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. 

Not a person that goes outside a comfort as often. I randomly started writing something last night and this is what I have. The writing is still fresh and needs editing and the plot needs much development. I’d love to know what you guys think.
Here’s what I have:

I woke up this morning in a really bad way. My eyes were tired and crusty. My head was throbbing, and I could hear my heartbeat in my eardrums for some odd reason. It gives me anxiety to think of my heart naturally, because it makes me think of my organs, and when I think of my own organs and my own internal body, them just sitting there soaking up like a big heaping soup of something, I start to go crazy. Not really at the thought of others, just my own.
Maybe I’m crazy. I don’t think so honestly. I used to think I was, but not so much anymore. I think it’s natural to think of your red, bloody organs as disturbing, but I’m not disturbed by them, rather just weirded out I have these organic pieces of technology powering my body.
Anyways, I got up from bed after laying down for an hour and some change and walked over to the bathroom and took a leak. It’s been annoying me going to the restroom lately, especially in the morning right when I wake up. Mainly because I’m getting older and it’s becoming more difficult to piss. It’s really something, to watch me piss. I just stand there for half a fucking minute before anything comes out, holding my cock and doing helicopters and shit. It’s really something, especially when my balls slap and make a funny noise.
I turn twenty-seven this year, and I feel it for sure. I know what you’re thinking: “Twenty-seven is young and kinda a sexy year.” Granted, twenty-seven is kinda a sexy sounding number. It even has a nice ring to it. Twenty-seven. But I definitely feel it, especially when I’m trying to take a piss.
I was already behind in the day, it felt. I also had piss dribble dried on my underwear. I went to look for some clean underwear in my drawer in my room, but there wasn’t any left. I’ve been way behind on a lot of stuff lately, especially laundry for that matter. Worst fucking thing to ever do in your life is laundry.
I went into my roommate Derrick’s room to look for some underwear to borrow. I knew he wouldn’t be in there because the fucker goes to work at five in the morning for some fucked reason. He’s a glassblower and naturally a morning person. His room is also covered in power metal band posters. He doesn’t even listen to cool metal, just bad Euro-trash that calls itself metal. It makes me kinda hate the guy, to be completely honest with you.
Derrick, he’s kind of an oddball to say the least. I mean, I know I’m kind of an odd guy myself, going into my roommate Derrick’s room to steal his underwear to put on my body, for which will cup me as it did him, but that doesn’t matter. He’s still more of an oddball. He listens to European power metal, for fuck’s sake.
There was this one time back in high school, in the tenth grade. Derrick and I had a class together because me and him go way back actually. We’ve known each other just about our whole lives, it seems.
Once class was over, we walked over to the restrooms in the common area. We both started to piss. Also mind you, this was when I was only sixteen, so my piss was a straight garden hose with no delay. I fucking miss that feeling, to tell you the truth.
Anyways, I got done pissing, but I noticed Mr. Oddball Derrick still pissing. He had this very… let’s say… effeminate stream to his piss. It sounded like a fucking kitchen sink in the winter or some shit so the pipes wouldn’t freeze. Yeah, he was tinkling that shit out like a ninety-year-old fucking man.
Derrick was also the type of guy to pull his pants all the way down to his ankles when he pissed. His underwear and everything. It’s crazy, but it’s kinda funny, especially when a random kid walks in and just sees Derrick’s pimple ass. It shocked the hell out of me when I first saw it, but it’s just Derrick being Derrick.
Once this kid, James Tran — a real prick. I mean, he wasn’t the worst kid in the world, but he was an honors kid, and he didn’t like regular kids at all. Me and Derrick were definitely regular kids in school. James wouldn’t sit with regular kids or even be seen talking to one. It’s fucked up, but regular kids are regular kids for a reason.
Anyways, one day, as I was waiting for Derrick to finish his four-hour piss session, James Tran walked in and immediately came face to face with pimple-ass Derrick in all its glory. It’s bony, raw-chicken-ass glory.
I remember James just standing there, holding his black Five Star branded notebook binder with the fucking colored dividers and everything. Remember: honors kid.
James was just staring at his ass in utter shock and disbelief.
Then Derrick finished up his piss and pulled up his pants from his ankles. He looked right over at James Tran and said, “You can jerk off next time.”
James didn’t know what the fuck to say. He dropped his black notebook binder along with a pack of fresh unsharpened pencils that spilled from the binder. I know for sure the fucker never shared those pencils when someone asked. I just know.
James picked up his pencils, or at least attempted to. He was a real clumsy guy, James was. I would’ve helped him pick them up, but I wasn’t gonna touch the floor most definitely covered in piss and shit. Plus I felt sort of sorry for him. It was kinda sad seeing him struggle so much with picking them up. I mean, they went to every corner of the school bathroom for fuck’s sake.
Then he kept dropping them because he was sweaty and nervous naturally. His wire-rimmed glasses fell on the floor as he was putting his head down toward the pencils on the ground. He seemed really nervous and just wanted to get the hell out of there. That, mixed with the questionable bodily fluids on the aging bathroom floor, made the pencils sticky.
I really don’t even know why James stuck around in the first place. They’re only pencils, for God’s sake.
Derrick’s bare pimpled ass really threw that guy off, it seemed.
He finally got all the pencils from the piss-and-shit-covered chipped tile floor and left without using the bathroom, but before he left, I turned and said to him, “You forgot your glasses.”
He froze in the doorway and
quickly turned around and picked them up and said, “Disgusting.”
He said it like he meant it too, with true disgust for your existence. His eyes really cut deep into you as he said it. They really fucking did too.
That really hurt me for some reason, and I felt like bawling and screaming, slashing his stupid twig neck a hundred times over or ripping his throat out with my hands. Some wild shit of that nature. But I’m not gonna do that. I’m too much of a coward, to be perfectly clear.
I’m the type of guy to stab you in the heart or nipple, or ankle, I don’t fucking know. I’d probably go crazy in that situation, then immediately apologize.
I always show a fraction of what I actually feel in most interactions with people I’m not the most familiar with. That was one of them.
If I showed my true emotions to how James actually made me feel in that second, then I wouldn’t know how to handle all of it. I’d probably literally explode all over the fucking school bathroom. Then my guts and blood would be all over the bathroom along with the piss and shit.
James left the school bathroom and me and Derrick just looked at each other and laughed.
Real charming guy, that James was.
I’m pretty sure he’s dead now, anyways.
I had a long day ahead of me, and I was not feeling it at all, man.
I finally got Derrick’s underwear on me and went back to my room to put on some clothes. I never know what the fuck to put on, if you want the truth. I always hate that I’ll look like one of those idiots who color-match their outfit, you know? With the red socks, and red shirt, and red shoes. Just… red.
I put on a grey long-sleeve shirt with black stripes and a pair of blue jeans. It was freezing outside since it’s the middle of fucking February. The kind of freezing that’ll make your piss turn into glass. You’d probably start bleeding from your cock hole if you tried to piss outside.
Since it was freezing, I grabbed a coat that was also in the closet. My grandfather’s old coat. My dad gave it to me a while back, before he was dying, but I’ll get into that a little later.
The coat was a navy blue WWII sailor’s peacoat. It had these big fat lapels on it that made you feel like a mobster wise guy.
You should see me and Derrick wearing it. We do these impressions when we’re all fucked up, going, “I want some gabagool up my ass,” or some other sentence with no coherence.
Derrick would turn to me with his eyes bloodshot and spit flying everywhere, trying to do his best wise guy impression, as I’m just shoving cold cuts in my mouth, yelling I’m gonna shove it up my asshole or something.
The coat was also very warm since it was made of kersey wool. It always smelled like cinnamon candies for some odd reason, but I love it. It makes me grin.
I was almost ready to head out the front door. I had a job interview to get to — it's my fifth job in the last eight months. I owed money to Derrick for rent, and I was behind about five hundred bucks. He said it's okay and to just take my time. I knew he didn't mean it; he's not exactly a rich guy. He spends money on bullshit, mostly just booze and beer.
I only had eighty-nine dollars in my bank account, along with thirty-two dollars in cash in my wallet. I was surely fucked if I didn't get a new job and get my shit together soon.
I finally unwillingly walked out the door. As soon as I did, the freezing wind immediately stabbed my fucking guts open.

it's a slice of life, slow burn, psychological, philosophical genre...

this is my first time writing something...

