I am running a dungeons and dragons, Curse of Strahd campaign by myself. I'm using it to scratch the DnD, story telling itch and practice my writing skills. At this point, this is a longterm project that will probably never be published. That being said, I'm a new writer and really just trying to practice. I'm hoping that y'all can identify my bad habits, educate me on some aspects of writing, give me suggestions on what would be better, or whatever else you feel like doing. Also, I know this is a longer piece, so do however much you feel Iike. Be blunt, as this is practice and I'm trying to make sure I'm developing good habits before I embark on this long project. Lastly, I would also ask that you identify at least some areas/ things that I'm doing well at in this piece so that I know to keep doing them. I'm not looking for anyone to inflate my ego, this is just the first time my writing had been critiqued.

This piece isn't going to be the beginning of the story. It is part of the backstory for one of my characters. There are things that happen before this that I'll need to write out. Therefore at the end, I'll give a few lines of context.

Finally, to the mods, I critiqued a couple pieces earlier. If I haven't done enough, just let me know in the comments, and I'll get right on it. Thanks y'all!

Critiques:

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/9hjbWQy0FV [2,951]

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/UhfVbW2wVh [2,058]

START PIECE

Oscar sat a sturdy, round wooden table back in the library. The table was covered with books in a chaotic, but still respectful way, some laying opened and others closed in cluttered stacks. Papers with scribbles only coherent to Oscar were strewn around the current book he was reading. His eyes gazed slowly, but diligently at the page. He closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. He pinched between his eyes clumsily under his glasses.

“I can find anything I want about passageways to the Underdark…or ghost ships that take you under the sea. Even a portal to hell, itself…but nothing on this Barovia.” He said to himself. He opened his eyes and leaned back in his chair. He glanced around him and saw that no one else was around. It was late. “Maybe…maybe I am in the wrong decade.”

He leaned forward and paged back to the table of contents. He found the entry labeled “1350 BC” and started to find that page. He skimmed the pages, finding information on a royal wedding festival that lasted an entire month. Years later, a minor famine that occurred due to reduced rainfall. A new settlement was established in the mountains to support a mine. Then a great scandal occurred because the bride from the previous wedding festival had apparently fallen in love with her prince’s brother! Oh, a fierce duel occurred between the two brothers! How had he never heard of this? This was fascinating! Oh, the adulterous brother actually won! What happened to the-

I’m wasting time. Oscar thought. And Casper only has so much of it left.

Oscar shook his head. He leaned back in his chair frustrated. He closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose with his left hand, disheveling his glasses. He had been at this for five hours, now. His eyes felt strained. Had the werewolf lied to him? Was Tolund right that this place only a scholar’s myth? What was he-

“You’re in the wrong century.”

Oscar startled, bumping the table with his knee. The piles of books shifted slightly. He peered over the stack of books in front of him. Standing across from him on the other side of the table was an older elf with long black hair and dark blue robes, holding a large dusty tome. He looked at Oscar intensely. Oscar looked around and saw that there was no one else in the room.

“Furthermore, the wrong book. Here.” The elf casually tossed a dusty old tome at him over the wall of books. Oscar lurched forward using a mage hand to barely catch the tome before it crashed into the other books. He slowly used the spectral hand to bring the old tome in front of him.

“Good catch.” The elf said with a wry smirk.

“You should really be more careful, sir!” Oscar shot back. “Some of these books are very old…like this one!” He grabbed it cautiously with his own hands and brought it down in front of him. He used the other hand to close and moving the book he had previously been reading off to the side. He didn’t look at the elf in frustration.

He smoothed away the dusty on the cover and read the title, “Council Records of Waterdeep. 3^(rd) Volume.”

His eyes widened. He frantically looked back up.

The dark-haired elf was sitting now, leaning back in the chair with one foot on the table. For an odd moment, Oscar noticed that it was an expensive looking black boot.

“’Council Records of Waterdeep!’” Oscar declared emphatically. He leaned forward and spoke in harsh, hushed tone. “I know this is not part of our collection! If Waterdeep knew… Where did you get this?! And must you put your boot on the table?!”

The elf cracked another wry smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll put it back. Go ahead, read it. Page 54.”

“Sir, as impressive as this is, I am really quite busy. And could you get your boot-“

“Read It.” The elf’s voice vibrated deep and unnatural. It felt like the sound of his voice filled Oscar’s ear canals and then touched his mind. The stranger now stared with a forceful intensity.
The feeling made Oscar feel like he had lost balance inside of himself, but he managed to hold the elf’s gaze for a long moment. He paused to collect himself and then opened the book. He instinctively went to the table of contents to get a better idea of the book’s contents, but thought better of it after remembering the elf. He found page 31, then 47, 52, and finally 54. Oscar began reading:

 

23 Mirtul 1214

The prison received a strange foreigner with strange news. Called himself a “Vahstanee”, whatever that means. He was jailed after trying too vigorously to convince the court wizard to go back to his homeland of “Baroviah”,-

 

“Barov-“, Oscar said to himself in shock. He tore his eyes off the page and straight on to the old elf. “How did you know?!” he questioned aggressively.

The older elf was still staring at him. “Keep going.” He commanded.

Oscar studied the elf more this time. He had deep grey eyes that seemed to have almost a small shine to them. Everything about him was well kept. His hair was past his shoulders and laid neatly. His clothes looked very well made, but not gaudy. His hands, however, weren’t worn or calloused.

Oscar exhaled. “Listen, sir. I need you to explain yourself bef-“

“Read. The Book.”

The voice touched his brain just like before. Oscar winced slightly. How does he know? He thought to himself. Why does he have this? Why is he here?! Still…I should at least see what it says. For Casper.

He took one last look at the elf again. His stare was hard. Oscar exhaled and looked back at the page.

-a place that no one in the royal court had heard of. After examining the royal maps, I wasn’t able to locate this “Baroviah”, even on the distant maps. It was strange.

Stranger still was the man’s story. He said he was sent on a mission to recruit “great wielders of magic” at the behest of his master to assist with a “great magical ailment”. The council wizard, Quintus, had obviously refused due to his position and duties, but the man was insistent. Insistent to the point of becoming irate.  Quintus, never patient nor humble, struck the man to silence him. The man responded by uttering something in a strange language, and then struck him back, but most devastatingly so. Very oddly, Quintus was only struck with the man’s fist, but it had wounded him most grievously. Much more so that it should have. A healer quickly attended to Quintus, and the man was just as quickly seized and later beaten in the prison.

The news of the scandal spread like a wildfire amongst the council court of a strange foreigner beating the council wizard into bedrest. When news of it reached my ears, I had to learn more. A day later, I found Quintus, who had recovered, and we went to the prison together to further question the man. He was of a bad condition by the time we had reached him as he had “multiple visits” from the prison guards due to his infraction. Two guards attended Quintus and I in the prisoner’s cell.

He, revealing that his name was Usthall, was very repentant, seeking forgiveness and any way to keep the guards at bay. Usthall told us that his master had forbidden him from returning home without a “great wielder of magic” and that it had been a very long time. Quintus knelt down in what I thought would be an exchange of grace and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. Quintus then cast a spell on his hand, causing lightning to arc from it straight into the man’s shoulder. The man shook violently. Painfully. Pitifully. But after he stopped shaking, he stared back at Quintus with furious murder in his eyes. He struck Quintus with his head, causing Quintus to recoil backwards. Quintus had gasped for air, blood coming from his nose and lying on his back. The guards began to move, but the man shouted something startlingly harsh in a language I do not know. It felt as if a snake had spoken it.

Quintus let out a terrible scream, stopping us all where we stood. His head shook back and forth. His eyes appeared fine, but they didn’t latch on to any of us or anything. He cried out that he could no longer see. That he could no longer hear. One of the guards knelt down to attend to him instinctually. The other began to rush at this Usthall, but he cast a most unnatural, if not evil gaze at the guard. The guard froze where he stood, mid step. He groaned frantically. He breathed rapidly, but he didn’t move even a single inch at all.

The man. Usthall. Stood to his feet. His arms still chained behind him. Quintus’ blood on his forehead, running down his face. A wicked fire danced in his eyes as he gazed at me. In fear I asked him who was he. Where he came from.

“A land of darkness.” He said. “A land of death. A land of evil. I am Usthall. A servant of the devil, himself. And we will come for you. All of you. You could never reach him in his dark castle, but he can reach you! If you won’t come with me there, then I’ll kill you here.”

It was at that moment he charged me. I am only here to right this account, because the other guard ran his sword through the man’s chest. I saw the light leave his eyes. The paralyzed guard finally moved and gasped for air. Quintus whimpered to himself still. It was only afterwards that a healer determined that the foreigner had cursed Quintus twice. After the healer removed them both, Quintus could see and hear again and was no longer overly susceptible to being struck.

The council increased the watch throughout the realm after this news. I do not know what effect it will have as I cannot find this place and I assume the man spoke true in that we can’t reach it.

I write this account the night after this all occurred. My pen has trembled at the memory of this man. Of what I saw. Of what I heard. I fear the strength of the master of that place if this was his mere servant’s abilities. May we never find this land. May it never find us. May that man stay dead. May they both be forgotten.

-Magistrate Allister Beumont

 

Oscar’s blood turned cold. A land of death. His eye moved about with the thoughts swirling in his head. The devil? Curses?! What had he-

“Are you still going?”

The question struck him out of his thoughts and back into the room. The library seemed…somehow darker. The elf studied him with cold eyes.

“I…I hav…” he replied weakly. He looked around for something. Anything.

The elf took his boot off the table and leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees. His stare intensified in a way that made Oscar want to cower. It was like he was studying his very soul. “You read it. Going to a place like that, a place of darkness…death…and evil. A place ruled by the “devil, himself”…” The elf paused a moment. “Would be unreasonable.”

