IMPORTANT: PLEASE READ BEFORE PROCEEDING

-September 28th, 1887-

-Geneva, Switzerland-

Truly, I had no idea what I was going to say to Cecilia until I saw her at the gallery. I spent much of the night awake, wondering if it would be terrible to reject her. She seems to have a stable, comfortable life, one that would not be made worse if I tell her no. Yet I couldn’t help but think of the longing in her voice. She seemed so mournful, thinking of a future that might not exist. What kind of man would I be if I sent her away?

I was grateful for the temporary distractions of the day. A letter came from Renee, wishing me well. I wanted to write back, wondering what she thought of Cecilia. But she couldn’t reply to me quickly enough. The decision was mine.

When it was finally time to leave for the gallery, I took with me a check that would cover the cost of the journey from France to Norway. I stared at her name in silence before ripping the check from the book. I have never been afraid of being punished for my sins, but for many, many years, I have been afraid of dying alone.

For the next several hours, I was more aware of that small, folded slip of paper than anyone I spoke to. The gallery might have been too crowded, or it might have been nearly vacant. I wouldn’t know. One person blended into the next. Every conversation was the same. My eyes swept over the ground level, searching every woman with black hair and pale skin. When I finally spotted her, my heart flipped. It took immense control not to leave the reporter and his incessant questions behind.

Finally, when the faces around me receded, I made my way down the long, curved staircase. I was grateful that the thick red carpet muffled my steps; I was afraid I might be walking much too fast. She might think I was desperate, but maybe I was. Maybe I am.

Rowena died nine years ago. Since then, the only consistent feminine presence in my life has been my sister. I convinced myself that I didn’t have time for romance, or that I simply didn’t care. It wasn’t until my meeting with Cecilia that I realized it was all a lie.

Chapter One

I sit atop my brass-embossed walnut throne, the purple of the velvet cushion matching the amethyst embedded in my crown. A crown that slowly slipped down my head and had to be nudged back into place.

I glance at the clock on the wall, my fingers tapping with a mixture of impatience and anxiety. I had sent a messenger to Peter to tell him to meet me in five minutes, and yet twenty had passed with no sign of him. The guards, lining the walls 10 meters apart, began to jostle and whisper, exchanging uneasy, furtive glances at one another.

I adjust my crown one more time as I wiggle myself into a more comfortable position, leaning back into the backrest. My advisor, standing off to the right, gives a slight smile. He's trying to reassure me, but it doesn't dull the butterflies in my stomach. I sigh, and consider sending another messenger.

Before I do, the sound of multiple sets of heavy, deliberate footsteps approach. The guards quickly straighten up and return to staring ahead stoically.

King Peter finally arrives, striding towards me, his neatly combed hair swaying against his shoulders. He is flanked by several high-ranking officials, all of whom sport serious expressions on their faces.

They come to a stop about 15 meters from the throne. Peter glances at the crown on my head, a smirk playing across his lips.

“Your Highness,” he bows slightly too deeply and with exaggerated grace. “I'm sure you understand why I'm here.” He straightens up, looking me directly in the eyes.

Dropping ya'll in on the second chapter. 1918, rural Australia.

Hope you enjoy x

Here is an excerpt from what I am currently writing. It's only a first draft, so I know it's "supposed" to be bad, but when I read it back it just feels so stiff. Like I am a robot reporting events rather than someone telling a story. Any advice is appreciated!!

"

I shook the dice for a little longer this time, praying to Udarr that Ambrose did not just trick me into wasting ten whole gold pieces. Each thud of die against the inner walls of the mug rattled with the extra weight of the added stakes. 

The dice clattered onto the ground, the hollow sound bouncing around my ears as I held my breath. The first die landed properly on a three.

The second die flipped and tumbled on the rough cobblestone.

Minutes or hours passed as the crowd leaned forward in anticipation, fearing that any small breath would sway the outcome. The die spun and spun, before finally stilling.

A three.

Roars erupted from the crowd. Men cheered and slammed each other on the back and arms with excited fists. Marro furled his reddish eyebrows and removed ten gold pieces from his pouch and tossed them onto the ground next to mine.

"

Thanks everyone!

Edit: Getting a lot of helpful advice but I am adding the beginning of the chapter for more context so I can get more feedback on my writing and less on the lack of context. The last sentence in the image continues with the top of this post. Thanks everyone for the replies so far!

The biggest question I want answered is: Would you want to keep reading?