Ur feedback is welcomed...

The story in comments...

what your opinion on this ?

example 1:

Margo, Marge and Marcy stood in a line preparing to sing. Margo reached to hold Marge’s hand and started a long, “hmm.” Marge latched on and joined humming a “huh” as Marcy opened it up.

“OH HAPPY DAY”

“Oh happy—“  ———-“Day.”

“WHEN JESUS WASHED”

“When Jesus—“ ———“Washed”

“HE WASHED MY SINS AWAY”

“Oh happy—“ ————-“Day—“

“Stop. Something’s off.”  Marcy scowled. 

“I thought it was perfect.”  Marge spoke with her spine straight. 

“What did you think about it Margo.” Asked Marcy. 

“I felt further away from you then Marge.”

“The song, Margo”  sighed Marcy. 

“Huh.” Margo mindlessly asserted with a stuck face, unlocking to Marge explaining the question. “Did you hear anything funny.” 

Margo laughed and recalled a memory. “Yeah what was it again?” She scratched her head. “Oh, got it, okay. God walks into a bar and orders three shots of holy water—“

“Bless your heart, sweetie.” Marcy interrupted, smiling as Marge began laughing. Marcy shook her head and said,

“Let’s take it from the top.” 

example 2:

They sat around until a tall man in a suit and a top hat strutted onstage and initiated a vote between fifteen union workers. He handed his cane off to a stage boy that came running up to grab it like that was his sole purpose in life. That one moment everyone gets where they feel like they’ve won the jackpot. But in hindsight they just stepped in a pile of shit and probably fed some of it too. He leaned into the mic,

“All for aye”

   -     “Aye. Aye.    -     Aye.”

   -      “Aye. Aye”.    -        -

“Aye.”  -        -        -        -

The man on stage scanned a quick count with his eyes,

 “Six Ay—“

The four men in the back row began cheering and hollering and already claiming victory. The fellow in the front row on the right basically told the four in the back row a few places they could go and it wasn’t anywhere pleasant.

“That’s enough—settle down—I’ll conclude this vote right now and disqualify it.” 

The roaring seeped to a silence,

“Aye for Nay.”

“Nay.  -        -       Nay.” -

“Nay.  -        -      Nay. Nay.”

   -     “Nay. Nay. Nay. Nay”

I'm writing my very first book and I'm kind of excited, but I keep running into this nasty habit of trying to get it perfect. I have my story outlined and everything and separated into 3 acts, but I'm worried about making it perfect, I guess.

How did you guys get past your rough draft? What routines did you take and things you did?

I don’t have a title yet but the story is fleshed out in my head. Thought I’d try posting here for some feedback. This is chapter one.

Progressive western Chapter 1 (Working title)

This wasn’t the first time Emmet Hawthorn woke up screaming. It wasn’t even the first time this month. Wasn’t the first time muscle memory followed suit ether.

Having his army Remington drawn, cocked and leveled at the nearest sound or motion in the corner of his eye came naturally to him with the sensation of falling back into his body. A desperate attempt to find his madness and kill it dead as the men at its source.

Phineas “Fin” Hawthorn stood motionless at the hey loft entrance of the stable. About 20ft from Emmets bed of canvas and hey in the lofts corner. One hand raised and the other gripping the last rung of a wooden ladder, he starred down the barrel of Emmets revolver. But it wasn’t fear in his eyes. It was exasperation.

“Dreaming of Bushwhackers again?” Fin asked.

Heart still racing Emmet blinked and took a sharp breath in, completing his anchoring to the present, before lowering his Remington. Fin dropped his hands and completed his ascent up the barn latter.

“Wanna talk about it?” Fin asked.

Emmet thought for a moment then shook his head no. And tried not to take offence at Fin’s relived expression.

“Good cuz we got shit to do.” Fin continued. “Get your bearings, get dressed and mount up. We need you at the south east end of the property.”

“What’s happened?” Emmet asked, sensing Fins concern.

“Bring your Winchester.”

With that Fin hoped down the barn latter and slammed the door behind him leaving Emmet alone with his jumbled thoughts.

One moment he was a defending the garrison at Glasgow Missouri, trading bullets and blood with ol’ paps rebel cavalry. Scrambling with the other union soldiers of the town to find a horse and ride like hell before the confederates overwhelmed their position. And the next he was waking up on an old bedroll, on a pile of hay in North Texas more than a decade later.

Emmet peered out of a ventilation hatch to check on the usual activity in ranch work. Cattle being roped and branded. Horses being saddled and shod. The greater part of the Hawthorns herd ambled about the vast green pastures of their property. Kicking up clouds of dust and sending up a chorus of mooing and huffs. Emmet wondered when it was that he’d gotten used to having all that noise in the back of his perception.

Fred, the ranches head cook, was hard at work with the others preparing the morning meal of beans, bacon, cornbread and cold beef from the night before.

Sanchez, one of the ranch hands, weaving his hemp lariat under the shade of an Osage orange tree.

Fin, astride a coal black charger and leading a saddled paint, stared up at Emmet impatiently. His bright red beard blazed like fire in the morning sun. “Let’s go!”

Emmet gave him a nod and a wave. Emmet was accustomed to sleeping in his clothes as an old habit as well as keeping arms like his Remington in easy reach. His spurs were already fastened to his boots so all he need do was slide them on, grab his black Stetson hat and buckle his gunbelt. He swept his ear length auburn hair back under his hat and ran a straight razor over the fuzz on his throat. It had been a consternation to him, growing up with Fin, that he could grow a beard long and full while Emmet’s whiskers seemed to begin and end at his neck.

He contemplated taking a pull from the whiskey bottle he kept beside his bedding to steady his nerve but decided against it. He’d gotten by without it in years past and hoped to gain back that same resolve.

Emmet pulled a key from his waistcoat pocket and opened a large wooden chest sitting nearby. In it was stored his brand new 1873 Winchester rifle with fixed cloth sling cleaned and loaded from the night before as well as boxes of 44 calibre bullets, emmets gun oil and cleaning kit, his old Union uniform jacket with the yellow seargent stripes and a few pairs of socks and drawers at the bottom. Slinging the Winchester across his back, Emmet descended the ladder from the loft and made his way outside.

He mounted the paint gelding as Fin handed him the reigns.

“Took you long enough” Fin grumbled.

“Gotta be thorough if we’re going after fence cutters” Emmet moved the paint to a trot. “Especially if they’re Campbell riders.”

Fin followed along side. “We don’t know it was the Campbells.”

“Who else would it be?” Emmet scoffed.

“We signed that peace treaty. In front of the judge and the sheriff.” Fin replied.

“There weren’t nothing legally binding about that so called treaty. Just you, me and old man Campbell signing our names to a piece of paper.”

“The old man gave us his word…”

“Once again little brother you put a dangerous amount of faith in your fellow man.” Emmet signed.

After coming upon the east end of the property where the damage had been done Emmet dismounted and scanned the scene. All three lengths of barbed wire was cut on each side of a fence post which had been ripped clean from the ground.

Big Hank sat mounted on a dunn mustang nearby. Silent with eyes scanning. His days in the USCT likely having conditioned him for guard duty.

