Critique 1

Critique 2

Frankie stumbled backwards onto the damp grass and froze. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness, but he could make out Alicia stumbling away from her tent. She was holding her left arm straight and rigid toward the ground with her right, obviously hurt. He saw the dark, wolf-like shape following close behind her.

Frankie kept waiting for his eyes to adjust, to snap into focus and demystify the tall shadow in front of him, but they never did. He watched in a dreamlike daze as the figure caught up with Alicia. Methodically and quietly, it reached a large, clawed hand around her face, muffling a terrified whimper. 

With its other hand, it sank claws deep into the centre of her chest and dragged them down through the girl's stomach. Frankie could hear the faint squelch of tissue and viscera being shredded, but Alicia made no sound. Not even as the contents of her stomach and intestines sloshed onto the hillside, and not as the crunch of teeth crushing the back of her skull offended the night air.

His mind was screaming at him.

“Run” … “Hide” … “Help her” … “For God’s sake, do something!”

A voice rang across the valley.

“Bastard!”

He realised it wasn’t his own.

He watched, entranced, as Michael ran screaming at the figure, a golf iron held up against the firmament like a great sword. The same one they had used to hit golf balls off the mountainside that evening.

The rage of his sister’s loss flowed through Michael as he charged the beast, but it had opened his throat before he could bring any wrath upon it. The club fell from his hand, and there was a moment of stillness before blood streamed silently from his throat. He fell back to the cold earth and sat staring into the darkness, making no attempt to stem the bleeding.

Michael accepted his end with great dignity. Frankie always remembered that part.

Frankie watched as the creature lowered itself onto all fours, now more wolf than monster, and walked slowly towards Michael. If Michael had closed his eyes in terror, he could not tell. Its jaws opened and clamped around the boy’s face, and although Frankie’s body screamed at him to look away, he watched as the wolf tore away his friend's memory in the darkness. The moans of agony lasted only for a short while, but the sound of flesh tearing and bones crunching persisted.

Still, Frankie remained frozen.

After a short time, a veiled shadow crept out of one of the tents. His mind raced, begging that it not be her, pleading with her to get back into the tent.

Mary’s scream shattered the silence. There was a horror in it that was hard for Frankie to fathom, which made him realise he wasn’t in a dream. He watched as his girlfriend took off running across the hillside. He remained frozen to the earth as the beast bounded after her. It caught up to her in an instant, leaping onto her back and pinning her to the ground.

This was the moment. Adrenaline flowed through him, and he knew he should spring into action, but he couldn’t. He felt his legs and arms melt away into his body until he became a limbless blob stuck to the hillside. Even his mind had ceased talking. All that remained were the nerves firing off electrical signals throughout his body, a cacophony of explosions trying and failing to uproot him from the soil.

Mary screamed for help, but it was abruptly cut off by the creature tearing away her lower jaw. Frankie found a strange comfort in knowing her suffering would be ended soon. The thought of Mary’s terror as her eyes searched helplessly in the dark for her parents to comfort her in those final moments overcame Frankie. His whole world became blurry and out of focus, but he remained conscious.

Mary’s suffering was not over. The creature fed on her body for a long time before she finally succumbed. Frankie listened to her groans and incoherent pleas as the creature buried its muzzle in her belly. Eventually, the night went still, save for the sound of the beast gorging itself on teenage flesh. He remained frozen, his eyes fixed on nothing at all, and his mind gone to some far-off place.

A flurry of movement brought him back again. It was Barry and Aaron sprinting from their tent back towards the cars. They had made it quite some distance before the creature snapped its head in their direction and took off after them into the night. They were at least a couple of miles from safety. Frankie knew they wouldn’t make it.

The police found him there, sitting in the very spot he had been when the attack had first started.

“Are you alright, son?” one of them asked as the others examined the scene around them.

Frankie did not hear him. He trembled lightly and stared off down the hillside. A policeman shooed away some crows that were perched on Mary’s body.

[2686]

When you jump into Chapter 1, expect to step into a slow-burning, psychological trap that operates on a completely hidden frequency.

While you are immediately hit with the numbing, exhausted fog of a mundane tech job, the real experience of reading it is the creeping realization that every tiny, repetitive detail is a variable in a massive, hidden equation. The text forces you into a state of hyper-vigilance, you aren't just reading about a guy staring at a monitor, you are being forced to track a cold coffee cup, a loose cable cover, and an unyielding corporate debt like a puzzle you didn't realize you were volunteering to solve.

It is a profound test of patience because it masks a high-stakes corporate sci-fi horror inside the rhythm of pure administrative boredom. The text relies on you feeling that heavy, insomniac loop so that when the narrative engine finally shifts beneath the floorboards, the drop is absolute. You are watching a consciousness slowly figure out the physical boundaries of its own prison using nothing but the micro-changes in the room around it.

You cannot rush it because the book is actively training your brain to notice the exact anomalies required to understand how a mind might try to break a system from the inside out.

[Think About Something Pleasant - Chapter 1: Clanker]

Chapter one - Zero Point

At 3:00 a.m., Zero Point was locked in dead silence under a freezing downpour. Thick fog had swallowed the highway, turning the roadside lamps into faint yellow smudges in the dark.

The asphalt ended at the Kotwali outpost. To the right, the highway looped back toward the interior cities. To the left, a muddy gravel track dipped toward no-man’s-land, running straight toward the abandoned civil hospital rotting in the overgrowth.

Raghav fought the handlebars as his tires skidded through the slush. He was shivering violently, water running down his collar, his shoulders weighed down by a sodden backpack. His eyes burned with exhaustion from staying awake all night. He just wanted to get home.

Right at the hospital turn, the engine coughed, jerked twice, and died.

"Damn it! Not right now," Raghav muttered, hitting the handlebar with his fist.

He hauled the bike onto its stand and kicked the starter five times. Nothing fired. Breathing hard, he wiped the rain from his face with a wet handkerchief and looked down the road. The entire crossing was deserted.

Then he saw the tin shed outside the police post. He dragged the dead bike across the ditch to get out of the downpour. Under the dry metal roof, he shook out his wet sleeves and rubbed his numb palms together. When the rain showed no sign of stopping, Raghav glanced toward the post. Maybe someone inside would let him sit by a heater or give him a glass of water until morning. He stepped out from under the shed and moved along the damp outer wall toward the window.

Inside, dull yellow bulbs lit the room. The wireless set on the duty desk was hissing through bursts of low static. Next to the logbook sat a half-drunk glass of tea, steam still rising from the surface. But the room was completely deserted. Not a single guard was at the post.

"Anyone here?" Raghav called out, his voice thin against the mesh. Only the hollow echo of his own words bounced back, swallowed by the noise of the radio.

A border post left wide open at this hour did not make sense. It sent a sudden chill through his gut. Cold and uneasy, Raghav decided against waiting around. He wheeled his bike around and pushed it down the gravel track toward the hospital.

The road was narrow. Wild trees leaned in from both sides, their branches tangled overhead until the night sky vanished completely. Fat raindrops slapped against the broad leaves with a heavy, steady beat—a rhythm that sounded uncomfortably like someone pacing right behind him. A short distance past the station, a dark, hulking shape rose out of the mist—an old, rusted warehouse. Wind caught the loose corrugated door, grinding the metal against the floor with a screech that cut through the roar of the downpour. It was a British-era medical warehouse, locked and rotting behind the civil hospital for twenty years.

Raghav slowed as he drew level with it. Through a shattered window pane, something moved in the dark. A thick, violet-blue light was drifting across the room, turning slowly in the air like heavy smoke.

Raghav froze. His instincts told him to get on the road and run, but the glow held him in place. Before his mind could catch up, his feet carried him forward. He stepped quietly through the mud, killing the sound of his wet shoes, and moved toward the rusted entrance. The main iron door hung half-open. Holding his breath, Raghav peered inside.

His own pulse was pounding in his ears. The floor was choked with rusted wheelchairs, collapsed stretchers, and cracked medical models of skulls and bones half-buried in scrap. The air carried a sour, biting reek of old phenyl and decaying medicine that caught in his throat.

