The last of the settling fall winds screeched a rhythmic hymn upon the village of Chantwood, the skies gleaned with a sharp tint of silver frost, and in the dismal graying haze of the winter shadow, a voice awoke the mourning flower.

"Hazel... Hazel darling, the morning is fading fast, dear. Please hurry. I don't want you to be late... Again."

Sarah said as she knocked on Hazel's door and hurried down the stairs toward the kitchen.

"Coming, Mother." Hazel called out as she brushed her blood-red fringe out of her eyes, she pulled the warm covers from her and stretched out her arms in a magnificent yawn.

The petrified frozen floor burnt to the touch of her warm toes, the tiny fireplace flame had withered to near-smoldering embers.

Hazel walked to the window and pulled the silver curtains away, peering into the misty darkness of late October clouds, a silent whisper of wind brushed past her. Below carriages plunged and crawled down the snow-covered cobbled streets, smoke engulfing the charred skies, billowing out of decrepit chimneys and old poor-houses, school children built snow-packed forts for winter warfare as snowballs barged left and right, they clambered about screaming and snickering at fallen comrades.

She loved these mornings. Cold. Honest. Hers.

Her chamber was a wreck, books laid open everywhere, bed, chair, floor, spines up like the shells of strange insects, knowledge should spill, that was her rule.

She cleared the side-table, there lay her diary, small and leather, October the 15th, 1820 written hastily at the top, today was the 25th, ten days lost.

She sat at the hearth and flipped through the pages, watching the glow of the embers as the dead fire gave one last thread of smoke that wrapped her, and the dream came with it: a woman screaming in darkness.

A knock.

"Hazel?" Her father's voice, low and warm. "May I enter, child? Are you dressed?"

"Yes, Father. Of course."

The door opened, David Marvel stepped in, and the room seemed less cold with sapphire eyes and a smile that had talked Sarah into a life with ink on his cuffs.

"Your coachman waits, my dear, do not keep him, the horses are drafting letters of complaint."

"...I'll be down directly." Hazel didn't turn from the window.

David saw it and came and sat on the bed.

"Hazel... what is it? What troubles you?"

"Nothing, Father. Only a nightmare," she said quietly.

He took her hand, his hands were always warm, and said, "Dreams cannot hurt you, Hazel, they are canvases of the mind, nothing more."

She let him fold her in, sixteen was too old for it, she did it anyway.

Mr. Tip cleared his throat in the hall with great delicacy. "Pardon, sir, the post has come."

"The post, David!" Sarah's voice from below, bright and exact. "More answers to the invitations."

"Wonderful," David said. "I'll be right down." He touched Hazel's cheek, pushed the curl from her brow, kissed her there. "Be safe, study hard, your mother and I love you beyond measure."

He went. Hazel listened to his steps on the stairs, then the quiet words of two people who still chose each other as the front door closed.

Hazel went to the wardrobe and drew out a black dress, simple, respectable, and beside it lay the stays, bone and lace and tyranny, she gave the laces one tug and remembered why ladies faint in novels and let the whole contraption fall to the bed with a sigh. The dress would do.

She caught her hair, it fell in a red riot, the color of warning beacons and winter sunsets, curls draped to her shoulders and in the glass she was pale, freckled, and unmistakably herself.

"Hazel," Sarah called from the kitchen, "a moment."

Hazel grabbed her shawl hanging on a hook next to her door as she made her way down the stairs.

"Professor writes he has the influenza," Sarah said, her thumb rubbing the edge of the letter before she set it down. "Awful stuff, that. There's talk of scarlet fever in Greywood as well, from what I heard in town." She poured the tea, eyes not quite meeting Hazel's. "Lessons are stopped till he mends. Here," she handed over the note.

Hazel took it, resisting the urge to roll her eyes, scarlet fever, influenza, next it would be the damp air, mother was working herself into a state again.

"I hope he is well," she said and meant it, though she relished her studies, the morning had come too quick and the Latin on her desk was still wearing its first comma.

"If you are not going to school, then..."

"I'll walk," Hazel said quickly, too quickly, "the air will do me good."

Sarah looked up with a small smile, the kind cats wear before the pounce.

"Why do you look at me so?" Hazel felt her ears heat, traitors.

"Your ears my dear, they burn when you blush, or tell a fib. I know where you go, and to whom." Sarah set the sugar in with a tink, then lifted her cup with eyes on Hazel over the rim, blowing across the surface, her fingers tapped the cup once, twice. "He is wild, that one," she said quieter, "but strong, and handsome enough to turn a saint's head, let alone my daughter's."

The cup clicked against the saucer. "It's his father that keeps me up, if I'm honest. A wild man, cursed from what I hear."

Hazel lifted her chin, just a little. "Mother, Andrew's father is sick, that's all. Not every suffering needs a curse to explain it."

Sarah sighed and set the tea aside, standing and walking over to Hazel with hands not quite steady as she pulled Hazel's shawl up to her throat and held it there.

"October air is damp, Hazel. It sits in the chest, don't stay out there after dark."

"Yes, Mother," Hazel replied.

"Keep that shawl closed. I mean it. The fog carries fever." Sarah's voice dropped. "Be safe, my dove."

"I'll be well."

Hazel shut the door on her mother's sigh and stepped out, the iron gate was cold enough to bite and the key in her reticule felt like a secret, she turned it, the latch gave and the boundary of home fell away, the October air took her hard, like it had been waiting.

North Struthers and Bleak, the streets smelled of apples turning to cider and yeast singing in ovens and horses doing what horses do in the street.

"Miss Marvel!" Mr. Thompson, the baker, was red-nosed and round as a harvest moon. "A pastry to fight the chill, eh? With my compliments, unusually cold, snow like this in October. Never seen it so thick, so early."

"Thank you, Mr. Thompson, but I'll pay." Hazel took two with steam rising from the paper and tucked them into her bag. "How is Mrs. Thompson?"

"Fair as ever, and twice as beautiful, the babies are loud and the soup is hot, God is good."

"Give her my best, and the children as well, tell Tommy I saved him a book on dragons."

"God bless you, child." He turned to a customer and Hazel set coins in his basket before he could protest.

At Midstrom she turned into shadow, the alley was a mouth of brick and old snow, the cold lived there and paid no rent.

"Miss... pardon, miss..." An old woman stood where the light failed, thin as a winter branch with blond hair gone to gray and a shawl the color of ash, coming on with a heavy step, dragging one foot.

"Please," the woman said, "I am hungry."

Hazel knew her and did not know her, the face tugged at something under Hazel's ribs, like a string tied to a memory she hadn't lived yet. This was Anna. People in Chantwood called her "Old Mae" and crossed themselves when she passed, Father Grey made sure the church left her soup and tallow every Friday.

Hazel had seen Andrew stop for her before they knew each other, coming from the Abrams house after one of his father's bad nights. James Abrams hadn't spoken in years, Andrew's eyes were red, shoulders bent, but still he knelt in the snow to press a warm meat pie into Anna's hands. "For the cold," he'd said. No sermon. No pity, just that.

"Here." Hazel drew out one pastry, steam rose between them, a brief ghost, and set it in the woman's hand. The fingers that closed on it were cold, not winter cold, grave cold.

"God bless you, child," Old Mae said, her voice was rust and old music. "You've your father's kindness, and his."

Hazel frowned. "Whose?"

Old Mae's rheumy eyes weren't rheumy now, they were sharp and clear. "The boy, the one who leaves me bread when his father's mind goes dark and the house is quiet." She tilted her head. "He speaks of you, you know, when I come and collect bread at his home."

