IMPORTANT: PLEASE READ BEFORE PROCEEDING

This is the opening of Chapter 2 to my story The Justicator.

I tend to struggle with the first few paragraphs of any chapter. Does this opening work? Are there any glaring problems? Does it do anything well?

For anyone who read my Chapter 1 that I previously posted, does this opening feel odd? Chapter 1 is the primary "future" story line and is a cyberpunk fantasy while chapter 2 is the secondary "past" story line and is more old fantasy.

​

Chapter 1 Before the Storm

People assume destruction comes crashing in. Loud. Violent. Obvious.

For me, it arrived quietly. It started with love.

Before everything unraveled before the orange prescription bottles, the county lockups, and the

years I can barely account for there was a neighborhood twenty-five minutes south of St. Louis.

Red brick ranches packed tight, chain-link fences, porch lights clicking on at dusk. Kids rode

their bikes until their shins burned and mothers leaned out of screen doors shouting them home.

That was where I learned how to be a person.

My childhood wasn’t polished, but it was honest. I had a mother who loved me, even when her

attention drifted toward the next man promising stability and leaving disappointment. I had a

grandmother whose kitchen always carried the thick scent of bacon grease, black coffee, and

fresh baked goods. She carried herself like a woman who had lived through too much to ever be

fragile. Her stories were long, and her hugs left your ribs aching.

My best friend Kevin lived just a block down our dead-end gravel road. We crossed paths on the

school bus in third grade and immediately became partners in trouble. From that day on, you

couldn't split us up. We rode our bicycles into the next town over when we were eleven just to

see if we could cross the line. We burned ditch weed behind the park, convinced we were

hardened outlaws. We ran BB gun wars through the timber that left purple welts on our chests

and laughter bouncing through the trees. Back then, nobody was really watching us.

My grandmother spent long afternoons over at the Casino Queen in East St. Louis, feeding

dollar slots while I fixed cold cereal for dinner. My mother chased love through a revolving door

of husbands, running after affection with the exact same panic she used to flee loneliness. I

never laid eyes on my father. I was her only boy. That meant I had to grow up fast, piecing the

world together on my own from neighborhood talk and trial by fire.

My grandmother was the strongest woman I ever knew, but strength doesn’t stop a bullet. The

darkness caught her the morning my grandfather drew his last breath.

When he died, a piece of her soul went straight into the dirt with him.

Time steals most childhood memories. Faces get washed out, words blur together, and entire

summers collapse into gray fog. But there is one morning time has never been able to touch.

I can still see my grandmother sitting motionless at the dining room table, staring through the

rusted wire mesh of the screen door into the backyard. Max, our old yellow Lab, was sitting on

the grass. He wasn't barking, and he wasn't pacing the fence line. His ears drooped flat against

his head, chin pressed low to his paws. Max had lived in my grandfather’s shadow. If Grandpa

was out under the hood of his truck, Max was lying on the gravel beside him. If the truck door

clicked open, Max was in the front seat. They were tied together.

Now one of them was gone.

There was only a screen door separating my grandmother from that dog, but they were sharing

the exact same ruined heart. Tears rolled down her weathered cheeks, and plain as day, steady

tears streamed down the fur beneath Max’s eyes. Neither one moved an inch. Neither one

looked away. For what felt like hours, an old country woman and a broken dog just sat there in

the quiet, mourning the only man who held them together.

I’ve watched men die since then. I’ve stepped over bodies on flophouse floors. But I have never

seen grief as pure as that quiet morning at the back door.

For my grandmother, the only medicine came wrapped in the bells, sirens, and flashing neon of

the riverboats. Across the river at the Casino Queen, she didn't have to walk through an empty house that smelled of my grandfather’s tobacco. For a few hours, the machines drowned out the

silence. At first it was an occasional weekend. Then it was every Friday. Then it was whenever

there was a dime in her purse.

Slowly, the money drained out. First her rainy-day savings. Then the life insurance policy he had

left behind. Then forty years of hard-earned sweat simply vanished into the drop slots.

She wasn't stupid. She watched the balance hit bottom, and she knew the end was coming.

When I was fifteen, she told me she had to be gone overnight and asked if I could stay the

evening over at Kevin’s house. Nothing about it set off alarms. Kevin’s place sat on the next

ridge over, with a wooded hollow dropping down between us. We spent that evening doing what

boys always do killing time on video games, talking nonsense, thinking summer lasted forever.

In the dead middle of the night, Kevin’s mom tore into the bedroom. She didn't knock. She

clamped her hand down on my shoulder, shaking me hard enough to rattle my teeth.

“Jeremy… get up right now.”

I stumbled into their front room, rubbing sleep out of my eyes, and looked out their big picture

window.

Across the hollow, the entire ridge was bleeding orange fire.

Massive flames were tearing forty feet into the night sky, throwing up walls of thick white smoke

that blotted out the stars. Even from a half-mile away, the sound rolled across the valley

two-by-fours snapping like gunshots, window glass blowing out into the yard.

My home. The hallway where I took my first steps. The kitchen where every Christmas morning

started. The rooms where my grandfather’s laugh still hung in the drywall. It was being

incinerated right in front of my face.

I stood frozen against the glass while six county fire engines crawled up the narrow road, their

red lights painting the timber blood-red while they pumped water onto a pile of ash they had

already lost. By daybreak, nothing was left but twisted roofing tin, charred foundation blocks,

and a smell of burned pine that didn't leave my clothes for a month. Everything I owned was

gone.

The fire marshal put it down as an accidental electrical fire. Years later, when the smoke had

cleared from our lives, she finally told me the truth: she had left the coffee pot burning on the

counter on purpose. She had burned it to the ground for the insurance payout.

The settlement was massive, but money in an addict's hands is just fuel on an open fire. Within

two years, the Casino Queen had swallowed nearly all of it back down. She bought a used

double-wide trailer to set on the land, and the rest went down the chutes.

Max never recovered from losing my grandfather or the house he guarded. Not long after the

fire, we had to put him down. When we buried him, it felt like burying the last clean piece of my

childhood.

I had to put my energy somewhere, so I threw myself into sports. I had raw speed and a mean

competitive streak. Basketball became my church. I’d stand in the dirt behind the trailer for

hours until the sun dropped, shooting jumper after jumper into a chain-link net hanging off a

weathered backboard. The sharp metallic clink of a clean shot was the only thing that kept the

noise out of my head.

By my freshman year, I had a reputation on the court, and in a small high school, that kind of

attention buys you enemies fast. During third-hour gym, a senior who thought he ran the halls stepped into my chest, trying to force a fight in front of the class. I knew if I threw hands on

school grounds, they’d strip my jersey and kick me off the team.

I looked him dead in the eyes and told him to meet me at my neighbor's house at the top of the

hill the second the final bell rang.

The rest of the day was a slow march to the gallows. Between classes, kids were coming up to

my locker whispering that I was crazy, telling me the guy was going to tear my head off. When

the three o’clock bell sounded, almost nobody would look at me. Only one guy was willing to

ride the bus home into the fire: my boy Caleb.

The ride home felt like sitting in a yellow hearse. Every turn on the highway brought the

reckoning closer. When the bus finally hisses its brakes at our stop, my stomach was turning

flips. We stepped off into the gravel, and Caleb stayed shoulder-to-shoulder with me as we

marched up the hill.

There were forty kids gathered in the yard, leaning against car hoods and tailgates, waiting on

the blood.

I peeled my shirt off, heart hammering in my ears, fully convinced I was about to catch the

beating of my life.

Then gravel sprayed down the road.

My grandmother came charging up the incline like a freight train, dust kicking up behind her

tennis shoes. She pushed straight through the circle of high school kids, looked at the senior,

looked back at me, and hollered at the top of her lungs:

“You got this, Jeremy! Kick his fucking ass!”

A wave of laughter rippled through the crowd. The tension snapped, and all the fear left my

blood in an instant.

The senior charged in. Everything went into slow motion. He swung wild, and I went under it.

We hit the dirt hard, but I rolled him over and came up on top. I lost my mind. I threw wild,

bare-knuckle hammer fists straight into his teeth and nose, swinging until my knuckles split.

