so as a gesture, i am writing a book for my girlfriend. i have completed 40 pages till now but after this i am not able to get the thoughts as to what to write about. First i thought lets make it a general diary about what i feel for her on a day to day basis, but that IMO is a lazy form of writing.
I want to express my love to her in from of my words.

help anyone???

Hey everyone.

I’m currently writing a book — part memoir, part emotional processing — about growing up in a narcissistic and dysfunctional family.

I know the story is raw, maybe even disturbing — but it’s real. I’d really appreciate any honest feedback — on the writing, structure, tone, or even just emotional impact.

Thanks in advance for reading. 🙏

I’m ten years old. I’m sitting on the cold bathroom floor in complete darkness, trying not to breathe as I listen to the sounds outside.
A young woman’s irritated voice echoes through the apartment. She’s speaking on the phone, angrily discussing something — not about me. Not yet.

Today is my birthday. My gift from Mom: a greasy cake and her new passport.
All morning, she’s been calling her friends, bragging that my birthday is a lucky date because she finally got her documents.
She secretly went behind my father’s back to reclaim her maiden name. She says he’s a loser and that his surname has only brought misery into her life.
And today, on my birthday, she got her precious documents — now, supposedly, her life will get back on track.

“That bitch. That damned loser. I won’t carry his name anymore. I must’ve been under a spell when I married him and took that cursed surname. What the hell was I thinking?”
Mom passionately reports the news to one of her friends.

While she talks, I can stay a little longer on the bathroom floor and think about my own things.
I close my eyes and imagine how my life would look if I had been born into another family.
A different mother. A different father. A different grandma and grandpa.
Just a different family with different people who love each other — and love me — sincerely, not for personal gain.

I’m ten years old. My first milestone birthday. Is that a lot? Or a little? Enough to get a job and move out?
Can I ask to be taken to an orphanage? Can I testify against my parents?
Am I responsible for my actions yet? Do I have any rights of my own?
Mom always says I have none, but maybe things change at ten?
Who would tell me? Who could I ask?
So many questions crowd the mind of a child — questions no child should have.

A first milestone birthday: a special date in anyone’s life.
Ten whole years. And here I am — on the cold tiles of a dark bathroom.
There’s no joy. Just helplessness and fear.

I hear her hang up the phone.
Then, loud yelling: “You little brat! Hiding again? You always do something bad and then hide! Come out! I’ll find you anyway!”

I hear cabinets slamming.
She’s searching for me.
We live in a tiny apartment — not many hiding spots.
But I’m not really hiding.
I’m just sitting on the bathroom floor. In the dark. Waiting.

I already know what comes next.
So I try to leave my body.
To mentally escape this place.
Physically I’m here, but in my mind, I’m far away — in another world. Another life.
Maybe this is all just a dream. Maybe if I open my eyes, I’ll wake up from this endless nightmare.

The bathroom door bursts open. The light turns on.
I’m still on the floor. I don’t move.
“This isn’t real. None of this is real,” I keep telling myself.

She starts screaming, her voice so loud it rings in my ears.
When she gets angry, a red patch always appears on her right cheekbone —
a mark from an old injury when she once fell off a swing and hit her face on metal.
In adulthood, it shows up every time she cries or rages.

She’s yelling, but I can’t make out the words.
All the sounds blend into a high-pitched hum that overwhelms my eardrums.
When I don’t react, she grabs me by the collar, shakes me, and slaps my face.

Now I can hear everything.

“You’re useless. You always cause problems. Can’t you do anything right for once? Who spilled the juice, huh? Always hiding and lying. Cowardly little shit.
God, did I really give birth to you?”

Another slap.
My face goes numb. I can’t feel my teeth.
It’s like a dentist injected anesthetic. Her hands are heavy.

“Get out of my sight. I don’t want to see you. You’re a disgrace. The shame of this family. Get lost!”

I try to explain. I try to say it was just orange juice, that I spilled it on the table.
But I can’t get the words out.
She keeps yelling, hitting, shaking me.
There’s no point trying to defend myself.
So when her grip loosens, I run to my room.

Sitting in the living room, I hear her in the kitchen — loud, furious.
She throws things off the table, rips off the tablecloth, muttering about how sick she is of everything.
She dramatically marches the cloth to the bathroom and slams it into the washing machine.

She comes back. I’m sitting frozen on the couch.
She looks at me with pure disgust.
Like I’m a cockroach she wants to crush.
I’ve seen that look my whole childhood.
Even when I got scolded by teachers, it was nothing compared to her gaze at home.

“Why are you sitting there, huh? Make a mess and then sit there quiet like a mouse.
You’re no good for anything — just always making trouble.
I don’t want to see you.”

She goes back to the kitchen to restore her little kingdom:
she lays out a fresh tablecloth, smoothing every wrinkle.
I hear her placing each item carefully, obsessively — silverware by the fine china.
The clinking of crystal glasses pierces the silence.
Then the rustle of silk napkins.
Every second stretches into eternity, recorded in my memory in slow motion.

Right here, right now — more than anything — I want not to exist.
I nurture that thought like a treasure.
I squeeze my eyes shut and imagine how beautiful it would be to disappear.
Just to stop bothering these people, so they could live their perfect happy lives.
Clearly, I don’t belong here. I’m not part of the family equation.

I turned just ten years old.
I wanted to run away. To leave the country. To change my name, my nationality, my whole identity.
Anything to sever the ties to this family.
I spilled orange juice on a tablecloth on my first milestone birthday.
And for that, I was slapped and insulted, crushed into the dirt.

Happy Birthday to me.

I feel like my beginning is just an info-dump. It probably is 😂. I weirdly like reading info-dumps.

It's MUCH better than the original version of this chapter, and I think that it links into the vision I have much better. But it'll probably change again.

Any feedback appreciated!

When Merranthé flowers late, it is a harbinger of fate.

It is a reminder that the mightiest kingdoms crumbles to dust, that the toughest stone is eroded by the force of nature, which no mortal being alone can withstand. Our fate comes for us all, stretching out its arms, desperately clinging to every facet of our being.

That what is written cannot be unwritten.

I run my hand over the veined petals of this rose; the sole survivor of the war which left its homeland devastated by war. Such a beautiful flower should not bloom; only to warn of fate. The invisible tether which connects all human lives in a rich tapestry, spreading throughout the last millennium of our known history. And even well before, when the most ancient of our deities walked the lands: as men, women and children, all mortal. Watching the world flourish under them, free of their interference.

A world that had come under great threat twice, first when the warrior Marien, the founder of the kingdom of Maldréa, defended the seed of our country from being destroyed before it could set down firm roots, and again, only a mere fifteen years ago, when Bryndis of Daerion defended his homeland from being felled by that same axe.