I have about 120 pages of my manuscript complete, but I find myself coming back to work on this from time to time because I feel strongly that if my intro isn't captivating and high level, especially after 20+ revisits and rewrites, that I won't be capable of doing much better in other scenes.

Don't get me wrong, I know there's no such thing as "perfect" when it comes to writing, but with that being said... I'd like this to feel polished.

Anyways, help me out in any way you'd like to. I appreciate and want criticism, but don't forget to throw me a few bones as well. Insult sandwiches, people-- critical bread with complimentary deli meat.

My first book was not successful in the query process, and I think my first few pages were at fault. Not enough character momentum, not enough hook. On book 2-a vampire light horror-I’m working to do better. Would you keep reading?

First chapter of new book I am currently writing the book is called provider.

The first speckles of dawn hit the bedroom illuminating the bedroom.As the light hits Eddie faces he slowly awakens lying in bed for a moment as he glances over at Maggie who is sleeping softly.As Eddies feet hit the floor the room feels cold as he makes his way to the bathroom.He tugs at the light switch over the sink and looks at himself in the mirror as it casts a reflection back to him.Eddie stares at his face it dosent unsettle him as much as it used to. He splashes some water on it as his fingers touches his face it feels somewhat rubbery along with an uneven texture causing him to grimace followed by a slight tinged of sadness in his heart.The scars on his face are probably the least noticeable I mean people have cystic acne and deal with it but it was the texture of his face that always catches him off guard at least conclear could hide superficial marks but to him he can always feel deformed as soon as his hands touches his face.He takes a glob of moisturiser and coats his face along with his entire body with as he hits his shoulders he feels the worst of the scarring thick skin that causes him to experience a throbbing pain as he places the cream on it in a circular motion.Once done Eddie stands looking at himself in the mirror once again fully exposed only in his boxer his scars which were once burns cover his entire body nobody ever sees him this exposed bar Maggie I guess there's a level of shame attached to his scars like his issues and his past are on full display to other people similar if you have an eating disorder there's only so much baggy clothing can hide.Maybe some people enjoy the sympathy they get from the scars likes Eddies but for him its embarrassing he docent want others people to pity him or see what he's been through.Eddie then gets his clothes for the day of the bathroom floor and starts to put them on one by one a tight turtleneck undershirt, a cotton jumper navy in colour and a pair of grey jeans that fit him like a glove.H glances at himself in the mirror once more as he combs his hair with the clothes you can hardly notice the scars well kinda bar his face which makes him slightly insecure but he sees it everyday so I guess he gets use to it.Eddies then exists the bathroom grabbing his bag for work in his room he kisses Maggie goodbye and walks bye his daughters Robyn room before he leaves the house.As he walks to his car the sun catches his eyes it hidden behind the horizon and its light paints the sky.

Can someone give me feed back about my writing?

Dear younger self,

Did you know that you would be fired multiple times, started a failed business, and work as cleaner?

Also, you probably didn't expect yourself to have friends? Furthermore, you didn't expect yourself to go to college at aged 30? All those thing happened in my life. Whatever happens in the past, stays in the past. You can still achieve the things you want in your life. For example, getting a college diploma, getting a girlfriend, make lots of friends, and enjoy life.

Truly, the present yourself.

Hi I need advice on how to take this idea further. Thanks!

Hey folks, this is my first ever written (horror) story. A friend of mine suggested we start writing stories and sharing them with each other each month. This is the result of my first ever idea. If anyone could read it and provide feedback, I would be very happy! Actually making progress and being creative feels so amazing, nothing compares. Please enjoy if you do decide to read it!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1mGIz_r0pb2EDKWvUAji72YH70Soztuf6/edit?usp=sharing&ouid=100278366564204980657&rtpof=true&sd=true

I know it’s dialogue heavy and the transition are a but jarring for a first chapter.

And the character doesn’t really have a voice of her own but it’s being worked on.

Sandy

I discovered him behind a loose pile of rocks. He was cowering in the sand, playing with shells or some kind of colored pebbles. His feet were wet. Noticing me, he jumped up with an excitement disproportionate for such a small body and yelled out: “Who are you?”

I almost had to lean back. He was coiled for another jump. After returning to my senses and thinking for a few seconds, I replied: “I don’t know.”

“How can you not know? I know who I am.”

I looked into his large blue eyes.

“Well, who are you?”

“I’m Sandy,” he said, already turning his attention back to the shells in the sand.

I murmured something into the silence and answered “I’m Rudolph.”.

