r/writingcritiques

hey guys! my professor at YCC thinks i’m
sensitive to feedback, so i decided i will post my writing in reddit to desensitize myself. please be kind, but direct. i am hoping people like chapter 1 of my novel so much that they’ll ask me to continue posting as i write chapter 2, 3, and beyond. to be honest, a lot of my writing has been inspired by the prescott reddit page. let me know what you like and don’t like!

chapter one: the architecture of bread
“Bread,” I said, “is basically the Legos of food.”
Francine looked at me.
I waited.
I wasn’t waiting for her to respond. I was waiting because I had learned from The Good Man Project that a thought, when delivered with poetic conviction and a furrowed brow, required a certain amount of…negative space around it. Like a fine wine that needs to breathe. I didn’t want her to simply chug my idea. I wanted her to taste it.
Outside, Prescott was becoming evening.
Tuesday evening.
There was something particular about Tuesday. Monday still carried the administrative humdrums of the weekend’s negligence, while Wednesday had already begun leaning toward Thursday, which was essentially Friday in a town like Prescott. But Tuesday has a different temporal quality than Monday.
Tuesday evening belonged to people who were willing to admit they had nowhere else to be. No family to sit down for dinner with.
I took a sip of my coffee.
It was an oat milk cortado, though I had briefly considered ordering drip coffee because drip coffee would last longer as a prop in my hand. In the end, I decided an oat milk cortado, though fleeting, had a certain level of sophistication to it.
“Think about it,” I said.
Francine continued looking at me. I could tell she needed help tasting all the notes.
“Bread is modular.”
I glanced toward the front window of Cove Cafe, where a man in a faded trucker hat was carrying a pastry to a table by himself.
“You can put almost anything on bread. Meat. Cheese. Vegetables. Other bread.”
I paused and nearly chuckled. That last addition “other bread” was a joke, after all. A last minute addition to my go-to script.
“That’s the genius of it. Bread that is.”
Francine smiled politely.
I knew she understood, at least to the extend she was capable of.
Or rather, at least I knew she understood that I understood something.
I touched the edge of my Boy Scout vest.
To be clear, I’m a grown adult man. I wasn’t technically a Boy Scout anymore. I had bought the vest at an antique store in Flagstaff because it felt important to reclaim certain artifacts of an American childhood I might have had, and place them into a contemporary context. I had removed two of the original patches and replaced them with a small embroidered mushroom and a vintage-looking American flag. Something for everyone. Choose your own adventure. My vest served as a reliable conversation starter.
The vest was olive green.
It looked good against my denim button-up.
I had dressed deliberately tonight.
The jeans were straight-legged but not too straight-legged. My boots were technically work boots, although I had never done meaningful work in them, unless exploring the dark alleys of my mind counts as meaningful work.
My hair was longer on top and fell naturally toward the right side of my face, which is actually the left side of my face. I routinely flick my head to get my hair out of my eyes.
I had been growing it out for six months.
There was a discipline to this kind of thing. Like there was discipline to how I put muscle onto my otherwise too skinny frame.
People think style is about appearance. It isn’t. Style is about refusing to appear as though you had made a decision. Much like the best storytellers don’t come across rehearsed.
I took another sip of my drink.
“So bread is like Legos,” Francine said.
“Yes.”
She looked at her phone. I had to reign her back in.
“Except,” I continued, “Legos are designed to connect with other Legos.”
She looked up.
“And bread is designed to connect with everything.”
There it was.
The silence.
I felt it land between us.
Outside, the mountains were also darkening.
The Dells were probably beautiful right now.
Everything in Prescott was beautiful right now if you looked at it correctly. Gave it a chance.
That was the problem with beauty. It had become so available that people had stopped seeing it. Much like the single men in town.
I looked down at my coffee.
The foam had collapsed into itself.
I had always admired things that could do that.
Collapse without becoming nothing.
That, I thought, was what adulthood was.
The front door opened.
A woman in Lululemon leggings walked into Cove Cafe carrying a Owala tumbler. Her hair in a wild bun.
She was probably here for Singles Night too.
It was Tuesday, after all.
I flicked my hair once again, and casually leaned back in my chair as if I didn’t immediately notice her.

hi guys! nervous about sharing my work haha. this is the opening scene to my adult steampunk-noir fantasy debut, please critique if you are so inclined!

TW : violence/blood/murder

The corpse on the other side of the counter was getting to be rather inconvenient.
For one, Kesler couldn’t leave with it in tow until the joint cleared out. For two, Newt kept tripping over the guy’s legs and sloshing drinks all over himself. For three, the body would have gone all stiff by now, so he would have to chop it up to get it out of here unnoticed, which was always a pain to clean afterward.
And for four—he turned to Lenore, and murmured, “Delacey still out there?”
Lenore raised a blonde eyebrow. “What do you think?”
“I think he is. I was hoping otherwise.”
“He’s not leaving. And neither—” she tipped her head almost imperceptibly to where the body was pressed against the cupboards, “—is he. We should dance.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I didn’t ask if you wanted to. I said we should. You’ll look shifty glued to the wall all night.”
“Shifty? For all they know I’m just tired.”
“No one that knows you will believe that. Come on.”
As if to illustrate her point, the band onstage jumped into a swing number across the room. Kesler checked the clock. An hour to close, which meant two hours until everyone had actually cleared out. He considered Lenore’s offer. 
“Kesler Marshall Alastaire,” said Newt suddenly, grabbing Kesler’s arm. He turned. Newt made a good effort to be intimidating, but Kesler knew him too well for it to work. (And he didn’t have a middle name anyway. He’d made up Marshall on the spot a few years ago while talking down a patroller. Newt knew it was fake, and teased him mercilessly.) “If you go out there and leave me with—with him—while you’re having the time of your life—”
“I’m not going.” He turned to Lenore, drumming his fingers on the counter. “I’m not going.”
“Delacey’ll shank you when you get out there. This could be the last thing you do.”
Kesler shoved her, and she flounced away.
Newt eyed him nervously. “You do look shifty, you know.”
“I know.”
“You’re sweating. Why don’t you take your coat off?”
Because his shirtsleeves were still covered in blood from earlier. And he was armed to the teeth—but then, that wasn’t out of the ordinary. He wiped his face on the wool of his sleeve.
Lenore reappeared next to him, eyes wide. “Get out.”
“What?”
“Someone,” she glared meaningfully at Kesler, “led Delacey’s guys here.”
“Someone who’s cleaning up your mess, you mean.”
Newt groaned. “I want you to know, Kesler, I always valued our friendship.”
Kesler briefly considered wringing Lenore’s neck, then reached for his gun, to make sure it was still there. It was. This calmed him minutely. “Oh, shove it. I’ll deal with him.”
“Who? The thug?”
“Delacey.”
“And leave us here?”
“Well, he isn’t after you, is he?”
“He may well be!”
Kesler cast his eyes around the room. There—a man in a hat and coat. No one came to a speakeasy so buttoned-up, besides, tonight, Kesler himself. Perhaps Lenore was right. 
The man tilted his head, and the light hit his face. Lionel Pin. Kesler hurriedly turned back towards the wall and shucked off his overcoat. Instantly he relaxed, or focused. He took the folded-up newspaper he’d bought from a boy on the street earlier out of his back pocket and threw it on the counter too, just for good measure.
“Don’t come outside,” he advised Newt and Lenore good-naturedly, then swept towards the door, dodging vivacious pairs of dancers even as he kept one shoulder to the wall.
The cold Crest air hit him the moment he stepped outside, and the door to The Loaner slammed behind him. He kept a hand on the revolver holstered at his hip as he surveyed his surroundings. Smooth brick made up the street, worn down by foot traffic—there were no horses, no automobiles, not up here. A gaslamp flickered at the corner a few paces away, illuminating the paste-up mural on the building across the way.
It showed Kesler himself among other famous scientists in recent history: Jean Battement, Fineas Pauline. People that he’d looked up to as a boy. It made him flush, seeing his copper wiry hair and sharp, narrow features at such a large scale. The artist had smoothed over his dense freckles and darkened his tap-water eyes, which he wasn’t sure how to feel about. He’d always considered himself handsome.
Verne hadn’t even told him this was being put up; Kesler had found out while walking to Newt’s pub with Lenore some months ago, and she’d screeched with laughter and forced him into a photograph in front of it the next time they’d come around.
There—a shadow moving over the words crossing Battement’s necktie (Architects of Luminescence). Kesler flattened himself against the wall and almost silently cocked his gun, approaching the alleyway that opened into the mural.
Delacey got to him first, his shadow separating from that of the alleyway like two globs of algae. “Alastaire.”
Kesler raised the gun and stepped forward.
Delacey spared it only a glance before he turned back around to face the mural. “‘Architects,’” he read bitterly. “I’d hardly call you an architect. I would have written ‘sabeteur.’ ‘Child-king,’ perhaps, yes?”
What had happened to bring Delacey to him, as Kesler understood it, was this: he’d provided Newt and Lenore pure lumen, and they had smuggled it to some Neat folk. This was all well and good, but one of the Neat fellows, evidently, had nothing but a soup bowl between his ears, and had blasted the roof off a building with the lumen. So he’d come up here and tracked down and attacked Lenore and she’d managed to cut his throat—It was self defense is all, Kesler. Kitty Cat. I’ll call you what I want so long as I’m bootlegging all this for you. I’m just letting you know Delacey might be paying you or I a visit tonight so you should bring your good guns. The Neat fellow’s at The Loaner. His name was Rickie or something. Thanks, Kitten.
Kesler had slipped away from work briefly and found the freshly exsanguinated Rickie catching flies behind Newt’s bartop. There would be no way to move the body until late in the night—people wouldn’t balk at a dead man being dragged through the roads in broad daylight, but Kesler couldn’t afford to attach his name to the smuggling business—so he left a hasty note for Newt. Sorry mate. Lenore’s fault—NOT my decision to bring him here. Will move him tonight promise.
Delacey must’ve guessed he and Lenore would be here.
Now, he said, “How an individual uses lumen is not my responsibility.” The wording was stiff, and came out sounding like he’d rehearsed it. He had. “Especially not pure lumen smuggled from Crest.”
“Do not trick me. I do not care about the lumen. You know of the dead boy in that building, yes? He was killed by that little blonde harlot. You are good friends.”
“If he can be taken down so easily by a girl petite as her, he should have chosen better aspirations than smuggling lumen in Cresten back alleys.”
A gunshot and several shouts rang out from inside the pub. Delacey’s attention was caught, and Kesler turned, heart in his throat. Patrons fled, holding hats onto their heads and shoving their arms into coats as they ran. Newt and Lenore were not among the crowd; they must have stayed inside.
There was a noise behind him and Kesler whipped back around to see the glint of a tiny deadly blade. He caught Delacey’s arm as he dodged, but the blade nicked the cartilage of his ear.
Kesler was tall and wiry and young, Delacey was short and soft and moustached; neither of them were built to fight. But Kesler’s two revolvers were. In the commotion from the Loaner, he and Delacey danced around each other for another moment, before Kesler raised the gun to Delacey’s chin and fired.
Blood and grey matter exploded over the paste-up mural. Good. Maybe they’d finally get rid of the damn thing. Delacey’s body bounced off the wall and Kesler caught it before it hit the ground, holstering his revolver and looking around like he’d merely taken an embarrassing fall. People still flooded from The Loaner, but no one paid him any mind. He could hardly blame them—every Crestener knew the quickest way to be killed was to stick your nose in a killer’s business.
Kesler looped Delacey’s limp arm over his shoulder and began dragging him to the edge of the city. An onlooker might have thought them friends, if not for the mangled mess on Delacey’s shoulders and the way the toes of his shoes dragged on the ground.
Judge, he swore. The word was technically a prayer, but he hadn’t considered it more than a vestigial habit in years.
At last he reached the border of Crest. A fence stretched around the entire perimeter of the city, stopping only for the docks and the lifts and the one broken spot near the Finery borough. It was perhaps as tall as Lenore and made of solid iron bars, wide enough to stick a hand through but not a shoulder. The top was flat and covered in something mimicking gold and, on top of that, bird shit.
Kesler considered his options briefly, then leaned Delacey against the fence, hoisted himself up so he straddled the top of it, and then pulled Delacey up after him. It was quite the exercise.
On the other side of the fence was a small ridged foothold, then nothing. Open air as far as anyone could see. Occasionally he’d find himself marveling at the technology that kept all of Crest afloat up here. Most days he hated it. Today he found himself simply doing his best to ignore the vertigo.
Kesler wrapped an ankle around one of the iron bars and heaved Delacey’s limp body up and over the side, watching him fall for a moment only to make sure it didn’t get caught on any machinery that might’ve been in his path. It didn’t.
He hoped no one was directly beneath. Usually he disposed of bodies on the other side of town in Finery, where the land beneath them was blackened and dead and uninhabited (and to have a usual in this situation was despicable, he knew). That was where honorable funeral send-offs were, anyway, only honorable funeral send-offs let the deceased drift down with a bed of flowers and a glorified parachute. To know the folks ended up where they ought to, albeit with a hastier arrival, gave him a small bit of comfort.