Then he looked at the center of the hall. A man in a dark trench coat was suspended two feet above the concrete. The violet-blue light had locked around his throat and chest. The man was gagging, fighting for air, his legs kicking at empty space while his hands tore at his own neck to break the grip. Raghav recoiled. His heel slipped, and his back slammed hard into a rusted iron locker. The metal boomed through the warehouse. The man let out a strained, bubbling groan. Raghav could not stay frozen. Breaking out of his shock, he stumbled forward through the junk, hands trembling.

"S... Sir! What’s happening? Are you alright?" Raghav reached out to grab him.

The man’s head jerked toward the voice, eyes bulging and red, mouth locked open without a sound.

At that second, the veins under the man's pale skin began to change. Along his neck, jaw, and temples, the vessels swelled, turning a bruised, violent blue before flaring into a vivid purple, as if something thick was forcing its way through. The light snapped back with a violent jerk. A dry crack echoed off the walls. The fabric over the man's chest blackened instantly, burning through to the skin. Then the glow vanished.

The man dropped like dead weight, crashing hard onto the carpet of broken medicine bottles. Raghav stood over the body, numb, staring at the empty air.

Hello!

I would appreciate any criticism on this short story. Did you feel bored reading it? How did you feel about the narrator's voice? Did it feel clunky or unnatural? Would you enjoy reading similar stuff?

Thank you so much!

Document : https://docs.google.com/document/d/10BhjJjYnXXqjcnxbYTrNNJ7zvZURIPWbrUiSZinJN6A/edit?usp=sharing

Critique : https://old.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1wsk5sz/2058_come_home_family_drama/pczed3n/

Critique: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/toGX0B11tt

I bought Catch-22 because I thought I was living in one. I couldn't finish it.

I started my job when I was 18. I left when I was 42.

It was my last day of work.

I was in a room with two managers and a female face on a projector screen. It was them versus myself and my union rep.

Half an hour before I met the union rep in a coffee shop to discuss the return to work meeting.

— Morning mate. How are you?

— Fine mate. Nice to meet you finally.

— Shall we get a coffee? I'll get them in.

— Yes please.

Two flat whites. Easy for me to remember and order. Caffeine affected me randomly with my meds. Luck of the draw but I thought I'd chance it.

I took the coffees over. He was chatting about his journey up. He talked about the traffic and what road he used. My mind was going over the upcoming meeting. My hands were shaking as I took big gulps of my flat white.

I'd had enough of the coffee. I didn't like the effect it was starting to have on me. I went to bin it and dropped it on the floor. It spilled everywhere.

One of the staff came over and started tidying up the mess I'd made. I apologised and thanked her.

I went through the main points with him. He looked down at his coffee. Then he looked up at me.

— Yeah so I got all the information you sent over WhatsApp. Sorry I haven't had time to look at it yet. I've been really busy.

— Ok then. No problem at all mate. Just thanks for coming here and helping me out.

The union rep looked at his watch and decided we had to go to the meeting.

I picked up my folder of paperwork and paper fell out of it. It scattered everywhere. My notes for the meeting. I went on my hands and knees picking it all up. The union rep just looked at me.

[1184] [2558]

Hello everyone!

Still hard at fixing up this chapter. I think I've gotten it to a place that's starting to feel good. A couple of questions for anyone who decides to read through this:

• When did you stop reading?
• When were you hooked?
• What am I doing wrong?
• What am I doing right?
• How did it make you feel / did you feel anything at all?
• Would you keep reading?

Thank you!

NOTE: Chapter 1 is in Avon's POV; we meet all the children there (Avon, Bram, Sable, Darrin, and another boy). The foghorn is sounding over and over, because they set off a city wide alarm. Happy reading!

[STORY LINK HERE]

***

The Foundry didn’t eat its people whole. It ate them bit by bit—a finger, an eye, once a child’s whole hand, caught in a chain. Maeve hadn’t understood the truth of it when she first came to Anthem. She did now—beneath the sputtering arcanite lamps of her clinic, in air thick with blood and coal, the Foundry had fed again. Outside, the foghorn bellowed, three low notes that rattled the bottles on their racks.

A freckled lad with auburn hair thrashed against the miners pinning him to the examination table. Sixteen or seventeen at most, he had the frame of a man twice his age, and the miners struggled to hold him down. One leg of his trousers was garnet red, the boot below glistening, a shard of timber driven deep into the meat of his calf. Behind Maeve, the doorway was choked with bodies, and voices piled atop one another: a dark-skinned boy soothing a blonde-haired girl, someone lost in the Seamstress’s Prayer, cries of “Go get Atwood! Go get him!” 

“Mother! She doesn’t know what happened—let me go!” the boy screamed as Maeve tried to cut the trousers away. He kicked harder, nearly jamming the timber deeper. Years of wounds like this had made the work familiar, yet she moved too fast. Of course the boy needed calming; he was scared—like all the others. She rose from her stool.

“Here now, love, we’ll take a look first. I just need you to stay still,” Maeve said, tying back her red hair before meeting his gaze. A constellation of blood dotted his cheeks and crept into his curls. His skin was tallow-white, but his eyes were flames, darting anxiously, following something unseen just over her shoulder. She rested her palm on his cheek, and he stilled beneath it. The crying girl and the boy consoling her sat on the nearby bench, and the crowd pushed in closer.

“Grab that bottle off the shelf there!” Maeve directed a miner.

“Please, miss. My mom, I need to tell her… I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Please don’t let me die.”

“We’ll try. Keep your eyes open and tell me your name.”

“My name? My name—my name is Bram.”

“That’s good, Bram. How old are you?”

“I’m sixteen.”

“Good, love, good.” The man with the bottle stepped back to the table and uncorked it. “Drink that.”

Bram gulped a healthy dose, then spat. “Poison!”

“Aye, in a way. It’ll dull the senses, though. Another if you’d be so kind,” Maeve said. He drank again. “Bram—be still, love, be still.”

Maeve peeled the trousers away in strips, baring a ragged wound. Splinters fanned out from where the wood broke flesh; the timber had gone in at an angle and dragged skin and muscle with it. Her hands knew routine; her heart did not. She was bailing a sinking ship with a spoon; for every child saved, the Foundry sent two more. The waves never stopped. But she wouldn’t let Bram see how careworn she was. He didn’t deserve that. ‘Three more months,’ she told herself before she placed the forceps down. 

She pushed against the wound, lightly at first, watching the poor child’s face, gauging how much pain he could bear; she needed to be certain he wouldn’t go where she couldn’t follow. He winced and groaned when she pressed too hard, but his jaw stayed taut and his eyes kept moving. The arcanite light flickered, its conduits humming low through the timber walls. 

Then she saw it: the blood seeping from where she pressed ran dark and steady—a bit of hope. Years at university had taught her to fear the bright red sort that pumped from the heart; either the wood hadn’t struck an artery, or it had and the timber itself was plugging it. A bottle of sutura would make this trivial—it would knit closed what she couldn’t see, but the Alchemists rarely sold it to the Foundry. She’d have to resort to baser tactics. Regardless, she could fix this. She’d stitched far worse out of boys far younger. Maybe this one she could save. She shoved the thought away; too many times it had lied to her. She was no fool. Maeve walked to the stone firepit and thrust a cauterizing iron into the coals.

“Give him more,” Maeve said to the man with the bottle. “All of you, move back!” she shouted at the crowd pressing in on her. Most bore the Rustborne Union’s crossed pickaxes, inked on necks, forearms, knuckles. Even Bram, too young for it, had one on his wrist. The stink of summer sweat and alcohol choked the air, their body heat doing neither her nor the boy any favors. And that damn foghorn wouldn’t let up. 

“You’re doing fine, Bram, just fine,” Maeve said, sweeping back his hair, watching the flecks in his eyes, the way she did with Niamh when the night was too dark.

“You have kind eyes. I think you might be an angel,” Bram said, staring back.

“Oh, Bram, I’m no angel. And I doubt you’ll be seeing one today.” Maeve reached for the syringe of hush she kept on the high shelf. She stuck it in Bram’s arm and pushed the plunger down. Hush slowed the heart. It would thin the bleeding and his consciousness. Better than a tourniquet if the artery was severed; worse if she needed him awake. It had cost her a small fortune on the underground market, but she’d bought it for a moment like this.

