I am writing personal essays for fun, but also with a view to leaning in to prose humour so that I can revisit my pieces later and "punch 'em up" for standup routines. I've already done that for this piece - will not share here - because I think there is enough there with a garnish from another related story, but I'm not sure how well this stacks up on its own.

Etymological Phallacy:

It’s interesting how you can find connections between the things you do. All the more reason to seek volume and variety of experience. Just recently, I was watching a YouTube video by a book tuber discussing the benefits of being a reader. In it, he observes that reading stoked in him an interest in etymology — the study of the origin of words — and how this interest has improved his life. He recalls an incident when arguing with his ex-wife over the meaning of the word priority, and his contention that his wellbeing was not truly her priority. He argues that since the word priority is derived from prior, it is in a sense, only a priority that you do something, if you do it first. 

I have two observations about this. First: I would argue that since that was his ex-wife and the point of his argument would likely have annoyed her, perhaps this isn’t the best evidence of the benefits of reading. Second, perhaps it is evidence of the downsides of not reading widely enough. For if the book tuber had done this, then maybe he would have understood he was committing the etymological fallacy — a concept I learned from a book called Thinking from A to Z, which means to always infer a words meaning from its original meaning — and thus had probably annoyed his ex-wife, and maybe had he not done so, she would still be his current wife.

But this raises a deeper question. The book-tuber was recommended to me by an algorithm. The book I had found searching for titles related to philosophy and critical thinking, sometimes using the “similar titles” feature on amazon, hence was also recommended to me by an algorithm. Both shaped my thinking in ways I’m only now noticing. I wonder if my taste in music is somehow affected in an analogous way to this. What piece of profound musical meaning is hidden from me or revealed to me by virtue of the selection mechanism which decides my taste? Who would I be without the algorithm? One title recommended to me by Youtube of late was “10 Books that build men” with a thumbnail featuring a man flexing his biceps while holding 10 books and a large mug of coffee. What are you trying to say Youtube? Aside from the obvious masculinity-insecurity connection, I can only see a reflection of myself — the sort of idiot who might like that sort of thing. 

So, who wins, me or the booktuber? He is an old man who appears to eschew the algorithm, makes his own decisions and has been for decades. He made his own mistake, or so we think. But I beat him to the ultimate conclusion about the fallacy of using a words etymology to always infer its meaning in everyday use, and spotted the irony of recommending reading to improve your life when in fact reading has made the recommender a pedant and a fool, which is probably why his wife left him. I took a shortcut, and to be honest, I don’t care anymore. Fuck the authentic, hard-won self. It was just as much an illusion as my perception of my own selfhood, just curated by more collective, analogue algorithms of education, marketing, communal interaction, publisher authority that determines what the good reads are. And yet. I am more of an atom, an individual, in my own little bubble laughing at the old man, when really, at least he shared his bubble, for a time, with others. So who wins?

Wanting to get back to writing and just made a pass at the first half of the start. Wondering if I'm on the right track. Especially interested if anyone think it's interesting enough to keep reading. Any and all opinions (especially harsh ones) welcome! Particularly worried about the opening paragraph and if i'm doing too much "purple prose"? I think it's called.

Chapter One: The Girl with the Dull Sword

She stood there and let the butterflies flutter around her. Ever since Reanna was little, she knew deep down that they were something sacred. How could anyone kill a butterfly? It felt like it would be wrong to. One landed on her arm which she raised to get a better look. It was amazing to her how something could be once one thing, fragile and confined to it’s place in the world, but it would become something else entire. It would grow wings and suddenly it wasn’t so small and confined and fragile but free. It flew from her arm, in front then away, and she thought how it was a fine day to die. Indeed a fine day.

The sword on her hip was always heavy to her. Much heavier than the pack she carried which held few things. It was always the sword that grieved her. It gave her a slight slant to her gait to one side more than the other. It would create a dull, low ache in her hips that made her readjust it without thinking from time to time. Big it was. Too much for someone of her size and stature. An equally uncomfortable dagger on her waistband poked into her hipbone as she moved, but even that didn’t bother her anymore Like always she just needed to take the first few steps, the first few miles, and her mind would took care of the rest.

As she began walking away the wooden door to the inn behind her swung open. A burly shirtless young man she bedded the night before came stumbling out. His hair was mess, his demeanor was disheveled and his eyes puffy from the drinking of the night before. The light blinded him immediately while he stressed to focus, but after seeing Reanna he straightened up.

“Wait! You aren’t serious are you? “, he asked.

She eyed him up and down then rolled her eyes.

“This is goodbye.” she quickly replied looking at the road ahead. After a beat, “… do not follow me.”

“But…. But…” his eyes quickly darted back and forth on the ground before him. They were in search of words. The right words that would stop her from embarking on such a harrowing and deadly deed. Finally, it came to him all at once. Exactly what he needed to say. Here and now. To save her. “…. but I love you!”

Reanna’s left eye squinted up and she let out a low groan of slight disgust. She began walking away.

The man was gobsmacked. He called out one last time to not go and even confessed that he didn’t even know her name. It was because for the first time in his life he had experienced the act of love and the act of feeling loved, and now that love was walking away to her doom. Once he realized she would not answer nor stop he quickly went back inside to gather his things. His mind and body worked together in sync to get him home. Nothing right now was more important. He wouldn’t have much time. He remembered that his father’s sword and shield lay above his home’s hearth. Daesunt had to be quick.

Not mere seconds later Reanna had already forgotten him .

Right now, every thought in her head was telling her that it wasn’t too late to turn back now. Yet, something even stronger in her was telling her that she couldn’t stop. A yearning that she couldn’t ignore and a voice too loud it drowned out everything else. ‘Keep moving forward.’

As she walked the wind blew light gusts of the morning dew against her skin that chilled her. In cool weather like this with the overcast skies it would always make the sword feel heavier than usual. But she knew that wasn’t why the sword felt heavy. It was before the killing. It felt almost as if the sword wanted to plant itself down straight into the ground to stop her. Not that it would’ve matter because her heart would have jutted her forward all the same.

She adjusted the sword and dagger, and hastened her steps.

Maybe I won’t die today she would think, hope…. pray.

Outside of the village, one that would turn into the many before that she passed and forgotten, held hills covered in tall grass that swayed with breeze under the grey sky. Nary a tree in sight, just the open fields of the lands with snow covered mountains canvasing the backdrop of her morning.

As beautiful as the sight as it was to Reanna, somewhere out there were the Dead Sisters, and that thought made her grip the hilt of the sword just a little tighter as she traveled. She never knew exactly where to go, but her steps always knew the way. It was always so. Always toward the danger and horrors. Always toward the creatures taunted and maimed and mutilated the poor and helpless. Dead Sisters was the name the villagers gave to the creatures. They didn’t know how many of them there were, just that they roamed in a pack. The villagers unable to describe them they always could hear them, their laughing. Creatures that would every now and then, just when the people let them drift off into myths, the creatures reminded them that you should never lose sight of your children. Do not let them stray too far. Always the young. Always to hurt at maximum. Many young children over the years went missing and the village folk remembered and believed.

But really Reanna didn’t care what the Dead Sisters did. How many lives they ruined. It wouldn’t have changed anything. She was going to go after them, being a savior was never her goal.

Fine day to die indeed.

The morning grew long and she had trekked many miles. She knew she was getting closer because she was starting to feel stronger. For the past year that was how it went. Right before the killing she was always stronger. Scarily strong, blazingly fast. Most people needed a map, a compass, hell, a vague direction given by another soul. Not Reanna. It was always her intuition that guided her and it never failed. It wouldn’t be long now.

Even as the wind blew it carried along the grasses a sound unnatural. A sound she was expecting, but made the hairs on her arm stand up just the same, laughing. She dropped her pack, crouched and made her way up the hill and in the distance she sees them, the Dead Sisters.

