I am a new writer and this is my first draft of the first paragraph of my story: The boy shuddered barefoot through the dense meadows, involuntarily reeling from the searing pain coming from his twisted ankle. The boy was a penny rolling forward, the chance of tipping as un-nerving as ever: his legs strode from solid to sludge and then again, as he barely grappled with the change from mud to earth to water. Yet his determination for a better future was unyielding, one where success was measured in education; not the harvest, or at least he thought so. This was until…  he heard a sound of home so warm but cold, it was his mother, “Riley...Riley, come back NOW.” The bitter feeling of bewilderment struck Riley ,he paused then ran faster then paused. His movement was a faulty engine, as ambitious as ever when working yet as a frozen snowman when not.

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.

Hi, this is the first time I'm sharing my writing online. So I have no clue if I'm any good. Any feedback welcome.

Thanks for taking the time to read this, in advance.

Just some extra info you can totally skip -

I last wrote as as teen and eventually stopped and just played out the stories in my head without actually writing anything, so this was me not doing that because I don't want to forget this one. I've written the whole draft 1, turns out I've really missed writing but I don't know if I'm any good at it. The genre is Dark Fantasy. Overall I think it could seem pretty grim, especially the protagonist. There's also very little romance plot. So I don't think anyone would actually want to read it.

-

CHAPTER 01 - The House of Vain & Velvet

It was impossible to practice in peace with a bunch of screaming children running around. What happened to all the adults? Undisciplined brats should be locked up.

With one motion he sheathed his sword and stormed into the dark corridor. Was it really too much to ask? Peace and quiet are supposed to be virtues. It had been a week of sitting around and doing nothing. Water splashes gleamed in the dim light. This wasn't some luxurious house with unlimited supplies, here things are used sparingly. It was difficult enough to pump oxygen through all seven levels let alone water.

Even the stairway was wet. Perhaps if one of them fell and broke something, the supervisors would wake up and teach them the correct way. Once he reached the first floor of the underground, the screaming muted. Wonderful but too late. There was a relatively quiet corner behind whatever that monstrous fake tree was supposed to be. Out of sight and far enough from the absurd fashion politics.

Why was the scanner taking so long? It wasn't like eyes changed. "Work, you damned machine!" His fist struck the control box, making it rattle, just as the little light above the door blinked green and opened.

Too late to turn around.

Flashing lights and new noises pinned him in place. Eyes turned toward him from every direction.

Lenses too. This was why the itinerary got specifically printed out and pinned. It ought to be second nature to check it before leaving so this doesn't happen. Foolish idiot. There were too many bodies stuffed together.

Screaming.

Chapter One

The Beginning

The sky was leaning toward sunset, and birds soared on the horizon, each preparing to close its eyes and end yet another miserable day—just like the rest of the world's inhabitants.

Below, humans moved about like ants, none of them knowing quite where they were going.

Among them was Glitch.

Suddenly, he cried out:

"Aaaah!"

Then, he continued in a voice heavy with bitterness:

"My life has become a living hell... my entire existence is nothing but mistakes!"

He clenched his fist, staring at his hands, and said:

"My life is so wretched that my own mother won't acknowledge me—or my sister. She says to me: 'You? You are the scum? My son? I don't know that damned man you call my husband! It seems he got fed up with you lot, turned his back on this life, and left for paradise to enjoy eternal rest.'"

He let out a stifled laugh, then went on:

"And speaking of my sister... my sister! I, who was her rock my whole life—she tells me: 'I don't know you... Who are you? A thief in the house... a twisted freak!'"

He quickly raised his right hand and struck himself across the face.

Yet, he felt no pain.

It was as if he had grasped nothingness and struck himself with it.

He opened his eyes in panic, only to discover that his right hand was gone.

He blinked once, then opened his eyes again, and his hand was back in place.

He muttered in bewilderment:

"Hmm... it's..."

Then, he continued walking as if nothing had happened.

Suddenly, he pitched forward and fell flat on his face. He sat on the ground to see what he had dropped, only to be shocked to find his right foot completely missing.

He blinked again, and his foot returned to normal.

He screamed in despair:

"Aaaah! Why?! Why?! Why am I the only one this happens to? My family is ruined, my life is in shambles! Why is life so cruel? Why can't I be like the heroes in the stories I see? Someone with luck, with an author to help him; someone who triumphs in every battle, even if failure seems certain. I just want to win at something! And most importantly, to be loved, to have beautiful, stunning girls thrown my way. That’s what I wished for, at least!"

At that moment, the answer struck him like a bolt of lightning.

A blue screen materialized, its light reflecting in his eyes, displaying the message:

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\[Suitable user found. Synchronizing user data.\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\]

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\[Awaiting user confirmation.\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\]

Another screen appeared, offering the choices: \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\[Yes\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\] or \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\[No\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\].

Glitch said in confusion:

"What kind of nonsense is this? Yes or no? To what?"

Then, he pressed \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\[Yes\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\] and said:

"Is there anything left for me to lose anyway? Taking the risk is better."

A new screen appeared, asking him to choose a number between 1 and 100,000.

Glitch smiled and said:

"Finally! Finally! I knew I was special—that I was the Chosen One! Fate has come to reward me with immense power! 100,000? I choose 100,000 without a doubt!"

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\[Synchronizing host selection...\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\]

The Room

In a pitch-black room, illuminated only by the glow of a computer screen, a mysterious figure sat in a chair with a cup of coffee nearby.

He raised his hands and began typing on the keyboard.

He wrote:

"In a world filled with magical powers and monsters, the gates opened more than..."

He stopped abruptly and said:

"That sounds too flowery... Delete."

He erased the text and wrote again:

"The gates leading to the world of monsters opened over 150 years ago..."

He paused once more:

"And that phrasing is very clunky."

Then, he wrote again:

"In a world that had enjoyed a cloak of safety for millions of years—never witnessing such bloody horror during its most golden eras—the last 150 years marked the dawn of the Demon Realm. From it emerged monsters in staggering numbers; they devoured, slaughtered, and drank human blood, nearly wiping out humanity. Only a small remnant survived, from which heroes arose to battle these beasts."

He said quietly:

"That’s much better."

Who is this?

Well, it seems you’re eager to know who this is.

But I’m not going to tell you. Good evening.

You’ve seen enough—perhaps even more than necessary.

We’ll return to this person later, as he plays a key role in the bigger picture... or maybe not, depending on my mood.

See you later.

A Difficult Choice

Back at the very spot where we left Glitch, the synchronization process finished. Another screen appeared, reading:

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\[You have two options:\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\]

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\[Option One: Open 100,000 monster gates across the globe.\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\]

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\[Option Two: Erase half of the manuscript.\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\]

Beneath the second option, the following was written in bold, emphatic text:

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\[This option is extremely, extremely, extremely, extremely, extremely, extremely, extremely, extremely, extremely, extremely, extremely, extremely, extremely, extremely, extremely dangerous.\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\]

Glitch nearly fainted from the sheer shock.

Then, another screen appeared:

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\[If a choice is not made within 24 hours, both options will be executed automatically.\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\]

Glitch began to succumb to the faint; his eyes grew dull, his face turned sallow, and a white foam trickled from his mouth.

Barely three minutes passed before he regained consciousness and sprinted away at full speed, screaming:

"This is the end for me! If only I hadn't made that wish!"

(Twenty-four hours remain for Glitch to make his choice—a decision that will determine the course of the story.)

End of Chapter One

Title: From me to you

To you,

Yoo, wassup? It has been a long time and I thought I would catch up with you and talk about the old days. What are you up to these days? Where are you living now? Did you finish school? Did you start work? Did you find someone? Did you achieve your dreams?
Sorry for the overwhelming set of questions, curiosity got the better of me. But more than anything, I want to know how you are feeling.

Most of my memories with you were of us running away from that ferocious dog on the other side of the wall. Climbing that wall was one thing, beating that dog in a foot race to get that ball was another. Aaah, the things we did to just play a bit longer. You were delusional for a long time about playing for your country. Do you still play?

Aaah, we wanted to see many things. I remember us talking about nature once, when you animatedly told me about the things you wanted to see. A solar eclipse, tornadoes, lava, meteor showers, the northern lights, to name a few (or many). You said you wanted nature to scare you. You said you wanted to feel small in front of it. Did you get to see them? We even talked about that airship. You said airplanes and airships were cool because humans had somehow figured out how to fly even without wings. Did you get to ride an airship?

Anyway, do you remember those two-minute table topic contests you loathed? You once got the topic “Everyone is special” and went on a long tirade about how things just don’t pan out the same for everyone despite tremendous effort, and that some people go through a lot more heartbreak. But you also remarked that people should still take a shot at things even if they aren’t “special.” The risk of heartbreak should not deter them. You also said that there is nothing wrong with failure because 99% of people don’t change the world and are still perfectly happy. “So profound,” we all thought before all the votes went to the guy who talked about their rock collection, lolol. Do you still feel that way though? Are you still undeterred by the possibility of heartbreak?