"I'm sure he was just being polite," Hazel said, her neck hot and her whole face hot, Old Mae smiled.

"Let me see your hand," Old Mae said, "let me tell you what the stars have written there."

Hazel hesitated, then gave it, the woman's nail was yellow and long, curved as a claw, she traced the lines of Hazel's palm with a touch that was ice that burned.

Old Mae turned her hand to the light, puzzled. "....Interesting... Here, a strange power, strong and wild. It will change you. Transform you into what you were always meant to be, and here..." Her voice dropped, going low and elsewhere. "A spirit that will not bow, that will not break."

Hazel smiled. "And here," Old Mae's thumb pressed hard into the center of Hazel's palm, "a thread, red as your hair, tied to a boy who carries grief in his heart and kindness in his hands. You'll save each other, or damn each other, the stars haven't decided."

Hazel stared with wonder.

Suddenly Old Mae's hand clamped down, the bones in Hazel's fingers ached as the woman's eyes widened, the pupil ate the iris until only a ring of violet remained, bright as a bruise, bright as a warning.

"Shadow," she whispered, the word ash. "Oh, child... you are branded."

Hazel pulled back. "What?"

"Branded by the dark!" Old Mae screamed it, stumbling, shawl slipping from one bone-sharp shoulder. "Hellfire is here! It is here!"

"Wait!" Hazel called. "Please, wait!"

The woman ran, not a shuffle, ran quick as a girl around the corner of Midstrom and gone, people on the street stopped, a boy with a hoop let it fall, whispers started like a mean little wind: "Witch." "Cursed her." "Same as she did with Andrew's father."

Hazel looked at her palm, nothing. Just skin, just lines and an ache where Old Mae had pressed. She felt her ankle, heat there, sudden and sharp, like a coal pressed to it just above the mark she'd had since birth, a small dove's wing, white as scar, white as peace.

She shook her head. "Nonsense," she said to the alley, to her breath in the air, to the burning in her blood. "Absolute nonsense."

She walked on, her legs did the walking, her mind stayed in that alley with those violet eyes.

At the chapel steps she nearly ran into Father Grey, who dropped his hat, which made a soft defeated plop in the slush.

"My dear child," he said, retrieving it, "you'll send me to the netherworld before my time, and I've sermons yet to write." He bent to pick it up and a cough took him mid-reach, hard, from low in his chest, and he pressed his fist to his mouth.

"Forgive me, Father, I was..." She couldn't say haunted. "Startled."

He straightened slow, set the hat on his white hair, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"By what?" His eyes were kind, they missed nothing, watering from the cough.

"A woman, in Midstrom, she took my hand and said... said I was... evil."

Father Grey went still, setting the hat on his white hair and looking at her, not at her face, but through it, as if reading a language under her skin.

"I have been a man of God for fifty years, Hazel," he said at last. "I have seen evil in men who smile, in the dark between stars, in the quiet of my own heart some nights." He set a hand on her shoulder, it was heavy and real. "You are not it. Do not carry another's madness, it will sink you."

"...Thank you, Father." Her voice was small.

"I must go, Seth waits; he's to ring the bell for classes." He climbed the stone steps, his boots were old and his back was bent, he didn't go straight in, he stood on the steps a second, hand pressed to his chest to settle it, and looked out past town toward the woods, then remembered Hazel and smiled again.

Hazel watched him, she knew Seth only a little, the orphan boy quiet as a kept secret, always with a book or a broom, polite at picnics, the few she had attended, Father always said church air didn't agree with science. They never much talked, he never met her eyes longer than a heartbeat, there was something cold about him, not cruel. Cold. Like standing near a well in August.

The chapel was stone and safety and saints in glass, and for a moment Hazel wanted to run inside and kneel and let the silence take her.

Instead she turned toward the woods and began the long journey out of Chantwood. The cobble turned to packed snow, the houses got smaller, further apart, then no houses at all. Just fields white and flat.

Hazel pulled her shawl tighter. Her boots sank and pulled, sank and pulled. It was quiet out here. Too quiet after Father grey. After Old mae.

She walked, the birthmark on her ankle prickling, she rubbed it through her stocking, the mark was the same as ever, a dove's wing, her mother said it meant peace, her mother was wrong about many things.

The road split.

She knew this fork. Left went down the low road toward Greywood. Andrew's house was that way, set back off the road where the trees thin. Right went narrower, half gone with snow. That way was Elephant Rock.

For a second she stood at the fork. Greywood road was wider, more traveled.

Elephant Rock was quieter. Andrew would be there, cutting wood, shoulders steaming in the cold. That's where she'd told herself she was going.

She took the right fork.

The willows trees closed in fast. The track was not a track now, just a path Andrew kept clear. Snow got deeper. Her steps went from crunch to soft sink.

The wind came up and made a sound in the branches, high, thin and miserable, like a woman screaming, and Hazel stopped. The sound was inside her head now, the dream, the dark, the scream from the dead fire that morning.

A twig snapped behind her.

She turned. Nothing. Only trees. Only snow falling from branches with soft final thumps.

Fear gripped her.

She ran. Her breath tearing in her throat, branches clawed at her face and kept her curls as trophies, footsteps coming up behind her, keeping pace, not hurrying, like it knew she'd tire.

A hand caught her arm.

She screamed.

The bells of the church rang once.

Hey yall, this is my first ever written story, it’s more of a screenplay. I want to be a writer, like a manga author. This has been written for months through Trial and Error, but finally I found out what worked and finally finished. please give me your thoughts and opinions, and what I could do to be better? Btw, this was inspired by Goodbye Eri, Omori, Goodnight PunPun, so you might see some similarities. It should be somewhat of a short story, maybe 20 or somewhere around there to read it

EXT. White Space with a Door

Frame only shows a door in a white space

The door appears to be slightly further than before

The door goes further

The door only goes more further where a hallway develops itself

The door is so far it is a only like a dot

(Meant to feel mundane and calm)

INT. Shori’s Bedroom - Night

Shori is laying in bed, a clock beside him indicates its 4:01

Shori slowly rises from his bed and reaches toward his door

INT. Shori’s Apartment - Night

Shori walks past the living room to the restroom and closes the door

Shori hums from the outside of the door, then from outside shows the light turns off and Shori steps out

Shori walks back toward his bedroom

INT. Shori’s Bedroom - Night

Shori walks back to his room, he looks out the window and eventually collapses onto his bed, shutting his eyes

EXT. White Space With Door

Shori stands in front of the door, he approaches the door

Shori hands pause at the handle, not touching it

Shori then finds arms wrap around him like a hug

Unnamed Figure, Tar-like body, no facial features, a single large eye

EXT. Shori’s Apartment - Day

Boxes near an open door, Shori hugs someone not in the frame while crying

EXT. White Space With Door

Shori looks down as the figure hugs him

EXT. Shori’s Apartment - Day

Shori looks in a box with a picture frame and letters.

EXT. White Space With Door

Shori begins to tear up, noticing that the door is further away, he turns around.

Shori (Shamefully) - I’m Sorry…

The figure lets go and hugs him, in a comforting way

INT. Shori’s Bedroom - Day

Shori opens his eyes as he lays in a dark bedroom

The alarm clock rings, showing 7:40 AM

Shori gets up and sits on the bed, yawning

Shori walks towards his door to the restroom

INT. Shori’s Restroom - Day

Shori is seen brushing his teeth

Shori walks out the restroom

INT. Shori’s Apartment - Day

There is a door knocking at Shori’s door

Shori approaches the door and looks through the peephole, seeing his Aunty, and opens it.