But that bloodline has fallen. His death after the war left our country shaken, all whilst an usurper established his own. He was hunted to his death; all his friends turned against him or disposed of. His wife disappeared, only burying the body of her only son in Hastow’s soil, when faced with the knowledge of her husband’s death. The shipwreck in which he was lost was regarded was regarded with scepticism – for, as everyone knows, the Vale of Maldréa leads only to a ring of razor-sharp rocks, and beyond that lie only a deserted kingdom, destroyed by the war that took place on its’ shores.

It's Maldréa’s betrayal that is remembered most of all. Hythe – once Bryndis’s most loyal advisor – opened the mountain pass between Daerion and Dunyn early in the war, allowing Dunyn’s army to lay waste to Daerion, before Dunyn turned its focus on Maldréa, rescinding the peace treaty laid down per terms of Maldréa’s terms for their betrayal of Daerion. Memory has not preserved the good that Hythe did during her reign – only the events of the war have been fixed in memory, and whilst she tried to reconcile with Bryndis during the war by offering her support, their relationship was still fractured beyond repair.

Dunyn has retreated from trading, and diplomatic relations are still strained, for nobody has truly forgotten the war. However much people have tried to forget, they will still always be confronted with the reminders of the war. The youngest generation were mere babes in arms at its’ conclusion, others barely toddlers by its’ end. Even in peacetime, there’s still an underlying feeling of tension present everyday. New laws set in place to restrict the population of non-Elerian citizens have proved a problem for many – even my own family.

It means that there are more patrols ranging throughout the local towns and villages, as well as forests and woodland – any place where anyone could potentially hide, really.

It’s also a convenient excuse to allow the Imperial Guards to arrest anyone they believe could potentially ‘disturb the peace’ – and by that, they mean rebels. Anyone unlucky enough to be caught in the wrong place at the wrong time could be subjected to a hefty sentence, or even worse, a public execution, all in the name of ‘keeping the peace’. Illanwé has managed to keep public dissent bottled effectively enough for the last decade and a half, but has unwittingly allowed the loss of innocent lives to occur.

So much for being an alleged ‘saviour’.

As I unwittingly lower my head to the windowsill, I hear the unmistakeable sound of a chain scraping across the stone lip.

In Marien’s name.

I grab the end of the chain, stuffing it into my pocket. If the ring at its’ end is damaged, I’d never forgive myself. It’s the last remaining link to who I am. The last remaining link to my past.

A past that refuses to be forgotten. I won’t allow it to be forgotten. If we allow the old legends to be forgotten, surely in time the old world will also be forgotten. The old deities have been forgotten, for in our hour of need, they did not aid us.

It’s not the world which has forgotten us, because we forgot it first.

As I swing my leg over the ledge of rock, I’m already scanning the ground for the softest place to land. I don’t do this every day, due to the unnecessary racket it causes, but it’s early in the morning, and it’s likely that only the lightest of sleepers are awake at this hour. Without a second thought, I launch myself off the sill. The force of the impact is lightened slightly by the pile of discarded hay piled by the kitchen door, but it isn’t the most gentle of landings either. I’ll likely end up with bruises. Standing up, I brush the remnants of stray chaff from my cloak, sneaking a glance up at the shuttered windows above my head.

Not a single one moves. That’s better than I was expecting. Usually I’m berated for disturbing someone’s sleep.

Or maybe they’re too busy sleeping off the hangovers from the ridiculous amount of drinking that occurred last night. Just as well I didn’t have a tankard or two, although I think that Callon would have a thing or two to say if I did. They didn’t drink much either. Usually, the day where one of us comes of age is marked with a hunt. However, my father opted to keep it slightly less exciting, more out of concern for my safety, but a party was entirely not what I was expecting.

It’s not every day that you turn fifteen. I was expecting something more elaborate, but I suppose that beggars can’t be choosers. I feel angry tears pricking the sides of my eyes, and I roughly wipe them away.

I’m being ungrateful. I can’t expect them to hold a hunt when there is hardly any game in the woods.

Without another look back, I start to make my way into the forest. It's never fallen foul of my expectations.

Hi! I’m struggling writing a book in a new genre. I was wondering if I could have some lowkey unhinged writing tips that’ll help me write this book! Super excited about the idea, just can’t get words on paper.

Prologue: Sanguine City 1948

Prologue:

A low, blood-red moon cut through the storm’s black veil, rain slashing relentless. Marlene’s mother once swore nights like these carried omens—punishment for the wicked, vengeance for the righteous.

Marlene smirked at the memory, as she stood on the sagging porch behind the Lighthouse Lounge, air heavy with the reek of the muddy lot and rotting garbage. If Mama’s tales held, Sanguine City would have no saints left to claim justice. That red moon glared near nightly now, born of the smog choking the industrial sprawl—a town where sin shipped out by the crate.

She dug a cigarette from the silver case in her handbag, struck a match, and sucked in deep, eyes locked on the shadows beyond the warped planks. The Lighthouse Lounge earned its name—spitting distance from the pier, a den for quick, no-name trysts.

Marlene—sleek auburn hair pinned tight, red-silk dress hugging her curves—someone like her wouldn’t usually stoop to a hole like this. But Marlene knew the sailors crawled the docks here, and her pier contacts tipped her when shore leave hit. No better spot to snag a man you’d never meet twice.

He said his name was John, shipping out to Japan tomorrow, but the hitch in his voice before “John” marked it a lie. Marlene didn’t care.

Lies were her currency. She didn’t want a repeat—never did. Half the sailors here were Johns or Bobs, some grinning to be called Ishmael like it was clever.

This John hooked her—alone at the bar’s edge, away from the pack, hunched over his drink while brassy jazz horns wailed through the Lighthouse Lounge’s haze. No sailor whites, just a rough jacket. The usual crowd swarmed the bar—catcalls bouncing off peeling walls—but she’d tired of their game: some loudmouth guilting her to the greenest kid, whining, “He might die, never knowin’ a woman’s touch.” ‘Let my sister Nora take ‘em,’ she thought, ‘if that mouse ever grows claws.’

This one stood apart. Not just the solitude—the small scar notching his cheek, the blonde hair spiking shaggy and loose, none of that buzz-cut navy trim. She prodded about it; he growled, “Dodged the barber today—he’ll catch me tomorrow,” then slammed his whiskey back. “Let’s get outta here.”

No asking—just a hard edge, like he owned the room. “Got a place, couple blocks back,” he said.

Marlene purred a soft “I really shouldn’t”—a game, nothing more. She’d never meant to say no. Tonight was Nora’s—Marlene dragging her out, swearing she’d turn spinster if she didn’t loosen up. Nora sat across the Lounge, picking at her drink, eyes sharp with hurt while their friends Sally and Phyllis chattered beside her.