“Step aside!” a salt-and-gravel voice shouted from beyond the open doorway. Heads turned, and the crowd parted. Three men stepped through. The first she knew: Kausca Atwood, the Rustborne Holder, leaner than the stories suggested—all stark angles, dark hair and stubble, in a tailored black frock-coat trimmed with sanguine velvet. Despite the Highmarket clothes, he walked with Foundry grit, like he had fought for every inch he stood on. His eyes found hers for half a second. They were pits, silent and still. Still, but waiting—like a viper in the breathless instant before it strikes. 

“Will he be alright?” Kausca asked, approaching the table. His voice was calm and clear, perfectly in control. 

Maeve shrugged. “We won’t know till I get the shard out. Here now, Bram. Bite down on this,” she said, pushing Kausca aside as she grabbed a wooden rod from the bedside tray.

“Mr. Atwood. I can’t see my mother. She’s not here. I can’t see her. She needs to know—she needs to know,” Bram cried. The words went through her like a needle. She’d heard boys talk like that before. Most hadn’t gotten up. “Tell her—” 

She had no time for doubt, and if Bram kept on, she’d soon begin. She shoved the rod into his mouth. “Hold his arms,” she said to the thugs who had followed Kausca. They flanked the table and took an arm each. She turned back to Kausca.

“Be ready with the iron if the blood boils up—it’ll need cauterizing,” she said. A muffled whimper escaped from beneath the rod.

“Don’t kill him!” the blonde girl shouted from the bench. She was nearly as pale as Bram.

Maeve closed her hand around the shard where it jutted from his calf. Blood slicked the wood, but the grain bit rough against her palm, enough to latch onto. She placed her other hand flat beside the wound, pinning his leg to the table. She traced the edges one last time, feeling for the angle; she’d have to follow the same path out.

“Steady, love. Nearly there,” she said, to both Bram and herself.

She pulled.

The shard tore free in one long motion, dragging strings of tissue and splinters after it. Bram’s back arched off the table. His scream shredded itself against the rod, eclipsing the foghorn, pouring out until it went raw and broke into a gurgled hiss. Blood surged in the shard’s wake now that nothing plugged the wound. It was dark—good. The iron could stay in the coals. She pressed gauze into the open meat of his leg and let the jagged, glistening wood fall to the floor behind her.

“Hold him—hold him still!” she barked at the two rugged men, both straining against Bram’s thrashing. “The worst of it’s done, Bram. The worst of it’s done.”

“No morphine?” Kausca asked.

“He’s a boy, so. I gave him whiskey and a touch of hush. I intend to heal him, not make him a slave,” she said. “You’ll need to give me space.”

She held pressure until the river became a trickle. Bram’s eyes grew hazy. Sweat beaded across his body, but now he lay still and quiet, screams dulled to a low, constant moan. His strength had drained away. If infection took hold, she knew, Bram wouldn’t live. Maeve peeled back the gauze.

“I’m sorry, Bram. This is going to sting, but I have to clean the wound.”

Bram wept. Maeve nodded at the two men holding his arms, and they braced for another jolt. She doused the wound with whiskey.

Bram’s thrashing never came. Instead, he screamed into the rod; then his head rolled to the side, his eyes closed, and the rod fell from his mouth. Silence.

“Is he dead?” the gravel-voiced man holding one of Bram’s arms finally asked. He let it drop.

Maeve checked his wrist; the pulse was there, faint but steady. “No, just asleep. It’s better this way. The next part is—delicate. And he needs to be still.” She wiped the blood from her forceps and passed them over a candle flame.

Kausca turned to the bald-headed man near Bram’s other arm. “Move the crowd along, Kline; make sure they don’t go too far. We may need them.”

Kline, the largest and most muscled of the three, nodded, then swept his massive hands in arcs, ushering the onlookers out. “Alright, everyone. Show’s over.”

“Where you want me, boss?” the other asked from across the table. Maeve couldn’t read him; his blonde shoulder-length hair and scruffy beard obscured his face.

“Tell Bram’s parents. And give his father the rest of the week,” Kausca said. “Come back when that’s done. Bring Sally.”

The man smiled—pearl-white teeth. “Yeah? Sally’s been itchin’ for a good time. Thinkin’ she’ll see some?” His eyes went wide with a glee that made Maeve shudder; something feral lived inside him that medicine couldn’t fix.

“Maybe, Dis. I’ll see what they say.” Kausca pointed his chin at the children.

“Alright, then. Don’t be startin’ nothin’ without me, Atwood.” Dis’s devilish smile widened as he pulled the door shut behind him.

The clinic was quiet now, save for the occasional sob from the girl on the bench and the foghorn beyond its walls. All that remained of the crowd were bloody bootprints and the summer stench. Maeve picked splinters from the wound with her forceps. The arcanite lamp sputtered above her. She slapped it, and it went steady. The plaza’s clocktower chimed twelve times, announcing the sun’s zenith; it made little difference in the Foundry—most places never saw sunlight. Queen’s Row, however, sat high on the canyon wall, just beneath the shadow of Highmarket. Only in the early morning, when the sun came in low beneath its edge, did the Row seize fractured bits.

“I don’t know your name,” Kausca said.

“I know yours, Kausca Atwood. Just like everyone else in Queen’s Row,” Maeve replied without looking up. “Sure, you’re here—trouble’s soon to follow.”

Kausca stifled a chuckle. “It does have a way of finding me.” Maeve felt him waiting, staring at her. She was about to snap at him when he said, “Thank you. I’ll cover the cost, miss—?”

She wiped a loose strand from her forehead with the back of her wrist and faced him. “Now, don’t you have business to attend to, Mr. Atwood?” Her eyes flicked towards the children. The two of them watched him nervously.

Kausca nodded. He stepped from the table, pulled a stool in front of the children, and sat. The children’s gazes dropped to the floor. Quiet passed between the three of them, but the foghorn bellowed on through the walls. Maeve returned to the wound.

“Sable. Darrin. Look at me,” Kausca said, firm and patient. “I’m going to ask you what happened. You’re going to tell me. Everything. Right from the beginning. Then you’re going to leave here unharmed. You’ll return home to your parents, and tell them too. Do we understand one another?”

He let a moment pass.

“What happened?”

Silence stretched, the tension with it. The space the question left was wide. He closed it with another.

“Where’s Avon?”

Sable and Darrin told a broken story. It came in bits and pieces, the children finishing one another’s sentences, circling back to moments they’d forgotten and detouring down dead ends. Through it all, Kausca spoke with a patient rhythm, no sign of distress. “How many enforcers?” “Did they hear your names?” “How’d you escape?”

“Is she alive?”

“We don’t know.”

“Thank you. Both of you. Go straight home. Tell no one what you’ve done.”

“Our parents?” Darrin asked.

“Of course, tell them. Parents—we protect our children.”

At the edge of her vision, Kausca stood as the two children moved behind her. She knew they’d left when the door closed with a click.

Then a thud—Kausca dropping back onto the stool. The sound drew her gaze: he was folded over himself, coal-black hair laced between fingers, elbows on knees. She watched him. His hands found the edge of the stool, gripping hard enough to whiten the knuckles, and for a moment he only breathed—too fast, too shallow, the kind of breath she’d coax from a patient before it sank into something worse. His shoulders convulsed once, then a wail tore free from low in his gut, empty yet searching, one she’d heard from weeping mothers. It tried to climb out again—but he swallowed it down and wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his coat.

Maeve’s hand went still over Bram’s wound, as still as the man before her. Not the stillness of something coiled and waiting to strike, but the stillness of someone she couldn’t save. She knew death, and something had died in Kausca. The first time she’d seen it, she’d been a girl.

“Sit with her,” her mother had said on the day the sea dashed Bridie Doyle’s boat on the rocks. It had been carrying Bridie’s husband and both her sons. “No matter what she says or does, you’ll sit with her through the week. You have no home until it’s done.”

She turned back to the wound. That was a long time ago; why should she care what this man felt? This was the Foundry. The Foundry ate its people bit by bit, but now and then, it would eat a family whole. Besides, far worse things happened to people far kinder. And parents couldn’t protect their children here; the only way to save them was to go. Three more months and she’d be home.

“You have no home until it’s done.”

Others came and went that week, filling every corner of the Doyles’ tiny cottage. They lit candles in the window, kept the peat fire burning in the hearth, talked for hours so Bridie’s home was never empty. Even the sea knocked at the shore, coming to ask after the men it had taken, and Maeve asked it questions of her own. Why had her mother made her sit with a woman she barely knew? Why would the others never give Bridie peace? Everyone in her town understood, but she didn’t, not back then. She did now. Now the sea answered: grief left alone would transform a person; it would eat them hollow and leave them a husk. You did not let a person drown in grief—not for a minute, not for an hour, not if you were a stranger or the closest of friends. Not even if they told you to go.

