Premise: A post-apocalyptic, Lovecraftian world built around the idea of “Iterations.”

Human civilization follows a natural cycle of roughly 10,000 years, ending in an apocalypse before beginning again.

Iteration 99, the setting of the story.

Class systems and social hierarchies.

Borrowed themes from:

Cyberpunk — corporate control

Fallout — post-apocalyptic settings

Adventure Time — repeating history

Metal Gear Solid — private military companies (PMCs)

POLITICAL SUBPLOT:

The Union, an alternate version of the United States, is divided into districts. Its cities are scattered across a vast, harsh landscape of deserts, plains, and tundra. Steampunk airships and dirigibles share the skies with cassette-futurist and early-1980s-to-1990s technology. Settlements exist beyond city walls, where PMCs often operate beyond government scrutiny.

Wild West-inspired settlements and landscapes

Gunrunners and couriers, known as Dust-biters or Scraps

Rogues: PMC defectors who still wear their former company colors

Marauders: violent, unstable outlaws, sometimes driven to madness by heatstroke or drugs

Immigrant outposts, particularly those populated by Middle Eastern and Turkish communities

Advanced technology is rare and heavily restricted. Microcontrollers, megahertz chips, unified RAM, technologies that could enable modern AI, and integrated nuclear-weapons programs are forbidden, with severe physical punishment for violations.

District 52 is the main setting for the first half of the story.

Wide roads and 1980s-style cars with some design elements from the 2000s.

Tall buildings and small dirigibles fill the lower skies. Above them, PMC airships hover near the clouds, ready to deploy shock troops when unrest breaks out.

Despite their strong aerial presence, PMC aircraft are unreliable, limiting their use.

PMCs

Kessler: Personnel wear slim gas masks, long coats, helmets, and lightweight weapons; their appearance varies by rank and role. Kessler Security Contracting Co. originally took over a factory that mass-produced exterminator masks. The masks proved useful in chemical warfare, helping trigger conflicts between French Canadia and the Union involving poison gas, trench warfare, and the development of modern airships. In the 1960s, Kessler funded research into the Union’s first atomic bomb, contributing to a Cold War fought largely through espionage and proxy conflicts. A near-dirty-bomb incident in Miami led to city walls being built and access to the harsh, but inhabitable, wasteland being restricted. After Kessler helped defuse the crisis, the Union brought the company into its military operations. Politicians eventually began using Kessler to carry out covert actions without the political consequences, gradually sidelining the official military.

105th Collies

During the Second Proxy World War in the 1940s, defectors from Europe, the Union, Kieva, and Albian (Britain) formed a secretive network of operatives known as the 105th Collies. In the 1960s and 1970s, rumors claimed they were replacing politicians who died unexpectedly, though government-backed investigations dismissed the allegations. By the early 1990s, most people believed the Collies were extinct or in hiding, while conspiracy theories claimed they still manipulated elections and legislation. In 1993, District 52 Director Victor Halden shut down all investigations, calling them “a disappointing waste of effort and funds.”

Other PMCs

The Eastern Wars displaced many Middle Eastern and Eastern European refugees. In 1976, Director Clifford Benedict offered them free immigration and protected settlements outside the cities. His successor later revoked the policy, prompting riots and armed uprisings across the East Coast. Kessler and Union Army special forces suppressed the violence while still operating as equals. Some survivors formed unofficial PMCs, including Valencia Contracting and Salam Security. These groups operate in the largely lawless territories beyond the major cities, where authorities often overlook them.

Social classes and slang

Couriers are commonly called Dust-biters because they transport goods across dangerous plains, deserts, and tundra. In colder regions, they may be called Snowshoes.

Corporate elites are known as Plate-lickers or Silver Spoons. They control PMCs, genetic-testing programs, food safety, and the production and distribution of essential goods.

Blindeyes are couriers who also work outside the law. They steal technology from PMC warehouses and may sell the same parts back before anyone notices they are missing.

Preachers are government-sponsored “missionaries” sent to settlements beyond the city walls. They promote urban life while discouraging potential threats to the cities, often imposing the government’s version of happiness on nomadic communities.

Patchers, or Highwires, are technicians who illegally repair or modify circuit boards, microchips, and other advanced technology. Many live in the Rust Grid, a vast buried city beneath the flatlands between Districts 52 and 58, which are hostile toward one another. The city is guarded by bulky, primitive drones secretly developed by Kessler engineers. Tethered to wires across the high ceiling, the drones have limited mobility; busy blocks may contain four to eight of them. The 105th Collies are the main power in the Rust Grid and occasionally reveal themselves to discourage interference.

Chirpers, also called Mouths, work in media and culture as filmmakers, actors, writers, comedians, debaters, poets, and more. Many form groups to share ideas, create propaganda, or produce art. Their entertainment helps maintain public morale, and production often increases during periods of tension to distract people from events beyond the cities.

ITERATION SUBPLOT: 

Every human civilization ends abruptly after roughly 10,000 years, often through nuclear war, mass poisoning, or another global catastrophe. A small number of survivors lose their memories and eventually rebuild civilization.

Vorons are tiny, four-dimensional subatomic particles sometimes called the “DNA of time.” Their density in an organism is believed to determine its level of life and awareness. Around 750,000 Vorons per cell may indicate intelligence; approximately 2.3 million Vorons per cell (vpc) is thought to produce sapience—a soul, consciousness, and discernment. Humans are the only known sapient species, though some who study the Iterations believe another existed during the first cycle over a million years ago.

When a sapient organism dies, its Vorons disperse through space and may later be reused in another creature, forming the basis of reincarnation in this universe. Across Iterations, the same soul may reappear in different lives, sometimes repeating similar actions in the same place and year. Here, history does not merely rhyme; it repeats.

Each Iteration follows a broad pattern of rise, development, collapse, and renewal, though its technology and culture vary. One cycle may be steampunk, cyberpunk, atompunk, analog, or digital. After each apocalypse, humanity begins again with primitive tools and gradually rebuilds until the cycle’s end becomes inevitable.

MAIN CHARACTERS: 

Elliot Thatcher

Elliot Thatcher was born in 1973 and works as a courier, often taking illegal jobs as a Blindeye and stealing from PMC warehouses or technology workshops. His father was a courier and was killed during the Eastern Wars; his mother, a primary-school teacher, was imprisoned and later released on the East Coast, unable to reconnect with him. Elliot grew up in a public foster institution and ran away at 17. He later left college to follow his father’s path. Repeatedly detained for petty theft, he usually spent only a few days in jail. In 1994, at 21, he lives in an apartment complex on the city’s eastern edge. His closest connections are childhood friend Pace Romano, Pace’s sister Salem, neighbor Camille Navarro, and several information brokers.

Camille Navarro

Camille Navarro was born in Barcelona in 1973 and moved to the Union with her family at age nine, near the end of the Eastern Wars. She attended school with Elliot and graduated from a prestigious university at 23. After her family circumstances changed, she moved into his building. Their relationship is tense and full of arguments, though they still care about one another. Camille interns in District 52’s architecture department, hoping to improve people’s lives. She values peace and altruism but is repeatedly drawn into morally complicated situations.

Pace Romano

Pace Romano, born the same year as Elliot, dropped out of college during his first year and started a business with his younger sister, Salem, modifying vehicles and handling technology of questionable legality. Elliot supplies them with parts in exchange for a small weekly payment. Because authorities suspect Pace of more illegal activity than Elliot, he takes precautions to avoid detection.

Salem Romano

Salem Romano, born in 1975, is Pace’s quieter younger sister and handles most of the technical work in their shop while Pace and Elliot negotiate. She earned degrees in business, engineering, and biochemistry at a young age. After the business became profitable, she and Pace moved into a vacant building beside Elliot’s apartment. Despite her intelligence, Salem struggles with insecurity about her parents’ expectations, caution, insensitivity, and a quick temper. She remains close to Pace and Elliot.

Victoria “Vic” Alira

Victoria “Vic” Alira was born in 1972 in the southern coastal region of the Australian Dust-lands, a term for sparsely inhabited dry regions across places such as the Middle East, Africa, and Mongolia. Her birth parents gave her up for adoption at age five, and she grew up with cold, disapproving adoptive parents. She remained closest to her two sisters and older brother. Vic moved to the Union’s Pacific region at 19 and eventually settled in District 52. After becoming acquainted with Elliot and Camille in her early twenties, she turned her wanderlust into work as an information broker for their courier jobs and others.

Main Story:

As time stretches and the Iteration cycle repeats, Vorons begin to cluster and bring objects and beings from past Iterations into the present. These anomalies cause phasing, visual glitches, and other distortions. One of the first is an android known as Jack.

Jack was built in the 42nd Iteration in a 1940s-noir version of New York, where biotechnology dominates the American Empirical Republic (AER). Researchers used human brain cells to give him human-level intelligence and near-sapience. Named Lazarus by lead researcher Dr. Tobias Kolavenko, Jack has amber-lit eyes and a mouth that functions as both audio output and exhaust. After months of painful experiments, AER special forces raided the lab and killed its staff. Jack escaped his reinforced enclosure and killed the remaining operatives. Grieving the researchers he regarded as his creators, he later became an illegal bounty hunter and adopted the name Jack, along with a broad-brimmed hat, long coat, and boots to conceal his identity. When Voron anomalies begin, Elliot glimpses him during a nighttime raid in a blizzard. Days later, Vic finds Jack injured and brings him to the shop, where the rest of the crew meets him.

The Director of District 52, Victor Halden

Victor Halden, Director of District 52, is cocky, humorous, power-hungry, and somewhat unstable. His rivalry with District 58 Director Susan Brownell leads him to blame her and her thriving cities for many of his problems. He dislikes confronting people above him and routinely appeases Kessler generals, the Union’s head Director (the President), and his own supervisors. He also ensures that details of major incidents are redacted.

