r/FictionWriting

Prologue

The withered grandfather clock chimed precisely 8 o’clock as Jaques’ fist tapped against the aged wooden door.  Not a second too early, not a second too late. Time is chaos, Father always says, precision makes it obey. 

The study door groaned as it opened, pale lantern light spilling into the whitewashed hall. Inside the air smelled faintly of polished stone and a bitter herb that seemed to cling to everything in this castle. It was immaculate to the point of suffocation- white walls, white shelves, white carpet underfoot.

The few objects allowed on display were muted to pastels or dulled to silver, because color itself had been declared a crime.

Precision doesn’t seek truth; it seeks control. That was one of the few little wisdoms Father bestowed only on Jaques, and not the rest of the Dons.

Father sat waiting behind his desk, spine straight, hands folded. His silver hair was drawn into a smooth tail at the nape of his neck. He was smiling, ever the charismatic leader. 

“Father,” Jaques greeted, bowing low. His voice was soft but certain. “You summoned me?”

Father gestured gracefully toward the chair opposite his desk. “Sit.”

Jaques obeyed at once. Whatever Father wanted, he received. He was ruler by blood, by right of course. 

“I heard we might be traveling to Arielle again,” Jaques pressed, keeping his tone casual, though his eyes searched the older man’s face for meaning. “Is that why you summoned me?”

Father’s smile did not waver, but his fingers tapped idly against the armrest. A faint hiss rose where skin met the painted oak desk- acid creating faint trails into the finish.

He said nothing.

A second knock came at the door. Father’s smile tightened, the air thickening with expectation.

“Perfect,” he murmured, standing. The massive door groaned open. Jaques didn’t have to look up to know who it was, only one Don was bold enough to show up late to Father’s summon. 

Carios entered, as dark as the room was pale. His hair- long, near-black waves- fell to his cheekbones, his violet eyes flickering manacingly beneath the lanterns. He was broad-shouldered, sharp-boned, carrying himself with an indifference that bordered on disdain. Carios only offered a faint nod before striding to the empty chair.

They did not greet each other. Jaques’s posture was smooth, still, carefully casual. Carios was rigid, waiting. They were both bound by the same master, but that didn’t mean they could be bonded- or that they would ever be considered similar. 

Father resumed his seat at the head of the desk, folding his long fingers. 

“To answer your question, Jaques- yes. This is about Arielle.”

Jaques leaned forward slightly, the flicker of unease hidden in his eyes. “We’ve been many times before. You never say why.”

“Have faith in me, as I have faith in you. You will know when you must,” Father said simply. As if it were the answer to everything.

Carios’s gaze shifted, but he remained silent. The lantern flame at Father’s shoulder shivered, then bent sideways as if pulled by invisible strings. Carios didn’t look at it- he never did when he used his gift- but the flame obediently stretched toward him until it licked at the base of the wick and guttered out. Darkness swallowed the far corner of the study.

Jaques didn’t so much as blink. He was accustomed to Carios’s shows of force, just as he was accustomed to Father’s refusal to answer plainly. “Then why Tuculla?” he asked, tone careful. 

At that, Father’s smile shifted. He didn’t like that Jaques already knew where they were heading almost as much as he despised being questioned. 

Carios’ head tilted, surprise flickering for a beat. 
So he didn’t know either. 

“Do you no longer trust my judgement?” Father placed one hand flat on the desk, and the white wood hissed beneath his touch. A slow trail of smoke curled upward, acrid and metallic. Neither boy looked away.

Neither responded. That wasn’t the kind of thing they could respond to without meeting his other, far less charismatic side. 

“In two nights’ time, we leave.” Father said after a very long pause, “Understood?”

The room was silent. The air smelled of rot and polish. Jaques inclined his head in wordless acceptance. Carios’s violet eyes burned against the pale world around him, unblinking, unreadable. He, eventually, nodded too.

Father leaned back, that eternal smile carving deeper into his face. “Everything is in place. You may rest.”

Jaques left immediately, lingering outside when he realized Carios hadn’t followed. Something was off. Carios wouldn’t stay behind and question father the way Jaques did… usually. 

“Something wrong, Carios?” Father’s voice was surprisingly kind. 

There was a long pause. 

“No, sir. It’s just… Could you tell me anything about what we’re looking for? You know that we have a better chance if I know what we’re after.”

There was a light tapping on the desk. Father sighed. 
“I can’t tell you everything… but we’re looking for something extraordinary. Something like us.”

“A person?” Carios asked. Something about his tone made Jaques wonder if Carios knew more than Father this time. If anyone could pull off such a feat it would be him. 

Still, it made Jaques wonder what game was being played here, and how he seemed to be the only one behind. 

“Maybe. I’m not sure yet. Now go.” Father’s voice came again. Carios was lucky Father didn’t hear what Jaques had.

Jaques didn’t have time to move. Carios came out of the door right away, giving him an annoyed look before moving on past him, their shoulders brushing as he blew past. 

All the same.

Jaques and Carios were meant to be at each other's throats, after all. Father made sure of that. 

protagonist, Arjun, lost his wife Priya in 2081. My novel is set in 2089.

Eight years.

He has had eight years with this grief. It is not fresh. It is not dramatic.It is integrated.

The shape of his life has grown around an absence the way a tree grows around a wound.

his grief entirely through displacement behaviour and habit.He makes dal with patience.

Priya used to say you could tell everything about a person by whether they rushed the tempering.

He never rushes it.He is alone.He takes his time anyway.He accelerates the motorcycle

exactly the way she liked smooth, not abrupt.

She always noticed when he was impatient with the throttle.

She is gone.He is still smooth.

He names an underwater mountain

Priya's Ridge. 3,200 metres below the Pacific surface.No map will ever show it.Nobody will ever know.He does it anyway.He records the memory

of her laugh.Not her face.Not her words.The specific quality of her laugh in a small kitchen in Bhilai on an ordinary morning that meant nothing to history and everything to him.

He never cries in the novel.Not because he doesn't feel it.Because grief eight years old

doesn't weep.It lives in how you make dal. In how you accelerate.In what you name things when nobody is watching.

Could they have no names and sit in an empty stadium on steel seats that were still sticky from last night’s baseball game, and share a bag of ketchup chips behind home plate?