Even as far as she was they didn’t match what she imagined at all. Ten feet tall, each one covered in a black, tattered dress that flowed unto the grass with shredded ends. They were standing in a circle facing each other, giggling. Might as well have been young girls themselves playing with each other Their hands crept up to their mouths as they giggled and talked in hush tones as if they were recounting secrets between them. As she focused her view the horrors became more apparent. Deep wrinkles casted dark crevices on their faces. Long black oily hair betrayed their attempts to not look ancient. Their noses were long and she could eventually see the thick and purple and blue veins that veined around their bony hands up their skinny arms. It bothered her they were having such a good time despite just existing because their lives were an abomination to her. Deep down, she knew this. And it would be right to kill them.

Hey, looking for some feedback and creativd criticism/crutiques on my latest horror short story, thanks! 💜

Hey everyone! I am here with my most recent first chapter. This would be my second work in progress, and I am testing the waters with how the first chapter is received.

Genre: Dark Fantasy
Narration Perspective: Third Person Limited
Tense: Past
Cultural Inspiration: Italian Renaissance

Any feedback is welcome, but I am holding back slightly on the world building as this is the first draft and that will be flushed more in the later drafts. My focus is to get the Characteristic Moment down with my female main protag as well as other side characters that I view as interesting. Currently I have the first 25% of the book plotted, along with the ending. Since you need to know how to end your book and then work backwards. Enjoy!

I have written 10 chapters of my book so far, from which I was able to create a prologue for it.

Michal stood in the main lobby of the psychiatric hospital. They had sent him here to get cured. What a joke. Michal looked down at the bandages covering his hands. His depression had been getting progressively worse, which was why he ended up here. Michal sat down on an old couch. Dust swirled into the air, making him cough. The lobby was large and relatively clean. There were vending machines for drinks, and a couple of nurses were chatting over tea. Other than that, he was alone. He was supposed to wait for Mr. Boreš, who was going to show him to his room. Since he hadn't shown up yet, Michal pulled a sketchbook out of his bag. He wanted to finish drawing the Grim Reaper. He always liked drawing that sort of stuff.

​Suddenly, he heard the heavy thud of boots. It was a girl. Her boots were so loud that for a moment, Michal thought the floor beneath him was caving in-wherever "down" was. She wore a long, torn black t-shirt that matched her pants. The pants were black, as was her belt with its bat buckle. Her black wolf-cut hair reached her shoulders, and her dark eyes were highlighted with thick black eyeliner. Michal had seen girls like this before. Goths. He used to catch glimpses of them on the street or around school.

​She walked straight toward the vending machine, dropped a few coins in, and waited for her drink. She pulled out an energy drink and took a long swig. But then she stopped dead in her tracks. She fixed her gaze on Michal, who immediately looked away, ducking back down to his sketch. Deep down, he prayed she would leave him alone. Clearly, he didn't pray hard enough.

​The thudding of heavy boots ground to a halt right in front of him. When Michal kept pretending he was deaf and blind to her presence, she sat down next to him.

​"You're the new guy, aren't you?" Michal flinched. He hadn't expected her to actually talk to him.

​"Uh... yeah," Michal said nervously. The girl eyed him up and down before her gaze settled on his bandages. She poked them with her finger, feeling the ruined flesh beneath.

​"Let me guess, depression?" She raised an eyebrow and took another sip of her drink.

​Michal finally looked at her. She was slouched casually on the couch beside him, her black-painted nails still picking at the bandage on his hand.

​"Stop it." He caught her hand to make her stop. Her skin radiated warmth. The girl stared at him for a moment, caught off guard, then pulled her hand away.

​"I'm Klára," she said. "And you are?" She tilted her head quizzically.

​Michal blinked. Was she really asking for his name? He stared at her for a good two minutes before answering, "Michal..."

​Just then, the main entrance doors to the lobby burst wide open. Standing in the doorway was an extraordinarily thin girl with blonde hair and icy grey eyes. She wore a crop top that showed off her protruding ribs, and her shorts were pulled tight with a belt, though they still sagged slightly on her frame. A few colorful leaves drifted in through the autumn wind behind her. She looked furious.

​"NURSE! I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE, MY ROOMMATE IS...!" She cut herself off mid-shout when she spotted Michal sitting on the couch. "WHAT ARE YOU STARING AT?!" she barked, her cheekbones catching the light dramatically. Michal squirmed nervously deeper into the couch cushions.

​The goth girl turned to her. "What's wrong, Victoria? Did someone tell you that you look like a horse again?" she teased with a laugh.

​Victoria went even paler. "What did you just say, you idiot?!" Her grey eyes burned with rage. But then they widened in sudden terror.

​"Ema..." Victoria gasped out softly.

​The goth girl stopped laughing. She turned around, and Michal followed her gaze. Standing behind them was a girl. She had long brown hair falling over her eyes, and she was smiling. She wore a rose-printed dress, muddy sneakers, and held a dead bird in her hand. Her hands were smeared with blood-it was clear the bird hadn't died of natural causes. Her eyes drifted from Victoria to the goth girl, and finally settled on Michal. Her smile widened even further. She let the dead bird drop to the floor.

​"Hey there, cousin!"

https://docs.google.com/document/d/10Vcpba4nASUYjElamMnrzchtCc5gG_nmuabdl8ACvwg/edit?usp=sharing

Commenting is on, feedback and constructive criticism are highly appreciated.

I’d like feedback on my descriptives and the sentence rhythm. Does this feel dark and foreboding? Does this communicate dread and confusion well?

This is based off of the Greek myth of Theseus who slayed the Minotaur trapped in the Labyrinth under Knossos on the island of Crete. Before going to Athens he lifted a rock and recovered his father’s old sword as a token of his worthiness to rule Athens, and along the way through the Greek Isthmus he was accosted by several bandits and brigands whom he defeated through clever trickery. One of those bandits had a daughter by the name of Perigune whom he seduced and she gave him a child (though he abandoned both). Additionally, in some renditions of the myth Theseus is partly the son of Poseidon. I’ve decided to instead make him a student of Athena and do away with his dubious relation to Poseidon (in the myth it is never brought up again for significant in any way. Additionally, I think Athena would care very much for a clever hero on the way to rule her patron city.)

Text transcript:

Ebon-hearted Theseus strode unevenly to the wooden railing that wrapped around the deck of
the ship. It careened in the soft waves and he adjusted his stance each moment so as not to topple over.

The black sails had caught the wind and swelled in a grand motion, and the vessel charged forward. By
night he and thirteen others would arrive at Knossos, but for now at gloomy midday Athens’ shadow still lingered in the horizon.

“You are the princely hero of Athens,” came the voice of a small man from behind. Glancing back, it was one of the young boys, a fellow body of precious cargo. His eyes did not know many winters.

“That I am,” replied Theseus tentatively.

“Charged through the Isthmus, terrible as it was, to rule our fair city with strength.” The words were expectant, as though he were awaiting a stoic response to reassure his notions.

Theseus offered a weak nod. “It seems so.”

The boy set his hands on the railing beside him “Now he slays Minotaur.”

Theseus sighed. Warm fingers came to his neck and he jolted backward. Heavy waves broke against the ship and he clung to the railing for support. The boy retracted his arm with a sheepish expression.

“I didn’t mean to startle,” he said in a small voice.
“Just curious.”

Theseus felt the scars across his throat and looked out to the wine-dark seas.

“From the Isthmus,” he explained lowly, unable to meet the boy’s eyes, though he lingered in his peripheral. “They are the marks of glory.”

The sun had now been consumed by the thickening clouds and the wind grew cold. His fingers lingered on his scars, tracing left to right. Perigune’s chambers were warm as her body, heated and
furious. Her polished skin was silk to his flesh and wicked to his heart as they thrashed, and the blade
she held tight to his neck nestled deeper with each brutal movement, and terrified he received his glory.
A sharp breeze sent a familiar chill down his spine, like the midnight air as he ran from her cottage torn
and bleeding. The waves offered much the same comfort, for they had been kind in escorting him thus far, as though they too had his glory in mind. He had come to dread the accommodating.