“You’re relieved.” Emmet told him.

Big Hank nodded and rode off at a walk.

Fin rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “I told them to put off fixing the damage till you took a look at it.”

Emmet knelt down to examine the fence post. It was still intact but with a large ring imprinted around the centre. Sign that a rope bigger than a lariat was used to pull it free.

“Thought we posted a guard.” Emmet said.

“There should have been one.” Fin replied. “Daisy should have last nights guard list. Helps us narrow down whose dumb ass gets fired.”

Emmet scanned the ground leading out between the property line and the chaparral. Hoof prints made a clear trail to a fixed point in the brush. Though there were too many tracks to make out anything distinctive. He used the stock of his Winchester to lift and examine the severed barbed wire. He held it up to Fin.

“See that? Blood. Looks like the fence cut one of them back.”

“That’s what happens when you handle barbed wire without proper gloves.” Fin replied.

“Safe bet whoever cut it didn’t know that at the time. See how the ends of the wire is all jagged and frayed? Reckon they used a hack saw to cut it.”

“So they had no idea what they were doing?” Fin scoffed.

“Not when it comes to barbed wire anyway. Reckon they made off with any of the herd?”

“Not likely. Whoever was on watch would have caught them for sure. Some might have got out after the fence was cut though. Little Hank and Buford are doing a count. Just in case.”

“Well whoever was on watch let the fence get cut so I wouldn’t be too sure.” Emmet grumbled. “Still the herd looked pretty healthy from up in the loft so if the fence cutters did make off with any it likely wasn’t their main goal.”

“What do you think was the main goal?”

Emmet stood up slinging his Winchester back across his back. “I reckon we’re looking at it. But I’d still like to follow that trail they made into the brush a ways. Might come up with something. Maybe not. Ether way it would make me feel better.”

“Alright. Just gotta get some things in order and I’ll ride with you. Daisy can run things while we’re gone.”

Emmet shot Fin a cautious look. “You and I both know that’s a bad idea.”

“It was you that hired her on!” Fin protested. “Besides she’s done more to keep this place afloat than you and me combined.”

“The men won’t listen to her. Not as a boss.”

“They know she speaks for us. And we won’t be gone that long anyway.”

“It will at least take up the greater part of the day. Maybe more.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Fine…” Emmet sighed. “Reckon the ranch can spare Sanchez?”

“The border bandit? Why we need him?”

“I trust him. He wouldn’t shrink if shots fly.”

“I ain’t looking for shots to fly Emmet! Besides I bet he can’t even shoot no more with that milky eye of his!”

“Tell that to that deputy in Corsicana, those bounty hunters outside Fort Worth, and that drunk Chickasaw at Colbert’s ferry. We don’t know what we’re getting into. Whoever cut our fence most likely means us harm and they’ve already taken hardship to do it. Another gun on our side can only be helpful.”

Now it was Fins turn to show his exasperation. “You’re gonna bring him whether I like it or not so go ahead. I’ll just tag along as the sole voice of reason.”

“Great. Go see Fred about provisions and let Daisy know she’s got the run of the place. I’ll grab Sanchez and we’ll meet back here.”

Fin gave a sarcastically bad salute and a resentful “yes sir”. Emmet rolled his eyes and turned his paint gelding back towards the ranch. His paint chewed at the reigns and nipped at him when he tried to pull them away. He rode up on the Osage orange tree Sanchez was using for shade.

Faded hombre hat pulled down over his eyes, Miguel Esteban Aurelio Sanchez was fixed on the hand weaving of his new lariat. The last one having worn out after over a decade of hard use. He worked much through the feeling of the weave rather than the sight of the rope. Being blind in one eye made it necessary to rely on touch and muscle memory. Which is why it irritated him that this Nínio Soldado on a half feral mustang was blocking his light.

“You hear someone cut our fence?” Emmet asked.

“Sí.” Sanchez replied. “Your brother wouldn’t let anybody fix it till you got to inspect it. Don’t know why. Any fool could tell you it was the Campbells.”

Emmet let out a sigh. “Fin’s an optimist. He means well but it can be pretty irritating sometimes.”

“Times like now?”

Sanchez tilted his hat upward to get a better look at his employer. Even now on this hard scrabble ranching enterprise Emmet Hawthorn had an almost regal bearing. He sat erect in his mother Hubbard saddle with a matching black hat and waistcoat. Clean shaven, collared shirt and custom tailored riding boots. The bone handle of Emmets army Remington protruding from his hip in a cross draw similar to how the knights of old would draw a sword. It was amazing to Sanchez that the Hawthorns, Emmet in particular, didn’t have more enemies than just the Campbell clan by the way he peacocked about.

“My brother and I are following the fence cutters trail. I want you along with us.”

“Do I get hazard pay?” Sanchez laughed.

“No, you get to keep getting paid to sit on your ass all day knitting with rope.”

“Is very good rope.”

“Best in St Luis. You’re welcome by the way.”

“Sí. Gracias. It is nice working for a patron who give more than a passing thought the needs of their peons.”

“Granted I never been further south than Austin but from what I understand, Mexican peons don’t carry guns and actually WORK for their food and lodging.”

Sanchez waved his lariat. “What you call this, huh?”

“A low priority. We need you with us.”

Sanchez rose slowly to his feet. Gradually enough to drive home his point. “I’m going to saddle my horse, pack my things and say goodbye to my wife and children.”

“Meet us by the tear in the fence.” Emmet replied. “Tell your wife we’ll try to make it back before dinner.”

As Sanchez trudged away Emmet dismounted his horse and took his place under the Osage tree. Laying his Winchester down across his lap. He figured he had a little time before Fin was ready to depart.

Fiddling through his the pockets of his waistcoat Emmet produced a half smoked twirly and lit the blunt with a lucifer. As he smoked he produced a tintype from his other pocket and gazed at the face within.

Piper Beckwith was the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. Even through the blurred colourless image Emmet could lose himself in the soulful eyes gazing back at him from the sepia tint. Almost feel the sensation of running his fingers through her wavy black hair, feel her breath on his cheek and her warmth as he held her close. He tried to shut out the sounds of the world around him so he could recall her soft voice as she told Emmet she loved him.

“Miss your wife do ya?” Little Hank said.

Emmet turned to look the scrawny kid in the eye. He hadn’t heard him ride up which was likely a sign it was time to stop smoking. Little Hank stood at about 5 ft 5 inches in hight and weight approximately 130 pounds. His beard was perhaps the only one on the ranch more patchy than Emmets though little Hank hadn’t the wisdom to shave it.

“Always.” Emmet shrugged off his tender moment.

“Where’d she go off to again?”

“Her mother’s house over in Arkansas. Apparently she’s sick and needed Piper to help take care of her.”

Little Hank dismounted and crouched down to meet Emmet at eye level. “Get a chance to look at the fence yet? Fin won’t let us fix it till you do.”

Emmet raised an eyebrow. “Weren’t you and Beaumont supposed to be counting up the herd?”

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you. There was over 700 to start with and it looks like there’s about that many still. How the hell are 2 people supposed to keep a count that high?”

“Fair enough.” Emmet shrugged. “Yeah I looked at it. Tell the other boys to go ahead and mend it. Spare wire and gloves are in the second shed from my house.”

“Yeah I remember.” Little Hank grumbled. “Just rots me that we gotta put all that wire up again.”

“There are worse hardships than tedium little Hank.” Emmet replied.

“Yeah like always being called little.” Little Hank grumbled. “Why can’t y’all call me curly Hank cuz of my hair. Or white Hank cuz the other fellah ain’t?”

“Because you’re 19 and big Hank doesn’t like being called negro Hank. Now go do your job and quit whining for no damn reason.”