Am I not able to do whatever I want? Or are there certain rules I should follow and become cliche? They don’t need names and you don’t need context. They eat potato chips and haven’t a name, nor a gender, and are sitting and watching an imaginary ballgame. What’s that tell you cheese cracker? 

Want me to tell you their birthday’s so you can set a reminder? Or how they grew up as Siamese twins, or would you rather they just be aliens. Can’t you just read it and fill in the blanks yourself? Why do you want to change the vibe? Do you really need a map? They sat there in an air of ketchup and talked. How would I know what they said, I was there, yeah, in that empty stadium. But I was ten rows back asshat.

Plus it was chilly as hell, and I didn’t have a blanket, a coat, a hat. I had mittens, I couldn’t write anything down. You know the fingerless ones you usually wear in grade 2?

Anyway I just wanted to tell you what they were doing.

A portrait of dignified restraint, or a subtle character study of a man who has turned emotional control into a form of dominance.
----

The draft on the screen was titled The Architecture of Absence, but Arthur hadn’t written a word in four days. Instead, he sat at his desk, listening to the quiet, mechanical hum of his printer and the distant, rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.

Outside, the late afternoon sun was dipping below the horizon, casting long, geometric shadows across the mats of his study. It was a peaceful view, but Arthur was entirely focused on a deeper, invisible physics. He was practicing the art of becoming a ghost.

A week ago, the letter on the kitchen table had been explicit, written with a sharp, defensive precision that left no room for negotiation: I need absolute distance. Do not call. Do not write. We are done.

A younger version of Arthur would have banged on that border. He would have sent long, agonizing paragraphs into the digital void, trying to explain, trying to fix, trying to prove that the warmth hadn’t vanished. But years of studying narrative structure, and the erratic, volatile waves of human behavior, had taught him a harder truth. If you fight an iron wall, you only justify its existence.

So, Arthur had simply folded the paper, placed it in a drawer, and stepped into the vacuum.

The phone on his desk vibrated, a sudden, violent buzz against the polished oak. It wasn’t her. It was never her. It was her mother, calling under the guise of checking about the upcoming school excursion.

"Arthur," the old woman’s voice came through, hesitant, testing the temperature of the room. "I was just wondering... about the boy's rain jacket for the trip. And the schedule. My daughter... she mentioned things have been difficult. We were worried you might be too angry to go."

Arthur leaned back, his voice dropping into a steady, resonant register. There was no bitterness in it. No ice, no fire. Just a clean, unshakeable floor.

"I’m not angry at all, Hana," Arthur said quietly. "I love our family. I worry about them every day, and I hope we can find our way back to a healthy, normal rhythm one day. I’m glad to hear she’s taking such good care of the kids right now. Tell Leo I have the tickets for the aquarium, and I’m looking forward to our big day."

"Oh," Hana murmured, the tension visibly leaving her voice across the miles. "I... I will tell her. She thought perhaps you had blocked her completely."

"No," Arthur said with a gentle, final politeness. "I haven't blocked anyone. I'm just letting her have the space she asked for. Take care, Hana."

He hung up. He didn't ask how she was doing. He didn't ask if she was reading his messages. He didn't leave a single breadcrumb for her ego to feast on.

Arthur knew exactly what would happen next. Hana would hang up and immediately dial her daughter. The telegraph wire would hum. The report would be delivered with absolute accuracy: He isn't furious. He isn't broken. He spoke of you with kindness, and he is entirely ready to be a father. But he didn't ask to speak to you.

Arthur stood up and walked to the window. By refusing to play the villain, he had stripped her armor of its purpose. By refusing to play the beggar, he had reclaimed his territory. He was now a benevolent phantom: a figure of undeniable warmth and safety, floating entirely out of her reach.

Two weeks later, the day of the excursion arrived.

The house was empty when Arthur arrived to pick up his son. As agreed, she had vacated the premises the night before, fleeing to a friend’s house to avoid the terrifying vulnerability of a face-to-face encounter. The keys had been left under the stone flowerpot.

Arthur stepped inside. The air was heavy with her absence, a silent testament to the shame and panic that had driven her out. He didn't look through her drawers. He didn't leave a single note on the counter.

Instead, he focused entirely on the boy. They made a fortress out of cardboard boxes in the living room. They ate noodles, laughed until their stomachs hurt, and Arthur tucked his son into bed, reading him a story about a voyager who traveled to the edge of the world just to bring back a single, perfect star.

The next morning was a whirlwind of bright blue skies, packed lunches, and the pure, unadulterated joy of a child pointing at a blue whale suspended in a glass tank. Arthur was completely present. He took photos, held his son's hand through the crowds, and built a memory that would last a lifetime.

At four in the afternoon, Arthur brought the boy back to the quiet house. He helped him unpack his backpack, set a glass of milk on the table, and made sure the kitchen was pristine. Every dish was washed. Every chair was tucked in. The space looked identical to how she had left it, except for the lingering energy of a father’s laughter.

Arthur checked his watch. She would be back in an hour.

He knelt down, hugged his son tightly, and whispered, "Tell Mom you had a great time, okay?"

"Are you staying?" the boy asked.

"Not today," Arthur smiled, his tone light and secure. "But I'm always right here."

Arthur walked out the front door, locked it, and slid the key back under the stone pot. He walked down the street without looking back, vanishing into the crowded train station just as the sun began to paint the sky in shades of deep violet and gold.

An hour later, the front door clicked open.

She stepped into the house, her shoulders tense, her eyes darting around the entryway, bracing for a confrontation that wasn't coming. The silence hit her first: not a heavy, hostile silence, but a clean, peaceful one.

"Mom!" Leo came sprinting down the hall, holding up a plastic shark. "Look what Dad got me! We had the best day ever! He made a giant fort last night and he cooked the noodles exactly the way I like them!"

She walked into the kitchen. The counter was spotless. The sink was dry. There was no bitter letter. No evidence of anger.

She stood in the center of the room, looking at the perfect order of her home. The husband she had tried to lock out had entered her sanctuary, filled it with absolute safety and love for their child, and walked away without demanding a single word of appreciation, a single explanation, or a single look.