The story follows the crew through episodic adventures involving gunrunning, stealth, humor, and contracts to help people. Beneath these smaller stories, tensions between Kessler, the Union, the Huang Republic, Kieva, and other powers threaten another Cold War. The creation of dirty bombs containing Chernovor—a Voron-dense mineral made from depleted uranium and phosphorus—could end Iteration 99. The use of just five bombs would plunge Earth into permanent darkness and prevent humanity from returning.

With humanity’s factions deeply divided and distrustful, the crew must find a way to end the Iteration cycle before it destroys them.

The central twist concerns Elliot’s identity and his connection to previous Iterations.

The ambiguous nature of the Iterations’ origin remains central to the story, yet it should contain these ideas: 

Like many people, Elliot has lived different lives across multiple Iterations. A soul’s role may be filled by another version of that person in a later cycle, though the origin and meaning of this pattern remain open to interpretation.

Elias Mercer:

Iteration 0 took place roughly one million years before Iteration 99 in a world much like our own.

In the 1960s, Soviet leader Edgar Reznov became internationally known for his work in peace, biotechnology, and medicine. His research eventually had unintended and devastating consequences.

By the mid-1970s, Reznov’s researchers were using chemical mutation and gene therapy to create people resistant to disease. These modified humans looked almost ordinary but tended to have pale, gray-tinted hair, unusual inherited accents, and reconstructed genomes. They were often taller and stronger, reproduced more quickly, and were more likely to have multiple births, but lived shorter lives—around 60–65 years rather than 75. Once the public learned about them, many called them “sub-humans,” “monsters,” or “God’s Secondaries.”

Reznov stepped down in 1982 and was succeeded by Mikhail Voronin. In 1984, Voronin launched the Integration Campaign to help the growing modified population join society. Reclaiming the insult “God’s Secondaries,” he called them Secondaries and placed them in public-facing roles in advertisements and city campaigns. Acceptance grew, although prejudice remained.

In 1992, Voronin settled many Secondaries in Russian-occupied East Africa, where new settlements were needed amid the threat of foreign occupation. That year, biologists discovered that Secondaries could no longer reproduce genetically with unmodified humans. Leaked documents called them “Homo aberrans” (“Deviated Man”), and the revelation sparked worldwide riots and killings. Voronin responded by protecting the settlements and appointing a young survivor, Elias Mercer, as his apprentice to demonstrate that the two populations could coexist.

The discovery leaked to the public, and documents referring to the group as “Homo aberrans” (“the Deviated Man”) intensified the backlash. Riots broke out worldwide, and Secondaries were killed across the globe. Voronin responded by sending military protection to their province and choosing Elias as his apprentice, hoping to demonstrate that the two populations could coexist.

Voronin became a father figure to Elias, but on September 18, 1999, European and American radicals attacked Secondary communities, killing and imprisoning civilians. Voronin’s efforts to stop the violence failed. Later, raiders attacked Elias’s village, killing several of his allies, including children. Traumatized and furious, Elias decided to retaliate against humanity for the persecution of his people.

Elias secretly ordered bombings of Union offices and helped seize Russian military equipment in the province. The conflict escalated as other countries intervened and Secondary forces conquered nearby territories. A U.S. invasion of Africa’s west coast triggered a wider war. After witnessing the resulting mass deaths, Elias lost faith in humanity and ordered global dirty-bomb launches, believing that shared extinction would force all life into a single, equal state.

As the launch began, Elias went to a helipad to initiate the opening of the world’s missile silos. Voronin confronted him, and Elias stabbed him. With the launches underway and the world facing destruction, Elias regretted killing the man who had raised him, yet remained convinced that his plan would end humanity’s divisions.

The plan ultimately fails to end the cycle. When the world dies, its Vorons disperse across Earth and remain in stasis, allowing the same process of collapse and renewal to repeat without an apparent way to stop it.

The Catalyst

The Catalyst is a Kessler-owned artifact discovered deep within ancient analog data vaults. It is a Voron-dense crystal composed of phosphorus and uraninite, with a density of approximately 1.5 million Vorons. Its defining feature is sentience. Although most people cannot hear it, the Catalyst can communicate telepathically at close range. It usually seeks a place to reside as it “bounces around” inside Elliot’s mind, often to his mental detriment.

As for the elements of the story itself, it holds a certain balance between solemnity, wholesome teamwork, broken factions, corruption, and loss. It touches on a lot of tragic topics, and in my opinion, it just shows a very solid moral foundation.

Just a reminder that this IS still a work-in-progress, I havent focused too much on my grammar since I rushed this brief proof of concept, but I think I sums it up very well. Let me know what I can do, since the idea isnt done yet!

Initially I was going to post the second chapter, but since I received so much feedback on the first chapter’s lack of clarity, I thought it would better to fix that first. The other common issue was too much repetition. I’ve changed some things towards the ending. Hopefully it’s an improvement. Any feedback is welcome.

2682 Untitled – Chapter 2 Maeve

2711 Father Tokens – CPW Bk2 Ch1

3644 Heat Below, Part 2 (Chapter6)

My story

“Out there is the enemy. They are filth. They are vermin. They are …” Knight Reveré grimaced, almost choking on the word. 

“Heretics.” He hissed.

Geromé looked at the field, at the muddy, anarchic mess that was the enemy. Righteous anger made him clutch his sword tighter.

Or at least, that’s what Willem called it. 

It sometimes felt closer to fear.

He stared at his comrades, at their shining armour, the holy Red Cross emblazoned on their shields and jerkins. He would do this for the cause.

“God be with me!” He yelled, answered by a roar from his brethren. ‘Please steady my legs,’ was the thought that echoed through his brain.

Knight Reveré spurned his horse.

“Charge!”

They followed his canter, their mad sprint echoing his spirit, the reality being a jostle of arms and legs, and more than one man falling headfirst into the mud. Geromé kept his feet, yet all too soon he was deep into the fray. The battle cries transformed into yells, grunts and thuds of weapons beginning to butcher flesh. 

He saw a man in the madness, and Geromé pushed his sword forward, euphoric and distressed as it sunk into flesh, to then keep sinking. He fell onto the man, the pommel of his sword slamming into his own stomach, making him gasp. Geromé tried to move, the bodies around him where squeezing him from all sides, he could see bloody teeth snarling at him until the man’s eyes closed. 

He had never felt closer to a heretic, lying down on his corpse as the screams of the dying reached fever pitch.

Geromé tried to push himself back up when something smacked into the back of his head.

Pain exploded through him. The blood streaming down his face burned his eyes. Down on all fours, he tried to drag himself forward, whimpering as feet and metal whacked into his body. With a groan he rolled himself onto his back.

There was someone standing on top of him. Holding a sword, they went to plunge it into his face, until they and those around them were propelled into the air, a whirlwind whipping through them.

Geromé gasped. Through the red stream covering his vision, a black, horny monster was gutting the enemy, spraying their blood from side to side, throwing heads, limbs and meat into the mud. Its eyes were golden and full of fire.

“Please God, save me.” Geromé prayed.

Eventually the carnage in their little pocket of the battlefield ceased, allowing the creature to turn its attention towards him.

“Up sirrah! We must continue!”

Geromé blinked and wiped the blood off of his face.

Knight Reveré held out a hand, his shining, silver armour covered completely with gore.

A cheery smile sat on his face.

Yet it was the eyes that froze Geromé, still blazing with zealous gluttony.

 
Critique:

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1xes2wd/help_800/

I want to start querying for an agent but need harsh feedback for my opening chapter. Please be honest about what to change.

Genre: Literary fiction, psychological horror, fairytale gone wrong

Chapter 1

My home was small, made smaller by the yells that filled it, but it had a bed. Walls, too. I don’t regret leaving. Never. I just miss having a ceiling.

I must stay here and wait instead. Sitting cross-legged at the base of this clock tower, each hour rumbles through me. Workmen rush past in a blur of blues and browns, my extended hand ignored. I hope their saved pennies are worth my misery. My head falls back to peer up at the wooden spire, only for the sun to scorch my face. Its end is lost to my squinting eyes.

I am swimming in air. Sweat pools in every crease. Each breath lacks that cool breeze at the back of my throat, so my brain— that animal part of my brain is convinced we are suffocating. When my chest does not tighten, my body is nauseous, irritated almost, that we are not dead on the floor.

Crying brings some relief, thankfully. I wipe my cheeks with a finger. The gnawing in my belly has me lick the salty droplets. I cry harder when they immediately dissipate on my dry tongue.

A scurry and a chitter. The nearby alley, as dusty and worn-down as the rest of this cobblestone square, is a slit between the stacked houses. My mind conjures monsters from the shadows, but when a snout pokes out, the fear settles into disgust. A gangly pack in scraps of tattered clothing chatters amongst themselves. The street urchins weave between the marching legs, fighting for the droplets in littered containers and snatching bread cooling on windowsills.

Rotten. I wrap my arms tighter around myself when beady eyes dart to mine. How much longer can I survive without kindness before transforming into those things?

Desperate for respite, I close my eyes. Here, I find the ever-present dream that had me cross an ocean in hopes to become materialised.

I see myself as I am meant to be: A princess. I will be led into my fairytale by my Prince, and we shall be happy forever after. 

The clock strikes 12, and my eyes snap open. I imagine a countdown to my death– already, I am the oldest I have ever been. My time is passing too quick but all there is to do is wait until–

Sleek leather shoes shine against the background of worn boots. They pause abruptly, pivot, and grow larger in my narrow field of vision until they are my entire view. A sudden cool shade, and I can breathe again.

My gaze travels up: a tailored suit, a silver chain of a pocket watch, and a crisp white shirt. His face. I would have thought him a living bronze statue were it not for those eyes. A drop of honey in a pool of milk. I feel like drowning.