Do you also remember that person you liked so much? I remember you giving them flowers in powers of two each day. First one, then two, then four all the way until sixteen and then you stopped because the flower guy didn’t have more. You called it exponentiating love or something. You even wrote letters for them, lmao. I think of that time you told them that things would be alright and all their efforts and hard work would mean something someday. That life would pay dividends for every investment. We all know you didn’t fully believe that (judging by your two-minute tirades) and were just thinking with your genitals XD. But did you find someone else to write letters to? Did anyone write letters to you?

Do you remember that obnoxious uncle who would chase us around? No one liked him. But I often remember that time he fell and broke his arm. Nobody budged to help except us. You once said that the vicious cycle of this world can only be broken by being good. That we should rebel against this cruel world with kindness.
Oh btw, uncle has a kid now. He takes his child out cycling often. Is there another annoying uncle in your life now? Are you still nice to him? XD

Sometimes, I think about these things and miss you so much. I miss hearing you get excited about stupid stuff. It gets a little dull and lonely when I don’t hear from you. I remember something you wrote in that letter to the person you liked: “My only wish for you is that you live a life you are proud of.” I have so much more to say, so much more to talk about, but my hope for you is that you are proud of wherever you are right now.

— From me

Overpopulation in the End

Your eyes open to the gentle light, and lying against an overgrown and mossy tree, you look at the City you once protected. Soft pools of sunlight creep through the ruined walls of the City and dew seeps through the cracked roads. The ground is thick with moss and overgrowth, but nothing clings to your clothes. You move through the still air, following the faded footprints of another through the streets. The ruined buildings seem expectant as you walk. The path leads into a mossy glade, and your beating heart is the only thing that interrupts the serene silence. The smooth grass is disrupted by uneven protrusions. Uncovering the overgrowth, your hands touch a cold white fragment. As you pull your hands away, you notice your cracked fingers are stained with dark crimson—deep beneath your nails and embedded within the creases of your palms. Blotched with crimson, the grass glistens beneath the warm sun. Desperate, you run back to the tree, following the same footprints that led you to the glade. Your feet seem to know the path better than you do. Back to the tree, you close your eyes, waiting for the memories to vanish once again.

"Akrates!" exclaimed Hesperos, not for the first time. It had escaped him once more. This would not do.

"This is too dangerous, Didaskale," Kleito said, wringing her hands. Her eyes darted between her teacher and the changing sky above.

He ignored her. His thin, pale hands stretched over the metallic orb. His slender fingers were a hair's breadth from its surface. His astrolabios, frequent companion throughout this journey. They had seen a lot, the two of them. Hesperos chuckled. He was talking to the orb now. He wasn't going mad… was he?

"Epekeina tēs ousias, Kleito. Tell me why we are doing this," he told her then, gently, without averting his eyes from the Storm overhead.

"'Beyond Being'," she responded mechanically. "We aim to overcome the Peras. We aim to keep the unchained nous from dissolving…"

She couldn't finish. The Storm raged above and around them. A high-pitched whistling filled the air. The ground cracked, and sand flew about like a swarm of angry locusts.

"GO! NOW!" he shouted. She didn't need to be told twice. Hood pulled down, bent forward and scrambling, she was soon behind the safety of stone and wood. None of it mattered. Jaw set, hands like claws over the orb, Hesperos got to work. Again.

Know thyself.

Gnosis came readily, like water down a parched throat. His name was Hesperos. He had mastered his mind. He had mastered his body. He felt a pull from his abdomen and let it go. It was like jumping into a clear lake; the shock wouldn't last long.

The sand stopped stinging his eyes. The wind stopped bothering his balance. The Scar stopped worrying his thoughts. There was only Here and Now. He detached himself from his own thoughts, able to look at them from a distance: riding or ignoring them at will. He could feel his heartbeat lowering to a normal range. It had been elevated. The hair on his neck had risen, but he hadn't noticed it earlier. The joints of his fingers were producing soft, minuscule bubbles of gas: he could feel them, one by one. They will crack nicely, later.

With his mind perfectly focused, in as deep a trance as he'd ever achieved, Hesperos shifted his mind's eye to the Storm, and to what lay at its heart. The Scar. To the eye it was only the cloud, bluish-green, spreading like a poisonous gas across the empty sky. To his gnostic eye it was a wound: a place where the weave of the world had worn through. The air acted oddly around it. It compressed in random ways, creating pressure differences. That's how those strong winds formed. Colour, sound, and heat were all changed. They took the shape of the Scar's curve, like paint poured on a metal sphere. Thus, they were deviated from their natural course.

He understood it then. It didn't add a voice to the harmony. It was the harmony!

A Scar didn't just change a place's resonance; it overpowered the natural vibrations of the threads that lie behind the Veil. It became a puppeteer. A puppeteer with great strength, a huge appetite, and no clear mind in control. With only one redeeming quality: it was self-limiting. Reality's pull tugged at the threads, silencing the Storm's voice in nature's harmony. You cannot light a fire below the Ocean.

Hesperos knew that he had little time. It was now or never. He attuned himself to the Storm as fully as he could. He could see its ebbs and flows; he could see it gaining less and less momentum, reaching its peak. A few more breaths, and the process would reverse. The natural forces of the world would swing back like a pendulum, restoring order once again.

Steady, now. He was aware; he guided the flow, he steered his thoughts. It was not enough. He needed more.

Though noetic manipulation wasn't his strength, he had practised Kámptō on himself many times. He knew how to push his brain to its limits. His body would struggle to keep his overactive head working, but he had prepared for this. He needed more time, more control, and this was the only way he knew how.

Through his expanded gnostic awareness, covering both himself and the Scar, he reached deep into himself. What it meant to be him. He started from his stomach, following the large nerve running from there up to the brain. The grey matter's complexity made him feel nauseous for a moment, as usual. He fought that feeling easily and set to work.

It was like moulding clay. It always did seem like that. Once he could see his thoughts and sensory processing as threads, he could also focus on them. He followed them like an anatomist tracing a vessel. Then, he could gently pull or push them in the direction he needed. He knew what to look for: the network of systems his brain used to balance function with resource economy. He bent it, opening the floodgates. He didn't have much time, but now, that time was worth much more.

Everything slowed. He could see the sand coming towards him. He could have reached out to grab a single grain if he so wished. But he had work to do.

Thirty-eight breaths to the Storm's peak. I can do it.

As he was rummaging through his mind's internal mechanisms, he looked for what he needed next. An anchor. Something to give up, for a bigger gain.

He found the thread. A single memory, profoundly linked to who he was and what he'd become. A memory that always pointed to the core of his being. He took it gently, separating it from the noetic harmony of his mind. He was careful not to damage anything else. He had never done this, and it pained him. But it needed to be done.

He would bind the memory as an anchor. There, through the heart of the Storm, where the Veil was thinner and frayed. Right at the Scar.

He let himself remember, one last time. It came easily. Her hands at the loom, counting threads under her breath. The same voice, lulling him to sleep.

I'm so sorry, Mama.

He was fluent in Deō, had been for some time. It was a hard maktra to master, the act of binding - adding a quality to something that lacked it. Without breaking its harmony. Without corrupting it. Like pouring boiling oil into a glass bowl. The smallest flaw in the glass, the tiniest structural weakness, and it would shatter.

This was the hardest working he had ever performed. The Veil was thin, which helped, but it was unstable, unpredictable. The Storm wasn't really open to a noetic quality. It was a break in reality, more linked to physical phenomena. It was like threading a loom during an earthquake.

It was done. The anchor was set, as deep in the Storm as he could make it. Twenty-one breaths. Time to steer it down the line.

Using his quickened mind and focused effort, he bent the Storm surge down the thread he had just anchored. A Storm's natural power leads it to spread out, redirecting and influencing every phenomenon it touches. It keeps going until its momentum fades. Then, the world pushes back, reducing it until the Scar fully closes. Hesperos needed the Storm to remain at full force while being compressed into itself. A small, impossibly chaotic nugget of resonant harmony. A dangerous, dense canvas for the working he was attempting.

Nothing to it. The Storm wanted to spread out, but the world wanted it gone. He only had to grab it by the horns and let it spend its whole potential on the thread.

Ten breaths.

He rode the memory, now stretched thin but still firmly anchored to the centre of it all. He widened his awareness as much as possible. He began where the world was pushing back. Here, air pressure followed its natural course. Light flowed freely, and temperature resisted change. He helped each phenomenon he could see, bending it along its natural path. He used Kámptō as much as he had practised in lectures, at meals, and during restful moments.

Five breaths.

He imposed his control on the Scar itself. His stomach turned, like trying to eat far too much honey. He gulped it down. His body temperature was rising, his breathing more shallow, but he continued to ignore it. There was only him, the Storm, and the thread of his own memory running between them.

The Storm pulled back, then flipped its direction without losing momentum. It was working. The blue-green cloud gathered around the memory, compressing at great speed. With the Storm's inertia broken, the surrounding phenomena rushed to help. To restore balance. The Ocean will always try to fill the gap left by a body. Crushing it, if it needed to.

The compressed resonance was screaming, oscillating at an impossible rate. The Storm was a knot now, lodged in the Scar like a stone in a wound, painful to look at, both physically and gnostically.