Oscar retreated within himself. The room felt even darker. There were many lands that were considered dangerous, even bad, but he had never heard of one described as a land of death. A land with devils and werewolves. What chance did he stand? He was only a librarian, only a gnome. He had never ventured in his life. He had not fought anyone since he was a schoolboy. Did he really think he could fight a werewolf?! What was he thinking?! What could he possibly do?! The elf was right. It was unreasonable. Casper could only be considered lost. Casper.

The young boy flashed through his mind. Casper was too young for all of this. This should not be happening to him. He was only 11….he had to be terrified. Absolutely terrified. And alone.

An unbearable lump arose in this throat. His vision turned watery, and it was everything he could do to keep the tears back. The boy he had held in his arms so tightly so many times was now lost in a land of darkness. He is alone in the dark, and I am not strong enough to get him back.

None of that matters.

In the dark conversation of his mind, this thought came from somewhere else.

Casper needs you. No one else is going to go get him. To do anything else is cowardice and wrong. No matter the consequences.

These thoughts terrified him, but he felt his mind begin to calm. Amidst all the fear, confusion, and grief, this was something he could hold on to. If he was going, then Casper was not lost. If he stayed the course, there was still a chance his nephew would get home. The tears in his eyes stopped. This way he could keep his soul, and maybe even get his nephew back.

Oscar raised his head defiantly.

“Then I am unreasonable.”

The elf’s gaze hadn’t changed. After a long moment, he tightened his eyes. “You know he will most likely die. If he isn’t already. That you will most likely die.”

Oscar’s head fell. This time, he couldn’t hold the tears back. Two of them landed on the old page of the tome. The weight of what had just been said was crushing him, but under his new philosophy, he knew exactly what to say. No matter how painful it was. He looked back up at the elf.

“Then I will die with him.” He sniffed. “I will not abandon him, even to the end.”  

The elf’s eyes were no longer harsh. He leaned back slightly, and his shoulders relaxed but only a little. “What do you intend to do if you find your nephew’s kidnapper? If you find the exact werewolf, or even the leader directly responsible for you and your family’s suffering, what will you do? Take his life with a blade? Burn him alive? What vengeance would you have?”

Oscar paused at the question. He had not considered this before. He imagined it. Ending the life of whoever it was that took Casper. He felt the rage. He felt the dark justice. Then he thought of Casper again. He remembered the accounts of vengeance he had read.

“I do not seek vengeance.” He answered confidently as he wiped his eyes. “I know my history well enough to know what the hunt for vengeance does to one’s soul. No. I only seek my nephew. To bring him home… I would stop the werewolves, somehow, so that they couldn’t take others. I…”

Oscar paused a moment to feel if what he would say next was really true. “I will take life. If I have to, but I will not hunt for it.”

The elf leaned fully back into his chair this time. He said nothing, but gazed intensely at Oscar. He stroked his chin with his right hand. He took a breath and said, “I believe you.”

A small part of Oscar strangely felt warmed that he recognized his conviction. Then he felt very frustrated at what the elf had just put him through. “Right. Thank you. But, sir, you have told me nothing. I demand to know this instant who you are! I will do nothing else.”

The elf chuckled to himself and cracked a half smile. “Hadriel. My name’s Hadriel. I’m…an angel”.

Oscar’s eyes widened and his head bobbled at the shock of it all. “Not some magical elf?”

“No.”

“What are…what would an angel have to do with me? With this?“ He asked in a softer tone.

Hadriel pursed his lips before he spoke. “Well,…now I’m going to help you.”

“Help me?!” Oscar asked in confused indignation. “What? Are you going to bring him back?! After interrogating me?!”

“No. You will. Or you’ll try…. And the questions were necessary,… because I’m going to bless your magical abilities.” Hadriel replied flatly.

Oscar fell down into his chair. As he sat, his mind swirled with emotions and questions. What does he mean by bless? To learn more magic? Oh, what a joy! How can he- do I have time to learn enough? I still do not know how to- Can I trust this- I need to say something.

“Does this mean I am your champion? Are there strings attached?” Oscar asked suddenly.

Hadriel pursed his lips and looked to the side for a moment. “….No… I already have one, and she’s doing very well. Really is quite something, actually. No, you’ll be more of….an associate.”

“Associate? What is that even supposed to mean?”

Hadriels stood up. He was tall. And grand looking. “If it makes sense, you’ll receive a partial measure of the blessing I have to give, compared to the one my current champion has. Your abilities will be amplified. You’ll be able to learn spells you couldn’t before. Things will come easier to you. You’ll have a source of magic other than your intelligence, but not the full measure that she has.”

As great of a boon as this was, Oscar was having a hard time not developing feelings of spiteful inferiority. “…..thank you?”

“Yes.” Hadriel continued. He walked around the side of the table. “With this, you’ll stand a chance of getting your nephew back. I’m only giving you enough to begin. The rest will be up to you. Come here, Oscar. It’s time.” Hadriel’s right had began to glow blue and blue magic swirled around it. The light from the magic coated everything around them in a glowing blue light. He held the hand out.

Oscar rose to his feet and began to walk unsure of himself toward the angel. He stopped a few steps before reaching him. “Why are you doing all of this?”

Hadriel paused. Genuinely paused in a way that Oscar had not seen yet. He lowered his hand and thought to himself, looking again to the side. “Oscar, you are not the most talented or gifted user of magic I have seen. Frankly, not even in this library. Livern could really be something if she wouldn’t be so constantly irritating.”

Oscar started to get annoyed at the repeated critiques of himself but considered what Hadriel said about Livern. “No, that is fair.”

“Now, understand me, Oscar.”

Oscar looked up quickly into the angel’s eyes. There was a warmth to them that he had not seen before.

“I am constantly petitioned by powerful wizards and kingdoms for blessings to increase their magic. To sate their pride or smite their enemies. But you. You have always sought to be around magic, because you loved it, for the sake of it. And now, you only seek more of it so that you can just get your nephew back, and only that. Even if you die in the process. That is a cause worth supporting. I’m doing this, because of you, Oscar.”

The gnome couldn’t hold back a tear this time, either. He lowered his head and walked forward.

“Besides,” Hadriel said. “I also want to see what happens.”

Hadriel’s blue, swirling magical hand touched Oscar’s head through the mass of his thick, curly, black hair. It felt like cool, flowing water soaked into his head and into his brain. The feeling was euphoric. It rushed down through his head and into the rest of his body. Every single one of his veins tingled with hope.

END PIECE

Some of the paragraph indentations are off, due to the copying over. Anyways.

A group of werewolves from Barovia kidnapped a group of children near Daggerford which is near Waterdeep. Casper, a gnome of 11 years old, was among those taken. His uncle, Oscar, (who is also a gnome and a librarian) found out and was devastated, but stirred to action. One of the werewolves was captured, and Oscar was able to find out through the use of food that they came from Barovia. He then finds an old mentor of his, Tolund, and asks about Barovia. Tolund calls it a scholar's myth and that trying to go find Casper in a myth land because a werewolf said so is unreasonable. Casper replies "Then I guess I shall be unreasonable." and leaves. Then this piece begins at the library where he is researching Barovia.

Looking forward to your input! Thanks!

This one hurt to shit out, I demand updoots!

-

Rylanor's grip on the golden rope weakened, and the planets became hazy. Horribly maimed, his face was nearly unrecognizable. He tore through space, trailed by golden tears. He crash-landed on an asteroid and met a strange society that called it home.

She was as transparent as the rest, but Rylanor gave her his heart. He was betrayed innumerable times throughout their passionate love. Each time, she was forgiven. The man arrogantly thought he could change her. Eventually, Rylanor had been convinced she wasn't a fan. Still, he was utterly heartbroken and confused. He bathed the world in flames.

Golden tears rolled down his face while he drifted through space. He scoured the universe, looking for anything. An incomprehensibly massive nothing blared deep bass, and space distorted around it. Rylanor extended his hand and was pulled in.

He was nearly torn apart. Beautiful marionettes surrounded and hugged him. They held him together, greedily lapping the golden Vile that poured from his wounds. He panicked and escaped their hug. He slapped one of the marionettes, and it exploded into a red mist. Everyone lapped it up.

This angered the giant peach who watched over the fun. His giant bass guitar impacted Rylanor, sending him tumbling through the void. Golden cracks appeared all over, but Rylanor held himself together. He desperately hung on in the void.

From above, her voice sounded accusatory. Furious, the golden man manifested a massive hammer and shot it toward the voice; waves tore Rylanor apart. He was drenched in grey Vile and reformed himself with its power.

Rylanor laughed.

In response, a deep laugh shook Rylanor to the core.

Space bent, and he was pulled toward the presence.

Innumerable deep laughs rang out as the man was spaghettified. Rylanor desperately reformed himself.

Ben was violently yanked out of the hole.

A handsome devil held Ben by his scruff and set him on the ground.

Ben got up and brushed himself off; he was encircled and protected by all sorts of wonderful people. A suave man extended a hand toward him. Confused and expecting another violent twist, Ben shook his hand.

Everyone looked at Ben, and he cleared his throat.

After a short pause, he gave a cavalier grin, and his first words ever were, "Hello, what can I do for you?"

[4541] [1975] [2713] [2275]

Looking for general advice on style / prose and if this is captivating enough to keep someone committed for the long haul. I'm starting to doubt my scene structure and am looking to see if the problems I think are there, really are --- or is it just me? I've torn it apart a hundred times and am just needing a fresh set of eyes to point out the areas that feel wrong or trite.

Couple of questions:

• Do you like the protagonist?
• Does the scene hold up, or does it drag?
• How's the description?
• Is the ending earned?
• Any parts you hated?
• When did you stop reading and how far did you make it?