I want to touch him, but blush at the thought. My hands are too dirty. I sit up straighter, tuck my hair behind my ears, fidget with my hem, then clasp my hands together once I realise how silly I must look. He is watching me. He smiles. I smile.

“I’ve never seen you before.” His voice has me imagining myself sitting in his lap as he strokes my hair. “I would have remembered you if I had.”

“I only just arrived.” My voice comes out in a croak. I bite my tongue and resign myself to life as a mute.
He crouches down. Eye to eye. My brain scrambles, enough that I break my seconds-long vow of silence with a stammered, “What is your name?”

With the softest touch I’ve ever felt, he holds me by the neck, turning my face this way and that. My skin prickles beneath his cool hand.

“Ambrose,” he breathes, “My name is Ambrose.”

Lady Ambrose. Perhaps Duchess instead. Countess, I could be.

Princess.

My body stops hurting.

“I have a friend who would be very interested to meet you.” A soft squeeze on my neck and I am chest-deep in quicksand. It is so warm here.

“You are very beautiful,” he continues, “and we collect beautiful things.”

His hand leaves my neck, and he holds it out. Palm up. “Would you like to meet them?”

I place my hand in his, and together we rise.

Notes:

If anyone is interested in beta reading part 1 [13k words] I’d love to share. Has an unreliable narrator, lots of dramatic irony and similar vibe to Gone Girl. If not, I’d love to know where you DNF’d. Any feedback is appreciated. Don’t be afraid to be harsh; I appreciate honesty!

Critique:
https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/EW96elFSpe

Hi! I am interested mostly in technical feedback, but if you have any criticism on the themes those are very welcome too.

Thank you for any feedback!

New Dimensions

[1578]

Critique [1832] [438]

This is my first attempt at writing a horror story. Im not sure if the ending was good.

Any feedback is appreciated!

——————————————-

I hate having a roommate.

My roommate isn’t bad, they’re alright. It’s just insufferable having a human invade your personal space.

I’m in my second year at a university far from my hometown, sharing a small apartment with a first-year student. They’re much better than my previous roommate, who seemed to have no hobby other than complaining about the bathroom not being spotless.

We barely talk, except for the occasional hi. Every day is the same. I come home, microwave some frozen food, eat, sleep, and leave for university. My roommate does the same.
But lately, I started feeling an aura of sadness surrounding my roommate. Today, I came home and found our trash can overflown with tissues. My roommate hadn’t left their bed all day. They just laid there, facing the wall.

I wanted to talk to them, but we barely knew each other. Maybe they didn't want me interfering. Still, I couldn't help feeling sorry for them. They seemed to be as lonely as me. Besides, I understand how depressing life can get after moving away from home. it got late, I turned off the lights and went to sleep.

I suddenly woke up to the echoes of someone screaming. Is it from the window? Like, is it next door? It sounded so close, like it’s coming from inside this building. Is it from another apartment? This isn’t the cries of a kid. It’s from someone older, an adult.

It sounds like someone screaming in pain, in agony. I can’t sleep with these screams ongoing. I can’t stop thinking about them. What could cause all this pain?

After a while, the scream suddenly stopped, followed by silence. I laid in my bed during the dark, disturbed by what I just heard, but later I went to sleep.

next day, I came back from uni exhausted with so much work to do, I went to my room and as put up my stuff in my bed, I notice something. My roommate is facing me, their eyes wide open, facing me. I awkwardly pretend I saw nothing and head over to the kitchen to boil my quick ramen. I tell myself, “I’m gonna start my work after this meal.” While I wait for the water to boil, I heard my door creaking open.

They must have gotten up. I listen for the footsteps, but I hear nothing. All weird. I finish my ramen and head to the living room to eat. While I’m going there, I see my roommate standing still at the doorframe, eyes wide open, expression blank. Are they looking at me or just the front? I go left, and their eyes go left too. What is wrong with them?

I sit on the sofa and start eating. My roommate joins me, turning their head to stare directly at me.

"Do you want something?"

Silence.

"Hello? Can you hear me?"

Nothing.

Are they asleep? Is this what a sleepwalking person looks like? I will just ignore them. I pull out my phone, pretending to scroll. A moment later, they pull out theirs too.

I finish my food as fast as possible and retreat to my room. My roommate follows, lying on their bed, staring at me. I move to the living room. They follow again. God, what the hell is with them? I rush into the bathroom and lock the door. The handle turns once. Then silence.

Ahh, finally some peace. I sit in the bathroom for fifteen minutes. It’s getting boring, and I can’t stand this place. It’s so narrow. Then I open the bathroom door and leave. A cabinet opened in the kitchen. I looked over.

My roommate was opening my cupboard. Taking out one of my ramen cups, preparing it, and setting exactly where I sat earlier, scrolling through their phone. What the hell.

They’ve used my spoon before, but I always brushed it off. Spoons look similar. But this? This is on purpose! They know that’s mine. And they don’t even like ramen. They told me so themselves when we first moved in. What is wrong with them?

“I noticed you took my ramen cup. If you wanted one, you can always tell me, and I will give you.”

They stared, watching me quietly with the same blank expression. After a while of awkward silence, I just left to work. Later I came back turned the lights off and crawled into bed. I just want tomorrow to come. I want to sleep. I can't. I feel stared at. Please, I just want to sleep…

I woke up to my alarm and ran off to uni. My class is over. I walk across the hall, hugging myself. There are so many humans, so many. I can feel every person currently watching me, even for a second. I want an escape. I look anxiously for any isolated place. I find a utility room.

It’s dusty and dark, with some sunlight leaking. It’s perfect!. No one can watches me here. I feel my feet pressing against the soles of my shoes, I listen to the faint sounds of my muscles shifting with every movement. I stretch out one arm, feeling the pull of my nerves and muscles. I could never move my arm like this before. Not when someone was watching.

I close my eyes. Slowly, I raise my hand in front of my face, feeling the warmth of my breath brushing against my fingertips.

I’m human.

I can only feel human when I’m alone. I can only be human when I’m alone.

The world around me moves when I move. It spins when I spin. I watch my fingers curl and uncurl when I want them to. I can only be free when it’s just me, myself, and I.

Then I cry. Tears I’ve held back for so long finally fall. I cry silently, afraid someone might hear me. I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to be stared at. Why are they like that? I don’t want to lose this freedom. But I can’t stay here forever.

I had to leave because uni is closing. I head back to my apartment, and there, in front of me, my roommate is standing in the middle of the apartment, my roommate. How long was it just standing there?

I screamed,

“What is wrong with you?”

They responded “Want something?”

“Why were you quietly staring?!”

“I noticed you took my ramen cup.”

Huh?? They went to the bathroom. I took the time to relax and remembered there’s a balcony in the apartment. I pushed through the curtains, opened the door and went outside. The view there is nice, seeing the streets and buildings. It’s just there’s a feeling bothering me.

I stared at the balcony glass door. I only saw curtains, but I had a feeling my some is standing behind it.

I don’t even wanna know if they are. I continue glancing at the buildings, then behind me. I can’t. I pushed away the curtains.

They were standing there. I didn’t know how close they were to the curtains. My whole body feels light, and my heart beating too fast. I pushed them screaming,

“Who are you? What are you! Please go away! Please, please go back to normal!”

They pushed me back and screamed the same words. I ran to the bathroom and locked it. I sat there, fidgeting frantically. What is that thing? What does it want? I smashed my head against the wall. How do I make it disappear?!! Wait, why haven’t I done that already? I called the emergency services.

“Hello? I think something’s wrong with my roommate. They don’t seem conscious. I mean, they are standing, but don’t respond when I talk to them…”

The operator asked if anyone is hurt. I said no. She asked if my roommate is threatening me.

“I don’t know. They just keep staring at me for hours. They’re not even blinking.”

Then she asked a few more questions before she told me someone will come check on them.

After an hour, they came. The apartment door was left open. They found my roommate standing facing the bathroom door. It didn’t respond to any of their questions. I left the bathroom and got asked questions. Later I saw them take my roommate to the hospital. They don’t fight back at all. It’s like they gave up on existing.

I haven’t seen them since.

A few days later, a family member contacted me to inform that my roommate won’t be returning to university. When the family member came to collect their things, I asked them what happened. They told me they too have no idea and apologized for the situation. Later, I left the apartment too.

it was expensive, and having to always find a roommate was draining. Fortunately, I found another apartment. It’s far from uni and much smaller, but at least I can afford to be alone. To this day, I still think about that night. The memory of my roommate haunts me. I wish I helped them more. I wish I talked to them more. Maybe in another universe, we could have been friends.

My Critique [2058]: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/I5ifUIrDJi

Hello! My first post here. I'm in the process of starting a Substack of travel stories of mine. This will be the first and I'd love to know if you think it's suitable. I'm not a baby writer, but I don't have much experience in Literary Non-Fiction (is this Literary Non-Fiction?).

Baaaarby

United Kingdom, June 2026: I like the idea of having a pet. A cat, better two, or a dog that looks a bit funny. I like the idea of putting fresh laundry on the balcony on a sunny day. My eternal enemy in life is boredom, so I love changing up my flat. I also like living in the middle of everything, where I can leave my flat and see life happening around me. Ideally, I’d live next to a downtown park where I can lie down in the summer to read or listen to music. 

If I lived in the Barbican, I wouldn't have any of that. I wouldn’t be allowed, or it wouldn’t be possible. Somehow, I couldn’t care less. If I was offered a lease there (which unfortunately will never happen), I wouldn’t think twice about accepting. I’d barely think once before signing that contract. I’d move in before I can finish spelling the word ‘Brutalism’. 