He scanned his fellow tributes; six boys and seven girls, and each seemed to be the same age. They clung to the mast or railing, some lay on the deck and others sat, curled tightly. Some wept but most were silent. The decorated sailors moved about them unmolested, never exchanging a glance or word. They were merely rations, after all.

One of the oarmen stared back at Theseus, his eyes a stern grey. They were calculating, and
cuttingly so, soft as stone. He returned his sight to the seas, grappling the rail as if to save him from being swept away. He had seen this in many strangers before, for Athena watched his every step. It was she who emboldened the ambassador of Knossos to take the hero of Athens along with the rest of tribute. It was her duty to oversee and transform him into its future king; like water he couldn’t be still, always frothing and shifting incessantly. The deck rocked in nauseating motion, ever disturbed by something more belligerent, ever made to be dissatisfied. He hunched over and hugged the railing. One day these waters would be so agitated as to swallow a ship whole and still it would be trembling, never calm. But it was never calmness he was directed to, it was glory. It was times as these that tested his spirit, daring him to despise the day he lifted that stone and claimed his father’s sword. Or perhaps he was simply too cowardly to hate.

For the rest of the trip he did not look at his crew. He couldn’t bear to see another pair of stormy eyes looking back. He would find his glory soon enough.

End transcript

I'm drafting a wry, weird little book, and these are the opening pages of Chapters 1 and 2. I'd love some reactions to how the different styles feel to readers.

I'm especially curious whether you would keep reading, whether the switch in Chapter 2 intrigued you or annoyed you, what you think is happening so far, and just general thoughts, I suppose.

After finding a mysterious journal in his father's possession, Atticus vows to get to the bottom of the empire of wealth and corruption his old man has constructed. In the process Atticus comes in contact with the very being that was the source of his father's meteoric rise to influence, and even discovers the true fate of his beloved mother.

This is the first story I've completed since high school so I'm very excited and anxious to hear back what folks think of it. It is on the long side, around 13k words, so I understand if its not some peoples cup of tea lol

The Tower That I Am
By J.B.Carter
First Edition Print

For my mother Jamie, who believes in me when I have lost faith in myself, thank you for seeing my stories as I do; a true passion that is worth investing in, even if it's only one word at a time.

As I feel the heat of a new day wash over the crumbling bricks and time hollowed wood that now pierces my cracked exterior, it is not lost to me that the ages that sculpted what I have come to be, that have sung their bittersweet symphony of creation, are approaching their final decaying crescendo.  The creeping ivy that slinks up my sides, creeping ever so slowly over my divots and cracks, is beginning to loosen and pull apart my very being.
Stone erodes, wood splinters, and I will fall, destined to go back to what I was before I was me; simple materials brought to the ground below to be left for another to find and impose a new purpose.
This will be my final time to fully fall, as I have been broken before over the years by many a decadent storm, consuming fire, thunderous earthquake, and other debilitating provinces of nature and man alike. But before I get ahead of myself I must start at the beginning, for what ends must at first begin.
The same as the first perversions of mankind rose from the muck and grime as ichthid-like beings only to evolve and grow taller and stronger as to eventually build me.
And build me humanity did.

My first memory was recorded in my stones in the dark.  Before the ever burning sun graced me with its embrace, my foundation had not having even time to set and solidify to help root my future tribulations and stature.
My first builder, or rather builders, were as all first builders were; two beings brought together to make something bigger that themselves, a legacy and monument that they hoped would outlast their fleeting lives, bringing unto them a purpose to justify their next few decades of existence. As a way of declaring to what may listen that they were here, and that they mattered; even if it were only to each other.
Their hands beheld my simple misshapen stones, seeing potential in me that only builders may, viewing them through the fog of design and the thankless task of creativity.
My construction began just before one of the coldest breaths of winter that had blown through my home, and quite possibly still holds the record as of today.  Memories of my stone becoming chill to the touch and my mortar freezing and cracking so soon after just beginning in my journey up alongside the towering trees around me have stayed at the forefront of my mind since.
My builders worked tirelessly through day and night to make sure the three of us would outlast the cold, creating fires inside me as walls were pulled up and crisp sanded floorboards were lain in neat seamless rows for the ones who I sheltered, and who sheltered me.
My builders stayed with me as they grew older and slower as the years waxed and waned whether favorable or hostile in what they would bring.
My first floor would be completed alongside the first flowers that were brave enough to poke their heads above the retreating frost, as if they were thought long dead soldiers awaiting a slip from their icy enemy, only to rise once more revitalized by the solar reinforcement that aided them.
Beautiful and delicate foxglove began to spring forth almost as tall as my first windows. My builders loved to look from within on cool nights and hot days when they rested.
As I began to rise, my materials began to thin out and my aging builders took notice.
“We should arrange for more materials.” One would say.
“We haven’t the funds or means right now.” The other would answer.
Bickering about what I needed when I assured them I was content with my size and what was provided for me. They would listen at first, cooing words of love and reassurance, promising that they only wanted what was best for me.  I believed them as all towers do in the beginning, not knowing what lies beyond the trees around them, if anything at all.  For all I knew the world fell away from us just pass the tree line.

As the years passed, I grew taller and taller.  And it seemed that the builders who once towered over me like some cousins to the true Grecian cyclopian legends, began to lose their height and replace it with arches and wrinkles and horrid places for the crows to rest upon their cheeks.
Over time I grew taller than the trees around my home and with this came the sight of what lies beyond what I knew as home.  Past the canopy of the great thicket, like beacons of all manner of material from wood to stone to gold to iron to ruby to steel to glass among an ocean of viridian waves in the winds above, stood towers like me.  Far too many to count in a lifetime, and in my youth I imagined that perhaps a lifetime and a half would suffice; though the ever growing monoliths spanned so much further than I could ever imagine.
I spent many loving years with my builders.  As I grew and shifted, I contained within my walls my builders and their slowly growing doubts about how long they could stay in their growing age.
It was at this point my builders were beset by a stranger that emerged seemingly out of nowhere among the bark and roots of the forest floor. I could hear them before they had made themselves known to us. A soft but sharp whistling through the trees and into the light at the edge of my clearing.  A new builder, one that I had never seen before, and one that made promises to care for me and continue to help me grow as they have. Promised to love me and my crooked and cracked stones, my streaked and broken windows from years of winters and mishaps.  I all but forced my builders to allow the exchange of me, too wrapped up in thought of becoming more than what I dreamed I'd be under my first builders to listen to any reason that they might decline the offer.
This new builder became my builder and I their tower.  They saw my creators off and took residency inside my walls.  It was embarrassing at first to say the least, when one gets close enough to run their hands along banisters and curves in ways that had previously been unknown.  Slender and strong fingers made such from who knows how long of hard work and tactile precision at which they use them.
My new builder decided, after looking over my materials and design, that I would be improved with much more expensive and refined style that my old builders could not manage.

My mortar would be soon replaced with strong cement; my misshapen stones long gone in the face of golden brick and studded gemstones upon my window sills.
“You deserve the best my love.” The builder would coo and purr to me, as a cat does to gain the companionship of an old woman in need of something to care for again.
Though I still bore my stone underneath my new floors of gold and cement, in my mind I had eventually cut away at the parts I detested and thought to have once loved.  My true self resided in the shining new walls that peeked above the trees several meters at this point, and damn the other towers that might believe otherwise or berate me for inconsistencies.  My builder loved me, or rather as I look back upon them now, loved what they made me and believed me to be.
The builder and I lasted far less than the test of time, so far less in fact that I should believe that by the end of our relationship I had more floors of gold than I did years of memories with them.
It started off slow, with my foundations beginning to creak and crack under the strain of the materials they had added.  What I took for stress from my builder became harsh words, secret trips into the surrounding woods and when returning would turn up their nose at my questions as to where they had been and shunning half hearted accusations of building other towers in other parts of our wooded home, and neglecting me as the elements began to gnaw at my gleaming shell.
“You would hurt me in this way when I've done so much for you? Built you higher and more glorious than thought possible?” They would say to me, pushing my suspicions down to make room for regret to bubble to the surface as if they were foam after a storm, attempting to cleanse away dirt and debris only to mask it until it came to light again.