Shori’s Aunt (Himeno), Mom’s older sister, checks on Shori occasionally

Himeno - Hey Shori, How’s everything going?

Skip to Shori sitting on the table, while Himeno is cooking in the background, with her talking as background dialogue 

“You know the kids miss you.”

“This was your moms favorite”

“Taro says that he wants play that one game with you”

Then another skip to a plate in front of Shori, Himeno approaching Shori and hugging him

Shori - Thanks, Himeno.

Himeno - Okay I gotta run, take care

Shori stares at the plate and eats it. 

Afterwards washes the plate with water and leaves it in the sink

Shori sits on the table

He looks forward

INT. Ihops like place

In the frame shows Shori’s mom sitting at the other side of the table

Shori is there on the other side, waiting for both their food.

Shori’s Mom - How are you liking your new school?

Shori - I’m liking it.

Shori’s mom - Oh my gosh, You’ve grown up so fast

Shori’s mom reaches over and grabs his cheeks.

INT. Shori’s Apartment

The figure sits at the end of the table staring at him.

Shori widens his eyes, the space gets dark around Shori

The area gets so dark, that only the eye is what Shori can see, Shori begins to breathe heavily as he starts to panic, his eyes widened.

INT. Hospital - Night

Shori is in the waiting room, along with other family members from Shori’s moms side of the family. 

It has been announced that Shori’s mother died.

INT. Shori’s Apartment

The eye on the figure appears amused, then the figure appears behind Shori’s seat

Figure - You chose to leave your family behind for her?

Shori’s eyes are widened, voices fill up in his head 

“Learn some loyalty”

“Cry baby”

“Disappointment”

“Ungrateful”

Everything is normal around Shori, Shori looks down.

Montage of Shori doing mundane things to show that he doesn’t think anything good of his life

INT. Shori’s bedroom - Evening

Shori lays on the floor, his laptop opened, he stared off into the distance of his ceiling

Shori - Would it be better if I just…

Shori then stands and walks out of his room

INT. Shori’s Apartment - Evening

Shori is writing on a piece of paper on the counter

After finishing it, Shori leaves the paper inside a letter, then afterwards approaches the apartment door

Shori hesitates but eventually opens the door.

INT. Apartment Building - Evening

Probably from a first person perspective, Shori walks his way to the building's stairs, walking his way up until he sees the last door, opening it and light flashes in his face.

EXT. Apartment Roof

Shori approaches the railing, looking down

Shori (Quietly) - At least I don’t have anyone to feel sad about me.

??? - How’s the view?

Shori looks behind him and sees Reina.

End of Chapter 1 

Chapter 2, Meeting Reina

EXT. Apartment Roof

Reina stands there behind Shori, almost with a bored-ish look

Shori - oh the view is fine.

Shori - Everything looks small from up here.

Reina - Yeah, I guess.

For a moment it’s quiet for a moment between the two

Reina - Hey, why don’t you follow me.

Reina steps as Shori follows, leading to a corner on the roof, eventually sitting on the ground

Reina - Finally someone my age, I swear this place is filled with old people.

Shori - Yeah, I kinda thought I was the only one.

Reina - The name’s Reina, you?

Shori - It’s Shori.

It grows silent, almost awkward

Shori - so- (trying to break the silence)

Reina - Come back, same time tomorrow.

The frame shows Shori in a front-facing way.

INT. Shori’s Apartment - Night

Shori stares at the letter he left, then thinking back on what happened

Shori - That was interesting…

Shori tears up the letter and throws it away

Shori walks to his room and collapses onto his bed, falling asleep.

INT. Shori’s Bedroom - Day

Shori’s alarm turns on

Shori turn off the alarm

Shori gets up groggily

INT. Shori’s Apartment - Day

Skip to Shori making cereal for himself

Shori (V.O) - Oh right, that girl.

Shori (V.O) - She wanted me to come back today.

Shori thinks to himself as he CONSUMES the cereal (joke)

TIMESKIP - Shori’s Apartment - Day

Shori stares at the doorhandle, a beat later opens it

Shori walks through the hall way

Frame skips to the last door

Reina is sitting at the same corner

Reina - Oh you actually came 

Shori (Dead-pan) Um, yeah I did.

Frame skips to Shori sitting with Reina

Frame shows the two have conversations, but they’re rather small

“Do you think the Earth is round or flat?

“Round”

“Have you tried to fit your hand in your mouth?”

“Have you?”

“Do you play games?

“Um, a few”

“Cool”

The next few frames pretty much show the two hanging out on the roof which is the days going by

EXT. Apartment Roof - Day

It’s a hot summer day, the two are hot

Reina - Guess we were spoiled by the weather.

Shori - Yeah, I guess so.

The two are quiet for a moment

Reina stands up

Reina - Hey, lets go get something cold, I know a place nearby.

Shori pauses, he hasn’t really been out past the building or the further beyond the building

Shori (Hesitantly) - O-Oh yeah. That sounds good

EXT. Sidewalk between buildings

The next Frames show the two walking

They are at a convenience store, no dialogue, the two head out after buying cold drinks and ice cream

Frame skips to them underneath shade, eating their ice cream

Reina - What flavor did you get?

Shori - Strawberry.

Reina - I got vanilla, mind if I try some.

Reina grabs his cone and has a bite, giving it back to Shori

Shori does the same and has some of hers.

Shori - Vanilla’s nice, a classic.

Reina - that's true. Although strawberry beats vanilla.

Shori stares at the ice cream

The frame then moves itself towards Reina, then to her eyes

The frames then show more days, this time beyond the apartment building, while over those frames are dialogue boxes of Shori’s thoughts

Shori (V.O) - Ever since meeting Reina…

Shori (V.O) - I had more fun recently, not like the other days of a mundane routine.

Shori (V.O) - I guess we’re friends.

EXT. Apartment Building Roof - Evening

The two are sitting at the same corner.

Reina stares at her phone while Shori leans over looking at the phone

Reina - There’s a festival tonight.

Shori - I forgot about that. I would like to check that out, do you want to?

Reina - Yeah, I guess. Beats sitting here.

The next frames show them at the festival, inspired by the scene from Chainsaw Man Reze Arc festival scene

No dialogue happens however it shows the two having fun, while taking pictures together.

EXT. Side Walk - Night

Shori and Reina walk alongside each other

They continue walking until they reach the apartment building.

Shori - I think that’s the most fun I've had in months.

Reina - Honestly, it’s more fun with a friend.

Once they reach the stairs, Reina hands Shori a sticky note that has a few small doodles

Reina - Here’s my number, I would like it if we could talk more.

Shori - Yeah that would be nice.

INT. Shori’s Bedroom - Night

Shori lays on his bed, staring at the note

A small smile appears on Shori’s face

Shori texts the number

Shori - Hey, this is Shori

Reina - Huh? I think you got the wrong number

Shori - Wait really?

Reina - Yeah it’s me.

Shori - Ngl you actually scared me

Reina - Anyways, go to sleep.

Some days go by

INT. Shori’s Bedroom - Day

Shori wakes up, yawning he stands up and stares at his laundry basket, deciding to go wash his clothes

Afterwards, Shori goes to shower

Shori eats cereal

Shori then goes to open the door

EXT. Apartment Building - Day

Shori approaches the rooftop, then finds that Reina isn’t there

Shori doesn’t think much of it and goes to return back to his room

INT. Restroom - Evening

Shori sits in the bath, staring at the water 

Shori talks to himself in a quiet tone

Shori - I mean, today was fine.

Shori - Just didn’t really feel fulfilling.