Before today, the Barbican was nothing more than a place I had heard about. A footnote in a modern architecture class I took at university. The topic of a TikTok thinkpiece that I watched completely but never thought about again. The first two times I came to London I didn’t even consider visiting it. This time, on a day when my London host and buddy Felix is working, I thought why not. I‘ve already seen all the landmarks one has to see when in London. Why not check out the Barbican.

I’m standing in the lobby of the Barbican Centre and the Barbican walking tour I booked will begin in an hour. To keep my mind open, I didn’t do any research and barely know where I am. Reaching the lobby already meant getting lost. In a way, I've already done my own walking tour, taken lots of pictures and soaked up the vibes. I have some ideas, but generally, I didn't understand what I was walking through. 

To me, it seemed like an unusually quiet and empty part of London that lacked greenery. The overwhelming amount of concrete and distinctive sameness across all the buildings made it feel vaguely imposing and aggressive. I looked at a free art exhibition I found in a corner, a kind of mud hut with a strong cinnamon scent. I'm sure it was relevant, but its relevance didn't reveal itself to me.

I’m not alone in the lobby, not at all. There are hundreds of giddy young adults in shiny graduation robes running around. There must be some kind of event here today. Honestly, the frenetic energy is a bit much for me. I came here seeking a low-stimulation, intellectual escape after a physically and socially intense week spent reuniting with friends all over the UK. 

I can’t even hide inside my phone, because I’m on 13 per cent battery. I still have two to three hours of tour ahead of me and I want to take pictures. I also need my phone to find my way back to Felix’s flat afterwards. I know London, but I don’t know it like that.

I spend some minutes begging everyone working here for a charger or an outlet. It results in nothing besides me getting annoyed at the Barbican employees who refuse to help me. In a last attempt, I buy an overpriced brownie in the Barbican canteen in the hopes of finding an outlet there.

This works and I finally find electricity, only to discover that my EU to UK adapter doesn’t work anymore. I surrender to 13 per cent battery and eat my brownie while staring into the void. There’s nothing, absolutely nothing I can do to avoid looking at robed students celebrating and having the time of their lives. 

Time passes unbearably slowly but eventually, the students leave to attend their actual graduation ceremony and I make my way to the walking tour meeting spot. It starts next to the shop that I have browsed extensively. Of course, I’ve already bought an overpriced tote bag. Is everything in London overpriced? Or am I poor? 

The walking tour begins, ending my eternity of purposelessness. We’re about ten people, but I don’t care much about anyone else. In the past, I’ve used walking tours to find friends. Back when I was a lonely solo traveller. Currently, I have the opposite problem of nearly excessive pleasant company. 

Instead, I’m locked in on our guide, a very British and surprisingly young man who speaks fast but with great precision and knowledge. Again, it makes me remember other walking tours and how, in some countries where English isn’t common, language can be a problem. Today, I will understand everything. I’m not lonely. My phone won’t distract me. I couldn’t be any more prepared to learn about the Barbican. It better be interesting.

The guide starts by covering the basic facts about the Barbican that I already know. Earlier, when I couldn’t bear looking at more happy graduates, I’d used two per cent of my battery to read a basic summary of the Barbican’s history.

Contrary to popular belief, the Baaaarby (I pronounce this with a ridiculous British accent in my head, and I also don’t think anyone else calls it that) was not built as social housing. It was built by the city in the 60s and 70s in a very central location in London that had been flattened in the war. It was always intended to appeal to a more affluent audience.

Under Thatcher in the 80s, most of it was sold to the people living there. In the 2000s, it was voted London’s ugliest building. Now, it’s trendier again. I’m unsure if that makes me basic because I’m following a trend or cool because I’m with the zeitgeist. Sadly, this is not something my guide can help me figure out.

Instead, he tells us that prices here are extortionate, even for London. There is a waitlist for the few flats still owned by the council, but it can take decades. This knowledge sparks something in me. How epic would it be to live here. In London’s ugliest building. In one of the world's most accomplished Brutalist projects. Maybe I’m a victim of scarcity economics. Maybe this is just the first time I’m considering the Barbican as a place where people actually live.

As we’re leaving the Barbican Centre to explore more of the estate, I can’t help but disagree that the Barbican is ugly. It’s definitely too much concrete and the ground would benefit tremendously from being unsealed. People in the 60s must’ve hated grass. But the buildings are so unique and have so much personality. It might be a rather aggressive personality. But it’s beginning to win me over. 

From the outside, all the concrete walls have a stone-like finish that makes Brutalism purists say that the Barbican isn’t actually Brutalist, as that would require untreated concrete. I learn that said finish was achieved in a torturous hand-hammering process that left many of the (apparently mostly Black) construction workers with respiratory diseases and permanent nerve damage in their hands. The guide tells us this in between other curious bits about the Barbican. Fun fact! This place was built on exploitation. Moving on.

Many of the buildings have colorful red and yellow geraniums on their balconies and it helps tremendously in reducing the aggressive vibe of all the concrete. Our guide explains that all people living in the Barbican are supposed to keep geraniums on their balconies. Reducing the oppressiveness of the Barbican through dictating flower choices. I like it.

We continue walking to areas I had already seen when I was lost in the Barbican two hours earlier. We stop where, when I still had battery, I took a sneaky but epic photo of a man sunbathing shirtless on the plain concrete. He had put his shirt to cover his eyes, so he couldn’t see me being very inconsiderate of his privacy. I couldn’t help but capture him being so human in the hostile geometry of the Barbican. The idea of owning a luxury flat in the Barbican but sunbathing on plain concrete in public. I like it.

It turns out that this spot used to be the Barbican’s main entrance. Only a grand staircase remains as a remnant of that. Sadly, everyone ended up using a different entrance that was originally intended for truck deliveries. Accordingly, that one became the main one. Because of that, the Barbican layout doesn’t quite make sense today. It gives me way too much joy knowing that I wasn’t lost because I’m stupid, but because the Barbican (reminder: a Brutalist masterpiece) is a little bit of a mess.

The guide also explains that the architects were very inspired by Italy and Egypt and there are lots of references to both places in the way the Barbican is built. From a certain angle, the grand staircase looks like the Sphinx. I can’t help but ask myself “Why?!” but I don’t dare ask this idiosyncratic question. I’m sure they had their reasons. It just seems a little nerdy to me. Some of Britain’s smartest men looking at 4,000-year-old sphinxes and pyramids and thinking “Hell yeah, we need more of that vibe for our concrete estate.”

Over the course of the next two hours, more and more of these absurdities reveal themselves. No pets in the flats, and the original waste management system doesn’t really work. No major rearrangements of the rooms. Heating is centrally controlled. Barbican citizens gain access to private parks but can’t bring a ball or play loud music there. 

It’s all a bit silly, but together with the Barbican’s oppressive looks, I find it very endearing. Maybe it was the shirtless man on the concrete. Maybe it’s the guide telling of the reality of actually living here. Maybe it’s the graduates filling it with frantic excitement. But underneath the excessive concrete, the Barbican is embarrassingly human. 

Making it large and imposing couldn’t stop the Barbican from being human. Overcomplexity and random Egyptian references couldn’t stop it either. Even the endlessly strict rules can’t change it. The Barbican, built as a carless utopian district for rich people, is a mess.

It’s a mess and it’s human and it keeps changing and so do the people that keep using it in ways it wasn’t intended to be used. All the concrete gives it a sense of lifelessness, like it’s trying to hide its humanity. But it can’t. It’s a district-size showcase that nothing we build can ever be anything other than human. No amount of intellect or money or power can change it. It’s both tragic and beautiful, and surprisingly funny. Shakespearean, one might even say. 

Despite being on five per cent battery (I couldn’t resist taking more pictures), I’m euphoric after the walking tour. I loved the Barbican more than I ever expected. I want to live here even though I might hate it because it’s impractical. Realistically, I won’t ever be able to afford living here. Realistically, I should focus on finding the right tube to take me home. 

It’s all a bit absurd. But so deliciously human.

Critique

The sky that night was particularly mesmerizing, painted in a delicate shade of deep blue. The Moon was beautiful too - as it always is to me - its bright light gave shape to the clouds. From where I was, I couldn't imagine a better view of the stars anywhere else in the world.

Looking down, I saw the clouds stretching beneath me. They were dark gray and almost opaque, which hinted that rain was on its way that night. With every passing moment, the clouds grew darker. And the energy within them grew too powerful to remain contained, giving way to a thunderstorm. I heard the thunderous cries of a storm being born and watched sudden flashes of lightning rip across the vast, dark sea of clouds.

I grew curious about what this thunderstorm would look like from the ground, so I decided to see it for myself. I plunged into the storm clouds, tearing a path through them. At the speed I was flying, countless raindrops struck my entire body as I hurtled through the storm. The lightning was all around me, and a few bolts managed to touch my skin, sending little tickles across it. Blinding flashes of lightning ripped through the clouds as deafening thunder shook the skies. - Anyone looking up from the ground, would have seen little more than a blurred figure among flashes of lightning, leaving a trail of displaced clouds behind.

I was very close to reaching the bottom of the thunderstorm when, through the rain and lightning, I spotted someone on the ground. Initially I had intended to plunge into the ground with great force upon landing, but the moment I noticed someone, I slowed my descent.

Finally, I emerged from the thunderstorm. The shockwave left behind by my flight, echoed in the distance as I descended. Glanced up to the sky and noticed the beautiful moon and bright stars were now covered by the storm's clouds. Then looked around and, thought to myself, that I must've drifted for too long while I was watching the stars, because I had no idea where I was.

I found myself in a quiet rural landscape surrounded by tall pine trees and, dark densely forested mountains. A light mist hangs in the air, creating a calm and slightly mysterious atmosphere. The entire ground was covered in green grass. Standing on the grass, under an umbrella and looking up, was a tiny figure. It was a girl.