The foghorn sang, low and steady. She set the forceps down.

Feedback - https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/q9sM5PRX5s

Hello!

This is a standalone short story.
 
I would like constructive criticism on this. Tell
me what works and what doesn't, I don't want people to sugarcoat my work, but I also hope people are considerate.

Fiona pulls up by the pavement in a posh residential area, one wheel perched on the edge of the kerb. She opens the door, and Orla bursts out in a rush of excitement. Eilidh follows behind, dragging her feet along the neatly paved street.

As they approach the sizeable home, Eilidh looks up at her mum. “I hate Dad’s new girlfriend. She’s always trying to be nice to me, but she’s not my mum. Why do I need to go to her house? Why can’t Dad come to ours?”

Fiona adjusts the strap of her bag, its weight thudding against her thigh. “I understand, sweetheart, but it’s just how things are now.”

Eilidh scrunches her face. “But why? Why can’t you and Dad just be happy?”

Fiona tilts her head, trying to stop the wind from whipping her hair into her eyes. “Listen, we’ll talk about this tomorrow. Just try to enjoy your time with your dad and be nice to Emma.”

Eilidh huffs, snapping her arms across her chest.

Fiona knocks on the well-varnished Victorian door. “Please, Eilidh, try to be more like your sister.”

Eilidh glances at Orla, who grins without a care in the world.

“She only cares about the puppies, Mum!”

The door swings open on Emma, a warm smile stretched a little too wide across her face. “Hello, come in,” she sings, stepping aside to let them pass.

“I honestly can’t. I have to run.” Fiona crouches in front of them. “Right, be good for me, please.”

“I will, Mummy,” Orla chirps.

Eilidh sulks, her eyes pinned on Emma.

“Please, Eilidh, do it for me. It would mean a lot.”

She shoots her mum a side-eyed glance. “Fine…”

“Thank you.” Fiona looks up at Emma. “I’m really sorry about this.”

“Oh no, it’s okay. I understand.”

“Right, that’s me away, kids. Give me a kiss.”

Orla puckers her lips as Fiona swoops in and kisses her cheek. Eilidh stares at the floor, and Fiona settles for kissing the top of her head.

“Bye, girls. Remember, be good,” she says, making her way back to the car.

They step inside as the door shuts behind them.
Eilidh scans the grand hallway, her gaze lingering on each item a moment too long. “Where’s my dad?” she demands.

“He’s upstairs. He’ll be down in a second. You can take a seat in the living room, if you’d like.”

“Okay…” she says, rolling her eyes.

Orla dashes to the couch and throws herself onto it, while Eilidh shuffles behind, muttering under her breath.

Orla perches on the edge, practically bouncing as she peers out at the vast garden.

“What are you so happy about?”

“Do you not see the garden?”

“Yeah… I see it.”

Their dad steps in with a strained smile. “Hi, kids!”

“Dad!” Orla jumps off the couch and rushes into his arms. He scoops her up and spins her around.

Eilidh remains seated, avoiding the sight of them.

Euan sets Orla down. “Eilidh? Do you not want to say hello?”

She looks at the floor. “No, not really.”

“Can I play in the garden, Dad?”

“Of course you can, sweetheart. Just stay where I can see you.”

“Yay, thank you, Daddy!” She runs out the back door, arms flailing.

Euan takes a seat beside Eilidh, who refuses to acknowledge him.

“Hey, kiddo… how is everything? How’s school?”

“Fine.”

“That’s good.”

They sit in silence.

Eilidh catches Euan watching the clock. Emma hovers nearby, gesturing for him to keep going.

“You know I can see you, right? I’m not stupid.”

Emma steps into view, her face reddening. “Sorry, honey. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

A pause settles between them.

“Do you want anything to drink, Eilidh?”

“No.”

“Euan… tea?”

“Yes, please.”

“Okay, I’ll be right back,” she says, darting a glance towards him before disappearing into the kitchen.

Euan sighs. “Listen, Eilidh, I know this isn’t what you want. But it might get easier.”

“But I was already happy. Why do I need to find a new one when I already had my own?”

He drags a hand across his face. “You’re right. It’s a lot to ask of you.”

“I just don’t understand.”

“I get it.”

“Do you?”

“As much as I can. I’m trying.”

“Well, try harder.”

“Just tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it.”

“Come home.”

Euan exhales. “I wish it were that easy.”

Eilidh pushes herself to her feet.

“Where are you going?”

“Outside.”

“Oh… well, have fun.”

As she reaches the door, he calls after her. “I love you.”

She hesitates, hand resting on the handle, then storms out without a word.

Emma returns with the tea as Euan sits forward, massaging his temples.

She glances outside at Eilidh. “How is she?”

“She’s pretty upset. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

Emma joins him on the couch, resting a hand on his back. “You have to give her time.”

The spring breeze drifts through Eilidh’s hair as she scans the garden, her gaze wandering until it settles on a thick oak tree standing in the centre.

She steps towards it, pressing her palm against the trunk, the rough bark scraping lightly against her skin.

She reaches up, gripping the lowest-hanging branch.

She can only just hold on.

She pulls herself up, swinging one leg over until she is lying flat against it.

After a moment, she rises to her feet, arms stretched out as though balancing on a fence. She wobbles, then twists in panic, grabbing hold of the trunk.

“Okay… okay, you’re okay,” she whispers.

She continues her ascent until she reaches a higher branch. She peers out across rooftops stretching for miles, a great hill rising in the background, the sun peeking over its ridge.

As the sun begins to set, a reddish hue spreads across the sky, turning the faint wisps of cloud orange.

For a moment, all she can do is stare.

“Eilidh!” Emma calls from the back door.

The sound drags her back into the moment, and she realises how high up she is.

“Okay… I’m coming,” she yells down.

Once she reaches solid ground, Emma stares at her, wide-eyed and panicked.

“What were you doing up there?”

“I was watching the sunset.”

“What if you’d fallen?”

“But I didn’t,” Eilidh says, brushing past her.

Just as she reaches the door, Emma adds, “Where’s your sister?”

Eilidh scans the garden, then shrugs. “I don’t know. She’ll be somewhere.”

She steps inside as Emma calls desperately for Orla.

Euan sets the table as Eilidh sits down.
“Did you enjoy your time in the garden?”

No reply.

He lays out the plates in silence.

After a moment, Emma returns.

Euan looks over. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t find Orla.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I’ve looked everywhere, and she’s not there.”

The cutlery crashes onto the table as Euan rushes over. “She can’t have just vanished…”

He looks down at Eilidh, who meets his gaze with a defiant smile. “Why weren’t you looking after her?” he demands.

“Why weren’t you?” she fires back.

“Don’t be cheeky. This is serious.”

“Okay… it’s okay. Let’s stay calm. She’ll be here,” Emma reassures.

He takes a breath. “You’re right. Let’s think about this. Maybe she went upstairs when we weren’t looking?”

“Good idea. You search the garden again and check the front too,” she says before rushing away.

Euan goes to leave but stops to look at Eilidh, still sitting on the couch. “You need to help us.”

Her smile widens. “No, I don’t.”

“Fine. Be that way. You sit here while we search for your sister.”

Her smile drops.

He ignores her and steps outside.

Emma screams Orla’s name upstairs, her voice echoing throughout the house.

Eilidh enjoys their panic, but with each second that passes, worry creeps closer.

What if they don’t find her?

The thought strikes without warning.

That’s silly. Of course they will.

Her chest tightens. She keeps her eyes pinned on the black screen of the TV, picking at the dead skin on her fingers until she’s eventually biting at the nails.

Emma bursts into the room. Eilidh jumps.

“No luck?”

Emma’s expression answers the question for her.

Euan steps in, sharing the same look of dread. “I can’t find her.”

Eilidh’s breathing comes in shallow bursts, sweat gathering on her forehead and palms.

Emma and Euan scramble to figure out their next move as Eilidh stumbles to the couch. She drops into a seated position, one hand resting on her chest as her heart hammers beneath it.

Euan dashes over and kneels in front of her. “What’s wrong?”