Emmet put out his twirly on a nearby rock and stood up as little Hank vaulted into the saddle and cantered his horse off. He took a final look at his wedding photo before tucking it back into his pocket. It was the only time he’d ever seen Piper wear her hair up. It was the only time he’d ever lathered his own hair and moustache in wax to keep their shape. They both looked into the camera, Piper more at ease with it than Emmet. They had to shoot from the knees up because Emmet was still wearing his dusty work boots. They had to take the photo 3 times because Emmet kept jumping at the bang and flash. They had to go to all the way in Marshal for their photo because none of the photographers in Dallas, Forth Worth or Sherman were willing to record them as a married couple.

Emmet remounted the paint and made his way back to the tear in the fence. He needed to get his head on straight. Fence cutters weren’t known to run when confronted. Like cattle rustling, fence cutting was a serious offence on the frontier that would likely end in a hanging. Most knew that and would be almost guaranteed to fight if cornered. Emmet just wished Fin understood that too.

Fin for his part feared Emmet was going out of his way to start up the feud all over again. He’d already survived an attempt on his life by 2 members of the Campbell brood in the streets of Dallas. Broad daylight in the presence of at least a dozen on lookers. One of whom was the lady on his arm. Only for the Sheriff to let them off with a fine when one claimed that his pistol went off “on accident”. It took all Fins nerve to sit down and talk with old man Campbell about leaving each other alone and all his powers of persuasion to get Emmet to join him. Fin was just starting to feel safe again. And now this…

Fin dismounted his black charger and led him past his cabin and over to Daisy’s. He knocked and doffed his hat to the little girl who answered.

“Moss out working the cattle.” She said.

“Thank you Cathy I know it.” Fin replied. “I’m here to see your momma.”

No sooner had Fin got out the words than Daisy appeared behind her daughter. She wore a homespun dress with her curly hair done up in a hand woven turban. She put a gentle hand on the child’s shoulder.

“Run along back inside Cathy. Grownups need to talk.”

“Okay mama.”

No sooner had the girl gone out of ear shot than Daisy’s demeanour changed from one of a doting mother to a stern advisor. Eye narrowed. Brow furrowed. She eyed Fin incredulously.

“This about the cut fence?” She asked.

“How much you know about it?” Fin replied.

“That you’s raising holy hell over it.”

“Well it’s a big deal ain’t it? Somebody’s targeting us for something.”

“Mister Hawthorn, white folks been targeting me and folks like me for centuries for something. A broken fence ain’t what I’d call a big deal.”

“Not unless stock goes missing.” Fin replied.

“Which according to Moss it ain’t. Not enough to notice anyhow.”

“Not this time. Thank god. As you know it’s almost driving season. Most cattle ‘round these parts already branded. Bad time to go hunting mavericks.”

“Chances of replacing lost stock this close to spring are slim to none.”

“Exactly.” Fin scratches his beard. “My brother and I are taking Sanchez to track down whoever done it.”

“You sure that’s wise just the 3 of you?” Daisy asked.

“No but we’re doing it.” Fin signed. “You got the run of things while we’re gone.”

“Alright. I’ll let my husband know. He can spread the word over lunch. You might wanna see him about provisions before y’all leave. No sense getting you selves killed on empty stomachs.”

“Emmet said we should be back before sunset. But I reckon lunch is a good idea. Fred got anything ready?”

“Bacon and corn jacks.”

“Hell of a last meal. Still, better than nothing. You know the drill. Let the cattle graze, check all the horses and you already know what to do about any deficiencies in supplies.”

“Yup. Go on now. And take care. You and Emmet both.”

Fin entered his own cabin next to equip himself for the journey ahead.

He filled a bandoleer full of 45-70 cartridges and took up his old sharps rifle and breached it. It was bit dusty but at least there was no rust corrosion. Checked the sights, the loading lever, the firing hammer. It had been a while since he’d had cause to use it. And even then it was only for hunting.

Fin never thought there’d be a chance of this “feud” type conflict after building the ranch. Was a peaceful life really too much to ask for? He buckled on his pistol belt and checked himself over in the mirror.

Tall and barrel chested in drab clothes. Curly red hair pouring out from under his plains boss hat like a volcanic eruption with a collar length beard to match, phinius Hawthorn looked more at home on a Viking ship than a cattle ranch. In a place where the average man was 5 ft 7 and about 150 pounds, Fin stood at 6 ft 3 and weighed well over 200. He sported a scar just above his left eye that pulled on his face whenever he tried to smile or open his mouth too wide. That and the years he’d spent working outdoors with his pale complexion made him look closer to 36 than 26. He’d been told more than once that he looked like a dangerous man. Which Fin supposed was why he seldomly found himself in any real trouble with actual dangerous men. But those who knew him knew of his better nature. And Fin wished more than anything it could just stay that way.

A complete opposite to his brother Emmet who despite being three years older than Fin somehow looked about ten years younger. And for a man nearing 30 years on this earth with conventional good looks and a loving wife seemed oddly eager to leave it all behind in a coffin.

Emmet would tell Fin that people killing each other was just the natural state of things and that it was better to accept it than to fret over the how’s and whys. But that type of thinking scared Fin. He couldn’t understand how anybody could find joy in a world of kill or be killed. Which went a long way to explain why Emmet didn’t.

Fins next stop was Fred’s cook tent. He usually served breakfast around this time and it irked Fin that he couldn’t stay long enough to sit down with the others for it. The smell of bacon and flapjacks was intoxicating.

There was a blood bay mare ground tied the canvas structure. It wore an old saddle with faded dry leather coverings and what appeared to be a railroad spike for a saddle horn. It sported a rifle scabbard with no rifle in it.

Lifting the flap Fin spotted Fred speaking with one of the ranch hands. The man wore a sun bleached hombre hat with his faded clothing and had an old yellow boy Winchester rifle slung across his back. Fred packed 3 ginny sacks with cans of beans, fruits and sardines and fresh vegetables and handed them to the ranch hand.

“Carrots are for the horses.” Fred told him.

“Gracias.” Sanchez replied.

“And you be sure and share them now.” Fred pushed. “Don’t hog them all for that thoroughbred you ride.”

As Sanchez turned around to leave both he and Fred saw Fin standing awkwardly at the tent door. The ginger bearded teddy bear adjusted his posture and hooked his thumbs into his pistol belt. Sanchez found the display of false bravado rather amusing and had to keep himself from smirking. Fred broke the silence.

“Mister Hawthorn! Sanchez here was just telling me about the foxhunt y’all about to go on. Got provisions all packed up for you.”

“Thank you Fred.” Fin nodded. “I left Daisy in charge while we’re gone. Hope that’s all right with you.”

“My wife knows her ledgers. This place in good hands.”

Sanchez headed towards the door. Fin followed him out.

“You coming with us then?” He asked.

“Seems so.” Sanchez replied.

“Reckon it takes a criminal to catch one.”

“You should ask Emmet about that. I’m just another Vaquero.”

“A Vaquero wanted in 4 counties.”

“5 counties. And 1 Mexican Barrío.”

“That something you normally brag on?”

“Only to those who won’t hold it against me.”

With that Sanchez slid his Winchester rifle into the saddle scabbard, unwound the reins and mounted his thoroughbred charger. He’d hoped to run into the other Hawthorn brother before this one talked his only good ear off but Sanchez barely had the chance to turn his horse around before Fin was remounted and on his tail jabbering.

“If Emmet wants to bring you along that means there’s gonna be trouble. As much as told me so himself.”

“What makes you say that?” Sanchez asked with a level of calmness bordering on condescension.

“You’re the only hand we got with a violent history. Hell, I saw you kill a man the first day I met you.”

“That was a justified shooting and you know it.”