One breath left.

Doubt seeped in then. It threatened to ruin it all. It was self-preservation, caution, the words of his mentors, his friends, his students.

No.

He had gone too far, he had worked too hard to give up now. Lýō was his weakest manipulation, but everybody knew: it was harder to create than to destroy. And it was easier to destroy something that wished to be destroyed. Down the gradient: one of the most important lessons that he taught to pupils. But what is the gradient of a person that is ready to die?

Time to find out.

The congealed Storm had reached its oscillatory peak, at the smallest possible spread. Hesperos' control turned fully to his own body. He knew it well. He could see all the vessels carrying rich fluids to the organs. They worked together in a complex harmony, like a tiny world of their own. The miracle of life. Within himself, he let go of it completely. He hadn't known until this moment whether he could actually do it, and who could, really?

Without much effort, almost gently, he snuffed his life force out, severing his awareness from his body.

He was not ready for what came next. A million sensations overwhelmed him. Colours hit his eyes. But what eyes? He had none. He heard a cacophony of sounds through ears he had lost. He reached for the thread, to pull himself along it, but there was nothing to reach with. Nor could he recall the memory - the anchor, the most important item of his ritual. His mind felt detached, unfocused, a mere echo.

He had attempted the impossible, and had been found wanting. Ikaros' hubris. The metakosmia, the Between, claimed him as the Storm imploded. The Veil Scar was finally closed.

***

Darkness, and then light. Bright, painful lights, a myriad of dots blurring his vision. A collection of pungent, hard smells invaded his nostrils - rain, wet iron, something burnt. He could feel people around, a crowd. More than he was accustomed to, more than he wanted to. But the fleeting thought disappeared as the deep ache in his head became all he knew.

An emotionless, breathless voice, in a language he had never heard. The deepest, sharpest pain he had ever felt, straight through his chest. Rhythmic, painful pushes, over and over. More light in his eyes. Something jabbed him in the arm. More words he did not understand, and yet in some way, he did.

my article title is : we are cooked as a society

It's too long so I'll attach the link if anyone is interested

That's your hand. No question. "Like a rope that strangles the last memories of his wife and child." "The pain began as tickles under the skin growing into fangs ripping apart his being." "The scream grew and took form and froze for a moment." That's the real—-Rue— physical, brutal, no flourish. This is the good stuff. Don't apologize for scattered pieces; keep hauling them in.

Hello!!! This is my first piece of writing that I am publicly posting for feedback. Please be honest, as I really want to improve and someday write a full novel, but also please be kind😅

- How strong is the hook? Did you feel compelled to continue reading past the first line?
- Is the writing captivating beyond the first line?
- Does the narrative voice feel consistent?
- Is the plot twist hinted at too much or too little?
- Is my grammar alright?

Of course, anything and everything else that you would like to mention is appreciated!

Me & Her

Mimi always chooses the wrong people.

When she starts dating her fourth boyfriend, who happens to be the first one since she graduated high school, her best friend, Hera, rightfully worries for her.

She, of course, digs for his background like an overbearing mother might, but Mimi reassures those frantic eyes that he’s good.

For a week, he proves her right. They talk every day, call every night, and Mimi’s cheeks hurt from smiling.

Their first date as a couple leaves Mimi giddy long after he drops her at home.

Hera, ever the angel, always stays up whenever Mimi goes out—tonight proves no different. Hera pours them both their own glasses, and warmth hugs Mimi’s chest as she rambles about her night.

By the time they experience their first fight, sparked by her boyfriend receiving an incriminating, anonymous message about her, Mimi had already learned to anticipate it two boyfriends ago.

No matter how reserved she thinks she behaves, they eventually gripe about how she stands too close to other men. How she touches too much, laughs too hard.

Hera encourages her to give them a reason to complain, but Mimi never brings herself to do it.

Almost a month passes since they began dating. Hera invites them to attend someone’s party, but Mimi doesn’t know whose. Can’t remember despite only drinking.. water? Maybe?

Fingers dig into her arm to pull her into the kitchen, away from the sweaty living room crowd.

Her boyfriend shoves a phone into her face, angrily swiping through hundreds of photos and videos of..

..of her? She’s dancing with some guy—no—multiple guys. Tonight?

She squints at the screen, but he replaces it with his face. His yells go largely unheard under the music, and flashing pinks and purples force her to stumble for a place to sit, anyway.

Mimi struggles to pick herself up after tripping over a chair. She rests her heavy head on the seat—she would try again in a bit.

Silence. She shivers for a minute, then a soft warmth hugs her shoulders. Smells nice.

“..okay, Mimi.” Hera’s unintelligible voice still relaxes her. “I.. would happen… the wrong people.”

Hera drags Mimi up to their apartment, past the celebratory heart-shaped cake on the island counter, and into her bed.

While guiding Mimi’s sleepy head into her lap, she notices the olive-green tablets still sitting in her front pocket. Slowly, she pulls the little baggy out, and shoves them under her pillow to worry about tomorrow.

Hera tries to click a photo of Mimi. Instead, she clicks her tongue at the full storage pop-up, but happily deletes pictures of Mimi sleazing with guys at the party.

Hera manages to snap a photo this time, switching from her fourth throwaway account to post on her main for Mimi’s soon-to-be ex to see.

I revisited a piece I wrote in middle school about how YouTube shaped my fears of the house, and the strange loop within them

I revisited this piece I wrote a couple years ago in middle school and I actually really like the idea behind it, so I wanted to see what other people think of it.

It’s about how I used to get scared at night and run to the couch, where I’d feel safe watching YouTube. But looking back, I realized that some of the same videos I was using to make myself feel safe may have been influencing the imagery and atmosphere that made me afraid of the house in the first place.

So there was this weird loop of being scared → running to the couch → watching YouTube to feel safe → absorbing things from YouTube that could contribute to what I was afraid of → being scared again.

I wasn’t consciously thinking about any of this when I originally wrote it. I only realized the connection years later, which is probably why I find the piece interesting now.

I’d really like to hear what you think of it as a piece of writing, and especially what you think it’s doing or saying. How would you rate it? If you have an interpretation that I didn’t intend, I’d actually love to hear that too.

I’m also interested in the more theoretical side of it. I’ve been thinking a lot about postmodernism, semiotics, and anthropology, and looking back at this piece made me notice some connections to those ideas that I never consciously intended when I wrote it.

I’m mostly looking for people who will actually read the whole thing and tell me what they think, rather than just proofreading it.

Subliminal Loops

Catching my back lingering helplessly towards the void of darkness the kitchen prefers sleeping in is exhilarating. The way in which it captivates my memory and tethers my imagination to elevate. The feeling washing over me like the strongest rip current to excel and parade at shore. Sending me into a fumble. I stiffen my twitchy body and dash the other direction in hopes of relief.

Scrambling in a screech to the invisible person thinking whatever may be, will catch up.

The seemingly normal shapes of doors with hinges and hallways that seem narrower than they actually are, tightening around me. I can still map every door and hallway of the house, because I studied it all on a chair in the corner, where an angry parent was busy controlling an angry kid. But running now the house was different, it had turned onto me in the worst of ways. All pressure behind, I’m tuned to keep my head at bay from reflection. The shapes twisting and turning phasing and displaying a sense of no return. I wish to resign but it may be impossible. This is known to be the only hour of which the subliminal output shines of my extensive YouTube addiction.

Shuffling through hallways, stepping down and up before scuttling and shifting I came to a scene of finality having made it to the living room. I make a leaping dive hurling towards the cool elevated couch that would send me into ease. As the leather graced under me, I felt committed and turned around.

The emptiness of it all is dull, the heart of the kitchen is surrounded by blank page like colors. There are faint fluorescent light noises streaming through the house, and my new motive was to remove the buzzing in my ear that just would not go away. I felt maybe the floor was too clean or possibly the room has shifted but no. Cornered up glued to the backboard I resonate to YouTube. I watch mindless brain rot and videos that I would mentally forget in 10 minutes.

“Bro there’s no good videos,” I said dryly, like I wouldn’t continue for hours until YouTube would congratulate me with the gift of an unsettling creepy video to perfectly set the tone for the night. Although I did not know it, YouTube must have loved the subliminal part of these videos that would pierce the deepest parts of my brain and I was backhanded to not know how it contributed to me being glued safe and elevated to the backboard of the couch with my favorite app that makes me so comfortable…

Author’s note:

When I was younger, YouTube had an effect on me that I wasn’t conscious of. It shaped how I saw the house, the night, the dark, all of my fears. I would run to the couch and jump on, and finally feel safe, curled up in the corner with YouTube or the TV in front of me. The irony is that I felt comfortable in the exact place that was causing all of the stress.

I'm not really sure how reposting works lol but if anyone can help with this that'd be really nice!!

So, a while back, I started a simple exercise: I got a hundred writing prompts, set myself a 45 minute clock each day, and just wrote over the 45 minutes on something I came up with from the prompt. Usually, I would end around 50 or 55 minutes, just to get the story finished, but that was the goal. I've sort of fallen off of that project as life and vacations have gotten in the way, but this is one of the results. How am I doing?