Chapter 1 of 2

A scene very similar to this may occur in earth’s not too distant future. For planning purposes, 2121AD will do just fine.   
A tall, extremely confidant man enters a  room filled with men and women whom he knows as well as any CEO knows a hundred of his closest subordinates. Most are looking expectantly at him.   
At least twenty of them are frantically trying to “catch up,” surreptitiously using their devices and having their names checked off of an electronic spreadsheet that only CEO Mark Branson and his “right-hand girl,” Maggie McMillan have ever seen.   
Maggie, a 70-year old single woman with dark red hair and thick glasses (with frames to match her hair color) nods to her boss who responds quickly.   
Twenty something “twenty somethings” have been notified that their attendance is no longer desired. They leave the spacious conference room quickly and quietly.  Their futures with Time Corp may survive (but they are determined never to have to catch up again).  
“The votes have been tabulated,” intones Maggie. Mark barely winks.  Every device in the room is instantly updated with the totals.   
Aisha Cronkite, a thirty-two year old mother of four, stands up to speak. Her desk mate (facing the opposite direction) tugs at her stylish belt in a feeble attempt to counter her intentions.   
The CEO stares squarely in her direction and simply says, “Speak.”  
Aisha takes a notably deep breath, smiles at her desk-mate Abe, and sits back down before speaking.  
“Ron, Maggie, the results are much closer than I would have expected. I think some of us were thinking that the nay-sayers were the ones who were asked to leave”  
Maggie didn’t explain, but Ron sensed some concern amongst his audience. His gaze was steady as he waited for others to speak up.   
No one else did.   
Ron held up what looked like a large prescription bottle and let them all have time to see it on one of monitors. Seemingly satisfied with the lack of reaction, he placed the plastic bottle in a large cube labeled TIME CORP and then sealed the 1-meter cube by closing its lid and snapping the titanium clasps in place.   
An audible gasp permeated the room. Ron smiled, waited only a few seconds, and then pulled the handle of a sturdy-looking disconnect switch mounted on the side of the cube.   
Nothing seemed to happen. There was no second gasp from the audience.   
Ron wasted no time opening the cube and displaying its lack of contents to all in attendance. They all were waiting. Nothing happened.   
Ali Carpenter stood up. Some murmuring could be heard, but the murmurs were silenced when Ron said, “Speak.”  
Ali took a little time, seemingly focussing on a few of his peers. Then, he smiled at Aisha who smiled back.   
“I, for one, would like to change my vote.”  
Laughter rippled through the room like a large wave washing the tension away. Even Maggie chuckled as she said, “Meeting adjourned!”

Greetings. I have loved writing since I was a child but never pursued it in any serious manner. I would like to share something I wrote and ask if it is decent or if you have any feedback on it. Thank you for taking the time out of your day to read it.

A trip to the store

I did not expect to go to the store and encounter a dilemma. I doubt that often, if ever, do people go to the store in search of such a thing. Yet the universe has a way of making it so that when a person least expects it (and frankly, when they least require it), these problems are encountered in a random and chaotic fashion.

I am an anxious person. I worry about everything. I worry about money, clothes, food, my job, my life, the lives of others, and people. I worry mostly about people. How they look at me, if they are looking at me, how they speak to me, if they are speaking to me, if I need to make eye contact, if I am making the wrong amount of eye contact, what they are saying to me, and what I am saying to them. Interacting with others is a skill that I have only grown worse at as I have grown older. I am not sure how this happened, nor can I point to why it happened, but the fact of the matter is this: I am an adult who is afraid of people.

So I found myself, on a beautiful August morning, headed to a store that I frequented every Sunday for the purposes of acquiring food that would be eaten and digested by the Sunday next. I was listening to music that made me particularly happy and enjoying the pleasantness of the weather surrounding me. The drivers on the road, who usually seemed hellbent on causing as much stress and mayhem as possible, were actually being quite civil. As I turned into the parking lot, there was absolutely no indication that I would be entering a situation that would leave me feeling quite dissatisfied and upset emotionally.

I popped the trunk, gathered my bags, grabbed a cart, and made my way into the store, having plotted the most optimal route based on the contents of my shopping list. I was turning into an aisle, intent on grabbing a few cans of vegetables, when I spotted them.

They consisted of two people - a former coworker and her boyfriend. At first we did not recognize each other, and then there was that shared sense of awareness one feels when realizing that the person in front of them is not, in fact, a stranger, but someone more familiar. Then followed the chorus of his, hellos, heys, and other greetings people employ upon seeing each other. We quickly got to chatting about the most banal of topics - work. From there the conversation moved quite naturally to housing and relationships.  After confirming we were all employed, housed, and partnered, we amicably parted ways. It was, all in all, a pleasant interaction.

Yet, as I walked throughout the store, I felt a nagging suspicion creeping through me. I wondered if, had I been so brave as to ask, we could have agreed to work towards more? Could this chance encounter blossom into a deeper friendship, something that could be fulfilling for all involved? For it was very true that I was, and still am, in dire need of friendship. 

I am a person who is crippled not just by a sense of anxiety, but a profound sense of loneliness. The kind of loneliness that makes you very aware of your station in any given situation. The kind of loneliness that makes you aware you are the only person alone in a room. The kind of loneliness that is most impactful upon waking on a Saturday morning and realizing you have nowhere to go, no one to be with, and nothing to do but count the hours until your partner is home and you can finally feel some sense of human companionship again. For a loneliness like this, friendship is the only cure.

And so I berated myself over the head for this blunder, this failure, this missed opportunity to fight against the loneliness and anxiety that pervaded my spirit. I would see them in the store, tell myself to walk up and do it, to ask for a number, to hangout, or if they would be interested in going on a double date sometime. Yet every time I found that my fear trapped me, kept me complacent, and caused me to look away and walk towards something else. 

This continued throughout my trip, throughout the checkout process, and as I bagged my groceries in a solitary manner. I watched from my car as they exited the grocery store. I thought about how lonely I felt. I thought about the shame, embarrassment, and sense of patheticness that I would feel asking for their number now, after so much time had passed and I had so many chances to do so. And then I drove away. And I only felt worse.