Please let me know your thoughts! Thanks!

****

Chapter Two - Kausca

It was too hot, and Kausca was too well dressed to be patient any longer. He should have been at home in a linen shirt with the sleeves torn off, a glass of whiskey at his fingertips, tallying output against what his people were paid. He untied the waxed canvas mask from the back of his head and pulled it from his face, finally giving in to the summer heat and not caring, for once, what the comfort might cost him.

“Miasma’s thick today, boss,” Kline said.

“I’m afraid that today, I’ve chosen to die a slow, miserable death instead of drowning in my own sweat,” Kausca said as he dropped the mask on the cafe table beside him. He dragged his sleeve across the damp ring the mask had left behind.

Kline snorted. “It’s not the mask, boss. It’s the suit. Not sure any sane man in the Undercity is dressed to the crowns today. Maybe your mind’s melted away.”

Kausca laughed. “You’re right. But the suit’s a costume; powerful men like to play pretend when they want something. I don’t mind indulging them.”

The day was well past first chime, and the stagnant summer heat radiating from the stone bridges overhead had pulled marionette strings of miasma from the crevices of The Great Below, curling them over the cobbled streets of the Queen’s Plaza, and leaving them slack and directionless. The runoff from the arcanite refineries normally settled deep beneath Undercity streets, taking the scent of industry with it, but today it hung thick in the air, leaving a pasty sweetness of sulfur and hot metal on Kausca’s tongue.

“Now, you’re sure that Shedinn’s headed to the Row?” Kausca asked, rubbing the nape of his neck, annoyed that his time was being wasted. Since a little after noon, he had been waiting for Shaw and his enforcers to arrive. He wasn’t looking forward to it.  

“As sure as my trust in Tanner. Y’know how the man is, boss,” Kline said from behind his own mask with a reluctant shrug.

“Macie’s friend, right? Yeah.” Tanner was new to the Rustborne and was always eager to be useful. His eagerness lengthened stories well beyond the truth, since the reality was often disappointing to tell. “Put Annika at the access point for the lift. If there’s any movement Topside, I want to hear about it first,” Kausca said, “and send me Dis. Tell him to bring Sally.”

Kausca watched Kline scuttle across the circular plaza, heading toward the Grand Lift.

The plaza was busy. Queen’s Row was the first district beneath Topside, and Queen’s Plaza was a popular spot to try and find a deal. Market stalls were spread beneath the cracking arched colonnade etched into the granite cliffside wall, and Kline had to push through a crowd of Topsiders in decorative masks haggling at a fruit stall, fanning themselves against the heat. They would probably leave when they realized it was hotter down here than up there.

Kausca sheathed his impatience until Kline, Annika and Dis’s figures appeared at the opposite end of the circular plaza. They walked with purpose, and Dis had his rifle — beautiful mahogany with pearl inlays — slung over his shoulder. It drew a few glances from Topside residents who quickly decided they had done enough shopping for the day.

“Any news?” Kausca asked as the three approached.

“Yeah, Tanner’s right. Timeline’s a little off,” Kline said, “but it looks like Shaw is catching the evening lift to do some digging underground.”

“Any reason why?”

“An alarm went off Topside at the base of the Cloudtop District. Everything past the West End is on high alert. They closed down the bridge. No one’s getting in or out.”

“You should see ‘em, Atwood! They look like peacocks that just got plucked. Strutting around, confused where their feathers went,” Dis said with a grin. Annika and Kline chuckled and Kausca couldn’t help but crack a smile too. “I heard it was one of us that got 'em.”

Kausca’s curiosity was piqued. All of the holders in the Undercity knew not to move on the Cloudtop. “I haven’t heard anything about one of the other crews trying to run a job on Cloudtop. You all catch any words?” Kausca asked.

Annika shrugged. “Last I heard, the Cutters had a hit over the Eastern Bridge near the harbor — don’t know the details, but that’s going down, not up.”

Kausca looked over to Kline.

“Yeah, sorry, boss, I got nothin’.”

If someone crossed the West End to Cloudtop, it was personal. That’s where all the big money lived, and, no matter how filthy an aristocrat was, they didn’t appreciate filth in their homes. 

“Alright, well, hopefully this is something routine. We’ll just let Shedinn know that we know nothing,” Kausca said.

Annika shook her head. “I don’t think that’s the case this time, Kausca. It isn’t just Shaw that’s coming down. They’re closing off the lift after dark and there’s about two dozen armed suits prepping just outside of Red’s Square. No one straps that much iron for an investigation.”

Kausca leaned back in the cafe chair and drank in Annika’s words. It had been over a decade since Topside pulled arms on the Undercity in any meaningful way. Back then, the unions had organized protests that escalated into violence and ended up with the Undercity being forced to pay recompense for the chaos sown. Power exchanged hands back then. Merchant houses fell, and others profited from the bloodshed, but none were left untouched, even his own.

What if he’s coming for something we can’t give? Can we afford to make the same mistakes?

“Boss?” Kline asked.

“Yeah, I’m thinking,” Kausca said. His thoughts were cyclical and leading nowhere.

“Look, Atwood — you tell me where to point Sally, and she’ll sing a song so pretty,” Dis said, kissing his rifle, “that at least one mother will cry.”

Kausca knew the Undercity was pressed flat, wanting to push the boot off its chest. Discussions with the other holders made it evident that they all wanted more than their share. But space was cramped down here, and the only way to go was up. Kausca didn’t want to make that climb.

“You all remember the last uprising? I remember,” Kausca said, pausing to gauge their recollection. “It wasn’t Topside mothers who were crying, and it wasn’t Topside that paid. Years — it took us years to get where we are, and you’re willing to risk that? For what?”

Kline spoke first. “None of us have forgotten where we came from, how we got here. And if you say go, we go, boss.” Kline’s lips went flat, somewhere between a smile and a frown. “But I don’t think anyone wants to do what you do forever. We just want things to last.”

“The moment you’re gone, Atwood, Topside’s gonna come back down and take what they think is theirs,” Dis said, squaring up. “Their suits are enforcers, not guards. No one up there is tryin’ to protect what we got down here; they’re just makin’ sure that the wheels keep turnin’.”

Kausca nodded. “You’re right, but we can’t take every fight that comes our way, especially not with Topside. Progress has been made. I don’t understand why we need this fight. Things will keep getting better.”

Dis chuckled in a way only the Undercity could — low and deep, laughing at the absurdity of the next bad decision. “See, Atwood, that’s your Topsider talkin’. As long as the wheels keep turnin’, you’re not worried about the cliff just down the road.”

Kausca sighed deeply. “Are you all really willing to gamble what we’ve built on the promise of tomorrow?”

The lot stood silent for a moment, weighing his words.

“When I was a little girl, my father led the protests. He swore to me that things would get better if he won, that we would move closer to Topside, and that we wouldn't have to sleep with masks on anymore. We lost,” Annika said, her gaze meeting Kausca's, “and in the nighttime the enforcers broke down our door and took my father.”

Annika began to pick at loose skin around her nails, shifting uncomfortably. “He was to be made an example of, and they did it. He was executed in Red's Square with eleven other men.”

She gazed off into the distance, somewhere Kausca’s eyes couldn’t follow. “After that, my mother had to work in the mines. The day my father lost, I lost my mother too.”

Annika straightened, and her voice hardened. “It wasn't until you came, Kausca, that his promises started coming true. Revolution is inevitable. It's going to happen sooner or later. And if it's sooner, then we're with you.”

Kausca heard the earnest words pour from Annika’s lips. He understood them. He appreciated them. But there was a selfish part of him — one her words had spoken to as well — that remembered the cost of ambition, a part that thought only of Avon. He had built his home in the Undercity when he had nowhere else to go, when Topside was taken from him. Would he give up the Undercity too? 

“Alright, Annika, tell the Rustborne. I want them all here by fifth chime, ready for a fight,” Kausca said. “Kline, tell the other holders what’s going on — make sure they understand what Shaw is doing. And make sure they know we aren’t opening with guns drawn. Let me repeat myself — we aren’t revolting, we’re just going to talk with Shaw. Got it?”

Kline and Annika agreed before hurrying off.

“And me, Atwood?” Dis asked.

“I want you on the clock tower overlooking the plaza, rifle loaded, alright?” Dis nodded. “Don’t shoot unless I tell you to; we might still be able to send Shedinn Topside without any bloodshed. Oh, and Dis, if I do tell you to shoot, don’t miss.” Dis looked offended. “Up there before fifth chime.”

The plaza emptied slowly as the hours dragged past. Shops closed their doors, and merchants folded up their stalls when rumors of violence began to circulate. The taste of rotten eggs had driven off many Topsiders earlier in the day, sending them back to their homes where they could bathe in fresh air. The stragglers made their way back to the Grand Lift, only to be replaced by the dozens of men and women Kausca knew.

The clock at the north end of the plaza chimed five times. Perhaps he should just leave. Take Avon from Anthem, start again. He was good at it.

This spring, the Rustborne opened a new shaft near Bloodwater Bay, and it turned out to be fruitful. Kausca had negotiated the contract well beyond what the union was asking, and it earned him enough for passage to the Eastern Reaches. Sure, he was feeding the entirety of Queen’s Row with the deal, but it made him sick to think he was also making some Anthem City aristocrat a very wealthy man. Could it have been the man he hated? In a different life, it may have been him.

His eyes drifted toward the Cloudtop, where Jarrett still kept his hearth lit most nights, and Kausca let the anger he felt back then take him now. Jarrett was the one thread that pulled him away from the Undercity, one he wanted to pluck with a dagger to the heart and a bullet to the head. But that would be too kind; the man deserved to walk the path he paved for Kausca, to know what it felt like to have it all — and then nothing. Only then would Kausca deliver his kindness; only then would his debt be paid to Lily.

