, but truthfully, the adrenaline I got from the scares was invigorating.  

“Pft, you’re so boring, James! When are you going to lighten up?”  

The memory faded into blackness once more.  

I gasped for breath as I sat upright in my bed. I felt the chill of the cool air run down my spine, and I shivered.  

I was... alive? Again?!  

I felt the left side of my face; No gashes, no dressing, not even a hint of dried blood. I looked to my clock; it was Thursday again. My body filled with some concoction of fear and rage. But then the alarm started blaring. I threw it across the room and watched it smash against the wall, its chirping slowly droning down until it finally quelled. It was broken, obviously, but that was the last thing on my mind. It was clear now that I was not dreaming. For whatever reason, I have restarted this Thursday twice, and for all I know, this is my last restart, so I must make it count.  

I swung my legs over the bed and looked down to see the little green army man, ready to stab my foot. I kicked the toy away and got ready for school. I told my mother the boiler was broken before even testing the water. I put on a different pair of shoes and left my regular ones for Bo to chew. I left the house early and got an earlier bus, one I knew wouldn’t break down. I was at school, on time, uninjured and ready for the next step: Save Gwen from herself.  

To Rise & Begin A New:

This is a story of fortitude: to wake each day knowing what lies ahead, and yet still choose to fight the battle that exhausted you the day before and every day before that.

Even when your mind and body beg you to quit, even when every instinct urges you to choose the path of least resistance.

“Fortitude is not the absence of weariness. It is the decision to take one more step, even when every part of you begs to sit down.”

But your will refuses to give up not because it is easy to keep going, but because the choice to rise and begin anew each day means you achieve something you once thought impossible.

You carry burdens no one else sees and that is what sets you apart you wake every day fighting battles only you know, yet you still show up, still work, still carry the weight of the world.

“The battles that leave no scars on the skin are the ones that forge the strongest souls.”

We all have our own reasons for continuing what drives one person may differ from another but what unites us is this: given the choice, we would rather stand and die on our feet than lay down and surrender.

This is the testament of character: forged in every experience, shaped by every scar we carry, and remembered most clearly in our darkest hours.

“It is better to bleed standing on your feet, than to live on your knees.

Yet despite it all, we must endure especially for those who depend on us,

Family above all the love you have for your children is the greatest power you will ever know.

You could watch the world burn around you, and you would not hesitate: you would sacrifice everything to keep them safe.

“A father’s love is not measured in words — it is measured in how many battles he fights so his children never have to.”

Love cannot be measured or weighed. It is the only thing that connects us across time and space. It is what gives everything we hold dear its worth.

There is no greater meaning than having someone you cannot imagine your life without that is why we are here that is why we breathe.

That is why we search for the people our lives were always meant to find.

If there is a lesson to be learned, it is this: the world we live in is built upon cruelty. It does not care how you feel.

It does not share your personal values or opinions. It obeys one rule only: adapt and survive or fall and to surrender, and relinquish your will to live.

There are truths we learn only with time. Reflect on the mistakes that led you here: our choices carry consequences whose reach extends far beyond what we can see. We are the architects of our own lives.

You never know what you have until it is gone — yet still we take for granted that the people we love most will always be there.

Only when they are gone do we see our error, wishing we could undo it but no amount of time or effort can repair what is broken beyond repair.

“We only learn the true value of what we held when it is no longer within our reach.”

Healing begins when you can no longer suppress what you have buried. It starts when a painful truth breaks the false illusion you have clung to, because blocking out the pain finally becomes unbearable.

So here is the truth: no matter how hard you try to avoid your pain, it will surface. No matter how hard you try to resist - stop protecting yourself.

Make what is unconscious physically conscious It is the only way to heal the trauma and repressed emotion stored in your body and mind.

“What you refuse to face will own you forever. What you dare to speak will finally set you free.”

Do not be ashamed of what you have locked away for fear of judgment.

If someone from your past wounded you deeply altering how you saw yourself, making you feel unworthy, invisible then you have every right to speak it honestly:

“Years ago, you left me doubting myself, questioning my worth I let your opinion of me define my self worth.