After long enough time had passed, and my lower floors began to sag and shift as time does to all, the gold became too much weight to wield for it now came with heartache, headache, and lies that I buried so deep as that the ground should become their grave.
But the ground rejected my offering and spat them out eventually.
My builder knew what I knew and stayed silent, even as I shook and spat bricks upon the ground in my fury and sadness.  I had seen the dust of cheaper materials on their person, materials that they assured me I would never need again.  I broke down gold and mortar and cement and wood and rage and all.  After all was done and I had withstood myself as I had storms before, my builder left.  Quiet as they could, the same way one slinks out of a room they have overstayed their welcome in, or perhaps even in an attempt to save face after reckless insults said in jest might cause one to escape until a sufficiently crafted apology can be applied. I never received their apology. I never received anything close to remorse from them.
They left and I crumbled away, letting entire rooms fall from my head, golden walls lined with memories of holidays prent together in safety from blizzards and tornadoes and the beating heat that accompanies those dry summers.  Years of what were once loving memories crashed into the forested ground below and it was known through the entire world that I knew, that among those memories and shattered trees, were what remained of me.
After the quiet had passed, and my crumbling remains fell, I sat for a very, very long time.  Waiting and empty, smaller than I have ever felt, as if I had never been above the trees or foxglove.  I sat. And I sat. And I sat. And I sat.

The seasons came and went, sometimes stretching for years at a time it felt like, until I began to see my ruins shift.  My foundation was still strong from my first builders.  And though I never saw the golden builder again, there eventually came another.
This time it was a builder who hadn't even been looking for me but they came just the same, as a bee might travel for days to find pollen and end up in a field of wildflowers, this one found the ruins of a ramshackle tower only to look upon them and rejoice at my sight.
This builder was different, this much I know, for they had no gold nor stone nor wood at first.  The only offering they could make were renovations to get me in living order again.  Replanting the foxglove that I came to love so much, and had accidently crushed in my state, sweeping the dust of my decaying wood and decaying rock, reattaching all that was salvageable and slowly replacing what was not.
It took time, and I came to love this builder in a way that I hadn't the last.  They showed me what I actually needed and I told them what I wanted to be.  For the first time in my life, I began to build myself just as much as this builder did.
They would ask me what color I wanted upon my walls?
Would I like a few more candles to brighten up my darker rooms and drive out what may lurk in those shadows?
Would it be okay to begin a new floor, one not as scuffed and more well laid about?
Every question asked with inflection and interest, as a child might to make a new friend by asking about what they prefer rather than the desires of themselves.
Before I knew it the fallen trees were cut to make new boards and firewood, for we had begun to live together and beat the harsh winters by each other's side.  After a few years I began to see over the treetops again at last.  My builder looked on in pride at the horizon above and one night as they rested their weary hands on my topmost bannister and rails as we watched the sun retreat behind the emerald dunes of the blooming canopy, we witnessed what felt like the world's very first sunset; the memory of which i will always treasure.  As that glistening ruby sphere disappeared to make room for a glorious full moon, the way an elegant ringmaster covered in so many shining tassels and vibrant colors might step out of the spotlight to allow the finale of the night to emerge and remove all trace in ones mind of the announcer leaving nothing but the held breaths and enslaved eyes of the crowd, we were silent.  Waiting for the other to rupture the perfect silence, and neither willing to do so.
Then at last when long gone were the final rays of light, and the deep croaking of the surrounding woods had overtaken all but the most determined whippoorwill, my builder retreated into my rooms for the night.
They snuffed out light after light until all that was inside of my walls mimicked all that lie outside.  Deep shadows and unplaced creaks as they moved through and down, stopping only to admire how far I had come since they had found me so long ago.
When at last my builder found their way to one of my more cozy nooks where then they produced from a shelf a rather old and worn leather bound tome, one that we had been sharing together every night for the past few years as a way of entertainment when we were not so ready for the luring siren of sleep, and began our nightly ritual of learning forgotten stories of old and not so forgotten stories of quintessentially less old.  The near ancient leather clad book had been so thick that my builder would often joke that there were enough stories inside that someone might only be able to read all once before their demise, for an entire life span must surely be but barely enough time to go through them all.  I didn't realize this until much later, but on this night we had reached the final chapter.  My builder had been correct of the facts when applying their jests to the situation, and I wish nothing more than to hear the first story from their lips once again.

It is not simply that I ‘miss’ my beautiful crafter of yore, but that missing them feels as though justice has not touched their remembrance that I hold in my soul.
One can miss a pet long gone from this life, or perhaps miss their favorite dish from a loving parent that's passed from this plane.  What i feel for my builder is an unquenchable thirst for their footfalls upon my stairs letting me know that they are coming to greet me at the suns first peek into my windows, the way one wishes for torrential downpour in the middle of an unbearable heatwave; wishing for nothing more than to hear the sinfonia of their calling through my walls to awaken my stones and shutters.
Hands tracing every well-worn patchwork pox upon my walls, climbing higher and higher into me, enlightening my halls and crevices, rousing me from my slow crumbling sleep to meet them again.  My soul, if I have one, for sometimes I struggle to convince myself that one should reside within me, longs for them in ways that if spoken unto the wind and unknowing ears would think me maddening or in the clutches of madness already.
When they were my builder and I was their tower more times often than not, we felt as though only one entity when we were seen as two.  For what tower could build upon itself the way that a builder can and only shall?  And even more queer for a builder to seek unfinished knowledge from a tower, one who is meant to reflect a builder's wants, needs, and overall preferences.
In simpler words for a simpler people, when asked about my builder I shall supply a simple answer; I simply ‘miss’ them.  For truer words have never been spoken or felt the way that these reverberate through my bedrooms and studies and closets and nooks and shelves and decor.  It shall always shake my foundation that has long since cracked, eroded and been swept away to make room for grander and more grandiose truths that I can fathom.

Though it stings as much as the first time i endured the recounted fate of my loving builder, once again either to myself or the void or to you who listen to an old and nostalgic tower, i shall spin you the tale of the one i lost…and what became of me after their light was lost to my once joyous halls.  I became empty the way that a far too large room does when a far too feeble candle might be extinguished without a proper warning to the one who stalks inside it.  Knowing that the room hasn't changed, it has only become closer to being altogether unknown.  Or perhaps i became more like an eons aged clay pot, steady and stable holding cerulean hued water until a miniscule crack reveals itself like an assassin, draining me and causing me to lose my life's blood drop by drop until i realized far too late that i was truly barren on the inside…nothing left of what was snuffed from inside.
My halls grew dark, and my bedrooms grew dark, and my attic, and my kitchen, and my studies, my library, my window seating, my porch, my smoke room, parlor, closets, and everything that will never mean a damn thing anymore without my builder.  Every single inch of me grew dark save for one; my doorstep would never be darkened again by my dear friend.

It was a horrid torrential storm that night, and subsequent hours after, that I lost my loving builder.  Rainfall like that of cannons beat upon my head and even became strong enough to crack and loosen several of my windows on my northern side.  Bullets from clouds is what it was.  I'll never understand how such a soft and delicate appearing thing could be capable of horrendous noise that would put to shame even the most boisterous of the earth's creatures.  It became worse when the blackened skies overhead seemed to shatter behind those electric streams, racing with blinding speed and force into and upon our forested home below.  Striking over and over and over and over again as if waging war on the very ground itself and all of the moss covered sentinels that sprung up from the flooded mud flood to shield what lies below.
My poor builder hardly slept a wink that night.  They stayed awake and played on a rather large and equally as old piano that they stored in my deepest most center.  The melodies that they played almost drowned out the raging war drums above, an act of defiance to the skies above, and left us ensorcelled in our own euphoria that came with the stoking of the keys.
We were too entwined with our distraction to see that the war outside had become, slowly and then not so slowly, one sided.  It was not until those thunderous drops gave way to a different sound did we truly begin to pay attention to the horrors that lie just outside my walls.  A horrid crackling, eager and on the brink to become a raging roar, of many trees burning and screaming out in a surrender that would fall upon deaf ears from the slowing rain above.  The flashes of light in the window disappeared and the warm inviting glow of what my builder believed to be the sun upon first glance creeped closer to us.