"What is a girl doing out here alone?"

While I descended from beneath the clouds, I took a good look at her - she had long, dark-brown hair, her waist was smaller than her hips and she was wearing a leather jacket over a white shirt, dark jeans and brown shoes. She seemed about my age, perhaps slightly younger. But to me, it was her eyes that caught my attention.

"Could that be her?"

Now, I intended to find out who she really was once I landed. I descended through the tall pine trees, carefully navigating the spaces between their branches. At last, I set foot on the wet grass - though there was no real need to - still, I thought it was best. I had noticed the girl peeking from behind one of the tall pine trees.

"Did she think I wouldn't see her?"

Our eyes met, but no words were spoken. I began walking gently in her direction. As I got closer, she stepped away from the pine tree, retreating ever so slightly. It was barely a step, but enough for her to trip over a fallen branch.

Obviously, I immediately grabbed her by the arm. Her fall didn't pull me off balance, instead, I pulled her effortlessly towards me. I steadied her in front of me. She tilted her head up to meet my eyes. Her cheeks were slightly flushed. Her light-brown eyes widened slightly, and she seemed to forget what she was about to do. I found myself doing the same, unable to look away. For a moment, neither of us spoke.

"Are you ok?", I said, as I let her hand go.

"Yes, thanks", she replied with a faint nervous smile on her face, while adjusting her beautiful hair. Then she glanced down, still looking a little nervous, and crouched to pick up her umbrella.

"So, you came out into this dense forest, at night, in the middle of a thunderstorm, just to clear your mind?", I asked, glancing to the side.

"No," she replied with a small giggle. "Well... mostly. I like to walk along the edge of the forest, to look at the moon and watch the stars. But tonight, they're all covered by the dark clouds, so I was trying to find a gap in them where I could see the sky." She remained quiet for a little longer, while the rain continued to fall around us, before finally breaking the silence.

HALLOWEEN CONTEST ENDS TOMORROW WHICH IS FRIDAY AND YOU HAVE LESS THAN 48 HOURS TO FINISH YOUR SUBMISSION.

That is all.

This is the opening of my 81k manuscript.

My comps are Wake Up and Open Your Eyes by Clay McLeod Chapman & American Rapture by CJ Leede, so if you read either of those books, I'd LOVE to hear from you. Or if you're a fan of Evil Dead, When Evil Lurks, The Sadness, The Thing, Society, Don't Look Up, etc. that's awesome, too.

Other than that, I'm looking for standard ol' feedback.

TW: Body horror.

| Crit [2170] |

Here's the link.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1NEVXEBNUwDBLC8gf-xjAaGiX9L3JVd5xhmlKN4CS8Ao/edit?usp=sharing

Chapter one (draft) of the novella I'm writing. This is my first time posting on this subreddit so I'd appreciate knowing if there's anything I could improve on.

Critique: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1xb5lo9/comment/19rg7jzc1tqed/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

What I'm Looking For: - Thoughts on character voice - Thoughts on pacing - Thoughts on coherence - Thoughts on execution - Does it catch your interest?

It is five o'clock ante-meridiem; I am now seen on camera A-Thirteen-One. The Eyes shift on the wall once-more.

Today inaugurates the three-day working period. I'm happy with how I utilized my off-days. I work Monday to Wednesday. I have Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday off. I spent my Thursday recovering from the sleep deprivation, Friday was spent cleaning, Saturday was spent running errands, and Sunday was spent preparing for Monday.

I catch a low---subtle whirr. Whilst fumbling with the buttons of my shirt I note the sound comes from above the front door. I remind myself to pay it no mind. I focus on my reflection; I look less tired than last week. My eyes flick to the right. I subsequently squeeze them shut.

I adjust my collar meticulously in the mirror before grabbing my coat from the coat rack and putting it on. The jingle of the keys remind me they're in the pocket. Exiting, I take extra care to lock the door behind me. I am now seen on camera A-Thirteen-Zero. The Eyes shift once-more.

The sky is a somber-grey and the winds are chilling. The winter air is crisp. The grey-and-white color scheme of the houses creates a very solemn feeling in my chest. Observing these houses I remember how Mama would wish the city had a more colorful palette. The whoosh of air created from a passing car reminds me I need to make my way to work.

I could head west and take that shortcut or use the one currently in front of me. The city has a central tower, three surrounding streets, and four straight-shots to the center north, east, west, and south. It would be nice to take the long way, however, it would be more efficient to take the shortcut regardless. Five thirty-two o'clock ante-meridiem I arrive at Scire Central and am seen on camera T-1. The Eyes shift once-more.

I sit at my desk, log onto the computer, and open the Network. I surveil a man of the name Jean Lee. Every tiny---miniscule---involuntary movement made is spotted and logged. What time he sleeps. What time he wakes. How long it took him to shower. If he used a washcloth. If he used soap. If he washed his ass. If he shaved. How he shaved. How long he used the bathroom. If he cleaned up after himself after using the bathroom. If he wiped his ass after using the bathroom. Every single---negligent detail. I fight through the disgust---the repulsion. The sickening---gut-wrenching hate that claws out from my supple, tenuous flesh.

These thoughts tide me over for the following work-days.

Crit

Exercise suggested by another poster. Posting publically because I didn't want to post my writing on someone else's writing, and it didn't seem fair to do it in DM when the other challenge attempt was shared publicly (hopefully this is OK? probably I'm overthinking)

Working with following constraints:

- 2 sentences max

- Established : in scene before they had a fight with some other character due to messed up prior run. To avoid potential repetition, lets make other character unnamed (as if it was mentioned in last sentance)
- Scene : Character is going to grocery shop.
- Narrative : During the scene character should start angry but become more and more relaxed.
- Leitmotif : Lets say the leitmotif is characters innate anxiety symbolized by how they walk.
- Foreshadowing : Because they are anxious attempting to relax, and not paying attention to current list, they will forget something again.

Guiding Questions (but also welcome any criticisms)

- How legible/readable is it?

- Info balance - what (potentially) crucial context is missing and what feels like extraneous detail?

- I'm not really sure what else to ask, this is incredibly short

Text

John limped into the corner shop, grinding his teeth and thinking; that woman, that awful harridan, that ginger hag with the migraines, yelling because he forgot again (like always), and she only asked for one thing (like always), and since he returned from the war with shrapnel in his knee and a damaged brain he always made a fool of himself, didn’t he, and John was still thinking this as he furiously threw loose change at the counter, packed up the Valerian root, stomp-limped outside into the miserable rain and waited for the bus. How awful it must be, he then thought, to suffer those migraines, and how awful it must’ve been to wait all the time he was away, almost as awful as being away and missing her, his red-haired battle-axe, and as the bus rattled and bounced over craters of potholes on the road home John worried at this thought like biting nails down to the quick, until the thought was calm and nothing, and he stood dripping at his front door, slid the key into the lock and realized - he forgot to buy painkillers again.

u/archdan shred to heart's content (and thanks for suggesting it), I'm curious where this could do with refining in terms of legibility

Crits: [2170] , [443]

Hey guys, its my first time posting here haha, but please be as brutal as possible, thanks in advance!

Some info:

I left the ending sorta ambiguous on purpose, though i'm not sure if it works.

I tried to add transitions between scenes but I also wanted more abruptness in them, since this is more of a memoir.
-------------------

“Hey, Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Why is the sky blue?”
“I don’t know.”
“I really like the color blue. I think when I grow up I’ll buy a blue car.”
“Then make sure you do well in school!”
“Mom, why does that man only have one arm?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Come on, you’re almost late to your piano class.”
“Mom?”
“What?”
“I don’t wanna go.”
“If you don’t want to go, you don’t have to.”
“I’ll go, Mom.”
“Then let’s go.”

The summer I was ten, I thought the sky had turned gray. When I told my mom, she pressed a hand to my forehead and told me to get back in bed.

My eyes fluttered open the next morning to the familiar feeling of my mom putting my socks on for me. I curled up and tried to return to my dream, but the blankets were yanked off me, and the glaring light of a lamp illuminated the room.

“Mom? I think I’m sick.”
“No, you probably just have a cold.”
“But my head is hurting so much.”
“That’s normal. Come on, you’re gonna be late to morning tutoring.”
“I—never mind.”

I looked outside the window. The sky was still covered with stars, and it seemed even the birds hadn’t yet awoken. I slowly dragged my body downstairs into the car, falling asleep once more to the gentle hum of the engine.

“Jack?”
“Mhm?”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, Mr. Ben, I’m so sorry I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Don’t let it happen again, and please stop doodling in your notebook.”
“Of course, Mr. Ben.”
“Good, now can someone tell me what the title ‘All Summer in a Day’ means?”

Apparently, in the story, the kids on Venus could only see the sun for one hour once every seven years. As I leaned my head on one palm, I wondered what happened to Margot, the protagonist of the short story who had dreamt of seeing the sun once more.

I couldn’t understand what Margot felt, but I knew how I felt when I returned home that Saturday and found out that my friends had spent the day together outside playing soccer.

That evening, I decided to secretly copy the answer key into my math workbook, and spent the rest of the time staring outside at a small bird sitting on a single willow tree shaking gently in the wind beside a small, lotus-filled pond.

In my hands, I played with a toy airplane my friend had given me for my birthday, imagining it carrying me, going up and down and in circles through the bright blue sky.

Joanna was my best friend, and she liked reading. She especially liked the Magic Tree House series, and it was her dream to build a treehouse with me.

“Jack! Why are you so slow?”
“Maybe because I’m carrying this gigantic board?”
“Doesn’t sound like my problem!”
“Alright, you can carry it next time.”
“Haha, kidding—”

I smiled as I climbed up the ladder to where she was sitting, slowly heaving a wooden board across to her, and watched her rest it between two large branches.