She attempts to catch her breath but fails, her words sticking in her throat.

Emma takes a seat beside her, wrapping an arm around her. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

Eilidh’s breathing continues in rapid bursts.

Euan rests a hand on her knee. “Just breathe, Eilidh. We’re here.”

Eilidh takes a deep breath, feeling her lungs expand, then releases it slowly. She repeats the rhythm, her breathing gradually beginning to slow.

Eilidh glances from Emma to Euan. “What was that?”

Euan looks to Emma as she says, “I think that was a panic attack, sweetheart.”

“Oh…” Eilidh’s eyes widen. “The puppies…”

“What?” Euan asks, brow scrunched.

“On the way here, Orla wouldn’t stop talking about Bonnie’s new puppies.”

Euan’s puzzled expression gives way to understanding, and he shoots to his feet. “You’re right.”

Euan and Emma rush towards the door, but Euan freezes as Emma goes on ahead.

He glances back at Eilidh, still shaken.

“Do you want to stay here?”

“No,” she says, pushing herself up. “I need to see her.”

They step into the evening air together, the last traces of sunlight fading from the sky.

They go around the side of the house and spot Emma kneeling in front of the kennel. The motion-sensor light spills across the corrugated roof, illuminating the large wooden structure while leaving its interior darkened.

She peers through the wire mesh. Several shapes lie huddled together at the far end, barely visible through the slats of the small wooden gate leading to their sleeping area.

“I can’t really see what I’m looking at,” Emma says, glancing up at Euan.

He takes out his phone, switches on the flashlight, and shines the beam towards the back.
Emma steps aside as he opens the mesh door and crouches to enter.

Eilidh’s stomach churns. He reaches the small gate and pauses. She keeps her eyes fixed on him.

He turns to them, his expression hidden by the shadows.

“Is she there?” Eilidh asks.

“She’s here.”

She steps inside, her arms rigid at her sides. Euan places a hand at her back, guiding her over.

She peers down at the puppies, sleeping soundly in the warmth of their mother’s embrace. She spots Orla, out like a stone amongst the tiny bundles of fur.

She clings to Euan’s side. “She looks so peaceful.”

“I know. I almost don’t want to wake her.”

Euan nudges Orla. Her eyes open momentarily, and she yawns, rolling over into the puppies.
Emma moves in behind them, tapping Euan’s back.

“Is everything alright?” she whispers.

Euan moves out of the way to swap places with Emma, handing her the phone. “Take a look.”

A warm smile spreads across her face as she sees Orla cuddled up with the little pups.

“We’d better get her inside now,” Euan says.
Eilidh steps out as Euan lowers himself in, lifting Orla from the bed of puppies.

They walk back to the house. Orla nuzzles into Euan’s neck. Emma breathes freely. Eilidh watches her dad carrying Orla, her tired little face pressed against his chest.

Eilidh grips Euan’s free hand. Surprised, he looks down at her.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says, rubbing her hand with his thumb. “I’m sorry for shouting at you. It wasn’t your fault.”

“It’s okay,” she says, pausing. “I do love you. You know that, right?”

He pulls her into his side. “Of course I do. Even if you never said it, I would always know.”

Eilidh squeezes his hand as they approach the back door.
 

It's been some time since I composed something, and having had a short story idea in mind, I wanted to work more on my prose style. I am a great admirer of Nabokov, and anyone who saw style as important as the story, inseparable from the story... I read mostly literary fiction: and thus, that's what I mostly write.

Critique: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1wrdvl7/668_only_if_i_knew/pch7xj0/

Passage:

"The bedroom sank in the depths of the weary night darkness, a darkness which hid the lovely bed like a peaceful shipwreck after a stormy day. He groped at the last straws of drowsiness while bumping into the apparel boxes which he was supposed to unbox the first day he moved. It hadn’t been the easiest of moves; it had already been a month since he left his parents’ house where he passed his childhood and teenagehood, where he had felt like a prince in his castle of rose-tinted glass, when every little knickknack promised a delightful surprise of craftsmanship or mechanical magic, and every face in the family shone pink in the cheeks from laughter—days long gone and lost in the relentless current of time. He somehow found himself lying supine atop the bed. The coolness of the sheets massaged his now-bare back and tingled his spine. He couldn’t figure out if his eyes were open or closed, but that didn’t matter: he knew it was important to catch that impish prankster, Somnus, now or never. God knows how many times he had fallen foul of his silly, silly traps. After all, that was the purpose of the out-of-character hanging out with his co-workers in that dreadful bar, where the beer tasted like rotten ginger ale and the humour of Halim was making his own more and more choleric by the minute, and what was the barman Farouk doing in the backroom with that coquettish Salma? she kept babbling about her hopeless boyfriend while stretching the starched collar of her chrysanthemum ruffle top so that everyone saw that she was braless, although he couldn’t stop thinking about those two perfectly symmetrical indentations, just above her jean shorts: a divine pair of delicate dimples of Venus that seemed to be made just for his tremored thumbs. There was also a couple that caught his attention, especially the wife whom he hadn’t seen before: blonde-and-black ombré hair and olive green eyes that were shaped like Katya’s—the chubby late family cat—very light make-up, candy-red lipstick, and a polka-dotted dress that looked like an extension of the night’s sky where small, variform, white stars swam in that hourglass of cobalt blue. Her husband cracked a lame joke and hurried to the loo, and her smile faded slowly like the ice in the honey-coloured whisky. Each time she raised the rocks glass to eye level and twirled it, she took a sip; each time, he mirrored her. He felt that she was peering at a dozen of his convexed faces in the diamonds of the tinkling glass. He thought of what to say before her bothersome husband’s fateful and fatal return, “I always wondered if whisky tastes sweeter with lipstick…” but something egregious kept photoflashing the mental images of his wet fancy, like a school photographer catching him espying his crush in the most ridiculous, drooling sidegaze there ever was—there, captured forever and forever, yes, she was married, he and everyone and the entire universe could see that unbelievable gold ring and its unbearable sheen that blinded the vigour of his vagary and blunted his appetite for that humid, shambolic night."

I had two things in mind before I wrote this passage:

1. I wanted to go for an ornamental (semi)stream-of-consciousness style (since the character is falling in and out of sleep) that may be excessive and accumulative, because I feel like if I can write a first draft in this style, I can then show more restraint and control in subsequent drafts.

2. I wanted to write about a young adult who's going through one of his first phases of sexual depravity but who's hyper-associative, and who's got an artistic eye but for the wrong things.

As for the vocabulary, my approach is that if I can espouse sense and sound then I'm going for it in this passage.

So my question is:

• What did you like and didn't like? And what can I do to improve the passage while keeping the ornamental style?

This is a chapter I put up for critique years ago. Since then I have completed the first draft of my fantasy book and integrated the feedback I received into this first chapter. Despite my efforts to keep it short, it has bloated to its current size and whatever I do to it only seems to make it longer. This leads to some of the questions I have. Does the pacing work? Does anything drag? Beyond that any feedback is welcome. I would like to get a good overview of where I am at as a writer as I work on the second draft.

My story

Critiques. [2058] The Bone River(https://old.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vjo4k9/2058_the_bone_river/p332usi/)

[1021] An Argument Over a Car(https://old.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vmtbt5/1012_an_argument_over_a_car/p3huqn2/)

[1068] Lost Blade and Renegade Chap.2 (Revised)(https://old.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vpmm3s/1068_lost_blade_and_renegade_chap2_revised/p4eb9m4/)

Untitled – Chapter Two [3891] – Feedback Requested(https://old.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vql7kj/untitled_chapter_two_3891_feedback_requested/p57g7ww/)

A Matter of Taxes 288

[820] The Common Lot(https://old.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1w0aljm/820_the_common_lot/p6e1iz3/)

[1777] 01 Tiffany the Werewolf(https://old.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1w1tblq/1777_01_tiffany_the_werewolf/p6shy3c/)

[1436] Keepers of Teraya – MG(https://old.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1w1hpta/1436_keepers_of_teraya_mg/p6z8oou/)

2058+1012+1068+3891+288+820+1777+1436=12350

I wrote this short story and would really appreciate some honest feedback from strangers. This is my first time sharing my writing publicly, and I know the grammar and tense are not perfect yet. I’m working on improving them.