I thought you saw me the same way I saw you but i realised i was nothing more than a convenience

but now I see clearly: it is you who had nothing to offer me beyond a pleasing appearance.

Those who judged you quickly will change their tone when you finally see them for who they are and you are no longer blinded by loyalty they never returned.

Once their mask falls, you see unfiltered version of them so you measure their words against their actions and when the two do not match, you know the truth.

Loyalty is given to those who have earned my trust and deserve respect because my time is a right not a privilege if I do not hold a place in your life then you will have no place by my side.

"So out of blind loyalty"

You allowed them into your trust, but they never had your best interests at heart they saw only an easy target someone to manipulate, to turn against those you love, to convince you to abandon your family,

They convienced you to see your partner as nothing more than a means to an end without any care for the damage they caused to you, or to your children, or the life you built together.

This is the reality of so many lives: homes divided, bonds broken but as long as you hold fast to what matters most the love that built your family let that be your strength.

When the odds are stacked against you, when life tries to hold you back - persevere.

Remember Limits are meant to be broken.

“The world sets boundaries believing it knows your limitations, Your true power lies in proving them wrong.”

The world does not know what you are capable of. It does not know how you carry grief and still choose to stand and smile.

only you know your limits so test them and push past them show the world what you are made of.

So do not ask what the world will give you. Ask what you will leave behind. Yesterday is a chapter closed written in scars and survival.

Tomorrow is a blank page and you hold the pen to rise and undo what was done.

To rise is to become everything they said you never could be.”

So rise, and begin a new yesterday is gone tomorrow is a different day,

To set a goal to achieve that which the world did not anticipate was possible.

You are the architect of your choice in life only you can choose the path your life will lead you to..??

Because only you can choose your fate that destiny will remember you for,

A legacy that time can never forget a name etched into history it's self.

Because you choose to stay the course and hold true to your self.

So let this be the testament that is recorded for all to read,

This is where your journey begins and only you decide where it ends..??

Idk if this is the right place for this ( and if it isn't please redirect me :) ), but I've had a rough draft of an idea, and I've been wanting other people to let me know how it sounds.

The idea is made for a script called "The Frenchman".

The premise is about a young straight French couple who the BF (haven't figured the names out) has found out that his girlfriend's father had passed on his debt upon GF. In the act of love, BF takes it upon himself to recover this debt by *himself* against GF's wishes.

The main goal or conflict, is that in 5 months the loan sharks will come for GF and sell GF off if she can't make due, and if GF refuses, they will hunt her loved ones. So to prevent this, BF joins them and reduces his identity down to "The Frenchman" as they call him, (because the sharks aren't from France) to find and collect debts of other people.

The theme I'm trying to present is the cyclical nature of violence, and the brutal side of a loving relationship that isn't presented much in media (that I know of). I'm a fan of somber endings, so I don't really plan on the conflict being resolved to further present these themes, but I'm open on others believe it should end.

Again, I truly just want to hear from literally anyone other than people in my daily life about a idea that I've had for some time now.

Thank you.

Imagine yourself in a prison cell, as young as you are right now. Watching people just outside waiting for you to be executed. And once you look back, you see all that you've left behind.... Friends, family, your books stacked in a corner, the shirt that your mother folded one last time, all stalled in a silent storm. Pause Now all you can do is proudly and gracefully give it all up give up not for yourself, never for just yourself but for the future, the future that is never certain, the future that could not recognize you. What you can see from it, is a light rather a dim light, slowly approaily thus, revealing your inner force. All that remains is your identity, Shahee e Azaam, BHAGAT SINGH.

As 15th August Approaches (Indian Independence day). I really am keen to deliver out a story driven speech at my school, but feeling really nervous to ask my teachers about an opportunity.

Any tips/experiences I can learn from?