This is supposed to be the paragraph that the idea of a monster in my book is introduced, if anyone has advice on how to make it better please let me know. (For some context the main characters car broke down and they are walking to the nearest gas station for help)

We had only been walking for about twenty minutes when we heard a weathered old voice call out from behind us “Are you fellas alright? It’s awfully dangerous to be walking out in these woods by yourself.” We turned in unison to see an old station wagon pulling up behind us. The man driving the car appeared to be in his late 60’s or mid 70’s. His long white hair was pulled back tightly into ponytail, while his scruffy face was covered in wrinkles and his chin was populated with intermittent grey stubble. Despite most of his other features being somewhat harsh he had a soft smile and kind eyes. “He reminds me of pap pap” I smiled sadly at the thought. My grandfather had died the previous year while staying at his winter cabin deep in the Cascade Mountains. By then, his dementia had progressed severely, and my grandmother was struggling to care for him alone. They decided to spend a few final months at the old cabin before moving into a retirement home. One morning, my grandmother woke up and found his side of the bed empty. At first, she wasn't alarmed. He often couldn't sleep and would wander around the cabin in the middle of the night, looking for something to occupy himself until sleep took him again. She got out of bed and began searching through all the rooms, expecting to find him sleeping on one of the couches or chairs. After about ten minutes, she realized something was wrong. My grandfather wasn't anywhere inside. She checked the front door. It was unlocked. For a moment, she thought he might have gone outside, but then she noticed something that his coat was still hanging by the door. So were his boots. She swung open the door and saw footprints leading out across the yard and into the woods. Frantically she whipped out her phone and called the police. A heavy snowstorm had passed through the area recently, leaving the road to the cabin buried beneath several feet of snow, meaning, before the police could even reach the property, they had to wait for the road to be plowed. Hours passed before they finally reached the cabin. Upon arrival They immediately began searching the surrounding area. For multiple days, they combed through the trees, calling his name and following every trail they could find, but they found nothing. No clothing. No blood. No sign of an injury. Nothing that could explain where he had gone. Even those tracks that led into the woods abruptly stopped about thirty feet in. Eventually, they concluded that his dementia had caused him to wander outside. Perhaps, in his confusion, he had ignored the freezing temperatures and walked into the woods without realizing what he was doing. My grandmother also told me that she recalled one of the officers asking her if anyone else had been staying up there with them. When she replied that it had only been the two of them, the officer just scratched his head looking confused “Well I’m not sure how to tell you this, but your husband didn’t walk in there alone.” He pointed to the tracks. “You see, there are two sets of footprints. Someone or something was walking with him.”

A drop of water falls to the ground. Or maybe it rises to the sky? I know it sounds insane but stay with me for one moment and let me explain. We view reality through the things we are taught, for example, water is fluid and fire is hot. But what if we were taught that fire is cold and that water is truly solid? Would our perception of the world change to fit what we’ve learned? How do we know the things we know? If our understanding of reality only exists through the things we are taught, then truth itself is a fragile thing. And if enough people collectively agree that something is true then truth is not discovered but instead is created. 

Last week I saw a man walk through a wall.

The strange thing was not that I saw it happen. The strange thing was that everyone around me acted as if it were perfectly normal. As if every Tuesday at three o’clock, a man casually walks through a brick wall in a subway station. 
For the rest of the week I tried to forget what I saw. I tried to tell myself that it was just the angle I saw it. Fatigue. Perhaps a momentary lapse in judgement. 
Yet seven days later I found myself standing in the same exact spot, staring at the same brick wall. I had been standing in that spot for nearly two hours, waiting for a man who might never appear. Then three o’clock came. And once again, the man walked straight through it, clothes and all, as if the wall was not even there. 
I quickly turned to the older woman that had been standing next to me for nearly 10 minutes waiting for her train. “Excuse me, but did you see that?” I asked her in a tone that may have been slightly too eager. 
“See what?” she asked, looking at me. 
“The man, He just went throu—”
“What wall?” the woman said.
I stood there in silence for several seconds contemplating whether I had finally lost it. But then my brain caught up with what had just happened. I had never mentioned the wall to her. In fact, I had barely finished speaking at all. I turned immediately toward the wall, expecting to find empty space where the bricks had been. Instead, the wall remained. Cold to the touch. Solid. Unmoving. 
I reached out for it, pressing the pads of my fingers against the rough surface of the concrete. 
Brick.  Real.
I turned back toward her but something felt off. The scent of vanilla had disappeared from the air and had been replaced with the scent of cheap after shave mixed with whiskey.
The woman was gone.
No, she wasn’t gone.
I stared at the spot she had been standing only a moment earlier. It was now occupied by a figure I did not recognize. In her spot stood a man. 
Tall? 
Maybe. 
Or maybe he wasn't.
I frowned. For the first time since this event began it no longer seemed like an overreaction to check myself into a mental institution. But the harder I looked at him, the less certain I became. His clothes were painfully ordinary and unspecial, the kind you'd walk past on the street without ever knowing. Nothing about this man demanded attention. 
Yet I found myself fixated on him and the idea of who he could possibly be. 
There was something familiar about him. Not his face, not the way his nose was crooked slightly to one side or the way that his hair looked greasy. Nothing physical, just a feeling, a change in the air. Almost like déjà vu, except I couldn’t remember for the life of me what I was supposed to be remembering.
I stared at him for an absurd amount of time, waiting for the slightest hint of movement. The rising and falling of his chest. A blink. Anything that would prove that he was real and not simply the machinations of a tired mind. 
For several moments we both stayed frozen as the rest of the station moved around us. The rhythm of footsteps echoed against the tile floor, a symphony of urgency. 
I wanted to say something. 
Anything. 
But before I could the man suddenly leaned down to tie his shoe. The action itself was so normal it caused me discomfort. Afterwards he stood back up and started to walk away. 
“Wait,” I said.
He stopped but did not turn around. 
Commuters stepped around him without looking, weaving through the space as though they already knew that he wasnt going to move. 
Stationary. 
A statue. 
“How did you do that?”, I asked.
He took one step forward.
“The floor.”
A pause.
“Not the wall.”
But it wasn't what he said that struck me. It was the voice that he used. I'd heard it somewhere before.
On the radio? No. 
On television? No.
Somewhere closer.

Hello friends, I was needing advice. Is this first chapter of my manuscript intriguing enough to keep as a first chapter? I’m at the querying stage and some feedback I got from an agent led me to want double check my story structure and pacing. Since many agents/editors have stated they can tell if there are issues within the first ten pages, I’d thought I’d try to identify if it’s my opening pages that are stoping agents from continuing. Thanks in advance!!

In addition to the above, would you keep reading if this book was in your hands? Thanks again!