“I’m not sure I know a damn thing about it.”

“Well you should considering your brother shot the other one.”

“Jesus don’t remind me. I still think on that day sometimes.”

“Clearly not enough if you still think it could have been avoided.”

They made it back to the tear in the fence where Emmet was waiting. Impatient look on his face.

“What you two bickering about?”

Sanchez cast Fin a side eyed glare. “Tell him those bendehos attacked us first.”

“Which ones?”

“The Bounty hunters trailing me outside Fort Worth last year!”

Emmet blinked in confusion. “Well Fin should know. He was there.”

Sanchez widened his eyes at fin and gestured an open hand to Emmet.

“What’s this got to do with our fence cutters?” Emmet asked.

“Nothing.” Fin mumbled.

Emmet gestured to the rifle in Fin’s scabbard. “You sure a Sharps is the best choice? Won’t serve us as well as a lever gun if things go south with the old man.”

Fin looked down at the sharps buttstock to the right of his saddle horn. It still impressed him how Emmet could identify a firearm just by looking at a small part of it.

“You used a sharps rifle in the war didn’t you? In Missouri?”

”I carried a carbine. Lighter. Quicker and easier to pull and aim. And back then the crackers could only shoot back at you once for the most part. And believe me, you don’t wanna be in that position. Now go get your Spencer rifle. Seven mid rage shots is a hell of a lot better than one long range one where we’re going.”

Fin knew better than to argue. As much as he may have wanted to. Emmet was usually right about these things. He just didn’t like to be treated like a kid in front of other people. Especially the ones he didn’t trust.

“Be right back.” He sighed.

As Fin rode back to his cabin to rearm Emmet turned to Sanchez.

“This ain’t gonna work if you two can’t get along.”

“Tell him that.” Sanchez scoffed.

“I’m telling you first. I know you don’t like anybody outside your home and hearth but it rubs Fin the wrong way. He thinks it makes you untrustworthy.”

“How is this my problem?”

“Cuz he’s your boss as much as I am and I trust you to defend our interests. And I can’t be alone in that. You and I both know you don’t have to particularly like a man to trust him but Fin ain’t figured that out yet. So play nice with him till he does.”

Sanchez sighed his acknowledgement.

“How’s your family?” Emmet asked.

“Scared I won’t come home. How’s your wife? Hear from her lately?”

“Got a letter from Piper last week saying she’s on her way back. Reckon that means she’ll be here in a couple days considering how the stage coach runs. And I aim to be here to greet her.”

“Is her mother better?”

“Dead.”

“Oh. How is she handling it?”

“Won’t know till she gets here. But from what I understand she’s doing alright. They didn’t have the best relationship.”

“Then why would she go all the way to Arkansas to see her?”

“Closure. Piper almost didn’t go at all but I talked her into it. Some things shouldn’t go unsaid. And I never met the woman but Piper sure had a lot to say about her.”

“You sure that’s wise?”

“Wisdom doesn’t count for much when you’re grieving. I don’t have the best relationship with my kin folk outside Fin ether. But I’d still greave them if came to it.”

Emmet spoke in a half hushed tone. As though he were sharing some secret. Sanchez thought about it and dismounted.

“What you doing?” Emmet asked.

“My back hurts.” Sanchez grumbled. “I’m going to lie flat for a while.”

Emmet followed the dismount and sat down next to Sanchez. They sat in silence for a spell before Emmet broke it.

“If the Campbell’s start shooting I want you to take Fin and run. Fight back if you can but if the odds look bad, your priority is to get yourself and Fin out of there.”

Sanchez sighed and looked up at Emmet. “You know, I don’t fear death ether. But out of love for my family I still try to avoid it.”

The look in Emmets eye told him not to finish that sentence. It wasn’t a warning look. More just distant. The man was a master at selective hearing.

When Fin returned with his change in fire power he brought with him little Hank and Beaumont riding a mule drawn wagon full of shovels, mallets, spools of barbed wire and other fence mending supplies.

Emmet and Sanchez re mounted and the three rode off as the two hired hands began their labour.

They rode at a fast trot through a mile and a half of black land prairie till they hit the wire road leading east to Dallas.

The cross timbers flanking them to the left gave Emmet pause. The post oaks and black hawk groves would proved ample cover for an ambush. He eyed the tree line almost as frequently as he did the road. The groundswells also had a likelihood of concealing bushwhackers so he would cast an occasional glance in their direction as well.

“So there being only 3 of us, what are we gonna do when we make it to the Campbells spread?” Fin asked.

“First thing we’re gonna do is talk to the sheriff in Dallas.” Emmet said. “You can’t do all the mediating yourself little brother. Much as I’m sure you’d try.”

Fin smiled and tried not to sigh his relief. “Glad you’re seeing some sense in all this.”

“Just how dumb you think I am?!” Emmet laughed. “Campbell’s got at least 6 men of fighting age in their brood and that ain’t even counting in-laws and hired hands. They been re branding our cattle for nearly a year, made multiple threats on our lives and even tried to follow through on it with you and that friend of yours in Fort Worth.”

“Yeah…” Fin muttered. “I’m just glad Kelly’s alright.”

Sanchez gave Emmet a sideways look. Emmet returned one as though to say “don’t ask”. Fin seemed lighter somehow just after saying his friend’s name. Emmet and Sanchez both being happily married men could relate though couldn’t help but question Fin’s taste.

“I’ll be glad when this is finally all over.” Fin continued.

“We all will.”

Would you pay $5/month for a curated feed of long‑form articles and podcasts (other things) — no algorithm, no social‑media style feed, just 7–15 curated pieces per week and a dedicated Discord or Reddit server to chat upon?

I'm building this app and really want to validate it.

Would love your guys' feedback.

[100 words]

Hi! I would love to get some feedback on this. Does this catch your attention and make you wanna continue reading? Why/Why not?

Purple Glow

(Rylee)

I never could have imagined how much this one moment would fuck up my life. Our lives. None of us could have. We were just a bunch of clueless teenagers in detention, waiting. Five strangers who impatiently watched the clock slowly ticking, each minute feeling like five.

I sighed, all I wanted was to leave the classroom and smoke a cigarette. While waiting, I tried to imagine the small, cylinder-shaped object between my fingers, and a smoke cloud filling the air as I exhaled. I shifted in my seat, but it didn’t make the hard chair any less uncomfortable.
The classroom was quiet, except for the ticking clock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
This was not my first time in detention, that’s for sure. I’d had my fair share of disagreements with teachers, being late to class or skipping it all together. This time it was the latter. I honestly didn’t see the point of going to classes anymore. I probably wouldn’t be going to college anyway. And I honestly didn’t really care.
In the front of the classroom, a guy with curly and messy dark hair leaned back in his chair. He wore an oversized t-shirt and sweatpants. A pen was spinning swiftly in his hand. I didn’t recognize the guy. He must be new, I thought.
Behind him, a short girl with long brown hair shook her foot repeatedly. Her doe eyes looked watered and had dark circles under them.
On the other side of the room sat a curly-haired senior girl by the window. Though she did look a bit younger than that. She was scribbling away in her notebook, all of her books and pens perfectly organized on the table in front of her.
And then there was, ugh, Larisa Settlemire, tapping her perfectly painted nails against the table. She was the last person I would ever imagine to find in detention. I wondered what she did to end up here, but struggled to find a logical answer to that question, so I gave up trying. She was the only student in that classroom that I had, unfortunately, interacted with. At one point in time, she had been the most important person in my life. We had been inseparable. That was until she turned into the most obnoxious popular girl there was. She was the mayor’s daughter, the top student, the head of the cheerleading team, the golden girl. Or at least that’s what she wanted people to believe. And everyone did. Well, almost everyone…
Mrs. Dale told us she needed to use the bathroom and that she would be back in five minutes. I honestly contemplated just getting up and leaving. I mean, what were they gonna do? Give me more detention? Call my dad? I doubt he would even have time to pick up the phone. But my contemplation about leaving was suddenly interrupted—

CRASH.