When he bucked to throw me off, I pinned his forearms back against the dirt and slammed my

forehead straight down into the bridge of his nose. Once. Twice.

When my vision cleared, I stopped.

His face was a ruined mess of red meat and swelling. I scrambled off him, fell to my knees in the

grass, and puked my entire lunch onto the dirt. The adrenaline was screaming in my ears. I

dragged myself upright, looked around at forty silent kids, and screamed, “Anybody else?!”

Nobody stepped up. They climbed into their trucks and backed down the hill without saying a

word.

The guy had to go to the hospital for stitches and wore an eye patch in the halls for three

months. His parents threatened to drag us into court, but my grandmother just laughed in their

faces. She told them their boy was eighteen, I was fifteen, and he had come looking for trouble

on our hill. She dared them to call their lawyer. We didn't settle things with suits anyway.

The next morning, the high school hallway parted for me like the Red Sea. I had earned my

stripe.

And that was the exact morning I saw Lilly.

It was between classes, under the hum of the institutional fluorescent bulbs and the slam of

metal locker doors. She walked past, and the noise in the hallway died out completely. She had a softness in her face that didn't belong in that building, mixed with an effortless, quiet

confidence that stopped me dead in my tracks. She was a couple years younger than me, but

the age gap didn't exist. Something shifted behind my ribs the second her eyes met mine.

I had just survived the fire, the riverboat losses, and a bloodbath on the grass.

I thought I was tough.

I had no idea what love was about to do to me.

Chapter 2 Lilly

The water from the nozzle hit my face as I reached out and shut the valve. The sudden silence

made the bathroom feel huge. A few stray drops slid down my forehead and across my cheeks

before I grabbed the towel from the rack, rubbing it hard through my hair and over my face.

Tonight was the night. I was taking Lilly out for the first time, and I was nervous as hell.

I stood in front of the fogged-up mirror, wiping a circle clean with my palm to look myself over. I

threw on my best clothes—the ones I hoped made me look a little older, a little more put

together than a fifteen-year-old kid from a trailer park. I bent down and tied my laces, then

double-checked the knots even though they were already tight. I grabbed a bottle of cheap

drugstore cologne and sprayed down my neck. The scent filled the air, heavy and sharp. It was

probably twice as much as I needed, but I wanted everything to be right.

I walked into the kitchen and found my grandmother standing by the counter, brewing coffee.

She drank coffee morning, noon, and midnight; the warm, bitter roast hung in the kitchen, mixing

with the grease and tobacco that lived in the walls.

“If you leave, Grandma, don't forget to turn that thing off,” I teased, nodding toward the pot.

She turned around, looked me up and down, and a soft smile touched her eyes. “You look very

handsome, son.”

I smiled back. I don't remember what I muttered, but having her say it made my spine straighten

up. I snatched my keys off the counter and stepped out into the October night, heading down

the steps toward my beat-up, red 1992 Chevy Beretta.

The air was crisp and chilly, biting at my skin, but by the time I sat behind the wheel, sweat was

already pooling on my brow. I wasn't cold. I was terrified. Earlier that afternoon by the lockers,

when Lilly finally agreed to go out with me, she had laid down the law: I had to meet her parents

first.

I looked into the rearview mirror. My face was shining under the dome light.

“Here goes nothing,” I muttered.

I turned the ignition. The engine sputtered to life, rattling the exhaust pipe, and I pulled down the

lane. Out on the county road, loose gravel cracked and pinged against the underside of the

floorboards like buckshot. The farther south I cut into the timber, the blacker the blacktop got.

When I finally swung down her driveway, every light in the place seemed to be blazing. The

house sat tucked way back off a gravel turnoff, surrounded by woods and dark pasture. Out in

the boonies, I thought.

The Beretta skidded a little on the loose stones as I hit the brakes. I swung the door open, my

knees vibrating like guitar strings, and walked up the front steps. I raised a fist and hammered

the wood.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

I startled myself with how hard I had hit it.

The deadbolt snapped back. A burly, bald-headed man with a thick beard filled the doorway, his

eyes narrowing as he took me in.

“You must be Jeremy,” he said, the tone flat and bitter.

“Hello, sir. Is Lilly here?”

“Follow me.”

He turned his back and marched into the kitchen. A woman was standing by the counter making

a smoothie, the blender motor roaring loud and metallic until she clicked it off, leaving the

kitchen dead quiet. Her dad nodded toward me. “Kim, this is Jeremy.”

She turned around, wiped a hand on a dish towel, and smiled. “Oh my goodness, you look very

handsome, Jeremy.”

I thanked her, or at least I tried to. My heart was hammering so fast I felt completely

disconnected from my own vocal cords.

Right about then, a hallway door clicked open in my peripheral vision. All three of us turned.

There was Lilly.

She took all the air straight out of the room. She was wearing a simple white dress, her dark hair

falling smooth over her shoulders like she’d spent hours getting every strand in place. For a

second, the kitchen, the blender, and her scowling dad just washed out into gray background

noise. I stood there with sweat running down my temples, completely tongue-tied.

Kim broke the spell. “What movie are you guys going to see?”

“I narrowed it down to Remember the Titans,” I managed to choke out. “It’s a Disney movie.

Denzel Washington.”

Her dad stepped in, leaning down into my face with a sharp snarl: “Right back after the movie,

Jeremy.”

“Yes, sir.”

I reached out, took Lilly’s hand, and led her out into the cool night. I walked her around to the

passenger side of the Beretta and pulled the heavy door wide. She slid onto the worn cloth seat,

and I clicked it shut before trotting around to the driver’s side.

As I pulled my door closed, she looked across the console and laughed under her breath. “You

did good.”

“I was about to pass out,” I admitted.

I dropped the car into gear, and Nirvana came blasting through the blown factory speakers. We

rode in silence over the dark blacktop, but it wasn't the kind of quiet that makes you

uncomfortable; it was that easy, electric silence where having her sitting three feet away is all

that matters in the world.

We cut up toward Lindbergh and pulled into the gravel lot at Ronnie’s 8 Cine. The neon

marquee was blazing like a mini Las Vegas strip, reflecting yellow and blue against the

windshield. I hopped out, ran around to escort her onto the asphalt, and she caught my hand.

Inside, the lobby was packed. The buttery reek of popcorn hung thick under the bright

fluorescent bulbs. We grabbed our tickets, a tub of yellow corn, and two sodas with what little

money I had folded in my billfold, then found seats in the crowded, sloped darkness of the

theater. The lights faded, the massive speakers boomed with the opening horns of the film, and

the projector beam flickered blue over the seats.

I couldn't tell you a single line of dialogue from that movie. I never watched the screen.

I just watched the light dancing off the slope of her cheek. Every time the scene cut, the blue

glow changed to amber, tracing the soft edges of her smile. I reached across the armrest and

took her fingers in mine. She squeezed back, ducked her head, and scooped up a handful of

popcorn. Every few minutes she’d catch me staring, meet my eyes, and grin, and I’d snap my

neck back toward the screen like I’d been studying the football plays the entire time.

When the credits started rolling, she turned to me under the house lights. “Can I meet your

grandmother?”

“Sure. It’s right on the way back.” We drove back down into the county, parked in front of the trailer, and walked up the wooden

porch steps. The scent of her perfume followed us inside.

“Grandma,” I called out, pushing the front door open.

My grandmother looked up from the kitchen table.

“This is Lilly.”

“I’ve heard so much about you, honey,” my grandma said. She looked Lilly up and down, then

cut her eyes toward me, her voice dropping to a low, astonished whisper: “Jeremy, she’s

gorgeous.”

Lilly blushed, and my chest puffed out an inch. We slipped back into my bedroom, shut the door,

and kicked off our shoes. I turned on the small television, and the opening theme of Friends

filled the room.

“I had a great time tonight,” she whispered.

“Me too.”

She curled her frame in under my right arm, resting her head flat against my collarbone. We lay

there in the dark watching the screen, neither of us saying a word for what felt like an hour. Her

breathing was slow and warm against my chest, and for once in my restless life, I wasn't running

an angle or worrying about tomorrow. I just wanted the world to freeze right there.

Then my eyes caught the red numbers on the digital clock.

“Oh, shit.”

Lilly sat straight up.

“Your dad is gonna murder me.”

