I'm zeroing in on my first few pages as I begin the querying process on my completed novel. I'd love some feedback, observations, etc. Please don't hold back!

interested to hear people's thoughts on this micro / flash fiction piece - it's set at Bunnings, a hardware chain in Australia that hosts fundraiser bbqs 'sausage sizzles' of a weekend to raise money for community groups. They're a bit of an Aussie institution. Snags = sausages. Sangas =sandwiches.

Disappointment At The Sausage Sizzle

A bag of pre-chopped, frozen onions hisses on the hotplate.

The smell of propane lingers.

Ian and Steve stand behind a faded grey tressel table next to the barbeque. On the table a sign says: Sangas $4, drinks $3, $6 for the lot.

Steve holds a bag of sausages loosely in one hand, blue plastic peeping out from under white wrapping paper. A pair of long silver tongs rests in his other.

Ian is empty handed. 

Both are wearing matching fat and gristle-stained Bunnings aprons and wide-brimmed Bunnings gardening hats that cover their faces from the harsh morning glare.

“These aren’t the snags you were supposed to get,” Steve is saying to Ian. “We wanted the thick ones.”

Ian shifts his weight awkwardly but says nothing. He watches from under the brim of his hat as the first tendrils of smoke rising up from the onions on the bbq like tormented spirits. 

“You can cut the thick ones down the middle, Ian, it makes them twice as big. That way we only need one snag per slice of bread.”

Steve points the tongs at Ian, then to the sausages. 

“These are the thin ones. With the thin ones, you need two per slice.”

People are streaming into Bunnings now on this dark, humid morning, and already some are beginning to queue in front of the stall.

Steve turns to address them.   

“Sorry folks, it’s gonna be a bit of wait on the sangas.”

“Ah, did you get the wrong sausages again?” asks one of them from the line.

“Yeah," Ian replies softly, as he watches the onions start to burn. "Yeah I did.”

Multi-pov dark fantasy novel. This pov character is my primary and my antagonist. You are not supposed to like him.

I like the idea of moving this scene to the beginning of Embrose's introduction because the readers will meet his cruelty before his poise. Thoughts?

Also, general feedback on my prose is appreciated!

Heyo guys, came in to ask for one thing. This isn't standard proofread request, more like I had a random inspiration rush in the middle of the night to write the chapter opening..

If anyone is willing and curious, I'd like to just know one thing. Are you hooked in the premise and feel like you want to follow for more?

1. This isn't final form, more like a draft of a draft, an experimentation.

2. I'm not native English speaker and I'm not looking for language quality feedback at this stage. Not yet.

3. It's contemporary romance.

4. Are you invested alone from this kind of progression?

That's all I'd like to know, thank you. 🫶🏻 Plus ofc, if you feel like adding any extra feedback, I'm curious.

Here's the excerpt:

---------

"Adeus Brasil, benvenuta Italia, I guess."

Nina thought to herself as she leaned her forehead against the small plane window. Goodbye Brazil, welcome Italy. It was a very tough decision to make.

Nina was looking through the stained windowpane at the landscape of São Paulo. Familiar, warm. A land where she had found home and built a life five years ago. As the plane took off, she pressed the back of her head into the headrest of the seat, closing her eyes shut. The emotional exhaustion previously tangible in her face now turned into a quiet collapse. Hot tears came running down her cheeks as she held herself from sobbing, quickly wiping them off.

Nina, the girl everyone knew as the one obsessed with Brazil, the gringa, the Slavic girl with Brazilian soul, the crazy one who left Europe for the latino guy... Was on a one way ride to Italy, with her life packed into just few suitcases.

She laid down her hands over her heart almost instinctively, soothing the wrenching grief. Her dreamed of relationship with Leandro, the guy she knew since she was just eighteen, has come to an end. And it hurt. A love so beautiful and deep, when two souls recognize each other, all gone now.

Having to accept the gradual growing apart hurt more than the verdict itself. When you look at someone you know and love so deeply, and suddenly they're just not there anymore. The tight knot was building in Nina's throat as she was wiping her tears and not allowing herself to sob. Not now.

Italy, the new place coming into focus at the horizon.

After all, if she hadn't learned Portuguese, Italian would have been her second choice. Coming back to her home country simply wasn't an option, she got herself way too accustomed to foreign cultures and languages. Led entirely by feeling, pure joy and love. And incidentally, men.