“I think we need another board.”
“Why? I know you’re tall, but you’re not that tall.”
“Are you dumb? Where are you gonna lie down?”
“Hey!”

We were soon finished with our attempt. Though maybe two boards we could barely sit on didn’t pass the test for being a magic treehouse.

“Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“Look at the sky.”
“What about it?”
“I’ll be a pilot one day.”
“Flying what? The model airplane you gave me?”
“I’m serious!”
“Do I get free flights then?”
“Of course not! You are definitely getting charged double, haha.”

I looked up and smiled, letting out a small sigh as I watched a swarm of swallows sail across the sky.

“Joanna?”
“Yeah?”
“Will we be friends forever?”
“Of course! In fact, let’s meet here every month!”
“What if one of us can’t make it?”
“Haha, then the other one gets more room, I guess!”

I turned my head to look at her. She was lying on her back, staring into the sky; her eyes were half closed and the corners of her mouth bent upwards ever so slightly as she turned and looked at me.

“Remember—don’t make me come here alone!”
“Definitely! When have I ever lied?”

That summer was also the summer my mom got very sick. I knew it when I was rushed out of my math class to the hospital.

“Dad, I don’t like it here…”
“It’s okay, everything is going to be okay.”
“I don’t like the smell.”
“It’s going to be okay, it’s going to be okay.”
“Dad, why is Mom sick?”
“She worked too hard.”
“Dad, what’s cancer?”
“Don’t worry about it, it’s going to be okay.”

Did I mention I don’t like hospitals?

I didn’t like it when they told us my mom had cancer; when they told us my mom needed another operation; when they told us my mom would need to take pills every day to live normally.

Often, I would sit by the door, kicking my legs aimlessly at the air. I would watch my dad run frantically in and out of the room, only turning to give me a weary smile when he saw me watching.

I would look up. There was no sky, only the metallic gray ceiling and my reflection staring back at me. I would fiddle with my toy airplane and try to smile, but it seemed I had forgotten how.

For the rest of that summer, I had to stay in the hospital each day after my classes, doing my homework on a small desk by my mom’s bedside, relying on a ray of warm light making it through the gray clouds to see.

I only truly understood my mom was sick when, after I failed to swallow my headache pills, she hit me for the first time. A small slap on my head, yet I felt dizzy and my legs went numb.

“Mom? You promised me you would never hit me.”

I looked into her eyes, tears welling up. I saw her face turn pale as she almost fell out of her hospital bed rushing to hug me.

I flinched and moved my head backwards, and I saw her eyes well up as she held on to me and said she was so, so sorry, that it would never happen again, and that she loved me so, so much.

I could only cry in her arms, letting my arms hang helplessly by my side.

“Mom? Can I skip piano class tomorrow?”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”

That summer was also the last I spent with my best friend.

We laughed as we tried to climb the old goldenrain tree we had long since been acquainted with. We laughed as we both stood on its tall branches. I laughed as I threw a handful of leaves at her. She stopped laughing when she slipped and fell backwards.

I rushed down the ladder and knelt down beside her. She had fallen onto a boulder.

My hands shook as I called my father, my breath getting faster as I kept pressing the wrong numbers before finally hearing my dad on the other side.

“Dad, please come, Joanna is hurt really bad, please come.”
“Slow down, I’m coming right now. Stay where you are.”
“Please come fast, please.”

I tried to reach out to move her, but my hands didn’t know what to do. I could only cry as I heard my dad’s heavy footsteps rushing over.

“Dad, I didn’t mean to do it! I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s okay, it’s okay, we know you didn’t mean to.”
“Will she be fine?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Please don’t lie to me.”

I remember my dad taking me in his arms; I remember the grim look on his face as he called the ambulance; I remember looking away as her parents rushed over; I remember crying by my dad’s side in the hospital waiting room.

“Dad? What’s a vegetative state?”
“It just means she can sleep for a long, long time.”
“Like the princess in the story?”
“Yes, just like her.”
“Can we still play together?”
“Maybe later.”
“Will she die?”
“Of course not.”

I knew she wasn’t sleeping. I had briefly seen her lying on the bed in her room. Like so many times before, she was lying on her back looking upwards past the ceiling towards the sky.

I couldn’t bring myself to walk into that room, but I wondered if her sky had also turned gray. I stared at her for a while outside the room, before gently placing a small lotus flower on a hospital tray beside me.

“What happens after I die, Dad?”
“You will go to heaven, where you will get to meet your grandparents again!”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure of it.”

Well, I wasn’t so sure of it as I lay on the treehouse, taking up both of the boards. I wasn’t sure as I stared at the small model airplane she had given me for my birthday. I looked down towards the ground; it seemed so far off.

“Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“Will you come here with me every month?”

I stared back up at the gray sky, at a small swallow flitting across it, carried by a soft summer breeze. I smiled and rolled away from the edge.

“Of course! When have I ever lied?”

Critique

"It was a rainy sunset over a vast green hilly field. Dark gray clouds covered the sky, and the rain grew heavier until it gave way to a thunderstorm.

Through the rain and lightning, I could see The girl standing right next to her parked car.

I slowly descended feet first from the clouds. From above, I could look at her figure - smaller stature than mine, Long Brown Hair, blue jeans, and every little facial feature of her.

In the past, we ended up falling through and leaving a bittersweet feeling behind. Neither of us has spoken to the other in a long time, and I wanted to know what the hell she was doing here in weather like this.

I finally landed on the wet grass and walked in her direction.

Just like she used to, she had to tilt up her head to meet my eyes. Her Eyes were a little bit wide open and I saw clearly their color again. The way she spoke to me seemed like she was feeling a bit shy, I'm not sure.

She told me what was troubling her - her car had broken down, and she had no idea what to do. I'm no mechanic, but I managed to fix it easily.

The rain and wind grew stronger, I stood outside and she got inside the car. She rolled the window down slightly so we could speak for a few moments. In a straightforward manner I asked her if she was leaving our town for good, which she responded by nodding her head and saying yes.

Man-made weapons have absolute no power against me, but when I heard that answer, it really felt like a train had hit me. I wanted to know where she was going to, so I asked her. While looking away, she said she wouldn't tell me. I told her I was capable to listen to others' thoughts - and that I would not do it on her.

I'm pretty sure she thought I was lying, judging by the look on her face as she stared into my green fractal eyes. She was probably imagining some horrible things on purpose, trying to provoke a reaction from me to see if I was telling the truth about not reading her thoughts.

I don't remember saying goodbye to her. I turned away from the car, and walked for a while. I looked up to the wild thunderstorm and wished to be in the clouds with the rain and lightning again. Tearing through the sound barrier, I surged into the chaotic thunderstorm.

I am not going to lie, I did feel that bittersweet feeling again."

(edited) : Articles
Word budget economy:

• Critique 1 : 400
• Critique 2 : 312
• Critique 3 : 469

Please consider these two paragraphs about same scene:

• The scene describes Hook+beat 1 Act 3/4 of horror story
• Amidst playing 3 boys find torn bandages in the branches. Instead of considering danger their world substitutes reality.
• This beat should evoke following moods : Drama, Adventure, Comedy, Mystery and signal setup for horror.

Important info:

• The narrator is part of the story (one of the kids) and needs to serve as a subtle, flamboyant annoyance (mirroring the character of his younger self)
• In this beat he should interrupt as a foreshadowing

Beat 1 A : (Flamboyant / Atmospheric Variant)

Gazing up at the gray sky, the white bandages swayed in the evening breeze. They moved just enough to be noticed, occasionally nudged by the wind, only to suggest the way. To the children, the white lines strung between branches didn't suggest danger, but rather reflection. Every subtle sway directed their gaze to their latest adventure and their role in it, presenting to them the game board of their epic.

All three boys, all at once, climbed onto a small patch of earth for a better view, cheerfully reminiscing about the time spent together, never actually acknowledging one another. A gentle breeze touched the bandages as if composing a symphony, where each note was plucked in reverse of their experiences, finally culminating in a dissonant chord of their first jump. Nature itself failed to recognize that their playground was nothing more than a simple, shallow sewer drain, or to reprimand them for ignoring their obligations and stern instructions.

The boys revisited their investigation of the Amazon's trash, the exploration of its boundaries, the rescue mission of the missing shoe, and finally, the first great leap of mankind. Their reminiscing was cut short once their gaze found the white bundle with reddish-brown stains, moving to the breeze's rhythm like a trophy of a now-ending adventure.

Beat 1 B : (Idiomatic / Direct Variant)

The torn bandages swayed alluringly between the branches. Oh thee who wonder, perhaps ponder it over. To the three boys, white lines seemed like they were echoes of their prior epic adventures. They mirrored the game board of their playground, now seemingly leading back to the first jump. Finding sufficiently approachable elevation, the boys reminisced over their prior games, with a sort of pride. As if they weren’t playing in the sewer for this entire time – skipping class paid off. The investigation, the exploration, the rescue and the first jump neatly traced a path to a tree. High in the branches was lodged a white bundle, stained with uneven, reddish-brown splotches.

Looking for critiques regarding:

• Pacing between paragraphs given varying Narrators voices.
  • In paragraph A narrator is more flamboyant
  • In paragraph B narrator is more idiomatic
• Cadence and pacing between Paragraph:
  • I'm worried that overly flamboyant narrator might hinder the experience and slow down the story too much.
• I'm also looking for any unintentional shift in pacing.

First, the Halloween contest is open until Friday at midnight Eastern time. There's still time to enter!

Alright. I'm looking for opinions about stakes. How do you build up what matters in your story so people are compelled to read on?