She pulled out her phone. The screen was completely blank. No texts. No missed calls.

She had demanded distance, and he had granted it to her with a devastating, beautiful dignity. She was entirely safe, but she was completely alone. The phantom had left his mark, and as she sat down in the quiet kitchen, the vacuum he left behind began to feel very, very cold.

I just launched a small writing platform built for writers who want freedom, not algorithms.

I'm opening 3 more spots and giving away free Writer Pro accounts (normally paid).

If you want a place to publish, grow, and connect with readers directly, let me know.

Happy to answer questions in the comments.
l've dedicated over two years to working hard on this platform and the book l've written for it. I've already dropped the prologue and chapter 1, and I'm currently writing chapter 2.

I've chosen four people to give free pro accounts to. I want us to come together and build something beautiful and safe for everyone, regardless of their background. I pay a fee for the site, domain, and other features that
'il be adding soon.

l've added many features that people love, but if there's a feature you'd like to see added, please let me know, and I'll do my best to make it happen. I'm just a young guy trying to help people find a way and make money while doing it. All I ask is that you give me a chance.
Reach

Hey all! I’ve been working on this for about a week and would love some feedback! It’s not super polished since I’m just trying to get the flow of ideas down on the page. I’m not a seasoned writer by any means so please tell me if I should find a new hobby! 😂

Chapter 1

Does it always have to be black and white? What about all the colors in between? Scarlet Reds, Royal Blues, Purple Mountain Majesty. Shades of white are often tainted cream or grey, and blacks are almost never truly black, but some shade of blue or green. Is anything ever truly black and white?

A pen twirls between my fingers. My eyes glaze over my essay. The flow of thoughts halts. I look back up at my title, “More Than Black and White” by artist Jana Hues. I’ve only just begun filling in my outline but I’m already lost in thought visualizing every stroke I’m going to add to my painting when I get home. I squirm in my seat. I don’t feel anything writing this essay. Memories of times past fill my head. The irony of how Dad hung my work in the entryway for any passerby to see; only to become a stranger to me. Mom kept me safe from him and now that he’s gone, she doesn’t need to anymore. I shake my head. I need to go home. I need to get out of my head. I close my laptop and  open my desk drawer to put away my things. I pause. A sticky note is stuck to the inside of my drawer. 

Go with the flow. 

Was someone in my office? I close the drawer shut. 

A knock on the door interrupts. I can see through the glass that it’s Wallace, my ex fiance and co-worker. I signal to come in. 

“HR wanted me to relay the message, your mom called, She came in from her flight safely.”

“Thank you Wallace. I’m actually about to leave for the day… Did anyone come to my office while I was on break?” 

Wallace curls his lip and shakes his head. He could have put it here… but how insensitive would that be after the week I’ve had. I broke up with him for many reasons but insensitivity was not one of them. 

“The workload got to be too much for you eh?” He teases, eyeing the only assignment I’ve had for a week: my essay. 

I grimace. “Right, like you know anything about how to handle a workload?” Despite our ex status we enjoy poking at each other as if we were siblings. “Goodbye Wallace.” I wave. He rolls his eyes and goes back to his business. I pack up my things and head to the garage. 

Just before I make it to my exit the shining face of my little sister catches my eye. She chats with a stranger who leans against the building’s welcoming desk; he appears to be in his early thirties. My sister breaks eye contact with him and welcomes me with a smile. I’d really rather keep on my route home, but my sister is hard to escape. 

“Oh my gosh! You have to meet this guy! He’s our new,”  she turns to him, “sorry what did you say your job is?” 

“It’s a pleasure, I’m your new exterior design specialist.” His focus shifts back and forth between us. 

I tilt my head. I know everyone who works here, no one has mentioned an incoming “exterior design specialist.” 

“Oh, welcome to the Art Institute!” I  force a smile. His eyes narrow, almost microscopically. His looks are charming, but something about his expression makes me squirm. 

I turn to my sister, “I’m going to get going early today.”

“Are you ok? Is it about your Dad? Because I can totally come by later and bring you some company,” she mutters. I exhale a little more forcefully than necessary. “No, it’s ok Shay. I’m going to get lost in my painting tonight and forget the world.”

“Okay. Call me tonight!” She pulls me in for a hug. I can still feel the man watching me as I pass and finally exit the building; but I do not allow myself to glance back. 

I will be taking my sister up on that phone call. And he will be the main subject. 

My phone is clutched between my ear and my shoulder as I fumble around my purse for my house key. 

My mom answers, “Hey Jana! I came home safely!”

“I know mom. Wallace let me know.” I clasp my lips shut, I should really help mom tonight, “I decided to leave work early today. Do you want me to come that way in a little while to help you unpack?” 

“Yes, please! Reah was going to come help too but she had to cancel at the last minute. Anyway, how is that young man!?” 

“How should I know, Mom?” I shuffle my weight, “ You know, it really isn’t any of my business anymore.”  

“I know, but could you find out for me? He’s a good kid. I miss having him around.” 

“Alright Mom, I’ll do that” I chuckle. Sometimes she’s more like a nosy grandma than a mother. I pause ready to switch to a more somber subject, “how was the funeral?” 

“Ummm,” my mom hesitates,“it’s a lot to talk about over the phone. I’ll tell you when you get here?”

“Sure. I’ll see you soon Mom.” 

I finally retrieve the keys from my purse and walk up the drive way of my Italian style town home. It looks like one of my paintings, which is why I did not hesitate to say yes when the real estate agent offered it. 

I dump my things in my entry way where I’m greeted by my maine coon cat, Cumbs. He rubs his soft cheeks all over my baggy overalls. He’s more like a dog than a cat, which is why I love him. I shuffle to round the corner where I am welcomed by the sight of my art studio. Blue lights line the room and the best kind of clutter fills every surface. My shoulders rest. This is my sanctuary. My painting sits just how I left it this morning: A black and white woman whose color lies in her hazel, gold speckled eyes. I make some green tea for a late afternoon pick me up and go straight to work on La Donna di Colore. The harsh memories of my childhood fade away. A couple hours go by before I decide it's time to go to my Mom’s house. My stomach grumbles. I’m sure mon will have food ready for me. 