Chapter 1:
Innocence is the first to die.
No mortal is born without first having to shut Death's Door to survive past infancy.
By design, Death's Door opened inward. Whether opened by accident or intention, It must be closed by reaching in. It's not a physical door where a knob is grabbed and slammed shut. Rather, It's the threshold where Death is bribed.
The first bribe is made by the God that created the mortal. If the Door is ever opened again, the mortals had to pay the toll themselves. Some Gods favored their mortals and took the time to barter, but no matter the offer, Innocence was always the price.
Allie had no one to pay her bribe when she was born. When Death's Door opened for the first time, she remembered walking out of It. Death Itself told her that she didn’t have the Innocence that other mortals had. 
Perhaps she should have asked a few questions. 
When Death's Door opened a second time, there had been a knob for her to tug on. It was a physical door that Allie had opened, not knowing that a demon and devil lay waiting outside.
Ignorantly, she'd welcomed them. She’d been 12. Death said she had no Innocence.
Death lied.
This day was a reminder of what she no longer had, of who she lost. But instead of mourning, she was stuck wishing she could hang up the damn phone.
Allie looked across the café patio table. Her phone screen was frozen on a pixelated man. "Arro, I can call back later if you're having trouble." 
"No, mija, I can see you. I just don't think you can see me right now—ah! There we go," Arro's blurry image cleared. "You look great, mija. Are they treating you well?"
Allie laid her phone against her bag and angled it so it was hidden. If she was caught with an unauthorized device, she'd be punished. Given that she was in the center of town, it wasn't her brightest idea.
"A little tired, actually," she said and looked around at the streets. "We have a meeting with investors which means double checking everyone's scripts. It's a lot of all-nighters."
She'd come here to escape the feeling of not being alone while she was supposed to be alone. But the longer she stayed, the more it felt like she was being watched.
Several blocks to her right was the church and its gardens. Behind her was the main shopping district. The Stable was a building so large it took up the view in several directions. It had the hospital to the left of Allie, while the connected research building lay dead ahead.
"So you aren't sleeping." Arro shook his head. "I can't say I like hearing that."
She rolled her eyes. "I promise to get more sleep once it's over."
"Is that what's really bothering you?"
When she glanced behind her, shadows ducked behind structures. She ignored them and turned back to Arro. Sleep was the last thing on her mind. Allie used her hand to smooth her raised arm hair.
Maybe she should eat real food instead of self medicating with caffeine.
It was nearly six o'clock, people were going home, or to dinner. That's all it was. No one had the time to play pranks after a long day at work.
"Mija, I know the anniversary never comes and goes quietly, but you need to rest," Arro said.
Allie jumped as the waitress passed by. "Is this the part where you warn me about their ghosts?" She sipped her drink.
The shadows were watching. But she couldn't prove it. It made her wired in all the wrong ways. She was so tense her legs felt like they belonged to someone else. Allie unclenched her numb toes. Pin pricks travelled up her legs.
"I should talk to your boss about this. What was his name again?"
"Yeah, not happening, Arro. You don't get to babysit me from the other side of the country. Everything will go back to normal soon," Allie said.
A flash of light in her peripheral vision made her freeze. Was that a camera? No. It couldn't have been. Shadows don't have cameras.
It's just a flash from the bus headlights.
Allie toyed with her straw as a chill settled at the base of her spine. "I should go. Let me know if any problems come up with the package I sent you." Allie quickly packed her things.
"I will. Go make an omelet or two. And please call me papi at least, y feliz cump—"
She hung up and slipped the phone into her bag. The fear in her heart lingered. Allie was alone. At least until the shadows made themselves known again.
Sleep deprivation, plus grief, plus stress? Perfect cocktail for hallucinations.
There was nothing to worry about. None of it was real. Allie glanced at the Stable as she walked toward the church.
The Stable, her employer, was the largest research facility in the country. Not because the building was the largest, but because it owned the entire town surrounding it.
Over one thousand people, all meant to keep the Stable as the only EnSol producer on the planet. Only a few hundred of those people were for the surrounding shops meant to keep staff happy on their off days.
The Stable was wider than it was tall with pale stone walls that reached up to the sky. Tinted windows hid the laboratories on the upper stories, only the ground floor let the natural light filter in.
Allie could see a security guard at the front desk, already settled in for his evening shift. When he saw her, she waved. He waved back.
She hadn't gone to work today. It was the one day a year she needed to be alone. But if she had known that shadows would follow her, today of all days, she would've just stayed at work.
The path to the church was a short distance from the coffee shop. Not that anything was more than a short distance from anything. The entire town was meant to be walkable, the buses passed routinely even when no one was on them.
She turned onto the stone walkway to the church.
Unlike the Stable, the church was a small building, but big enough to house a variety of faith believers.
Muslims, Christians, Hindus, and most popularly, followers of Mother's Womb—the largest religious organization on the continent.
She reached the gorgeous structure with carved white walls, arched brick towers and long paved walkways. The tops of the towers were surrounded by hand carved gargoyles that were almost translucent. The gargoyles' eyes, teeth, and claws were made of jewels that glinted in the sun.
Its extravagance was the only taste of wealth many would ever experience in their life. Despite being a fraction of the size, it wouldn't surprise her if this one small church cost more than the entirety of the Stable.
Allie stepped onto a square tiled walkway that led to the open atrium of death candles. Just outside of the arched entrance of the glass room was a large yet delicately crafted crate of unlit candles.
She plucked three and walked into the atrium. In the center of the room was a beautiful stone altar covered in an elegantly woven cloth. Along its weaved edged were gold tinted shapes that she could only assume was scripture, written in a language she didn't know. Several lit candles among piles of melted wax seeped into the cloth. Allie looked around for matches.
"I didn't even see you come in," a gentle voice said behind her. "Welcome, doctor."
A light-blue robed disciple, with a broach atop her shoulder had entered the atrium with quiet steps. She flicked out her hand and offered a lit match.
"I was wondering where you were, Irene," Allie said and lit one candle with the match. "I'm sorry I'm late, the talk with Arro took longer than usual." Allie leaned the lit candle forward to light the other wicks then placed them on the altar.
"Don't be. Our doors are always open for you." Irene closed her eyes and bowed to the altar.
Allie kissed three fingertips and pressed them to the altar, one for each of her lost loved ones.
Brother. Mom. Dad.
The toll paid to close Death's Door a second time.
She prayed for their safe passage to the Garden of Peace. Every year, she would come here and ensure their spirits knew they weren't forgotten.
Arro was the only one she had left. After their murders, he took over her family's pharmaceutical guild and fought viciously to keep their legacy alive. She knew he missed them as much as she did.
Once Allie finished her prayer, she walked backwards out of the room. Irene followed suit and bowed to the entrance. Once free of the atrium, Irene hugged Allie's arm and tugged her outside to the gardens.
The vast garden stretched to the edge of the town. Some plants were decorative, but most were bushes and trees that bore food so the less fortunate could eat when the kitchens were closed.
Not that there were any homeless allowed this close to a government facility. But if there were, the church wouldn't allow them to go hungry. Allie's fingers brushed a young tree. It was too young to grow fruit, but it received just as much care as the rest.
"I hope you didn't wait too long for me," Irene said and let her arm go.
"I don't have many friends outside of work, so I didn't mind the wait. What kept you?" Allie prodded. Anything to get her mind off what today was would leave her blessed.
"Oh, it's our quarterly celebration of birthdays!" Irene clapped her hands.
I shouldn't have asked.
Allie forced a smile. "Oh, how exciting."
"Our bakers made some delicious bread, I'll grab some for you—“
"No," Allie snapped, her voice suddenly hoarse and airy. A gift? She couldn't think of anything worse.
Irene froze mid-step.
Allie looked down, her hands wouldn't stop shaking. She cleared her throat. "No, thank you," Allie said more calmly. "I won't be needing any today."
"Of course, my apologies. Given what you're here for," Irene bowed her head.
Allie's cheeks reddened. She avoided Irene's gaze. First the shadows, now this? Nausea rolled in her gut.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have," Allie hesitated. How could she say 'I don't like gifts' without sounding like a freak?
Irene shook her head. "I am here for whatever you need. Please don’t think you owe me an apology. Mother will forgive both our transgressions today." Irene guided them around the last bend.
When they reached the entrance to the church, Irene took Allie's hands and waited.
"Thank you, birthdays are just not my thing," Allie squeezed Irene's hands.
Irene offered another gentle smile, bowed, and turned back to the church.
Orange kissed the sky, the moon was already visible over the horizon. Two out of three duties were now checked off her to-do-list, and there was plenty of light for the last errand.

Allie stepped on her neighbor’s front porch. In one hand was a paper bag with colored pencils, wax crayons, and a coloring notebook. She'd wanted to get paint as well, but Eka hated mess that didn't come from gardening. Before Allie could knock, the door swung open.
"See, see? I told you she was coming!" Pythia sang. He hugged her knee and looked up with a dimpled smile. He barely came up to the middle of her thigh.
Allie snickered and ruffled his hair. 
"Give her space to move in, boy." Eka pulled him to the side. Her graying hair was tied loosely back.
Allie walked inside. Eka's living room was taken up by a large table with only two chairs on one side. The table had trays of various seedlings and potting soil.
As soon as Allie set the bag down, Pythia climbed onto the table and dove into it. He pulled out the box of crayons and ripped it open.
"I just wanted to drop these off before I get back to work tomorrow," Allie said.
"Ah, yes. You were off today for your birthday, I remember." Eka rubbed soil off on her apron.
Allie sighed. Every year it was the same thing. "No, Eka. We've been over this. My birthday isn't for several months."
Eka pulled a piece of paper from her apron and opened it. It was a cutely drawn white birthday cake with colorful chunky sprinkles. Little flames were above the numbered candles on the top. The candles read '25'. No doubt the handiwork of Pythia.
Allie gave a terse smile. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest.
"You can't lie to a psychic. We see all," Eka stared through her brow.
Allie cleared her throat. "I'm 27. I thought psychics saw the future, not the past. If your mind is running two years behind schedule, I don't mind scheduling you a wellness exam." She crossed her arms and tried to look threatening.
Eka held eye contact and folded the drawing. "It was a joke." She held out her arms.
Allie took the invitation and hugged her. Eka smelled of thyme and cloves. The stress of the day drifted away in the old woman's arms. Allie rolled her eyes when paper crinkled into her back pocket.
Eka pulled back and patted Allie on the shoulder. "Peaceful night, Allie."
"Goodnight, Eka. Bye, Pythia," Allie waved at him.
He waved a crayon at her but didn't look up.
Allie avoided Eka's lawn and used the sidewalk to get to her own house. Her home was the last one on this edge of town. She glanced across the open field that turned into a heavy wooded nature preserve. Most of the shadows came from the trees.
She hurried into the safety of her living room and took out the cake drawing. Would Pythia hate her if she threw it away? Allie eyed the trash can. It would eat her alive if she did. Begrudgingly, she folded the paper and dropped it in a drawer.
After all these years, there was still no one she could trust. She could excuse Eka and Pythia wanting to wish her a happy birthday. But Arro, of all people, should know better.
Allie rubbed her neck. Despite the legal documents that stated otherwise, today, she turned 25 years old. 
It was also the anniversary of the worst day of her life.

I can't tell if my short story is good, and I don't trust AI to tell me whether or not it's good. I genuinely want whatever feedback bc I'm trying out new things like writing.

I also can't figure out a name.

It was supposed to be a typical school day. The weatherman started his morning broadcast with, “Good morning, Seattle. Today, expect heavy rain and possible thunderstorms in the upper east side, extending down to downtown.” School buses began their safety checks before allowing the children, tired after the morning, to board. Some parents waved farewell; others thanked the bus drivers or said, “Goodbye, love you!” but their words would go unheard. In Fall City, Washington, no one was aware of the disaster that awaited them or the horrors they would soon face.

The morning of September 14th, 2024 would be a day no one could forget.  As children were welcomed into school and the parents went to work, an eerie sound echoed across all of Fall City. A loud, unmistakable noise. One that brought shock to many and horror to many others. Many didn't know how they knew what the noise was; it felt almost primal, like an instinct or a part of their brain that's been trained for this exact moment.  The noise of the earth's crust cracking open, as if it were a soda can that got shaken too fast before popping open.  

The normal weather broadcast changed quickly to a breaking news headline.  News anchors scatter like flies to a bright light, but the bright light isn't just a metaphor; it's real.  In the city centre, a giant football-field-sized gash was torn in the ground, like a beast had gone mad.
Radios went silent as the people working stopped to watch the news.  The last song to play was “One Way or Another”  

In one specific high school, a classroom labeled A4, which was an environmental science class, a boy sits still, realizing what the noise was and looking around to view the other classmates' faces. The girl sitting across from him, whose name he did not know, looks frightened and scared.  The twins that always sat in the back of the class, whose names he did not know, are acting completely differently.  The once annoying and arrogant twins look utterly terrified.  The other twin looks like a direct copy and paste.  How ironic.