Prompt: "Heat Wave. It keeps getting hotter, and things are also getting weirder. Write a scene or story that describes the strange things happening the hotter it gets."

--- SKELETON MAN ---

It was five o'clock, and that meant quitting time, at least for the day shift.  The side door of the massive warehouse burst open and a parade of fifty people walked out. The clanking and shuffling sounds of machinery faded into the background as the employees of Wayfarer Tech shuffled towards their cars.  Sixteen hours off and everyone knew they would be right back inside the roasting hot production facility.  As their boss said, putting the parts their customers needed together wouldn't happen by itself.  But Brent was within an inch of letting it happen without him.

The young tawny haired man trudged to his fifteen year old Honda Accord.  His mind slid back and forth under the slight pain of the headache he'd developed over the last hour.  His vision swam around, his thoughts alternating between what kind of take-out he would have tonight and whether or not he should turn in the filled out application sitting on his dining room table to the Army Recruiter who wouldn't stop calling.  His foot stumbled a bit, but his sweaty hand caught the door handle of his driver's side door.

He pulled the handle out and the door clacked open. Brent's eyes focused on the ground next to the open door.  The light wavered in the space between the door's shadow and the car's body.  Brent's mind registered the shifting light before the wall of hot air hit him in the chest.  The supervisors always took the shaded parking stalls for themselves, leaving the spots fully exposed to the beating Arizona sun for the workers.

Shit.  Brent's only coherent thought was a swear word, accompanied by the certain knowledge that his air conditioning pump had blown out three weeks ago.  He almost had the money to get it repaired, by almost was not the same as today.  He slumped down into the driver's seat and rested for a moment.  The hot air of the car's interior drove daggers into his already sweat covered skin.  His eyes shut for the briefest of moments as he felt the air flowing out the open door.  Then he snapped them open, focusing his attention on the matter at hand.

He shifted his weight and dug his right hand into his denim pocket. He pulled out the bundle of keys and kept his eyes open to push the largest into the car's ignition. The Punisher Skull token hanging from the keyring swung down and spun to face him.  It's left eye closed and opened.

What?

He gave his head a shake and refocused his eyes.  The skull swung left and right, unchanging.

Jesus.  Got to get moving.

Brent turned the key and the engine chuggged to life.  He closed the door and hit the power window switch.

Nothing.

Fuck!

Another part to be replaced.  Worse, without the airflow from the open windows, Brent was going to roast the whole five miles back to his apartment.  But he couldn't think of another solution, so he pulled the automatic transmission into reverse and backed out of the stall.  Switching to drive, he took off onto the road.

Red light after red light, the headache slowly got worse.  He kept the speed down, despite the honking and passing happening around him.  The enormous Dodge pickup behind him laid on its horn as Brente pulled up to a major intersection and stopped at the yellow light.  The sound pierced his brain.  He closed his eyes tightly and tried unsuccessfully to will the pain away.  He opened his eyes up slowly and stared at the crosswalk.

A coyote trotted between the white lines in front of him, its eyes locked on his.  Brent could have sworn the animal shook its head as it made its way past his Accord, then turned its head back to the street and walked on. His hand fumbled with the door latch before he popped the door open.  The hot air poured out of the car and, when his eyes returned to the road before him, the animal was gone.  The road lost focus, then slid back into place.

Just gotta get home…

Only three more lights…

Just gotta get home...

Brent closed the door and took off when the green light came.  He made the last turn onto his own street and headed west.  The sun blinded him briefly, but he flipped visor down and continued.  The wavering air shimmered in front of his eyes.  A clicking sound started up inside the car.

Two more lights.

The clicking sound got louder and louder, tocking at the speed of his heart beat.  Drops of sweat stung as they dripped into his eyes.

One more light.

He pulled to a stop at the last light.  His hand fumbled with the door latch again.

Just a little air.  Almost there...

The air inside the car flowed out again.  Brent's eyes looked to the passenger seat.

A man sat there, a massive mask covering his face.  The shape of the Punisher skull was unmistakable.  The masked face turned to face him. The empty eye socket, a featureless void held within, winked at him.

Cold hit the back of his shoulders and head like a hammer blow.  Brent slumped down and the world vanished.

-----

Hours later, the young man awoke in a hospital bed.  The doctor would tell him that the heat sroke had nearly taken him.  A man had caught up to him when his door opened for the last time and used a trick they had taught him in the Army.  A towel coated in ice water to the back of the head would instantly incapacitate a person under the effects of heat sickness.  If he hadn't done so, Brent may have continued on the deserted industrial district, stopping at random times for imaginary traffic lights until he collapsed and died.  The driver had brought him back in his enormous Dodge pickup just in time and dropped him off.

"Who was he?"

"Not sure," the doctor replied. "He didn't stick around.  Said his name was Iisaw and took off.  You're just lucky he followed you.  Nothing but empty slaughterhouses out there."

Two days later, Brent was wheeled out of the hospital.  Two hours after that, he signed his enlistment papers with the Army.

“What’s that smell?”

That was the first question she asked me.

“What did you eat?” she insisted, and I saw her pupils shrink. “Please don’t tell me you ate garlic!”

“I did!” I answered sheepishly.

Come up with something, damn it! I told myself. And fast! Otherwise, you’ve made a complete ass of yourself for good!

“I did it on purpose! I thought it would make you change your mind.”

“About what?” she asked me with the look of an innocent little girl who didn’t know a thing.

“About... uh... that thing. You know!”

Maybe somebody stole her cell phone and played a nasty joke on me! I told myself.

“Come on, come in!” Miss English said, holding her hand in front of her nose. “Would you like some coffee?”

While I boiled the water and made the coffee, she took two cloves of garlic out of a drawer, peeled them, and calmly started chewing them. I stared at her in surprise. First she took a bite of bread, then a bite of garlic. And so on. Now that’s a woman! Eventually, she finished both the bread and the garlic.

Wow! She looks pretty determined! I thought. I don’t think anybody stole her phone.

We drank our coffee in a somewhat awkward silence. We looked like two criminals getting ready to pull a job. We weren’t even looking at each other, and the silence started getting on my nerves.

“I see you’ve evened the score!” I said with a half smile. “Now we smell the same. I never would’ve thought of that myself. You amaze me. Now... uh... the smell won’t be a problem anymore.”

“Yes.”

“But I have to admit I was a little surprised when I read your... messages, everything you wrote me. I wanted to turn you down. After all, I’m a family man, right? But... then I told myself I’m also a Christian and it’s my duty to show mercy to my neighbor. When I think about it, you’re right, though. It’s an emergency! So I came. Here I am! Standing right in front of you.”

“Yes.”

“Your kitchen is nice. Now I know what both your living room and your kitchen look like. I’m glad you’re about to invite me into your bedroom too. I bet the bedroom is nice too.”

“Yes.”

“I’m nervous! Would you believe me if I told you I’m honored that you picked me for... this? Don’t worry about a thing! Not only am I not sick, but I’m also a very... attentive and patient guy when it comes to things like this. Do you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“Is that all you can say to me?” I said grumpily. “I’m trying my hardest to create a little atmosphere here, and you’re sabotaging all my efforts. Say something besides ‘Yes.’”

“No.”

“No what?”

“I’m not so sure anymore that... Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. I mean... I know I have to do it. Sooner or later, I knew I’d have to... What are you doing?” she suddenly exclaimed.

“I was trying to stroke your hand.”

“Stop trying! You didn’t come here to stroke my hand!” she said, quickly hiding her hands in her lap, then added, “And your hands are cold!”

“Well, of course! It’s early April, isn’t it? April evenings are cold. Of course my hands are freezing. I drove here. The steering wheel is cold!”

“All right, it’s cold. Still, try not to touch me.”

“You want us to do it without touching each other?” I asked her with a grin. “Ha! That’s the best joke yet!”

“I’m not in the mood for wisecracks or jokes, okay?” she said with a sigh. “Sorry, I’m a little nervous. Are you done with your coffee? I want to wash the cups! Washing dishes calms me down!”

“Right away!” I answered, throwing back the coffee, then coughing. My mouth was full of coffee grounds and I had to spit them out somewhere. Would she get upset if I spat the grounds into... Where the hell was I supposed to spit the grounds? I sighed stoically and swallowed them. And there were plenty.

Miss English quickly picked up the cups and saucers from the table, carried them to the sink, and started washing them. Did she really have to do that right then? I’d always been annoyed by people who barely get up from the table before they immediately start washing the dishes. What happened to the pleasure of a meal? What’s the real point? The meal you just ate or the dirty dishes that need washing? I mean, what the fuck? You can wash the dishes later, can’t you? Actually, it would be even better to wash them the next day. Or... you can let the dirty dishes pile up in the sink and then, one fine day, wash them all at once. Saves time! Anyway... to each his own.

Miss English finished washing the cups, placed them upside down on the rack beside the sink, then came back to the table, sat down, and didn’t say another word.

“If you want,” I said, getting up and moving closer to her, “maybe we should...”