“Coins fall up in Anthem, Kausca,” Jarrett had said, watching the fire instead of him, drunk from both the bottle and success. They’d been drinking late into the evening by his hearth at the foot of the Cloudtop, celebrating a recent contract that had been signed, and Jarrett had said it as a consolation — that the contract was inevitable, that if it wasn’t them, it would have been someone else. In this life, Kausca still believed it; he just knew it was wrong.

Kausca kept the anger, but rolled his shoulders and let the memory go, watching the sunlight crack between the shadows of Topside, painting the corpse-blue miasma in a sickly orange hue as he scanned the plaza. The Rustborne walked its stony road, arcanite mists nipping at their heels, Topside-issued masks covering their faces. The masks were supposed to protect the people from Rotlung — at least that’s what the council had said. But Kausca knew better. Dead miners couldn’t dig.

A horn sounded in the distance — once, twice — faint over the sound of clacking machinery and the Rustborne’s idle chatter. It brought their words to a murmuring halt, and the men moved to the outskirts of the plaza, pressing themselves behind stone pillars and along alley walls.

Kausca stood from the cafe table where he had been waiting too long and stepped forward to the circular mosaic floor that was the highlight of the plaza: two griffons, one black, one white, were forced to endlessly chase one another’s tails on a faint background of blue and white that was supposed to represent the sky. Years of being trampled over had turned the blues into a dirty smear of eggplant purple, and the whites in it were the color of gunmetal. Kausca straightened his coat, unfastened the leather strip that held his pistol in place, and faced the path to the Grand Lift, awaiting Shedinn Shaw.

Kausca heard the sound of boots first, the enforcers seen moments after. Shedinn moved to the mouth of the plaza where he directed his men to stop with a closed fist. His golden hair was cut short and combed back, going brassy at the temples. His eyes were blue, face chiseled and handsome, but the dark bags under his eyes suggested his conscience wasn’t clean.

Shedinn walked, unhurried and unafraid, toward Kausca with officers flanking him on either side, a clean grin cracked across his face. He stopped at the opposite end of the mosaic.

“Atwood, you’re carrying iron. The hospitality of Queen’s Row has truly run dry.”

Kausca smirked. He placed a lazy hand on the wooden grip of his pistol and shifted his weight, already bored by the exchange. “Come now, Shedinn. It’s the Undercity — everything’s a little bit slimy. I’m assuming that’s why you’re here. Feeling homesick?”

Shedinn laughed. “Fine words coming from you. You’re dressed like a Topside merchant in a place where the only commodity is crime. Are you confused as to whether you’re a Topsider or a Scav? Is that why you’re bringing iron to a negotiation?”

Every opportunity Shedinn had, he would remind Kausca how low he had fallen — about the life he once knew. It didn’t matter now. That was a long time ago, before Avon, when he only had to live for himself. Shedinn could talk about Anthem until his teeth bled, and still, Kausca wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of thinking it mattered.

“What do we have to negotiate, Shedinn? Queen’s Row has no business with Topside.”

“The Registry, Kausca. Your debt’s unpaid.”

The debt was paid, all one hundred thousand crowns of it.

“Negotiations were done. You were paid what we agreed. If that’s what you’re here to talk about, then this—” Kausca tapped the pistol’s grip, “—is here to make sure promises are kept.” 

“Promises? There are no promises down here, only two truths, Atwood: Iron opens doors, and coins keep them shut. Yet, here we are, and you’ve brought the wrong set of keys,” Shedinn said with a thin growl and a laugh tucked behind his words.

“Trust is expensive, Shedinn. Do you really intend to sell ours? The deal was struck. Queen’s Row was cleared for the sweep.”

“Prices have changed.”

Kausca knew Shaw was a heel. All of the Undercity knew it. Despite his pressed blue uniform, every button neatly fastened in a single marching line, the man was still from Queen’s Row. Behind his polished grin and golden hair he was still a slum rat — always willing to go back on a sound deal when he had the upper hand. And, like all things Topside touches, he had become rotten with greed.

“We paid you exactly what you asked for, Shedinn, well in advance of the deadline. It was struck,” Kausca replied, his knuckles whitening as his fingers tightened around his pistol. “Now, I’m familiar with how things are done Topside, and it might surprise you to learn that we’re just as keen on keeping a contract.”

Shedinn scoffed. “Contracts, promises? What city do you think you live in, Atwood?”

“Not the one you remember. The Undercity has changed, Shedinn; merchants come down now. Enforcers don’t. Not the smart ones. Look around you — we’re tired of giving all we’ve got,” Kausca said. “Up there, they talk about ambition and progress — how they’re going to shape the world. Down here, we do the same, but only have one word for it: survival.”

Murmurs of agreement passed through the crowd. A bottle was flung at the enforcers, nearly striking one in the chest, but instead shattering on the stone floor.

Kausca watched Shedinn’s eyes move across the crowd, counting, calculating, searching for a way out. They surrounded him. Some watched from windows, others from rooftops with rifles drawn. Some were tucked in alleys, others stood in the streets, both with chains and clubs in hand, already inching forward.

“Keep your end of the deal, and we all go home tonight,” Kausca said, his words soft.

“Not all of us, Kausca, not one of yours,” Shedinn said, releasing his gaze from the crowd. He took two steps forward, closing the gap, the rhythm of his voice dropping to meet Kausca’s. “Sure, we agreed to keep the sweep out of the Row. But little Miss Atwood and her crew decided they needed a little extra help — which we were happy to provide. Imagine my surprise when I found out that there were two children caught trying to steal from an archive Topside, one of them Avon.”

Rage and dread knotted themselves in Kausca’s gut. If Avon was hurt — even scratched — he would burn Topside to the ground, starting with Shaw. 

“What? What did you do with Avon, Shedinn?”

“Nothing! Your daughter made a mistake, Atwood. A very messy, very expensive mistake. She knocked the hinges right off of what we do down here, and there’s only one way to close the door,” Shedinn said. Cold desperation moved through Kausca’s chest. All he wanted to do was be near her — to save her from Anthem before it changed her too.

“Where’s Avon? Tell me now, Shaw, or, Seamstress help me, I’ll light you and every man behind you up. We struck?”

“No, deal’s not struck. The amount of money it’s going to take me to make this problem go away is well beyond what this filthy pisshole has paid, and you thinking you’re leading this is insulting. I’m deciding how this goes, Kausca, not you.”

Kausca felt a smile cross his lips. “Oh, Shedinn, you should know that only half of leading is actually making decisions; the other half is inspiring others to make them for you.”

Kausca whistled, and the clock tower answered with a flash and a crack. The guard to the left fell, screaming. He clutched his thigh as blood dripped through laced fingers. The enforcers went for their rifles. The Undercity reached for theirs.

Kausca drew his pistol and fixed it squarely on Shedinn’s chest. “Hold!” Kausca shouted to the plaza. “Everyone, hold!”

“Hold, goddammit!” Shedinn shouted, freezing his men in place. “What’s your plan now, Kausca? Kill us all and let Topside justice seep through every stinking crack of this place? You do that, and I’m sure the other holders of the Undercity will have more than just words to exchange with you.”

“Good, you’re listening now.” Kausca pulled the hammer back on his pistol. “The next words out of your mouth better tell me what I want to know, Shaw. Where’s my daughter? If you’ve ever trusted anything in your life, trust my words now.”

Shedinn stared at Kausca, searching his face for a lie he wasn't going to find, then glanced at the guns trained on his men. Even with a pistol to his chest, Shaw’s pride refused to be subdued — luckily, the man was smarter than he was arrogant. 

“She’s being held at the 4th Precinct, just outside the West End, bottom of the Cloudtop.”

Kausca paused. “Queen’s Row is no longer yours, Shedinn. Stay out of the Row. We struck?”

After a moment too long, Shedinn replied, “We’re struck.” Perhaps it was a lie.

Kausca lowered the hammer back into place, holstered his gun, then straightened his coat. “It’s funny how quickly your manners change when staring down iron. Thank you, Shedinn, you get to live tonight. Annika, Kline — invite Captain Shaw and his men to the warehouse off of Lantern Street. Take their guns.”

The crowd started to close in on the enforcers. Seeing their leader surrender, they followed.

“You’re making a huge mistake, Kausca. You’re crossing a line. There’s no coming back from this.”

Kausca didn’t care. Fear and concern for Avon eclipsed all reason. “So be it. I know we’ve already crossed it, because, unlike you, I remember where I came from. I know the men and women up there. I know who they are. I know what they want. Everything, Shedinn. And I still want it too. I just have a different set of tools.”

Kausca could feel the Rustborne watching as he left the plaza, and he knew they wanted to go with him. Avon wasn't their daughter, but she was every daughter they'd lost to the Taking, and that was enough to make his rage their own. Just like him, they wanted to burn the crust of the city to the ground and reclaim what had always been theirs. They wanted to bring their daughters home too.

He hadn’t expected it, but it wasn’t until his arrival that they considered that they might deserve more. They knew all trade ran on arcanite energy, knew they were the ones who carved it out of the earth, but didn’t know how to leverage a contract, how to strike a deal, how to say ‘yes’ and ‘no’ in a way that would make Anthem listen. They were nobody. He arrived a nobody. But together they had built themselves up — brick by bloody brick.

Perhaps he owed them. They’d given him the title of their holder and their trust, earned through repeat success. He stood with them in the mines, pickaxe in hand, stepped up to the negotiation table and secured contract after contract, making the Rustborne a name to be respected. He had earned his place.