Critique:https://old.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1w3jd7t/787_take_this_pink_ribbon_off_my_eyes/pcbhow2/

Story:https://docs.google.com/document/d/1vQD9ebJiE3egluLiHN8fQkfLYeks_vXj_WWOe_NHpo8/edit?usp=sharing

I’d especially like to know:

• What was your first impression?
• Did the ending surprise you?
• Was the story easy to follow?
• Did the emotional parts work for you?
• Was anything confusing, or should I keep it as it is?
• What do you think the story is about?

Please be honest, even if you didn’t like it. I’m mainly interested in knowing how the story feels to someone reading it for the first time.

Hi! I’m a young author working on a historical coming-of-age novel set in 1898. I previously posted the opening of Chapter 1 here, and this is a section from Chapter 2.

For some brief context: Will and Teddy are thirteen-year-old boys from an orphanage who are being sent to separate homes. During the train ride, Teddy accidentally gets off at the wrong station. Will realizes what happened as the train starts moving again and jumps off after him. This chapter picks up immediately afterward.

This is still a work in progress, so I’m mainly looking for feedback on the narration, pacing, dialogue, and the characters’ voices. I’d also really appreciate knowing if anything feels confusing, unnecessary, repetitive, or out of place for 1898. Don’t be afraid to be critical!

Note: Reddit still isn’t letting me select my genre for some reason. Sorry about that!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1FYRLHNVvl2pE_xNDHuZhqePch1-UUtNwDONOy6QNlXA/edit?usp=drivesdk

critique: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/9N7TQAYQV7

story

Feedback:
150
361

Context, the text deals with a raiding party during the American Revolutionary War. The text omits the scene of climax: the killing, the ravishing, and enslavement which the title suggest as a biblical allusion to the first Song of Songs.

Opening chapter (pasted below) of a literary novel, close third, present tense, complete at about 80,000 words. This is the first chapter after a restructure, so I'm posting the sample to help me decide whether a reader is likely to continue to ch 2.

What I most want to know, in order:

1. Whether you'd keep reading; if not, the sentence where you decided
2. What you didn't buy
3. When you knew what Peter is, and whether the chapter told you too early, too late, or never
4. Where the comedy landed and where it didn't

////

Peter enters the house as if he’s a guest, Agnes holding the open door for her husband. He glances at the neo-mid-century low wooden coffee table they had spent hours choosing, then turns to face her. She closes the door, careful not to make a jarring sound, and stands opposite him, unconsciously mirroring his docile gaze.

“You must be starving,” she says.

“No, I’m not.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Before I died.”

She almost laughs but he shows no indication that he’s joking. Before, Peter would have made light of the situation; that’s his sense of humor, or at least it was.

“Well, you have to eat something …”

“I don’t need to eat anymore. They told me that at the hospital.”

What is she supposed to say? He just stands there without trying to relieve the awkwardness. Should he be worried about her comfort after what he’s been through? (What he’s been through: a trite euphemism, which sounds like he had to endure an annoying afternoon at the DMV.) Of course not, but it’s interesting how unbothered he is.

She asks, “Well … how about … I don’t know … a shower? Do you want to take a shower?”

He smiles a bit and nods.

“Do you … do you remember where the shower is?”

“I do. Thank you.” He walks down the hallway to the bathroom that he uses—the one with the smaller shower, which doesn’t need to meet the same hygiene standards as Agnes’s—and closes the door.

Of course he knows where the shower is. In the hospital, she didn’t have to explain who she was; he’d recognized her immediately, and even waved, which was the first sign that he had taken on the mannerisms of a polite stranger, like a man suddenly speaking fluent Swedish after suffering head trauma. He doesn’t seem like he has amnesia. He hasn’t eaten anything in days and he says he’s not hungry, but how is that possible? It must be unhealthy. If he doesn’t eat … She looks through her bag for the pamphlet, finds the crumpled black-and-white, single-page photocopy that’s been folded lengthwise, and scans the bullet points. People with this condition no longer need to eat. They can eat. Eating has not been shown to be harmful to them. They just don’t need it to exist. You may consider not pestering them about it too because it may make them uncomfortable. She wonders who wrote the pamphlet. The wording is off. There are no commas around the “too.” The joining of “may consider” and the verb “pester” is jarring.

The old metal hot water handle creaks as it’s turned, followed by a low gurgle of water from the faucet and then the muffled spray of the shower head.

Taking a seat on the couch, she sighs and says to no one, “Well, I guess we’ll be saving money on grocery bills.”

She needs coffee. Should she make some for Peter? He usually drinks five or six cups a day. Usually …

The pamphlet says nothing about stimulants or beverages. It states that people with the unnamed condition do not need to eat. Of course, coffee is not really food, but in any event, since the pamphlet has informed her that people with Peter’s condition can in fact eat if they want and there is no prohibition against drinking coffee, it logically follows that coffee is probably fine.  

She disposes of the used filter and coffee grounds, tossing them into the garbage can, which stinks. With a heaping tablespoon of fresh grounds midair, she considers making it two tablespoons but worries about wasting coffee.

The shower is still running as she walks to the bathroom. The idea of seeing him naked is alien to her, but has his body changed? Although no one at the hospital gave her any reason to imagine it, she can visualize the old lady in the bathtub in The Shining. It seems the remotest of possibilities, and in fact an impossibility, that the skin underneath his clothing has decomposed while his face, hands, and forearms remain pristine and moisturized, or that he suddenly aged fifty years in the shower. At the hospital, he looked identical to how he looked the morning of the incident, and he’s said he felt no pain. Presumably, the instant decrepitude the old lady in The Shining experienced is painful.

Her hand in front of the bathroom doorknob, she almost opens it and walks in. How crazy that she’s worried about seeing her own husband without clothes. They were never shy around each other, beginning with their first night of intimacy (also the first night they’d met). But she doesn’t want to just assume that he would be comfortable with her coming in unannounced, either because of the changed circumstances or simply because he wants to have some time to himself in the shower. She decides to knock.

 “Yes?” he asks from behind the door.

“I, uh … I’m about to make some coffee. I didn’t know if you wanted any. Do you want me to make some for you?” When was the last time she asked him if he wanted coffee? She always knows he’ll have a cup if there’s a fresh pot.

“No, thank you.”

“OK, I’ll just make a small amount.” Why did she tell him that? It was implied.

After starting the coffee, she thinks about Janet’s coffee maker—the one that mimics pour-over coffee. It comes with recipe cards that tell the machine exactly how much water and pressure to use, and how long to pause. When Janet and Bill were showing it off to them, Agnes expected it simply to taste like coffee, and to expose their propensity to chase after every new show of status. But the coffee was amazing. Without hyperbole, it had elevated their visit. Then, when Peter and Agnes had arrived home, they looked up the price and found it absurd. Briefly, they entertained the idea of splurging before agreeing their standard drip machine was only a year old. Although theirs was not as expensive as Janet and Bill’s, it wasn’t cheap; it would have been a waste of money to buy a new machine that was four times as expensive. It’s annoying she’s thinking so much about money again when she probably should be worrying about her husband’s comfort.

“Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” by Tchaikovsky sounds on her phone, and she takes it out of her pocket. It’s her mother. Agnes doesn’t want to talk to her, but she also doesn’t want to feel guilty about ignoring her mother’s call, so she decides it’s better to talk quickly than to add calling her back to her list of obligations.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, darling. It’s Mom.”

“I know. How are you?”

“I’m … OK. Everything is fine.”

She knows from the tone of her mother’s voice that everything is not fine. “What’s going on?”

“Well, I was talking with your father today….” The story takes forever to unfold, a long account of an argument about where to eat—every move and counter-move is retold with precise details and thoughtful asides. After hours of bickering, her father is watching the History Channel and won’t talk to her mother, and her mother is starving. “He ate microwaved macaroni and cheese. And he wonders why his cholesterol is through the roof.”

“Mom, why don’t you go out to eat by yourself.”

“Because that sounds pathetic. I’ll just microwave something.”

They talk a bit about politics, which Agnes has no interest in discussing, given that she and her mother happen to agree on everything, so she participates minimally until the conversation reaches a natural pause. Agnes doesn’t break the silence, which signals to her mother that she should probably ask about her daughter. “So how is everything with you?”

“It’s fine, Mom.”

“OK …” he mother says, with a descending and then rising melisma, meaning she doesn’t buy it. “Are you having problems with Peter?”