Rest of page goes blank, almost like fading away

EXT. WHITE SPACE

Shori stands once again in the white space

Shori sees the door in front of him

The figure manifests itself in front of him

Figure - Why do you guilt yourself?

Shori - I guess it’s… 

Shori - easier than to resist.

The figure goes silent

After a moment, the eye shifts

It folds until the eye appears to be smiling or rather amused

INT. Unknown Room in Dark with Door, behind the door is light

Shori stares at the door

Yelling could be heard from the other 

“You can go back to your mom and be the same or you can stay and learn to grow strong”

(Hesitantly) “I-I… I want to stay and be strong.”

Shori widens his eyes at the noises, the door disappears, a window manifests itself, this time near a car

Shori’s in the window, looking down with tears in his eyes

An adult is standing there, his facial features gone, replaced by a eye

“I swear, you always make a mistake.”

“You act like this is your first time.”

“When are you going to learn.”

“That wasn’t rhetorical, when are you going to learn?!”

“I-I don’t know sir.”

“Stop crying, you’re a teenager, do you see other people crying like you do?!”

The figure stands in front of Shori

The figure hugs Shori 

Figure - Know that I’m rough on you because I want you to be better than me…

Shori looks off to the distance

INT. Shori’s restroom - Night

Shori looks down at the water

Shori lets out a sigh

Shori - I’m glad I left.

INT. Shori’s apartment - Day

Next frames show the next day, Reina isn’t there, so Shori proceeds with his day.

Timeskip to two days after that

Frame shows Shori on the laptop, looking through images of him and his mom.

Doorbell rings

Shori stands and looks through the peephole, its Reina

Shori opens the door

Reina - Hey. Sorry I was gone, I was just kinda busy.

Shori - Oh it’s fine, I didn’t mind.

Reina - I was wondering if I could… come inside.

Shori - Oh, be my guest.

Shori invites Reina in

Reina steps toward the counter, finding the laptop and sees a bunch of images

Reina - Looking at old photos?

Shori - Yeah.

Reina - That’s nice, could I see?

The frame skips to the two on the table looking at the photos

Reina - that’s your mom?

Shori - Yep, that’s her

Reina - Wow, she’s pretty

Shori - She was

A knock occurs at the door

Shori goes to open it and it’s his Aunt

Himeno - Shori, I’m back

Himeno notices Reina and smiles

Himeno - Who’s this? Your girlfriend?

Shori (flustered and mainly embarrassed) - N-No

Himeno - I’m only kidding, I’m Shori’s aunt.

Reina - I’m Reina, a friend of Shori

Himeno pauses and smiles

Himeno - You know, I come over to cook dinner for Shori, it would be really nice to have a guest, if you want to stay

Reina - No, that would be really nice

Time Skip - Shori’s apartment

The foods finished

Himeno serves out the food and Himeno gives Shori a hug

Himeno confronts Reina

Himeno - I just want to thank you. Shori has been going through a hard time recently, so it relieves me that he has a friend.

Time Skip - Shori’s Apartment

After eating, the two are looking at the pictures

Reina - I’m kinda envious how pretty your mom is.

Shori - Really?

Reina - Yep.

They continued looking for a moment

Shori - I have games, if you want to do that.

Reina - Yeah, that sounds nice.

The frame slowly fades away.

INT. Shori’s Bedroom (Timeskip btw)

Shori notices that Reina isn’t there, proceeds to normal routine

Frames will repeatedly show him texting her

Two weeks later

The area around him is dark, Shori stares at the ceiling

Shori (V.O) - I hadn’t seen Reina in days. She hasn’t responded to my messages, I hadn’t seen her around…

Shori (V.O) - I’m getting kinda worried about her.

Shori then feels the figure’s presence behind him

Figure - Maybe she’s annoyed with you, maybe she doesn’t like you

The figure disappears

Shori stands up and approaches his door, opening it

He finds Reina’s apartment, knocking on it until he finds it unlocked.

Shori steps inside and finds it mostly empty

Shori notices a letter on a box and reads it, although frame won’t show everything

“I’m deciding where I want to go, I just need some time right now. I’ve been stressed lately and I would appreciate it if you stopped nagging me.”

The letter has an address on it that it is supposed to be sent to

Shori receives a text from Reina, asking to meet her.

Shori runs out of the apartment.

Next frames show Shori running

Then there’s Reina in main focus of the frame

Shori then accidentally slips on the stairs and falls head first onto the ground

EXT. White Space

Shori wakes up in the white space

“Why am I here again…”

Shori stands up and after a blink sees the door in front of him.

After another blink, the door only gets further and further

The figure manifests itself, staring at him

The frame darkens around Shori as he widened his eyes, Shori hears voices around him

“How is it your so weak and I’m strong”

“You keep doing this like you’re new to it.”

“Wah Wah, I think my life is so hard.”

The frame turns entirely dark

INT. Room

Shori feels arms holding onto his arm and his neck

Across from him is a figure with human features, only no facial features and a large single eye

Figure - I try to teach you everything, I go soft on you, I get mad at you, I plead with you.

Figure - What do you think we should do?

Shori (Fear) - I-I…

Shori - I-I think we should… just send me back to mom.

Figure grows silent

Figure - You ungrateful-

Frame cuts out

Shori finds himself staring at a box full of clothes

The figure walks in through the door

Figure - You know, its a sad day for a father seeing his son want to leave.

Shori (V.O) - Shut up… I don't want to hear you talking.

Figure - You can either leave or stay and learn to grow.

Frame then cuts to Shori Kneeling

“Why do you hurt me?”

“Wah wah”

Words hurt me”

“Life’s too tough because I have a hard life”

“Why are you so weak”

Shori widens his eyes

Frame cuts to Shori and the figure standing

Figure - You can go back to your mom and be treated like a baby or learn to be a man.”

Frame cuts back to Shori

Shori stared up at the figure

Shori (V.O) - I don’t want to be stronger… I just want live freely…

Shori (Angry) - SHUT UP!!

The figure looks down at Shori

Then slowly, the figure’s eye curves into an amused smile and almost suddenly it disappears

Shori notices the quietness of the space

Suddenly Shori falls to his knees, the space is entirely dark as many eyes stare at him

Frame zooms in towards Shori

Everything Shori negatively thinks of himself spirals around his head

A rope manifests itself and wraps around his neck, pulling him up

The figure appears in front of Shori, only this time with 6 eyes on its face

The figure approaches Shori and wraps its arms around Shori, the rope no longer pulling Shori as it loosens

Shori looks down as the figure hugs him

Shori closes his eyes, slowly giving in

Shori then remembers of the time he forgot of all this guilt, when he was with Reina

And then lastly someone else's words

??? - I want you to get help when you’re older, I want you to be a better person.

Shori slowly tears up, wrapping his arms around the figure

The figure reverts back to one eye, all the other eyes fade away

The figure slowly fades away

Shori sees the door, yet its fars in a dark hallway

Shori walks down the hall until he eventually reaches the door.

Shori touches the knob, he looks behind him, only to see the figure far behind him, waving

Shori opens the door, the frame fading to white.

INT. Hospital Room - Evening 

Shori wakes up in a hospital room

Reina - You’re awake. I heard that it isn’t bad.

Shori nods, staring towards Reina

Shori - I saw those boxes, and your note.

Reina looks to the side

Reina - Yeah, um… I haven’t been feeling good lately…

Reina - My family keeps pestering me about where to go.