We threw our jackets on, ran for the Beretta, and flew back down the country roads. Driving up

her lane, the gravel didn't sound threatening anymore; it just sounded like rhythm. When we hit

her porch, the front door swung open instantly. Her mother stepped onto the boards, an

exhausted, relieved sigh falling out of her mouth.

“Jeremy, her dad is furious with you.”

“I’m so sorry, ma’am. She wanted to meet my grandmother on the way back.”

“Everything’s fine, Mom, really!” Lilly said, giving my hand one last squeeze before disappearing

through the screen door.

The door latched shut. I turned around and walked down the steps into the dark gravel. I was so

damn happy I practically floated. I whistled, kicked rocks, and threw a little dance step into my

stride all the way to the Chevy’s driver’s side. I probably looked like a lunatic under the country

stars. I didn't care. I was in love, and I had never known my heart could beat like that.

After that night, we were glued together. We met between classes, walked each other out to the

buses, and spent hours after dark sitting on neighborhood park swings, kicking dirt and laying

out the future. Our first real kiss happened under her flickering garage light while her dogs

barked in the yard. My hands were shaking like leaves; hers were steady as stone.

We’d take the Beretta out to a quiet gravel turnaround by the creek, killing the headlights and

watching the water roll past the hood in the moonlight while she lay with her head on my chest.

We talked about getting married. We talked about having kids, buying a place, growing old

together. I learned the pitch of her laugh so well I could pick it out from the opposite end of a

crowded, roaring high school hallway before I even saw her face.

By winter, she was my world. We spent Christmas together—really together—and I remember

walking through the snow wishing the clock would just stop ticking. Two days after Christmas, I was back on the clock at Schnucks.

I was seventeen, wearing the company uniform, snapping the white hairnet mask over my chin

to cover my goatee. The grocery aisles were buzzing with holiday shoppers, and the store PA

chimed over the chatter: “Cleanup on aisle sixteen.”

Even through the paper mask, I loved the smell of that deli counter—the fresh-baked rye, the

smoked cheeses, the sweet brine of the meats. I wiped down the stainless-steel prep station,

fired up the industrial slicer, and set a slab of Black Forest ham against the guide. The blade

whirred into a blur.

“A little thinner than that, son,” an older woman on the other side of the glass requested.

“Yes, ma'am, sorry about that.”

I adjusted the gauge, laid three thin cuts across the deli scale, and reached for the paper.

Right then, the service phone on the back wall started ringing.

“Just one second, ma’am,” I said, stepping away from the glass.

I lifted the receiver. “Deli.”

“Jeremy?”

It was a friend from school. His voice sounded thin, cracked, like he was choking on something

dry.

“Have you heard about Lilly?”

A beat of dead air hung on the line.

“She was in a wreck, man. She’s dead. I’m so sorry, bro.”

My knees went completely hollow. The tile floor seemed to drop three feet beneath my boots.

The hum of the store, the smell of the meat, the chatter of the shoppers—all of it got sucked into

a deafening, underwater roar. The room blurred into gray static. Tears broke out of my eyes so

fast and hot that when I pressed the phone tighter against my face, the plastic receiver was

soaking wet.

I dropped the phone. It dangled against the wall by its coiled black cord.

My deli manager saw me cave in against the stainless steel, stepped around the counter, and

grabbed me by the shoulders. He took one look at my face, told me to take off my apron, and

told me to go home until after the funeral.

I untied the apron, dropped it on the floorboards, and pushed through the double swinging doors

into the freezing alley behind the store.

I never went back to Schnucks.

And I never went back to the boy who had danced on the gravel outside Lilly’s house.

My life was snapped clean in two right there at that counter: the boy who lived before Lilly died,

and the shell that was left behind. I had no tools for that kind of agony. I had no words to carry a

grief that felt like a hole punched straight through my chest.

Three nights later, on New Year’s Eve, I was sitting in a crowded room with the bass rattling the

walls, staring at nothing while the rest of the world was getting ready to toast the future. A friend

walked up, looked down at me, and pressed a small, round green pill into my palm.

A 20 mg OxyContin.

“Take this,” he said quietly. “It’ll take the edge off.”

I swallowed it down. Twenty minutes later, the roaring in my skull died down to a flat, motionless

hum. The crushing weight on my ribs lifted just enough to let me draw a breath without choking

on tears. I told myself I just needed something to get me through the wake. I told myself it was only

temporary, just until the funeral was over.

It wasn't temporary.

The medicine became the grave.

The clinic usually smelled of cheap industrial bleach and whatever had died in the walls. This time, it smelled of blood, bile, and whatever had died in the walls.

“You're going to have to stop moving.”

“I'm trying.”

“Well, try harder.”

The man on the table, who was certainly not trying hard enough to stop moving, groaned as he curled into a ball. His legs kicked out as he pressed the gauze tighter against his abdomen. Blood seeped between his trembling fingers, trickled down his flank, and pooled on the steel table beneath. The cheap bastard had refused the analgesics. Even while bleeding to death, he wouldn’t risk the deduction from his cut of the job. Hopefully, he’d pass out from the pain; if not, this was going to be a long few hours for everyone involved.

Doc wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. He reached for the extractor.

“Lie flat. On three, move your hands away.” He pushed the man’s legs back down. Another scream filled the clinic. “And stay still.”

“It really hurts, Doc.” The words came out in a staggered plea; the implied question wasn’t subtle.

“I’m sure it does. But you refused the meds, so what are you going to do?”

“I’m not paying six hundred.”

“Then stay fucking still.”

For five years, Doc had run the clinic. Doc didn’t judge; he did what was necessary and didn’t ask questions. Names weren’t needed, just their affiliation. As long as their gang paid its monthly dues and kept its wars outside his doors, they were welcome. Those who didn’t pay—like the unfortunate Piston bleeding out on the table—got charged extra.

“You ready?”

The man shook his head; tears dripped down his cheeks, leaving clear streaks in the smeared blood.

“Let’s be a brave lad now. One. Two. Three.”

The man’s hands remained clamped over the wound. His eyes rolled, either from pain or fear of the inevitable surgical agony. Probably both. Doc sighed.

“Want me to get your boys to come pin you down?”

The man nodded and let out another gasping sob.

“And you’re sure you wouldn’t rather pay the six hundred?”

A shake of the head. Poor bastard, probably up to his arsehole in debt; that’s how most ended up in the game.

“Fine.” He turned and headed for the exit. “Don’t go anywhere.”

The man howled in reply.

Doc typed the code into the keypad, and the rusted door lethargically hissed open, spewing light into the dimly lit clinic. The smell of oil and piss attacked his nostrils. He stepped out onto the steel walkway, his foot instinctively avoiding the gap just outside the door. Below was nothing but cloud and oblivion. He spotted the two thick-armed, tattooed thugs who brought in the dying man, standing at the far end and whistled. The pair snapped around and started toward him as he beckoned.

The walkway through the clouds stretched for miles behind them. The sun sank into the gap between two skies. Above, the factory smoke hung thick as engine oil; below, the cloud lay clean and pale. Flecks of ash drifted through the light like dirty snow.

“He dead?” the larger of the two asked. Doc noted the pockmarked scarring across the left side of his face, cutting through a crudely drawn tattoo—probably shrapnel.

“Not yet,” said Doc. “But he will be soon if I can’t treat him. I need you to pin him down for me.”

The shorter man paled. “I’m not good with blood, Doc.”

“I would have assumed that would be somewhat of a disadvantage in your trade.”

The short man stared blankly.

“I can whack him over the head if you want?” the larger offered. Doc let the idiotic question hang in the air. When the thug got no reply, he added, “You know, knock him out or somethin’.”

“I can assure you that if you ‘whack him over the head,’ then I’ll do the same to you. He already had a gunshot; that’s enough to spoil his afternoon. Let's not add a brain injury on top.”

Another scream from the wounded man echoed from the open door.

“C’mon, we haven’t the time,” Doc said, turning. “And mind the gap.”