As a for instance, I'm finishing up Clockwork Orange. I don't know that I'd say the stakes were clear in the first part, yeah? But about halfway through the second part, there are a few things that pop out. Free will. The ability to keep the things you love. Friendships and family. Alex gets all these things stripped from him though I don't think he would have identified them as that important to think about in the first part of the book. But the point is the larger commentary on how much control society should have over people to make life peaceful for everyone. Where is that balance? And that larger point doesn't start coming in until the third part.

So, I guess what I'm getting at is story structure and how that plays into how we evaluate the stakes of a story. And do we even all come away with the same stakes when we're reading?

Thoughts? How do you go about setting up those parts?

Story: -

https://docs.google.com/document/d/12OhXYwF036Tn5HUPeUsJFRKFvQMbue-TtYisKoiq6Zg/edit?usp=sharing

Crits: -

[2200] https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1v7yyhl/comment/p09tnj9/?context=3

[2900] https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1wy8hdb/comment/pefbknx/?context=3

[2377] https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1wyt2il/comment/pea0yxh/?context=3

Note: -

One of the crits is 3 months ago but I don't know how to see the exact date, so just in case, I added another crit.

Feedback note: -

The highlights the sentences or phrases where I'm not sure if it's good enough, so if you wish, please comment on those as well.

My Critique [1379]| https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/vqNdmfQ5AB

I would have critiqued more before posting myself, but unfortunately I am on a tight schedule. I will contribute further whenever possible.

____

In Time And Not

Once in time, a boy drops a watch, and it dents. The boy cries, then cries walking home, then wipes his tears on a sooty sleeve. He examines the watch, running his finger across the dent, feeling how his finger molds into it. The hands tick, tick, tick, again and again. He imagines the gears inside, grinding quietly, pushing the watch along. A blacksmith close by slams a hammer onto a melting piece of metal, striking, breaking, molding. The boy cries because the watch was ‘worth more than our house, boy,’ as his mother had said. The boy hardens his soft mouth and sees a pawn shop far, far away.

In time, a boy with the same mouth as the first boy pulls a watch with a dent out of an ornate drawer. He coughs, his voice suspended between young boy and young man. He looks at it, then at a portrait of the first boy with his deep wrinkles and white hair and sharp suit over bone and skin. At the watch, then at a random message on his phone. The watch slides from between his fingers, and into the drawer, with a heavy thud. As he turns, a moonlit corridor and a small hand fumbling inside a drawer appear in his periphery, vanishing before thoughts form. Blinking eyes trace back to the watch, glossing over the deep dent, over the roughly carved initials. He closes the drawer on fading light.

In time, the soot-covered crying boy—now with a man’s face—walks into a shop covered with clocks, a crumpled list in his hand, a serial number scribbled in its corner. He searches for and finds a watch with a dent and pays in what was ‘worth more than our house, boy’. He takes a tool and pushes it into the watch as it bleeds shavings. He coughs, soot misting over the watch. At home, he glances at his awkwardly carved initials, feels how his finger fits perfectly in the dent. He notices scratches. Looking around himself absentmindedly, he throws it in an ornate drawer. His son comes to him, tells him with a lisping voice that he’s going to have a boy, tells him the boy will have his smile. The boy with a man’s face doesn’t smile until he does, taut lips blooming.

In time, the boy with the phone sits in a room joined to other rooms, and his father enters from one or another of them. He asks, with a lisping voice, what the boy is doing, understands that he is doing nothing, and tells him the tale of a grandfather, the boy’s grandfather, who was a soot-covered blacksmith apprentice, who lived in a house worth a watch, who the boy should aspire to be. The boy listens and doesn’t, and remembers the remembrance of his father. Later, his mind wanders to a watch in a drawer somewhere in a big house, fading light falling across its hands through a slit in the drawer. He imagines it without a dent.

Soon, in a big house, at the end of a long, dark corridor, the soot-covered boy lies under a sheet, bone under his skin, staring at his pristine face lined with deep wrinkles reflected in the window. The boy in the window stares back at him, glancing at a watch with a dent sitting on his plain side table. The hands lag behind, out of sync with the clock on the wall. A tear slides down his cheek, nestling in his ear. His throat screams for water. He rises in stutters and opens the plain side table drawer, pulling out fraying, aging documents. He picks up a pen inset with a ruby, hand trembling from its weight. He scratches out lines, adds others, and exhales.

A full-cheeked boy with a mouth like his grandfather’s stands in a moonlit corridor. He reaches up to open an ornate drawer, moonlight coating everything in white silver. His hand fumbles inside, catching on a round object, and he pulls it out. He exhales over it, mist building on the glass, blowing away the dust. His fingers dip into a dent in the back, not quite fitting. He sees shapes on the back, ridges and edges. He runs to the room of a boy covered in soot and wrinkles, whose mouth is like his.

A servant stands in shadows, keeping watch over the master of the estate—the man whose lungs were made of soot. The room has a bed against one wall, the opposite wall a window. A plain side table sits in the middle. The soot-lunged man lies on the bed. A boy, the grandson of the estate, runs into the room. Something in the grandson’s hand catches the moonlight. The servant strains to pluck voices floating in the air, and fails, for half are too frail and half too soft. The boy holds up the watch, moonlight in his eyes, standing in front of the window. The master of the estate looks, then moves his lips. The boy shakes the watch, coming forward slowly. Voices start swimming in the air, become sharp and brittle and high, stinging the servant’s ears. The boy puts the watch on the plain side table, and runs out. A sniffle echoes in his wake. The master of the estate stares at the window; something gleams on his cheek, rolling down, nestling in his ear; he pulls some documents from the side table, picks up his ruby pen, and writes. He calls for water. He tells the servant to put a watch in an ornate drawer, at the end of a long, moonlit corridor, in a big house.

In time, when the boy with his grandfather’s mouth turns eighteen, people in black coats and ties and shirts starched white visit. They talk of coming of age, they talk of segments of wills. They talk of how a particular segment was reserved until he came of age. They tell him that he has inherited a broken, inscribed watch. The boy sees a moonlit night and a soot-lunged man, and an ornate drawer and a dent. He searches for an ornate drawer in a big house with joint rooms and carpeted corridors and sooty fireplaces. He finds it. He opens it. He sees dust dark as soot, and an imprint slowly fading. He stares, then closes the drawer, his face in battle between grimace and smile. He imagines the watch, imagines it with a dent.

In between, the drawer was opened, closed; sunlight fell in, moonlight did too. Hands touched the watch, left prints and signs. In time, it was picked up, and placed in a pocket.

Through time, the watch passed hands, then more hands. Soft hands, hard hands, thin hands, thick hands, scarred hands, clean hands, calloused hands, supple hands, brittle hands, hands and hands. No finger fit the dent, and each felt like it did.

Soon or late, it reached another pair of hands, and its face was polished bright. It was opened wide, spilling gears and screws, and dust and soot were wiped off. It felt the cushioned comfort of velvet against its back, molding perfectly into the dent, and was buried under a thin glass sheet. It rested there, hands unmoving.

Once in time and not, it thought it saw a man with another soot-lunged man’s mouth, but then the moment passed.

Crits: 2332 2377

Ethiopia

This one's an older story of mine that I translated into English. Looking for any feedback on the characters, pace, stakes, prose, etc. It's a complete literary short story.

EDIT: also good web hygiene -> NEVER click links in google doc comments (left by spam bots) if you don't recognize the username.

Crit - 3891

Document Link - 2332

TLDR; open to any criticism but primarily looking for an idea of how it reads to someone unfamiliar with the world and lacking some context (to give me better idea what to revise).

Long + rambly version

I'm working on some short stories/serials set in a paranormal urban fantasy universe. This is first part of a completed 12.5K short story. I have gotten feedback from people familiar with the world and my original outlines (this is set after a planned novel i still haven't completed), but I'd appreciate some fresh perspectives from readers coming in entirely blind.

Some guiding questions:

- is it readable, and if so, how easily? intended to be airport style pulpy genre fiction, so appreciate pinpointing anything that gets in the way of that

- i'm aware a few parts/lines pretend the reader already has more context. how much does this pull you out? cut or expand these parts with more info, do you reckon?

- do you have some shape of what the story could be in mind, by the end (if you made it to the end)? Like, if I put on episode of Midsummer Murders I can kind of tell what ballpark it's going to be in, you know? Do you have some genre expectations already set, in other words, or does it feel entirely arbitrary and meandering?

- if you tapped out (stopped reading), where and why?

- craft criticism on technicals like prose, voice, characterisation, stakes, conflict, scene structure, pacing, etc always welcome. shred, go wild.

Note on setting:

- I'm not American. For reasons, this world/story are set in America. Miami is fairly arbitrary at this stage but there's some placeholders, and likely many things I haven't considered (so, happy to hear obvious mistakes so I can fix them, but I'm not trying to offend anyone on purpose here).

Thanks for feedback and your time.

My critiques | [2377]
This is my first time writing in a loooong long time, so I'm really just looking for any critique people feel they want to give! However broad or granular you want to get. Feel free to tell me something's trash as long as you can articulate why it's trash or what would make it less trash.

For a little context, this was written basically intending it to be a prologue for a post-apocalyptic/horror/gaslight/steampunk fantasy. (Warning, some gore)

Perhaps part of a first chapter/introduction for one character's point of view.

As such, mostly I want to know the following:

Was it enjoyable? Are you intrigued? Did the narrator have a clear and natural voice?

Thanks in advance.

----

Sure, it’s a hard job being a Torch, but it’s worth it.

That’s the line that gets you the free beer, or the doe eyes, or the big innocent smile with the ‘I wanna be just like you when I grow up’. They should give us recruitment bonuses or something for that last one. Anyway, before the ‘it’s worth it’ you have to lay it on a little thicker, butter them up, you know?