The once quiet neighborhood that was praised for its togetherness and community started showing cracks.  Neighbors were seen throwing guests out of their homes.  Others were seen gathering weapons to defend their front yard from their own neighbors.  The neighbors that celebrated Christmas together,  the neighbors that borrowed everyday objects like scissors, were now getting ready to fight each other like a messed-up game of color wars.

The once loud neighborhood that was considered full of criminals showed the opposite: bodegas stayed open, giving out free water and discounted food.  Neighbors offered shelter to the homeless who, not even more than 1 hour ago, were ignored and walked past like ghosts, and were finally treated with humanity and respect.

In the Kingdom of Shapes stood an ancient gate. No one knew who had built it. Some said the gods; others said the First Geometers.

Carved above its arch were the words:

\*“Pass through the Gate, and you shall be judged.”\*

“Every generation, a Great Competition was held to discover the greatest shape — which the kingdom defined as the largest and most efficient.”

Over the centuries, countless shapes passed through the Gate. They were measured, debated, admired, and compared. In time and after each contest, year after year, the judges declared; “The Square”, to be the winner. The Square was the biggest and most efficient of all shapes.

Generations passed. Schools taught this. Artists celebrated it. Builders modeled their cities after it. Children grew up believing there had never been, nor could there ever be, a bigger or more efficient shape.

Then one day, a traveling shape from a distant land stopped before the Gate. His eyes lifted and he gazed up at the ancient arch, the traveler thought to himself, “\*What a stroke of luck. I am just as big as the biggest square that has ever passed through and have a smaller perimeter, making me more efficient. I will surely be judged the new champion!”\*

He approached the gate, tried, but could not get through.

The gate was too narrow, or, his body too wide.

Realizing that he was not going to get through he turned away and a sad knowing smile came to his face. He understood why a shape like him, although being just as big and also more efficient, would never be judged to be the champion.

And so it was . The traveler continued along on his journey, thinking thoughtful thoughts, and

… rolling happily along.

I would love to hear your thoughts and comments.

What shape was a visitor?
Why couldn’t the visitor get through the gates ?
What would happen if the visitor could get through and was judged?
What is the significance of the gate?
What could the gate represent in our daily lives today?
What is the lesson that we are meant to learn?

Hi All,

I'm an aspiring non-professional writer working on my first ever novel draft. I'd love to get some general feedback on whether to keep or scrap this opening...I'm really struggling on how to create a "hook" for a more low-concept plot. I'm going for a murder mystery a la Agatha Christie books but with some darker thriller elements/social critique (i.e. American Psycho) thrown in.

*Apologies in advance, I know that my formatting isn't ideal (and I haven't had a full edit or beta read yet) but I'm not looking for word-level spelling/grammar/dialogue format notes.

I'd really appreciate opinions on whether the tone/style works (more maximalist, intentionally purple at times). Is the "voice" too much or too hard to follow? Is the narrator just too unlikabe to be a relatble hero? Is this kind of writing something that you would read or at least could see people wanting to read?

Thank you!

*Also, I'm really not tech savvy, so I'm just putting my writing sample below so I'm not missing pages.

------------------------------

A year following my first American murder, I found myself in the habit of wandering through flea markets. It wasn’t intentional, as I’d long held phobias of antique gimmicks and the cooler bobos who bought into them. Rather, like most unintentionally helpful practices I’d adopted in response to trauma, it came courtsey of my literary agent, Charna. 

After a rant on intellectual siloing of authoritarian publishers landed me in the Daily Mail under the description, “Campbell Grice-Hutchinson, former antifa economist”, Charna forced me into a weekly Saturday exile from my flat until the release of my debut in December, 2026. Still, according to her therapist, I wasn’t qualified to participate in Shabbat. So, we agreed, I should do some inner work on weekends by confronting my anxieties, beginning with millenial crowds.

Secretly, I wasn’t distressed at being torn from my writing desk, the private altar where I’d become too comfortable confessing my defects. I enjoyed dressing down as a good enough stranger in the publics’ eye, facing zero expectations for an afternoon at a time. And I certainly couldn’t write off the wholesomeness of satisfying a banal human urge to conspicuously consume without bludgeoning anyone to pulp.

Eventually, I even mustered confidence in my wanning disgust reflex to revisit childhood hellscapes around Hyde Park. I learned later that my Freudian subconscious was in search of the mother I’d ghosted since grifting The New Yorker readership with a third short story and moving back to London. But I never found Ida among stacks of no-money heirloom Levis and disease-blanket zines, and by mid-July, I was consciously bored enough of her memory to consider avoiding other expensive neighborhoods’ flightiest denizens.

Sooner than expected, summer’s dying rain compelled me to trigger myself with even drippier memories than my teenage not-quite-failures. On Charna’s therapist’s suggestion, I chose to make a weekly pilgrimage Portabello Road, the last stop of 2025 where I was certain I’d abandoned my pre-murder principles. Yet, on my first August Saturday, as I indulged myself, ambling through a twee street carnival, I was struck with an uncomfortably pleasant realization. I was no longer ashamed to be off edge. 

Fortunately, I was primed to notice, a few meters from my favorite pre-loved human teeth vendor, that a dystopian art gallery had supplanted the Bloomsburry coffee shop, where, 395 days ago, I’d said yes to a New York house-sitting gig on a whim. I decided, rollicking on the curb before the gallery’s door, that to fully expose myself to my bloody past, I ought to retrace my steps in it’s moved-on space. 

Still, I crept inside, more than a little lost without the self-flagellatory agenda I’d pushed the prior June. I’d have to accept that, since my last visit, I’d somehow aged out of tragiclownish martyrdom at haggard 36. Instead, like a mature adult narcissist, I was more interested in judging the outputs of bona fide artistes to mask insecurities of my creative hackiness as an ex-numbers guy. And, thank God, by some post-post-modern miracle, at least my ego’s baser needs were met that day.

Upon entry on the gallery’s ground floor, I came face-to-feet with a lifesize male dummy tethered to a hospital bed via pink liquid IV drip. He was conservatively titled La Mort De Pinko, whose love I could buy for the low price of 70,000 pounds. I was hooked.

 On a return trip to visit Pinko shooting up behind a glass cage in September, I had quite another ball sending my best-friend Tarak contraband screenshots of plastic brains in mason jars called Maternity Wards as proof of our nation’s cultural decline. But while these one-off joke pieces kept me snarky through early fall’s seasonal affective assault on my literary output, they palled in comparison to the upcoming farce that would launch a thousand copies of my novel.

 As usual, on a globally warm October Saturday, I was loafing around my prefered gallery room, nursing envy among technially-proficient bronze sculptures, when an unfamiliar docent waved me back to her corner. 

“Sir? Your brother just went to see the side piece.” She pointed her walker at the opaque double doors at the far end of the room that I’d never opened before.

 “Well, I appreciate the tip, but I don’t have a brother. I’m a one and only inspiriation behind a wonderful divorce so...”

My assailant smacked wrinkled lips on dentures, refusing to let me go in peace. “Huh. Odd. The man in there looks just like you. Think you two’ve even got the same trainers.”

I glanced at my generic white Converse reserved for anonymous days. “Okay, maybe we can work out some kind of art heist plot together.”

The docent shook her grey bob. I could see, she was desperate for my acknowledgement of how horrific it was that any poor boy had to look as lame as me. “Go on. Really, it’s uncanny. And you don’t have typical features.”

I didn’t want to know what she meant and I wasn’t in the mood to pop off at a grandmother, so I tossed her a quick “Thanks?” and followed her cue to the doors, prepared to have a good laugh with an equally unhandsome stranger.

Frankly, I didn’t know who or what to expect, so I planned to consume visuals as they stumbled into my line of sight. Inside the tiny black box show room, the first monstrosity that piqued my ire was the obnoxiously priced torture wall of plexiglass covered in rows of concave mirrored disks on both sides. Each disk was subtly warped so that you were forced to hate your mugshot as a disfigured blob repeatedly taunting you, Wharhol-style.

Without hesitation, I leered into a central disk to inspect a pimple on my chin, but immediately a curly-headed shadow in the bare strip of glass besides the neighboring disk struck me as bizzaire. I gaped into my blurred face, wondering how my pimple been reabsorbed into my skin so painlessly. And suddenly, remembering the docent’s comment, I peered down at my feet only to notice my Converse, slightly elongated and older, tapping at me from the other side of the wall.

“Jesus, damn it. Campbell? How long...are you dealing with like, amensia? Or face blindness...what’s that disease called again?”

Before I could cringe at the unfamiliar sound of my name, the speaker leaned closer to our crack, trangressing a very obvious, silver line of tape on the floor beaming up a “Don’t you dare cross me!” glare. And in a stroke of uncanny genetic similarity, he triggered a security alarm just as I would’ve, had I dared trip one milimeter closer to our shaggy browlines.

Aubrey Grice-Hutchinson welled up from behind the plexiglass. “Shall we make a run for it?”

I raised my voice as the alarm continued nagging us. “Depends, would you care to take me somewhere expensive? And no, I don’t have prosopagnosia.”

Aubrey sniffled. “Wherever you want to stop, I’m game...and a bit broke at the moment.”

“All right.” I cried too, mostly out of obligation, but Aubrey didn’t notice. He joined me, engulfing me in his sweatered arms, and together we hobbled into a lift and out the gallery’s front door before an army of geriatric docents could hijack the scene of our fraternal reunion. 

Outside, I was always a younger brother. I let Aubrey haul me away from the shuttering street flea, in exile from a receeding sun, past happy hour carnage left for gutters by anti-environmental socialites. We didn’t exchange words on our escape from Portabello’s civilized bedlam, but I could gage his growing confidence as he peddled backwards. 

Without meeting my hopeful gaze, he squinted through all my crevices and angles, as if I was a rival he’d want to eliminate or a suspect he’d only need to remember in sketchy detail. I didn’t feel strongly that I ought to look directly into any part of him, either.