Everyone jumped in their seats as one of the classroom windows smashed into many tiny pieces.
“Fucking hell!” the girl with curly hair exclaimed. Her language didn’t really go hand in hand with her innocent face. She sat close enough to the window that her table was now full of shards of glass. We were all staring at the broken window.
“Is everyone okay?” Larisa asked, her eyebrows drawn together. The girl by the window carefully took out a shard of glass that had landed in her fluffy brown hair. “I’m okay,” she said with a shocked expression, purple light reflected on her face.
A purple glow had filled the classroom. It came from a tiny rock laying beneath the crashed window. The rock had multiple holes where the light emitted from, and what looked like shiny purple crystals protruding out from it. The crystals had sharp faces and edges, but looked partially irregular in a few places. It didn’t look like anything else I had seen before. It was almost hypnotizing to watch it glow.
“What is that?” I tried to act cool, but there was a slight shake in my voice. The short, curly haired girl got out of her chair and stepped closer to the object on the floor. “It’s a meteorite.”
“Well, detention just got more interesting,” the new guy seemed almost amused.
“What are the odds? A meteorite crashing through our classroom window!” Fascination had completely replaced the shock on the fluffy-haired girl's face. She reached out her hand to touch the rock, but quickly pulled it away. She then reached into her backpack and picked up a small piece of cloth that she carefully wrapped around the rock. “Huh, that’s weird…”.
I could admit that it was pretty cool that a meteorite crashed through the window. But I mean‌, it was just a rock. This girl, however, seemed fascinated with it on a whole other level.
The door suddenly swung open, and Mrs. Dale stepped inside with a confused look on her face as she noticed the window. The curly-haired girl discreetly let the rock slide into her bag.

I don’t like how the the action beats or quotes I like this but is it too confusing ?

Becky let me tell you nothing feels nicer than a pair of new underwear after wearing the same ones for a week. You wore the same panties for a week. It’s a fetish thing. Guys online pay top dollar when I auction a pair. The longer I wear them. The higher they pay. Men actually do that. Men will buy anything you’ve worn for a week. That’s so gross though. Not to them. 

To them it’s so gross not to. And Brent’s ok with this. No. Brent. Brent doesn’t know. What’s he say about the underwear. What do you mean. He doesn’t notice you wearing the same pair for a week. He hasn’t even noticed I’ve had my hair cut for the last week. Is it that bad. Hell girl I know he’s sleeping with his assistant. How. His cell phone. Texts between them. 

And not just her some other chick that works at the restaurant his co-workers go to. Some back alley whore. Fucked if I know. Did you say something. Like what. About what he’s doing. He doesn’t give a shit.  I’m sorry babe. Well I was packed and ready to leave. And. Well I’m pregnant. Does he know. Not yet. I haven’t said anything. I don’t even know if I should. 

Next thing you know they’ll be fishing me out of a pond like Laci. He wouldn’t do that. You don’t know what I know. He’s been laundering money. Hiding records in his safe at home. Fishy-accounting kind. I have his passwords. You went through his safe. Hell yeah. You’re telling me you don’t go through your mans shit. Well kind of. Exactly.

"I used to think that I needed family, I needed love, I needed... Life, but no, I don't, I never did

I was wrong, I was so wrong

Life is funny sometimes, isn't it?

You do everything right, and still, you end up as the bad guy, well not anymore, I won't stand for it

I will not accept this anymore"

I jumped onto the roof, blade in hand, cops chasing after me, but they couldn't catch up, they never could

I jumped onto the next roof, but suddenly I slipped, I didn't know what happened after this

The cops finally caught me, but instead of waking up in jail, I woke up in the hospital, "What happened?" I asked, dazed

The doctor looked at me "You fell off a roof while running from the cops, you've been in a coma for three days"

I just sat there, thinking for a few minutes

Then there was a knock on the door, it was the cops "What do you want" the doctor said

The cops said "Let us in, we need to talk to this... Lilian" I flinched, I hadn't used that name in years, how did they know who I was?

The doctor looked at the cops "They need to rest right now, they're not ready for the stress of this. You can come back in a few weeks"

I looked up "how do you know that name?" I asked "Why are you here? I don't want you here, get out!" The lead officer looked at me "Don't play dumb Lilian, you know exactly how we know"

"No. No I don't, get out!"

The doctor looked at the officer "They need to rest, out. Now."

The officer looked at me "Fine, you have two weeks, that's all you get"

I looked at the doctor "I need you to hide me..."

The doctor looked at me "i can't do that... Who are you really?"

I sigh deeply "Ashton Rein, or, as some call me, rogue, three years ago i was princess Lilian Ashton Harper, then i met julien black, the most feared criminal in the kingdom, and i fell in love, I'm not Lilian anymore

Shes dead, shes dead, shes dead, she's dead!"

The doctor flinched at the yelling "the guards have been looking for you for years, ms-"

I cut him off "mr, and dont even think about calling me princess or Lilian. Ever."

I put my head in my hands, screaming into my knees "I can't, I can't talk to them. They- they'll take me back, i cant go back i cant i cant i cant, the king will kill me, my- my fiance, I can't face him, ever I-" my hands start radiating black smoke and i get a second voice "I'm not going back!"

The doctor backs up, shocked "calm down, you'll be fine, you have two weeks, we can figure this ou-"

I cut him off again "back off, I'm not going back, and I'm not talking to them, I- I'll kill them"

The doctor backs off more "you can't do that prin-... Ashton, you can't, ever"

I growl "get julien, now" i say while hyperventilating "or like, let me leave or something, i- i cant breathe, get someone to find him and get someone to help me I-... I can't do this..." I start crying into my hands "just... Take me somewhere there's not people or something I-... I can't do this..."

After a few minutes of silence i calm down slightly "I - I'm sorry... I just... Panicked, I'm sorry, i can't- you need to help me leave "

The doctor sighed, slowly walking over to me but keeping a distance "why were you running on the roof, if i know, i might be able to help you, and... What was that black stuff coming out of your hands"

I don't answer for a minute but when i finally do "i killed someone, i was with Julien doing our usual thing and a guard came up, this isn't anything unusual, me and Julien killing, but the cops saw this time, so i had to run, and... The smoke... That's... Decay, it's in my blood, it comes out when I'm stressed and... If it touches anything with any harmful intent it destroys it"

I want to start writing a book, the story is in my head tho but I just don't know how to start? Like I'm just blank,I just want to know how you guys stared,even a small comment will help too.

I just want to write so badly,it's all i ever wished in my life, to be a writer,author,I write poetries tho but when it comes to write a novel I'm stuck not knowing how to write down a scene that's running in my head,most of the time I have this perfect scenario in my head but whenever I try to write, it just don't come out.

So yhh please help me out guys.

Chapter 1

It was a happy moment and a sad one.

Isha Sharma stood in a pink sweater and faded jeans in the Seoul hotel lobby, under chandeliers that shone brighter than diamonds. Her debut novel was being adapted into a web series in Korea—proof that dreams come true. It would have been perfect if the person who encouraged her to write it was still alive.

She pressed her palm against her wedding ring, the metal biting hard enough to leave a crescent. She still did this without thinking, during long meetings, in grocery lines, whenever she needed proof that the love of her life had once existed.

"We made it, Arjun," she whispered, as if he were still with her.

Two years ago, she'd stood in a very different lobby that had fluorescent lights instead of crystal chandeliers. Linoleum that smelled of disinfectant instead of polished marble. A doctor had said he didn't make it, like life was a position he'd applied for and hadn't made the cut. The sharp smell of hand sanitizer had clung to everything, and it still haunted her.