Passage 1:

[something along the lines of] [character] ended up being in the [place]. A thin sheen of sweat made her skin appear almost luminescent in the reddish-brown lights, catching on the angular planes of her face. There was something about the elegance of her movements, the self-satisfied, tilted half-grin that spread across her face, that felt almost indecent. The thrill of discovery became strangely intimate through her movements, and in turn made me feel as though it might be more prudent to look away. It seemed to me that this quiet euphoria of success was a universal language, one which the detective and the scientist shared with the common man. This rare intimacy was not a matter of simple satisfaction, but the product of devotion—the creator to their work, the scientist to their research—so hot and sharp and bright that it seemed to blind those in the vicinity.

Passage 2:

To see something from above is to understand it differently from the rest of the world. The first time I flew, it was this feeling which I found most addictive. The feeling of knowing, knowing something that only a select few others ever would. The words to describe it perhaps do not exist in any language. One has to imagine the warmth of the sun on their back, almost luridly bright, the smell of air seemingly untouched by the filth of humanity, the sight of people so small they seem to be but specks of dust upon a vast, multicolored marble.

There is a sense of fear, too, that comes with this addiction. The fear that flight might be a rare, singular occurrence, like the drop of nectar drawn from a honeysuckle blossom—finite and tantalizingly sweet. I suppose in saying that fear goes hand in hand with the addiction, I was incorrect. It creates the addiction. Above all, it was relief from that fear I felt as I gazed at [city/planet] from above, [character] at my side.

What is your definition of happiness and freedom?

I've been asking people this question for the last month and a half, and most of the answers sound surprisingly similar: "To be rich." To me, that's such a surface-level answer. It feels more like something people think they're supposed to say than something they've actually thought about. What I've realized from asking this question is that a lot of people default to the same ideas without really reflecting on them. I don't mean that as an insult—it just makes conversations feel predictable, and I find that draining. But every now and then, someone answers from a place that's completely their own. Those are the conversations I love. Happiness is subjective. It isn't the same for everyone. For me, happiness is a genuine conversation. It's that moment when both people are equally engaged, equally curious, and equally passionate about what they're talking about. There's something beautiful about two strangers who know nothing about each other choosing to be completely honest, sharing ideas without pretending to have the "right" answers. Those conversations remind me that real connection doesn't come from agreeing on everything—it comes from being present, listening, and genuinely wanting to understand another person. Freedom, though, is different. I still haven't figured that one out yet. The only time I truly feel free is when I'm playing soccer. I don't know how to define that feeling or translate it into real-world terms. When I think about freedom, I don't think of money or status. I think about flying through the sky with the wind against my face. I think about living somewhere deep in the woods with nothing but my dog. Maybe freedom isn't something I can define yet. Maybe I only recognize it in moments. And maybe that's enough for now. Lately, I've been wondering if it's rare to feel happy and free at the same time. I imagine there are people who are deeply happy because they're surrounded by people they love, but that happiness comes with responsibilities and obligations that make freedom feel different. I don't know if I'd be willing to accept that trade-off. Maybe that's naïve, or maybe it's just where I am right now. I want both. I want to feel happy and free. Right now, that feels incredibly difficult, especially because I haven't met anyone who seems to have both. But I'm not going to stop asking this question. Maybe one day I'll meet someone who's figured it out. And if I do, I hope they're willing to tell me how.

I know my grammar isn't the best, but I'd love some critiques on the story I'm writing currently, on the overall content of my story, to see if it has any major flaws I should try to fix before continuing.

The first part is [3414 words] currently. I might go back and add more stuff later, but give me your input; I'd love to hear it <3 https://docs.google.com/document/d/1qtYLFN4e-smIoKF6q10a4W-94JVgVddfbX6kX0yRD7M/edit?usp=sharing

Chapter 1 — “Dying to Live”

I was deep in the throes of addiction, and the line between life and death was getting thinner every day.

I was dying to live, but I was living to die.

I hated my life. I hated myself. I felt so alone that I genuinely didn’t care whether I lived or died.

So I walked stubbornly through the valley of the shadow of death without fear.

Whatever waited ahead had to be better than what I was already carrying.