Finally, when we reached a darkened tube station stairway, he jumped a full two steps down before abruptly halting and pivoting sideways. Unprepared for his fall, I stumbled towards him over a fish-scented floor mural, probably by his design.

“I’ll see you?” He gently pushed me up to standing on the bright sidewalk.

“You could come to my place for a little.” I wasn’t going to run from him. 

“You’re still alone? In that dingy studio?” At last, he sounded familiar.

“I mean, I have a new roommate, David. But he’s quiet.” This wasn’t untrue. Dr. David Okoduwa, a comp sci PhD, had taken up my mantle as the swottiest nerd Hermit of Kensington. His mother, like mine before her, had recently purchased my old studio and let me use the kitchen space as a week-day office for a nominal fee as long as I talked to David about women and the long-term side effects of academia.

“You’re happy?” Aubrey sounded nervous.

“Well, I’m not clinically depressed any longer, is that fine by you?”

“That’s uh...look, however you can keep living with yourself, keep making something of your life.”

“Okay...sure?” My vocal chords betrayed me, whisping up to a lisp. I’d prepped this reunion beat in a screenplay rewritten over months, and though my scenes always differed in setting and genre, never once had I imagined Aubrey would leave our conversation anything but the ass-tucked coward between us.

He knew I was frightened. “I just wanted you to know. Whatever the Hell happened, I’m not judging you, Ma’s not. She’s just gone unhinged since you left. She doesn’t understand why and I can’t be the one to tell her. We’re-“

 “Oh, that’s too kind of you, choosing to forgive me after all I haven’t done.” I tongued a small victory lap around my dry mouth as Aubrey lowered himself another step to pull his final ace at a safe distance from me. 

He whispered like our divorced father. “No, I’m saying we don’t care what happened. As long as you’re well, you’ve moved on...but we’re not happy without you. We miss you.”  

I assumed he was lying, because we shared the genetic blushy poker grin for a tell that our grandfather used to call our family’s funeral smile. “But you haven’t stopped beaming at me. It’s extremely creepy...almost pathologically sadistic. And in fact, I think you’re stalking me, you might even be kidnapping me in another minute.”

Aubrey reached up to me. “Campbell, I...God, or yes? We’ve been looking for you, but-”

Thankfully, my ringtone suddenly shouted Aubrey into silence and I was able to live out my fantasy of dumping a “Hello, darling!” straight down his gobsmacked, ovular gullet. 

His whole torso seized with the possibility that I might be loved, while I basked in a five minute phone call with my American editor, Juan, and his husband, Rich, who was designing my novel’s cover.

When I hung up, Aubrey sniffled again and muttered, “Can’t be.”

“Sorry, I should go.” I cooed at the pittbull leashed to a nearby lamp post.

“Wait...wait? You’ve got a book?”

I took Aubrey’s bait. “No thanks, I’m bored of waiting.” 

Part of me wished I could’ve left him stunned with that line and force fed him a purgatorial binary that he’d never be able to settle. I’d watch him submit to the illusion of having a free choice to look up at me or down at the grimy tube pit, knowing that he’d always be a co-dependent to his pride, and that whichever non-choice his ego made for him, he’d never escape the smiling shadow off my back. 

But apparently, I didn’t have the anger reserves left to push him down further. I waited for his response, and at length, he met my gaze and said,  “Hey! I saw that piece in the New Yorker, Brooklyn, whatever magazine. The FBI shot the little monster, did they? And now you’re the only one left alive who has to start over?”

“Why, you don’t think I deserve to?” I sniffled, forever a co-dependent to my shame.

“Of course you do! We all deserve redemption. Come here. We’ll go home and see Ma?”

I grinned back at him. There was the glimpse into his reality I’d craved for years. He needed me to be guilty of some forgivable crime so that he could rescue me and absolve his own guilt, just as I needed him to be saddistic so that I could triumphantly damn him and cower off as his victim. It occurred to me that we’d only ever wanted to acknowledge each other through the distorted plexiglass of our selfish animal needs, so that even if we stumbled over the silver line into one another’s intellectual pysche, we’d never inhabbit one human soul without triggering alarms. 

“Okay.” I skittled back down into the tube station and slung a tepid arm around Aubrey. We hugged again, this time long enough to express our growing forgiveness of the flesh brother we’d met for the first time in Pinko’s gallery.

I knew I was ready, that night, to admit to Aubrey and Ida, that I was still grappling with guilt. I’d confessed to my failure at my desk one too many times. And I would soon confess again, fictionally, but no less explicitly, in my novel, to strangers who’d pay me for the illusion of getting to decide. Did I deserve redemption?

On a stormy evening, I was walking down a sidewalk, as chill droplets of rain burned my face. I was gripping my umbrella tightly, fighting desperately against the violent winds, which was messing up my hair. As I walked further, trying to negotiate in to the dark empty street, I came across a glistering display of a small café. Desperate, I stepped in, and a huge wave of warmth hit my face, and I felt my adrenalin rush die down. My heartbeat became steady, my skin softened, and as the aroma of baked bread, roasted coffee, pastries and tea reached my nose, the slow clinking of cups and the cheerful muttering of customers and workers alike reached my ears, all of my current worries about the mundane became as negligible as a shadow. 

Drenched with water, I hastily sat on a table near the blazing fireplace. The sound of the storm, which was stronger than ever, made it evident that I’ve to stay in late. The irresistible smell of cookies, cake, coffee and who knows what else was killing me, so I quickly ordered a filling but light meal.

This place was a mixture of a living room, a library, an art gallery, and a place to eat. Warm shades of brown and yellow spread throughout the room, there were carved small drawings on the wooden table I was sitting on, a wide selection of colorful portraits was hanged on the walls, a variety of thoughtfully-woven tapestries as well, a small but interesting collection of books were placed on a small white shelf and the tables and chairs surrounding me were filled with the décor of flowers, earthenware, show pieces, and much more. As an artist and a writer, the surrounding environment felt like home. This summed up with the sound of the steaming-hot coffee falling from the machine, the mint smell of green tea, the scent and feel of freshly-baked pastries, the sounds of chopping, cutting, utensils, etc. is a match made in heaven.

My meal finally arrived. A juicy donut along with chocolate boba. Taking a sip of boba, I observed the surrounding populace. Some people seemed to be chattering throughout the night, while others seemed infested on a certain work. (reading, writing, working on an assignment, etc.) Deciding to be the latter, I quickly took out my laptop from my bag. Oh! How productive I felt! Speeding through my homework as I took a sweet savory bite from my donut or a flavorful slurp of boba. The hustle and bustle as crowds entered hurriedly and left, the loud bangs of thunder and the high-pitched sound of rain from the raging hurricane outside, which can be observed from the dark window, and the sound of plates, knives and forks were supposed to heavily distract me from my work, but it did the contrary. I started to concentrate more, becoming deeply immersed to my work. Before I knew it, I was done. I really didn’t want to leave the congested but cozy cottage yet, so I grabbed a book, and started to read. I was sitting right next to the blazing fire, the distant sound of the rain and storm hitting my ears, as the café slowly lost it’s population density.

Before I knew it, the words in my book became meaningless, I started seeing a collection of unfamiliar letters, and I drifted off to sleep.

I woke up. The café felt strangely silent. The cashier seemed to be fighting to avoid drifting off (like me). Other than that, the place was empty. The sound of the storm got replaced by the screaming of crickets. The storm became as distant as the ancient Rome. I took look at the window, the winds became gentle, blowing elegantly against the trees. The street was still wet, but most of the water dried off. The cozy brown light that Enlighted the café got replaced by twilight and dark blue. I still felt drowsy, and I had look at my watch: it was well past midnight. My drowsiness was replaced my panic, moms going to kill me! I quickly paid for my meal, dashed by the glass door, which was labeled ‘closed’. I ran down the now dry sidewalk, as the slow wind cooled down my now warm face. Although I will regret this once I get home, this was an experience I will never forget!  

what should i improve on? This is 733 words, ma'am asked for max 800

I'm writing this for a flash fiction competition. It only has to be between 100-300 words. This is my first attempt at such a small piece of fiction writing so feedback is greatly appreciated.

Deception

I stood frozen. For a moment I thought it was you. She had your smile. One which revealed a tooth which grew atop the row of teeth normally had by one. A quality you both shared. Yet, in my heart, I know it be a deception of the mind. A fleeting moment. One where I am believed, just for a second, that you live again.

The moment passed, and your face faded away, revealing the face of a woman. Not as pretty, but definitely as kind. As you once were, sister. More kind than I. For you would not comment on whether she was pretty, but on her kindness instead. At times, as much as I hate to admit it, I am cruel. I could only dream to be as kind as you were. I would be once again deceiving myself to believe I could ever live up to you.

But I know you would laugh at the thought. You were as humble as you were kind. You never tried to do good. You just were. You were never one to bully or push around. Like the Beatles, you believed that “all you need is love”. You loved the Beatles. Most importantly, you were never one to deceive. With you, what you saw was what you got. And were we ever glad to have you as you were.

Hi, I'm a self-taught writer. For the last two years, I have been working on a passion project that is very dear to me. (Mercyon) It is an [ action sci-fi, character drama]. About two monster hunters with clashing personalities going on a mission to defend the great city of Arcania from the monsters of pure despair known as the weepers. It is still in the works. I tried posting some of my older stories on platforms like Wattpad and Royal Road, but they didn't receive many views. However, this is a passion project of mine, so it holds a special meaning for me. I would just like to hear what other people think of it. This is the finished prologue. I hope you enjoy. __________________________________

The Path of the Revenant.