Tomorrow, strangers would speak his words aloud. Recite the dialogue she'd written from his gestures, his humor, the way he'd loved her, all of it.

She didn't know if she could bear it. Watching her characters come to life when Arjun never would again. Still, she was here. In Korea. For her story. And she was proud of that, because he would have been.

Waiting for her room, she slipped into the private lounge and collapsed into a velvet armchair. Held together by caffeine, grief, and sarcasm, she exhaled slowly.

This is fine. Be invisible. Nod politely. Don't overthink it.

She didn't get the chance.

SLAM.

The doors burst open.

A man strode in a black leather jacket and dark blue jeans, a jawline that could slice fruit, skin shining like warm honey in sunlight, and windswept hair that whispered- I didn't try, but I'm still gorgeous.

Isha jerked upright, knocking her suitcase with her foot.

His gaze locked onto hers across the marble expanse. His eyes ping-ponged between the closed door and Isha. He ran straight to her with the unmistakable urgency of either: a) a murderer, b) a runaway groom, or c) a K-drama protagonist.

Oh. It was C.

Moon Jae-won, to be precise. The actor cast to play Jackson Lee, the fictional male lead she'd written, the one Arjun had affectionately nicknamed Jawline Jackson.

"Hi... sorry... can you hide me? Please?" His voice was breathless.

Hide him?

Isha opened her mouth, but before she could respond with Sir, I have a PhD in psychology, not a degree in idiocy, he dove behind her chair.

The door burst open again.

Two teenage girls exploded through the doors, phones raised like weapons.
"JAE-JAE! WE SAW YOU!" they said, giggling with excitement, eyes searching for Moon Jae-won.

Isha glanced behind the chair. Moon Jae-won, the most sought-after K-drama actor, had gone completely still. She recognized it. The exhaustion of performing constantly.

After Arjun died, she had hidden for months from flashing cameras and nosy journalists who forgot how to treat a shattered widow and her grieving son. She knew what it meant to want to disappear. A sudden anger bubbled in her stomach.

Jet lag had stripped away her filter. Or maybe life already had. Whatever it was, chaos was her survival drug.

Fine. Let's see if writers can act too.

She reached into her tote and grabbed the first thing that felt chaotic enough for drama. A small metallic device. She placed her jacket on her lap.

The girls stared at her and whispered something to each other.

She angled the device, then slid it under her jacket and, very deliberately, moaned.

The girls stopped whispering.

"Ladies." She leaned forward and said in a raspy voice, "You're interrupting my private moment with my device. I am almost there."

She threw her head back and let out a rough moan.

The sound made the girls' eyes pop, and jaws drop.

"Oh my God!" one girl shrieked.

"EW, IS THAT A... I CAN'T UNSEE THAT!" the other screamed.

Behind her, Isha heard a strangled noise. Half cough, half laugh.

"CLOSE THE DOOR!" they yelled, running in horror. "EW…EW."

The heavy doors slammed shut.

Silence spread through the room.

A smile played on Isha's face. It felt good to be this reckless, to do things she would never do in front of her academic colleagues.

A shaky breath escaped from behind her chair.

Her smile disappeared as awareness dawned. This was the most reckless first impression of her life. Isha slipped the device back into her bag, rose, and wheeled her suitcase toward the door without saying a word.

"Most original fan deterrent I've ever seen," Moon Jae-won's voice came from behind her.

Her face was flushed. She did not turn. 

"Wait..." Moon Jae-won called.

She left.

The excitement of recklessness and saving a celebrity had drained her remaining energy after the long journey. Isha reached the front desk just as her calves were tight and trembling, begging her to rest.

The receptionist smiled apologetically. "Your room will be ready in about twenty minutes."

Twenty minutes. Her body responded with a firm*, absolutely not.*

She'd signed up for plush robes, overpriced chocolate, and a bed that promised absolution, not this endless hallway. Her toes had started whining like her calves, throbbing inside their shoes with every step.

She needed quiet. A private space where she could restore her skin's dignity with lotion and a massage. Somewhere she could breathe and fall apart for five minutes without witnesses.

As she walked further along the hallway, a glass-paneled door stood slightly ajar.
Perfect.

She nudged it open with her hip; the suitcase fought her by wobbling, but she yanked it inside. It was empty. Cold air hit her, raising goosebumps on her arms, but she was too tired to care.

The conference room was aggressively orderly. Binders and bottled water sat arranged with surgical precision. Even the chairs were so symmetrical they'd probably been set up by Geometry itself.

Isha kicked off her shoes. The relief in her feet was so immediate that she let out an almost obscene moan, only this time it was not pretend. She collapsed into a chair and took lotion from her toiletries bag. Her feet looked like someone else's: puffy, red along the edges where the shoes had dug in. She massaged lavender lotion into her aching feet. 

The door clicked and opened. Her head snapped in that direction, one hand still wrapped around her heel. The faint lavender scent hung in the air, soft and out of place against the room's corporate precision.

A tall man entered. He was the kind of tall that made doorways feel slightly too small.

He wore a tailored black suit, every seam aligned with his body's architecture. His collar was buttoned to his throat. Wire-rimmed glasses sat on a face that belonged in another era, with sharp angles and a restrained expression. His hair was parted with mathematical accuracy.

Then she caught his eyes behind the glasses.

They were different. Dark and intelligent, moving across the room not with coldness but with a precise attention.

Isha glanced at her open bag, her scattered belongings, and her bare foot slick with lotion, becoming aware of how much space she was taking up.
His gaze dipped to her foot. He said something in Korean.

Isha was a devoted K-drama fan, but she'd spent most of her viewing time gawking at the male leads and cataloguing the female leads' outfits, so her Korean began and ended with annyeonghaseyo and gamsahabnida. This man was using neither.

"Sorry," Isha said. "I don't speak Korean."

He paused. Then blinked once, slowly, like a man reconsidering every decision that had led him to this room.

"This room is reserved," he spoke in flawless English.

"I'll only need ten minutes," she said. "Possibly fewer if my toes stop screaming."
He adjusted his glasses. "Your toes are screaming."

"They're emotionally expressive." She straightened, sliding her feet under the table. The movement sent her lip gloss rolling off the edge of the table and tapping against his shoe.

He picked it up between two fingers, handed it back, and pulled a sanitizer packet from his pocket.

The sharp scent bloomed between them. Her stomach tightened before she could stop it.
She raised an eyebrow.

"Could you not scatter your belongings?" he said.

"I could," she muttered, "but I'm prioritizing survival."

He turned away and sat at the opposite end of the table.

Isha finished quickly, jammed her shoes back on, and wheeled her suitcase out. 

She made it ten steps before her stomach revolted.

She looked at her watch. It was that strange hour between lunch and dinner, when time felt relative, and her hunger was the only thing real.

Nearby, a vending machine glowed invitingly, but everything was in Korean. Hangul characters she couldn't read. This world here was foreign to her, but potato chips didn't need translation. They were the perfect snacks when nothing worked. She fed in coins and jabbed a button for the chili-flavored ones.

The bag dangled. Mocking.

"Oh, come on," she hissed, smacking the glass hard enough that her palm stung. "Fall, you coward."

Behind her, a voice said grumpily, "The machine responds better to strategy than violence."

She closed her eyes. Him. Again.

"I didn't ask for advice." She turned. He was frowning at her.                                                                               

He folded his arms. "What do you want?"

What do I want? The question landed wrong. It opened a door she'd been trying to keep closed. She wanted her husband back so that she didn't have to navigate alone in a foreign country, dealing with smug snobs like him. "Potato chips. Chili-flavored."