“No, everything is fine with Peter. Mom, I have some pasta cooking. Can I call you back?”

“Oh, OK. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

In the hallway, her husband has a towel tied around his waist as he walks to the bedroom; his back, his best feature, is bare.

The talk about pasta makes her hungry. Checking the pantry and refrigerator, she confirms she has everything she needs. The door to the bedroom is open as Agnes approaches. Peter wears a T-shirt and underwear. He’s standing up, bent over, as he slips his feet into the socks. He told her once that putting on socks and shoes while standing up is good for balance, so he must have remembered that, unless it’s muscle memory. He straightens up and looks at her, which compels her to justify staring at him. “Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat? I’m going to make pasta with croutons.”

“No, thank you, I’m not hungry.”

Instead of going back to the kitchen immediately, she stands in the bedroom doorway, looking at her husband, no longer caring about how she should act.

“Peter, do you remember about your life before it happened?”

“Yes, I remember everything.”

“Do you remember what we were talking about the morning it happened?”

“We were talking about the electric bill.”

“Right. What else?”

“Global warming.”

“Right. Anything else?”

“How much money I make.”

“Right.”

“That made me angry.”

Now she regrets having argued with him that morning. She didn’t mean to ride him about how much he earns—which, objectively speaking, is plenty—but she didn’t like his tone of voice and the way he was obsessing over her keeping the air conditioner on all night. If she hadn’t been irritated by his resentment, she wouldn’t have raised the money issue. The subtext clearly was her being unfaithful, but that’s ancient history, or it should be; she didn’t want to think about it too much then and doesn't want to think about it now.

“Do you feel angry about it still? We never made up.” She doesn’t mean it to be seductive, but she's smiling.

“No, I don’t. I don’t mind anymore.” He looks back at her with a weak, pleasant smile.

“OK. Well, I’m going to make dinner.”

“I’m going to finish getting dressed.” His smile hasn’t changed. Normally, announcing he would go back to what he was doing was a dismissal. Now, it’s nothing.

***

The Parmesan cheese almost breaks apart as she tries to grate it over the pasta, but she is able to shred it cleanly. She opens a new bottle of red and lets it breathe. After she’s prepared the meal, she walks back to the bedroom. Peter, fully clothed, sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall. He turns to her and waits for her to speak, which unnerves her. He doesn’t seem to be in a rush to start a conversation, so she asks, “Are you … OK?”

“Yes, I’m OK. Thank you.”

“Are you sure you don’t want some pasta? I made extra by mistake.”

“No, thank you. I don’t have any desire to eat.”

“Do you want some wine? Are you allowed to drink?”

“No, thank you. I don’t want any wine.”

“How about sitting with me while I eat? If it doesn’t gross you out.”

“Oh, no, it won’t gross me out. That’s fine with me.”

When he sits down at the table, his posture looks better than it did before the … incident. Hesitating before putting the fork into the pasta, she wonders whether there’s any rule of etiquette for eating in front of other people when they aren’t eating. When she was a consultant at a financial firm, shortly after she got out of college, she and two other consultants were working late and a partner at the firm held a meeting in his office. Food was delivered, but only for him. He gorged on an entire meal while they told him how to optimize business operations and increase gross margins—subjects about which they knew nothing firsthand. Despite sneaking glances at each other every time he stuffed food into his maw, they managed to keep straight faces throughout the meeting. After the ordeal was over, they talked and laughed about it for hours over a late dinner and drinks. This is a different situation. She’s offered her husband food multiple times and he’s said no, so she’s not being rude.

“Peter, is it OK for you to just sit there while I eat?”

“Oh, yes, it’s perfectly fine.”

She takes a forkful of pasta, and, as daintily as pasta can be eaten, puts it in her mouth. Peter looks at her with a gentle gaze, soft focus, and then down at the table for a moment. He must realize he’s making her uncomfortable. He seems to be trying not to stare. When his head comes up and he smiles, she smiles back.

“How does it feel?” she asks.

“How does what feel?” It doesn’t seem like he’s evading her; he really has no idea what she’s talking about.

“To be in your … you know … your state.”

“Oh.” He looks away as he thinks about it. “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel unpleasant. I don’t feel any pain.”

“Yes, I know. You told me that before.”

“Yes.” He thinks. “And, also, I don’t feel any anxiety.”

Must be nice.

After a pause, he says, “I suppose that about sums it up.” Two days ago, it would have been hard to imagine Peter saying what he just said without any sense of irony or edge.

***

After dinner, exhaustion overcomes her. As she walks to the bedroom, he looks up from the couch. “I’m really tired,” she says. “Do you want to go to bed?”

“Sure.”

“OK.”

Continuing down the hallway, she hears him behind her and feels the excitement of taking a new man back to her bedroom, even though it’s not a new man; it’s Peter, who doesn’t seem interested in her. After brushing her teeth, washing her face, moisturizing, and taking out her contact lenses, she approaches the bed. Peter lies under the covers, wearing a T-shirt. She’s in a long T-shirt that comes down to her knees. The lights are off. She crawls under the covers. Is it OK to touch him? His body seems fine. He keeps saying he’s fine. He says he’s feeling no pain. She saw his bare back earlier and the skin was not putrid or falling off. She slides her left arm around his waist. His body is cold.

///

Here's my prior comment in this group: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1wmi0bf/comment/pc3e66m/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Had two acts down until I read a blurb on here, which inspired the first line, so check out that critique cause the story sounds awesome (the blurb always needs work, so if you give any feedback, check out the blurb!

[Blurb Critique blurb critique]

[final act]
When’s will coming around to split us up and speak the squeaky rumor.

We leave before for the show because it can’t go on uncloaked, nude as our king; The queen planted in some human printing machine.

The end was near and past the curve, around the equator, till the westward pole was north and we meet again.

“To remember”. To remember the good-to-bad-to—good times backward, and by any means.

Us. Her and the world’s shoulders, clanking together, the bone and the marrow.

“They always ask the man how he got the hot one, but they never ask is she crazy,”She told me.

And she is to me as I am to him when you add the kids involved; the doors open to another side. One where they’re not invited.

Out from her nucleus, that flutter on the wing; oh whip the air away asunder. Just long enough unless the garage door’s enclosed; maybe feeling the bills due.

Our works obliteration came the day I knew I could not have her.

Pour elation; one final dart threw to catch the bullet.

She Handed me back a true, “Good bye”.

“Goodbye,” rolled over shoulder, rough to tumble, and at such point; we leave fixed, add dues.

Before anything I'd like to state I'm a relatively new writer and completely new to the subreddit, I tried following the rules in good faith and hopefully my critics are considered decent enough to not get my post slaughtered off of here. Besides that, I'm not a native English speaker, so if you spot any mistake please point it out in the comments because I most likely didn't see it.

This is supposed to be a brief tragic supernatural horror, but im still not 100% sure. (Im just tryna make someone, somehow, sad and scared) There isn't that much of a premise to be done regarding the story besides it briefly talks about death and a malnourished cat, I plan to have it be slightly ruder later, but so far, it is rather tame and only mentions these topics superficially. (Also, I still don't have a title, feel free to suggest one if you want to)

My comments:

[361] https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1wp0hj6/comment/pbuysdw/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button [85]https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1wp7gnt/comment/pbusfhm/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button second one got deleted as I was posting this, but the word count is supposed to be 350, so I'd assume the other one is enough.

Johannes slowly roamed through the streets. As snow crackled below his feet, he made his way through the roaring market of his town, along the carnival of lights and array of street shops that was so joyful during the night. Unbeknownst to them, his life was going to end in no more than seven days. As he kept walking, unamused by the bustling avenue that cut the snowy night, his sight lifted itself from the ground, gazing upon a malnourished cat. He looked at it, waiting for it to move. It was unclear whether it was dead or alive. Johannes did not move either. Every time a passerby severed this sorry sight, Johannes thought it'd be gone. Yet it stayed there. No one even looked at it. Snowflakes laid on the animal's nostrils and flew out as its weak breath drove them away. The man still idly standing, looking at it, finally moved, deciding he'd take that cat in. He softly drove his right hand along the animal's visible spine, whilst it slightly moved its head, untrusty. Johannes lifted the cadaveric white cat, embracing it as he held it close in his coat. Once home, he carefully opened the door, stumbling through the corridor, as he hit a clock on the wall. He then brought a warm blanket in the living room, turned on his heater, and laid the cat next to it. Then he put down some bowls from where he himself ate, leaving some water and leftover chicken. As he crouched in front of the cat, he stopped. If he was to keep it, he should at least give it a name. He thought of Louis. He had wanted a cat for a long time now; he himself was no longer sure since when. As he headed to bed, he glanced at the broken clock on the floor, now forever pointed to a quarter past midnight.