But they had earned his loyalty, and that was a prize Kausca wasn’t willing to give away easily, not anymore. Could he take his earnings and leave to the Eastern Reaches?

If it keeps her safe, I’d leave everything behind, he thought. But, like all things Topside touches, he wanted more, even if he said it wasn’t for him.

Chapter One: The Tanakpur Anomaly It had been forty-eight hours since Mat boarded the 55371 Express Special, and forty-six hours since the train had violently skipped its last scheduled stop at Tanakpur. They were ascending. Mat could feel it in the deep, aching vibrations coming through the floorboards. The air inside the coach had grown thin, biting, and freezing. Outside the barred windows, the dense, humid forest of the plains had long since been replaced by the jagged, snow-draped teeth of the high Himalayas. The fog pressed against the glass like wet cotton, suffocating the train in perpetual twilight. Mat checked his watch again. The second hand was twitching back and forth between the eight and the nine, caught in a microscopic stutter. It had been doing that since yesterday. He stood up, his joints popping, and adjusted the heavy revolver hidden under his jacket. The passenger cabin behind him was eerily quiet. Some passengers were asleep, lulled into a state of lethargy by the cold. Others were staring blankly at the walls. Panic had peaked on day one when they realized the ticket examiners and guards were missing and the doors between the coaches were locked. Now, grim exhaustion had set in. But Mat wasn't the type to just sit and wait for the end. He needed answers. He stepped over the sleeping form of a chaiwala and approached the heavy steel door leading to the engine room at the front of the train. He had tried picking the lock. He had tried banging on the glass. Now, he was going to try blunt force. He unlatched a heavy iron fire extinguisher from the wall bracket, planted his boots against the swaying floor of the passage, and swung the cylinder with every ounce of strength he had left. Metal shrieked. The reinforced lock shattered, the heavy screws tearing free from the frame. Mat kicked the door inward and stepped into the engine room, leveling his revolver into the gloom. "Cut the engine and step away from the controls!" He froze. The driver wasn't going to step away from anything. He was slumped dead over the massive control board, his uniform stained with dried blood. But it wasn't the dead body that made Mat’s stomach drop. It was the control board itself. The standard levers, digital screens, and dials of the train engine had been completely removed. In their place, welded directly into the steel dashboard, was a monstrously complex mechanical puzzle box. It was made of brass, dark wood, and gears, glistening with fresh oil. It looked exactly like an oversized, mechanical calendar. Through a glass pane in the center, a series of interlocking grooved wheels rotated sluggishly. Mat recognized the basic idea—it was a system designed to endlessly track the days, months, and leap years using a series of deep cuts and grooves. But this machine wasn't just tracking the date. It was driving the train. A loud emergency siren suddenly rang out overhead, deafening in the enclosed space. A red light flashed violently on the dashboard. Mat rushed to the front glass and wiped away the condensation. His breath caught in his throat. Emerging from the fog, less than a kilometer ahead, the tracks abruptly ended at the edge of a massive, bottomless valley. There was no bridge. Just open, lethal air. “WARNING,” a mechanized voice crackled through the speakers. “ROUTE INPUT REQUIRED. SIXTY SECONDS TO CRASH.” Mat frantically searched the dead driver's pockets and found a leather-bound diary. He flipped it open. The pages were covered in frantic scribbles, equations, and dates. The gears dictate the tracks, the final entry read, written in a handwriting that sent a chill straight through Mat’s veins. It was his own handwriting. If the date aligns, the bridge forms. The main lever must pivot exactly into the groove to force the change. "What on earth..." Mat muttered, looking from the impossible puzzle of the notebook to the ticking machine on the dash. “FORTY SECONDS.” He didn't have time to process the insanity of his own handwriting in a dead man's diary. He grabbed the heavy brass rings of the calendar. The current alignment was set to March 14. He looked down at the blood-stained page. According to the scribbled equation, the wheel controlling the months needed to be forced into a quarter-turn. “TWENTY SECONDS.” Mat’s hands were shaking. He jammed his thumb into the month ring and twisted it violently to the left. Something internal engaged with a heavy clack. He spun the day dial, manually pushing the main lever forward and forcing it into one of the deep grooves. “TEN SECONDS.” The train was rocketing toward the deep valley. Mat slammed his fist down on the massive brass button at the center of the calendar to lock the gears in place. For a terrifying second, nothing happened. The nose of the train shot off the edge of the cliff. Mat squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the weightless, stomach-churning sensation of freefall. But instead, the engine room violently lurched upward. A deafening roar of shifting, grinding metal echoed through the valley. Mat opened his eyes. Massive iron tracks were seemingly threading themselves into existence out of the fog, locking into place over the empty space just milliseconds before the train's massive steel wheels hit them. They were suspended over nothing, riding a bridge built by gears and dates. He had done it. He let out a ragged, hysterical breath, slumping against the console. Then, the speakers crackled again. It wasn't the mechanized voice this time. It was the horrific, shrieking sound of twisting metal tearing apart, followed immediately by the screams of fifty people. Mat looked at the rearview screen on the dash. His blood ran cold. The bridge had formed, yes. But it was flawed. In his panic, he had misjudged the depth of the wheel controlling the leap years. The mechanical rules governing the tracks had only been partially satisfied. On the screen, Mat watched as the very last passenger bogie violently broke away from the rest of the train. It hung on the edge of the newly formed, unstable tracks for a fraction of a second before plummeting backward into the fog, taking its screaming occupants down into the dark valley. The train was safe. But it was one bogie shorter. Mat stared at his own handwriting in the diary, the siren still ringing in his ears, realizing that tomorrow morning, the sun would rise, the gears would reset, and he would have to play the deadly game all over again.

There are still two more chapters of the book that have exercises, but my morning is not compatible with thinking them through or typing them out.

The one is about changing POV (which a few people did in last week's exercise so it feels very similar). The other is about writing a scene between two people that's only dialogue (which we have a few experts at that floating around). The very last exercise is taking something you wrote for one of the exercises and cutting the word count in half.

[I woke up at 5, typed the word Weekly as the subject of a post, went back to sleep, somehow that first attempt at posting was gone, and now it's 10. You all feel free to do what you want.]

Two days ago…

Lotus Litess Forest

She nearly tripped, this was the third time already.

Her lungs burned, she was gasping for air like if she were running a marathon.

She was indeed running.

For her life.

She looked behind her, the leaves obstructed the view, but she could hear their heavy footsteps. They didn’t sound in a rush, which made it more terrifying.

She looked up ahead now, and a cliff greeted her.

Her sisters were way up ahead, climbing the cliff effortlessly, their movements swift. When she reached the cliff, she hoped to climb as effortlessly as them, it didn’t look hard. But it was.

Half way through her arms trembled, she could barely walk anymore, how was she supposed to climb this?

Her paw caught the edge, but it slipped.

She tried to grip with her remaining paw, but her arm gave out.

She slid down and hit the ground hard.

The forest was quiet except for the terrifying approaching footsteps.

With little strength she had, she managed to get up.

”H-HELP! I SLIPPED! PLEASE! C-COME BACK!” She yelled desperately, hoping they would go back to help her. They wouldn’t just abandon her, right?

They were getting closer… but her sisters were getting farther.

She attempted to climb the cliff again, but she already pushed herself to the limit, she didn’t even make it the first quarter before falling again. She didn’t want her life to end, not like this.

“Please…”

Then, she heard footsteps, not the heavy ones from behind. Softer, faster ones coming from above.

“SISTER!”

…

Present Day

Neo Cyland, LLIK Tower

Moonlight’s alarm started making that awful *beep* sound.

Moonlight groaned, pushing her face in her pillow.

”Ugh… Already?”

It felt like she slept for 6 hours, which, considering she went to bed at midnight and it’s 6 AM now, is true.

Reluctantly, she reached out to the alarm to make that demonic sound stop.

Peace.

”Maybe I’ll just sleep for another… five… minute…”

Her eyes closed, drifting off.

*Ringing sound*

Now there was the demonic phone call sound.

Her eyes opened immediately, her face making a deadpanned face.

”Oh for fuck’s sake-“

She finally got up, her blonde hair was everywhere. She‘ll fix that later.

Her phone was clearly making noise, but it was nowhere in sight, It was getting very annoying to search something that sounded so damn close, and yet she couldn’t find it.

”Oh, forget about it- PAD!”

”Yes Moonlight Dawn”

“Connect with my phone and answer the call”

”… Access was granted, your call is online”

Moonlight sat down on the edge of her bed, “ -sigh- Hello?”

”Afternoon Moonlight! Wait, It’s morning-“ Stella then laughed nervously through phone.”Get it??”

Moonlight just stayed silent for a while.

”Ha ha ha ha… very funny” Moonlight said with a tone that suggested she wasn’t in the mood for bad jokes.

Stella‘s laugh died, then she cleared her throat, “Anyways, about yesterday, were you serious about the checking the 247 samples? Cause if not-“

”We’re not” She said this like it was the most obvious thing. The back of her eyes were starting to throb.

Moonlight sighed, rubbing her temples.

”Oh, well, that’s great! Except, how are you going to find the pure version?”

Moonlight ran a hand through her hair “A sample is on it’s way“, her tone shifted, this call was getting too long and she needed her-

”Wait, don’t we have enough samples? N-Not that I’m saying I want to search through all the current samples. But is it a new species? And why did you say it in singular-“

”Enough. Pad, hang up”

”Wait W-“

”Call has been ended”

Moonlight stretched her arms, a few articulations popping.

She quickly made her way to the kitchen, her head throbbed now. She can’t wait for the machine to make her coffee.

She opened her cabinet and withdrew Coffee Powder and Expresso Powder, she then got her mug and put reserved boiled water in it.

Measuring was a pain, her hands trembled, she couldn’t properly put a single teaspoon of coffee powder.