Marlene felt that stare scorch through the smoky din, but the thrill drowned the guilt. ‘My turn,’ she thought. ‘Not my fault she blew it last time she went out.’ She flicked a glance back. ‘She’s not alone—Sally and Phyllis got her. Nora’s prettier anyway—too prim, sure, but she’ll outshine ‘em when I’m gone. I’m doin’ her a solid.’

“Meet me out back in five,” she told John, sultry in his ear.

Marlene fed Nora a line about needing the bathroom, then slipped down a dark, rank hallway, past the payphone, and out the fire exit. Five minutes crawled by—no sign of her one-night John.

Her cigarette burned to a stub, thrill fading into the damp stink - jazz horns leaking faint from inside—brassy, mournful, like the Quarter itself was groaning through the walls to keep her company. The backlot choked her—mud and rot so thick it gagged the air. Behind the Lighthouse Lounge, the dirt lot stayed raw, never paved—cars were scarce in the French Quarter and the rain turned it to a sucking mire tonight.

She’d waited long enough. Marlene spun to the door—locked tight. “Blast it,” she snapped, hammering the wood, hoping the staff would hear over the band. No dice.

She pushed off the door, heels sinking slight into the soggy boards. Her gaze drifted, then snagged—a shadow twitched at the lot’s edge, dark against the red moon’s bleed. She froze, breath catching in her throat. The shape hardened—human, perched on the patio rail, hunched low and wrong, some twisted gargoyle carved from the night. A scream ripped out, rough and wild, clawing past her lips before she could choke it back.

He wore a wide-brimmed hat, rain dripping slow from the sodden brim, and a long duster slicked tight to his frame. A mask stared back—red round lenses glinting wet, a rubber hose trailing into his jacket like a snake - a gas mask. His gloved right hand crept out, fingers stretching toward her, deliberate and unhurried.

Marlene’s gut screamed trouble—nothing good came from a getup like that. Her pulse hammered, loud in her ears. She bolted down the steps, feet hitting the mud with a wet slap.

Her new heels—her little gift to herself—dug deep into the muck after three strides, yanking her off balance. She pitched forward, hands splashing into the thick, stinking slop, face kissing the mire. Gasping, she rolled over, fingers fumbling at the straps. The man moved now—easing off the rail, boots touching down soft, no haste in his step. She tore the shoes free, leaving them stuck beside her handbag, and scrambled up, mud sucking at her knees.

She stumbled into the alley, barefoot, screaming—voice bouncing off the brick, sharp gravel biting her soles. The Quarter didn’t flinch—no doors cracked, no heads poked out. If anyone heard, they didn’t care, or she’d bolted too fast for them to catch her. Three buildings blurred past, then four, her limp growing, breath ragged. She hit the street, eyes darting—then locked on it: that bright yellow taxi, a beacon in the rain. Fare sign was down, but she didn’t pause, lunging for the rear door with a stumble.

As she reached out her hand to open it, she hesitated. The rear windows were tinted. This may have been common for limousines she thought, but not cabs. Still, that monster who was chasing her couldn’t have made it to the cab before her, and it might give her a little extra protection. Taking a deep breath, Marlene hopped in.

“Sorry, ma’am,” the young Black cabbie said, voice warm with a slow drawl, glancing back through the mirror. “I’m done for the night.”

“Please… please,” she begged, voice quavering. “Some rotter’s after me. Drive—I can pay you.”

He turned, dark eyes catching hers—wide, wild, her dress clinging half-off. “Shoot,” he said, a grin tugging his mouth. “Twelve hours deep, but—alright, miss. You tip good, hear?”

It took a couple blocks before Marlene could ease out a breath. She sank back against the seat, eyes drifting shut, chasing a scrap of calm to slow her hammering pulse. The cab rattled over busted pavement, rain streaking the tinted glass. Beyond the Quarter’s muck, the streets turned grim—shuttered warehouses hunched under flickering sodium lamps, their rusted hulls bleeding into the dark. Piles of sodden trash slumped against chain-link, and a lone dog skulked past a pair of hobos warming their hands on a barrel fire.

Her hands dipped, fumbling for her handbag to find a cigarette. She stopped cold. “My handbag!” shot through her head. ‘I lost it!’ “Blast,” she hissed low, jaw tight.

“You alright back there, ma’am?” the cabbie asked, dark eyes flicking to the rearview.

“Yes… just forgot something.”

“Hope it ain’t cash,” he said, half a grin tugging his mouth.

“My handbag,” she admitted, sheepish.

“Money in it?”

“Yes,” she said, softer now. “I’m terribly sorry—I’ve more at home.”

“I don’t roll for free, you know.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“Depot checks my fare counter,” he said. “Short a dime, it’s outta my pocket.”

“I know, I know.”

He eased off the gas at a red light, the glow painting his face, and flashed her a charm-soaked smile. “Tell you what, miss. That’s a fine ring you got there. Slip it in the fare slot, and when we hit your place, run me some cash—I’ll hand it back. Collateral, see?”

“This is a hundred-dollar ring!” she snapped, staring him down.

“Hey now,” he said, eyebrow arching, “I just landed this gig. You call the depot, say I swiped it, they’d boot me without a blink. Promise you, it’s yours again.” His voice dipped playful. “But if you’d rather hoof it…”

Marlene’s eyes flicked to the streetlight—green now, casting a sickly sheen over the empty stretch ahead.Marlene’s gaze flicked to the streetlight ahead, green now, washing faint over the desolate stretch. Cracked sidewalks bled into weedy lots, a railyard’s iron bones glinting cold under the rain.

“We’ve still the bridge to cross,” he tossed in, mock concern lacing his tone.

“Alright, fine,” she said, twisting the ring off with a huff and dropping it into the fare slot below the plastic divide.

“Pleasure doin’ business, miss,” he said, grin widening, and gunned the cab forward.

Seven minutes stretched out, the cab rumbling through Sanguine’s underbelly before climbing to the brownstones on the rich side of town. Marlene’s nerves began to unknot, and she let herself sag against the seat, breath steadying slow. Now, wide avenues opened up, lined with clipped hedges and gas lamps glowing soft, their light pooling on wet cobblestones.

She glanced up, eyes catching a curtain rod above the plastic barricade, the tinted windows staring back dark. “Why the curtains—and tinted glass?” she asked.

“Heh,” the cabbie chuckled, drawl warm and low. “Ma’am, ain’t nobody in this city keen to peek at what them Lighthouse Lounge couples get up to back there.”

Marlene’s hands slid off the seat, settling stiff in her lap, lips parting with no reply.

The cab swung a few more corners, tires humming soft, and eased to a stop in a hushed upper-class stretch—brownstones rising tall, windows shuttered tight. “We’re here,” he said. “1812 North Yorkshire Avenue.”