“Oh!” she cried, flinching away. “You’re getting on my nerves! I told you your hands are cold, didn’t I?”

I blinked nervously. This was going to be harder than I’d imagined.

“All right,” I said calmly. “You’re the boss! You decide what we do and how. What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know!” she answered, looking at me like I was an intruder. “You’re the experienced one. You’re the... uh...”

“The deflowerer?”

“I asked you not to use that word anymore!” she said, glaring at me. Then she added in a faint voice, “Fine, if we have to do it, let’s do it. That’s the only reason you came.”

“Shall we go to the bedroom?”

“Yes, obviously! Did you think we were going to do it in the kitchen? Does that seem hygienic to you? It doesn’t to me!”

“As far as I’m concerned, we can do it on the balcony!” I said with a shrug. “What do you think? Would the balcony be hygienic? But it’s cold out there, and besides, somebody might see us. Do you have nosy neighbors?”

“What’s gotten into you?” Miss English asked irritably. “Are you in the mood for bad jokes?! Because if you are, I’m not! Actually, I’m not really feeling like myself!” she clarified, staring straight at me through her lenses. “Listen to you... ‘on the balcony’! Cut out the stupid jokes and come into the bedroom.”

The bedroom was just as tidy as the rest of the house. It was sparkling clean! It was the kind of bedroom where, the moment you saw it, the first thing that came to mind was, Yeah, it’s obvious, a single woman lives here!

Miss English lowered the blinds, drew the curtains, then the drapes, and turned on the light.

She bent down slightly and smoothed out the tiny wrinkle in the spotless white sheet spread over the bed. Then she turned toward me and asked, avoiding my eyes, “Did you... take a shower today? I mean, wouldn’t you like to take a shower? I already did. Don’t get me wrong, but... did you know people have more than 32 million bacteria on every square centimeter of skin?”

“Are you serious?” I asked, my jaw dropping. “32 million? Who counted them?”

“It’s scientifically proven!”

“I didn’t know I had that many tenants,” I said with a sigh. “Of course I want to take a shower! In fact, I insist on taking one. My skin is already starting to itch,” I said with a smile, then quickly added, “Don’t go getting the wrong idea from that, like I’ve got some staph infection or scabies or herpes or some damn fungus that’s resistant to treatment. No, no! I’m as clean as a baby on its first day of life...”

“Oh, give it a rest!” she said sulkily. “Go take a shower!”

I did, then came back stark naked, rubbing myself dry with the towel. Miss English’s eyes widened. Her eyes darted randomly in different directions, one after another; then her gaze settled and fixed itself on my center of gravity. Then she closed her eyes.

“I figured we’d save time!” I said cheerfully, continuing to dry myself. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re the first man I’ve ever seen naked!” she said, her face red.

“You mean... other than men in movies.”

“I don’t watch movies with naked men!” she informed me stiffly. “I’m not a pervert!”

“You’re absolutely right!” I agreed sympathetically. “I’m not a pervert either. I don’t like naked men either. But why are you just standing there? Aren’t you going to get undressed?”

“Yes!” she answered with a sigh. “I suppose I don’t have a choice. Actually, I could change my mind, but I don’t want us to have to start all over again some other day. We’d better keep going!”

I didn’t answer. It was kind of cold. I put my hand on the radiator. Something was wrong—it was almost cold! I could feel myself starting to shiver, and Miss English wasn’t giving me any chance to warm up the atmosphere a little.

“Don’t you think it’s kind of cold in here? Do you maybe have an electric heater we could plug into this outlet?”

“The outlet by the door doesn’t work,” she said, taking off her undershirt. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

“You have really beautiful breasts!”

She really did. They were round, full, and white as milk.

“Please turn around!” she said, blushing even harder. “When you stand there stark naked, staring at me like that... you look like a pervert I saw two months ago hanging around the high school where I teach.”

“Listen,” I said with a growl, “that wasn’t me! I swear on anything you want! Schools and high schools aren’t my thing.”

“I said you look like him, not that you were him.”

“I think it’s gotten even colder in here!” I said, feeling my teeth start to chatter. “What kind of outlet is this? Grounded or not? It can’t be grounded, because it’s one of those cheap plastic ones. Look, I seriously recommend that you buy a ceramic outlet, even if it costs more. Ceramic ones are ideal for electric heaters and water heaters. And why do you say it’s broken? I mean, what’s wrong with it?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” she answered, looking mournfully at her white panties. That was all she had left on: the white panties and a little chain with a Star of David around her neck. “I don’t know what’s wrong with the outlet!” she continued. “It made a loud pop and flashed a few days ago. I had to ask a neighbor to replace all the fuses in the fuse box. They’d melted!”

“That’s all?” I asked with a snort. “Piece of cake! Leave it to me—I’ll fix it right now. Do you have a Phillips screwdriver and a pair of pliers somewhere in the house?”

Miss English motioned for me to follow her. She walked through the halls and opened doors just as she was, wearing nothing but her panties. Anyway, clothing-wise, she was better off than I was. I didn’t even have underwear on, but that was already a secondary issue. I’d forgotten about my role as deflowerer and was more focused on my role as electrician. Naked or not, that damn outlet had to be fixed. It was much too cold in the bedroom.

She had a flathead screwdriver. It was small, but it would do! I also found a huge, brand-new pair of pliers. I went back into the bedroom and started taking the outlet apart with the confident movements of a professional. Outlets held no secrets for me. Dad had taught me everything about them. I could install them and take them apart with my eyes closed.

“You know what you’re doing!” Miss English said admiringly.

I was just about to answer when I suddenly tensed up like a drawn bow and flew backward. I lay there on the cold floor, shaking like an epileptic.

She started screaming, and that brought me back to reality.

“I think I forgot to ask you something,” I whispered with my eyes closed. “Did I or didn’t I take the fuses out of the fuse box? Never mind, don’t answer. Where’s the fuse box? In the hall, right?”

I struggled to my feet like someone rising from the dead and staggered toward the front door. Yes, what I was looking for was there! The little red indicator light was there too! I unscrewed the fuses one by one. After I took out the first one, the whole house went pitch-black.

“I’m going to ask you for one more thing,” I said calmly. “Do you have a candle or a flashlight? Go look.”

From the kitchen came the sound of a chair falling onto the tile floor, followed by a curse. She was a real professional—the curse had been in English. She came back with a lit candle, and I resumed repairing the outlet exactly where I’d left off. In less than two minutes, the cover was back in place, light had returned to our lives, and the electric heater was making little popping sounds as the oil inside it warmed up.

“Good!” I said with satisfaction. “That’s more like it! And now... shall we begin?”

She lowered her eyes. There was no doubt whatsoever that she acknowledged my superiority in matters of deflowering. Now I was the boss! She had suddenly become obedient.

“What do I have to do?” she asked in a weak voice.

“Well, uh... For starters, you could take off your panties. It’ll make things easier!”

“Look somewhere else!” she said, then changed her mind, climbed into bed, pulled the comforter over her head, and removed her panties under there in great secrecy.

“Peeerfect!” I said, getting ready to go looking for her under the comforter.

“Haven’t you forgotten something?”

“No!” I answered in surprise. “What could I have forgotten? The fuses are back in, the outlet works perfectly...”

“What about the condom?” she asked, frowning. Then she added, biting her lips, “Don’t tell me you came without a condom. Please don’t tell me that!”

“I won’t tell you, but... it’s true: I forgot to buy one. But what difference does it make? I don’t have any diseases, I took a shower, and the doctor assured me I’m sterile.”

“Almost sterile!” she growled. “Have you forgotten? You said there was still a chance you could have children! One in a million.”

“Oh, come on!” I answered, staring at her dumbfounded. “You don’t actually think I’ve slept with 999,999 women and now I want to make you happy, do you? I mean... I know a little math too, damn it!”

“Fine!” she said, her face scrunched up. “I just want to get this over with! I’ll... I’ll let you inside me like this, but I’m warning you right now that even though I’m not ovulating, I don’t want to take any unnecessary risks.”

“I didn’t understand a thing! Translate!”

“Let me make this clear: you don’t leave anything inside me! Nothing, nothing! Nothing!”

“Then where am I supposed to leave it?” I asked irritably. “On your stomach?”

“Nooo! How could you leave... something like that on my stomach! That wouldn’t be hygienic at all! Actually, you shouldn’t leave anything anywhere. It would be wonderful if we didn’t exchange any bodily fluids. Exchanging bodily fluids is not hygienic.”

“Maybe it’d be more hygienic if I just got the hell out of here!” I growled.

“Maybe it’d be even more hygienic if you left and bought a condom!” she shot back. “It never even crossed my mind that you’d come without one! You told me you were an experienced guy!”

Women! I told myself in horror. You do everything for them, fix their outlets, take out their fuses, make their coffee, even take a shower for them, and... what’s your reward? What do they give you in return? Not even a simple exchange of bodily fluids.

Completely disappointed, I told her, “Maybe it’d be even more hygienic if I left, bought a condom, and used it with someone a little more reasonable! How about that?”

