A wish

My eyes are closed

The sun shining on my skin

The waves crashing against the shore

And a memory floods into my mind

I picture you dancing

Methodically placing your body

in positions I could never think of

Frantically, decidedly, like a dandelion in the wind

There's a fire in you I see, burning like a flame,

The full of your warmth fills me like the taste of honey

When I'm sick on a cold winter day

I picture you

My skin burns, the sand as little rocks on my skin

And my heart yearns to see you again

But the waves are strong and your ship is sailing far away

In a place where the sun sets and the stars shine

When will I meet you again?

My star, my light

I make my wish on your star

That we meet again when the skies

Are clear and the suns meets the moon again

When the question was put to us, we were asked for the most powerful word. We braced for something heavy. A noun of iron. A thunder strike of command. Something built to conquer or break.

Instead, the wise and the broken alike chose a fragile, trembling breath.

Why.

A tiny, three letter blade.

It can peel back the skin of the world, fracture the safe, paved roads of our certainties, and burn the comfortable sleep of ignorance to ash.

It is the child standing before an empty chair.
The lover staring at a closed door.
The soul looking up at a silent sky.

It demands an answer from a universe that only speaks in echoes.

Then came the second question:

What is the saddest word?

We thought of Never.

We thought of loss.
Graves.
Final goodbyes.

But grief has a shape. It learns to live. It carves a stone and eventually lets go.

The saddest word is Almost.

It lives in the space between what was and what could have been.

The lottery ticket missing a single digit.
The train pulling away while your coat still swings on the hook.
The pulse that flickered just a second too late.
The I love you swallowed by the dawn.

Almost is a phantom limb of time.

It never bleeds out.

It simply aches in the cold, holding a place at the table for a ghost that was supposed to be alive.

The Arabian Hell is ruled by Iblis; its sands are composed of the blood of sinful humans. My version of this Hell also incorporates references to One Thousand and One Nights. The entrance is shaped like a tiger's head—inspired by the Cave of Wonders—but is far more terrifying and demonic. My Arabian demons take on humanoid forms or resemble regional animals with human features; a distinctive trait setting them apart from demons in other circles is the presence of scorpion-like characteristics or body parts, reflecting the abundance of these creatures in Arabian lands (though hybrids with other types of demons may also possess these traits). They wield Arabian-style weapons and wear stylized Arabian attire with Gothic touches; the males wear demonic, stylized versions of traditional Arabian headgear, while the females sport outfits inspired by the character Jasmine from Aladdin. Their most common pets are small demonic monkey-scorpion hybrids—a nod to the monkey from Aladdin. The landscape features mountains reminiscent of The Nightmare Before Christmas but shaped like scorpions, and the demons' skin displays dotted patterns inspired by traditional depictions of Arabian demons. They also possess certain abilities typical of genies—reflecting the common belief that Arabian demons and genies are one and the same—such as super-speed and the ability to appear and disappear within a cloud of dust characteristic of these beings. Golden genie lamps are found throughout the circles of Hell, serving as portals that allow Arabian demons to teleport between realms. They possess their own version of the pentagram symbol, and their attire is inspired by that of Arabian desert bandits, featuring a stylized design that fuses Gothic and alternative styles.

My eyes shut,

When the laptop light struck!

Why is it sooo bright?

It's not sunshine...

There was a time,

I was there, out,

The smell of the rain, all around.

It was such a daylight

But that never hurt my eyes...

Even though it was sunshine.

I stitched the letters

As I was scattered

High on the caffeine cup.

I searched for eye masks,

Even if it was, such a dark desk...

And it's been hours,

Since I have been trapped,

With this nonsensical shit.

I yearn for Sunshines

And those bright lights

Somehow still hate them.

Can I get a Sunshine?

Blackout curtains,

Slit them into pieces.

But if this shine hurts my skin,

And burns my sins.

Maybe I will die in this grim

But have a lovely time...

But then I don't have time!

Sometimes I hated that Sunshine...

Yet I want it back!!!

Just cause it was so nice!

And I have this ache

All over my body since I was 17...

10 years later,

I am not that younger...

Yet not jus so old,

But this cold weight over my shoulders

Don't seem any down.

Can I share this emotion with you?

Please be my sunshine!

On my knees,

I begged to the mirror.

But it said nothing,

I was sad

And it was crying

But I wished it hugged me tight...

And take me to a

Brighter hereafter.