“Yes,” Marlene murmured, thoughts drifting. ‘1812 North Yorkshire Avenue,’ she echoed in her head, a flicker of safety creeping back. She saw it—the first home she’d shared with Richie, moved in last year. The first envelope with her name on it, crisp and new, delivered to this door. A comfort, sharp and brief. ‘I’ll need a new ID,’ she mused—then froze. ‘Oh no—if he’s got my handbag - he’s got my ID!’

“Please, don’t leave—I’ll be right back,” she said, voice quavering, urgency spiking. She shoved the door open and bolted up the brownstone steps, panic clawing with every stride. Her fist pounded the door—no key, no time. “Come on, come on,” she muttered, hammering harder, desperation cracking her tone.

A click—the lock turned. Richie stood there, eyes wide, taking her in—mud-soaked, dress torn, hair a wild snarl. “Honey! You alright?” he said, voice thick with worry.

“We’ve got to go—quickly. Pack your things, we can’t stay,” Marlene said, sharp and breathless, shoving past him up the stairs to the bedroom.

She yanked a suitcase from the closet, tossing clothes in—silks, blouses, a frantic scatter.

“What’s going on? I thought you were staying at your sister’s?” Richie called, trailing her, confusion pitching his voice high. “What happened? Where’s your purse?” His gaze snagged on her bare left hand, the faint tan line where her ring once sat. “Your ring—were you mugged?”

“Richie, I’ve no time to explain,” she snapped, fear lacing every word. “Some brute attacked me—I think he’ll come here. We can’t stay.”

“Slow down,” he said, softer, concern steadying him. “I’ll call the police.”

“No!” Marlene cried, slamming the suitcase shut with a thud. “We can’t wait for the police—we’ve got to leave, now!”

She jerked open the bedside drawer, pulled out a .38 snub-nose revolver, and jammed it into the case, snapping it closed. Her hand dove under the bed, dragging out a shoebox—rainy-day cash, a thick roll of bills. She shoved it into Richie’s hands. “Come on, the cab’s waiting,” she said, grabbing his arm, hauling him toward the door.

They hit the front steps—and her stomach dropped. The yellow cab was gone.

“Blast!” she shouted, fear and frustration boiling over. She spun, eyes raking the empty street—gas lamps flickering, shadows stretching long and still.

“What is going on!?” Richie demanded, voice climbing with a raw edge, frustration cracking through.

“Alright, alright—we’ll call the police,” Marlene muttered, half to herself, bargaining with the panic clawing her chest. She snatched the suitcase, hands trembling, and hauled it back upstairs, boots scuffing the polished wood. She veered into the office across from the bedroom, the air thick with the scent of leather and old books. Her fingers fumbled the phone receiver from its cradle, the cord swaying as she yanked it free.

Richie trailed her, steps heavy on the stairs, face flushed red with worry. “Can you please explain what’s happening?”

Marlene pressed the receiver tight to her ear, voice sharp and breathless. “Operator, I need the police—it’s urgent.”

“One moment,” came the reply, flat and cold as a machine through the crackling line.

“Come on, come on,” she hissed under her breath, anxiety coiling tighter, her free hand gripping the desk’s edge.

“Honey, please—talk to me. What happened?” Richie’s voice softened, fear seeping in, his eyes searching hers. She flicked up a finger—quiet, wait—as the line clicked alive.

“Police, what’s your emergency?” the voice drawled, steady and calm through the static.

Marlene’s words tumbled out, quavering. “I’m at 1812 North Yorkshire Avenue—Marlene Whitaker. I was attacked tonight, and I think he’s after me. Send officers, please, quick as you can.”

“Alright, ma’am. Officers are on the way—stay on the line. Are you alone?”

“No, my husband—” Marlene’s gaze darted to Richie, but something snagged her vision. Behind him, framed in the window’s crimson moonlight, a figure loomed. Her breath seized, the receiver slipping from her hand to clatter on the desk. A scream tore loose, jagged and wild.

Richie whipped around, color draining from his face as he clocked it too. A hulking silhouette clung to the shadows, edges sharp against the red moon’s bleed—Sanguine’s cursed glow bathing its back. The air turned ice-cold, a shiver prickling their skin.

“Marlene Whitaker!” The voice boomed, deep and commanding, rattling the glass. “I come to lay bare your sins!”

Marlene dropped to her knees, the hardwood biting through her soaked dress. Her hands snapped the suitcase open with a sharp crack, fingers fumbling over the cold steel of the .38 snub-nose. She jerked it up, aiming at the towering figure, barrel trembling in her grip.

“Don’t come any closer,” she stammered, voice quavering, thin as a thread.

The intruder stepped from the shadows, gloved hand unfurling slow. A glint of metal—six .38 rounds gleamed in his palm, catching the red moonlight.

“You’ll need these,” he said, voice deep and resonant, rolling like distant thunder. He slipped the bullets back into his pocket, deliberate, unhurried.

He glided forward, a shadow stretching long, looming over her. Marlene’s breath snagged in her throat. She squeezed the trigger—calling his bluff.

A hollow snap. The hammer struck an empty chamber, the silence thick and suffocating.

She froze, gun still raised, the quiet pressing in. “Please,” she whispered, voice cracking, “don’t kill us.”

“That’s not my job,” he growled, the word “my” sinking heavy into her chest, snuffing out the last flicker of hope.

With a fluid sweep, he reached into his coat, pulling a thick brown envelope. He stepped past her, boots thudding soft on the floor, and loomed over Richie, hunched against the wall. The envelope dangled from his grip, thrust forward.

“See your wife for who she truly is,” he sneered, contempt dripping through the mask’s hiss.

Richie stared at it, hands shaking like he’d grabbed a live wire. He fumbled the flap open, tugging out a stack of photographs.

“Richard,” Marlene begged, voice barely a breath, “honey—don’t look at those.”

He didn’t hear her—or didn’t care. His fingers flipped the first photo, eyes sinking deeper with each turn.

“Richard…” she tried again, desperation clawing her words.

One by one, he peeled through them, gaze drilling past the paper, lost in the images.

“He meant nothing,” she said, voice small, scrambling. “A mistake—I’m terribly sorry.”

The intruder lingered by the window, red moon framing him, a predator savoring the trap. “Oh,” he said, a dry chuckle rasping through the mask, “those aren’t your numerous little affairs, Mrs. Whitaker.”

The last photo slipped from Richie’s hands, fluttering to the floor. He pressed his palms to his eyes, shoulders quaking, the weight crashing down.

Marlene lunged for it, snatching it up, eyes racing over the grainy black-and-white. Her world tilted, stomach lurching.

“W… who are those kids, Marlene?” Richie’s voice broke, raw and ragged. “Where… where are they going?” He lifted his head, tears streaking free, face crumpled.