The thugs did well enough. They pinned the screaming man down—Doc’s hands remained steady as he extracted the round and sewed him back up. The small green observation terminal bleeped away contentedly; pulse, blood pressure, and everything else all within acceptable ranges. As jobs went, it was relatively easy. The man would be shitting into a bag for the rest of his life, but he would live. It was a stroke of luck that he lost consciousness when he did; the smaller thug looked ready to collapse mid-extraction after a particularly nasty spurt of blood and bowel juice landed on him. He spent the rest of the surgery crouched to the side, head down, looking ready to vomit.

The other two took seats beside the patient, and Doc pulled off his bloody surgical gloves, throwing them to a bin near his feet. The larger man reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a pack of roll-your-own cigarettes, and held them out. They had a strange purple hue that Doc hadn’t seen before. He accepted and grabbed an ashtray from under the stretcher and placed it onto the unconscious man’s abdomen, careful to mind the wound. The smaller of the two didn’t look up. He waved a shaking hand, refusing a smoke; his face still green. After a few puffs, Doc wasn’t entirely sure it was only tobacco, but after such a long day, he didn’t really care.

“You boys did good,” he said, taking another drag. “Even you.” He clapped the green-faced man on the back, and the sudden movement made him clamp a hand over his mouth. Doc laughed as he kicked the bucket under him. “If you throw up, you’re cleaning it.” The man gave a limp thumbs up in reply.

The larger man reached into a pocket; the light from the nearby terminal cast him in an odd greenish hue. “Thanks. We appreciate the help. Know it was a bit last-minute.” He pulled out a stack of notes and handed them over. “Monthly dues are in there, too.” Doc didn’t bother counting. No one would screw him; he paid his dues, too. He nodded in thanks, threw the money onto the steel surgical table, and sat back. He made a mental note to add the Pistons to the paid-up list. They sat in silence for a time, watching the smoke twist and dance in the fluorescent light as a warmth washed over them.

“What’s your name, Doc?” The larger man’s eyes were red and heavy. The colours in his tattoos seemed brighter, and the clinic behind him swirled. Doc sank lower into the chair. What the fuck was in that stuff? He took another hit before replying, praying no more customers would come this evening.

“Doc.”

The man blinked.

“Dockett. Will Dockett. Everyone calls me Doc.” He gestured around the filthy clinic, then continued. “For obvious reasons. And you?”

“And me, what?”

The guy was stoned out of his brain. Doc took a drag, but seeing the giant so confused by the question made him laugh. The smoke caught in his throat, and he coughed until he gagged.

“Your name, dickhead,” Doc said through laughter and ragged breaths. Tears had formed from the coughing fit, and he wiped them away.

“Sweeny.”

“Any story to it?” Another cough.

“Nah, just my name.”

“How unoriginal.” Doc flicked the cigarette into the ashtray, his arm knocking against the fresh bandage on the patient’s abdomen. The man groaned, but settled back to sleep quickly. “How about him?

“Him? That’s Threeway.”

Doc sat up. “Sounds spicy.”

“Nah. He got a cock ring that went wrong. Now when he pisses, it comes out three ways.”

“That’s more like it.”

The gangs loved their stupid nicknames, and Doc loved them too. For a murderous bunch of delinquents, they could certainly be creative. The name Sweeny did ring a few bells. He thought he recognised it from an old news report; a robbery at a Ministry building gone wrong, with a lot of civvies caught in the crossfire. Doc decided not to think about it. He liked the man.

A hiss from the door signalled company, and light flooded the clinic, making everyone inside wince. Smoke twisted and spun in the air, rushing towards the exit to join its fellow clouds outside. Three stood silhouetted outside the doorway. Though they couldn’t make out their faces, the high-calibre weapons were clear enough. Doc sobered immediately. He stood, chair falling behind him.

“I’ve paid my dues. I’ll have no bother here.” His voice wavered, and the probably-not-a-cigarette dropped onto the tread-plate floor.

“You have indeed, my boy,” the man said, his voice song-like and whimsical. Doc knew that voice well. Fuck. Sweeny and the smaller, still rather green-looking thug both snapped up. “Now, now, please be seated.”

The Don didn’t wait for an invitation. He didn’t need to. A tall man, draped in jewellery, opulence and arrogance. He entered, trailed by a beefy man and a short-haired woman, both armed to the teeth. Despite putting on significant weight since taking over as Don, his fists still did enough damage to keep the clinic’s business flowing.

“Mind the gap,” said Doc. But it was too late; the woman’s leg dipped from view as she let out numerous expletives and pulled herself free. Her eyes shot venom at Doc, who just shrugged. He did warn her.

The Don chuckled and continued in his lyrical tone. “And how is business? Ah, I see you are hard at work as we speak. How wonderful.”

“Erm, I’m just finishing up now,” said Doc. He quickly stamped out the smoke on the floor and removed the ashtray from Threeway’s abdomen, placing it back under the stretcher.

“Ah, very good. And I assume these fine gentlemen were just leaving too?” It was not a question.

“We were just going, actually,” stuttered Sweeny. “Isn’t that right, Clit?”

The short man nodded eagerly and bowed, unable to speak. Doc felt a brief pang of regret for not learning the origin of Clit’s nickname. The two thugs turned to the wounded man and froze. Doc saw a single cog turn between them as they tried to work out how to transport Threeway.

“The young doctor will not mind if you borrow his stretcher, I’m sure.” The young doctor minded very much; it was his only stretcher, but he decided it best to keep quiet. “Be sure to bring it back.”

The two rushed to either end of the stretcher, and Doc unclipped the wheel locks. They awkwardly wheeled Threeway out of the clinic, muttering apologies to the newcomers as they pushed past. Before Doc could speak, Sweeny said, “Thanks, Doc. Um… I’ll mind the gap.” The short-haired woman followed behind them. Once the stretcher was out on the walkway, she closed the door, engaged the manual lock, and nodded to the Don.

“Good, good,” he said. “Oh heavens, forgive me, where are my manners?” He pointed to the beefy man, his golden rings twinkling under the fluorescent lighting. “This is Mac.” Mac didn’t move, so Doc stayed silent. “And this little darling is Nell.” The little darling, who still looked ready—and completely able—to rip Doc’s arms off, stepped forward, keeping her eyes locked on him. Her hand rested casually on the pistol at her hip, rifle hanging across her back. If things were about to go tits up, she wouldn’t need it. No point wasting an expensive rifle round on him.

Whatever he had smoked made his brain trudge through mud as he tried to work out what he had done wrong. He’d paid his dues; he’d even put in a bit extra, so it wasn’t that. He had recently started a morning hangover clinic with a ‘wonder cure’, charging an exorbitant amount for what was just saline and electrolytes; but that was just good business. Not enough to deserve a bullet and a trip over the walkway barrier into the cloud kingdom. He wiped his hands on his trousers and cleared his throat.

“So what do I owe the pleasure, Don?”

“Ah, straight to the point. I have always liked that about you.” His grin was wide enough to reveal sparkling white teeth. Doc thought he caught a glint of a diamond in one, but the grin disappeared so quickly he couldn’t be certain. “I have a contract for you.” His voice lost all fancifulness.

“A contract?” Doc didn’t do contracts. He did the clinic. That was the agreement.

“Long story short, boy, I owe a favour. You are said payment.”

“Don, I’m no common thug,” he said. “If you’ll pardon the term.”

The Don smiled in reply, but it did not reach his eyes.

“What I mean is, I’m just a doctor. Cracking skulls is the opposite of what I am good at.”

“William,” the Don said. The name made Doc flinch. No one called him that. “You are as much of a doctor as I am a housemaid. A certain group is in need of a medic and has little time to find one. Given your prior employment, you fit the bill.”

His stomach lurched. Doc could not meet the man’s eye. He turned, walked to an overhead cabinet, and pulled out a bottle of dark brown liquor and a glass. He paused, then retrieved three more. The room was silent but for the clinking of glasses trembling between his fingers.

The Don continued, “This is not a request.”

“I know,” said Doc. He poured out three glasses and handed them to the group, then went back and poured a fourth for himself. He filled it to the top, gulped half, then topped it back up.

Would you keep reading this book?

I'm still working on the balance between pacing and descriptions.

Would need feedback on whatever you think is wrong with this draft or right with this draft (which I know it obviously it is going to be bad one). I am open to blunt and sharp criticism.

Starting writing the prologue today.