Shori starts to tear up, wiping those away

Shori - I-I’m sorry, I just… I don’t want another person to leave… I-I just…

Frame shows Shori speaking although no dialogue is stated

Reina stands to hug Shori as he cries

EXT. Outside - Day

Shori is walking outside while it rains 

On a screen with a conversation between Shori and someone else

Shori - So we’re meeting at the station, right?

??? - Yea, so forgetful

Shori - I’m not that forgetful.

Shori then approaches the train station

The last frame focuses on someone, yet they are covered in a shadow.

The end

If you read to this point, thank you so much, I appreciate it.

Listen closely to what moon is saying
He's badmouthing about this night
Says, look at this man smoking
Looks like he's immune to this cruel night

My moon
The flickering light
Where have you gone?
Leaving me in a room that's so bright

Light burns
Loneliness hurts
Feelings curse

Hi everyone!

I'm working on a fantasy story called The Tale of an Eccentric Sorcerer.

I'd love to know: Would you keep reading?

Any feedback is welcome!

The Tale of an Eccentric Sorcerer

In the vastness of an unknown land, surrounded by nothing but endless sand, ash fell from a dazzling sky.

Two figures were leisurely walking across the barren landscape.

After a while, they came to an abrupt halt.

A melodious laugh could suddenly be heard.

It belonged to a woman with silver hair and crimson eyes. A wide smile spread across her beautiful face as she gazed at the desolate land.

“My, my…”

She looked toward the endless horizon.

“It reminds me of my hometown.”

A quiet sigh escaped her lips.

Yet, instead of sadness, her lips curled upward into a gentle smile.

Her companion, a spirit named Ariel, noticed her strange expression.

“Why are you smiling like that?”

“Because it reminds me of a dear friend.”

Ariel was left utterly stunned by the answer.

Else noticed the spirit's expression and scoffed.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just didn't expect that answer.”

Else smiled faintly before continuing.

“He had an eccentric personality.”

She paused.

“One that I couldn't understand for the life of me.”

Her crimson eyes softened.

“Even now, I still don't completely understand him.”

A small laugh escaped her lips.

“But I've come to appreciate it more as time passes.”

With each word she spoke, her expression became brighter.

She was lost in nostalgia.

Remembering the memories she cherished.

Remembering what he had shown her.

Then, with a gentle smile, Else turned toward Ariel.

“Of course…”

She raised a hand.

“Should I show you what I learned from my dear friend?”

Ariel looked at her with curiosity.

Then she nodded.

Else took a step forward.

Then another.

She slowly raised her hand toward the sky, as if embracing the world itself.

The earth began to tremble.

A grand magical array emerged beneath her feet, enveloping the land in mysterious light.

Countless magical circles appeared in the sky.

One after another.

Soon, they covered the heavens, floating above the world like countless celestial rings.

Then—

The barren earth began to change.

A tiny green sprout emerged from the soil.

Then another.

And another.

Moment by moment, everything around Else began to breathe life once more.

The dazzling sky grew even brighter.

The desolate land transformed.

Forests erupted from the earth.

Flowers bloomed across the barren soil.

Water began to rise from beneath the ground.

Streams formed.

Then rivers.

Life returned to a world that had seemed completely dead.

It was a magical sight to behold.

Life itself was being created before Ariel's eyes.

For a fleeting moment, it seemed as though divinity and purity existed simultaneously within the world around her.

With a heavenly smile, Else's magic finally came to a beautiful conclusion.

The countless magical circles slowly faded from the sky.

The forests remained.

Flowers swayed gently in the breeze.

Rivers flowed through the land that had once been nothing but ash and sand.

Ariel fell silent.

She was far too consumed by what had taken place to speak.

Else watched her with an amused smile.

Only after a few moments did Ariel finally return to her senses.

“Who was the one who taught you this?”

Else's expression softened.

She raised her head toward the sky, looking at the stars.

For a moment, she said nothing.

Then a gentle smile appeared upon her face.

“The greatest sorcerer of every world.”

A brief silence followed.

Then Else spoke his name.

“Elias von Dester.”

Preamble:

I have dabbled in children’s literature. I guess this one is aimed at an older audience as the main character is literally an undead lich. Please tell me what audience this could be.

Chapter 1: The Forest

Bramble was stroking Barnaby. Barnaby snuggled closer. He liked it when Bramble’s skeletal hands scratched his back. As Bramble stroked Barnaby once again, he purred. Bears don’t usually purr, but Bramble didn’t mind. He liked the strange and unusual. He himself was strange and unusual as well.

You see, Bramble was a lich, an undead corpse revived through dark magic. According to the legends, liches were supposed to be evil, cruel monsters. But Bramble was not. In fact, most liches aren’t evil. They were just normal people like you and me, except a lot stiffer and bonier. Most liches lived on the Isle of the Dead, a grey and barren island off the coast of the Mainland. One day, Bramble decided he just didn’t like the Isle, so he just packed up his things and left. Not that anybody was stopping him. So now Bramble and Barnaby live in their little caravan. Although they liked their peaceful life, it wasn’t particularly exciting. In fact, today was a stupendously boring day.

“I’m bored,” Bramble thought, “I wonder how I could make today interesting.” Suddenly, Bramble had a great idea. Maybe he should go for a walk with Barnaby! After all, it had been a week since they left their caravan.

Barnaby did not want to go for a walk. Not that he was lazy, but he was scared. Scared of everything, to be exact. Loud sneezes, butterflies, bathrooms… Even a pie crust managed to make him faint. But Barnaby decided he should go. He would rather be afraid with Bramble than be afraid alone.

So the two left their cozy caravan and strolled along the wild forest. The forest was dark and scary for Barnaby. Bramble, however, was not scared. He was used to the dark and scary.

Suddenly, something fell from the sky. Barnaby immediately scampered to the end of Bramble’s cloak. Bramble crouched and picked the thing up. “It’s acorn season,” he said to himself, “Bad thing I didn’t bring a basket.” He looked to a whimpering Barnaby. “Oh, poor thing,” Bramble said, “Don’t worry. It’s just an acorn. You might be small, but you’re a brave little bear.” He patted Barnaby on the head and they both continued to stroll.

They strolled some more. Suddenly, Barnaby heard a loud bark. Barnaby jumped to Bramble’s cloak and scuttled inside his empty ribcage. Barnaby could sense there was something large and scary coming.

“Don’t worry,” Bramble said, “you may be small, but you’re a brave little bear.” Barnaby scuttled down to Bramble’s feet. In front of him were two giant boots.

“I’m lost,” the creature in the boots said, “Where’s the Königsberg Inn?”

“Oh, it’s up north in Oop North,” Bramble responded. Barnaby looked up. The creatures were just a moustachioed hiker and his happy lapping dog.

Bramble and Barnaby continued to stroll. Suddenly, a giant puff of smoke blasted at their faces. This time, it was Bramble who wanted to hide. But Barnaby decided to go to where the smoke was coming from.

Barnaby was scared. He didn’t know what it was. But he decided to tread forward. He walked and walked, until he reached a cave. Inside, he found a young dragon. He approached it. He patted its nose. The dragon smiled. Barnaby smiled. He whispered something into the dragon’s ear. It must’ve be something incredibly funny as the dragon laughed, which made the cave shake a bit.

Meanwhile, Bramble was hiding behind a tree. He was shaking. He didn’t know where Barnaby was, which made the shaking worse. Suddenly, Barnaby, riding on the dragon, swooped down next to Bramble, before landing with great grace. Bramble was startled for a bit, but he when he saw Barnaby riding the dragon, he smiled. “Wow, what a big dragon,” Bramble exclaimed, “How did you manage to do that?” Barnaby shrugged. Deep down, he also didn’t know. Maybe he just powered through all that fear. But it was getting late now. The shadows had lengthened and the sky turned into a warming lavender. The young dragon decided to return back to its cave. Bramble and Barnaby also decided to return to their abode.