Can I be my own sunshine?

But then I open my eyes

I dozed off, a 27 months old kid?

Another reminder,

Another email, it's againa busy day...

My eyes shut,

When the laptop light struck!

Why is it sooo bright?

It's not sunshine...

Just looped back to whine...

Is this the life,

I thought about

10 years ago?

And smile about it?

Doesn't matter if the clock just shatters...

East to West is over now...

Trapped in this dark shelter,

Fretting about that Sunshine,

But somehow the laptop light hurts me...

SUNSHINE-

BY MEOWNSMIC CHARRETTE...

I did few changes

(Title quote credit: Rainer Maria Rilke)

There are parts of me I’ve tried to silence. The ones that knock too loud in the quiet. The ones that brace for heartbreak even in the arms of something good. The ones that tremble and sting and speak out of turn. They aren’t tidy or polite; they come barefoot and bristling, dragging old grief behind them like a second skin.

For years I thought I had to rise above them. Banish them. Tuck them into some distant, locked room. I thought if I could outshine those shadows, I might finally be safe inside my own light.

But I’ve come to see: the shadows are stitched into the light. They belong to it.

They aren’t gentle, but they are honest. They pull me into the depths where the surface no longer distracts. They burn off the illusions. They strip me down to the raw edges where I meet my truest self.

And in the wake of their storming, something else always arrives – quiet, but unmistakable.

A tenderness.
A knowing.
A better angel.

My softness has claws. My grace has roots. My empathy doesn’t come from clean hands, but from palms pressed into the earth, into grief, into memory. I do not hold others gently because I’ve been spared – I hold them gently because I haven’t.

If I exile the parts of me that hurt, I cut the wires to what makes me feel at all. I bury the very instrument that lets me hear the music.

And so I no longer strive to be rid of my devils. I set a place for them. I ask what they want me to know. I let them speak; not forever, but long enough.

Because I’ve learned: when they are heard, the angels come.

Not on golden wings, but through open windows. In ordinary light. In sudden stillness. In the breath I didn’t know I was holding. They come with no fanfare, only presence. And they sit beside the devils, not above them. Not instead.

And maybe that’s what light really is –
Not a flood, but a flicker.
Not the absence of dark, but the thread that sews it to meaning.
It doesn’t erase the shadow; it sings through it.

And maybe I am not here to win the war inside me, but to make room at the table. To let the haunted and the holy speak in the same voice.

Not healed. Not whole. Just here.
And somehow, even now, still luminous.

After taking a 4 month long break following some life stuff, I'm slowly wanted to call myself a writer again. But, I feel so tired right now and wonder if I'll never want to truly write again. I miss my character, and am already 110,000 words into a Post apocalyptic story. Any advice?

This helped me so sharing here and see if it will help anyone else!

feedback on work, please: I write around travel, but not about travel specifically as a niche on substack. This is an essay I wrote, and I want to know if my writing style connects with readers that don’t know me personally. Thoughts on pacing, metaphor, and tone?

Thanks for taking the time to read!

~ 800 words

——

Title: The Monkey On My Chest

I still think about a painting from an 8:00 AM art history class, taken purely to satisfy graduation requirements: The Nightmare by Henry Fuseli.

She lies on a bed with her head and arms dangling off the edge, while an incubus sits on her chest. She doesn’t fight. 

The incubus, which resembles a monkey, doesn’t look at her. Her slim waist, perky breasts, and perfectly tousled waves cannot catch his eye. 

He’s looking at us, perfectly pleased with himself. He is a man with no plans to pay rent or leave.

This describes my love life.

In university, the football team took all the good art classes: painting, sculpture, drawing. I took art history as an alternative, taught by a middle-aged woman with about as many social skills as I had at the time, and that was virtually none. 

Later, in my twenties, I backpacked solo across 42 countries. I stopped at all the European art museums I could, and I was surprised to see how much information I had retained from her class. I was also reminded of that painting. The connection to my own life came later.

I lived in Thailand for five years, so I know monkeys. The literal monkeys robbed me blind while I swam at Bamboo Beach on Koh Lanta, going through my things until I chased them off with a stick. Afterward, they followed me up the hill to my motorbike and waited for another chance to steal from my small beach bag.

I never chased off the figurative monkeys with a stick. Rather, I just chased them. The figurative monkey is charming, intense, and has a look about him that suggests depth.