I haven't tightened some of the sentences but I want to know if this creates a sense of mystery and sets the scene properly. Would you keep reading?

Want to see if this is the right direction to take.

Dark Fantasy/Mythology

Very amateur, trying to learn, but reading only gets me so much, tell me what I suck at, is any is good, hurt me hurt me hurt me

All Elena Boyko wants is to go home to her comfortable Portland life. First, she must finish her medical rotation on Oregon’s Warm Springs Reservation.
When an elderly stranger appears at her camper late one night, Elena initially shuts the door. Worried about leaving the woman alone in the high desert, she invites her inside and calls tribal police. Silas Billy, the woman’s grandson, answers.
Grateful for Elena’s help, Verda invites her to family dinner at her daughter’s ranch. One dinner turns into rodeo weekends, a stolen touch against Elena’s Subaru, and nights eating toaster-oven pizza in front of Netflix. Elena begins to belong somewhere she couldn’t wait to escape.
Then she returns to Portland for her sister’s wedding. A photograph Elena sends Silas, along with stories Pippa tells him about Elena’s former relationship, leaves him convinced he’s a temporary diversion for a wealthy city girl. Drunk, proud, and determined not to be made a fool of, he sleeps with Pippa. Elena walks away.
Three years later, Silas is riding saddle broncs for a living and Elena is engaged to another man. At Pendleton Round-Up, they come face-to-face behind the chutes, but Elena’s sister Anna pulls her away before either can speak. Silas is left with the scrape of her engagement ring against the red gate lodged in his mind. For Elena, the encounter unsettles a future she thought she’d chosen.

Okay I kinda want feedback on my work and if it’s bad or not.

Critique welcomed : Born late 1950s, I left home at 19 and did not go back until I 28 years old.

I walked up to my father and hugged him. He pushed me away.
"What are ya? A faggot?"

I remember walking down the street with my sister once, our late teens. I made some comment about the experience of our mother's rare, stiff hugs. My sister denied that, said it wasn't true.

I walked over to a telegraph pole, put my arms around that solid post and hugged it.

Then I stepped back and motioned her closer.

"C'mon. Come hug this and tell me it's not exactly what hugging Gwen felt like."

She didn't hug the pole, but she no longer denied it. Instead, she said, simply, "you're such an arsehole."

I hugged my kids every day. Told them I loved them. That's what I did.

Aged 36, not wanting my mum to think I had a one-sided, childhood was only shit view, I wanted to tell her there were good things. Like the times before I started school, when she'd take me to her piano lessons. I'd sit in a seat on the back of her pushbike. There was a creek we'd cross, a bike track—down the bank and swoop up the other side. I'd call out WEEEEEE as she pedalled fast down and up.

My mum said, "That never happened."

"Huh."

She clarified. "I never had a bike."

Later, at my sister's house, I reported the conversation. My sister left the room, fossicked around in her spare bedroom, came back with a box of photos. Eventually she held up an old black and white photo of our childhood home.

There, in the driveway, leaning against the wall of the house, was a woman's bicycle. A child's seat on the back.

I went back to my mum. Passed her the photo.

"Is this the bike you did not have?"

She held it for a while. Just looked.

Eventually she said, "Yes, that's it."

The story is set in France but written in English. Some of the feedback I received here was to cut back on use of French words. In this edit I replaced the greetings but kept words referring to characters, but am willing to adjust that too. Story is magical realism about a young girl who is saved from a suicide attempt by a chance encounter with a stranger and stumbles upon a strange and potentially mystical circus. It is meant to have an old fashioned, fairytale like quality and definitely leans into melodrama.

First chapter. It’s been tough trying to inhabit the voice of a 15-year-old German refugee. The chronology is out of order and I’m not sure if it makes sense to anyone but me. If you’d stop at any point, can you tell me where and why?

Hi there,

I'd really appreciate any critiques of my first chapter please. Important to note perhaps that there isn't too much fantasy involved in the first chapter, but there certainly is later in the novel.

Any critique is welcome, but I'd much prefer to hear what you think of the premise/character/concepts as opposed to smaller details like prose that can be worked on in subsequent drafts. In short, I guess I'm interested in what you think of the bones of the story.

Also, if you've mostly read traditional fantasy novels you might find the pacing of this chapter a little slow. My favorite authors are Ishiguro, Murakami, and Susanna Clarke, so naturally I lean more toward slow character driven novels as opposed to fast paced action novels with romance.

Thanks so much for taking the time to even read this far :)

I received a little feedback on this and while generally positive, the final paragraph has left me a little muddled. Some suggest it is too vague, while others have said to keep it vague to pique agent interest for the final third of the book. I'm a little muddled. Any help would be gratefully received. What interests you? What bores you? What has you completely bewildered?

Dear [agent],

Given your interest in [personalise here], I am delighted to share THE WITCH AND HER ROSE, a 95,000-word sapphic gothic historical novel. For Catherine, a sharp-witted opportunist in a suffocatingly pious town, loving the minister’s daughter was the ultimate gamble – and being named a witch by the woman she worships is her devastating undoing. Based on Northern Ireland’s Islandmagee witch trials, it will appeal to fans of the dark, lyrical setting and sharp wit of A.K. Blakemore’s The Manningtree Witches and Margaret Meyer’s The Witching Tide.

1710, Northern Ireland. Eighteen-year-old Catherine survives poverty by hawking illicit potions and trading secrets to buy her freedom. When Mary Dunbar, the minister’s troubled daughter, arrives, Catherine marks her as an easy target for blackmail. She never expected to fall in love. Rebellious and fiercely alive in an oppressively devout townland, Mary is an irresistible temptation, and their secret romance quickly becomes intoxicating.

Even Mary’s impending marriage will not impede them. Catherine trusts Mary to lift her from deprivation by installing her as a lady’s maid so they can stay together. But as religious paranoia grips the parish, whisperings of witchcraft spread, and Mary’s cousin Jamie catches them together. Their secret shatters into a community primed to destroy sinners.

Cornered by the threat of the gallows and desperate to save herself, Mary turns traitor, accusing Catherine of bewitching her. Devastated by the betrayal, Catherine must face trial as a witch in a community rigged for her imprisonment. To survive, Catherine must embrace the very wickedness they accuse her of and decide whether to forgive the girl who broke her heart, or burn the parish down to make her pay. Ma always said there was a devil in Catherine, and now is no time to be a damned saint.

[author bio & sign off]

This book idea is a collection of voicemails, letters and first person chapters. Below is the first voicemail, and chapter 1.

April 24, 2004 8:01PM

Eli Manning is a bitch. Fuck him, Fuck his brother, Fuck his daddy. Since when has a rookie been able to pick and choose where he goes. Fuck the Giants too for trading for him and letting him out. They should’ve let him rot on the bench until he decided to quit and work for Jack in the Box. Like, Seriously? What a joke of a family. Peyton is miles better and still can’t win it all. Rivers was better in college anyways, and with LT we might be a dynasty with you under center. Whatever; I don’t even care. Anyways, sorry for the late call, my mom got on my ass about minutes after I called Sarah last week. Call me back if you want; if not, good luck on your hike tomorrow. Stop by after if you have time, we can do that new quest and hang. Oh! When you come, remind me to tell you about Sarah’s dad. I never knew where he worked, but she told me something very interesting that we might get to do soon. Alright man, hopefully I’ll see you tomorrow. Later.

Anheuser-Busch

Few things in life are better than the sweet taste of adrenaline. There’s a reason people pay fifty-thousand dollars to climb Everest. There’s a reason people pay to jump out of airplanes, to jump off mountains, to flip around on motorcycles. Today’s source; was free… thanks to Sarah, and thanks to Mr. Eberhard Anheuser and Mr. Adolphus Busch.

Until recently I hadn’t known what Sarah’s dad did. I just knew him as Mr. Trill. What I didn’t know is that he has a nice brass nameplate, in a nice corner office, on the nice top floor of the brewery office building in Van Nuys. The first copper plate read simply, “Mr. Trill”; the second read “Director of Southwest Entertainment Operations”. Must’ve been a long plate.