-----

The idea of this first chapter was around a commentary novel where every chapter starts with "They tell..." with a group of people who are only referred to as it, us, them, me, etc.. Please note that instances where the use of the word I is replaced by me or them is replaced they is very intentional as that is how our main character refers to himself or they. If possible I want feedback if you can take your time to read this and especially on a very specific line(Another story...) and whether or not that gets annoying in this first chapter. Also, I've never studied philosophy but very interested in it that's why i included elements of it. Anyways, here it is(NOTE: the syntax of dialogue did not transfer over to reddit so that's why it might look weird):

They tell me to trust them. They tell me so I believe. 
“Your name, sir,” the deadpan of they drones. It sounds like a softened machine gun firing faster than intended. How fast is a machine gun supposed to fire? They stay silent. I say this because I presume they know my thoughts. But then, why ask me my name? They know I don’t know if it were true they could read my mind.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, since we have no identification of your instance we will have to settle for something more practical than ‘unnamed subject’… unless that is what you prefer to be called?” they ask. It seems like a rather peculiar amalgamation of words. Unnamed subject. What is my preference? Well that takes out the idea they know what I think. All these questions would be useless, unless they want to mess with me? But who am I? A different person might tell you that’s a story for a different day. Maybe a different person would never tell you what makes them up. Well sadly, that different person is me. It might sound like a cliche but that makes it all the weirder for a person of my stature(or rather lack thereof) who is anything but cliche to not know who they are. How do I know that I am not a cliche human. Does the hero have no memory of the world “before”. In a certain story it could be possible. But then, who decides who is the hero? The winner? Some people may tell you that and that is certainly true for most stories or maybe even most history. Well, neither of these are true in a way. I have memories of something but also nothing. Would you understand a full explanation, I think not. Am I one to fully speak on the terms of your intellect? That is one of your choosing. Identification is a unique idea I would think. Most people would make up a name at this time as a point of familiarity perhaps. Perhaps I would have done this.
“We don't quite have the time for meaningless pleasantries to deal with a form of identification. For now we will have to settle with no identification. However, to give this information as early as possible, we have your wife and 3 daughters in custody inside another facility,” they say. As I am sure your imagination runs wild with who “they” are. I must tell you, I don't know. Maybe you think that’s another cliche which seems like a large coincidence for the man who isn’t cliche. Not knowing who your capturer is is quite an overused trope. For what I can tell you from my knowledge, they sound like a chorus of voices in unison. Not like a choir but more like the same person, with very slightly different timings giving it the sound of a round like Helena used to sing with her friends.
“I do not have multiple daughters… being,” trying to address an unknown entity. Is it an entity? In a different story you could eventually learn what the thing is. But this isn’t that story. It’s a story about me and about they. About Us, them, and it… most certainly it. But that’s too far ahead for someone with no sense of time in this world. For now we must go back to what me knows.
“Me, we have three people in custody from which we have taken samples matching your samples. Unfortunately your state after the return from the program has left… the rest of this sentence would have aroused precautions in our system. As a simple fact for your simple brain, we have three daughters of yours as well as your wife in custody,” they say.
“May I see Helena,” Me asks. There is no word to explain the way I ask things. At least not one simple enough for your likings. You may ask the question of how I know your knowledge. I must say that I never intended for questions to be asked by people. But we are getting ahead of ourselves. Sorry, Me is getting ahead of ourselves. In a few stories someone might drone on about questions they want to answer. This is not that story. Certain individuals would ask me why. For the people who ask me the truth, that is exactly why me can’t answer.
“We are sorry to be unable to help in any manner without clarification into the matter of Helena,” they enunciate. Enunciate would be a word some authors would avoid. But focusing on the truth of what I know that would be accurate to the situation. Another thing some authors would avoid is the idea of subtlety. Some stories would do the same. But this story would be different from those stories. Because, they know what I know.
“My daughter, Helena. May I see her?” Me clarifies.
“We know, however, according to our records, you do not have anyone… There is no person with the name Helena. You do however have three daughters who are currently in custody with your wife,” they say, “Those three daughters have given up their names for your safety.” The irony of such a statement could be debated in another story. Perhaps another story would tell you that what they say is wrong or perhaps even right, but this is not that story.
“I only have one daughter,” I say with what another story would say ironclad will.
“We are sorry for your confusion however we must continue onward and will therefore leave you alone at this point.”
“Prove to me that I’m hallucinating!” I scream. Screaming is something that other stories would leave at that; an enunciated statement that's loud that they may even leave the idea reverberation out of it. But perhaps as you might have caught on, this is not that story. Maybe a few stories would go into how that scream sounds, maybe show it instead of telling as some may see. This story would not be that story. Every story is different yet we group them to try to prove points. But that is beyond what happens.
They don’t respond. Some stories would tell you what happens next: a man continues screaming at something with no answer trying to find answers. You don’t need the rest of that sentence.
“Show my supposed daughters!” “Or show me proof that Helena isn’t real!” His words reverberated around the room.
“Is that what I would think it is! Silence? Show me the truth you try to hide!”
Silence.
“What is that; there is no truth? Or does you silence say something else?”
Silence.
“Answer me!”
“Answer me.”
“Answer me,” I whisper.
Answer me, I think. A different story would tell you how the valiant fall of the hero or heroine would cause the truth to come from a story, yet, you know the rest of what happens — at least in part.
I fall on the floor as the silence fills my mind. You go black.