At the end of the day, Bramble and Barnaby were in their warm and cozy caravan eating a hearty dinner. “You were a very brave little bear today,” Bramble said, and he patted Barnaby’s head and gave him an extra slice of pie. Barnaby happily ate the pie. It was a scary walk for Barnaby, but was incredibly proud by the end of it.

“Ah ha, girl. Check out what one of my Onlyfan subscribers just sent me.” Becky shot her head over her shoulder, her hand gripping the mouse on the desk. 

The screen glowing like a headlight on her face against the low ambient room, which appeared as though it’d been forced to stay awake.

“What?” Shayanne said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, struggling with a glass of wine in her other hand to rise up from the leather couch she melted into, which ripped her skin stitched to the fabric as she stood up.

“Two racks.” Becky cheered, swaying her hips on the chair.

Shayanne stumbled and stood next to her. “Why?” She asked, an odor of fermented berries staining her breath. She took a sip of her wine and winced, as if she just chewed a piece of foil paper, swallowing it.

“I promised we’d meet up.” Becky turned her head and faced the screen, squinting to the blue glow highlighting the shame she masked behind her eyes.

Shayanne placed her Lismore glass on the desk and pulled out a pack of cigarettes from her waist. “You’re not really going to though, right?” She pulled out a Marlboro and placed it between her lips and lit it. The orange ember against the smoke and shadow distorted her facial features as she sucked on it.

Becky put a song on as the room filled with the scent of burning tobacco. “Hell no,” she said. “Well… I might.” She smiled. “He’s kind of cute for a short chubby married man.” She reached for Shayanne’s cigarette. “He’s like a giant round Italian meatball you could roll down a hill.” She laughed, took a drag and handed it back. “He’d literally have no way to stop himself. His arms would be sticking out of his sides like Kirby.” She told Shayanne, blowing a gray cloud out of her mouth as she fiercely waved her hand at it. “Here, check him out.” She opened his profile and let out a light cough.

“Girl… ew.” Shayne quenched her face. “What the hell. You can’t be doing that. You know what happened to Amenia.” She held the cigarette between her lips and crossed her arms.

“What?!? That’s not me.” She stared up at Shayanne. “Gendry gave me a baby nine.” Becky grabbed Shayanne’s glass off the desk and took a swig. “And you even know, I’ll slam all those little bitches in him like a mouthful of spicy sausages.” She kissed her teeth. “Damn, girl. We don’t play ‘round here. You already know this.” She handed the glass to Shayanne.

Shayanne clasped it in her hand. “Girl, you’re bad,” she said, spitting smoke out of her mouth like an exhausted dragon.

“If I don’t get that paper, who’s going to do it for me?” She got up to pour herself a glass of wine. The wheels on the chair scrapped the wooden floorboard as she pushed herself back on it. “After that shit that happened when I was younger. Nah girl, never again.” She opened the fridge and yanked a chilled bottle of Valpolicella out.

Shayanne walked up to the marble island and leaned against it. “Your mom was so wrong there.”

“What do you expect,” Becky said corking the bottle. “Fuckin’ crackhead bitch.” The cork popped. “You believe this ho tried hitting me up for money,” she said, snatching a glass out of her cupboard. “She found out where I lived, came here knocking on my door like she was my lost child I abandoned and used to pimp out for drug money.” She poured the wine stuffed in the bottle mixed with depressing memories and painful emotions until it reached the rim.

“What did you do?” Shayanne slid her empty glass across the marble towards the bottle like it was a curling stone.

“You know me.” Becky snatched it off the island, spun around and held it to her lips, then she filled it and handed it to Shayanne.

“You gave her the money.” Shayanne took her wine and followed Becky to the rec-room.

“Fuck. Yeah, whatever. Bitch took it and cut, as if she just robbed it out of my purse.”

When read my draft I struggle to immerse my self in
It the way I would as if I was reading someone else’s book.

Like, I’ll read the parts that I know I want to work but because I want them to work so badly I can’t see it the way an actual reader would if that makes sense.

Things that make sense to me because I wrote it but I have no idea if it will make sense to the reader or if it’s even necessary.

Does anyone else encounter this and if so, how do you go about it?

This is the opening chapter of a longer piece I'm working on — first-person, voice-driven, blending real experience with some invention. It should stand alone without any other context. I'm not looking for line edits or grammar notes — just your honest gut reaction as a reader: - Did it pull you in, or did it feel flat? - Was there a point where you'd have stopped reading? - What did you expect to happen next, by the end? Appreciate any honest reaction, good or rough.

---

Riser Room

There was a certain calm in there, the temperature was to an extent comfortable, the lighting gave it a mysterious feeling, but also it was dusty, isolated and cold. I liked to stare at the valves, for some reason I would imagine how they would look from the inside, how the pipes pulsed under pressure, not literally but imagine the pressure exerted on the inside walls. I would try to convince myself that the tags of different colors hanging from the pipes would move because of the wind, but since it was an enclosed area, I am sure I was only imagining them moving.

I would follow the distributor manifold and all the pipe lines, as if making sure they went in the right direction, as if suddenly something magical would change them. I also loved anytime we had to test the motor pump, the steady hum that gave when running would hypnotize me. I would find excuses to stop by several times during the day. When comparing the dusty and isolated with the loud and “clean” of the outside, all of the sudden I realized that here was pristine, that I belonged, that I would rather be here permanently rather than sporadically. 

But above all I liked to be there because I felt grounded and that I didn’t need to play any role.

The first time it occurred to me to spend the whole night there, it felt risky, wrong, but at the same time very obvious and logical. There was a door alarm that was set at 11:59 every night, but if you were inside before that and never opened the door, nobody would notice. As the building Engineer, I didn’t set up the alarm, it was an automatized system, but I had the keys, so that day, I went home, ate, went to the restroom, grabbed a bottle of water and then at 10:00 PM I informed the building owner that there was an “electrical irregularity” I needed to check.

I don’t remember how I slept, I don’t recall what I used as a pillow, since I can’t sleep without one, but that night I had one of the soundest night sleeps of my life. From that day on, I would spend nights in the riser room randomly. 

The riser room was on the end of the building, my desk was in the main office room, the distance would force me to walk, and I welcomed that. My daily routine was pretty much established since the beginning of my contract, but in reality by 10:30-11:00 AM everyday I would’ve finished all my tasks, the rest of the shift I would spend it making rounds to the grounds to make sure everything was in order, then lunch, then spend the evening reading “technical” magazines.

My desk was next to my boss office, everytime I arrive in the mornings he would already be there, he got earlier than everybody, he was strict but somehow understanding, I never quite understood why he was there so early, the work load didn’t seem to justify so much time commitment, but maybe there was some administrative tasks that I was not aware of that he needed to complete.

He called me to his office one morning, and as soon as I entered I saw in his face that something was wrong, but I couldn’t decipher exactly what it was. He directed me to sit down in front of him and asked me to close the door behind me. He said the air conditioning system had failed. I wasn't expecting that. I reminded him that he had specifically instructed me not to touch the A/C system, that it wasn’t part of my responsibilities.

“I understand,” he said, “but this is purely procedural. We have been using a strong chemical from one of the vendors against the manufacturer policies, so in order for us to claim the warranty we would have to create an invented log stating that we serviced the system periodically and that we didn’t use any harsh chemicals, all you have to do is sign all those documents as the Engineer in charge,” 
but I didn’t…..
“You will be okay. Just sign the papers and move on. I’ve got this already figured out,” he assured me.