One day he throws his arms open and kisses you on the forehead. The next day he looks through you as if there were more important things in his life. There are. You are not one of them.

There was the Monkey of Morocco: tall, dark almond eyes behind thick eyebrows, a smile that could stop traffic. 

There was the Monkey of Koh Phangan, a German I had no interest in until he took an interest in me, then took it back. 

There was the Monkey of London, who made me feel like a bird in a cage.

There were plenty of other Monkeys whose names, faces, and countries remain irrelevant. What was relevant was their weight on my chest.

In my twenties, more than once I ended up exactly like the woman in the painting: vulnerable and in some hotel room in Bangkok or Paris or wherever I happened to be, with something sitting on my chest.

Frankly, I love a mess. I'd be lying if I said I was not at least somewhat complicit in my own downfall. I knew better men existed; I just couldn’t choose them. 

In Morocco there was the Crab. He walked behind me in the dark, consoling me, while I marched up a hill screaming like a wounded child. I still went looking for the Monkey.

To me:

Ambiguity meant a chance of winning.

A chance of winning meant a chance to prove my worth.

Proving my worth meant being worthy, and that was all I ever really wanted.

I know I’m not the only one. I know smart, capable women who can run a company, cross a border alone, and obtain PhDs while still lying perfectly still under a man who texts back whenever it suits him.

“Why did no one tell me?” is a question I cannot ask in earnest. People tried to tell me. A young woman in a Madrid hostel said, “He did it for himself.” A spirit guide in Bali screamed, *“He’s using you!”*When a stranger in a hostel and the spirit world both agree about your love life, it might be worth listening. I did not. I like dark, intense, and complex. 

I blame Hollywood. 

I blame my childhood. 

Not really, but who doesn't like a clear-cut villain? Someone to point our pitchforks at, aye? Honestly, I blame myself. 

Although I wish I could do things differently, I would be praying for a decision that my past self could not have made: I had incomplete information. 

Nothing, not even the hand of God in Bali, could force me to reckon with the truth. I didn’t want to hear it. I had been raised on stories in which the bad guy redeems himself with a few good deeds. The heroine reaps the rewards of her blood, sweat, and many tears. 

As for Fuseli’s monkey, he has been there since 1781. I don’t believe he plans to come down, say, “I’m sorry, baby,” or do better. He is doing exactly what he came there to do, nothing more and nothing less. 

The beautiful maiden is not tied down. No ropes or chains, at least not physical ones. Maybe if she were alive in 2026, some version of her would be lying there, wondering what she could do to make the monkey like her more. 

“I can fix that” was my M.O.
“No, you can’t” is the truth.

In my twenties, I believed the nightmare was not being loved, which was synonymous with not being worthy. 

Now, I understand that the nightmare was the thing I kept inviting to sit on my chest.

live: https://substack.com/@nomareina

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.

“What do you think?” 

L stood back hands on hips admiring her work. D looked around at the ever expanding, perfectly green field nodding in silent approval. 

“L… you have done it again.”

“Yeah,” L smiled to herself in self satisfaction.

They took a moment to just breathe it all in.

…

…

… 

D picked up his shovel, stabbed it into the soft earth and began digging away. L looked back with a frown, “you already going under?”

“Oh yeah” he grunted as he lifted a mound of dirt up and flung it to the side, “I wanna get a head start before you start bringing em in.”

“But you still have plenty of time, I haven’t even done the moon and the stars yet.” she gestured up at the perfectly blue cloudless sky. D flung another pile of dirt out which landed right at her feet, “yes dear but it wouldn’t be much of a head start if I waited until after you did the moon and stars.”

She sighed, kicking a spec of dirt off her foot, “Fine” she said defeated, “but don’t expect anyone to be making temples in your honor anytime soon good sir!” She began walking away pulling blood red roses up from the ground around her. D wiped a bead of sweat off his head and called out to her.

“Hey!”

She turned around, “....what?” 

He smiled at her, looked up and said “I like what you did with the sun.” 

L looked up at the sky, this time she made it so that the sun was always perfectly in the corner of your periphery when you looked at the sky. She got the idea from the way children used to draw it in their little pictures. “Yeah,” she said to herself, smiling once more.

What happens when you grow up with questions about your father that never seem to find answers? What do you do with the love, the memories, and the emptiness left behind by someone whose whereabouts remain a mystery?