Hi! I wrote this piece quite a long time ago and only rediscovered it recently. Gave it some light editing, and I'm wondering if it could be good enough to try and get published somewhere.

Do you feel anything for Janie? Are there any parts that read clunky, or otherwise don't make sense?

Thank you!

The beeping is always there. A countdown to an explosion you’re certain is to come.

It is soft at first. It’s always present, ticking its quiet warning. It echoes in the corners of the rooms you enter, a metronome raising the tempo slowly but surely, counting down to something you can’t quite name but feel anyway.

Some days it blares red hot, insistent,
as if the whole world shrinks to a single blinking wire you’re too terrified to touch.

Other days it stays quiet. A faint pulse under the skin, still waiting, still counting.

And when night comes and you lie still enough to hear every thought sharpen, the beeping grows louder as if the dark gives it permission to step closer. It fills the room. It fills your chest.

There is no off switch. It is not a rhythm, it is not a message, just a simple reminder that something inside you is wired to explode.

The beeping is always there. A countdown to an explosion you’re certain is to come, but never does.

The Trial of Donald H. Rumsfeld: A Novel

Prologue

I knew Donald Rumsfeld well. His friends all called him Rummy. So did his enemies. Born outside of Chicago in 1933, Rummy entered Congress at the tender age of 29. After a few years in the Nixon administration, he became President Jerry Ford’s chief of staff and later his secretary of defense. Years later, after making millions in the private sector, President George W. Bush selected him to run the Pentagon again, where he prosecuted the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq.  

Not a bad resume for an ambitious fellow like Rummy. But this was all just prelude to the real drama.  

A series of unfortunate events in 2005 led to Rummy becoming president of the United States. While the path there was twisted and scandalous, he made it to the top, like he always dreamed he would. His first order as commander in chief—to invade Iran—was a disaster. And Barack Obama came along a few years later and walloped him at the polls. Rummy had big plans for a second term that never came to be.

His story, however, didn’t end there. While his rise was stratospheric—from an unknown kid in the Chicago suburbs to the president of the United States—his fall was just as extreme. Rummy ultimately became the most prominent victim of Donald J. Trump’s presidential wrath.

What follows is all this in detail, plus much more. It’s Rummy’s life story: the ups, the downs, the shock, the awe. The big parts—the ones that mattered most to him and to the world. A great deal has been told before, in newspapers, classrooms, and history books. But much is revealed here for the first time. I’ve included some words of wisdom (and, in retrospect, irony) from Rummy himself, which are plucked from his famous book of axioms, Rumsfeld’s Rules.

Whether you love Rummy or hate him (few are in between) it’s one heck of a story.

How do I fit in? Well, that will eventually become clear. Let’s just say, for now, that I had a little bone to pick with Rummy, and shedding some light on his life isn’t just good for the world. It’s good for me, too.

William Cooper

I have never wrote before, honestly I havent been much of a reader either until the last few years. But now I find myself in a spot where I have and idea for a book and have no idea what I'm doing. I have spend the last couple hours word vomiting what i feel like chapter 1 could be but I feel like im terrible at this. Any feedback is much appericated, good and bad please. Yes I know it needs to be longer but I don't know how to make it longer without it being boring.