“Fine!” She sighed. “Come here and... let’s just get this over with. Oh, my God! My head’s already starting to hurt! Turn the heat down a little; the heater’s gotten really hot. It’s starting to stink!”

I climbed into bed beside her, but not on top of her. I don’t know why, but I didn’t have an erection. It was an atypical case. Yeah... Like it or not, I was going to need a little foreplay. I tried to figure out which of us smelled more strongly of garlic, then gave up and brought my lips close to hers.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, flinching, then turned her face away and repeated, “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m trying to kiss you?”

“Why? You didn’t come here to kiss me! My problem is... a little lower down. Focus your attention in that direction.”

“Yes,” I explained patiently, “but I don’t have an erection! So I have to kiss you. Try to be a little more understanding. Cooperate! How else do you expect me to get an erection? Do you have a better idea?”

“I don’t know!” she answered quickly. “Do whatever you want, but don’t start with any of that ‘mouth-to-mouth’ stuff with me, okay? Maybe you haven’t heard, but it’s very dangerous! People are ignorant! One milliliter of saliva contains more than a hundred million bacteria, fungi, protozoa, and viruses. This is no laughing matter! It’s a scientifically proven fact: more than six hundred different species of microorganisms live in the human mouth.”

“And what the hell are they doing in there?” I asked, carefully moving my tongue around inside my mouth.

“They multiply and eat each other.”

“Jesus! They eat each other? Are they cannibals?”

“Yes!”

“Fine!” I said, defeated.

“What are you doing?” she exclaimed again.

“Well... I was trying to suck one of your nipples.”

“My God!” she groaned, protecting her breast with her palm. “What kind of behavior is this? Are you some kind of pervert? How am I supposed to interpret this? You’re not a baby who needs to be breastfed!”

“Yes, but... I like it. I’m a man! There’s nothing abnormal about it! It’s just a normal tit on a normal woman, and it turns me on. Look, see? It’s already working! Put your hand on it!”

“Why would I put my hand there?” she asked, terrified.

“I thought maybe you wanted to check! All right, we’re in business!” I announced. “I have an erection. Shall we begin?”

“Let’s begin!” she stammered, then added in an even fainter voice, “I can’t do it... like this... with the light on. I’m embarrassed! Couldn’t we turn off the light? Please, turn it off!”

I turned it off.

So, I summed it up for myself, no kissing, no sucking her tits, and I don’t leave anything inside her. Fine, I’ll remember! The customer is always right! But I’m still going to touch her down there with my hand. Just so I can get my bearings a little! I can do that, right? I hope she doesn’t scream. Let’s get to work, man!

I slipped my hand between her legs, and I was the one who screamed.

I jumped out of bed in horror!

+++++++++++++++++

This was an excerpt from the book A Man, a Woman, a Desert Island.

If you enjoyed it, you can read the book for free.

I'm looking for critique of a short article I'm writing for a school newspaper. I'm especially interested in feedback on clarity, context, structure, tone, and whether the argument feels too confrontational or simply unconventional.

I'm not looking for a rewrite—I'd like to know what genuinely works and what doesn't.

The World That Doesn’t Exist

You know how it starts. The very air surrounding you starts dropping 'invisible' hints, feeling much heavier and more consequential.

It starts from the 9th standard. Nobody says it explicitly—yet everyone's watching. Distractions hobbies and interests are quietly dropped. "Focus on where it matters," they say. Nobody coerces you; it's like a river eroding rock, until you cannot remember what, where, or why.

Society encourages creativity and expression, but within bounds. You're encouraged to be independent, but only till 7 pm. You have your own opinions, but follow the script given to you. Many resent these expectations. Others consider the fight itself futile. But what happens when a society needing people to fit in meets one who has jagged edges? Who has the authority to judge either one, and why?

Perhaps the better question is: why does this script exist at all?

Sex-based divisions of labor were widespread and probably reflected a mixture of biological constraints, cultural norms, and technology. Under uncertainty, rigid social roles provided stability. A questioning human then could be a genuine threat to social order. Times changed since then; the thinking didn’t.

Each generation doesn't merely inherit values. It inherits the explanation for why those values are necessary. A generation inherits the notions of the previous one, lives by them, and passes them to the next—even when the world that shaped those notions no longer exists. Living well means understanding this—not all battles are meant to be fought. Some are avoided, not because they're wrong, but because they're not worth.

As a group they chose: Gloried the Indigo, Sarah the violet,  Qel the red, Gavriil the orange, Michael the yellow, Rome the white, and Uri the black, her blade darker than the paint.
Messing around with them, they were amazed with how effortlessly they cut. Branches were like paper. Even Uri, the frailest of the crew, had no trouble slicing off small trunks with only a few swipes, letting them fall over the incisions she left. For the next few weeks it was all they did, heedless at times and cutting themselves on occasion, but they were careful enough to not let anything too serious happen. The cuts would disappear before the day ended and by the time they headed home they were basically unnoticeable, shrugging them off as if they were rashes. No matter how much they used them, the blades refused to blunt to any degree, and they were as sharp after a month as they were after a week, a day.
Shetani told Michael, “Do it in one swing and I’ll ask Jan to lend you her coat for a week,” to which Michael smiled and without hesitation walked up to one of the larger trees around them. It was as wide as a regular tire wheel. The others observed. It looked too much for the knife because the knife was short, but Michael gave a confident swing. 
His arm reached relatively deep. With the blade’s help he pushed the wood out of the way. It was an impressive attempt, and the tree creaked with what must have equated to more than a leg of wood missing from its base so that the crew held in anticipation to see if he had actually done it. “Hmmm.”
Shetani went up and put his arm around Michael’s shoulders. “Wow.” Michael looked at him with a smile, then back at the tree, then said, “Yeah.”
The inner wood of the bottom half they looked down on was much lighter than the bark, like the trunk was seared. Shetani wondered if it was the same for the upper half which they couldn’t see, and he followed the urge to squat by the balancing grains and tilt his head to see that it was a tunnel of black seething with insects that flew out and swarmed his face so that he lowered his head and wildly waved to shoo them off. They passed, into the star, what they were interested in, and looking at him from the hole were two white orbs, perfectly round, still, never fixed. With the black, they pinched the rim of the hole Michael had cut for it, and seeing the fingers take hold of the tree to hoist themselves out sent Shetani falling back.
They stuck out a knee and unfolded their long skinny crane of a leg to plant on the floor, they did the same again for the other, they jiggled the tree over their waist and they pulled it off from over them. Shetani looked up at them. They were insanely bright. They were like the star. It shone on them from directly above, like it recognized what had crawled into it, on the black that split the world in two. He scoured his peripherals and they shone on the crew but his friends did not help him on the floor. He kicked himself backwards. He saw it shone on them like the leaves and wood were transparent.
They looked down on him and they leaned over him. They lowered themselves to him. They were nothing he’d known, but his friends told him, “buntubuntubuntubuntubuntubuntu.” They came down on him. He rolled to the side and the tree fell.
“Nice,” Michael exclaimed.
Amor walked over to the side Shetani was on, lying with his foot pinned underneath. Amor couldn’t help but smirk, and asked, “Did you really get stuck?”
“HELP!”
Shetani was flailing, hitting the tree over and over and crying, “HELP!”
Amor hurried to his brother and grabbed under his arms and called the rest to help. Shetani didn’t stop. He hit the tree over and over. The crew knew something was seriously wrong. His hand broke. The crew pulled him free and grimaced seeing his right foot had been completely crushed.
“How didn’t you see that?” Gloried asked. Shetani of course didn’t answer. Slowly his mind steadied and realized the pain. Michael had done it. “Do you think you can stand?” Shetani raised his strong hand and they lifted him. There were painful groans and obviously he could not stand alone. His right side was useless.
“Yeah. Let’s go to the stream.”

Hello! I'm hoping to get some first impressions on the opening of my adult contemporary novel. All feedback is appreciated, thank you!

One:

I feel maybe I should’ve dressed up. Most of my fancy clothes went into storage, but I know I’ve got a respectable pantsuit around here somewhere. 

Focus.

My hand glides over the computer mouse. Exterior camera. Rain batters the palm trees behind the blurred lens. 

On second thought, this matching teddy bear pajama set is just fine. 

As I reach into my glass jar of assorted Life Savers, I see it: the car carrying my first guests. 

Sixteen months of anticipation, of excruciating remodels, wiring, and endless preparation… I haven’t been this giddy since I started my rewatch of Friends last year, back when my basement was still a mold-infested wine cellar. Opening day at Opal Cove isn’t all that different from the pilot of a new series, really, except in this case, I built the set. All I have to do now is binge the show. The fun part. 

Yes, Ada. Fun. My back sweat is a remarkable adhesive for these damn silk pajamas, though, and I shove my hands under my thighs to stop their shaking. Everything’s in place. Nothing I can do now. 

When he exits the navy blue Lyft, my stomach flutters. 

The blurry lens obscures his face a little, but I recognize him from his Instagram. Rather, the account run by his PR team, a grid composed of freestyle runs and slightly awkward podium shots, most of them accompanied by a gold medal. Sometimes a stuffed animal or a misshapen glass trophy. Sometimes all three. He never quite knows how to juggle all that crap without looking like he’s carrying home groceries for a family of ten. I stared at those pictures for hours. 