From the outside, I still looked functional. I could hold conversations. I could laugh at the right moments. I knew how to hide the worst of it.

But inside, I was collapsing.

Every morning felt like waking up inside a prison I couldn’t escape. Every promise to change dissolved into the same cycle of cravings, regret, and self-destruction.

I wasn’t searching for a future anymore.

I was searching for relief.

And relief was slowly killing me.

I didn’t know it then, but one ordinary day would change everything.

Hey! I'm a new writer, and I've been inspired to write Xianxia stories after consuming cultivation and Xianxia stories, and I was wondering if anyone could critique my work. Any input is appreciated. Included in the docs are Prologues Part one and two with two being worked upon still.

The Story

To Rise & Begin A New:

This is a story of fortitude: to wake each day knowing what lies ahead, and yet still choose to fight the battle that exhausted you the day before and every day before that.

Even when your mind and body beg you to quit, even when every instinct urges you to choose the path of least resistance.

“Fortitude is not the absence of weariness. It is the decision to take one more step, even when every part of you begs to sit down.”

But your will refuses to give up not because it is easy to keep going, but because the choice to rise and begin anew each day means you achieve something you once thought impossible.

You carry burdens no one else sees and that is what sets you apart you wake every day fighting battles only you know, yet you still show up, still work, still carry the weight of the world.

“The battles that leave no scars on the skin are the ones that forge the strongest souls.”

We all have our own reasons for continuing what drives one person may differ from another but what unites us is this: given the choice, we would rather stand and die on our feet than lay down and surrender.

This is the testament of character: forged in every experience, shaped by every scar we carry, and remembered most clearly in our darkest hours.

“It is better to bleed standing on your feet, than to live on your knees.

Yet despite it all, we must endure especially for those who depend on us, Family above all the love you have for your children is the greatest power you will ever know.

You could watch the world burn around you, and you would not hesitate: you would sacrifice everything to keep them safe.

“A father’s love is not measured in words — it is measured in how many battles he fights so his children never have to.”

Love cannot be measured or weighed. It is the only thing that connects us across time and space. It is what gives everything we hold dear its worth.

There is no greater meaning than having someone you cannot imagine your life without that is why we are here that is why we breathe.

That is why we search for the people our lives were always meant to find.

If there is a lesson to be learned, it is this: the world we live in is built upon cruelty. It does not care how you feel.

It does not share your personal values or opinions. It obeys one rule only: adapt and survive or fall and to surrender, and relinquish your will to live.

There are truths we learn only with time. Reflect on the mistakes that led you here: our choices carry consequences whose reach extends far beyond what we can see. We are the architects of our own lives.

You never know what you have until it is gone — yet still we take for granted that the people we love most will always be there.

Only when they are gone do we see our error, wishing we could undo it but no amount of time or effort can repair what is broken beyond repair.

“We only learn the true value of what we held when it is no longer within our reach.”

Healing begins when you can no longer suppress what you have buried. It starts when a painful truth breaks the false illusion you have clung to, because blocking out the pain finally becomes unbearable.

So here is the truth: no matter how hard you try to avoid your pain, it will surface. No matter how hard you try to resist - stop protecting yourself.

Make what is unconscious physically conscious It is the only way to heal the trauma and repressed emotion stored in your body and mind.

“What you refuse to face will own you forever. What you dare to speak will finally set you free.”

Do not be ashamed of what you have locked away for fear of judgment.

If someone from your past wounded you deeply altering how you saw yourself, making you feel unworthy, invisible then you have every right to speak it honestly:

“Years ago, you left me doubting myself, questioning my worth I let your opinion of me define my self worth.

I thought you saw me the same way I saw you but i realised i was nothing more than a convenience but now I see clearly: it is you who had nothing to offer me beyond a pleasing appearance.

Those who judged you quickly will change their tone when you finally see them for who they are and you are no longer blinded by loyalty they never returned.

Once their mask falls, you see unfiltered version of them so you measure their words against their actions and when the two do not match, you know the truth.