Emerged in the final hour, mistaken for death itself. Its hand pulled the bodies of those who were left nothing but shells, from the agony of its touch. Their core raised to the sky. Their eyes burned with light. Their hand held the key to our salvation. They who are possessed by it, dragged their flesh from decay. Their veins running with light. Their steps able to walk the sky. But every path they took was paved by anguish. Every Dream they saw burned the sight from their eyes. Sworn to protect us all. Sworn to keep the land forever alive. But cores cannot last forever, and soon they too will burn. By the fire of the hand that brought them to life. By the powers that are beyond our finest insight. For them, the fire is what lit their path. To them, they must run to the end so as we all pay our respects. To those saviors that died long ago. And to their successors who may die this very day. Let's give them a worthy farewell. May fate have mercy upon the restless.

.

Prologue

Hands of different blood held together and ran across the fields of youth. A shining delight for the future ahead, followed by a promise of eternal loyalty. But tonight, that hope watched a part of itself break. And its remains now run through the relentless fires of chaos. Breathless tears flew from his eye. His limbs still shivering from the last words he heard. His foot slipped, but his hand lunged to the wall beside him, Gambit was barely standing on his knees. The air from his lungs was tightening its grip around his neck. Pale ghost eyes. He was struggling. To just focus on the ground. Between his feet was nothing but a blur. But despite the sore hand that trembled against the metal. He clutched his fingers against the doorknob. With gritting teeth, he forced the flame to open until a loud boom slammed against the hall. The sound of scraping metal echoed across. With a wearying chest, Gambit ran. Beneath the shadows of broken light. Around him, the sound of Hundreds. footsteps began to rain, until it rose into the engines of spaceships Blaring a barrage. of sirens. At the lobby end, Gambit stopped to catch his breath. But when he raised his head, his body froze from the bones. The outer window stretched from wall to wall; its glass was heating from the flames beyond. Behind it, scraps of metal littered the ground, followed by. The bodies of energy columns bursting in flames. All behind. The fortress walls of the Galloway. The structure that had once withstood the catastrophe of the Emergence, now lay, torn apart to shreds. Claw marks of immeasurable size turned the shield of Arcania into nothing but ashes.

The surroundings were engulfed by soldiers. Swarms of ships hovered above their blinding light, impaling straight through the wreckage. From far away, Gambit's body was nearly invisible, A blade of grass. Against an endless blaze, the lands beyond already consumed. As if he too was about to burn. Until a creak from afar snapped him back. He spun his head and saw the door to the outside.

Going through Gambit was forced to dig his body through, piles of guardsmen and officers. When he made it to an open clearing, that's when he caught a face he recognized. Without a minute to spare, he yelled their name. Throwing his arms to reach their shoulders. The officer barely had a chance to respond. Before Gambit shoved, his face to him. " Where is Lancer!? " He cried with a desperate voice. His grip shook, but his eyes stared hard." Where is he? Did you find him? "Is he okay? " " Did he get injured? "

" If anything happens to him. You have to tell me now. " The officer stuttered. "Ah---O--Operator Gambit, what are you doing here?" " Did you seriously run all the way from the... " " Just tell me where he is, Cassie. " " I need to get to him! " I have to, " " I--I can't! Leave him " "He's all alone now, " " and I, I must", I, I made a promise to his---" Gambit, Gambit, the officer began to push back. Please calm down, you are overexerting yourself. Gosh, you're not even supposed to be here. , It's far too dangerous., You need to get, to the safe zone. And wait for the instructions--- I can't just go back, Cassie. I can't just stand around and wait while he's out there. After what's happened, I, I can't just stand by. I have to find him now. Where is he? The officer began to grow more assertive. Operator! Calm down! You have to follow official orders, we have just sent a search party right now. And we will soon---, you looking for him? Gambit. Cut off. Take me with you, I can help! I, I'll do anything you need me to! You just have to, , no. The officer Shut. him. You are just a dispatch operator. You are not qualified at all to be a part of this. They yelled sharply.. If you're really willing to do anything we need you to, then you need to go to the safe zone and wait. Further instructions. Gambit's eyes grew desperate and his voice nearly vanished. But Cassie! I know, Gambit, but what you're doing right now is beyond reckless!

Now, just do what I say and go back inside! For a moment, Gambit is left shaking his mind screeching to run forward. But his legs are forced to remain still. His right hand quivers loosely until it tightens to a fist. Let me go with you, Cassie. His words hardened. Those monsters. Broke through all the defences and headed straight towards them. His voice began to tremble. I don't doubt that he managed to survive but who knows what kind of state his in The guard, stared at him silently for a minute. But, Isn't there supposed to be, two Hunters---? Not anymore He hurled himself at them, startling the guard. Both his hands were Grasping Firmly Against their wrist. The guard immediately pushed the side of their gun against Gambit's chest. Trying to get him away.

Gambit's pale eyes. were shaking with tears. His stare was firm. But his expression was on the edge of sinking in sorrow. Please Cassie You have to let me go. The guard looked into his eyes and then took a deep breath. No Gambit I can't let you you have to let me go. He immediately shot back. His grip began to struggle against the guard's arms trying to push them away. But they instantly turned their guns, barreling to push him back. No Gambit. I won't allow you.

Gambit grabbed them by the collar. And tried to hurl their body away. Then I'll have to do it by force He yelled, but the guard instantly fought back. Kicking their knee against his leg. causing him to slip off balance. Thin hitting Their guns against his shoulder. Gambit lost his grip against them. And with one arm, the guard pushed him, to the ground. They pointed their gun at him. Don't make me do this. They threatened in a firm voice. Gambit pushed himself up. Breathing rampantly Then he ran towards. With his fist in the air " Enough a voice commanded. Gambit's body suddenly jerked both he and the guard turned there, heads back And saw the commander. Gripping Gambit by the wrist. He stared daggers into his eyes. Just what do you think you're doing? He demanded. Gambit pulled himself free, relief breathing out of his chest. But his mind was still ramping, Gabriel... he exhaled. Then he was cut off by the guard. Sir this operator was trying to force himself into the search party. You have to make some sense. Into him. Gabriel, he interrupted. You have to let me go. Let me come with you, please. Lancer is out there, and he's he's.. His voice began to strain. I understand Gambit, He responded, softly. You know, I would never leave anyone. Behind. In a tragedy like this, but starting a fight. will not get you anywhere.

Gambit began to breathe heavily. His shoulders, his quivering As he felt each moment going to waste. He felt himself grow weaker against the impending urge to break through the guard and run straight into the collapsed training ground. But then the Commander, pulled something from his pocket, " Here " he takes out an electric Flash And tosses into Gambit's hand. Who barely manages to catch it The guard is shocked. And turns to their commander to say something. But the man instantly silenced them with a look. He turns to Gambit, The more hands, the better. You are lucky. Our forces are being stretched. Stay inside the formation, and don't go until we tell you to Now he cocks his head, at a group of guard Equipping Themselves. With tracking supplies. Move along if you want to do what you can. Gambit stared into the device for a moment. Unable to say anything before raising his head. And breathing in a faint. But genuine, thank you.

The operator ran to join in with the guards. And the commander watched him. Sir. Like this is against protocol. The guard protested. I'll take care of it. He said coldly. I don't understand. Why would you let someone like that join the Search? Like, I know that he's He's related to the hunters involved. But surely, that can't be enough of a reason to let him in.

The Commander's voice, It became heavy. You do not know the half of it, Soldier. This isn't simply about following pre-written protocols. And expecting everything to go. Exactly. You like the Manual said, what we are dealing with is something beyond any kind of authority. His voice grew deeper. The guard became anxious. What do you mean exactly...? They asked quietly. And that's when the commander turned. His head. His eyes dark and his voice. a booming Whisper.

" You cannot order around the rising Blaze of the Revenant. The guard was stunned Their eyes instantly drained of colour. Sir, you don't really think that Lancer has....

Come, soldier, we have no time to waste. Y--Yes, sir.

The Aaronquill, training ground. Once the Earth that witnessed the bloom Of, many Arch hunters was now lying like a frozen corpse. Dark and barren. The luscious colours of its Autumn leaves were all sucked away. By the atrocity that had been spilled upon its grass. The light of the night sky was obscured. By the Smoking Flames. The further they went. The fainter, the sound of the blasting engines became. Until they found themselves. walking. In chilling, silence. The only lights left was that of their tracking devices. And the electric flash mounted. On their weapons. The search guards walked slowly carefully scanning. Every piece of ground. They went past. Awaiting any sudden attack. Gambit was huddled between them. Frantically pointing his Flash at Anything he saw, but in the midst of scouring empty ground. One of the guards behind him. Began to whisper. So Gambit's about those hunters that were sent. Are they like your family? For a while, Gambit didn't respond. Then he looked at the ground. With Mournful eyes. *Sigh* Not... exactly But the three of us were all raised. Under the same Mercy house. We played together. Always swinging under that ancient, oak tree. And messing around during geography lessons. Being a lot younger, of course. Lancer, always threatened to fall on us. But we just rough-played him until he complied.

With every word. Gambits breathing, began to deepen. Until the warm feeling in his chest, began, and his hand on his chest shook. And gosh, we always be talking. for hours. In the late at night. When we were supposed to be asleep. It was just way too Difficult, not to since at the time, I shared the bunk bed with... His whole body, shuddered at the thought of mentioning. His name. Feeling shame, the guard behind him, tried to turn his head away. Until Gambit spoke again. You know, during the evening, just mere hours before the trial began, he stuttered mid-sentence. I was pulled aside. To the hazel cliff near the entrance gate. Right now, I can't exactly remember everything that he said, but I was asked to fulfill a promise by someone very dear to me. Someone who was my closest companion in all my years in the Hunters Guild. He said that, no matter what, I will always risk everything to protect what I have left. But if worse comes to pass, then I leave my brother to you. Take care of him. The guard behind him watched as Gambit's hand clutched tighter around his chest, his teeth gritted. And his body began to curl in a shivering hunch. He said to himself. In a low but rough whisper that no other can hear. I swear to you that I will not rest for a second until I find Lancer. Halt the commander at the very front. ordered shooting a fist in the air.