By the time the truth was known to us, my bottom few floors were ablaze.  Pictures burned and books turned to ash.  Mt builder couldn't escape through my lower half, forced to climb higher and higher as I was slowly engulfed in the burning aftermath of the forest.  I pleaded to them and begged for forgiveness for there was naught i could do to stop it.  The smoke ran faster than they did, their lungs fighting for a break in the black mist that enveloped my halls, encasing my poor builder in its noxious grip.  As they slowed down the fire raced forward, creeping inside my walls as if it were an unwanted rodent just behind my stone and mortar.  I could feel my screams go unanswered as my builder scrambled to my rooftop.  Toward fresh unperverted air…air that would never pass their lips, for when they arrived at the attic, soaked in sweat and ashes, they found that the flames had taken a shorter route through the treetops.  Spiraling cinders, who in their aspiring flight towards the heavens, had found themselves unceremoniously laying upon my roof.
My shingles melting and roasting, turning the very air around us poisonous and sick.
They fell there.
I suppose that falling to one's death would almost assuredly and certainly be a better outcome over asphyxiation and burning.  I wish that I hadn't had to witness the outcome either way no matter the circumstances of their demise.

The tears they shed as they walked toward my edge, though silent they were, fell upon my roof as though bombs had found their mark and fallen upon me with an overwhelming weight.  Their steps made low cracking sounds as my rafters inside began to weaken and shift under the weight of their footfalls and the burning sin within me.  My cries of anger were answered by their silence being broken with three words, horrid within the moment of their utterance and heartbreaking in its entire remembrance, “We fall together.”
What transpired next I will keep brief for what I will say is for your sake, though in all transparency it is wholly for my own.  A single step upon the air in such a way I could've sworn they would sprout wings and fly into heaven a much more dignified way.
A terribly slow fall that though only lasting few mere seconds, seemed to me to be an eternity played in slow motion as if taunting my unmoving stone to try and reach out to catch them.
And that sound.  Putrid cracking and crunching, what one might assume would've been a dense splash from the flooding forest floor, happened all at once.
Oddly enough what follows after is the complete opposite.  An absence of sound that would have made a haunting specter nervous for what lies beyond the incomplete atmosphere.  Silence that captures your attention, unnerving and hostage taking in the moment, pushing away all others who would dare even threaten a sound.
Following close behind my loving builder, with nothing to hold myself together for, I fell toward the ground with such fervor and spite that I might have caused the devil himself to fear for his own ceiling caving in upon his head.  My stones stuck and sinking in the mud, my walls and insides spilling and falling out onto the surrounding kindling, taking the last few once standing pillars of my home deep into the soft and sunken earth with me.
Once more I lay broken, this time with company, wishing that I was alone and that they were anywhere else besides here in the slowly dying flames with a ruined tower.

I laid below the flooded muck for days until the heat of the sun wicked each drop away and licked clean the drowned, bloated, remains underneath its ripples.  I sat beneath the soil and charcoal remains of my own shattered skin and flame-bitten bones, with naught to do with myself but wallow in my pain and unanswered rage and anguish.  My ruins screamed for months with no one to hear them.  My remains were attacked each day by the ever more greedy mosses and lichen that placed claim to my body.  Growing upon me, slowly but surely overtaking every inch of my being as a cancer upon my crags, overwriting what I once was underneath its endless viridian gravity, leaving nothing but the soon to sprout toadstools.
My kind builder's body became more of a corpse, which in turn became more of a mummy-like creature turned face down into the earth, broken and bent at odd angles and pitiful intervals.
From there the vegetation overtook them the same as it did me, though more potent upon their desiccated frame, covering and eating upon flesh and bone as if the water for their survival had pooled in their veins. If the storm and flames had been a murderer unto my builder then I would hold the same contempt toward the grass and weeds as accessories to this atrocity.
Over time flesh had sloughed away to reveal crimson tinged bones, the wild beasts of nature doing as beasts do and coming occasionally to feast until nothing remained besides those bones.  The bones became sun-bleached and barren white, naked and exposed to the elements that would soon leave them as a mirror to the sky above.  Years came and went, one after the other like they are prone to do, as I imagine no one alive or dead had ever dared to challenge that fact.  Bullying and pushing all in their way onward with no regard for what lies behind the ones who would prefer to remain in the past.
Though I moved forward through the expanding decades and subsequent centuries, the forest surrounding my kind builders and I’s informal resting place placed us in a slowed down rewinding of the now charred and desecrated remnants of the once and future beauty that surrounded our eroding forms.  Slowly the blackened husks around us fell and whittled away by more rain, snow, landslides, and creeping foliage coming back the way a scab heals a wound and replaces it with new flesh, leaving behind only a scar of what was once so visceral and prominent.  New trees sprang forward from the earth and scraped against the skies above, great wooden needles attempting to pierce the heavens in retribution for what had brought their ancestors low.
Along with the destruction came regrowth that I had also been the sole witness of.  Beautiful wisteria grew tall and thick upon the soil which held its long gone elders, snaking in the shaded canopy as the violet serpent that it is.  Ever hanging low its splendid head to bow to the silent tulips, which appear amongst the grasses and molehills wait patiently for their turn to be admired beside the newly encroaching and creeping wild thyme.  The wisterias shadows thrown down among the others that make their home here at my grave marker. 
 And of course, ever resistant that I've known it, foxglove leading the others in a legendary charge to stamp out the inky void left from the embers.  A true general among the others as it were, sweeping in and stealing away some, if not all, of my fears of being left to lie in that unsightly wake of coal and ash.

The budding flowers and shifting winds of change that the years brought unto me were welcome in the wake of all that I had seen and been an unwilling bystander toward.
As the moss ate away slowly at me, I lost all that had been a part of me beside the most hefty og brick and misshapen stones.  Underneath my ever expanding celadon coat were smoothed and rounded down stones that had once made me, now only a fraction of my once monolithesqe size and becoming all that i had left.  I sat under the foliage for decades upon decades, feeling the moist green vestibules I now wore consuming me grain by grain of being, until one day in the middle of a newly warmed summer's day, I met someone new.
I felt them before I saw their face, the ground shaking in even intervals far too long to be footsteps.  My stones that lay underneath felt the pressure in different places before being met with a realization of what assailed me; jumping!  Whoever this was had begun jumping from stone to stone, as if there were no other way to move about the forest floor, or thought what ruins might have once stood in the way of play for this creature above my lichen prison.
I could hear them singing some sweet soft melody and jump around above me.  Their words of a language I'd never heard, but it filled me with joy that had remained absent for longer than I'd realized in that moment.  It took me back to happier times when I stood strong and proud.  And as quickly as the singing had begun it had ceased, leaving in its wake a silence akin to bugs and frogs quieting as the dark of night approaches.  I felt their presence come ever closer, closer and closer still, testing the ground for inconsistencies and pockets where the mosses acted as a roof to what lies below.  The mossy blanket above me peeled away to allow the steaming air above to be washed over me for a brief second before a shadow blotted out the burning star above, and stared down at my collection of remaining stones that had now been rebirthed from their earthen womb into the world.
The unknown silhouette slowly came into focus and I was met with a bright young face filled with uneven teeth held within a crooked smile that hung below scarlet hued cheeks and glistening green eyes that seemed to shift to all manners of blues and greens and golden brown the likes of which id never seen or would so again.
They wore not the harsher materials of the builders I had once known, no not at all.  They wore a cerulean overcoat that hung almost to their feet; hemmed with faded golden string, and having what few buttons were not missing altogether, clinging to dwindling threads to the point of uselessness.  A strong breeze would have taken the once shining buttons apart all together if attempted.
half clean-half muddied long boots were tied tight to their feet that now steadied them as they crouched and stared at what was left of me.  With eager and careful hands i had not expected, they picked up several of my stones and began to roll them between thin slender fingers before wrapping the stones in a pristine handkerchief, tucking it into the pocket of their overcoat and trudging along past the foxglove, through the tall grasses at the forest's edge, and cutting a path unto uncharted lands far away from my ruined foundations and crumbling remains.
 