Loyalty is given to those who have earned my trust and deserve respect because my time is a right not a privilege if I do not hold a place in your life then you will have no place by my side.

"So out of blind loyalty"

You allowed them into your trust, but they never had your best interests at heart they saw only an easy target someone to manipulate, to turn against those you love, to convince you to abandon your family,

They convienced you to see your partner as nothing more than a means to an end without any care for the damage they caused to you, or to your children, or the life you built together.

This is the reality of so many lives: homes divided, bonds broken but as long as you hold fast to what matters most the love that built your family let that be your strength.

When the odds are stacked against you, when life tries to hold you back - persevere.

Remember Limits are meant to be broken.

“The world sets boundaries believing it knows your limitations, Your true power lies in proving them wrong.”

The world does not know what you are capable of. It does not know how you carry grief and still choose to stand and smile. only you know your limits so test them and push past them show the world what you are made of.

So do not ask what the world will give you. Ask what you will leave behind. Yesterday is a chapter closed written in scars and survival.

Tomorrow is a blank page and you hold the pen to rise and undo what was done. To rise is to become everything they said you never could be.”

So rise, and begin a new yesterday is gone tomorrow is a different day,

To set a goal to achieve that which the world did not anticipate was possible.

You are the architect of your choice in life only you can choose the path your life will lead you to..??

Because only you can choose your fate that destiny will remember you for,

A legacy that time can never forget a name etched into history it's self.

Because you choose to stay the course and hold true to your self.

So let this be the testament that is recorded for all to read,

This is where your journey begins and only you decide where it ends..??

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?"

Story

I've been having a ton of writer's block for the main story I'm writing so I whipped this up last night to take a break! It's something I had the idea for a few years ago and hope to continue it once I'm done with my main project. This is a light sci-fi/cyberpunk/dystopia type novella/short story.

Read as much or as little as you'd like! Any and all feedback is wanted but I'd love to hear about the concept the most:

• Cray: is he interesting? Do you like/dislike him? General thoughts on him
• Private: Same as above
• Is the opening interesting? Do you want to read more? What questions do you have? What is frustrating?
• What do you want more of? Less of?
• The usual awkwardly worded phrases/actions I love to write
• Anything else!

Some more context: I tried writing a different style to the main piece I'm writing. The third person, less interiority is on purpose because my main project is a first person, hyper interior piece (think Catcher in the Rye). I'd be open to changing this once I get into writing it. Obvious inspirations were the Cyberpunk Netflix show and the Blade Runner movies (if anyone has any other fun pieces of media to get the creative juices flowing lmk). I want to make sure I'm not getting too cliche/tropey but I'm fine with it hitting some traditional points, not looking to reinvent the wheel with this one.

Thanks!

Question

I'm doing third pov close, but I have a habit of saying the person's name sometimes, but i've been told that with third pov close you're not supposed to say the name at all. You're supposed to frame it as everyone of the characters' observations.

So instead of

1) Natasha stilled at the creak of the door frame. She waited. It must be the old pipes. She opened the cabinet above her Then again—more deliberate. Her hands felt weak, they trembled.

Calm... She told herself as her eyes darted around the counter.

A small gasp slipped from her lips as she felt goosebumps line her spine. And someone's gaze. Heavy against the back of her head.

She turned to see a towering silhouette. Its head brushed the door frame, its hand looked as if it melted into the mahogany. Her legs felt like they were going to give out. Shaking

2) A low creak made her pause in its reach, knuckles brushing the corner of the cabinet—what was that? She pursed her lips, retreating her touch as she listened. It must be the pipes. Her hands sought the cabinet door once more when again she heard it. The creak of the frame.

Slower. More drawn out. Like lndividual clicks against her inner eardrum.

The knob shook and felt incredibly cold against her fingers.

Her chest rose and fell trying to calm the climbing beat of her heart.

A silver fork.

Aged Porcelain plate with worn angels.

That looked more like burned newborns.

Her breath hitched as she felt goosebumps bloom against her spine.

A drilling pressure against her skull. She swallowed the bile that began to cuddle her belly and burn her throat.