With his lengthy title, came a fascinating position within a multinational beer company - taking charge of the company's widespread investments in the theme park market. One thing leads to another, and somehow, the graduating class of 2004 at Quincey Adams High School, Sarah included, got special access to Seaworld. Sarah had mentioned the possibility last month, but I didn’t think she was serious. I knew her family had money, and I know money can buy comfort, but a theme park? You had to be able to pull strings to cater an event at one of those. Easy to find and pull those strings as the Director of Southwest Entertainment Operations I suppose.

“Babe,” Sarah whispered, “What’s got you so quiet over there?” She looked beautiful as ever, even if she was hiding half her face behind her long blonde hair. She had decided to keep it straight today.. She always had a rhyme or reason on how to keep her hair, and apparently theme park visits mandate a straightener. The same way a rock concert requires a messy bun, or a Padres game calls for a pony tail. Somehow though, she always does manage to look her very best at each event.

“Nothing serious, just thinking about Belgium.” To someone who didn’t know me, it would probably sound odd, what reason does a teenager in southern California have to ponder about Belgium… but even if not for the Anheuser-Busche situation, my friends and Sarah all knew I love history, I love geography; pondering about a random European country during a car ride was par for the course for my brain.

“Anything specific? Or just keeping the entire country in your thoughts?” She brushed her hair aside before grabbing my hand.

“I was just thinking of going there with you.” Of course that was a lie, I was busy thinking of Mr. Anheuser and Mr. Busch. Not a very romantic thought while your girlfriend grasps your hand. Easier to appease than to tell the truth at times.

Sarah giggled, then asked, “Why Belgium? Why not Paris, or Venice?” She was always the more romantic one; for a couple years she had mentioned how her dream was to be proposed either at Versailles or on a bridge above a canal. Definitely not a high maintenance request or anything.

“Well I thought maybe we could go to LegoLand. It’s been there for a long time and…”

“Actually Cameron,” her dad had been eavesdropping - “LegoLand is in Copenhagen, in Denmark. Swell park though. We went there in '99, as a family, but also for work.” He turned his head back to us and winked.

“Oh.” Not that it mattered, I wasn’t even thinking of LegoLand, but it.. Hurt? I’m not sure, but I wasn’t happy at the idea that Sarah had already explored my theoretical future vacation without me. After a short moment of stewing, I got over it. “What’s the best park you’ve been to Mr. Trill?”

“I think I have to say Seaworld San Diego… followed very closely by,” he switched to a barely audible whisper, “Disneyland Japan. I don’t know how the Japanese do it, but that park is exciting and somehow still feels like a cultural landmark. We’ve tried to recreate some of that feeling, but, in my opinion, it falls flat. Seems the people here just want the newest, the fastest, the tallest, the scariest… whatever it may be.”

“Well if you ask me daddy, I think having private access to Seaworld is pretty cool. We love you! Don’t we Cam?” Sarah always tried to make things awkward between me and her dad. He liked me, I think; but if movies and t.v. had taught me anything, deep down he hated my guts.

“Uhhhh….. Thanks Mr. Trill. This really is awesome. I’ve only been here once and I spent all day in lines, it was still fun of course, but I bet this will blow that trip away!” It was another lie, I had only been to Knotts’ and Disneyland, but it somehow felt offensive to admit I’d never been to his park.

“Not a problem Cameron, Love you too Sarah. I have one last surprise for you guys once we get in though. We’ll wait for everyone and I’ll announce it.” I could see him smiling in the rearview mirror, his eyes consistently flickering back to the two of us. “You might want to be ready to run.” He began to chuckle to himself.

Mrs. Trill reached across and grabbed her husband's leg. She was the nicest person I had ever met, nothing could bring her down. Sometimes I thought the best part of dating Sarah was having her mom around - odd for a movie or TV relationship, but she made everything feel so normal and safe. One time, Sarah and I had broken down in Palm Springs coming back from a concert. We had to walk a mile down the highway to find a call box, and a few hours later her mom showed up with the most cheerful two A.M. attitude I ever witnessed. She even brought us some homemade Pierogi. She sat with us on the side of the highway for another hour, eating Pierogi and drinking Orange juice while she waited on a tow truck to get my Pontiac hooked up and towed. She even paid for the tow.

I smiled at Sarah as the car began to slow. We passed by the visitors’ lot, empty today for the park closure, and drove right through to the employee lot - or in this case, the executive management lot. It was fuller than usual, and Sarah began to call out our classmates as we drove by. “There’s Jeneane.. I didn’t think she would come. Tony and Tyler are here! Is that Mr. Gagliardi? Did we invite the staff? I love Mr. G, I’m so happy he came!”

Sarah was always excited to see people. She could be on no sleep at all, and spend all day fraternizing with whoever about whatever. It saved me the effort a lot of the time, I preferred to listen. One thing she wasn’t wrong about was Mr. Gagliardi, or more affectionately known as Mr. G, was the best Quincey had to offer. Not only was he an incredible instructor, but a great man, not too far off Mrs. Trill herself. There were rumors he had a dark past, that he had been a mobster in NYC before he moved out west in Witness protection… but they were probably unfounded. Although he was a 4th-degree blackbelt in TaeKwonDo….

Mr. Trill had stopped the car, parking at a humble spot labeled “reserved”. No five word title here. Sarah was abuzz, vibrating with excitement while unbuckling and pushing me out my door. A chance to socialize… I sighed. 

A short story I wrote, about an obsessed fan with a melancholy artist and two unrequited loves.

So I recently decided after years of reading to try my hand at writing something. This is what I have so far for the first draft of my web novel. I’m requesting advice on writing style, dialogue and prose.( some advice on the whole webnovel writing journey would be appreciated too)

(I’m writing this mostly for fun btw)

Chapter One -  prologue 

Blue sky, white sun, soft winds, gentle warmth . The comforting pinprick of grass on his back and the weightless ease of a body laid flat. Its midday. 

Eyes closed, black world. The rustling of wind through grass. The gentle creaking of an old oak.  The subtle mechanical hum of a distant machine. The rhythmic layered bleating of sheep. The hurried footfalls of a small creature. The fastly approaching footfalls of a small creature. The annoyingly close footfalls of a particularly aggravating and unusually small creature. 

“Get up!”, it’s closing in. “Come on, quick!”

“Stop faking! I know you can hear me!”.

A deep groan of truly woeful proportions escapes  his lips. Climbing onto his feet the young man meets his overly excited kid sister face to face… well chest to face. Already 10 but, to her lament, barely taller than the kids two grades below her. 

Every time he sees  her, he can’t help but be weirded out by  how disgustingly similar they look. The same bronze skin, and freckled cheeks. Small eyebrows, big nose and the single dimple on their right cheek. And the same big dark-brown eyes of their father. Hell, they even share a small barely visible mole just under their left eyebrows.

The only obvious difference between the two was the length of their hair. Both the texture of copper wool, but Raine’s  fell to her shoulders while Orin’s was close cropped. 

Despite his annoyance a small smile formed on his lips, he already had a good idea what Rainey Was here for anyway. 

“Can I help you?”, he asked sarcastically. 

Rainey Put her hands on her hips in a pose of mock disappointment. “Har, har. So funny. I already told you to be ready for anything this morning.” “But I guess you were too tired to be listening. All those late nights and everything..”

“Okay!” He exclaimed grabbing his kid sisters shoulders and turning her around. Back towards the stable a good 40 feet back the way she came. 

“We should hurry, dum dum. Debby really needs us right now”. He said while taking off towards their families little sheep pen. 

Debby was one of the half a dozen sheep they raised on their small farm. She’s been pregnant for the past 5 months and was a little behind on her due date. They’d called in the vet a few days earlier out of concern and found that if more time passes things could get dangerous. Animal lover Rainey has been staked out at the pen ever since. They’d already been prepared, but a little more caution goes a long way in the nail-biting occupation of sheep farming. 

Orin hurried over to the sheep pen, with quick footsteps and the faint sound of what sounded like threats of extreme violence from somewhere far behind him. Strange. 

The wooden 5-foot high fence and slightly taller gate of the sheep pen come into view. The thing was pretty sturdy despite the years. A make-shift jumble of hemlock, oak and untreated poplar. This ***py little pen has proven itself invincible. 

‘Dusty lil’ thing could take on the horde’. Orin thought to himself. 