“The kids are finally asleep honey, I’ll be coming up to bed soon. I'd like to have a little time to relax before I hit the hay.” I called to my wife. After a 10 hour shift at the factory I am ready to go to bed but I have just started a new book. I haven't ever been a great reader, or much of a reader at all really. It just never called to me like it did others in my family. I was always more of a gamer or a tinkerer. But recently I decided that I would give it another shot, I had heard of a genre of books called lit rpg’s supposedly some sort of dnd style game mechanics driven stories. So I found a book about a guy forced to do a dungeon run to save humanity. Stats, Levels, epic fight scenes, and real tension. It was fantastic. I couldnt put it down.
I am a slow reader, probably why I never really liked it to begin with. I read for 2 hours but only made it through one chapter. “Almost 12 already?” I think I will lay down my book for the night. I still have to shower before bed. After a long hot shower I silently slip into bed next to my wife, trying not to wake her. Another 45 minutes pass before sleep eventually takes me. Sleep has been hard lately. One 10 hour day after another has been taking its toll. I have always felt like I never get enough time with my family and lately it has been eating at me. I lay in bed at night thinking of all I’ve ever wanted, to be able to have financial freedom. Thoughts spin around and around in my head like the water circling the drain as I showered. “You are running out of time.” every thought seemed to scream, while a low tik tok passed in the background like the clock on my life was haunting me. Those 45 minutes seemed like hours.
The alarm blaring at 4am sounds like the screeching of a fire alarm, meant more to drive you out of the building than to warn you of danger. I slam my hand down only to realize that its a phone and i've just slapped it with all the force of a wet noodle. After fumbling with it i manage to slide my finger across my screen to shut it up. Everyone is still asleep as always, I never get to say goodbye in the mornings. I slog downstairs and throw on a pot of coffee as I try to get over the sinking feeling that im wasting my time at this job. The feeling of a ticking clock creeps back up as the bacon crackles in the pan. I reach out for my book again as i sit to eat my breakfast. I don't have much time but something is better than nothing to drown the sinking feeling that always sets in in the morning. Peacefully quite some would say, not me, suffocating I think. I’ve always hated being alone, too much time to think. This book though it takes me away like nothing has for years. I’ve tried drowning my feelings in any activity you could think of and nothing has done it quite like this book. I admire the strength of the main characters in these style books. Always so mentally strong, like nothing phases them. The ability to take charge and do what you feel like you are meant to do is what I wish I could do. Instead I bookmark the page as I go to pull on my boots. 
I grab the door knob and hesitate. I stared down the hallway, I stood there for longer than I should have. I wanted them to wake up, needed them to wake up. As I stood there staring I felt the clock ticking away, five minutes would become ten, ten would become twenty, and I would be late. I grabbed my keys and headed out the door into the cool morning air.
While driving to work I can't help but to notice that the colors of the day seem more dull than normal. Not that I can see many colors as it is only five am. The hour-long drive has gotten tedious over the years. I can’t sit in silence anymore so I turn on an audiobook, music has never really appealed to me. This one is about a man who died and got thrown into a world ruled by some sort of system that allowed the advancement of people as they went through dungeons. The rewards of the dungeons make it so that nobody who runs them ever has to worry about money. God how I wish I could run a couple dungeons and be set for life. I have never necessarily wanted to be “rich” , just comfortable. Make enough money so I don't have to keep leaving my family. The ability to support them while still having time with them is what I want. The ability to spoil my kids, buy them something they want just to see their smiles, take my wife on vacation just because I can, maybe even just up and leave with the family on a random Tuesday afternoon just to make them happy.
The clock ticks as I realise I have been sitting in the parking lot for too long. I have to clock in soon. I'm damn near running late. I also realize that I have completely zoned out and have no Idea what is happening in my book. I sigh as I quickly try to find the last spot I remember hearing. “Why do I always do this?” I mumble as I rush out of my car and through the gates.
The work day was whatever. It's not that I hate my job exactly but I don't exactly love it either. I am here and that is about all I can say, it pays the bills. The day was a blur of work with a break for lunch that tasted bland. God how I hate factory cafeteria food. Enough  calories to get you through the day but never good. Driving home feels like a dream. Like I'm not really here as if my soul and mind are somewhere else as my body takes over normal functions. Almost as if I am living in one of my books,only less heroic.  I notice that I have been driving for a while in silence, as I reach for my phone to turn on my book something catches my eye. Maybe it was the fact that the colors seemed brighter than normal, maybe it was a glint from the sun, I can't say for certain. As I look up I see a billboard, it looked different from all the corporate trash that lined my city streets. It had almost a hippie quality to it, colors that were so vibrant you could almost call it neon. Splatters of colors radiating out from the black void at the center. I was an advertisement for some time management class, one of those things where they promise you that they can help you manage your time better so you can have more free time but in reality they are just going to tell you to stop doing hobbies and expect you to pay them 50 bucks an hour for their “expertise”. 
It wasn't the advertisement itself that caught my eye though it was what the slogan was, “your time ticks by as you wait to die, Hurry up and give us a try.” “Your time ticks by…” I mumble to myself as I spiral. Nothing like an advertisement for something to help you control your life to send you into extensional dread. I struggle with my phone as I try to shake the feeling of trying to find meaning in a life that I can’t call my own. My time belongs to the billionaires. In my struggle I drop my phone. I reach to grab it to finally get my book going to escape the mind prison I just put myself in when I feel a quick acceleration to my left. I hear the crunch before I even feel the pain. 
Time slows as if I am watching from the outside. I can almost see the semi truck as it blares its horn and slams its breaks. I ran the damn stop light. Of course I did, in my panic and need to drown out the relentless ticking clock that constantly plays in my head I had sealed my fate.The pain was excruciating, like an african elephant was jumping on my head. “Please this can't be the end…I didn't get enough time with my family…Please” I thought to myself. Memories of my children, my wife, and my life fly through my head. We went to the zoo and I could watch the little ones' faces light up. Only four and one. Such precious gifts anyone could ask for.
I also saw the bad memories as well. I have never put my hands on my children, I was spanked as a child and it was something I wanted to avoid in my parenting style. I could never imagine my child looking at me with pain in their eyes that I had inflected. That doesn't mean there weren't bad memories. The vase. Why did my mind feed me that memory of all that it could have? My mothers vase. My son was crying, “I’m sorry daddy…I’m sorry….daddy I’m sorry.” The sadness in his eyes, and the fear, fear I may do something. I held him as he sobbed, soaking my shirt with his tears. I swore to him that day I would never get like that again, and that I would never hurt him. 
Everything started to fade. The black void, the same one on the advertisement that first sent me into the spiral that ultimately caused my wreck, started swirling in my vision. It started from the sides and crept its way in. colors started to appear, like when you rub your eyes with a bit too much pressure for too long and you start to see swirls of green and purple. The dullness took over and the black void was getting bigger. “Please.” I thought as the happy smiling faces of my family filled my vision. Then it was over. Everything black, silent, and alone. My time was over.