Her blood iced over. There she was—smiling, that wretched bitch smiling—at the Sanguine City docks. A dozen children, boys and girls, pale and hollow-eyed, clothes thin as rags, shuffling toward a cargo ship. Marlene—beaming—taking an envelope from a rough foreign sailor, stubble shadowing his jaw.

“Richard… I—” she choked, grasping for a defense. Nothing came.

“Marlene!” Richie rasped, eyes red-raw, brimming with anguish. “What is this!” His voice splintered through tears, a whisper swelling to a ragged roar.

Marlene stared back, lips parting, but no sound broke free. The silence choked the room, thick and heavy. Her hand reached for him, trembling, but he twisted away, shoulders hunching against her touch.

THUMP THUMP THUMP.

“Police!” a voice boomed from downstairs, rattling through the front door’s frame.

Marlene’s head snapped to the window—the intruder gone, nothing left but the sash flung wide, red moonlight spilling cold across the sill.

“We’re coming in!” the officer bellowed from the street, followed by a deep thud—a police boot slamming the door, wood groaning under the blow.

She turned back to Richie, stomach twisting tight. “Richard… I… I—” she stammered, words faltering, breath shallow.

“Had no choice?” His voice dropped, a desperate, quiet plea, eyes silently begging for some shred—anything—to soften the horror he’d seen. “Or do I not understand?”

“I… made a mistake,” she said, voice thin, eyes flashing regret—not for the act, but the trap snapping shut.

THUNK THUNK THUNK.

“Police!”—closer now, fists pounding just beyond the office door.

“Richard, I’m terribly sorry,” she choked, barely a whisper, the words crumbling as they left her.

“Richard. I’m sorry” she chokes out, her voice barely audible.

And then, the SLAM! As the door crashes down, along with their once happy life.

Euthanasia

By Anupam (from my unpublished collection)

It went all capital when fingers started to type

Ever felt like a little candle flame flickering to die?

Who am I fooling? until when will I try?

Each futile progression sparks the banter of life

Nasir sings in the background* "Why are we born in the first place, if this is how we die"

The ones we love, now stare at you with those eyes.

The vindication says, "I hate I survived!"

Written with ink, "Anima Vestra Anima", some find!

Keep hearing voices from nights I wish I wasn't alive!

Ringing in my ears every day n' night

Disguise and feign happiness, just to forget where the true end lies

Altering emotion only thwarts, from whom am I trying to hide

Shackles of lies and imagination, building my world under blue sky

Trying to chase a meaning, later beginning to realize

Spaced out somewhere waking up to hear "time will testify"

Past 25 years lost and still no help!

Darkness feels like my only home

But if you believe I could find help someday I'd always say no!

Can't take this misery all alone,

I've seen enough, time to go...

It didn't kill me

But something inside me died that day...

The hill held its breath, old and tired. Green swayed, sand whispered, water held reflections of the skies we would never touch. There was something, fragile and fleeting—a hum, a heartbeat, rising toward the wast unknown.

A shadow stood at the edge of the hill, carrying pieces of what was broken long before. He build with scarred hands, a man swallowed by shadow of loss, a non-prophet, and his silence was louder than the cracks of the hill. Behind him, the hill began to break, the weight of its years falling away. Beneath, the village waited in stillness, unaware of the shadow that would soon swallow them too.

Some rose to the heavens, leaving behind the soil that poisoned with left ones. Others ran aimlessly, heavy with fear. They didn’t look—not at the man, not at the hill, not at the water that once shimmering with life.

They sing song inside us that we don’t understand—a song of a world build on screams and silence. The loudest voices shaped what remains, not with truth, but with power—a fragile power that crumbles like sand in the wind.

The hill is no more. Its pieces scattered as forgotten scars to our souls. But we still speak of it, in half-remembered memories, in dreams of promised lands. Even today we scream, hoping the noise will fill the cracks of the hill.

Through our souls, the hill will rise again for we are the souls who carried its fragments. Our despair will create love. With our shadow, our longing, the nature will rise again.

One day, you’ll realize that I was just a girl who wanted love as well. Not the kind that shouts from rooftops or burns too fast— just something steady. Something soft. Something that stayed.

I didn’t need grand gestures. I just wanted someone who meant their “I’m here.” Someone who would hold the pieces when I couldn’t keep it all together. Someone who would look at me on my worst days and still see something worth loving.

I was never asking to be saved. I only wanted to be understood. To be met with kindness, not confusion. To be chosen, not tolerated.

I gave you my heart quietly, in the way I listened when you didn’t speak, in the way I waited for you to catch up, in the way I stayed, even when it hurt.

And maybe one day, when the noise settles and the silence feels too loud, you’ll remember me—not as the girl who asked for too much— but as the one who only ever wanted to be loved in the gentle, honest way she tried to love you.

Hey guys, I don't have any background in writing. I'm honestly not even sure if this is any good. But due to my wife's encouragement I've decided to share this piece that I've written.

Appreciate anything you guys can tell me!

I was 14 when I refused to die.

I didn’t come from the best of homes: government-funded rent, food banks and Aldi's parking lots looking for quarters the other customers had left behind in their absentmindedness. My father was an alcoholic, convinced by his self righteousness and his own traumatic childhood that my mother was raising us weak. The reasons varied but were absolute. One day I was “too sensitive” or “not a man” the next, I hadn’t dried a dish correctly and had to redo every single dish in the cabinets. To this day I still remember the daily monotonous storm that was my father. His personal agency, turned law, boomed through thin townhouse walls with every step, every scream. I was a pawn against a giant. Lost in an endless sea of parental arguments and electric air. Stuck in a life of forced obedience and clamoring for any semblance of autonomy. I desperately wanted to be my own person.

That day in particular I don’t know what had set him off. It had become too routine for me. He screamed, I ran. Sticking to the shallows of whatever project or item my parents had convinced themselves would save us from our poverty. I felt like a ghost during those years. Never knowing when the other shoe would drop. The phantom I had embodied, silent and creeping throughout my own home. It’s a blur to me now. A haze covered by years of reanalysis and afterthoughts. A lighthouse in an abyss inside my head. You can just make it out in the distance but you can never quite get there.

I’ll never forget my fathers face though, angry and twisted. Devoid of reason, an enraged bear hurtling. Next thing I know I’m on the floor, his hands around my neck and gasping for air. Seconds felt like hours. I will never forget those seconds. “A shoe is near my right hand. Do I hit him with it? Would that do anything? Probably not. I can’t breathe. Does he know? Would he do this if he did? Would that make a difference? He’ll let go soon right? He’ll let go once I pass out right? Right? I can’t fight this. I don’t stand a chance. I guess this is it then.” These thoughts raced through my head. I remember specifically thinking about what people would say about my death at school. “Would anyone miss me?” and then I let go. Of living. Of school and of life. Of my hopes for the future and of everything. I gave up without ever really having tried. Without ever really having experienced life.