Moonlight was getting desperate, so she just put whatever quantities of coffee powder and expresso she could put.

She quickly stirred it, spilling some coffee on the counter. Then she brought it to her lips.

Relief came slowly.

She sighed in relief, then got up with her mug, her movements sluggish, and made her way to her room. She started making the bed, and under the pillow she found-

”Oh for the love of-“

Her phone was there.

…

“So… we are not looking for the pure version anymore?” Stella asked, looking at Moonlight with the face of “What-are-you-doing?”

“No, I just came to realize that exploiting you all is just too much to ask” Moonlight said, she was in her usual formal attire now, looking at some results in her Holo-Pad while walking to the stairs, their heels making distinct *Clack* sounds on the metal floor.

”H-hey! It’s not that we are lazy or anything! Just that it’s really time consuming and we could be searching other things, or simply search in the Organi-“

”I had enough of that conversation already” Moonlight cut her off abruptly, ”Do this instead: Look south, geologically”

Stella made a questioning look, ”South? Wait, is this because Flos Me-“

”Yes, glad you figured it out” She adjusted her head band, opening the door to the stairs, Stella did not follow her at that point.

…

A couple hours later, It finally arrived.

Moonlight was in her personal lab, the room pretty spacious, various tools laid on the lab table, and another Dead Eye coffee.

”Pad-bots, bring in the sample”

Moonlight then put on gloves, her sedative ready in her pocket.

Two distinct Pad-bots entered the room, their footsteps heavy and slow, and with them, the steel box-cage.

“Your sample, Moonlight Dawn”

They set it down, and made their way out.

Moonlight grabbed her mug to sip some coffee, then her hand went to her other pocket for the keycard.

She swiped the the card once on the lock, the lock clicked.

It was open.

”This is going to be interesting…”

Moonlight put the keycard aside, and slowly opened it to reveal what was inside.

”Oh… my…”

Author: Reggie Wytgeena

Critiques:

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vnoayz/comment/p3ou7qr/?context=3&utm_source=share&utm_medium=mweb3x&utm_name=mweb3xcss&utm_term=2&utm_content=share_button

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vnpjrg/comment/p3om0l1/?context=3&utm_source=share&utm_medium=mweb3x&utm_name=mweb3xcss&utm_term=2&utm_content=share_button

Hi everyone, I'd like to share something I have been writing. I want to clarify that I'm not a writer, but I like the habit of writing and wanted to get opinions on something I have written.

What does it truly mean to be in grief? Everyone experiences grief: whether in death, sickness, or loss. Does pain bring peace? Examples can be found in every war. World War II and Japan's surrender are a perfect example. Russia's invasion of Ukraine is a matter similar in nature: the United States is too scared to directly help Ukraine by sending soldiers, and Russia is too afraid to create conflict. Pain and grief are of a similar nature, as one is derived from the other. Fear has a peculiar way of testing one's principles. It is easy to stand by one's morals when doing so carries little consequence, but when those same principles threaten one's own safety, they may suddenly become negotiable.  

I wish to understand why human nature is so destructive, even though it seems that everyone is born with a sense of right and wrong. What is considered an infringement on another person’s rights, and more. But as one grows, the environment shapes one's sense of right and wrong, whether it’s stealing, murder, or rape, all of which are heinous crimes. Someone's perspective changes: whether it's stealing because they can't get money or food, or whether their perspective on women's rights is distorted by the environment they grew up in. Nowadays, a lot of people are desensitized to media and news, mostly living in their own bubble while great injustices may be occurring as I write.

I wish to address the elephant in the room: I am no writer or literary major; I am but a simple developer. I am writing to address my thoughts and feelings, almost like a diary or memoir. Now, as I sit today, 17 years old and only 12 days away from my next and final year of high school, I beg to differ on what will change in me after graduation. Let's say that you will experience a lot of new things, whether it's making new friends or meeting new people, it's all the same.

I can't help but think about the bigger picture of what happens next. What new ways will we find to treat terminal illnesses, and how will the new generations grow up to be? As I write this, I have been learning a lot about human interactions, and I wonder if shows and anime have shaped our standards and qualities in people. I see many people who do seem to genuinely be affected by such anime and manga. One big one is Naruto. It seems like many people my age who watched it have a particular aura: one of kindness and respect for all.

A quote from one such anime asks:

"If I may, I'd like to pose an interesting question: Are all human beings truly equal? These days, everywhere you go, there's talk about the fight for equality. As a wise man once said, 'Heaven does not create one person above or below another.' People like to throw his words around, but that's not the whole quote. He goes on to say that while we are all equal at birth, things begin to change pretty soon. Academic effort is what sets some people apart from others. At any rate, humans change over time based on their actions. Truth be told, at the end of the day, equality is just a fantasy, but most of us go through life denying the fact that we live in a meritocracy."  

A quote worthy of praise to the author. The quote’s understanding of equality and its outlook on correcting a mistake previously made by many make it one of my favorite quotes. The quote looks for truth in lies and addresses the misunderstanding, common in this day and age, that we do indeed live in a meritocracy. This quote means a lot to me as I explore the world around me. I learn of injustices day in and day out. While I’d like to address them all here, it's not the right time, as the list is endless. There are many more anime that detail our lives in ways one may not see at first glance. One of these lessons is forgiveness and revenge. Revenge is an act that only fuels the cycle of hatred and pain, but in forgiveness, one may find love. As an avid reader of books and a watcher of anime, pain seems to correlate best with fear. Fear causes wars, fear causes hatred, and the only counteragent to fear is love. Another quote that struck out to me was the following:

“As long as there is a concept of victors, the vanquished will also exist. The selfish intent of wanting to preserve peace, initiates war and hatred is born in order to protect love.”

A quote that resonates with me on many levels, whether it's the quote's understanding of how we change our perspective on what is wrong and what is right to fit the narrative we want to write, to achieve the world we desire while others suffer the consequences. The narrative that peace could only be brought through war, a victor must stand high and mighty to protect while the vanquished cower in fear and hatred, creates a cycle that can be seen in our own world, whether in the past or in the present.

Hey y’all!! I’m in the beginning stages of writing an interactive story that I want to share on Facebook.

I’m looking for feedback.

Any feedback is appreciated before I go live with the story.

Here is what I have so far.

Kendra lay under the covers, watching Darius get dressed.

Damn, he know he fine, she thought.

She pulled the covers up a little more and looked outside. The wind was blowing hard, and the snow was just starting to build up on the streets.

Being from Detroit, snow wasn’t that big of a deal.

But this wind in Chi-town?

Sheesh.

Darius pulled on his pants, then pulled his shirt over his head and looked down at his phone.

“So, you really about to leave?”

He looked at her. “You know, I gotta go.”

Kendra frowned. “You could stay. I want you to. Besides, it’ll be nice to be snowed in together.”

“Kendra, don’t start.”

Kendra sighed. “I know, I know. You gotta run the hotel.”

Damn. Another night alone.

Six months of this with Darius.

The sex was amazing. Like, really amazing. But she didn’t know how much longer she could deal with this whole friends with benefits business.

She wasn’t asking him to marry her.

She just wanted him to stay sometimes.

Especially tonight.

But whatever. She had more shit to worry about than some man.

Like unemployment.

Her rent.

Finding a job in this economy?!

And then there was her dad.

So, how soon before you think you’ll be working again, Kendra?

Ugh.

She hated that question.

Mostly because she didn’t have an answer.

“Kendra. Kendra!”

“Huh?”

Darius laughed. “Damn, girl. I got you speechless like that? I asked if you needed anything before I left. I was gonna lock the door on my way out.”

“Oh, my bad. Just thinking. You good, boo. Drive safe.”

Darius gave Kendra a kiss on the forehead and a light tap on her ass.

“I’ll hit you later.”

He left, locking the door behind him.

Damn.

Alone.

Again.

Sigh.

Her phone started ringing.

She didn’t even have to look at the screen.

It could only be one person.

Mo.

Kendra answered the FaceTime.

“Hey girl. What’s up?”

“Hey heaux, you sound reaaaaallll relaxed… Darius must have just left.”

Kendra smacked her lips.

Mo continued, “Yep, I knew it.”

Mo laughed loud as only she could do. She had one of those very contagious laughs, so naturally Kendra chuckled.

“Girl, what do you want? I’m about to grab me some snacks and watch my show. Tell Trey I said he better catch up so I don’t spoil nothing.”

“I got you an interview!”

“For real? Where? Doing what?”

“They’re hiring for an executive assistant at the tech firm I freelance at. I used my connections and got you an interview. The job is as good as yours. Just go in there and pop yo shit like I taught you, and you good.”

Mo continued talking.

Damn, it sounds good, but I don’t want to be no coffee fetching secretary. Ugh. But man, I got these bills to pay.

Maybe it can just be temporary until I find what I really want to do.

Or maybe I’ll hit the lottery tomorrow.

“So when is the interview?”

“They said they’ll call Monday with the details to schedule.”

“Yeah, girl. And we’re gonna get you ready. Now, let’s talk about what you’re gonna wear. And don’t even think about wearing that basic black blazer you wore to your cousin’s funeral.”

Kendra laughed. “Girl, shut up.”

“I’m serious! You need to look like you belong in that office. We’re going for professional, but cute. You got that cream colored blouse?”

“I think so.”

“Okay, wear that. With the black pants. And your hair…”

“My hair is fine.”

“Your hair is NOT fine for this interview. I’m thinking wear it down. Nothing too extra. You want them paying attention to what you’re saying, not trying to figure out what you got going on all up there.”

Kendra rolled her eyes.

“See? This is why I called you. You always doing too much.”

“And this is why you need me. You’re welcome.”