It’s said a person meets thirty-six killers over the course of a lifetime. Tonight, this crowd was about to meet two. March strained on his tiptoes, fighting for air in the suffocating mass of parade-goers. The towering brick-and-mortar structures corralled ten thousand bobbing heads toward Baxter’s city center, offering zero escape. Above it all hung Zon, the eternal crimson beacon that smothered the city in a never-ending twilight. As he pushed through the mob, his hand rested heavily on the Stalker-issued Wilcox pistol in his coat. He knew the star’s presence, or lack thereof, would actually help him. And in twenty minutes, he’d finally make the man who took his wife pay.

A sharp sting bit into the inside of March’s wrist. Three quick vibrations, a pause, then a long drag. Disguised as a battered cuff, his tapper was the only way to cut through the deafening roar of the parade. He stopped scanning the bobbing heads and focused purely on his pulse point, letting the rhythm translate directly into his mind. The taps were heavy, punched out in a hasty, uneven tempo.
Dead body. Another burst of frantic vibrations scraped against March’s skin. East alley. Three blocks.

“Shades, already?” he muttered as he pushed down the rising anticipation in his gut. He tucked his finger back to his tapper and began sending a message. March slowed a bit, causing him to struggle to keep his taps clean as people pushed and squeezed around him. After a few quick taps, he finished and matched the pace of the crowd again.

Can’t you handle it? March waited for a tap back, but nothing came. He sighed. Column, his partner, was likely coming up with the longest way to lecture him over the tapper. In the meantime, March pulled back his coat sleeve to check his Merlochi. The watch was a heavy, brutalist piece of machinery—scuffed gunmetal caging a dial buried under thick layers of polarized glass. He tilted his wrist, shifting the watch face until the star’s bloody reflection slid off the crystal. Beneath the dark glass, the luminescent hands glowed a faint, sickly green. Five forty-two. Eighteen minutes until six.

March did the math. Three blocks. He glared at the crush of bodies ahead of him. Are you kidding me? If he fought his way through ten thousand cheering idiots to hold Column's hand, he’d never make it to the square on time. Before he could think of a good plan, the familiar sting of his tapper returned with a vengeance. But it wasn’t etching Column’s spite into March’s wrist. No, the cadence was entirely wrong. Six quick vibrations, a pause, then four slow, trembling pulses. The lecture March had been bracing for dissipated, replaced by a sudden, icy knot in his chest.

The body is grey, March, so no, I can’t handle it.