Gambit was taken by surprise and His eyes wandered in confusion. Until he leaned his head closer, to see what was in front of the commander. And when he looked past the man's shoulder, his eyes, were shaken by shock. It was the statue of the faceless maiden. A relic from the years following the Emergence. It was pure marble, Standing. gracefully, witnessing the trials of many a young hunter. But in front of them stood horrific remains. The statue's body, it was lined with cracks streaking across its delicate cheek. Its right shoulder was cracked, to ash. And its base. was shattered into pieces. But Gambit's eyes weren't shot by the horrors of the destruction. But by the recognition that the statue's face was the last thing he saw. Before the cameras cut off.

Before he could even think, Gambit, its legs. sped to the front of the group and ran past a statue. The commander shouted, "Operator, get back!" and some guards began to hurry after him. But Gambit couldn't hear anything behind him. The forest, its darkness, this was but a blur of sprouting branches and just hitting against his arms, but with no more than gusts of wind. He found him! He finally found him! The last place the two of them were. And, surely Lancer couldn't have strayed very far.

He ran, he sprinted, he bolted! He ignored, every branch that was making cuts against his face. There was no room to stop. He had finally found him. The guards behind him were hurrying to catch up, repeatedly shouting his name and heaps of warnings. Gambit, stop! It is too dangerous! You don't know what was in there! But all of their efforts were in vain, and again they went faster and faster ahead. Reaching his hand forward, ready to grab Lancer's shoulder the moment he sees it. And then his body jerked back. Gambit, slammed against the, cold ground. His face aching from the impact. But he struggled to pull himself up, as he looked back to where his leg was. And saw his entire foot, was covered. In heaps of a sticky black substance. That was slowly crawling up his leg, as its tips. Withered Into dust. When he saw it, the air vanished from Gambit's lungs. And as the gourds behind him, continued their chase. Gambit turned his head. Around. And lying in front of him was the body of no man and no animal. Its fur. Darker than the loom of death. Its body, the size of a motorship. It's Limbs cuffed and weighed by the chains of Despair. It's Jaws. A cacophony of Jagged teeth. That were protruding from its snout. And eyes that were a tangled contortion of light. Blazing, but hollow,

Gambit's body shutter his legs scrambled against the .muddy Ground to move as far as possible, from the monster in front of him. But instead of being attacked by the blade-like claws, that lay a single strike away from. tearing his body in half, the monster's corpse rolled over And On its chest. Scorching through its flesh, blazing the skin in crimson red. An illuminating cut that sliced through its bones. Forcing its rotten blood to spill upon the ground and wither into lifeless ash. From hip to shoulder, deep, through its body. Burning the hands of chaos alive, until its flesh. is no more than dirt. That smoldering red, blazing. It's Strike. Against the night. Sky The monster's body stained. by its burning light. All the words were choked out of Gambit's throat. He's been a dispatch operator for years. And has seen more than his fair share of manifest ability. He thought he'd gotten used to the. To the Mysterious yet, powerful. attack. Of such Powers. But nothing like this, this wasn't simply the effectiveness. Of weapons that can cut through. The bringers of Despair. This was something that made. A frozen Sensation. Crawl from the inside of his stomach. And dig, its icy fingers against the skin of his back. And when he turned his head to look beyond dozens of Kentorted, sliced apart. Bodies of the same. slaughtered Corps scattered in pieces. torn apart to limbs from limbs. Each monster's remains more horrific than the last. The sight of that same red cut blazing, through all their bodys was seared In Gambit's mind. As that bleeding light was burning right in his eyes. The guards chasing him. suddenly grinded into a halt. Instantly one of them. shot their head to where Gambit was " Are those weepers? " He said in a breathless voice. " But--why haven't they disintegrated yet !? " Before the guard, could even raise his weapon the rest of the crew turned up behind them. All stunted by the horrific scene in front of them. In murmuring gasps, they moved, electro flashes. Between the shadowy remains. endless piles of death until their light landed on the back of a young man with messy black hair. And white sleeves tainted in fresh blood. All the guards froze, speechless. But before their Commander could spark a single word. " LANCER!!! " Gambit shouted. His eyes widened, His heart rushed like lightning. Soon his legs scrambled from the ground. And he stumbled his way to Lancer

But despite the relief, tearing from Gambit's eyes, the young man, he was running toward Kept his back turned. Lancer. " OH, THANK GOODNESS. I finally found you!!! " " I was so worried! " I thought I'd never see you again " " ah I'm sooo GLAD! " " you're okay! " " You'll finally be safe from here." " The two of us can finally get out of here!" With each step, the excitement faded from his words as Lancer Wasn't moving an inch.

" Lancer....? " A name. He spoke in a careful, Whisper. For what felt like ages. Lancer didn't move his body. His voice was silent from any words of relief. Until he slowly turned his back. And in his hand was a Scythe of the same. scorching red. Radiating, ravaging light, that was searing from under his grip. Ablazing, the emotions that were burning from its user The fires of anguish in Lancer's eyes. A face and body covered in withering black blood. Hatred and fury staring back at Gambit's core.

This is the epilogue to a story I’ve been wanting to write for a while. I didn’t post everything because the next section was too long. Any critiques would be greatly appreciated.

The night air blew briskly, bringing damp and green scents.

The masked figure tilted his head squinting at the dappled light.

Straining to listen, he barely felt his taut legs or tingling body.

A nightingale sprang into song beside his still form in the branches. The music’s beauty unnoticed by the strange dark figure.

A soft keening sound broke through the night. The shadow leaped from the branches, and ending the nightingale’s song as it fluttered in panic. The race had begun.

The figure darted past silvery tree and shrub to the castle wall with an unusual speed. Insistent, he pulled from his cloak a hooked rope and swung it in the air. It caught on top of the wall, and a few moments later he scaled the wall and was at the top.

“Halt!”

The dark figure ignored him reeling in the rope and hook. The man approached drawing his sword muttering under his breath.

“Such foolhardiness if I ever did see it.”
Then aloud “…aaaAArgh”

The intruder struck the guard in the gut, covered his mouth and slit the throat holding on till the flailing man stilled.

The stranger’s blank eyes scanned the length of the wall as he ran on feeling for any other obstructions.

A closed stone turret quickly rose before him. Unyielding his pace he flung the hook above him and leapt from the wall.  It caught, the rope drew tight, and he swung into a narrow window on the turret’s face. There he landed neatly on the winding stone stairs inside and ran up it in a guided urgency.

His ears began to quiver with the sound of shouts and clanking metal. It seemed the enemy had discovered his comrades.

 It was too late to turn back, and while onward would bring potential death, fleeing was inevitable death. You must not fail. A voice pulsed in his head.

A dull flickering light shone from the top of the staircase, and the noise of the fighting grew louder as he
approached the light.

He paused, for the first time unsure, after all his time had run out to complete his duty safely. He surveyed the situation calculating the precise timing his entrance would give the most advantage.

His comrades were being held down and one guard was attempting to remove…

Quickly he darted out flinging several sharp slivers at the armored barrier. There was a harsh clamor of metal clashing with stone as two fell clasping the back of their heads. The other three turned in a cry of outrage and quickly advanced on the diminutive shadow that seemed to be flickering with the torches.

A huge claymore swung at him ringing through the air. Strong swing… He flipped over the swing and landed on the man’s shoulders causing a collision between two guards and thrusted his dagger into the skull’s base then swung around using the momentum to kick the other’s face. But poorly aimed.

He turned toward the remaining guards evading another sword stroke as the stabbed man sunk to the ground.         

There were merely two left, however the demise of their own had left them grim and determined. The surprise was over.

He wavered as two swords swung at intervals of a second from the other. Ah, they’ve awoken. He dogged one and flipped over the other, fluidly landed on his feet, and stabbed under the ribs. The pierced man tripped knocking the dagger away and nearly crushing his fingers.

A blade glinted in his peripheral. He quickly abandoned his dagger and leaped away, yet the long blade’s flat caught his arm, then chest ramming him into the unyielding stone.

He choked at the force as ribs cracked and the world darkened…

1. Were any words/sentences too flowery?
2. Did any part pull you out of the story?
3. Was the pacing done well?
Thank you for sharing your thoughts:)

Hi everyone, I’m looking for a quick sanity check from native English speakers regarding the natural flow and idiomatic rhythm of these three short passages.

I don't need grammar corrections or full rewrites. I just want to know: Do they sound like natural, fluent, native English, or do any parts sound awkwardly translated or "off" in terms of phrasing?

Here are the passages:

Passage 1 (FP-02):

>"I know you’re saying you don’t care, but… I think this one hurt. You don’t have to talk about it."

Passage 2 (FP-04):

>"Allah already knows what you need. Du'a isn't about telling Him something He doesn't know. It's you turning to Allah and asking Him—because asking Him is itself an act of worship. So Allah knowing your need doesn't make du'a pointless. You aren't giving Him information; you're bringing your need to Him."

Passage 3 (FP-05):

Sometimes, a brief question can give a child a chance to pause, reconsider what they said, and correct it themselves. That can be useful when there’s room for them to think it through—but it isn’t a rule. If the situation calls for clarity or a direct correction, simply give it.

Questions for reviewers:

1. Does Passage 3's use of a "brief question" (or the overall phrasing) feel completely natural in conversational/instructional prose?
2. Do Passages 1 and 2 read with a genuine native conversational and explanatory rhythm?

Any quick feedback (e.g., "All pass" or "Passage X feels a bit stiff because of...") would be greatly appreciated. Thank you!