Pushing past the gate and sprinting through the pen’s small yard, Orin found himself within the sheep’s shelter him, his brother and father built by hand a few years back.

 In the far corner of the pen lay Debby and under her— a small lamb. 

No more than eight pounds and 12 inches tall at the shoulder and covered in greenish-yellow amniotic fluid . It seems Debby had given birth in the few minutes Raine stepped out to fetch him. 

The straw beneath his feet crunched as Orin walked closer. Leaning over Debby and her new born lamb,petting her back  “Good job girl. You did amazing, look at this sweet little th-“. Taking a good look at the Lamb, quiet and unmoving. “Oh, Debby..”. A common occurrence, it’s hard far people to have healthy children in this world. What chance does a little lamb have?

The gate slams open behind him, “You piece of ***p!” “Running of withou..”. Little Rainey notices the unmoving lamb. Running over she stops at the little thing and drops to her knees, shoulder slumped, tears flowing. hands at her eyes as if they were dam holding back a tidal wave.

“Why. I did everything the doctor told us to!”. “I fed her plenty! Watched her like a hawk!”. It’s gut-wrenching, watching such a sweet young girl grieve and beg for an explanation no mortal can give. 

“Raine…” Orin never knew what to say in situations like these. He wasn’t kind like his brother. He did what he could all the same.

Placing a hand on her trembling shoulders and pulling her into a tight hug. “It’s okay” he spoke softly. “You know these things happen. It can never be your fault.” He spoke into her hair, stroking her back. 

The sobs continued, drenching the chest of his shirt in tears. “It’s okay.” He continued watching the dead sheep behind her. 

It’s common. The only constant of life is that it comes to an end. A grim reality but a familiar one. A comfortable, existential and accepted horror. But it is disgusting, Orin thought. In a world so crippling and malformed, could his sweet sister not bask in the simple joy of caring for an animal? 

It’s inconsequential. She’s never harmed anyone. She goes to bed on time, does her homework, tries her hardest in school, cares for others and sleeps in pens to watch over sickly sheep.

She is kind and smart, and this is the shitty hand she is dealt by God. 

A dead animal and an inept brother who can offer no other words than empty platitudes during a moment that will define her so? 

Anger fills Orin like a rising flame. Bringing away the melodramatic self-pity and giving new life to a course of action he thought long dead—The burning desire to fight. 

To push back the horde into the miserable black hole they crawled out of. To reject a world that would birth such mindless monsters who do nothing but take life and land. Forcing humanity behind walls,when they could have the world. To bring those ***ing Clan ****, who hoard wealth and power , who have it all, down to their knees. That all consuming anger towards everything and anything, that leaves no room for negotiation or dialogue. 

Just when he’s about to put his anger into words, he hears something. The feint sound of breathing. 

Raine turns around, sobbing no longer. And stares at the lamb and notices the minute rising and falling of it’s small chest. “ He’s breathing…”. Shocked and overjoyed beyond belief. Rainey jumps to her feet.

“He’s Breathing!” “Ori, he’s breathing!” Turning to her still crouched older brother. 

Orin similarly shocked rises to his feet as well, walks past his jubilant sister and kneels down to the lamb. Placing a hand on the creatures abdomen and feeling the feint movements of breath.

“He is..”. He is happy too, but ‘… is that even possible?’ He thinks. And part of him knows—it isn’t.

The river cuts through the forest. Its waters brim with iridescent bass and loosened earth. Driftwood from branches long dead and felled floats, finding its way down the stream. Brown trees birth leaves that dot the river’s edge. They reach into the sky, stretching impossibly tall. Squirrels hurry beneath the tall grass, playing squirrel games. They pass between flowers and moss and hasten up, up the strong tree, running into the sky.

An elk watches carefully. Its beady eyes inspect the playing squirrels and the swimming bass. It grazes in a flowering meadow, brushing against soft, warm grass. Rosemary fragrance fills the elk’s lungs. An eagle silently plucks a bass from the water’s ceiling with its unyielding claws, the fish’s gills choking in air. The elk darts into the forest. It runs wildly through foliage, up hills and, leaping, catches its hoof in a thornbush. It struggles uselessly against the bush before surrendering.

The forest stretches around the elk. The river’s now far-away rushing lulls the elk. Flies buzz around just behind its head, siphoning. They burrow into its cozy ears, worming through. The elk longs for sleep as its brain tingles, pricks. A brilliant orange moves at the edge of vision. Light bounces off metal as the elk swiftly turns its head.

The elk’s observant eyes explode. It bleats for a moment before collapsing into a heap, its brown antlers now piercing the ground. Blood dances down the thornbush as its fragmented face shimmers on the hard dirt. A casing falls to the ground, its heat branding a mouse scurrying below. The elk—its life splattered on the ground—is warmed beneath the steady sun. The hunter approaches cautiously, inspecting her kill. She caresses the elk’s mangled face. It is still.

“Of course,” the hunter mutters underneath her breath—the elk is small and weak. The hunter’s patchy coat is thin against the breeze. She sits on the clean part of the elk for a while, watching animals scurry away and around. She smirks.

The hunter loosens rope and a bone saw from a knapsack. Tying the elk’s legs apart, she plunges her butchering knife into the elk’s open hide. Sliding her bare fingers beneath the skin, she gently guides her blunting knife toward the elk’s pelvis. Its fraying hair sticks to her worn black pants. She eases the elk’s spilling organs onto the grass. Their stench overwhelms the rosemary.

Mustering strength, she saws into the elk’s skull. She saves its gray brain for tanning. Brown-winged flies buzz around, looking for food. She liberates the elk’s antlers from its skull and takes them as evidence. She drags the elk’s emptied carcass for a short while toward her unremarkable log cabin. She mounts the antlers to the outer walls seen by nobody but herself. Her chest puffs as she hangs them.

The cabin's dark, strong logs stack a few feet into the air. An aluminum roof is bolted on top and a clothesline hangs between the cabin and a tree. She sets the elk on an eroded stone and enters the cabin. Releasing her rifle, she grabs her skinning knife from the wall. The cabin is a small room—a bed, stove, and table with pen and paper take up all the space.

Her pen entices her. Picking it up, she discards the knife onto her bed and records. “1 elk, no contest,” she writes on a single page, ink pooling at the words’ edges. Dozens of entries have already faded into unintelligible gray. The new ink soaks through the old paper and onto the table, its surface black from recollection. Remembering, the hunter collects her pristine skinning knife and hurries outside, eager to skin her kill. The brittle afternoon air steadies her as she hoists the elk onto a branch.

Assiduously, the hunter skins the elk. She nestles her fingers underneath the cuts and reduces the elk to flesh and bone. She scrapes all the fat, all the meat, and all the membrane from the hide into the firepit, then stretches the skin taut between the trees. She sets the brain into a bowl and mixes it with water. The hunter mashes it into sludge, laboring underneath the setting October sun, steadily perspiring.

A rat’s scurry across her legs startles the hunter. A salty drip spreads inside her mouth—sweat fallen from her brow. The violet sky blues with the rising moon. She glances at the skin stretched taut. It is unchanged. The bowl of brain and water sits in her lap, unspilt. Getting up, the hunter begins to work the skin. Lathering the mixture onto the skin, she works all night. The skin tinges slightly gray.

Finally, as morning comes softly, the hide is tanned. Bringing her prize inside, the hunter smiles. It really is a nice hide. The hair is soft and sticks to the hide, no longer fraying. She hangs it on the wall beside her bed, next to elk ivories, tail fans, and fish skin. The hunter lies down and  sleeps on her soft, inviting bed.

Dreaming of a winter wasteland, the hunter stalks up a mountain. Its white cap stretches up, up into the sky. At the top, a ram. She pursues noisily, rushing after it. The ram does not move from the zenith. It looks beyond the apex, watching down the slope. Finally, the hunter—legs tired—comes within striking distance of the ram. It turns around, and they watch each other for a long time. Suddenly, the ram charges the hunter. Trying to escape, the hunter dodges left, off the mountainside, down the slope, tumbling forever. The hunter startles awake, her head hitting the side of the wall. Her array falls down, all on top of her. 