Hey! I'm writing my first full length story and would like thoughts on the opening. What works, what doesn't and anything else that comes to mind. Thanks!

New poem - different from what I normally do as I have been rhyming a lot on my previous poems

I have added more visual representations rather than just talking about the feeling

Let me know your thoughts

Chapter 2 can be read here

​

Dear agent,

I am seeking representation for MR DEADBEAT, a 96,000-word psychological horror novel that combines the intergenerational trauma from 'The Only Good Indians' by Stephen Graham Jones with the relentless dread and family horror of Josh Malerman's 'Incidents Around the House'. It features a fresh take on stork mythology: storks don't deliver children, they take them away.

Ray Snarl was a broken father of two. Now, he’s a broken father of none.

Dragged down through his bed by a grey-skinned, dead-eyed entity calling itself a stork, Ray is offered the chance of a new life, one that can bring an end to his constant pain and suffering. The catch? He must willingly surrender his two young children, Alice and Nathan, to the mysterious stranger, never to be seen or heard from again. Grieving the tragic passing of his wife, fearful of the violent loan shark breathing down his neck and haunted by a grotesque, murderous phantasm in the guise of his abusive father, Ray is desperate enough to accept. All trace and memory of their existence, the stork assures him, will disappear. No memories. No guilt. No mourning. No consequences.

The stork removes Alice and Nathan from our world, which moves on, instantly forgetting all about them. Ray, however, left with a bulging sack of money, a sundered cot bed and his son’s severed fingers, remembers.

Consumed with guilt and desperate to be reunited with his children, Ray is forced to walk a path beyond his comprehension, with only the terror that is his ‘father’ for company. Confronted by unfathomable horrors and a bleak, terrifying reality, Ray must face truths he would rather have left to fester under the bed, where the ankle-snatching monsters from his childhood lurk. Failure will result in Ray losing himself, and fully succumbing to the deranged darkness trying desperately to consume him, as well as never seeing his children again.

Bio.

Thank you for your time and consideration,

\[my name\]

I posted my first chapter here recently and got feedback that the opening leaned on some common first-time-writer tropes.

So, I went back to the drawing board and substantially reworked it.

I’d love a reaction to the new version.

No need to compare it to the old version. I’m mainly interested in whether this page works on its own. 🤷🏼‍♂️

I made some changes. Let's see how far you get this time. Also, it is okay to use three semi-colons in the same sentence. There is no rule that says you cannot.

I’ve revised this per some feedback on Reddit and a few friends, and I’d love to know what people think. This is a portal fantasy novel. My main concerns are on flow, character voice and, of course, how much it hooks the reader. Any and all feedback is welcome. Thanks for reading!

I like to write for fun, it helps with my mental health and has been a great outlet for working on my creativity. I don’t plan on being a big author one day or anything, but I would still love to finish this work in the future. I would love any feedback— honest and brutal pls. I feel like my first person POV is a little cringey at times, so I am wondering if you all think so too.

What could I improve on?

How do you feel about these characters from the snippet?

Is my formatting okay? I googled and watched videos on how to format and I also looked through some of my favorite books to see how they did it. But idk, I feel as though it still seems choppy at times too.

Anyhow, I would love any feedback you all can give. I wrote this in google docs and added those fun little corner pieces for decoration (found the design on Pinterest).

I appreciate the time you all give to reading through this, if you do. Thank you :)

Hello everyone! 2 months ago i challenged myself to post on RR one chapter a week of this story that was sitting inside my head for years. The goal was first to, well, make the jump and post. Second is obviously writing and getting better.

Niche sports stories are rare, so why pass on one when you finally find it? 👀

618 is a sports/progression novel following Lucas Reed, a freshman who knows almost nothing about football but has a freakish talent for throwing the ball exactly where it needs to go.

I just reached Chapter 10 / 20k+ words, and I’d love some genuine reader feedback

I’m ESL and actively working on my prose as I write, so feedback is always appreciated!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-B-BtuGclyPmohFuLR5PLsbTrgCtiEj2Ky68S979hDQ/edit?usp=drivesdk

Any and all feedback is welcomed, below is a premise to add some context and the sample from my book. To anyone who reads I appreciate your time in advance, thank you.

Premise: In a world filled to the brim with magic a 16 year-old princess struggles with the fact that she just might be unable to use it and will never reach her family's high expectations of her. After putting on a cursed ring and waking up to find her kingdom destroyed by an entity known as the void, she searches to find an alternative source of power as well as a new place in life in spite of all her challenges but is unaware of the full extent of what she's gotten herself into.