I dial up Mom to let her know I’m on my way. No answer. Well, I hope she’ll have dinner. 

My car pulls in next to her brand new 2026 bright pink mustang… at least she moved into a pretty house. Its style is much like my own town home, but on a far grander scale. Columns and architecture frame each window and door with extravagance. Outside, it feels more like a wedding venue than a home. 

I open the front door which Mom always leaves unlocked for me and call out. No response. “Mom, I’m here!” I repeat. Still nothing. It's not unlike her to begin something and lose track of time, and reality, as she focuses. She must be gardening or working on her book. I check the garden and her library office. In both I was equally met with silence. 

Strange. 

I call her. No answer. I try again as I breeze through every room in the house. Nothing. I pause in the living room. A book sits halfway open on the couch. Mom never leaves anything sitting out. She sits with it until it's done or she puts it away in its spot. As small a detail as it is, it's enough to spike my blood pressure. I close my eyes hard and grab my face. 

Mom, where are you?

My thoughts are blurred from adrenaline. I decide to call Wallace. When he answers I immediately jump to asking questions. “When my mom called the office did she mention anything else?” 

“N-no? You good you never c…,” I hang up and dial my sister. No response. Seriously, Shay pick up!  I try again. Still no response. I send her a text. 

I can’t find mom. Call me! 

For now I have no one else to call… except 911. 

The sun nearly passes beneath the horizon. Red and blue lights are backed up to the street. I sit on the steps beneath the front door folding myself into my Mom’s brown cardigan which I took to keep the evening chill off my shoulders. An officer questions me. I recall the entire day. I explain I have not been in contact with her at all today, until I called her when I got home from work. 

“You haven’t been able to get in touch with your half sister either, it’s half sister right?”  The officer asks. 

“No I haven’t and yes she is.” 

“We’ll send an officer to locate her and update her on the situation.”

If she hasn’t gone missing too, “Thank you.” 

“This funeral your mother went to, who was it for?” 

“My father. Her ex husband.” 

The officer’s expression towards me changes," I see. Why weren’t you and your sister there as well?”

“He wasn’t much of a father.” I explain,“Not one worth putting my job on hold to fly across the country for. And my sister, she had no connection to him. She lived with her dad when we were kids.” 

The officer nods, “Has your mother been around anyone suspicious or complained about any suspicious activity?”

“Not that I know of. I don’t really know her friends. Though she has mentioned a friend named Reah a time or two. That’s really all the information I have on her social life.” 

The officer thanks me and goes to his colleagues to consult with them before returning to me. “ Usually in adult cases we wait it out until the individual shows up. But since her car is still here, we agreed it would be best if we do an extensive investigation until she turns up. Does she have any cameras?”

I shake my head “I’m sorry, I don’t know.” 

Dammit Mom, why don’t I know these things?

The officer nods, “We’ll do all we can to find your mother. In the meantime we have everything we need from you. You’re free to go. We’ll give you a call if anything turns up.”

“I can’t stay here?”

“I’m sorry but until we know for sure whether or not this is a crime scene, it would be best if you do not interfere.”

I nod then go to my car and sit. Frozen. I remember that sticky note. 

Go with the flow. 

No. I shake my head. That had to be one of  Wallace’s jokes. 

My phone vibrates. My sister's goofy face illuminates the screen. Thank God she’s safe! My finger dashes to the right of the screen. 

“Mom’s missing???” 

“I don’t know, Shay. I - I came over to help her unpack and she’s just, not here. Can you meet me at mom’s house now?”

“Yeah. Stay there, I'm coming!” She hangs up. 

The glow of the red and blue lights becomes more saturated as the night grows darker. Shay pulls in. I stand in the driveway waiting while the police question her. My eyes stare at mom’s house but my mind is not in sync with them. 

I find myself remembering everything I’ve pushed down all week. One parent disappeared from my life with little explanation as to why. And now, so has mom. But this time, it was not a choice. It couldn’t have been…

Shay walks towards me. She’s hugging herself, and holding back tears. 

“How could this happen?” She cries. I fold my arms around her. 

“We’ll find her, I promise.” I release the embrace, “did the police tell you anything else?”

Shay shakes her head, “There’s got to be something we can do.”

“I know. I just don’t know, Shay. I search every room! I can’t imagine what might have happened. I don’t want to get in the way of the police!”

Shay focuses her eyes, the same way she does every time her mind is determined, “Have you talked to Wallace about all this?”

“Not exactly. I-” 

Shay pulls out her phone and dials Wallace. I offset my jaw. I don’t want him involved in this. Today is already complicated . Before I have a chance to protest, she explains the entire situation to him. 

She gets off the phone. “Wallace wants to meet us. He’s gonna help us find her.” 

I take a deep inhale, “Okay.” if it has to be him, it has to be him. 

My stomach now feels like it's eating itself. I still have not eaten dinner. “Could you ask him to meet us at La Cantina?  I haven’t eaten since lunch.” 

Shay agrees. I get in my car and start it but I cannot bring myself to pull out of the driveway just yet. I have to call her. Just one more time. 

It tones. It tones. It tones …. No answer. Now that the adrenaline has worn off I can feel the full weight of the situation. Mom isn’t standing in the doorway waving goodbye as I prepare to leave. 

She isn’t here. 

My eyes fight to stay fixed on the scene, but eventually I bring myself to pull out of the driveway. 

I pull into a parking lot tucked tightly between two buildings in the downtown area. I exit the vehicle and make my way inside to one of mine and my mom’s favorite hang out spots, La Cantina. I go inside and am greeted by my sister and Wallace. We all sit down at a booth. We fill him in on every detail. 

“Do you think you can do it?” I ask Wallace. He is a private investigator, though he doesn’t look the part. His job at the art institute is only part time. 

“I don’t want to get your hopes up, but I’ll do my best. And don’t worry, I won’t change you.” He winks. I roll my eyes. He’s always been so ridiculously cheeky. 

“So what’s the plan?” Shay asks. 

“Well, I definitely don’t have one yet, but I’ll be up all night thinking, I’m sure.”

We all talk about the good times we’ve had with Mom. Even Wallace. Sometimes I think he loved her more than me. When we finished our meals, Shay and I decide that I should stay at her place tonight. If someone did take mom, it’s best that neither of us are alone. 