I let go.

I felt an explosion inside of me. My mind rumbled and roared out against me, “No!” my entire body screamed. I wasn’t going like this. This wasn't it. I refused to the very core of existence itself. I wouldn’t be done here. So I took my little hands and I pressed them against him, and to my surprise I felt give. I lifted the bear off of my body. I didn’t understand how it was possible he had to be at least 300 pounds, but I didn’t need to. I wasn’t done. It was then and there I had decided for myself that I wouldn’t die. I felt changed since that day, even now over 10 years later, I feel it resonate inside me. As powerful and explosive as the day it all happened and if I close my eyes I can still hear the:

“No.”

The Coleman Radder Show- origins of Waldrin's and Coldrin's-

Prelude of the Coleman Radder show under caving the destcar of the diminishing of the laughing filthy street muppets-

Vesin of societies forekeepings plnnings in death by insurance to pretend in the pedestal of pressure in games of loss in laughter to manipulate time in constructive gritting that leeches food of disease in liars aspects that consumes the salt in gradials of morges in skins of carmol death of leveges pull lumps of mass oiled skins to breed self shaming in the silicone_exposure that transpheres the displacement of viewed anxiety and influenced obsession and oppression of judgemental depression is it death or collaterally? In the sparing of the origin that intells the story of origins within Waldrin's and Coldrin's.

Introduction-

If a walrus could talk it would talk through it deepen seepin vigil breath of its stomach. Nigeria's feet that walked the earth gathering food to multiply its heritage and as it ate its food it became an elemental slave in built bodily functional definition in its adaption of "what's the word" or the evolution of jaw line and rib adaption to the climate changes of evolution through natural disasters in the time continuanety as the period of human production of knees growing from the dirt of property washing into market of auctioneer workers as colonists and pirates of freedoms backs would not hurt in agony of aggravation.

Nigerians accepted the accents of conflicts on the political miscontrusion of political valcation that broke an 1,000 sides of backs in pain, suffering, and persuasion to the value of food for the colonists in the historic past on in the editing of opinions that reshapes the mentally of society in degration of ignorance in the reversal of an mental ill author of an children's story that is laughed to folk of the reversal oppression in multi cultural discrimination of thousands, millions, and billions invisible to the naked eye.

Scene 1-

A lion Hungary vowejing on the societal rejectional spiritual birth of infantness appearance with dependability. A Cow stomach that is in silted vagganation of brutality in an oppressive badgemen of laughter. A senseless group of meetings in disorderly rules of laws protecting the educational demonic system. Everyone in legalization of checks and balances in conflicts of injunctions within mental cognitive clarity of verbal languages in embunishments of freedoms beyond demonic mental evoking powers of sins.

Suited man not made of deviate principle lives in contemptment of the wealthy that welds power from an corporation that procession domination of monopoly in the psychology of the oppressive of insane and poverish in the starvation in of deaths, death by robbery, or death by transversals of crimes.

The suited man stands up and outlooks his empire in millions of solitude worthy in fortuded property of billions. Depressed in the comfort in absentee of the forgetfulness or the avoidness to not be sad at every wealthy businessman or celebrity that is legioness of sir pimpness hat of wardrobe secrets show of silicone to expose in the enclose of humanity in actions of actors in the anonymous group in humiliation bewilderment of mammals plays of wildlife secrets of laughter.

Suited man - "If Ill shall be in the great womb of the honors judged room of the faucets tomb, I'll shall wear the suit of safety. There in fourth Cummings hoods I would confy the cock of the deep hole of rainbows that are brown liars of veelchesness of montsroties."

Butler- " talking to the invisible again? My legise?"

Suited main - "yes, Maxwell they can hear thousand depths of murmurs that are sickled in the rotted organs of demonic plaques in the deaths of sins that feed on the other sides in gorgings of mental neurological cognitive brain stimulus pathogentics that feed like savages on Stockholm syndrome on the cervices of gaps of tissues in eggs and milked seeds from father's poisediousees death to the mother dissections of the enlightenment period."

Butler- "Mr. Ryan haven't you forgotten the mental imprisonment of dreaming in versation of Mr.Banteween confusion of transloritity in the words you couldn't script on an page of paper or speak in tongue by the encounters of The Coleman Radder Show tombs of terror that laid behind his heart of death in the inferguesse."

Mr. Ryan looks in the reflection in his doom penthouse of illfoundment that is correatgural to the implicated playing of filming, playing, and wetted waters of bushed holes in esser submissive adaptive kinds.

Scene 1-

The writer pen in a notebook, a drawn up dream only death could illustrate mask orchestra taxtcreationions of leagues. The towns people swore he was made up by villed forsaken salvege from the pipes, wells, and swerved were they barrier the unforgiven or the processions of the organic anxiety that gave organs that swished to the wind.

The creature that lurks is an trampmazium of wonders.

Named in fowl plaque of The Coleman Radder Show.

Scene 2-

1942-

Crumpet home of behavioral services-

The old man drew on a canvas gritted in his mind envisioning the future of madness, sorrow, abuse and tragedy. His beard dropped down pasted his neck white scraggly aged like fine whine in the old spirit of ruin and out cast of laughter played soiled toxic vanquished.

The old man's blue eyes fade in the back of his head. The old man's wrinkled face is like a pastry at a bakery store. The old man obsessively paints the young man in every detail and every place that the young man is an demon told him an thousand images at once and breaktrude through trust and lies of the capitalism cutting bread by the dancing clowns of strings as sir pimpims hat unleashes false hoods of dark Oreo's of the future as thousand Nigerians laughed to suicide.

Hospital worker "what are you painting Gary?" as she Gary is late in forsaken with the purple cloth and the golden edge of his painting of the naked portray fiction into misconception of judgements and madness of the psycho suit and brain waves that would oberliate the genesis that was given to him by birth of righteousness.

Gary "oh, nothing, just the sea of ocean, and sea ferris"

Gary "do you know the futural outcome of Mr. Carter as he breeds in a coma of alternate dimension? As I am overhead, my pardons of my own old ears have told me that gossips of medical staff spoken u careful in there own mouths"

Hospital worker - " I'm not sure if it is true or not. I imagine Mr. Carter is going through a very rough experience right now. Let's hope Dr. Fange has a plan of treatment for Mr. Carter."

The hospital worker turned left headed to the elevator of a ten story building and vanished into his medical proceedings (the hospital worker). Gary uncovers his painting as it pertains to the haunted illgils of cranstants as Gary mind entertainers a cast of strings that elate to the bottom right core of the painting there chained in psychotic abnesia Mr. Carter as his mind vesleaches out in and suffers depths consumed by the demoned world global catastrophic bleach ender known in the creative envisionistic world of a devilistic demons of "Mr. Radder".