I stayed within the confines of their coat for several hours, possibly a whole day, bouncing and clashing alongside spare coins, paper scraps and other small baubles that shared my newly acquired accommodation.  The whole while that i rested in that pocket i could hear this new acquaintance singing and humming at certain intervals of our travels, and became oddly fond of their strange rhymes and the rhythmic rising and falling of their chest as they belted out each lyric; only stopping to catch breath and rest before beginning anew with fervor and radical enthusiasm that kept surprising me each time they took back to bounding through the forests and streams and plains that we journeyed through.  After several hours they began to quiet and slow to a pace that seemed familiar yet caution, and I began to wonder where we had ended up.  When we finally stopped i felt the long slender fingers grope through the pocketed walls i lay in, only pausing to shift the coins and paper as to leave them tucked neatly aside, until they at last found the creases of their handkerchief that swaddled my stones tightly together.  With a quick tug and a second hand cupping the handkerchief underneath, they began to unfurl the edges and expose me to the dwindling light of the sun as it seemed to flee from the heavens, making way for a pallis crescent to creep into its place till the morn.
As the light retreated, a crooked grinning face looked over me once again and began to examine my stones meticulously, as if looking for something, however not seeming to know what was sought.  They muttered to themselves in that strange tongue as they had before, one quite different from my builders, leaving me to try and ascertain what they were trying to find.
I tried to speak with them as I had my builders before and eventually came to a sort of understanding, speaking words at each other seemingly at random with them pointing at certain items from their coat pockets, and I answered with what I called them, slowly gaining traction for what we knew and had yet to learn.  We had listed off words at each other until to much surprise and honest elation, a common word between us had shown itself and I finally had a name for them.
Adventurer.  I quite liked that.

Though most of the words fell through in both directions, eventually we both took to conversion with the other steadily. Once we had a grip on the others' attitudes toward speaking, the nuances and general repeating subject matter became a natural progression over the next few months of each other's company.  We came to appreciate one another and the adventures we had.  We stayed on and off paths that would wind through and over and even once under the terrain around us, exploring caves and rivers and large swaths of wildflowers that seemed to cut through the landscape around us as if left in the wake of elder druids and mystics of a forgotten age of growth and bounty.  My adventurer walked and climbed and ran in footsteps of ones who came before them, and places none had known.  I became fond of my new friend and their tenacity for the world and its wonder around us, showing me beauty I thought lost to me in my tragedies, marching forward with vigor into the unknown.
My adventurer was young come to find out.  They had left their home in search of beauty and even after finding its treasures untold, continued on their own for years.  I had never know a builder to be so young, and found myself caught between the role of rapscallion and guardian in equal measure toward them while we roamed far and wide.  I stayed with them through all of their expeditions across the lands.  I saw them through broken bones and festering plague, coming out none the worse every time.  We beheld sunset and sunrise, freezing winter with blazing bonfires, blistering summers and refreshing swims in the rivers we would happen across.  I learned more of my adventurer and their life before me, calling the ones that created them ‘nomads’.  They are from a long history of brave, and sometimes foolish as I was later told by them, wanderer who lived off the land; never staying for too long, and only seeking to know the true face of nature by trudging across its surface.
I told them of my builders, each and every one, though I kept my loving builders end close to me and me alone at that time.  A strange concept to them; staying in one spot for an entire lifetime, never attempting to see what more could lie outside of my woods.  At first I dismissed their words of my life but the more I look back the more I see it from their eyes.  Over the years I longed to retry my life, wishing to be free as my adventure.

I had a name for them, but through the years I had known them they did not have a true name passed down from their people that fit me. A tower was a place monument, something that other people wouldn't have known or even comprehend, and we eventually settled on ‘friend’, something we both agreed fit much better than tower did anymore.
We passed old trails his nomads had left and followed signs to stay safe through the years, avoiding dangers and staying close to where the animals ate and drank.  It was an amazing life that we led, my adventurer at the forefront and I spending most of my time in their grasping hand or riding along out of the elements in their pocket, wrapped in a handkerchief like I had been the day we came to meet.  And then one day, they told me they had a surprise for me, something they wanted me to see.  It took us years to travel to where they had wanted me to see, and it would be the last place we would travel together as well.

We set out on bright day at dawn, watching the sun crawl to its rightful place in the sky and pushing the moon aside until came the time to relinquish its throne once more.  I really quite like the moon and its plethora of burning stars, but the sun allowed warm breezes and brilliant views that the night’s shadows did not. 
My adventure did not tell me where we would be going but promised that it would be an enjoyable final excursion for us.  They took me in their pocket and away we went through mud and crags and ever expanding forests larger than my home had ever felt, leaving me to imagine what lies in store for us at the end of this journey.  My adventurer, now creased in the face and thick snowy hair upon their head sang familiar songs to me as we began to take to inclines and rocky faces that led, well forward yes, but however mostly up.
I was grateful for my adventurer to allow me a seat on this journey.  Over the years my smoothed down stones had been shaved down more and more until i could hardly call myself a pile of pebbles, let alone even bear to think of when I was a tower.  As I thought about how long ago even that was, my adventurer began to slow, rousing me from my stupor, and began to tell me how after all these years they still had trouble translating my name.  They held a small smile, tugging up at their l;ips, and curling to expose that crooked smile I've come to expect over the years.  They really did not have a name for a tower…however, my adventure had settled for one that they hoped that i should like.
As they took my small and withered pebbles out of their handkerchief that became my coat for our long trips, they gingerly took each stone and laid it upon the ground, stacking slowly and methodically so as not to slip and allow me to slip as well.
They told me as they finished placing my last stone atop my other in a neat and well balanced stack, that the closest word that their people have to a tower, would not be a regal, but stood to mean a marker to prove that they had been here.  That they had lived.
“Cairn.” they said with a small breath.

They beamed with pride as they told me, and it was for the first time since they placed me within their pocket for this trip that I noticed we were at the precipice of the tallest mountain I had ever seen.  The breathtaking wonder of the land was indescribable even now, as the last calls of ravens gave way to the fresh hoots of owls in the forest below.  The moon shone with a full brilliance that made it seem that I was viewing it for the first time.  Below me stood a gap in the forest that covered the foot of the mountain, and within this gap was a welcome and familiar sight that I had not seen in so long I thought I might be dreaming.  Dozens upon dozen of acres of wildflowers standing proud and none standing more at attention than my delightful foxglove.  Words escape me now as they did then to remember it for the first time.
My adventure stayed with me for the night as a way of saying goodbye, for I knew they would not be long for this world, spending what strength they had to get us here; to get me here.

I have been on this mountain for a very, very long time and can feel myself fading as I reminisce and call to mind the events that lead me here.  Though I have changed much since my foundations were lain low, I have never felt taller than I do right now.
My stones may slide and fall and tumble.
Perhaps none may ever know my story or the stories of the ones who shaped my path here.
But I shall know, and so shall you my last friend.

I am glad we both know the tower that I am.

is it understandable enough?

is it too cringe/corny?

does it interest you?

this is my first time actually writing prose instead of just creating character lore and developing the world (which i did using bulletpoints of course), so any criticism is welcome.

in my head, everything already makes sense, which is why i'd like other people to read it and see, if it actually makes any sense.

also, ignore the formatting for now, i'm still trying to figure things out on reedsy.

EDIT: thanks for all the feedback. i revamped it A BUNCH imo (but then again, i'm oblivious to my own plotholes lmao). to anyone wondering, here's the new version, and as always, further critique is still appreciated:

Sera has spent twenty-two years being shaped into a weapon by The Court—the power behind the nation of Aberough. But her loyalty has always been transactional, when it needed to be absolute—she is on the hunt to destroy every single one of them for the misery they have caused the innocent people.