We go our separate way to our vehicle. I load my left overs into the passenger seat. 

“Miss!” I hear a voice call out. Before I even have time to fully turn around a force yanks me and pins me between their body and my car. 

I  scream. 

A cloth covers my mouth and nose bringing with it a burning sensation. I fight their grip but the more I fight it the tighter their hold around my small frame becomes. I try to hold my breath so as not to breathe in any more of the burning compound, but soon I grow weak and succumb to the darkness. 

Chapter 2

The workings of an engine and the sound of wind beating against the sides of a vehicle are all I hear. I lay half awake. I don’t remember falling asleep. I continue in this half awake state for a moment before it hits me… I don’t remember falling asleep in a car! I jolt upwards. My eyes bounce in every direction. I don’t recognize this place. It looks like I’m in the back of an empty van. I try to scurry to my feet but my wrists catch around a pole. I am chained and surrounded by nothing but metal walls. I slide my wrists up the pole to stand then pound on the barrier between me and where the driver should be, though I cannot see them. “HEY! WHAT IS THIS ABOUT?!”  No response. “HEY!” I keep pounding. “HEY!!!” 
They just keep driving. I slide back down to sit.
I feel around my pockets to see if my kidnappers left my phone or anything in my pockets. They did not. I reach up to feel my hair, it's still up in bobby pins! I bring my hands to my head and pull one out of my hair and try my best to use it to pick the lock. Dammit!  It won’t fit!

I shrivel up, tremors overcome me. I remember, Mom…. Am I about to find out first hand where mom is? It can’t be a coincidence. Mom goes missing, now this. I can’t help but wonder, if somehow, someway, Dad is involved. What feels like hours go by. I do not sleep. I just sit thinking. I can’t get stuck in my head right now; yet I find myself there. Wondering if mom is alive, and when this is all over, will I be? 

Eventually the van slows to a stop. A clunky step leaps out of the van. The doors on the other end of the vehicle finally swing open. Blinding sunlight floods the van. I’ve been in here all night at least. 

A large figure steps in. When my eyes come into focus, I see a familiar unsettling glare. He is the man from the Hallway. The “exterior design specialist.”

“You!”  My chest tightens. He steps closer. “GET BACK!” I scream. He keeps coming. I kick at him with all the strength I have, though it is next to none. He doesn’t react but reaches down and begins to unlock my chains. 

“Shhh, Just go with it. You’ll be okay.”

I cock my head, “YOU KIDNAPPED ME!” 

He grimaces. 

The chains come undone. I could escape. He doesn’t have a weapon and now my hands are free. But I’m so weak. The man reaches down and firmly grabs me by the arm. He hurdles me to my feet and carries me out of the van. My feet hit the ground. He is no longer blocking my path. I try to run but I lose my footing after a couple steps. I push myself up but don’t get far before those same arms that grabbed me last night grab me again and carry me the opposite direction of where I was trying to run. I kick and scream, but it does nothing. He brings me inside a house and sits me down on a couch in a large, open family room.

“You’re not going to outrun me.” He says, pulling back. He backs away several feet, to my surprise, giving a reasonable amount of space between us. I catch my breath. 

He’s right. He is lean and strong, I am just an artist who does pilates a few times a week. If I am going to get away, I will have to outsmart him. 

I scan my surroundings. The room is modern and luxurious. Grey and white overtake nearly every surface. Small pops of color are brought in through decorative accents. A loft overlooks the family room and large pointed windows cover the entire north face of the home. I turn my eyes to the window. I’m in a desert, far different from the lush hills and valleys of Virginia that I grew up in. 

“Where are we?” I ask

“Albuquerque, New Mexico,” He states. 

“Albuquerque? How long was I out?”

“Long enough.” 

Albuquerque. I haven’t been here since the last time I saw Dad. Looks like I was going on that trip whether I wanted to or not. 

The man shifts his weight, “Let’s get you settled.” 

“No! I want answers!”

A hint of impatience flashes across his expression,“Not now.”

I look at him, now with more confidence than I had in the hallway knowing for certainty that he is a snake. “Did you know my father? Is that why I’m here?”

His eyes narrow,“In a way. I knew of him.”

“What does that mean?” I scoff. 

He holds his breath for a moment, then a long exhale. He does not speak. 

“Where’s my Mom?”

His eyes look deeper into mine. “Your mom hasn’t been honest with you.”

I glare at him as though he’s not just a snake, but Satan himself, “Are you accusing her of something?” 

He draws closer to me, kneels down on my level and grabs my shoulder. He holds my gaze, “How do you think she was able to afford that house and that brand new car?” He raises his eyebrows. 

I stare blank. I can’t think about this right now. 

He shakes his head,“Come with me. You should sleep.” He pulls me off the couch and leads me down a hallway with a hand hovering behind my back and a firm hold around my arm. 

“Can you at least tell me if my sister is safe?” I ask as we walk.

“I can’t make any promises.” He states. 

I instinctively pull away but his grip combats my movement. 

Shay, please be alright. 

We stop at the entrance of a bedroom. I peek inside. Its tones are warm. Silk bedding and a private bathroom add a layer of luxury to the room but bars cover the window, bringing the whole room down a notch. He guides me across the threshold. I am too exhausted to fight him, though I am unsure of when I will cross over it again. The door closes behind me and the lock immediately clicks. For the moment I ignore the fact that I am in captivity. I just want to sleep. I curl up on the welcoming mattress and before thoughts have a chance to overtake me, slip into the deepest sleep of my life. 

My eyes flutter open. I breathe deeply taking in my new reality. Slowly, I rise from my heavy slumber and turn my head to the window. It is sunrise. A desk sitting on the narrow side of the room across from the foot of the bed catches my attention. A small canvas sitting on an easel and a jar full of brushes clutter the surface. I inch my sore, stiff body to the desk and explore its drawers. There is a full spectrum of paints and paint palettes. I have a number of questions for that man when he comes back. Why does he want me to paint?  Will he get something out of it? None of this makes any sense. I ignore the paint supplies for now and resolve to take a warm shower.  