He stepped closer and punched in a code without hesitation. The chips dropped with a soft thud. The efficiency irritated her more than it should have. 

"Stop attacking hotel property," he said, handing them over. "You're causing a disturbance."

"A disturbance?" She met his eyes behind the wire-rimmed glasses. They were darker than she'd noticed before. 

He walked away, one hand pressed to his temple like her very existence gave him a headache.

Isha stared after him, then tore open the bag.

Spicy. Perfect.

The chips stopped her stomach from churning.

She took the elevator to her room alone, watching the floor numbers climb. Her suite was exactly what she'd expected, a king bed covered with Egyptian cotton sheets, down pillows, and a view of Seoul's skyline. 

She sank into the mattress and let the afternoon light filter through the curtains in amber strips.  For a few stolen hours, she didn't have to be brave. She could just be exhausted. She could just be Isha.

I just want to see how obvious my murder mystery plot is, and see how I can make it better. Yes, it uses cliché tropes intentionally, critique those too.

Plot: we are introduced to our characters as they board first class on a train and gossip amongst each other in the dining car. Much of the talk is about the stock broker (M39) obviously flirting with a baroness (F57).

It also becomes apparent that the other passengers previously knew of this broker; one had their father go bankrupt investing with him, another is an agent sent by a bank that he is heavily in debt to, yet another lost his job to the broker, etc.

During the night, a rough patch of rail shakes the train, during which a small caliber shot is fired, barely heard, and dismissed. In the morning, the broker is found dead having been shot. A detective on board questions them, and not one passenger is surprised.

The suspects are narrowed down to someone with a gun, and who likely knew about the rough patch of rail to cover the shot. The baroness has a small Derringer pistol and frequents the train route, but is the only passenger aboard that was fond of the broker. The baroness' maid is a suspect as she had access to the pistol and traveled the route with her before.

The possible answers are obvious when worded like this, but if there's any other twists that I could add, I'd be happy to hear them. Maybe another person aboard had planned to kill him, but was beaten to it?

I want to see how others do it so drop your First Liner or Paragraph here. Here's my own btw:

[Ever since I was a little boy, I always knew that I was gonna receive a ton hell of awards from the States, meet the Prime Minister, have my face plastered on posters all around the world, have 8 Billion Fans bring happiness and joy to everyone around the globe all the while my bestfriend dressed in knight and shining armor comes landing on the stage riding a unicorn, helps me get on and have us fly to the sky all the while our 8 billion fans gush and follow us screaming "WE LOVE YOU JUICE SHOT" as we sail to the pink horizon of rainbows and flying jellyfish.

God was missing that day.]

just by reading this, what do you think is the genre, what question does it leave you with, and is it hookable?

“You”

There, I saw her again. Same brown hair strands curled around her face, those same eyelashes which glimmer, and that same beautiful smile. I was going crazy for this girl.

Every time I saw her, my heart would pound fast. Time slowed down and everything around me became beautiful. The busy road suddenly turned into a grassy field with grasshoppers. The honking cars turned into birds chirping. Everything felt like a peaceful countryside. But she… she looked the same. I could only see her. Why could only I see her and not my surroundings? Maybe it was admiration. Maybe it was obsession. But deep down, I knew what it was.

Every time I tried to approach her, something would disturb us and she would disappear. Once, while chasing her, I almost got hit by a truck. Luckily, my friend saved me. Still, I was determined to meet her.

One day, I ignored everyone and ran towards her as fast as I could. In my imagination I was running through tall green grass, but in reality I was sprinting on the footpath. When I finally reached her, I said “Hello.” She turned beautifully and replied with her sweet voice, “Hello?”

Then I gathered all my courage and said, “I like you.”

She smiled and said, “Oh silly! I do not exist!” I was confused. Then she softly said, “I am your imagination. Now, wake up to reality!”

It was all a dream. My friend was waking me up for school.

I went to school and sat in the last corner bench. Then the teacher announced, “We have a new student in our class. Please introduce yourself.” The moment she entered, my heart stopped. She was the same girl from my dream. She looked exactly like her. She spoke in that same sweet voice, “Hello… My name is…”

I couldn’t even hear her name properly. She sat two benches away from me. I was so excited I almost screamed, “She’s in my class!” We were in 11th grade.

That same day during lunch break, she was sitting alone. This was my chance. I slowly walked towards her, my heart beating faster with every step. Nervously, I said “Hello.”

She replied, “Oh, Hi!”

“Why are you sitting alone?” I asked.

“Of course it is my first day! I have no friends. Plus, I forgot my lunch,” she said.

Then, as casually as I could, I asked, “Why don’t you share with me? Come on, let’s eat.”

At first she looked a bit uncomfortable, but because she was hungry, she accepted. We ate lunch together from my box. That moment I felt like I had everything. She smiled and said, “Thanks… I could have starved to death!” She was funny.

From that day onward, we became friends. I just hoped I wouldn’t get friend-zoned.

We started talking frequently. She was so cute — like a small teddy bear. We got closer and closer.

Then one day, the unexpected happened. While chatting, I casually asked if she wanted to watch a movie with me. To my surprise, she said, “Yeah! I would love to! I’m bored.”

I got ready, wore perfume for the first time, and a cool outfit. When I saw her, everything else vanished. Her eyes were sparkling, her smile was gorgeous.

After the movie and her dance performance, I finally gathered the courage. I told her I needed to talk about something important.

But then reality hit me like a truck.

I looked at her and said sadly, “No… My father got transferred to Mumbai. I have to leave in two weeks.”

She froze. Her beautiful smile disappeared. Tears filled her eyes as she stared at me in shock. “What! You can’t do this…” she whispered, her voice breaking.

Suddenly, she turned and ran away sobbing. I chased after her desperately. When I finally caught her on the quiet side of the campus, both of us were breathing heavily, tears in our eyes.

“This isn’t over yet!” I shouted, my voice shaking. “I know you’re hiding something! Express your feelings!”

She stood there crying, then slowly walked towards me. With her glittering eyes and that same smile mixed with pain, she said,

“You will leave me now… I knew it! I wanted to be with you forever… How can this happen?!”

The air was heavy. Everything around us started to shift again — just like the first time.

The noisy road slowly turned into tall green grass swaying gently. The honking vehicles transformed into birds chirping sweetly. The concrete beneath us became soft earth. Once again, I was standing in that beautiful countryside… and she was right there in front of me, real and glowing.

I stepped closer, heart pounding wildly, and poured everything out:

“I don’t care about the distance. I love you. I have loved you since the first time I saw you — whether in dreams or reality. You are the poem I never wrote, but read a thousand times every night.”

She stayed silent for a moment, tears rolling down her cheeks. Then suddenly, she slapped me on the cheek and shouted with all her emotions,

“Yes, you fool! I love you too!”

In the next second, she hugged me so tightly, like a small teddy bear trying to hold on with all her strength. I hugged her back even harder. For those precious minutes, time stopped completely. No transfer, no farewell, no pain of separation — only us, standing in that dreamy grassy field with birds chirping around us.

Even though I had to leave soon, I knew this wasn’t the end.

It was the moment the dream finally became reality.

You.

This is one of my first stories I'm sharing publicly. Please be honest but kind with your feedback. Looking forward to your thoughts on the story, emotions, and ending! ❤️

PLEASE GIVE ME FEEDBACK

For context I'm writing a book with two main characters 1 boy one girl. The girl has Alchemy powers and the boy is a monk.

I want to know if I should give the monk any powers or not. On one hand A sole badass fighter in a world of magic users is very appealing

On the other hand I don't want him to be weak when he comes across tougher opponents.

The power I was going to give him was to Absorb the magic energy from the atmosphere the strength of his body and harden his skin temporarily

I would really like some advice please.