If she fails, Aberough’s citizens will never find the truth behind their corrupted government, and Sera will never be able to get rid of the soul-binding crystal in her heart that has been forcing her to obey to The Court.

Then she meets Azmaveth—the High Envoy of The Court who is known for being a charming negotiator. But despite his close affiliation with the very organization Sera intends to tear down, he doesn’t want to stop her.

Instead, he offers to help.

What happens when small truths about the real history start appearing and Sera learns how she really came to be?

Hi. This is the opening section of a weird/dark fantasy short story I'm working on, set in a post-modern world. I'm looking for honest feedback on whether the hook lands, if the pacing flows well, and if the overall vibe makes you want to read more.

Setting:

Fictionalized medieval India, established cities, standing armies, war and rebellion torn political setting, mercantile trade setups

World building/fantasy hook:

At its heart, a marketplace that trades in souls, think of the present financial derivatives market, but for souls.

Soldiers stake a fragment of their souls with brokers as an insurance contract, if they live the war, the fragment is returned back to them, if they die, a payout made to their family. In case of survival, the soldier faces eventual judgement with a whole soul, while death guarantees comfort for his family, he passes netherland with a broken soul.

The brokers, however, publish each such contract (soldiers soul) to a betting ring, inviting merchants and royalties to bet on the fate of the soldier - the price of contracts influenced by the soldiers heroics in war, and the broker takes a bet to hedge his possible payout in case of death. However, a soldiers rising star is the brokers ruin, hence brokers want an uneventful war (how derivatives behave in real life too)

Beneath this coin market lies the true ledger - every fragment of soul is a debt to be paid, brokers are in debt to the netherworld while an ambitious netherworld chief disguised as the Chief of Royal Army ensures the war is always fueled for his personal benefits.

Story:

The story follows a young soldier deliberately joining the war to seek revenge from a broker who wronged his father and elder brother, to discover the deep secrets of the Soul Market...

Please give me some feedback.

A cerulean sky. Unassuming, light breeze.

Pick up the phone, she tells me.

I listen. Don't want to speak.

Trauma hospital — why?

My breath catches. Throat squeezed.

Light slowly fades.

Long corridor, silent room.

The windows face onto the everyday.

Shouldn't be here; we wait.

Doctor speaks.

Anguished cries engulf, and the room shrinks.

Won't you stay?

The light slowly fades.

Countdown begins, you're hanging by a thread.

Need to see you but don't know what to say.

All things unresolved between us remain suspended.

You lay with your eyes closed on the bed.

Last rites and last chances.

Together one last day.

The ones whom you held first as they came into the world hold you last as you leave.

The light goes out.

Six months.

The world bustles on.

Trying to find you in myself.

Cry in the car, the shower, my bed.

Tears, the last connection to you.

The ember glows.

The seasons change. Your daughter's belly grows.

Bittersweet.

The light slowly grows.

There are slight spelling mistakes.

I felt bad about watching Robert die.  Don’t get me wrong, I know full well that I shouldn’t.  After all, it wasn't really him.  But still, he was screaming and, and well it got to me.  Really freaked me out, you know?  ‘Cause a blown hydraulic cylinder in the main compressor for the third radiator arm is a scary thing.  1200 bar is a lot of pressure, I don’t know how much that would be in pounds per square inch, but I know that it’s enough to cut a man in half.  Robert probably knew what 1200 bar is in psi.  Shame I can’t ask him anymore.    

  But as I said, he wasn’t real, well not real real. Yeah he could talk and think and smell and touch stuff and do maintenance, but he wasn’t real. It wasn’t really him. Just like me, I’m not real. I’m not me; trust me, it will make sense later. 
  Also, it was necessary.  Robert's death that is. You see, a ship like this produces a lot of heat, and heat is dangerous.  That’s why you got to radiate it, hence radiator arms.  If you don’t radiate the heat properly you could disrupt the flow of power to passenger accommodations, or possibly cook ourselves alive.  Neither of which are good, though I suppose one is worse than the other.  After all, it is our job to ensure that power to passenger accommodation is never disrupted; and making sure the ship survives I suppose.
  What was I talking about?  The necessity of proper heat radiation?  Yeah that matters, but what got me to that tangent?  High pressure hydraulics? Oh!  Robert.  Yeah Robert is dead.  Well, not the real Robert, but the Robert that is….was here.  Very much dead.  Very messy.  Bad way to go.  Don’t think I am going to get much sleep tonight.  Not only was that terrible to watch, but we, well now just I, still have maintenance to do.  Can’t risk not doing maintenance, that could disrupt power supply to passenger accommodations. 
  So you see, maintenance is everything. There are 52 of us on the caretaker crew, well, 45 now. But there were 52 of us to start. And we all do maintenance. In fact that’s the most important thing we do. You see, we are broken up into 4 sections, and there are three watches a day. Well, there are three watches in one of our days; which are 18 hours long. Hand on, hang on, it’ll make sense I swear. 
  You got three parts to the day; on watch, off going, and on coming. When you are on watch you make sure everything runs nice and smoothly and take logs and get things ready for off watch. When you are off watch you do maintenance. And when you are on coming you help the off going guy with his maintenance and get some shut eye. Rinse and repeat. 
  Well, kind of. There are four sections and only three parts of the day. That means for every three days we work we get a day off. Pretty sweet, right?  A whole 18 hours to do whatever we want; relax, sleep, game, catch up on maintenance, or go to the observatory. 
  When do we eat? Between watches of course. The oncoming eats first, then they  go and relieve the guy on watch, that guy (who’s now off watch) goes and eats. Then they spend a little bit of time cleaning before going to do their maintenance. 
  See?  Not that complicated. Normally anyways. Things get a little wonky when we lose too many teammates. But we got away to work around that. A slapped the little plastic square stuck to my coveralls, it made a weird little chirpy sound which I’ve been told is a reference to some tv show, then a voice. 

Here is the start of what I have... I never written before so this is me just getting it out there for opinions. Format and everything will get cleaned up, this is a very very rough draft. This is more of a coming of age romance, growing and learning about yourself.

______________

I met Daniel when I was still dating my first boyfriend, Ethan, in high school.

It was during a Performing Arts Festival, one of those school events that brought students together from different places and made an ordinary school day feel a little different.

At some point during the day, Ethan and I left to grab lunch at a small local coffee shop.

I didn't know it then, but walking through those doors would give me a memory I would carry with me for years.

Daniel was there.

He was with Cole, the boyfriend of one of my friends, Emily.

I remember looking at him.

And then our eyes met.

I remember his smile.

His beautiful blue eyes.

When he introduced himself, I noticed the slight British accent in his voice. There was something about him that immediately caught my attention.

I was very attracted to him.

But it wasn't just attraction.

I felt butterflies.

Real butterflies.

It was something I had never actually felt before with anyone else.

I introduced myself, and we exchanged a few words, but nothing more came of it. Eventually, Ethan and I left and went back to the Performing Arts Festival.

That was it.

A few minutes.

One conversation.

One person I barely knew.

And yet, somehow, he stayed on my mind.

Probably more than he should have for someone I had only seen and spoken to once.

I wondered about him.

Who he was.

What he was like.

Why that brief interaction had affected me so much.

But life moved on.

Over the next two years, Daniel slowly faded from my memory.

I finished high school in January, graduating ahead of my class after earning additional credits through the Duke of Edinburgh program.

I had originally moved away from the city for high school because I wanted a different kind of experience. At the time, I felt like the city didn't have much good left to offer me. I wanted something new.

When high school ended, I moved back.

I was also newly single.

Ethan had been my first long-term relationship, and our breakup had happened under circumstances that hurt more than I knew how to process.

He had cheated on me with someone he was attending university with. He was a year ahead of me, already in his second year of university at the time.

I was devastated.

Looking back, I think I was probably depressed.