When I get out of the shower I wrap myself in the soft plushy robe hanging in the bathroom closet and tie my hair up in the towel. I hear a knock on the door. My heart stops. Could now be the time to escape? Or at least, get some questions answered?

“Hello?” I call

The voice of a woman responds, “Hello Jana. The Big Man wanted me to bring you some things. May I enter?”

Dammit. It's not him. 

I sigh, “Yes.” 

The sound of keys fumbling and scraping the inside of the lock brings me hope. The door opens and the  woman enters. She wears a brown leather jacket over black clothing. I recognize the jacket as being one commonly worn by those who conceal cary. I can only assume she has a gun. Maybe I can get my hands on that jacket somehow.

Her arms are loaded with a tray of breakfast foods, and numerous outfits. I eye these things confused. These are the people who kidnapped me?

“Would you please tell me what’s going on?” I demand. 

The woman stares for a moment, “What has he told you?”

“Nothing.”

The woman gulps down hard, “I’m terribly sorry. I know this is scary for you. Please take comfort in knowing we will give you everything you need while you are here.”

“Yeah? And why am I here?” I blurt. 

She sighs,“I know it's hard for you to believe right now, but it is better that you are here than in Virginia.” The woman hands over the things. 

I look down at my breakfast. Two pieces of bacon and two waffles topped with whipped cream - real whipped cream - and homemade strawberry puree. This is lovely. I didn’t realize how hungry I was. I can’t be sure of how long it's been since I’ve had a meal. 

Mr. “Big Man,” kidnapped me before I had a chance to eat my dinner. 

“When can I talk with that man again?” 

“He plans to check on you this afternoon. I can’t promise he’ll tell you much though. Again, I’m so sorry.”  She leaves, relocking the door. Heavy footed steps echo down the hallway. 

I plop the items she gave me down on the bed then yank the towel off my head, nearly pulling out my hair.  

I’M SICK OF BEING LEFT IN THE DARK. 

I close my eyes and let out a sharp exhale. I need to calm down, or I’ll never escape. 

I look at the clock just above the desk. It reads nearly eight. I have at least four hours to kill. I glance down at the art supplies. I wasn’t going to paint. Not until I knew these people’s motives, but I can’t stop myself. 

I pick a paint brush and begin mixing paint colors. My breathing and heart rate slows. My thoughts become clear. I need that woman to come back in here. 

I pull back from the painting and find myself satisfied with the result for now. Blurred splotches of lighter and darker greys fill the canvas. There are no clear lines. No clear perspective. Only uncertainty. Water droplets accent the painting. They are the only clear focus. I lean back in my chair and exhale. Now the clock reads just past noon. 

He’s supposed to come see me soon. I’ll have to be quick. 

I pull down the shower curtain rod and remove its curtain then position myself by the door. Confirming what I am about to do by letting out the biggest scream I could conjure, “HELP!” I yell, “HELP!!!” I keep yelling until I hear the woman run to the door and open it. Instantly, I give her the biggest blow to the head I can muster. She falls to the floor but is not unconscious. She leaps up and tackles me to the ground. We struggle but I have the edge and give her another good hit to the head with the rod. She is still conscious but disoriented. I take her jacket and her keys, run out of the room and lock her inside. I quickly feel inside the concealed pocket. 

Bingo! 

I run from the room towards the home’s front door before taking any time to think. 

I need to hide until I know where he is. 

There is a staircase in the entry way. I take cover behind it then peer out a window to see the driveway. There are two cars. 

He could be here. 

I think through my options. I can’t go through the hallway behind me. There are too many rooms. I could be cornered. The living room past the entryway is too open. My best bet is to leave through the front door. I run and try to open it. It doesn’t open. My eyes scramble. There’s a padlock. 

I spin in circles trying to plan my next move, but before I take another step, I see him. He’s walking towards me from the family room. I pull out the gun and point it straight at him. 

My eyes widen, I’ve never shot before. 

“STOP!” I demand, “Give me the code or I will shoot you!”

He does not stop. He keeps walking towards me. There is no fear in his eyes. 

“Jana, you are here for protection. Let me protect you.”

“Really? You sure have a funny way of ‘protecting’ me!”

“Put the gun down. I will explain everything. I think once I do you will choose to stay here.”

“Why didn’t you explain before?”

“There was no time!” His voice escalates. He is still walking towards me. Now he is under the door frame of the entryway. 

“Stop! Explain now!” 

He does not stop, he keeps coming closer. He’s too close. 

I pull the trigger. 

Snap. 

DAMMIT THE SAFETY!

He moves. The gun shifts from my hands to his. 

“YOU BASTARD!” I yell out as he wraps his arms around me. I struggle, again to no avail before he whisks me to the other side of the house. 

Hey guys, I'm working on a thriller novel with Christian undertones. This is what I propose would go on the back of the book cover (the blurb)

Working title -- either "The Quench" or "Resonance"

Tonya Rhines is rebuilding her life as an MRI technologist in northern California. She’s growing in her Christian faith, finding solace in a support group, and making new friends at work. Things are going well.
But then came the fateful text on her phone one night: Derrick’s been released on parole. He’s been out for a few days now.
Surviving and escaping her ex’s horrid abuse from three years ago already infringed on Tonya’s mental peace. Now his threat –“I’ll kill you when I get out” – may become a terrifying reality. Derrick Jackson, full of rage and packing knives, has figured out where she works and plans to finish the job. But can she find courage from her faith to  fight back?

What do you guys think? Does it need work? Any advice?

How many pre-orders does it take to be considered successful for a trad published book? And successful means average in this scenario.

I am publishing a book the end of 2026 and I would like to know how close I am to achieving average.

SLEEP CYCLE COMPLETE

WAKE SEQUENCE INITIATING

A loud hissing filled the air as the tight seals on the cryo chamber unhinged The pale vapors curled onto the floor in slow but steady waves until it all disappeared into nothing

That's when Evie's eyes finally fluttered open. For a moment, she forgot where she was

All she could see was a blurry, drywall ceiling, covered in what looked like stained explosions

The cold finally struck her bones Harsh and unexpected, sending a current down her spine

It made her numb and stiff hand twitch in the slightest, as if it was learning to function for the first time again.