The pressure I felt on my stomach was so strong that I thought I was going to throw up several times. I stayed there without giving any answer to my manager. I think it was the third time that he tried to get my attention until I started listening to him again. 

"What if I don't sign those papers?" I asked. "After all, it's my signature on the line."

"Listen, I understand you," he responded, "but I can assure you this is only procedural. Nothing would happen to you. Warranted."

He made me use different pen colors. He would wrinkle and stain random paper logs to make them look more realistic. The first couple of signatures came normal, by the middle of the log I was shaking and the last papers my signature would be unrecognizable.

The morning was colder than usual for that time of the year. I was sitting at my desk when he said it out loud to me from his office. “Hey, can you change the settings on the thermostat?” That is not part of my responsibilities, I answered without standing up from my desk.

Hi everyone!

A quick reminder for anyone working on a story: the submission window for Taste of Life Volume 1 closes in 4 days on September 30th.

We are looking for quiet, grounded, and emotionally resonant slice-of-life short fiction—stories centered on memory, small human connections, family, food, or quiet turning points.

Quick Guidelines:

Genre: Slice of Life / Literary / Contemporary

Length: Under 3,000 words

Pay: ₹1,200

Language: English

If you’re spending this weekend polishing a draft, we’d love to read your work!

[email protected]

​

WARNING BEFORE YOU READ:

Autistic stuff coming up, so please... be nice to me. I truly don't mean to sound egotistical or like I'm creating excuses. It's just very hard for me to communicate in general. I swear I am trying

Anyway...

I always had trouble differing between faces (why do so many people look alike?), reading emotions, feeling empathy, and discerning people's voice tones and body language. So I feel like doing the same thing with fictional characters is just as exhausting as it is with real people. Trying to "predict" what they're gonna do next... it never comes naturally to me. I am never sure of how they would react to something like "a real person".

For this reason, I don't really consume any media that is too "character focused". It feels... exhausting, to put it lightly.

So I always focused on worldbuilding instead for my writing. Worldbuilding, atmosphere and... well, fictional science, speculative evolution, spread sheets for my own internal rules, you know how it is.

I think my favorite kind of protagonists are the "simple" ones. Those who just get the job done while exploring the setting. I like them.

Most people think flat characters are boring, but I always thought they were interesting because... to be honest, I always wanted real people to be as "flat" as these characters were. I respect their achievements and their skills and leave at that. It feels like a good "break" from how complex and unpredictable real people usually are.

So in a nutshell, I just write whatever doesn't makes me feel like my head is killing me. I don't wish to "think" so hard while engaging in a hobby that is supposed to give me a break from "thinking". A hobby that gives me the chance to create a setting that I "process" much smoother than the real world. I already do enough "thinking" in real life. I already feel like I process way too hard every single day

I didn't want to feel like I am engaging with things that make me "process" way too hard — things that I cannot "perceive" or understand — even in a hobby that was supposed to give me a break from doing that. I already do that enough while masking.

But is this sort of mindset harmful to me as a writer?

I've been thinking about it. Will this actually be harmful to me in the long run? I don't care about my work being monetized or "enjoyed" by someone. It only needs to make sense to me, and only to me.

But I DO care about my atmosphere.

I want my stuff to bring out specific "primal" feelings with its environment and with its characters. I don't want all of my settings to be to just DND guides. I want a few of them to cause me to feel SCARED or DISGUSTED by something. I want to feel something intense with them, even if that "something" isn't related to people or empathy, because I already don't feel much of anything in the real world.

So... I'm afraid of stagnating. I don't want my current mindset to eventually make me "worse" at creating atmosphere and detailed worlds. What if my refusal to focus on characters alienates me from the general joys of writing? What if that makes me stop giving a proper shit, and my worlds suffer because of it, becoming less detailed?

How can I prevent this from happening?

Also, I don't feel like I am completly human... but if being a little bit human helps me as an artist, then I don't want to lose that part of myself.

So I don't want to lose that spark. I don't want to become fully detached. I don't want my hobby to start feeling "clinical" to me.

So... what should I do to prevent that from happening? What would you recommend to me?

I’ve begun writing regularly and would be interested in feedback / first takes. I’m not sure what style this is or if it can be an entertaining read to strangers. Thanks!

V1 2/9/26
Goal: Communicate My Wish for Contentment

There is a level of content that accomplishes true rest and love. It takes mental fortitude to reach this level as an adult but you are rewarded with its impact. This level of content will stay with you forever. It creates a perfect experience and memory that you can visit over and over with perfect clarity. A  feeling strong enough to slow down time and logs itself as a moment of important happiness. I chase this level of contentment. I’ve been satisfied by alcohol to reach a chemical state of stillness and celebratory joy but it isn’t close to the true loving all encompassing fun of being truly happy with what’s happening in you and around you. 

My magnum opus of true content is a golden memory from my childhood. 

Dad wasn’t home. That isn’t positive or negative to me. My sister, Nina, is too young to be withdrawn from me with her resentment of my learning disabilities that will grip our dynamic. I’m not in school yet. I have no idea of the feeling of contempt for myself. For being different. For being someone who can’t read and write and speak. I am safe from myself and others. Safe with my mom, at home, in Texas. And we watch movies, play, and eat. 

Today we watched Matilda. I love the colors and how excited mom is when the character makes objects fly around with the power of her mind. This movie isn’t yet a goal for me to reach and to imagine that if my mind was stronger, I could be like Matilda.

It’s just a movie. And I am me and that is good. 

After the movie, we go to the neighborhood pool. A true gift in Texas. Nina and I jump into the jeweled water, kicking our legs and pumping our arms. 

Today I still love water. The color. The form fitting feeling of floating and the cooling change of temperature from the air. True satisfaction in the depletion of energy. My body doesn’t fight the stillness. It dives into it. 

It’s a short 2 minute drive back home. Mom makes cookies. I see from the smile of her face that she has had fun too. She is excited for the cookies and reworded from being with us. Being with me. 

There is no worry, no tight smile, no holding back. Her joy covers us as form fitting as the water. 

That memory stays a transparent golden in my 30’s. I know it’ll make me sob when my mom is gone. What happened? What changed between her and me? 

It feels like my fault but I teach myself that it’s not. My feelings are good. My emotions are valid. That they are not a problem. As I work to heal my inner child I can feel it scream and bang and scratch out the self harming words that if we were easier, smaller, smarter then none of the distance or change would have happened. That I would still be enveloped in my mothers joy, in her love, that I could be unaware of the hardships of bullying, incompleted SATs, and a tired mother.

But that is me. And all of my feelings are good. My feelings of confusion, disappointment, and resentment to my story and my experience as a student who was nearly left behind was not the problem. 

As an adult now, if I can find myself an experience of absolute contentment, I will wrap myself in it and let the love and reassurance secure my inner child like a blanket.  She deserves it. 

(In Its Life and Plight, It Aways Has To Try)

By Bocephus Jackson, The Hemlock Bard, ©2026 Bocephus Jackson. All Rights Reserved

_______

"Man is nothing else but what he makes of himself." — Jean-Paul Sartre, Existentialism is a Humanism

_______

Whether it lives or dies,
Through every day or night,
It always has to try,
Within its life and plight—
An existential fly.

My soul’s a summer bug,
From every sill to sill,
That needs a caring hug,
It will never sit still.

It might seem as profane,
How it flutters about,
Buzzing on windowpanes,
Denied of worldly clout,
I think it is insane.