Mo kept going, laying out Kendra’s entire interview look like she was getting her ready for a red carpet.

“Kendra.”

Kendra looked at the screen.

Mo was still talking.

She hadn’t said her name.

Now I know I’m not trippin’.

This was like the fifth time this week she kept hearing her name, but it was clearly not Mo.

She jumped a little.

So weird.

Am I losing my mind?

Nah.

She was just stressed.

Damn. She wished Darius stayed.

Ugh. Him again.

Then she heard it.

“Kendra doesn’t know.”

Kendra froze.

She stared at Mo through the screen.

“Mo.”

Mo stopped talking.

“What?”

“What are you talking about?”

PLEASE comment and let me know the following:

1. Is this something you would keep reading?

2. Do the characters feel real?

3. Would you interact to keep the story going?

Thanks in advance

1366

Elodie Loon propped an empty moleskin notebook against her pale thighs and balanced a fountain pen between her index finger and thumb. It had no ink, but that wasn't important. What was important was appearing intellectual. Clive Hornbill pointed his chiseled jaw in her direction—a wide maxilla cut a strong figure—and she could feel his eyes tracing up the long line of her legs and lingering on the notebook, her thighs, though, of course, his were not the only pair of eyes tracking her. No, Elodie counted at least a dozen men in this courtyard. They leaned against trees, knees angled nonchalantly, posed on benches, sprawled on the grass. The girls they were with didn't capture their attention, not when Elodie was nearby, but she only cared for Clive. She gazed up at him from under long lashes. Pinked. Sylvie Boobie elbowed her in the ribs.

"I can't think of a time when you looked less alive," Sylvie said. She smacked her lips to punctuate each word that escaped from her mouth and, still, no one glanced in her direction. "What even happened with Clement? He liked you. You promised you'd tell me all about it and I never got any tea, girl. Spill."

"There's nothing to tell. Clement was just like all the others, looking to brag about conquering me. I'm calling a moratorium on dating. No more boys."

Except for possibly Clive, who crossed the green space on a crash course with the bench she and Sylvie shared. Flowers leaned toward him as he passed, petals turned up to his face like he was the sun, conversations dropped off mid-sentence then picked up again as if nothing special had happened, and Clive remained oblivious to it all. Goosebumps blanketed Elodie's legs when he drew near, but he didn't stop to acknowledge her.

"Stare harder, why don't you?"

"What? I wasn't looking...I was just—"

"Say that you're in control and I will slap you. Anyway, Clive never talks to anyone. He's a lost cause...unlike Clement. You should give him another chance to impress you with his stalker-like tendencies."

Elodie snorted back a laugh. "He did follow me around for weeks before I said I'd go out with him."

"Exactly. I can't believe you have absolutely zero—nada, nil, zilch—spicy details to regale me with. Not even a smooch? Is his skin as soft as it looks? He has such nice hands."

#

"I cannot abide you consorting with that Boobie girl." Mistress Crane towered over Elodie in the spire of the castle. The sound of her tapping foot bounced off the stark white of the marble walls that somehow blackened at all of their nighttime sessions. Elodie should have paid attention to her lessons, but her thoughts were absorbed by the thought of Clive's plump lips meeting hers, of smooching, and she couldn't focus on anything with the heat circling her core. "She's a bad influence."

"Yes'm."

"Now, you need all your wits about you, sweet girl, to handle what I'm about to demonstrate next." Elodie nodded distractedly. "I will only say this one time. To sense..."

Mistress Crane droned on for what seemed like hours, the light flickering and changing against the marble, until she finally stopped to demand Elodie demonstrate what she learned. "Wait until night," Elodie answered by rote. "That's when the hum of the Earth is the strongest and your words can heal even the grandest of slights."

"Good enough. Hope you never need to practice what I've shown you. Dismissed."

Spiral stairs unwound down the spire and Elodie tripped down them, grabbing at the railing and gripping until her knuckles turned white, because her feet never wanted to cooperate with her. She sighed with relief when she reached the bottom, no longer afraid of falling, but then a shadow darkened the edge of her vision. What had Mistress Crane said, again? She shut her eyes tight and tried to bring up the recollection. In this moment of distraction, a sharp pain lanced through her shoulder and she snapped open her eyes and grasped at the pain, only to come away with fingers coated redly with sticky thickness. She kept her feet for a moment, staring uncomprehendingly at her hand, before collapsing into strong arms. Clive. Clive had...saved her?

His eyes were like the night sky, not a bit of white at the edges. A shiver ran down Elodie's spine. This wasn't right. He pulled her against his hard body and ripped the sleeve off her shirt then leaned down and licked up her blood. His teeth sparkled with crimson when he grinned down at her. This wasn't right at all.

[LINK TO TEXT]

Crits: [2167][3786]

This is a story about a boy, a young man who wakes up alone in the forest full of energy and life and find his way to and into human society - through Henry's small town shop, being accepted into the fray, being molded into a good worker, into a good tool, a piece of raw, dense, volcanic copper to build a tool of utter precision of force.

Further minor context:

Chapter 5 - Henry (the store owner) sends Marco on a quest for groceries and he encounters some locals and Zita - the girl who seemed to have some kind of business with Henry in chapter 4 but was turned away. She tries to excavate Marco's supposed memories using her own highly specific methods and powers she believes she has.

Chapter 6 - Marco finds the lost voice within the head and speaks with it, discusses Henry with it, makes promises and alliances, explores the hilllands, permits himself to consume the purchases, encounters the opps - wild dogs lead by the fierce and fearsome Wolfdog. Marco struggles to escape - diplomacy won't work with nature's powers! He finds himself stuck on top of the barn roof and gets rescued by a local man driving the "tractor".

Chapter 7 - The man drives Marco away to his place of settling, a historical government building in the woods. He tries his hardest to care for the boy and succeeds with shared efforts until it is revealed that Marco has connections to Henry. The man, who introduced himself as Abner, flips out a tiny bit and passes Marco and item to return to Henry, refusing further cohabitation, and leads him out to the road and tells his last goodbyes before disappearing.

This part of the story picks up from here.

Tags: Phenomenological, experimental, bildungsroman, picaresque

The story is told in a phenomenological second person point of view. The text uses markdown formatting for italics.

You can find some of the previous posts here:
HSH[1][2][3] Marco RW4[1][2][3][4][5][6][7.1]

Well i posted chapter 4 of my detective novel a few weeks back, and one of the bigger issues that i saw people have with it was the missing context from chapters 1,2 and 3 (ofcorse there are plenty and i mean plenty of other problems). So now i'am going to post all the chapters i left out so i can go chapter by chapter with no missing context, and hopefully try to improve (challange level: immposible). Also just so you guys know, i'am way ahead in my novel so you can consider these chapters "old" ones, but not like super old.Oh also, chapter 1 of this novel is a flashforward....well, have fun critiquing this 😭🤚

CHAPTER 1: Aftermath

The room was quiet, it was so quiet that a person could hear their own heartbeat inside their chest. A light bulb hung from the ceiling, illuminating the white walls of the eerie room. Inside these walls there was a long metallic table and two small chairs that sat on both ends of the table.

Occupying the chair that was to the left of the metallic desk, a middle-aged man sat with his head down, staring at the ground.

He wore a grey tracksuit, the standard clothing issued to remand prisoners, and his pale hands were cuffed together. The man's hair was half brown and half grey, and his eyes were a deep hazel color. This man had been sitting alone in this room for the better part of 2 hours. And during those hours, he had not moved or spoken, or even shown any sign of being alive.

However, every few seconds a slow and hoarse breath would enter and exit the man's nose, betraying his corpse-like appearance.

He was indeed alive.

Bang.

Suddenly, without a single warning, the middle-aged man lifted his cuffed hands up into the air and then slammed them down on the metal table that stood in front of him, a loud bang echoing throughout the room as he did. Then after doing this random act of aggression, he then proceeded to do something that could not be explained with normal human logic.

Lifting his head up for the first time in 2 hours, the man's hollow eyes shifted around the room, eventually stopping at a certain spot on the table.

There, a singular piece of paper lay peacefully on top of the smooth metal. It was left by the detective that would come to question him in an hour or so.

After gazing at the paper for a few moments, the man's cuffed hands stretched outward, and with a bit of effort he managed to reach the lonesome paper.

Then, with a very calm demeanor, the man brought the piece of paper near his face and began to analyze it. In fact, this paper intrigued the man so much that he continued to analyze it for another whole hour.

During this time he did not move, or even change his expression even once.

And the paper that he was so thoroughly analyzing...

It was blank.

There wasn't a single drop of ink on that paper. It was just a blank piece of white paper.

Though soon enough, the white room would get a few more visitors.

Outside of the white room where the man sat with his paper, there was a long hallway that connected to a bunch of other rooms that were similar to this one.

At the end of the hallway, two sets of footsteps began to echo throughout. They passed every room without slowing down even once, and eventually they came to a stop once they reached the room where the middle-aged man sat quietly.

The sounds of a hand flipping through a myriad of different keys began to play, but after some time the person outside seemed to have found the right one, as the noise stopped very abruptly.

A key was slowly inserted into the keyhole of the door, two twists resounded, and then the key was quickly removed. With a light push, the door swung inward and two people entered the room.

One was a bald middle-aged man, that wore a black shirt and dark blue pants that were paired with two pointy black shoes. In his right hand he carried a small pen, and in his left he held a sizable notepad.

The other man was a little younger but still appeared to be in his late thirties. He was slightly plump, and on his arms he carried a big kit as well as a camera.

Of course, the strange man that sat on the left side of the table did not pay these two much attention and continued to just stare at his paper.

This weird behavior did seem to startle the two men a fair bit, as they both hesitated to talk or move for a few seconds.