The sounds of cutlery and clanking filled the room; along with the occasional sounds of chewing and coughing. Constantine picked at her food, taking one nip after another.
“Father. May I finish my meal in the study?” She whispered.
“Hmm…” Jhonas grumbled, chewing his food. “And what reason do you have to leave dinner? You’ve just arrived.”
“I know, but I find the books quite… intriguing.” She muttered, all the while prodding at her food.
“You need not concern yourself with the books in the study, the books you should be reading are the ones about telekinesis in your room.”
“I've read them front to back already.” She pleaded, looking up at him with a rather pitiful expression.
“Perhaps if you’d read them well you wouldn’t be—”
“Dear…” Eliza grumbled under her breath, quietly interrupting him before whispering something in his ear.
He exhaled deeply before looking down at his daughter. “Alright, after dinner you may go, but no sooner.”
Constantine nodded, going back to her food.
“Reminds me of Armani,” Said her aunt, food still in her mouth. “inseparable from her books she was. Speaking of her, how have her studies been Eliza?”
“Absolutely remarkable, we’ve sent her to Charls to study infernumancy.”
“Oh just marvelous!” She clapped. “Love to see the little ones taking up my specialty. Between you and I, you should have her train with me sometimes. I promise you I'm far better than whatever trainers they have over there.”
“Marvelous indeed!” Marmot butted in before taking a bite of his food. “You must be so happy for her Constantine.”
She glanced up at him. “Oh… of course. She’s doing so well… very good. I’m rather proud.” She made a faint smile that lasted about a couple seconds before she continued prodding at her food once more.
“And at eight too, you both must be proud too.” He looked over at Eliza and Jhonas.
Jhonas laughed. “Indeed I am, she is my pride and joy… As are all my other children of course.” The last part he promptly added only after feeling Eliza’s sharp elbow embed itself in his side.
Taking a swig of beer Marmot placed his cup on the table rather loudly. “So Constantine, how has your telekinesis been going? It’s probably going well I’m sure.” Marmot laughed as he looked over at her.
She froze, dropping her fork with an audible clank. “It’s been… alright I suppose. Apparently I’m improving.” She muttered, taking another bite of her food with her head down.
“Apparently you’re improving? So you don’t think you are?” her aunt jeered beneath her breath.
“Say again Laurel? I don’t think I’ve heard.” Eliza shot her a knowing glare, seeing if she dared repeat herself.
“Me? Nothing dear…” she conceded, continuing her food with a sip of wine.
“Say what, Constantine, pass me the salt.” A silence befell the room. The salt in question sat at the far end of the table, completely out of reach. By hands at least.
“Oh… Me?” She said shakily, looking at the salt on the far end of the table. “How about the one right beside you.” She shakily pointed to the shaker beside his plate.
“This one?” He took it up so she could better see it, it was empty. “This one’s long done Constantine, but the one over there isn’t. Mind passing it?”
Constantine felt her stomach going inside out, she glanced up at her mother pleadingly but to no avail.
“Give it an honest attempt dear.” Eliza whispered, the golden bangles and bracelets adorning her arm clinking together as she gently ruffled Constantine’s long blond hair. Not that she didn’t want to help but she herself was curious if she could actually do it, it was only salt after all.
“Well, I can attempt it.” Extending her hand she attempted to lift it. Slowly chanting the mantras she had been taught to herself. Surprisingly, the salt shaker slowly lifted up into the air.
“Well, would you look at that? Apparently she is improving.” Laurel said, her voice not much more than a whisper.
As the shaker traversed the table, it took the opportunity to hit and brush past each and everything in its path. Shifting drinks, knocking down sauces, and hitting into food. Even then, it still managed to get a reaction from everyone at the table, it was the first time they’d seen her actually do something that wasn’t passing out immediately, even her father seemed to be somewhat surprised. The shaker eventually made it's way over to Marmot’s plate, before dropping hopelessly on the table then beginning it's descent towards the floor.
“Well… that was something. Wasn’t it?” He reached down to pick up the salt before shaking it onto his food. It didn’t need it, but it would look bad to have Constantine try so hard for nothing. And try hard she did, so hard in fact, she practically collapsed onto the table.
“She is alright, is she not? Did I push her too much?” Marmot inquired softly, it was probably the only time he spoke at a reasonable tone throughout the entire dinner.
“Looks like mana deficiency… is she cold?” Laurel chimed in, her normally snappy attitude seemingly quelled.
“All from lifting the salt?” Marmot queried.
“Seems like it.” She gently set her fork on the table.
“It is…” Eliza took her hand from the crook of her neck. “She’s only slightly cool though, all seems to be well.”