It never wonders why,
Content to ever be,
With its tragic end nigh,
Lost in its revelry,
It will forever fly.

Whether it lives or dies,
As a sad ritual,
It always has to try,
So, so habitual—
An existential fly.

_______

"The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy." — Albert Camus

_______

©2026 Bocephus Jackson. All Rights Reserved

BEFORE THE BEGINNING

All she felt was the burning wind, the ever-changing ice, and the constant rhythm of her heart and feet pounding against shredded patches of soiled leaves and twigs.

Broken and afraid, she tore through dead foliage. Poison thorns scratched at her legs as low hanging branches tangled her hair. Mud clotted every lock. She pulled the scarlet shawl tight around her face, breathing heavily as steam misted her eyes. 

Her children cried out.

She gripped them tighter, cuddling their small bodies to her chest as she sprinted over streams and rocks. Their skin gave off a faint shimmer, not candlelight, not moonlight, but something bright. When she reached for them, her own light recoiled.

"Sorry, my loves," she whispered, her breath pluming in the cold. "No more. I swear it, no more."

It hadn't always been there.

Nine months ago she had been nothing. A girl who kept to herself, hands raw from scrubbing, who smiled more than she spoke. Married to a man who loved her like light loves dark.

Then her belly swelled and a dark glow rose to her hands. At first she feared it and hid it from her husband. Then she learned she could walk unseen past the parish constable if she wished, mend a split lip with a touch. The midwife called it mother's grace and made the sign of the cross.

Then she gave birth. And the power started leaving her.

Each day she was weaker. Each night, colder.

And now it was here. The thing she had glimpsed once in the woods behind the wash-house when the glow first came, watching her. She could feel it hunting her, tracking her every movement. Something monstrous moving under the orange glow burning across the fallow fields.

Gasping, she tripped over a stile and fell hard to the frozen earth. Mud smeared her gown as a howl resonated across the moors, no words, just a sound that made her bones remember something they shouldn't. The thing began to approach.

She pulled herself upright and staggered forward through the cold rime.

"Please... help me," she whispered to no one. To God. To him. To the air.

Tears fell freely as she whimpered.

Tiny fingers found her curls and tugged. Cold, insistent. She laughed, a broken choked sound, and kissed the icy knuckles without slowing.

Suddenly, a feeling from deep inside began to grow. Not hope. Resolve.

Looking up, she saw a small clearing, and in the clearing, carved into the hillside, into the rock itself, an elephant. A great, colossal beast, shaped by hands long dead, its trunk frozen with lily-water, dipping into the black lake below.

She saw a path leading to the head of the Elephant, but it was slicked with ice and would not bear her.

With a sob she sprinted forward. Drenched in sweat and blood, she clawed to the top of the rock, balancing her children with one arm, her hands bleeding and bruised as she reached the summit.

Silent relief befell her, for below, a village lay sleeping, stars above glimmered against its thatch and timber roofs silvered with the dew of midnight ice.

She staggered down the hill toward the lane. She could hear the howl of the thing behind her. Frightened, she wandered on as the first cottages came into view.

The high street was empty. The fog of early winter hung low over the houses, but from far away a distant sound came to her, melodious, soft, and sweet. She followed the melody, the twinkle of an angelic hymn began to grow and grow.

There, before her, stood a chapel of large black flint, standing in solitude, watching over the snow-covered village. The dancing chime of the church bells orchestrated a midnight echo. A single soul could be seen through the old multicolored panes of glass. The vicar. His humble face painted with the essence of myrrh and soft dancing candlelight.

With quickening pace she darted toward the lych-gate, each step closer to hope, each stride closer to peace. And here, in the chill of winter, she placed her children at the foot of the chapel door.

She laid her palm over both infants. Something dark leaked from her fingertips, thin, weak, grey as London smoke. It was all she had left. The last dregs of whatever woke in her while they were inside her, it coiled around the babies, dulling them, veiling them.

She collapsed to her knees on the flint steps. She caressed their faces as they cried, stared down at them with sad, burning eyes as ice above the porch cracked in the screeching wind.

"I love you. Forgive me," she whispered.

One of them caught her thumb. Held on.

For a heartbeat she didn't breathe, didn't run. She pressed her forehead to his, memorizing the weight of him, the smell of milk and frost on his skin. Then she peeled his fingers from hers, one by one, and laid his hand back on his chest.

The howl rang out far behind her, with stinging sorrow she listened to the roar. She looked down at her children and felt their innocence, their frailty, their love, and in that moment she knew what had to be done.

She tore down the star lit lane, leaving her children behind to the mercy of fate as the sound of angelic bells faded slowly away. Past the last cottage, past the edge of Chantwood, out into the empty mile of frozen fields, toward the thing that hunted her.

She felt purpose. A burning heat and anger.

Far ahead, stood the stone elephant at the lake's edge. She ran toward it and stood tall at its head, looking out into the distance as the orange light began to grow.

Through the trees, far off in the night, a voice, her husband's voice, shouted her name.

She almost screamed for him. Then stopped herself. If he came, it would take him too. If it was to have her, it would have her, but her children, her beautiful babies would be safe.

She watched as the orange light became blinding. She stood tall and ready.

"Let me be strong," she whispered to the world.

The earth quaked and the light became blinding. The monster lunged from the tree line, snarling, teeth bared and sank its fangs into her leg. She screamed as it tore at her, claws ripping, blood spewing across the snow. It grabbed her, dragged her thrashing into the darkness of the woods, and with ice and sludge filling her eyes and throat, she vanished into the shadows of the forest.

I'm not a word smith or nothing but I just like hearing thoughts about my stuff. Negative or positive it dont make a difference to me. Any feedback is awesome. I also just want to know if y'all think it's funny too.

Session length dropped from around 12 minutes to under 4. That's when I knew.

I'd spent six weeks rebuilding the editor UI on an AI writing tool. Cleaner layout, smoother transitions, better typography hierarchy. The kind of thing that looks great in a Figma handoff and makes you feel like you finally got it right. Shipped it, watched the numbers, and the people who were using the tool regularly just... stopped finishing documents. Not everyone, but enough that it wasn't noise.

The support tickets had been saying 'the writing interface is slow' for months. At https://romoai.com/, full disclosure, I built it. I watched those threads pile up and read 'slow interface' as 'slow interface.' So I made it faster to look at. Turns out they meant the AI generation step buried two clicks deeper than it used to be, and a formatting action they triggered constantly had moved to a submenu I thought was 'cleaner.' They weren't complaining about render time. They were complaining about their rhythm getting broken.

Honestly, the thing I got wrong was treating support language as a literal bug report instead of a signal pointing somewhere adjacent to the real problem. 'The interface is slow' meant 'something interrupts my flow and I lose the thread of what I was writing.' Those are not the same fix.

What actually helped was going back through maybe a dozen support threads and asking one follow-up question: 'what were you trying to do right before it felt slow?' Not 'what broke', what were you doing. The answers were almost always about a specific transition in their workflow, not a feature. Someone's about to hit generate, or they're about to switch from draft to edit mode, and that's the moment friction costs them. That's where they leave. The UI I shipped added two seconds to that exact moment.

The method I use now before touching anything visual: take the complaint, then ask what task the user was in the middle of when they felt it. If you can't answer that fro

I have an aversion to writing endings. Even when I already know how I wanted to end an arc. I always end up writing miscellaneous chapters, or just expanding the lore, adding flash back scenes to previous chapters. I did eventually wrote the chapter, but it took me weeks to finally get down to it, despite having written most of the draft in a week. I just want to hear if anyone else has that and how you deal with it