However, the silence was eventually broken by the bald middle-aged man, who decided to be the one to start the mandatory process that was done before every interrogation.

Walking a few steps forward, the bald man made his way to the metal table where the suspect sat looking at an empty paper that he had left there. With a gentle touch, the bald man tapped the man's shoulder, which actually made him react and drop the paper from his hand.

He looked up and the detective and the suspect made direct eye contact. A shiver was sent across the bald man's spine as he looked into the hollow eyes of the hazel-eyed man.

The detective could not explain why, but this guy's eyes were not normal. They lacked... something.

Not wasting any time, the detective pointed a finger at the metal table. And then, he spoke.

"Put your legs up on the table."

The bald man's voice was very deep and his tone was serious. It would be hard to not be intimidated by it.

The request to put your legs up on the table would be a weird one for most people, and it would probably cause for some questions and hesitation before complying.

But, the hazel-eyed man did not hesitate or ask any questions. He immediately lifted both of his legs up and placed them on the metal table.

Due to knowing the man's background, the detective did not find this quick understanding that surprising.

The bald man turned around and signaled his partner to do his job.

In the next 20 minutes the plump man would go through the process of not only photographing the man's feet but also swabbing the man's feet.

During this time all three men kept mostly quiet, with only the detective and the plump man whispering to each other every now and then.

After this process was done, the plump man shook the detective's hand and quickly left, taking both the kit and the camera with him.

Now there were only two men in the room. The interrogation was ready to commence.

The bald man took his seat at the chair on the right side of the table. He put the notepad down on the table but decided to keep the pen on hand, just in case the suspect decided to try something stupid.

The detective started off with an introduction.

"I am Detective Richard Hale, working for the Paddington police station. Today I will be asking you a few questions. Of course you can choose to not answer any of my questions, and be aware that any information you do share today will be used as evidence in the court of law. Do you understand?"

The suspect did not ask any questions and gave a simple slow nod.

Again considering the suspect's background, the detective did not find this surprising.

Picking up his notepad ever so slightly off the table, the bald man got his pen ready to go.

"I will start off by asking you some basic questions that every adult should be able to answer. These are mandatory to make sure you are mentally present."

The detective's words rolled off his tongue with such smoothness that it almost seemed unnatural. It was clear that this was not the first time that he had spoken these exact same words.

However, the man's smooth talking that had been molded over countless years of interrogating would be put to the test.

As the detective was about to ask his first question, he did what he always would do and that was lifting his head up to make eye contact with the suspect. This was something that had long become a routine of his and through the years he had looked into the eyes of murderers, rapists, molesters and many more deranged human beings. These experiences managed to shape his gaze into something solid and unbreakable—almost like a brick wall.

For over ten years, he had never once felt nervous when looking at a suspect...

Until now.

As Richard's gaze met the suspect's, he opened his mouth to ask his first question, but not a single word left his lips.

His jaw suddenly tightened and his eyes seemed slightly wide and dazed like that of a deer when caught under the headlights.

On the other side of the table the strange man sat unbothered, his arms hanging loosely and his gaze shifting around the room with no visible intent in them.

The lack of intent and will, was that what was making the detective so uncomfortable? Who knew.

A small ball of spit traveled down the detective's throat. Whatever this strange feeling that the suspect's eyes gave him—Richard had to suppress it for now. The interrogation needed to continue and his emotions for the suspect could not interfere with it.

Straightening his back slightly, the detective let out a small sigh and placed the tip of his pen on the notepad. With this he began to talk.

"To start off, can you confirm your name for me please."

The detective added the word 'please' to the end of his sentence, with the hope that his politeness would make the suspect open up to him. However considering the way that the suspect was acting, Richard very much doubted that the man would answer—

"Mayhew. Mayhew Brown."

There was a short pause of silence after the low voice of the hazel-eyed man subsided.

Richard was very much surprised by the quick answer. And that surprise was not of the bad type, instead it was a glimmer of hope that promised a productive interrogation.

Richard quickly wrote the answer down and began to ask more basic questions such as:

"How old are you?"

"Where were you born?"

"At which university did you study?"

And to the detective's amazement and delight, not only did the suspect answer all of them immediately but he also answered them correctly.

38 years old. England. East Anglia University.

Of course there had been a deep background check on the suspect a long time ago, so Richard already knew all the answers to the questions he just asked—thus he wasn't gaining any new information with them. But, what he was gaining was something that was equally important and that was a healthy dynamic with the suspect.

'This interrogation might actually go somewhere. I just have to be careful about it.' Richard thought to himself.

After writing everything on his notepad, the detective lifted his head up and gave Mayhew—the suspect a curt nod.

"Well Mayhew, it seems that you have good enough mental stability for me to start asking some more complex questions. Is that fine with you?"

Mayhew gave a small—almost unnoticeable nod to the detective. This half-assed comply made Richard hesitate for just a moment, but in the end he decided to ignore it and continued with the questioning.

"Mister Mayhew, you graduated from your university with a bachelor's degree in criminal justice. At a young age you showed talent like no other, and through a long period of work you became a very well-known and respected detective that was known throughout Britain. Is all that I said correct?"

Mayhew simply responded with a very slow nod while evading eye contact by staring at the ground of the white room.

Again, this made Detective Richard a little hesitant. But still, he continued regardless of how uncomfortable he felt about this particular man.

"You have solved some very deep and complex cases that had remained mysteries for years before you came. Your work has saved many people and it has put many horrible people behind bars, preventing them from ever harming anyone else again. Your job, how does it make you feel?"

Richard did not want to rush the interrogation by immediately asking something very personal to him, but he also didn't want to spend an hour getting nothing but vague nods from Mayhew. So a semi-personal question like this seemed like the best one to ask.

But to the detective's disappointment, his question was completely ignored. Mayhew didn't even give a vague answer like a thumbs up or even a nod.

He just continued to stare at the ground motionless.

A long sigh escaped Richard's lips and he decided to move on with his other questions. Surely at least one of them would be personal enough to get a reaction out of Mayhew, even if it was a negative one. Just anything but silence.

"Mayhew, may I ask why you refuse to answer my question? You were answering all my other questions without any issues, so why stop now? We have questioned a lot of people who knew you personally, and between all of them there was a single fact that they all agreed upon, and that was the amount of pride you took in your job. Have you seriously lost all of that passion from a single accident?"

If this didn't probe an answer out of Mayhew, then he had only one other idea to use as backup. With this question, Detective Hale had officially mentioned the 'accident' as he called it into the conversation. Of course, what he was talking about was no accident, it was the clear and cut murder of another human being.

Surely the mention of the murder he committed would get his attention.

A deep frown formed on the detective's face as he looked at the suspect.

No reaction and no movement. Just like he had feared, Mayhew continued to stare at the ground with an unreadable expression covering his face.

'Still no answer, huh? I guess I have to go to the extreme already then.' Richard thought to himself with slight disappointment.

The detective leaned slightly over the flat table, making the distance between himself and the suspect much thinner. This created a sort of tension that Richard could not explain with words. It was like he was one of those performers from Australia that put their heads inches away from a crocodile's mouth to entertain people.

Looking down on Mayhew at least gave the detective a slight feeling of authority that boosted his confidence by a fair bit.

"Well Mayhew, I didn't really want to bring this up but you left me no choice... Margret Rose, do you remember that name? The girl that you took under your wing after her parents died and turned into a full-fledged detective, you must remember her, right? Tell me what happened to her, and what were you doing while this horrible thing was happening to her."

To the detective's slight shock, the suspect continued to stay motionless with his head down low, staring at the ground. It seemed that this interrogation was practically ov—

"I was being eaten."

Just as the detective leaned back into his chair and let out a sigh of resignation, this random statement caught him completely off guard.

Detective Richard Hale looked over at Mayhew, his face frozen in place. With a low and unconfident voice, he spoke:

"W-What... what do you mean by that?"

After staying with his head down for almost the entire interrogation, Mayhew finally decided to gaze at the detective.

And what an experience it was for Richard. Looking at the hazel eyes of the man, Detective Hale could not stop himself from flinching back.

'What is wrong with this guy.'

The detective's thoughts were split apart as the crazed man, once a famous detective, spoke in a whispering tone that made Richard's skin crawl away from his bones.

"I was chasing something. I wanted to hug it and so I chased it. From city to forest and from forest to mountain, I never let go and continued to chase it, but my wish for a hug changed once I finally met it. Only then it was too late, before I knew it the thing had already eaten most of me. I was consumed by a well, do you see it?"

The detective could not even pretend that he was following this strange story that the suspect was telling him. And he also couldn't pretend that he wasn't fearing for his life at this moment.

Before he could even say anything about this story, the former detective had another story to share with Richard.

"Margret, I do remember her. She chased some people, and they put her in a nightchoke and left her in the darkness."

A long silence enveloped the room after what Mayhew had said.

Breathing in heavy breaths, Detective Hale was now bathing in a pool of sweat. His ears could not understand what they were hearing.

With a barely audible whisper, Richard asked:

"Y-you said they put her in a 'nightchoke'. What does that word mean, Mayhew?"

There was a short pause of hesitation. But then Mayhew gave an answer that made the detective end the interrogation early.

"I don't know what that word means."

With that, Detective Hale gathered his few items in an abnormally fast time. And in that time Mayhew let his head fall down to stare at the ground once more.

Before the detective closed the metallic door behind him, he threw one last glance at Mayhew and particularly at the spot on the ground that he had stared at for almost the entire interrogation.

What he saw made a cold shiver run down his spine like a snake slithering up a tree.

It was the paper, the one that Mayhew had dropped on the ground.

This whole interrogation, Mayhew had been staring at a blank paper.

Also For the crits:

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/tbJyaX0zAT [1012]

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/8JsDgKms0g [2332]