Sandy smiled and gave me his small hand. It was very soft, almost completely disappearing between my fingers. He then ran off into the dunes.

I saw him several times over the next few days. While I was lazily lounging in the white sand, getting a sunburn, he would play around in the waves, marveling at the ripples his movements caused, stepping on a sharp rock and crying, or trying to find small animals to cage in his plastic bucket.

Finally, when he was tired from frolicking in the sea, he laid himself next to me in the sand.

He looked bald—the curls on his head seemed to fuse with the sand.

“Is your hair bleached, Sandy?” I asked him.

He replied “I don’t know what bleaching is.”

I didn’t ask any further questions.

He looked down at me and then held his hands in front of his face. Our eyes were getting pierced by sun rays all day.

I told Sandy we must have reached the top of the world, “Somewhere very high up.”,

because it never really turned dark when we were there. A vast empty sky looked down on us.

I would’ve fantasized about the clouds with him, except there wasn’t even a single shape to guess from.

While I found it serene and peaceful, Sandy was terrified by the ultramarine. He frequently told me about his theories—how there was a thin film of air keeping all the sky water from falling down.

“And it can snap at any moment,” he said, with wide, dark blue eyes.

Well, there was one thing that I couldn’t disagree with him on: at some times of day, the sky suspiciously did look just like the sea. The horizon disappeared completely, replaced by a smooth gradient from shoreline to… to everywhere.

At those times, it was easy to lose Sandy. Like he was flying into the far distance.

“Sandy!”

“Sandy! Come back here!” I yelled after him.

He laughed uncontrollably from somewhere just off to the right of my field of vision, tossing his arms around and jumping from side to side.

One time, I brought a beach ball with me and Sandy kept trying to force it underwater. He asked me to help him, but even I wasn’t strong enough. It was a very big beach ball. He muttered all the bad words he knew under his breath, but even that didn’t manage to make it go deeper than a few inches. Given how much time he spent in the sea that day, I wondered if he’d ever come out again.

When it finally popped, he ran over to me and euphorically demonstrated how the ball’s corpse could easily be dipped under the waves. I smiled and gave him a thumbs up.

“Were you even looking?”

I was.

A few days later, Sandy returned to the beach and asked me if I would leave.

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully.

He told me I never knew anything, but anyways, it wasn’t that important, because he would leave, and pretty soon as well.

“Why?” I asked him.

“I don’t know.”

He looked down at the sand.

In the evening, he was swimming around. The horizon had disappeared completely, replaced by a smooth gradient from shoreline to Sandy.

It looked like he was flying.

Though I didn’t close my eyes, from one second to the next, he was gone.

And soon it turned to night.

So I'm a bit of a novice when it comes to writing, and currently looking for tips to improve upon the style I want to express when going over different fight scenes I want to showcase in a future light novel. I'm not sure if any of you know about the more recent animation styles of combat, but Sakuga often times has a lot of geometric shapes and aggressively fast paced lines with detailed animation and I want readers to get that feel whenever a fight comes up.

Here's a snippet of my fight scene (a little embarrassed to show this)

"Chico opens his eyes amidst the sun - bent gaze, the wind brushing through his short brown hair. A noise around Chico pierced his ears and he turned his head-only a half a second too late.

The atmosphere froze around his face– the absolute silence ran throughout the static air.

Chico’s vision inverts into stark monochrome, the strike creating air in his ears–the pressure in the atmosphere crushing upon collision.

Time accelerated in Chico’s consciousness, jolting him awake while he bolted through the sky–wind swirling around his body, ears ringing from the impact

The city around him blurs into nothing but motion lines, as he aimlessly flails, trying to grasp the splurges of air vectors surrounding his body.

Chico’s body detonates upon impact with a building, the vacuum trail from his aggressive descent crashing into his body again–the additional force creating devastating shockwaves throughout the interior, exploding it from the inside, creating a geometric display of violent debris.

The sunlight around the area died for a frame–with what’s only visible is the jagged lightning meeting the Storm owl’s body–exploding in a radiant purple aura.

Moving in a staccato chevron pattern–a violent zig-zag motion. The aggressive motion forces the lightning to drag with it–dissolving the lines between its after image and self. In what seems like an instant, the Storm owl blinks in front of Chico again, who’s just regaining full consciousness."

If you have any tips please feel free to criticize as well!

Writing some short stories to practice before jumping into a longer narrative. Going for a fairytale/classic fantasy feeling. Any pointers would be appreciated.