It’s hot as a Burner’s balls. It’s exhausting. Sometimes it takes days to get the blight-ash stink out of your beard. And yeah, sure, it’s dangerous. Every day you walk out onto the torch line you know you might not walk off. But, (this is where you pause and take a pensive-looking gulp of beer,) that’s the price we pay. And it’s a small price to make sure you’n your’n are safe from the Blight.

You start there. Then another pause while you swirl the glass around a bit; like you’re lost in the memory of the Torch siblings you’ve lost (which you shouldn’t be, don’t think about that). Then you lock eyes, say it, maybe with a sigh. ‘It’s a hard job. But it’s worth it.’ Make them feel like they’re worth it, let that sink in while you finish your beer. Works every time. Most of the time. Now and then at least.

Of course, it’s most definitely not worth it. Not the pay, not the free beer, not the starry eyed kids calling you a hero. Hell, not even the women - unless you’re down in Letic, but maybe I’ve just got a thing for Leticians. Even then, it’s probably not. Not when things go wrong at least.

Nothing is worth having to make the choice between huffing up great big panicky recycled lung-fulls of your own reeking sweat, shit and piss as it sloshes around in your boots; and on the other hand ripping your hood off to choke on blight-smoke that’s sure to leave your eye-juice spilling down your cheeks before you run out of breath for screaming.

Yet here we are.

Honestly from what I’m seeing happen to Boric, maybe my eyes melting out would’ve been the right call. Plus when you’re screaming out you’re not breathing in. I’m an optimist, see.

It’s a funny thing about Compound 38. When the Hand added c38 to the mix there was a lot of chatter going around about where it came from. Speculation always flies from amateur alchemists about each new compound. The longest odds in our company’s betting pool was that it was supposedly distilled from some critter up in County Morfen, what lives in the blighted scrublands in the hills there. It’s some little furry fella. Looks like it’d be all cuddly as a kitten, or maybe make a nice winter hat at least. Instead, it’s a venomous fuck that makes your arm, foot, whatever it bit swell up so much the skin rips, makes the muscle twist and grow tumors so fast it tears itself apart, and melts whatever fat you got on your bones right off while you try to run away screaming. Then the little fuck just wanders behind lapping up what you left on the ground like a carefree bunny munching on dandelions. That’s what Tarfin said was the truth at least, and his brother’s neighbor’s uncle is in the 109^th. Boric pissed in Tarf’s shoe that night for the horse shit story. That was the funny part.

Tarfin is a dick.

Dick or not, based on the way Boric’s blood and fat was seeping out the seams on his suit while he flopped around and tried to bend his bloated arms up to pull off his hood, I’d say Tarf’s brother’s neighbor’s uncle had good scuttlebutt. So I suppose Tarfin is also a dick with a fatter coinpurse.

I quieted Boric, for his sake. His smell was in the air now and it wouldn’t be long until the kirns were here. So I guess it was for all our sake. It definitely wasn’t because I couldn’t take the screaming, or the flailing limbs throwing reflections on the edges of my mask even when I wasn’t looking, or the constant squeeking of his suit. It wasn’t just for my sake. I’m a hardened Lineman of the Torch Corps. Just don’t ask my boots if they agree with that.

“Mekin, Ideth! You’n get up with Tamm at Thumb. They’ll come through the thinner trees there, bet my balls on it. Light up as soon as you hear ‘em. Do. Not. Wait! The fuckers here haven’t learned to fake their calls yet. Okay? I said got it?! Now, go!” I was shouting as loud as I could by the end, shoved Mekin to get his attention or start him moving, wasn’t sure which, but they had to go, and go now.

I really hoped they were at least half listening before I got their eyes off Boric. They tripped over each other trying to run off to the left flank of the unit and meet up with Tamm, so it occurred to me that I probably should’ve moved away from the expanding corpse before barking orders. Maybe put my ditch shovel away, or at least wiped it off. I could forgive their distraction, especially considering how fast they got over it.

Mekin and Ideth found their feet and crossed behind the burn line as fast as I’d seen anyone move. They posted up next to Tamm at the left-most position of our group and lit up their Torches as soon as I heard that warbling kirn shriek, maybe half a beat after Ideth planted feet. They were damn good Torches. Most of them at least.

All of them, if I'm honest.

Just, you know, some of them could've been really something.

Anyway¹ they always reminded me of a mix between a goose and the bay of those little round nosed hunting dogs, kirns did, their call I mean. Either way it was a sound that had no business coming out the throat of something tall as a horse. The official Blightlands Expeditionary Force Guide to Blightbeasts say kirns used to be some sort of wolf. It didn’t really matter what they used to be. They don’t look like wolves anymore and the only thing that matters is that now kirns are basically the rank and file of the Blightlands, so far as most of us can tell, all sorts of mobile active death to make up for the stationary nature of the plants. The distinction in descent came as a result of rumors that kirns were just people swept up in the first waves of the Burning, that’s what necessitated an official statement, so wolves it was. So much else out here was some twisted memory of all that mess, the ‘kirns were people’ thing made as much sense as anything else, not that you’d catch me saying it out loud. I don’t need my people thinking things like that, and I certainly don’t need an Auditor catching wind. No, I try to remind myself it doesn’t matter, I’m not BEF so it’s not my job to speculate. Leave that to the good boys in the 109^th.

In either case, maybe a dozen kirns streamed through the gap in the trees, trying their best to jump over the flames burning up the underbrush from our first pass. They rushed out only to meet a twin gout of liquid fire that dropped them down writhing and honk-baying into curled up straws of ash before the last one even cleared the bushes. When I heard the little triumphant whoop from Mekin, I even caught a proud grin myself for a moment. It went damn sight better than I expected, burnt up faster than any kirn I’d seen before.

So maybe C-38 is bad for people, but in the right mix for our Torches it’s damn effective on all manner of beasty. Sorry, Blightbeast. Best use the proper Hand-approved term. Torches -both the job and the eponymous tool- have a very singular purpose, and that shouldn’t be muddied. Plenty of mud already in this line of work, and using Torch fuel was strictly forbidden on anything outside of the blight.

I looked down at Boric’s body, a reminder that it was a shit day with plenty more room to be worse. Now that he was mostly limb but for the rigor of bloating his corpse had sort of filled out the natural shape of the suit. It looked like the pressure-test I saw during initiation. They take a suit, seal it to specs, fill it up to prove it doesn’t leak, that the Blight can’t get to you so long as you do proper de-com protocol when you come back from the field. It was right about then that the side seam on Boric’s suit gave way, and the yellow-pink ooze of his liquefied fat burst out, pressurized from whatever rampant cancerous growth was still taking place on his corpse. Lit from the fires all around us as it was, it made me suddenly think of a candle tipping over and spilling wax everywhere. Boric wasn’t wax cooling and hardening on a table though. Boric continued to ooze and bubble and spurt in ways a dead body shouldn’t be oozing and bubbling and spurting – nor a live one I suppose.

A little mental pat on the back for being so wise, what with knowing things would get worse. As I separated myself the minimum three meters required from the burn target, I took the moment to cinch my belt tighter around my waist in an effort to block some of the smells. Then I turned, squared up my trusty Mark 7 on Boric, adjusted the fuel mix a bit so it’d burn through his suit quicker, tightened the nozzle and pulled the trigger.

As me and my Mark 7 performed our singular purpose perfect to spec (aside from my fuel mix modifications), I watched the flames lick over Boric, burn up his suit, cook his meat and turn it to char within seconds. Even as he turned to ash, did my best to keep track of his left shoulder. There, the brown thread of the stick torch, and the grey of the Compound 2 bucket on his Torch Corps patch blackened, singed, but didn’t burn. It would never totally burn. When this was all done I’d have to come back from camp, sift through the ashes until I found the ever vibrant red thread of the hands holding that old torch and bucket. The patch was the only thing that’d remain of Boric. A physical reminder of the crueler truth of our motto, stitched in the same unburning red thread below the insignia of the Corps.

WHERE THERE IS BLIGHT
LEAVE ONLY ASH

I took a glance at my own patch. Boric was getting grease soot on it, should’ve stood upwind. That would be a nightmare to clean. That’s about the part of the day you try to stop being there, and start thinking instead about free beer and Letician women.

---

1. The preceding few lines were edited from the original post after feedback from comments.

Crits: [2377] , [953]

My story: Cartwheels on the soccer pitch

Hello! This is a standalone short story I wrote about the loss of girlhood and pressure to be like everyone else, etc. It's different from my typical writing, so I hope I pulled it off…

I would appreciate any general feedback and/or if you could specifically address the following:

• I worry at times the switching between the game and her inner reflection is too hectic. Does it feel like it strays too far from the rest of the story at points, and if so, where?
• ^ The gymnastics part I really want to keep but idk if it feels out of place.
• It's supposed to feel angsty and kind of overly pessimistic, as teens are, but does it come across as a well-developed voice or just annoying?
• Were there any parts that lost your attention or confused you?
• Does the ending feel rushed or too cliché?
• Do the paragraph breaks make sense? tbh idk the rules with them, but it just felt right to me…
• Does the horse analogy do too much/ is it confusing? I'm an equestrian, so idk if that's clouding my vision haha
• Overall thoughts, feelings, questions?

Thank you!!

One: Enter the Halloween Contest!

It is currently not that competitive, considering there are three whole entries. You have a strong chance to be top 3! Submit something! You have until the 23rd! That's like two whole weeks to perfect something!

Ok, ok. On to new topics.

Can we talk about pacing? How do you figure that out? What makes something work for one author but not for another?

I've read things I thought were slow and plodding that I absolutely hated. Some, I really like. Maybe it's the character...or a story that has a tighter focus so the plodding doesn't feel too slow.

Or on the reverse, I've read things that were too fast and had other people say they were glacially slow.

How do you figure out how to land that plane, so to speak? Thoughts?