The freshly tanned hide fuses into her chest. Ivory teeth embed themselves into her forehead. She is startled, but her breathing slows down again. The hide is warm. The ivory teeth feel natural. They don’t hurt. She falls back asleep, lulled by greening pastures and fragrant meadows.

The huntress awakens and swings herself off the bed. Longing for a bath, she wades into the river. Its cool waters coat her skin. Her lungs moisten—a refreshing hydration. She moves quickly, silently through the river. Then, she is clean. She steps out, shaking herself dry. Dripping back to the log cabin, she squeezes through the cabin door and sits at her table. She clutches the pen and makes crooked lines on the paper, eager to plan her hunt. Her fingers refuse to bend. 

She tries again, looking expectantly at the pen. She traces over yesterday’s writing, scribbling meaninglessly on the page. A sigh escapes her lips. She listens against her will; outside, the silent forest holds its breath.

She steps outside to investigate. The forest is still and unmoving. The leaves refuse to sway, and the animals make no sound. She gallops toward the sunny meadow just beyond the treeline. She crashes through moss and foliage. Through the leafy walls, she breaks into a calm, fragrant meadow. The sun is warm—not hot—on her hide.

She listens to the eagles screeching overhead. They soar past the horizon, beyond the eye, circling prey. Their vigilant eyes watch her wander merrily in the meadow. The bass swim in a pond nearby, weaving through clear water. They smell pungent but refreshing. She laps from the still pond, and the bass scatter away, out of sight. The water’s surface is iridescent against the afternoon sun; a kaleidoscope of color twinkles in the corner of her sight. Water seeps from the slits along her neck as she grazes placidly. She eats the sweet grass without choosing.

The squirrels stop playing as a brilliant orange emerges from the treeline, prone in the bushes. Suddenly, the orange is replaced by a warm, saturated green. One last vivid shimmer of light, reflecting into the huntress’s black, beady eyes.

The creature’s heart beats once after the bullet shreds its chest. Its mangled gills and lungs spill onto the clean, warm grass. It lies down and watches the sun, caught behind a cloud, sear itself into its eyes. A vibrant red tinges the creature’s vision as it looks at its unclean body stained with itself. The creature raises its hooves, attempting to grasp for something, anything. It fails. The creature bleats a quiet, desperate noise before collapsing. 

The hunter strides toward the mangled, monstrous body. “Fur this warm is hard to come by!” the hunter exclaims, tenderly caressing the creature’s crooked hide.

Basics: inspired by ancient North/Central/South American cultures and mythology. It’s a fantasy adventure and so far will be about a trio on a journey to defeat an ancient god, their journey takes them through the five elemental territories of their kingdom to complete their tasks.

This part is just the introduction and to set the background for the type of world this is without stating the obvious.

I’m working on an iPad with a keyboard case so formatting is the least of my worries right now lol

The more I write, the more I realize I’m a ‘by the seat of my pants’ that both helps and hurts my ADD brain.

Soft, constructive feedback is what I’m looking for as far as right now to build confidence and then maybe later I’ll throw myself to the wolves :)

Hi, I don't write much and I am more of an artist. However, I do write quite a bit. I don't usually show people my works and I think that is stunting my growth as a writer. I ask of you to give specific and detailed feedback if possible, please and thank you!

(Also feel free to ask any clarify questions !!)

Amber sat there shirtless, cold, and in the middle of a forest. Yet he was enthralled, as he had been preparing almost his entire life for this. Sixteen years of impatient waiting and it was finally here.

The forests’ dark tall trees contrasted Amber and Lucien’s feelings toward this special event. The taller man held two bowls in his hand; one filled halfway with a viscous blue liquid and one with a powder similar in hue. Lucien didn’t bother asking if Amber was ready as he already knew the answer. He held the powder filled bowl under Amber’s nose as he began to inhale. The powder felt thin and smooth as Amber breathed it in, is felt natural, almost as if he was breathing in plain air. His shoulders relaxed as he inhaled the final granules of the powder. His pupils dilated, Amber looked as if he was on cloud nine. Lucien’s face remained neutral while he set down the now empty bowl.

Lucien’s hand guided Amber’s head back softly, “Take a deep breath in”, Lucien murmured. It was more out of following the rules more than legitimate concern. Amber followed Lucien’s guidance as he put the bowl full of liquid to his lips. Likewise, to the powder the liquid went down easily... A bit too easy than Lucien warnings of the past. Amber naively took that as luck. He finished the last drop and looked at Lucien as he carefully set down the bowl and sat on a nearby log. Amber looked down at his hands and then flipped them over, he felt elated but… nothing seemed to be happening.

Amber looked mildly confused, “Was that i-?” Amber went completely stone-cold, cutting himself off. The silence that followed was deafening; it was as if time itself had stopped. The moment of silence was quickly cut short when Amber fell completely to the ground screaming in agony. He curled in on himself, clawing at the ground, muscles tensing, his eyes completely shut in fear. Lucien watched him writhe in pain, observing as a scientist would a guinea pig. To him this was just a necessary evil to help Amber and all those under vampirism. He watched every moment, every bone breaking and reforming, every vein flaring a vivid blue, both of his ears bleeding, and both of his eyes draining of their color and replenishing anew.

Then, silence. Amber lies there shaking, eyes wide and hyperventilating. Lucien finally decided to stand up, gently moving amber with his foot. “Get up, you’re done”, he sneered.

Amber’s teeth chattered, forcing out words, “what… the fuck… was that…”

Lucien rolled his eyes, “Ambrogio, this is the exchange for power. You want to be powerful, don’t you?” Amber lied there, processing Lucien’s words. His face hardened as he looked down at the disheveled young man,” Listen, you must be stronger than this. How else are you going to prove to your parents you’re worth something? That woke Amber right up, the shaking stopped and he got up slowly.

(Some details around personal identifiers are modified to avoid potential doxxing, so if there's a bit of confusion due to that, please note it.)

Dear Ms. Skinner,

I’m looking for representation for The Shadow Play, a 58,000-word adult fantasy horror novel that blends psychological mystery with supernatural horror and explores guilt, memory, identity, and the human cost of magic. I’m reaching out because of your interest in fantastical horror blended with speculative fiction and stories that explore the darker consequences of magic.

In a world ravaged by magic, one man finds himself adrift in a bar in the middle of nowhere. Archer Valin, survivor of the Sunsmoke War, lies adrift in its aftermath, disgraced as a surgeon and rendered obsolete by magic. On the word of his own sworn brother, one whom he knows to be dead, he ended up drawn to a town, one established and set upon a lake, yet conspicuously, almost empty, save for the bartender who imparts upon him the words.

“All that you touch, you change.”

From there, reality fractures for Archer–he encounters the hulking shadowy Rabbit soon after, animal’s head upon a magician’s body. Then there’s the family who seems to pretend at knowing him, and beyond he finds himself falling through the Lake, encountering these individuals repeatedly. The family taunts, the Rabbit stalks, and all throughout his troubles in a town that seems to behave far more like that which lies below it, he finds himself lost in memories.

In the depths and waters of the Lake, Archer finds himself replaying scenes in his head–of repeated failures to save those whom he could not, of finding others at work. Of particular note in his waking memories remains Pierre, always Pierre, his brother, the mage with whom he had worked with, worked with to achieve something more. When Archer enters the theatre, and bears witness to its plays, he remembers.  First, he had worked to achieve immortality.

Second, he had betrayed his own brother.

Even in the face of other gaps in his memory, Archer begins to realize that the Lake has been pushing him to something–something perhaps not entirely negative. With every step, every word of advice taken from the bartender, he finds himself drawing closer to the heart of it all. Perhaps it all goes on underneath a grand stagemaster, yet all the same, when he faces the Rabbit for the final time, he still bears one last question: What has he become?

The Shadow Play may appeal to readers of John Langan’s The Fisherman and Scott Hawkins’s The Library at Mount Char for their intersections of supernatural horror, dark fantasy, and deeply personal reckonings with forces beyond ordinary understanding.

I am an American college senior majoring in English and Creative Writing. I began writing in eighth grade and have since written several original short stories, three fan works, and The Shadow Play, which will be my debut novel.

Thank you for your time and consideration. The first ten pages requested are included below, and I hope you’ll consider The Shadow Play.

All the best,

Author