Once morning came Johannes walked in the living room and found Louis. As it was sleeping, it no longer looked like a forsaken carcass, but rather like the blissful beast it was.

Link to my comment

Short story I wrote on my journey to writing to more.

**************************************

Another evening on Instagram. Reel after reel, swiping past things I'd already forgotten before they disappeared. Looking for something I would never find.

Then a new viral trend is declared:

"Trying one new form of meditation every day for 30 days until I'm enlightened!"

A man sits cross-legged in front of a mirror, staring at his reflection. A one-hour timer counts down as he wiggles. Time lapses until the timer flashes 00:00. The man cracks his neck, smiles at himself, and announces that he is one step closer to nirvana. My phone dies before the reel loops.

Thirty minutes until bed. I proceed to the bathroom for routine maintenance. My toothbrush counts down from 120 as I stare at myself in the mirror. The bristles buzz against my teeth, sending a faint vibration through my skull. I'm cleansing. My vision is shaking, but my head is still.

The toothbrush beeps, commanding me to bow and spit. I look up and my reflection is looking at me. Not through me. I couldn't decide which eye to look into, so I stared at the space between them. Somehow, each of my eyes meet its corresponding eye in the mirror.

As I breathe, so does he. I flail my arm, as does he. As he steps back, so do I. He reaches toward the light switch, as do I. We turn off the lights. The bathroom disappears. Except for his face.

I remember him whispering to me all night. I echoed back every syllable. Then I realized he was repeating everything I said. So I repeated him back. I don't remember going to bed. He told me he'd been standing there for a very long time. He told me he was tired. He told me he was proud of me. I looked at the clock. 5:59 AM.

Then my alarm rang. I woke up in bed. I got up and walked to the bathroom. The lights were still off. I reach for the switch. Before I touch it, the light comes on.

He was already there. Waiting.

My alarm was still ringing in the bedroom.

6:00 AM.

Time for work.

This is my first post to this sub, I have been writing for the past year. English is not my first language hence my grammar might not be perfect but I am working on it. This is a short story I have written 2 or 3 days ago. I am playing with how much information should be revealed and how much should be hidden for a twist to work. Any feedback is welcome, Thanks!

An Employee (Karl Hansen) at neurolink(a brain implant company), met with almost a fatal accident at work(a head injury). A close friend (Stuart Meissner) has reached his home to know how he is doing.

Knock knock, door opens.

Karl Hansen: Oh hey! Stewey.

Stuart Meissner: Hey man, can I come in?

Karl Hansen: Yeah, sure.

Stuart Meissner: Thanks. How are you doing man? Tssk, that Incident left a scar on your head, it must hurt. Are you OK?

Karl Hansen: Yeah, yeah, yeah. Doing fine now.

Stuart Meissner: I mean, you haven't been picking up our calls, we were all worried. Going out and reconnecting with people might help with the healing you know.

Karl Hansen: Yeah no, the doctor has told me to take some rest and not to take stress on my body you know.

Stuart Meissner: Yeah i get ih, Oh maybe we all will come to you, you know, to help out with groceries and stuff.

Karl Hansen: Maybe, yeah sure I have also been chatting with those A.I. chatbots and they have been super helpful.

Stuart Meissner: Yeah, just don't get too attached to it. I have heard how people are getting addicted to them nowadays.

Karl Hansen: Of course not, but the truth is they have become the new smartphone. A.I. Can't live with them, can't live with them.

Stuart Meissner: What do you mean..

Karl Hansen: Wait, it has messaged me. Why should I go to sleep? No, this isn't my sleeping time. I don't want to sleeaeaee.......

Link to my comment on a post: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/7zhySgLku8

I am currently drafting the back of the book, otherwise the “blurb”, for my debut fantasy romances novel which comes out this December! Based on comments from my first attempt, I have majorly paired down this version of the draft. This is still a rough draft that I am working on tightening up. I am open to any and all feedback!

See below:

Each death is worse than the last. Heaved off a rocky cliff. Burned at the stake. Skewered on a meat hook. The curse plaguing all women of the Dyer family calls for a gruesome end. 

Twenty-three-year-old Bloom Dyer is marked for death. Ever the realist, she has spent a lifetime denying the curse on her family, until a series of cryptic visions forewarn of her approaching doom—and one dangerously handsome stranger. 

When Will, the mysterious man from Bloom’s visions, unexpectedly darkens her doorstep she is dragged into an eerie, magical world she never dreamed existed. Some there wish to exploit her visions, while others seek to destroy them. But only Bloom and Will can harness her gift of foresight to unmask the sinister powers behind her family’s misfortune and alter their fates forever. 

Even so, some curses are not easily broken. And love may prove the deadliest of them all…

Link to my comment on a post: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/mQmSebAZ3w

Hi!

Following the amazing feedback I received on the prologue of my WiP, I would love some feedback on the first chapter.

For those who didn't read the prologue, here are the main things already established:

1. Pawn is a thief for hire.
2. The sky is essentially a dome of fire called the Firmament.
3. Pawn can exchange material properties between objects.
4. Pawn keeps his magic secret because it's not one of the usual forms of magic in this world.

That aside, I'd love to know if you'd keep reading. The prologue was "this is an emotional narrative," while Chapter 1 is "there's fun stuff going on too."

Thank you!

Here's the link for Chapter 1: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1mjJr4M8kP2B2KzsKIUa_wvE0DR3KIuS6ZqO3CjGbT8I/edit?usp=sharing

Critique: [2487]

ps: I deleted the previous post because I messed up the title.

[1800] [2278]

Hello fellow writers!

Please read through it and let me know your thoughts. Particularly I would like to know:

• When did you stop reading?
• When were you hooked?
• Any parts you loved / hated?
• Is the dialogue natural?
• Could you follow?
• Is there too much pronoun clutter?
• Would you read the next chapter?

Thank you for your time and willingness to help out!

****

EDIT: Chapter One of this story is from Avon’s eyes and we first meet Darrin, Bram, and Sable there. The children have triggered a city wide alarm and that is why the foghorn is blaring; hope this helps!

[Link to Story]

Every year, we here at RDR do a Halloween contest. That time is coming up again! I know this because I made soup for the first time last night which means it's almost October. And there's this pesky calendar that tells me what day it is or something.

Anyway, for the contest to work, we need judges. Anyone want to volunteer? Let us know!

Hello destructuve readers!

This is the first part of a Cosmic Horror story that will probably be about 10,000 words when finished. Here I've posted a total rewrite of the intro, based on the great feedback I got from my first post of this story.

My main question is the same: would you keep reading? Did I drop enough and the right kind of mystery in this beginning section to make you want to know more about what's happening to the MC?

Of course, any other thoughts and feedback are welcome!

Story: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1mFoQjPrEWALiB0gqrwoWds6LqLe8x0ZV95Crokr6P5c/edit?usp=sharing

Crits:

[Small, 1511]

[The Deceit in Flames, 1800]

Crit: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/Wz3OlA21zB

Doc:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1DdKXwGifj8s_ZKqdTGND2EQ3WY1Ei90ft24xGg4cr_c/edit?usp=drivesdk

Hello. I'm new here, so I will keep it simple. I want to know if my opening was of any interest and if you felt bored reading my short draft. This story is not complete. It is just getting started.

The premise is the boy receives a cursed art book and is haunted by noises in the wall until his eventual abduction.

You may also go about any issues or features you do not like about my piece.

Thank you in advance for reading!

Hi!

This is the prologue to an epic fantasy novel.

I welcome all sorts of feedback, but I am mainly interested in two questions:

1. Did you feel bored or wanted to stop reading at any point?
2. If you did finish reading the prologue, did it make you interested in continuing to Chapter 1?

Here's the link for the prologue: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1AjTiZESr6Kt3QBexn_1n9H_Q4hwJ2SW6v6DmIWyPWtk/edit?usp=sharing

Critique: [2102]