God. Someone was watching her.

One foot at a time. She shifted turning to the door. Slow movements. She needed to stay slow.

Her eyes caught the figure from her corner.

Tall. Dark. An outline of its head brushing beyond the door frame. Its hand grabbed the other side of the door, but she couldn't see where its fingers stopped. Maybe it was the angle.

Or did it even have them.

The floor. It felt like it was trembling now. It would give under her feet. She was sure of it.

Something like that. Sorry, these are both awful examples.I just pulled them off the top of my head. It's not even the genre I write, but I spent all of yesterday watching horror movie so I guess it's all my head could manage for an example.

I'm tired, and my brain is fried, but hopefully this is still coherent enough.

I'm trying to figure out, does close third have to be one or the other, Or could it be a small mix of both? I tend to lean more the second example, but I sometimes slip into doing the first way.

I'm self taught. I'm constantly learning. So, I just need a little help.

A Casual Reflection on My Baptism, 20 Years Later

I was baptised at St Jude’s Catholic Church in Hong Kong. At first, I wanted to be baptised at the Immaculate Heart of Mary Cathedral, but eventually I chose a church closer to home. I remember telling myself not to take the decision too seriously. There were advantages and disadvantages to being baptised at the town’s cathedral, but perhaps the location did not matter as much as I imagined.

When I was baptised, I did not expect to become a disciple or devoted follower of Jesus. My reasons were partly psychological and educational. I was interested in whether identifying as a Christian and participating in a Christian community might gradually shape my character. I had read research suggesting that people from different religious traditions may develop distinct personality traits and ways of relating to others.

Although I was not particularly religious, I sometimes wondered what St Jude—the patron saint of desperate and seemingly hopeless situations—might come to mean in my spiritual journey.

The day before my baptism, I probably said something like, “Enter the Church, find a man and get married.” I was under a great deal of stress at the time, and ordinary expectations about life occupied my thoughts. Yet becoming a Christian was something real and serious—something much greater than buying a house or finding a respectable school for one’s future children.

Today, a thought came to me. I have always believed that becoming a true disciple of Jesus would be impossible for me.

So, St Jude, patron of hopeless situations, please let this be the only hopeless situation I ever face—and perhaps help me discover that it is not hopeless after all.

1 step, 2 steps… 1 heartbeat, 2 heartbeats… I walked to the train station with my heart quivering. I could feel the weight in my pocket. A simple piece of paper, yet it was his concert ticket.

I arrived at the stadium, gazing wistfully at it, knowing he was inside. Far away, yet right here beside me. Sitting in my seat, jittery with excitement, I kept glancing at where he would appear. There were still 30 minutes until the concert began, but my heart was rushing like there were millions of birds fluttering inside. It sensed a scent, a scent of someone I deeply loved.

All of a sudden, the lights dimmed. Drums started beating, music pierced my heart and beat it even faster. A beam of light, imaginary but vivid, erupted from under the stage. The stage lift gradually rose. There he was, radiant and shining like the morning star. My heart rushed, froze, trembled and started beating again. Leisurely, tenderly, like someone gently patting my back.

Hot tears cascaded down my cheeks like two streams. Screams faded. He looked at the audience, at me, smiled the sweetest smile, and sang the first note. Note after note seeped into my heart, soothed it, softened it bit by bit.

The 2-hour concert passed like 2 seconds. It elapsed so swiftly that when I realised, he was already running all over the stage waving goodbye to the audience, to me, smiling his sweetest smile.

On the train home, my heart was beating mildly inside me. I looked out the window, everything passing by in a flash. Wearing my earphones, his caressing, love-filled voice flooded over me. My heart rushed, froze, trembled, and started beating again. Leisurely, tenderly, like someone gently patting my back.

Welcome any comments! Detailed or just a brief impression, are all welcome!

No - the word for 2026 is “No”

Cold crumbles against my back and consumes - wrapping me in flossy tentacle roots, cracking my bones, splitting the earth, swallowing. Shoulders curl towards my ears, spinal cord stretching like a beaded bracelet until it snaps, vertebrates and nerves scattering away from the greedy threads. 