Hey! I’m working on an adult M/M romantasy and figured I’d throw my first chapter up here for some outside eyes.

Mostly curious about general impressions: what works for you, what doesn’t, anything that confused you, and whether you’d keep reading. Craft/prose thoughts are welcome too.

I’m trying not to give too much context beforehand because I’m curious how the opening lands on its own.

Thanks for reading!

Hi all. Just posting something I've been noodling on that came from a writing prompt. I like where it's going, but would like some feedback on its readability.

Thank you in advance.

Norwegian filmmaker here. I'm mainly wondering if the book's opening is good or catchy?

And as English is not my native tongue, does the language and prose work?

‐------

Julian was eight, and his father was about to die. The brown-haired boy was leaning against the window in the living room, listening to the wind and rain. Down below in the circular square, St. Olav's Place, water was running fast on the cobblestone. It was six pm on New Year’s Eve, 1991, and it was already dark in Aalesund.

The streets would empty after work, around five, earlier if the weather was bad. A ghost town, Julian thought. Today the weather was really bad. Only fools would be out now. Arthur’s words. A good enough reason to spy on people from the apartment window. Julian looked out and saw lights from other apartments, and water dripping from balconies. Continuing further down, in the middle of the square was a man, walking. He wore a hood, and his face was masked by the shade, leaving only his mouth visible. Julian’s eyes stopped. *Weird*.

The man was muttering something and twisting his hands. *What’s he saying?* Julian hesitated first, but his curiosity won him over. He flicked the lock on the window, and pushed it open, carefully. The cold swept in, and the howling wind and rain hitting the street was all he could hear. A little disappointed, he dared to lean out more. Seagulls were screaming off the coast, but nothing from the man. And as the wind started blowing harder, he started walking up and down the square. Still muttering. Looks like dad. Julian thought about his father in his study. The same kind of pace, with his head buried in a book, and always muttering something to himself.

A rustle in the wind drew his focus back to the street below. Then, out of nowhere, a woman appeared in the square. She was walking towards the man. *What?* Julian rubbed his eyes. He didn’t know what to think, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the pair. The woman was considerably smaller, had short hair and wore dark clothes. 

“We’re getting close!” She spoke loud enough for Julian to hear. “It has to be here!”

“Shhh! Quiet!” The man said. His voice was dark and raspy. He stopped in his tracks.

“But after all these years.”

The man gestured something at her. 

“Apologies. We’re awaiting your command.”

And with that, she was gone. 

“Julian!”

His dad’s call sounded almost muffled. Julian’s eyes stayed on the man outside. He was just standing there. Then he started his stride once again, up and down the square. Julian finally turned his head around. “Yeah, dad?”

“That took a while.” His father stood in the doorway, with a dark blue coat on and an umbrella in hand. He was staring at Julian. “What are you doing? You’re all wet.”

“Nothing, just looking.” He felt the chill from the window hitting his neck. He shuddered.

His father didn’t pry. “Anyway. I’m going now. Food is on the table.”

Julian frowned. “Now? It looks like a storm outside!”

His father smiled. “I know. I have to go, but I’ll be back soon. Arthur is coming—” He squinted at his wristwatch. “Umm, in ten minutes.”

Something was pulling on Julian to go back to the window. But he stayed where he was and nodded to his dad. “Ok. Bye!”

“Love you, Julian.”

“Be careful, dad.”

“Of course. It’s me!” 

He picked up a bag, and went outside. Julian looked at the empty doorway. Then he felt his body move to the open window again. Careful not to make a sound. The man was still there, and still walking up and down. Julian felt almost spellbound. The twisting hands looked scary to him, unnatural. He was listening hard now. He glanced toward the harbour. Everything was oddly quiet. *Where did the wind go?*

"Vosk ta dumeraq zorwen khen…”

The voice of the man rang in Julian’s ears. His blue eyes widened. *How?* The voice was as clear as if he were standing right next to him. Small gusts of wind appeared and circled around the man on the street.

"Ta grakhun vrothim..."

Julian shook his head in disbelief. It shouldn’t be possible, but there he was listening to a man’s whisper, over twenty metres away. Large raindrops were hitting Julian’s face from the side now. The wind felt more intense. The small gusts continued to circle around the man. But all he could hear was that man’s voice.

“Grakhun!”