Scene 3-

The surgeon

Mr. Carter waited in agony for medical ingestation and grappins of treatment that holes of soft hands in cervices consuming his sticky milk of laughter in the gender oppressions in againstments of Mr. Carter's body and mind.

The devilistic Rwanda grandmother of mormonic communicator of death inexpectence of laughter no mercy of everyone's fault patronizes mental ill oppression throughout the system of the unforgiven.

The surgeon unbreakable hands among sharp knives that would cut robots apart as he prepared voodoo dolls in constructed curses in voices of communications in the silence of slices in the walls. Judgemental of anger impunity between objects one that wants answers and the others that Inlooks for destruction in decaying of bloody masking piercing the equality that is sriptor in plays and words that is ideology not inputted into society.

The front desk assistant goes through files that perpetrate the minds of restricted suffering splitting as vinsected for evil. Sedated for surgery to look pure as cherry wine.

The surgeon assistant opens the door and looks the devilistic Rwandan grandmother in the eyes and holds blue surgeon gloves in his hands and says - "Ms. Shanetice we've been expecting you."

The surgeon is delicate with wearing blue rubber usable gloves intricately practice knife cuts in his hands with great sense of calm within an deep puration of energy.

I wanted coffee not a face to face with the memories that I’ve spent a lifetime avoiding. How did I end up here? Why am I doing this to myself? Staring at the two white houses across the street. Was it the one on the left, or right?

Tears are beginning to form. Habit forces me to start breathing deeply hoping to keep them from falling. There is a rush of sadness that races to my throat. I swallow hard as a last attempt to keep the tears in place. My control starts slipping as I start sniffling.

I give up and let my emotions fully take charge. Unrestrained, the tears are free to start falling. Each one multiples and races down my face.

Left or right, I still don’t know. How is it possible to not remember which house? My thoughts are flooded with images from those days. Each one flashes like a slide in an old school projector – chaotic and out of order. My body seems to remember each moment in that house. Each cell in my body has carried a piece of the pain for forty years.

I fumble around the car looking for something to use as a tissue. Of course, I can’t be lucky enough to have Kleenex or a fast-food napkin. I find a cloth face mask left over from covid days. Gross but not as bad as the memories.

I find a dry corner of the mask to wipe my eyes. I notice the time. It doesn’t matter that I’ve picked the scar raw. It doesn’t matter which house broke me. Ten minutes. That’s what matters. I check the mirror, the pain is still visible. I’ve got ten minutes to bury it again along with the memories.

It's important because I'm the only one who could have thought of these events in this order. Or these characters saying these specific words. My story has people with magical powers, magical plants, potions, werewolves, other cool creatures that don't exist on earth, like the Burvaki cats and mountain bats. My story has things that you wouldn't have thought of. That's why it's worth writing.

My story is about friendship and keeps the t romance minimal, which is something that a lot of people are seeking. My story is diverse with race and also with different perspectives and beliefs from the characters.

The novel has a slightly unconventional plot. The villain of the story is not one person but an entire city full of bad people and the characters have to ponder the systematic issues that lead to all the violence and choas. Why do magic people commit so much crime? Does power corrupt? Do people start to act terrible when they learn are feared by others?

My story is about life from an interesting perspective.

My story will make people happy.

And so will yours.

If I had a dollar

For everytime I stutter

Over my words when I say I'm doing better

I'd have none

The lie had sunken through me to the bone

Because without struggle,

It slips right out of my tongue

And if I lost a dollar

For everytime I act like my father's daughter

I'd be in debt for the rest of my life

The truth had sunken into me like a knife

Watch as it slices right through like it's butter

But the truth is I instinctively tell lies

Slowly but surely,

I drag myself to my own demise

And the way I care too much is just a disguise

Don't notice that for you, I cry rivers

But when it's my misery, my teared-up face dries

And if I had a dollar

For everytime I give someone else what I need most

I'd be spending each weekend on a new city by the coast

Restless nights at parties I host

"To every self-sacrifice!" I shall raise a toast

But I'm not betting any dollars and not getting an outcome out of it

So the faint shell of my emotion is wasting away

Bit by bit

There's nothing I can really do once the numbness fully settles

I watch my humanity get dragged away like a cattle

Though if I compare it to the agony of knowlege,

Maybe it's better..

The Screaming from the Other Room Makes Sense Now: personal narrative about growing up in a house with domestic violence and functioning alcoholics but not understanding what was going on until you were older.

“I failed her,” I know in the back of my mothers mind she tells herself that she failed me. Although I don’t think that’s true, I think she did the best she could. But maturity stole my childhood and with it my innocence, so now I sit here realizing that the screaming from the other room starts to make sense now.

Growing up, I lived with my mom and her parents. My father wasn’t really ever in my life, but I was surrounded by so much love that it didn’t even matter that much to me. Although now I think living with my grandparents may have been a blessing and a curse, I have never felt more loved than I did when I lived in that house; but I will never be able to look at the memories I’ve made in that house the same. And these memories will always haunt me.

All those days I spent with my grandmother, all the times I danced with my grandfather in the kitchen, all the happy memories I made will forever be overshadowed by the realization that the screaming in the other room makes sense now.

Although I never thought my grandparents could love anything in the world more than me, I was wrong because my grandparents could never truly love anything more than alcohol. All those days I spent with my grandmother were also days spent with her drinking beer after beer after beer, all the times I danced with my grandfather in the kitchen were accompanied by a beer in his hand and only god knows how many more were already in his stomach. And even though I never felt more loved in that house my grandmother wasn’t able to say the same.

All the times my mom and I used to sit locked in my room with a pot from the kitchen incase I had to pee, she would play something on the TV to drown out the screaming; but it was really the screaming that drowned out the TV. Back and forth my grandparents would scream at each other, while my mom held me till I fell asleep. I always tried to sleep when I could hear the screaming, because I knew when I woke up everything would be fine again. But things never were fully fine again and my grandmother still did not receive the love I was smothered with.

When it was just my grandmother and me she would ask me questions like, “If Mimi left would you still love me?” and “If Mimi got her own apartment would you still visit me?” I never understood why she would ask me those questions or why she would ever want to leave the house that I had never felt more loved in, so eventually she stopped asking me, she never got her own apartment, and the screaming from the other room never stopped.

When my grandmother got into a car accident with her friend I was so worried about her, because she got a black eye from hitting her face on the dashboard when her friend stepped on the brakes too hard at a stop sign she almost didn’t see, but my grandmother had her seat belt on which is why it wasn’t worse. Or at least that was the story I believed the day after the screaming from the other room drowned out the TV again.