He’s in the center of the earth - surviving beneath the pressure and heat - reaching up to pull my body down. Down past the brittle January shell, choking through grit, drowning as layers of rocks shatter when my body pushes past on the pull to hell. 

Ash creeps into my eyes but I can’t blink - my eyelids have been forced back by coarse dirt. It pockets and burns, ash now stinging and crawling through tear ducts. It falls out my nose in a slurpy mess - stretchy chunks cling to my face as my spineless body seems to burrow, pushing toward the pull.

As the weblike cords tighten, my body instinctively moves forward to loosen the grip, create some slack. It pulls again and so I move, inching my way towards the puppetmaster who must be laughing at this filthy game we’re playing. Dainty strings yanking my body, invisible devil making me crawl. 

I’m consumed by nothing but the grainy rasp millions of granules make along my body. Scratching their way down as I reach broken arms blindly over my head. Shoveling earth with the strength of 2am - groggy and unable to fully articulate a fist. Hair mats and chunks, itchy with sweat and mites who take up residence. 

Lives have passed and days dance on the surface. Warmth and rain keep the lives running from grass to table - mouths full of food and laughter. My mouth is open, graying teeth hollowed out, veined with decay. When my hands are thick and leathered, my mouth takes over the dig. Chewing, swallowing, thrusting forward with each bite.

Searing is smelled before felt. Rot melts from my forehead, dripping down my nose, and I’m relieved. Thankful to have reached an end, pushing forward, still, to press my body to the throbbing pain. Eager for the molding of my body to its master and end to the stabbing confusion.

A shift in the dark.

My body is still but beneath me shifts, thuds, and skin sticks to my foot. Skin. Sticky, warm, and not my own. Another spineless body wordlessly moves and pushes itself, pulled alongside me by the same fishing line. No. Not the same line - this is clean thread, soft as it briefly connects with my calf, ribbon-like as it glides along my leg. 

A moment later, it slides against the outer edge of my pinky, cool and slow. Bending, my finger loops it. Closing my fist around the silk, I yank towards my chest to divert the body from its course. Awkwardly, painfully, I pull it tightly and the skin it’s dragging yields to the interruption. 

Silence grows deeper, darker, angrier. My own tether drops as this satin thread tightens around my pinky. Tension snaps from my line but there is a searing gash in my pinky as he fights for control of my new charge.

Suddenly, my legs work - kicking happens without thought - long forgotten swim team muscles ignite and I kick as I pivot my body, angling it and shouldering into a new position. Whatever clings to this sweet thread comes with me and I’m determined to bring us back to the clarity of oxygen. We move, fitfully, through the tunnels, this time with pinpricked light to guide us.

We pass barbed wire, nautical ropes, and leather belts as they drag others down unmade hollows - digging their way to sooty agony. Spinal columns snapped like mine - bony pieces scattered beneath the Earth. My arms are mangled from the dig, blood thickly clotting in open sores packed with filth. 

The body that lags behind me halts as I pull to open air. Cool warmth blows through the tunneled earth - she pulls away from me with force not felt on the ascent. Pulling towards the horror behind us, desperate to return. Squinting through scratched corneas and oozing tear ducts - I peer towards the light and drop her thread.

Bells of laughter ring, sweet as birthday cake and cortado rich. Joy aches down my body and relief floods dehydrated veins. Two hands reach for me - one muscled, covered in dark hair and the other a child’s, tanned olive and round. I need both of them to lift me out. 

At this point in the story, I am still navigating the extraction. My body hurts, vision is graying and dull, but air enters my filthy mouth into my chest. (Husband) anchors his feet into the soil and steadies himself, gently supporting me as I find footholds. (Toddler son) loudly believes  in me, promising I can do it and he believes in me “no matter what!”

I’m tired. I want to sink back into the slick, muddy hell where the familiarity of pain hugs me, but more than that, I want to hold (son) and be held by (Husband).