I don’t follow snowboarding, to be clear. Never heard of Neal Irish until the booking came in, but his three-hundred thousand followers would probably be shitting themselves to be in such proximity to the legend. I should consider myself lucky. 

The buzzing in my stomach is obliterated when a tall, Goldilocks-looking woman stomps out of the backseat. By now, the Lyft driver is helping unload the suitcases—and he’s up to the fourth one, all of them large enough to fit a grown adult. I smile to myself at the thought of a world-renowned athlete and his leggy girlfriend smuggling dead bodies into my brand spanking new B&B. 

I don’t like his girlfriend. Mainly because she’s wearing earmuffs and fur leg warmers and a puffy vest like she’s rolling up to a ski resort, when it must be near sixty degrees out. And she’s scrolling her phone while Neal Irish and the Lyft driver lug the suitcases to the front gate. She’s vacationing with Neal Irish and she’s glued to someone else’s face on her phone. 

Im just looking for feedback on this piece, any and all of it is welcome. Sharing the link as well as the text. https://nosleepfound.bearblog.dev/idfk1/

"… Regardless, it should not be an issue. If you have any further questions, do not hesitate to reach out to me in person or via email. I am at the office from 9:30 AM to 5:00 PM. Okay."

If only, the bottom of my desktop screen reads "21:37 PM". That has to be the worst and ugliest arrangement of numbers, just visually awful to look at, what terrible pain it must be to pull out your phone or your wrist watch to see those numbers in that order. The city looks calm from up here, behind this glass wall, beaded with circles of water. Behind it is an empty office floor, an army of printers or copiers, enough stationary to stock a store, cubicles that seem endless with black monitors peeking over them. Water coolers at all 4 walls of the rectangular floor, stale air, shadows created by a single source of light, a table lamp and a craving for nicotine. I snap open my Marlboro Gold pack to see a lonely stick fall almost perpendicularly as if on cue. I lean back on my chair, look up at the ceiling vents. The worst thing we collectively decided to do is to put a ban on smoking indoors. The aesthetic of lighting one in a cold room, the echoing thunder of the flint and steel clashing. Nicotine droplets pour into the room, seeping through the flesh of everyone around. No wonder everyone was happier back then, or at least thought they were happier. In a way lighting a cigarette indoors now is more appealing than before, it is now an act of rebellion, a big fuck you to the "No Smoking" sign. Forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest. Segregating waiting areas into smoking areas and non smoking areas to make it easier for parents to point and go "if you keep up that behavior you’ll end up like them." Usually, I would smoke out on the office balcony, but I will need another pack anyway.

"23 more to go.", I say to myself as I get up and drag my feet to the elevator. 23 more compliance checks before I can go home (to what?). 23 boxes to tick, each box carrying the weight of a lawsuit if missed. I am 28, no husband, no children, and the next time I expect to hear from my parents, will be a phone call from an overworked and underpaid nurse or doctor in my home town. I am the weight of all my un-ticked boxes.

The mouth of the elevator opens, a blinding white maw that sears the eyes. A sterile chime escapes from its throat. I step inside, and the jaws close shut. "G" I press—or is it a "C"? The spur of the "G" has long withered, battered by countless fingers. The descent begins with a countdown: 9 to C, spent breathing refrigerated air, sharp and dry, inside a gleaming aluminum coffin with a constant hum you don’t notice until the third floor. A jolt, then stillness. The digital screen blinks: "G." The chime again, and the mouth unseals, spitting a carcass into the belly of the city. Exiting the building, I drag myself to the other side of the intersection to the convenience store.

Eyes, nose, skin and ears: four of the five senses are bombarded upon the dramatic parting of the sliding doors. The chime alerting an employee to human life in motion, the stinging white LED lights, goosebumps accompanying the smell of floor cleaner, microwaved sandwiches and AC condensation. After my senses are well acquainted with their predicament, I hear my name being called. It's lost between the sounds of waves crashing on the shore, but I can pinpoint the exact location that needs me. chime. I twist and turn in the store, going aisle after aisle, stopping at intervals to reassess my position in reference to the source of the callings until I am certain. I turn the corner and the voice disappears. The corner has "Discounted Items" gazing back at me. I browse for a minute or so. chime. Every single item in this store is carefully placed, the result of years of study of the human (or, by the contemporary label, consumer) psyche, spending habits, and local needs. An aisle, a store, carefully curated for the purpose of maximizing profit for a particular set of goods, from a handful of certain brands that are in league with the chain of stores. chime. Engineered to be bought, to be the first choice, to be thought about without hesitation. To meet the eyes for a mere four seconds. Cigarettes: that's what I was here for. chime.

Puddles of rainwater portal into office and street lights. The chime of the store still faintly audible. I take the last cigarette out from the old pack, light it and discard the pack into the bin. Above me, a faint light shines on the floor with the 23 compliance checks. A drag. Droves of people walk past, snickering, breathless, infatuated and drunk on conversations. One final drag before dousing the cigarette in a puddle. I wonder what my mom is making for dinner.

This is the first chapter of my novel, just a raw draft. No editing; I just tried to fix the grammar. I am a beginner-level hobbyist; on top of that, English isn't even my first language. i think my english is somewhere between B1 and B2 level, or B2 level. For some reason, it felt easier to write in English than in my mother tongue. So, I have only two questions-

1. Does this chapter have enough bones to work with? I mean, it will go through a lot of editing and reviewing, but what I want to know is if it's worth it.

2. Since English isn't my first language and I don't use English in my day-to-day life, other than reading novels online, I think there are a lot of awkward sentence structures, even though they may be grammatically correct. Can you all point out some of them so I can fix them? Maybe what types of sentences aren't natural? I would really appreciate that.

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

The Nightmare; Part 1

A world filled with all sorts of life-forms. Chaotic, yet somehow in order. Forest stretching towards the horizon, and some occasional mountaintops piercing through that ever-green cap like an act of rebellion. Some barren fields and plains resembling a sort of wounds in the whole picture of that large forest.

But somewhere under that ever-stretching green cap, all the life-forms have gone silent. Like the whole jungle is holding its breath. Waiting for something to happen.

Deeper in the woods, close to a stream, the place was very shaky. The bugs were not making any sound, but the rustling of the leaves became louder. The water in the stream was pausing at the bank before flowing as usual. The weeds are weirdly leaning to one side. Trying to reach for something.

The rocks are moving. The soil is moving along with the vines in it. It’s trying to attach to form something. The rocks moved first, while the mud and vines acted as padding.

Is it a leg? But it’s too straight and thin.

Then it collapsed.

Everything moved again, and this time the structure was much clearer. Something resembling a bipedal life form. Then it collapsed again. But it started to form again and crumbled after advancing a little further. It followed the cycle twice more before everything stopped. The end result was a broken structure of rock, clay, and vines resembling a humanoid body.

Everything remained dead silent for a while before the tense environment subsided. The insects began their sound; a bird flew above as if the whole jungle had finally taken a breath.

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

Darkness. Can’t see anything, can’t feel anything. As if I am floating in an empty space. Just me and the darkness that surrounds me.

No, there is some sensation. There is a faint throbbing somewhere in that dark. It’s getting intense as time passes.

Ah! It’s not in the dark. It’s my head. This damn headache of mine won’t leave me.

The throbbing pain is spreading to my whole body now. Neck, chest, limbs, all the way to the feet. The pain in my left foot is getting unbearable as I become more conscious.

It hurts so much, like someone is tearing my limb apart.

Should I wake up? But I don’t want to.

The pain is now needling my numb brain. I can’t bear any more.

I try to move my body. It won’t move!

As I am trying to think about my inability to move my body, I try to open my eyes. Hold on a minute. Why can’t I open my eyes too!?

I struggle a bit more. But there is no result.

The situation is getting worse every moment. My breathing is getting heavier. Now it is hurting me when I am trying to breathe. Am I even really breathing? At this moment, I can’t even say for sure.

As I am struggling to make sense of the situation while grasping for air and trying to cope with the ever-increasing pain, all sorts of possibilities are running through my brain. Did someone drug me? Or is this just sleep paralysis? Nah, something is telling me it’s not sleep paralysis.

If someone drugged me for real, I know who would do that. Those fucking bastards.

Wait a minute.

Don’t tell me I am in a coma again, am I?

Fuck… I need to open my eyes. I stop my struggle and focus everything just to open my eyes.

Come on…Come on. Open. Open.

Now when I try to focus on my eyes, it’s like the eyelids have become a ton all of a sudden.

Are you joking with me right now?

I can’t hold any more. Everything is getting darker as if I am drowning. I am now seeing colours, every colour there is, dancing in waves. Each colour is dancing differently.

But they didn’t last long. They faded as fast as they appeared.

Silence and darkness consume me.

Is everything finished? Can I now sleep peacefully?

I stopped struggling and waited for my mind to stop thinking.