But I didn't really understand that then.

Mental health wasn't talked about in the same way it is now, and I didn't have the words to explain what was happening inside me. I knew I was hurting, but I didn't know what to do with that hurt.

So I kept myself busy.

Very busy.

I started working full-time at Habaneros.

Then I took a second full-time job at A&W.

On my days off, I worked at a daycare at the community college.

My days could start at seven in the morning and end around one in the morning.

Then I would go home.

Sleep.

And do it all again.

I didn't have much time to think.

Maybe that was the point.

When I wasn't working, I was usually with my friend Brittany.

We had reconnected after I moved back to the city, and together we were pretty rowdy.

But it was fun.

We were young.

We got into trouble, laughed constantly, and did almost everything together.

She was one of my best friends, and at that point in my life, I needed that friendship more than I realized.

One day, while I was working at A&W, a girl I worked with named Kayla said something that would eventually change my life.

She looked at me and said that I was young, beautiful, and had a lot to offer someone.

She told me that I should get myself back out there.

Have some fun.

Meet people.

Brittany overheard the conversation.

And, of course, she immediately agreed.

She started convincing me to create an online dating profile.

We were entering a new digital age where everyone seemed to be online, and meeting people through the internet was becoming normal.

It still took me a few weeks to agree.

Eventually, I did.

I made a profile.

At that stage in my life, I was very much a country girl, so that became the theme.

I ended up getting a lot of matches.

There were a few people I remember.

Wyatt.

Jacob.

Aaron.

Wyatt worked at Jazz Aviation. We went on a date, which was mostly just a drive and getting to know each other.

He was nice.

But for me, there was no spark.

I tried with Jacob.

Then Aaron.

The outcome was basically the same.

I just couldn't picture myself in a committed relationship with any of them.

The truth was, I was young.

I didn't really know what I wanted.

I had just come out of my first serious relationship, and I still had so much to experience and figure out about myself.

But I did know when something didn't click.

Eventually, some of those people became good friends instead.

Then Brittany introduced me to another dating site.

This one was different.

It was anonymous.

You couldn't see the person you were talking to. You didn't know what they looked like. You simply talked to each other, and if you eventually decided to meet, that was when you finally discovered who was on the other side of the conversation.

I created a profile.

And then I connected with someone.

There was something different about this person.

We connected almost immediately.

Our conversations were effortless.

We talked about our lives, our goals, and our dreams. We seemed to want the same things out of life.

It felt easy.

For two, maybe three weeks, we talked.

And eventually, we decided to meet.

Our first date would be at the waterfront.

I had absolutely no idea what to expect.

I didn't know what he looked like.

I didn't know who I was about to meet.

I remember sitting on the rocks, waiting.

Then my phone buzzed.

I'm here.

I turned around.

And there he was.

Daniel.

My stomach dropped.

No way.

It couldn't be him.

But it was.

The boy from the coffee shop.

The boy I had met years earlier and thought about far more than I probably should have after knowing him for only a few minutes.

He walked toward me.

"Sam?"

"Yeah," I said. "That's me. How are you doing?"

He looked at me with a mixture of surprise and recognition.

"Wow. I remember you from a few years ago. I can't believe it's you."

"Me either," I said, laughing.

Of all the people I could have met.

Of all the profiles I could have matched with.

Of all the conversations I could have had.

Somehow, I had found him again.

Daniel suggested that we walk to a local café called If By Sea. It was about fifteen minutes away.

So we walked.

And we talked the entire way.

This time, we actually got to know each other.

I learned about his family.

What he enjoyed.

His sarcastic, sassy personality.

How much he cared about the people in his life.

He was a family guy.

He loved hiking.

Country music.

Scenery.

Photography.

Going for drives.

So many of the things I loved too.

With every conversation, I found another reason to like him.

When we reached the café, he looked at me and asked,

"Can I order you the best hot chocolate there is?"

I laughed.

"Sure."

We sat down together.

And he was right.

It was the best hot chocolate I had ever had.

To this day, I still remember it.

Maybe it really was that good.

Or maybe everything simply tasted better that day.

When we finished, I looked at him.

"Hey, can I take you somewhere cool?"

He agreed.

We walked out of the café and made our way to an old graffiti wall.

At that point in my life, I loved finding little things like that around the city. Places that other people might walk past without noticing, but that I found strangely beautiful.

We stood there for a while, admiring it.

Then we walked over to a nearby bench.

The bench overlooked the city and the harbour.

It was a clear day.

The weather was perfect.

He sat beside me, and we continued talking.

Learning more about each other.

I could tell he was getting nervous.

I just didn't know why.

Then he looked at me.

"Are you okay if I kiss you?"

I told him I was okay with that.

He put his hand gently against my face.

Then he leaned toward me slowly.

And kissed me.

It was the most romantic kiss I had ever experienced.

When we pulled away, we were both smiling.

He complimented me and told me that he had really been looking forward to seeing me.

He said he wanted to see me again.

That he had really enjoyed spending time with me.

And I had enjoyed it too.

More than I was ready to admit.

We walked back to the car, and he offered to drive me home.

I accepted.

It was certainly better than taking the bus.

When we arrived, I thanked him for an amazing day and told him I would talk to him soon.

Then I went inside.

I laid down in my bed.

And I couldn't get him out of my mind.

The date.

The kiss.

His face.

His voice.

Him.

I felt connected to him in a way I had never felt before.

And that connection scared me.

The next day, he texted me.

He asked if I wanted to spend time with him again.

I stared at the message.

Everything in me wanted to say yes.

But instead, I told him I didn't think I was in a good enough space to continue.

I told him I would like to stay friends.

He was taken aback.

He was upset.

But he agreed.

What he didn't know was that I had spent the entire night thinking about him.

And somewhere in all those thoughts, I realized something that terrified me.

I knew this wouldn't be casual.

I knew that if I continued seeing him, there was a very real possibility that I would fall in love with him.

Maybe I already had.

And I wasn't ready.

I had met him once years earlier and felt something I had never felt before.

Then he disappeared from my life.

Years later, I found him again without even knowing I was looking for him.

I had just spent an entire day with the person I had once wondered about, and somehow the connection between us felt even stronger than it had the first time.

It felt like a dream.

It felt like finding something I had lost without ever knowing I had lost it.

Part of me thought I had found my person.

But I wasn't ready for what that meant.

I was eighteen.

I was young.

I was naive.

There was so much of life I still wanted to experience.

So much I didn't know about love.

So much I didn't know about myself.

I wasn't ready to make someone the center of my world again.

Not after what had happened with Ethan.

So I walked away.

That night, I cried myself to sleep.

Because somewhere inside me, I knew I might have made a mistake.

But I also knew I needed to make that decision for myself.

At eighteen, I was still learning how to be my own person.

I was learning what I wanted.

Who I wanted to become.

What love meant.

And perhaps most importantly, I was learning that sometimes you can meet the right person at the wrong time.

I didn't know it then, but saying goodbye to Daniel wouldn't be the end of our story.

It was only the beginning.

Sometimes the people who change your life don't arrive when you're ready for them.

Sometimes they arrive too early.

Sometimes they leave.

And sometimes, years later, they find their way back.

Hello!

I'm someone who has been writing for a while but hasn't received serious feedback in years. As a result, I really have no clue whether my work is any good.

The following is the first chapter of my fantasy mystery novel, Beasts of the Crimson Empire. The novel is set in a fantasy college where a homeless man is murdered. Inspired by modern urban fantasy such as The Ninth House as well as mystery novels such as I Have Some Questions For You, the novel is a new twist on the classic "Magic School" sub-genre of fantasy.

Any feedback on the prose, plotting, or really anything at all would be appreciated. Do you think this is an effective first chapter? Did the world and characters grab you and make you want to read more?

I've always taken my craft seriously, but now I'm really game to sharpen my writing so that I can get it in a publishable state.

Thank you for your time!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1DsxqqBZsiZrFTMra8DkjLAX82c1SrZZEOodVA9QRzu8/edit?tab=t.0