Evie lifted her weak arm and pressed her hand against the fogged glass of the chamber, smearing the condensation, trying to peer through the hand mark.

The chamber unlatched with a sharp click with a commanding female voice from the control panel immediately following

WAKE SEQUENCE COMPLETE

"Shut up," she groaned like a moody teenager.

Evie took in a deep breath, letting the air fill her lungs, but it tasted off. It wasn't the crisp and sweet air she was expecting. It was stale and metallic, like the tainted air had been lingering around for years.

No.

Not years

She swung her legs around and sat up slowly-using her forearms to support her cold and weak body-with her bare feet hitting the frigid tile.

Her room was quiet. Not the peacefu quiet, but unsettling type of quiet-almost unsafe

She'd never felt unsafe in her own bedroom before,

She looked around

It was exactly how she remembered it the night before, with everything in its place.

Except it wasn't. Her new music posters on the wall, tearing at the edges, with the pictures almost completely faded. Her side table lamp had a layer of gray dust that resembled ash. And the air.. it felt heavy. Poisoned-eating away at your throat, making it nearly impossible to take a deep breath. Her head whipped over to the chair beside the cryo chamber. There lay a respirator mask, exactly where it should be. Untouched, waiting for her.

This is my first time really writing a book and I want to be sure I am doing it right

Any and all feedback would be greatly appreciated on anything i could improve on thanks

Well I told myself years ago that I would never get to this spot, but here we are. I am in the middle of multiple series, have a few stubs of novels, shorts and novellas sitting on a hard-drive and the nagging realization that I'm not going to live forever. I'm not sure how to focus in and get all of this done (I'm sitting on about six books, eight novellas and ten short stories, all completed more or less). I'm getting pretty good about my 3k (minimum) daily word count, but this is kind of compounding the problem. I have the opposite of writer's block and my list of 'fleshed-out enough to start' ideas just keeps getting bigger. Worried this is going to ruin my mental health and keep me from finishing what I realistically can in a lifetime. Hope this isn't too stream of consciousness. Just needed it out of my head and figured some discussion probably couldn't hurt either.

(Edit- I cant fix the title but I said "you" instead of "your" ;w;)

I of course dont mean full psychosis, but I was wondering if anyone *feels* like their characters are real, *knowing* they arent? I've seen before, people will make posts online joking about their characters talking to them about the story. Like their character saying, "Why arent you working on the story", "why'd you give me trauma". And I've always felt safe in my assumption that they were just jokes.

I'm in the process now, of trying to write a plot and pitch for an animated series. For relevant context, Im chronically ill and have a short life expectancy. So Im trying really hard to make something to leave behind for my litttle siblings and friends. And I work on this thing every day, every night, so long as my health will let me. Wich is increasingly less often. And when I dream, I dream almost exclusively about my characters or their world. And when Im awake, its like they talk to me. Not in a hallucination sort of way, but in a way where Im just in the habbit of thinking of them? Ik why it happens psychologically. But it's more frequent/realistic now that my healths got me stuck at home. My protagonist will vent about something. Or an antagonist will explain the holes in a design for a scene, or monologue his ambitions. I hear "not doing me justice" a lot, or something along those lines from a group of characters. Its sort of background noise now. I play minecraft, and hear the friend group main cast have banter in my head about bed placement and where the cobblestone went. I used to do everything with music or youtube playing, but now I sit in silence or hush ambient. Half immersed in my laptop and half immersed in whatever conversation so n so's having.

Im wondering if other authors have this? I think it may be exacerbated for me, due to my being bed bound, alone, bored and stressed out. But I can imagine, surely other people "talk" to their characters sometimes. Or can very vividly immerse themselves in their world. I'm not really looking for explinations for what Im going through, just curious if anyone else has any experiences similair to this. Even if its not as extreme, or more extreme idk. I have no idea how normal/odd this is.

Any and all critiques or comments are welcome :) thanks!

“That won’t do,” Patrick muttered as he tossed another shirt back into the closet. The Festival of Gratitude was today and citizens of Florton considered a sharp outfit as essential to the affair as banana cream pie and ceremonial gymnastics. Patrick considered himself a wily operator, having executed undercover assignments wildly different locales ranging from Zurich to Munich. However, he still felt he was missing something here.

Florton was a lively town that hummed with efficiency no matter where one looked. Trains arrived exactly on schedule and cars flowed through the streets in such coordination visitors wondered if the traffic lights were purely for decoration. And it was clean. Not in comparison to other cities or towns of similar populations. It was clean. Not a hair out of place, inside or outside, rich or poor, night or day. Just clean.

The agency told Patrick he would be investigating Florton five weeks after he completed a six month stint infiltrating a Vienna-based crime family. There were reports of travelers disappearing in the surrounding areas, and the insular town had been as uncooperative with investigations as they could be without facing legal repercussions. Interpol decided on a clandestine approach rather than a highly publicized official prosecution and Patrick found himself packing another bag.

Once Patrick showed the town’s clerk the forged documentation establishing himself as the sole benefactor to a recently deceased resident, he moved into the aforementioned deceased’s home and began the slow process of becoming a Respected Member of the Community. Assimilation was much easier than he had expected. Neighbors were apprehensive at first but once he explained his fake situation and occupied his house they welcomed him with open arms. Whether it be bowling leagues, book clubs, or baking competitions, Patrick received sincere invitations to ingratiate himself to his assigned community.

And participate Patrick did, schmoozing and navigating the social circuit for months until his new citizen smell wore off. Patrick generally enjoyed the Flortonians. Sure their town wide citrus aversion and the strict ban on even medium levels of bass projection struck the agent as odd, but they were a more pleasant bunch than his usual criminal marks. The cleanliness was strange at first, but he quickly acclimated to the pristine conditions and rejoiced at the lack of flies, rodents, and spiders especially. And his new neighbors looked forward to nothing more than the Festival of Gratitude, the biggest holiday of the year where everyone shows gratitude for the town they call home.

Patrick decided on light blue oxford under a light wool jacket paired neatly with slacks and smart loafers. No sense in trying to make a statement on the one day everyone will look at you. After catching the 8:32 train at 8:32 and hopping off at Central Station, he felt the buzz of the festivities engulf him. Children waving flags, veterans in their dress uniforms, and politicians shaking hands were among the many merry makers comprising the annual festivities.