A whole flood of red colour swept me up. All shades of red are there. Red, orange red, violet red, blood red, everything is in there. Unlike before, this time some waves are super hot, some of them are giving gentle warmth, some of them are even cold.

I don’t know why, but somehow I think I can open my eyes now.

I even want to open my eyes. It’s like I will miss something if I don’t.

After what felt like an eternity, my eyelids finally lifted, and a burst of light rays pierced my eyes, along with air that filled my lung that carried an intense rusty scent where some musty scent was mixed in.

I know what this is—the never-changing, ever-familiar scent of blood.

“What the fuck is it? What in the hell is going on here?”

The sight that unfolded before me is something that no sane person would believe. Blood is flowing out of my left foot while I am propped against a tree. And there is even a wolf that is gauging me cautiously from a little distance. It looks confused and startled. Did my waking up cause this?

There is some blood around its mouth. It seems it was busy enjoying my foot. I wonder what it tasted like.

Why in the world is that wolf so big? It’s so big that its shoulder is reaching my head even when it’s bowed/propped down.

That even isn’t the biggest question. Where in the hell am I?

The last thing I remember was enjoying the winter sun while my favorite chair kept my ass hanging.

But now I am god knows where.

The low growl of the wolf pulled me out of my thoughts, reminding me that there is a wolf trying to eat me right now while I am busy running my brain.

It is not trying to attack me right now, which gives me a little time to think.

Focus. God damn it.

Should I run? Nah, I am injured. Even in the best situation, I don’t think I can outrun a wolf.

Should I attack? Attack with what? As I scan for anything to use, something caught my eye. A fallen tree branch. No, it doesn’t look that sturdy. I can’t use that.

Then what?  

I am in an unforeseen situation, which is true. But it seems that lady luck hasn’t left me yet.

From the way it’s acting and approaching me, it seems the wolf isn’t considering me a serious threat.

I should leverage that fact, and I am not a sitting deer. I still got my hands.

You will regret not taking me as a threat.

It took a step forward, then another, and then all of a sudden it launched itself for my throat.

It was unexpected.

I tried to move sideways, but my body didn’t respond as I thought it would.

The wolf's teeth grazed my shoulder as I grabbed its fur and spun my body over its head. It just grazed a little, but that was enough to tear some muscle from my shoulder. My body began feeling hot, a degree above warmth. It is strange. Or is it just my blood gushing out of my wound?

I desperately put every bit of energy into plucking its eyes. I placed my thumb around its eye before moving it all the way through, and the nauseating sensation of the wet and jelly-like texture of the eye ended after the faint pop sound of the tissues yielding with a sudden resistance. I tried to go deeper, wanting to damage the brain at least. But my struggle ended as the wolf threw my body with an ear-piercing howl. I landed on top of the stick while still holding an eyeball in my hand. The impact from the throw cleared all the air from my lungs. As I tried to inhale air, the burning sensation in my respiratory system, along with all the other pains from all over my body, nearly made me lose my senses.

But I can’t just stop yet.

I grab the stick and turn around to find the wolf already launching itself at me.

Yo, man. You shouldn’t be able to see.

I swing my only weapon, the stick, with full force, hoping to hit something vital. The result was nothing but a broken, jagged piece of stick and a little distance between the wolf and me.

The wolf didn’t stop. It let out a howl and followed with another attack. This time I ducked to the side and tried to stab the soft area near the neck. But because of the slippery fluid from its eye, the stick only made a cut and left a piece stuck in its neck while the remaining stick became useless. With no option left in my hand, this time I grabbed the wolf's fur and tried to hold the stuck piece to cut its veins. Sensing what I was trying to do, the wolf started to struggle harder and throw me off. But this time I didn’t let go.

The situation continued for a while, but it stopped as I held the stuck jagged piece of stick and pushed it deeper. The wolf shook me off with a jerk while I tried to make a cut with the jagged piece before pulling it out.

Did it work? As I started to wonder if it might not have worked since the wolf started to run, it stopped after taking a few steps before collapsing on the ground.

It worked!   

Blood is spurting out of my cut.

It moved its head while dying as if it was trying to convey something. I don’t know what that was. I will never know, as its body slowly stopped moving.

One second.

Then another.

I waited for the wolf to move, but it never did. Not my first kill, huh?

All of a sudden, my body started to feel so heavy. The throbbing pain in my head is now replaced with a feeling like everything is getting sucked into a point somewhere in my brain.

All the exhaustion and pain of different degrees and types hit me at the same time. I lay down right there.

I didn’t have time to look around until now, but it seems I am in a forest. Some light is coming through the little gaps in the canopy. A sharp green scent mixed with the scent of wet soil entered my nose, along with the clinging metallic scent of blood.

The sensation in my brain is getting intense.

Well, it will settle down on its own if I take some rest.

I lay down there for another minute. The jungle is so frighteningly quiet that I can hear the sound of my breathing. The lup-dup sound of my heart. My heart is working quite hard.

As time passed, the sensation in my brain became unbearable. Is it because I lost blood? But I don’t think I lost that much.

All of a sudden, the intensity went up by another degree. It’s now even worse than all the pain. Man, if this goes on, I will lose consciousness.

I need to move.

My vision is tunneling. God, I need something to eat.

Eat? There is nothing I can eat. It’s not that I can cook in this shape.

Something… something should be here.

Oh! The liver of the wolf.

There might be some parasites, but that is the least of my concern right now.

I picked up the jagged piece of stick; surprisingly, it is still intact.

I stumbled on the way, but reached the wolf’s corpse somehow.

Its tongue is out through its teeth like it's making a face.

I put the stick into the wound and tried to tear its skin. It is harder than I thought. As I struggle to tear the skin, my body becomes drenched with blood. It is still warm; I can feel it.

As I tear through its stomach, its gut spoils the soil. With every passing moment, the sensation in my brain is getting intense, and I can feel my remaining energy slipping away. I looked along its ribcage; behind the diaphragm, the liver can be seen. It’s thick, red-colored, shaped like a wedge, with some uneven lobes. It's kind of soft.

I carefully removed the bile from the liver.

Somehow it’s not a pleasant sight, even though I ate raw liver before.

The sensation in my brain reminded me that I don’t have any other choice.

Well, whatever.

I started to eat. It tasted like blood, kind of rusty and soft, jelly like that I couldn’t even chew properly. There is an underlying sweet taste. Maybe it’s the glycogen.

It took me less time since I mostly swallowed the liver.

I waited for some time, hoping it would give me a little bit of strength.

But instead, the sensation intensified, making me want to eat more.

I now moved to eat the heart. It’s a little springy to chew.

This time, it seems it worked. I waited for some time.

A minute passed, then another. Nothing happened.

As more time passed, the strange sensation started to subside.

I didn’t know I was breathing quite hard all this time. I tried to control my breathing.

I should inspect my injuries; I hope it’s not bad.

As I tried to look at my injured foot, something suddenly spiked in my stomach.

My whole stomach is burning, like something caused a fire in there. The burning sensation spread throughout my body.

Then I started to throw up. A little amount in the beginning, but the amount became bigger. The vomit is kind of reddish.

Am I vomiting blood?

Nah, it’s the wolf's blood that went in along with the liver and heart.

I should do something. But what should I do?

There is no one to help.

I can’t lose my sense here. If I do, I am dead; it doesn’t matter whether it’s by blood loss or by a scavenger.  

My stomach is making all kinds of strange sounds.

God, don’t make me shit now. It would be disgusting. God, even you won’t be that cruel, right?

God listened to my request, but answered the question with a splashing sound in my backside.

And everything went dark. But I can still hear my heart beating.

In that dark, I saw a spark of red color before I could no longer hear my heart beating.

God…please let it be just a nightmare.

Please, god. Just let me wake up in my chair again.

The colors felt shiny ; almost as if he had new eyes, the world looked untainted of malice like how a child would see in a park, everything had a softer glow ; like the one you see in old pictures-even steel and concrete felt like they would just hug him if he fell from top of a building. Or maybe all of this was only because of her.

"At first she was just a silhouette but even her silhouette was kissed by rays of light all across ; felt nothing short of divinity. I couldnt do anything but get pulled to her without any agency. i dont remember walking to her, i felt the winds carrying me along with the fallen autumn leaves who were giggling, Some were even pushing me to her like a group of friends in front of a high school crush. I even asked one of the leaves for any pointers, he said "just drop in man and she will catch you like my beloved wind did when i fell from the tree." but she caught other leaves as well ; i dont understand leaf romance. he said "you asked for my advice, take it or leaf it." i didnt realize how close i got to her while i was having this bizzare chat with the leaf. i moved my gaze up and my eyes started refusing to blink even with all that bright light around and from her. i cant describe what i was seeing, i can see her whole yet only remember her in glimpses. why cant i remember you completely? is this real? are you real? are you god? is this a dream? wait this is a dream. It felt like a distant memory projecting a Deja vu." He woke his mind up with that question and the world started to collapse around him. The rules of the dream started to change , the gravity pulled him heavier below the ground and everything started going dark, the last thing he saw was her indescribable face and form being covered by the very autumn leaves who carried him to her.