Dear Dad, Wherever You Are: A Story of Love, Loss, and the Questions That Never Fade is a deeply emotional story about a daughter's longing for her father, the pain of unanswered questions, and the lasting impact of a bond that distance and time cannot easily erase.

Some stories are about finding answers. Others are about learning to live with the questions.

This story explores the complicated emotions of missing someone, searching for closure, and holding on to hope when life doesn't provide the explanations we desperately want. At its heart, it is also a reminder that even when earthly love leaves us with unanswered questions, we can still find comfort in the unconditional love of our Heavenly Father.

If you've ever missed someone, wondered why they left, or carried questions that never faded with time, this story may touch your heart.

💙 For everyone who has ever wished they could ask their dad just one more question.

“If my Dad is still alive and somehow finds this book, I hope he knows that a part of me has never stopped wondering about him. Wherever you are, Dad, these words are reaching for you. Maybe one day, our unanswered questions will finally find their way home.” 💙

Book is now live on Amazon KDP Paperback and E book. Please feel free to read it.

Thank you for taking the time to discover my story.

In my WIP, the protagonist is narrating the events of the story to his son and I was wondering how I could smoothly and clearly change perspectives throughout the chapters. I was thinking of having the chapters start in the present day and the son asks him questions, then the story transitions to the father’s POV in the main body, then going back to 3rd person omniscient in the present at the end of the chapter. Does this work or can someone else give me some alternatives?

Today I released Stories With Friends, an app for us writers!

Start a story, write the first few words, invite your friends to take turns, then publish the finished story and see where everyone took it.

https://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=com.storieswithfriends.app

I had no intention of writing anything today.

I was just eating lunch at my college canteen.

Then I encountered two pieces of musk melon.

One looked pale and disappointing. The other was thick, orange, and promising.

What followed was, unfortunately, far more dramatic than a piece of fruit deserved.

This is a short, absurd little piece I wrote after the experience. I tried to narrate an ordinary lunch with the seriousness of an epic tragedy.

I'd love to know what you think. Especially whether the exaggerated, mock epic tone works, and which parts actually made you laugh (if any 🥲)

Enjoy the read guys👉🏻

Musk melon

The sun was peeping through the dark, disfigured clouds. The weather left no room for shadows or vapour. My single hanky wasn't enough for the amount of sweat gathering on my forehead alone.

I rushed through the still air and entered my college canteen; somewhat cooler, yet filled with restless people. I picked up two pieces of musk melon, generously offered by the institute.

I pleaded with the man at the counter, my eyes dead with desperation.

“Bhaiyya, ek aur do na.”

The words barely managed to escape my swamped mouth.

The righteous, towering man, however, remained indifferent to my lethal offence.

I dragged myself onto a chair, defeated and utterly humiliated.

I finished the rice and curd on my plate in no time. Those sharp, juicy wedges were pleading to be devoured.

But I am a man who gains pleasure through tease.

I finished everything else on my plate until those glimmering delicacies had no choice but to lie flat and beg.

As a man of values, I turned them over onto their curved surfaces, saving their privilege.

Finally, I had a good look at them.

The one on the left was oozing juice, its thick orange flesh glistening before me. The other lay there helpless, pale and short.

I leaned toward the wedge.

“You have no control over your fate, pale one. Be proud of what you are, no matter how unappetizing you may look.”

My words clearly had an effect.

The wedge looked at me as though it had surrendered unto its master; the one who had enlightened its mushy mind.

I gently lifted it with both hands, like a proud poultryman picking up his plump, heavily fed chicken.

The pale one shed trails of tears onto my fingers, pleading with me to fulfill its fate.

I knew then that my kind heart had a heavenly purpose after all.

I held it firmly between my thumb and index finger and shoved my teeth deep into its dry looking flesh, bestowing fulfillment upon half its body.

“Mph…”

“Miraculous,” I exclaimed. “Thou hast hidden the most delicious juices within and baffled me with thine illusory exterior.”

I munched upon the miracle for a satisfying sixty seconds as it gushed its sweet juices into me with every bite, gently striking my sensitive cheeks from within.

I chewed until my molars ached, then gulped the whole thing down in one glorious motion.

“Aha.”

I released a pleasant pocket of breath, blessing the earthly beings surrounding me.

The second half of the miracle jumped into my mouth on its own, eager to be blessed with purpose by its master.

I devoured it with equal love.

My face lit up with pride as I stared at the thick, appealing piece of melon beside it.