Patrick got himself a banana cream pie cup and made his way to the grandstands in hopes of securing decent viewing spot for the Florton Flyers annual tumbling demonstration. He caught up on gossip with neighbors he recognized and made small talk with friendly strangers as he traversed the festival grounds. He eventually came across a small woman in the general Florton government get up unenthusiastically checking each patron into the grounds.

“Number please.”

“Pardon?” inquired Patrick.

“What is your Gratitude Number?” repeated the woman, with a tad more interest in her cadence.

“I never received a number,” explained Patrick, “Do I need one to watch the festival? I promise I am a resident, I’ve been at 1958 Prone Street for the last five months”

The woman smiled.

“No, the town is currently blocked off to incoming traffic, ensuring all patrons here today are true Florton residents. You must not have received a number because they were sent out, I believe, six months ago? The Festival of Gratitude is for all Florton citizens, and our newest compatriots especially. Allow me to escort you to a special viewing box where you can truly experience all this grand day has to offer.”

This was the first time Patrick heard there was a special ritual for new residents, in any capacity. But if he had to suffer through a new citizen induction/callout/special ceremony to get a better seat for this hallowed event he was more than willing.

The section was empty when they arrived and the windows of the viewing box were closed, but the woman simply explained that he would join the other new residents shortly and he would be closer to the action than he could ever imagine. Patrick waited, listening to muffled crowd noises when he heard a loud rumble from the PA system. He couldn’t make out exactly what was being said, but he caught a few phrases like “eternal gratitude”, “vigilant defense”, and “purify our spirit.”

The box collapsing caught Patrick off guard. Realizing he was standing on a platform in full view of the entire Florton community surprised Patrick. The Giant Spider holding the microphone was likely the thing that terrified Patrick into a mute state.

“Now, we show our gratitude to our vigilant workers! Those who maintain the cleanliness, purity, and sanctity of our great community! They shall have their reward!”

Patrick momentarily recovered and almost managed to run, yell, or look for an exit when he felt the rumble beneath him. The planks quickly fell apart as the spiders rushed to claim their reward for a long year’s work.

The two agents sent to look for Patrick after his comms disengaged were unable to find any trace of their wayward comrade. Florton even allowed them their run of the town, an unprecedented move by the insular community, but it was no use. They couldn’t find a speck of evidence. It was too clean.

How do you go about researching things related to crime or mental health for your stories? The library seems to be the only tried and true method since the internet doesn’t understand that I’m not a danger to myself or others.

I like writing psychological thrillers, but I can’t look anything up without getting bombarded by self-help resources and hotlines. I’m also a little nervous about having questions about criminal intent connected to my online identity forever.

Any advice from more experienced writers out there?

The book I want to write involves a girl restoring an old drive in that has not been in use for a very long time and is the only one around for some distance. I know there are spots in the US that don’t have them so I wanted to see how common it is to have never gone. Let me know what it’s like by you and if it’s common in your area. Thank you! 😊

I've had an idea in my head for a story involving a royal/noble marriage of some sort (more historical than romance). Do you prefer reading made-up people and events (in this case, countries/kingdoms, wars, monarchs, etc.) or do you like it when a story is based in our known world, even if it's a fabrication of someone marrying King Henry VIII for example. I'm struggling to decide between my history brain and my fictional tendencies.

So I am writing a novel...I expect to work on it long term, as I still need to do more research, write more scenes and smooth out the timeline:

Here is the working blurb for the novel:

An MRI technologist is rebuilding her life in northern California after leaving an abusive relationship with an ex-boyfriend three years ago, all with the help of her faith and a recovery/survivor's support group. But her ex, who was in jail, has been released from prison, and filled with rage, he intends on finding and killing her.....

Based on this blurb I was going to call this novel, "The Quench." (it has both metaphorical and literal meaning: metaphorical (i.e, quench his murderous rage, or quenching her life) and literal (shutting down an MRI in case of emergency requires a "quench" process). But someone said the word sounded "ugly" and it may not be attractive to readers. What are some other poignant titles I could go for that don't elude to much to the entire plotline?

Hey all!

Random question to ask and no one to ask it to so I’m asking here.

I’ve been getting back into reading and I’m finding it super frustrating to read first person narratives where it feels unrealistic that the character would ever write or tell this tale. Is that just me?

When writing a character’s perspective, do you as a writer take into consideration the authenticity of the tale from the perspective of the character? Or do you just write the story and use that first person perspective as a way to tell the story?

I feel like the character’s voice needs to be consistent throughout the story so that we don’t feel like the story is really a book written by an author, as opposed to a real story (even if it’s fictional). I’m quite a harsh critic when it comes to writing so I can’t tell if I’m over-reacting but it’s incredibly frustrating! It really pulls me out of the story.

I’m writing a book, I have 2 characters. I want to make a family of 7, 5 sister and the 2 parents. I have 2 sisters (first and middle child) I need name suggestions, their personalities, appearances. It would mean so much for the help (main character is the middle child and in my book she is bullied)

I’m trying to write a novel, but my problem isn’t really with writing itself, it’s with building the ideas around it.

I know it’s normal for core ideas to change a lot during the process, and that the final version will probably go through many drafts. That part doesn’t bother me.

What I struggle with is creating the supporting ideas and the “structural pillars” of the story. Every day I spend around 30 minutes just thinking and mentally exhausting myself trying to build the foundation of the novel before actually writing it.

A lot of people say: “Just start writing with whatever you have.”

I tried that more than once, but it genuinely doesn’t work for me at all. When I write without having those supporting pillars first, the writing stops sounding like me. It doesn’t serve the meaning or atmosphere I’m trying to create, and it feels empty and unsatisfying.

I also don’t feel it’s logical for me personally to write a story without having enough structure to keep me going in the first place.

Maybe this approach works for people with very high spontaneous creativity — people who can naturally generate ideas while writing. But I think I’m different. I’m good at expressing feelings and wording things in a way that communicates what I mean, but I struggle with inventing creative supporting ideas that actually serve the message or emotional meaning I want the story to convey.

Does anyone else write like this?