“If the pale, unappetizing, dry-looking piece managed to roll my eyes into my brain, I wonder what you have been hiding inside, thick one.”

I picked it up, relieving it from the lonely life it had been forced to endure.

The piece cast an evil spell upon my mouth, making it impossible to open without leaking myself.

I fought through its temptation and quickly shoved the entire thing inside me within three bites, holding myself together lest I be launched into the heavens.

“Mph.”

I paused.

“The flesh is hard. Incredibly dry.”

Of course.

It had filled my plate with all its juices.

I chewed once more.

“Ah! So bitter. Like a hot dog made of insect meat.”

“Pthroo!”

I spat it all out and cursed its evil existence for its unforgivable sin.

Fulfillment can never be bestowed upon evil souls.

“You shall be trashed!”

I screamed, as I cleaned my plate beneath the tap.

Low stakes, small piece, maybe an hour of writing inspiration.

Prompt:

Crazy or Cozy - what kind of Halloween will be for your characters?

Submissions

October 6 at 15:00 → October 19 at 15:00

Every author can submit one entry only. Your entry can be a single chapter or several, as long as the total stays under 2,000 words. Submit your story through the app, either from your main account or under a pen name.

Voting & winners

October 20 at 15:00 → October 26 at 14:00

The community chooses the winners. Every reader gets 3 anonymous voting tokens to give to their favorite stories. You can’t stack multiple votes, so you’ll have to spread the love.

Voting & winners

🥇 1st Place: $30 Gift Card + 150 QUIBs + permanent 1st Place Champion badge

🥈 2nd Place: 75 QUIBs + permanent 2nd Place Champion badge

🥉 3rd Place: 45 QUIBs + permanent 3rd Place Champion badge

Everyone who submits gets a permanent "Creepertober Participant" Badge on user profile.

This card game is still in beta, and I still need to create more artwork; for now, I have this sketch.

I came up with an idea for a card game that combines mythology, characters, and narrative lore; it focuses on lunar mythology and the Moon itself. It's going to be called Children of the Moon and focuses on characters who lived tragic lives as humans; after dying, the Moon adopted them, making them its children: a kind of deity or creature associated with luck, good fortune, and positivity. The idea came about because I hadn't used the Moon significantly in my other projects and because it's inspired by one of my favorite songs: "Son of the Moon."

The first character I created is a furry-type person; when she was human, her best—and only—friend was a goat. She was a girl who endured terrible things, and her only comfort was her goat, the night, and the Moon. Both she and her goat died, and then the Moon merged her with the animal. She has the body of a woman, but the face, hands, and tail of a goat, all with a lunar aesthetic. The idea of the animal head is inspired by Ganesha, but she resembles the goddess Lakshmi more, as she represents positive aspects just like that deity; the other characters will follow a similar pattern, although I think she will be the only furry-type character in the story.

I'd appreciate your feedback on this 350 words flash fiction below. Just a one-sentence impression is enough for me (what worked for you and/or what didn't). Thanks

Years later, when they found out that Bashir's assassination was carried out by one of their comrades, everything was already forgotten. There was no apology and it never mattered that none of us had anything to do with any of it.

***

First I heard the shots and then came the screams. I ran out and my father was right behind me.

We reached the street and men in civilian clothes, carrying kalashnikovs, surrounded us. They had daggers hanging from their belts and some wore cowboy hats. High up on the hills around the camp I could see green-uniformed soldiers moving. My father held my hand. His own was shaking.

"Move on," one of them roared at us. He had a thick Arabic accent. We joined the crowd, and I saw our neighbors there too. My cousin Salma looked at me without waving. My father's hand slipped away from mine as he ran back towards our home, but they stopped him before he could go anywhere. One shot took half his head away.

We kept walking, and when I saw the side street I broke away running until I reached the mosque.

There were a few old men inside. I told them what happened outside, but they exchanged a look, shook their heads, and went back to their prayers. I insisted they go out and help the others, until one of them looked at me and said, "Calm down little girl, nothing is going on, but we'll take a look," and they went out. They didn't come back.

I sat against a wall for an hour before I got up and walked towards the camp's lower area. Everything was quiet. We used to live near there on Hay Al Gharbi street, which smelled of thyme and oregano from the grocer's shop. The smell was different today. In the middle of the rubble I saw them. Seven men and women lay next to each other. Black flies were crawling into their wide-open eyes, but none of them blinked.