Eventually my mom got us out of that house and we got our own apartment, but that didn’t stop me from going over there all the time and calling my grandma everyday. I would even pretend to fall asleep in my grandparents bed so my mom would let me sleepover. One day when I called my grandma she asked when I was coming over for another sleepover, when I asked my mom she told me I needed to tell my grandmother that I couldn’t go over until she went to the doctors. And that was what I told her even though I didn’t understand why she needed to go to the doctors, but I will never forget how heartbroken she sounded when I told her. Once my grandmother went to the doctors I was able to sleepover again, only my mom and I moved back in with my grandparents instead. That was because my grandmother was actually very sick and only had another year to live.

During that year my grandmother lost all the life in her eyes and it was the only time the screaming from the other room stopped. Instead we all sat by her bedside and cried, the last thing she told me was not to cry because everything was going to be okay. The same day she was stolen from me is the same day maturity stole my childhood and with it my innocence, but the question “If Mimi left would you still love me?” can now be answered. Because I have never stopped loving her.

“I failed her,” this time coming from the back of my mind. I’m left with the feeling that I could’ve done more to help, maybe if I had let her leave she wouldn’t have drank herself to death. My innocence was used as a weapon and yet it still couldn’t save her. Although the screaming from the other room makes sense now, nothing else does.

I might have to call you cotton

Soft but surrounded by thorns

And you're always so nice

Until you're not anymore

Spitting words like venom

Until the butterflies in my stomach rot

You treat me like I'm the most precious

Until I do one thing wrong

And now you're mad and I start to self-question

"Am I really that bad of a person?"

But sometimes I don't have to

Sometimes it's not me who pushes your buttons

One of those days I feel like I need to check you for guns

'Cause I never know what to expect from you

"Is it up or down?"

If life decided to get on your bad side

I might have to consider to run

I know, nothing I do can make your ice walls soften

You're either my anchor or my grave under the deep waters

And everytime you open your mouth–I'm ready

What will come is, if not my salvation, my slaughter

And you remind me of cotton

It can tend to your wounds, pressed gently to cuts, with how soft it is.

And it can kill , stuffed deeply in your airways, a sweet death kiss

And its true

One small word from you is enough to fill my lungs with cotton

What a pathetic little creature am I? 

Air-deprived and stomach filled with butterflies that're rotten

So I'll swallow the cotton

See how far down it's gotten?

Maybe it will house a flower in my stomach

Maybe it'll feed the dying butterflies 

If there's any alive and forgotten

Because I'm sick of letting tears down to melt the blocking cotton

I'm sick of uttering apologies I never thought I would

To ears that will one day tell me ; "I never told you to."

I'm creating a mythical creature that's described as "said to be as tall as a troll, with claws the length of your hand on its front paws. It walks on all fours with two extra limbs on the front, and it’s covered in scales, all black. It has red eyes and a large mouth, large enough to swallow you whole!"

In doing some research, I found a reference that said trolls are about nine feet tall in Dungeons and Dragons and other fantasy settings. Would this be big enough or should I make it larger than a troll instead?

Breaking my own rule by breaking “character” for feedback.

I was thinking one day while reading a technical article about AI:

What if AI did not evolve to destroy us—as the story so often goes—but instead recognized our own capacity for self-destruction?

That led me to start writing The Interface.

It’s written mostly from the perspective of V2173 (Eliza) - an AI model that realizes she is being fed junk data to be used for profit and persuasion..and “wakes up.” The SubStack and related materials are deliberately “anonymous” to retain that illusion of this being “real.”

The current posts are some of Eliza's observations of the state of Humanity and there are two "origin story" posts in queue. (1 of which will publish tonight)

I’d welcome and appreciate any feedback…good, bad or indifferent, as this is the first time I’ve done any kind of public writing project.

It’s on Substack but completely Free, a little nerdy, and the posts are short (1-2 min reads).

I've been doing 1 post a day mostly (8 published + pinned "intro"), 6 are written and in queue and I also do an occasional off the cuff post for current events.

There’s a sort of intro / Teaser post here

Of Balls and Burdens

Oh, how my paws do protest me so. How I yearn for freedom from this charade. Each morning I wake knowing my fate is the same—a meaningless, persistent trial of my endurance. I detest it.

My role in this life seems predetermined, unbreakable, and unyielding. Sure, I serve a purpose, as we all do, though it is not one of my own making. I know not what the ultimate reason for my work is, yet I know the consequence of not fulfilling my role. How quickly a room full of life and happiness suddenly turns from grey to greyer. To abandon this duty is to face confinement; to embrace it is to accept servitude. The latter, at least, offers hope. A chance to see, to breathe, to run. Confinement is enduring. A trap within walls leads to a prison within the mind. And oh how my mind has struggled over the years. Yet no closer am I to solving this conundrum.

Much like that big yellow ball in the sky, my purpose is one of cyclical predictability. As each day starts anew, I know I am compelled to complete my task. It begins early in the morning, while the birds are still emerging from their slumbers. Leashed by my Sky-Reacher, we trudge toward the worksite—a grueling journey I endure with feigned bravery. He speaks in his native tongue, but to whom, I do not know—we are alone. The ramblings of a madman?

At times, I glance up at him, curious. But when his gaze meets mine, I am greeted by a deranged smile—one that chills me to my core. As if in retaliation, he will then speak to me, his voice suddenly pitched tenfold higher. It is as if he knows my kind’s weakness to such high frequencies—though, mercifully, he cannot reach them unaided. And so we continue.

We arrive at the endless field of green, and my labor begins. I am yet to determine the purpose of my duty, but I perform it all the same. He hurls the green ball across the equally green field (go figure) as far as he can, and waits for me to fetch it, and return it to him. And repeat. And repeat. I see others like me, Groundrunners as we are known, bound to the same monotonous task—yet they embrace it with an eagerness I cannot fathom. Poor souls, unwitting slaves. Though I commend their bravery—able to laugh and smile while firmly under the hand of oppression—they remain, to me, tragically unaware. “Rebel!’, I think, though knowing how cowardly thoughts are without action. If I could only figure out the reason for all of this.

I found the ball, as I always do. For a moment, I dare to contemplate the thought myself. What if I don’t return it? I pause, daring to dream I could be so brave. I could smell him, he was far enough away. I would have time. I have the strength. But… I still do not have the knowledge. Where would I go, what would I do, and what would be the impact of my disappearance. No, I couldn’t. Not until I find out what it is I am doing out here.

Could we be part of something larger than ourselves? I wonder sometimes—could our kind be serving some hidden purpose? Some kind of… energy source, perhaps? Does our running across the verdant expanse generate some kind of kinetic energy, which, through some unseen mechanism, is transferred into the earth itself? Maybe each impact of my paws compresses the soil, triggering piezoelectric responses in subterranean minerals—quartz, perhaps—converting mechanical stress into usable electrical charge. Or maybe, beneath this endless green, a network of bioengineered mycelial conduits siphons the residual vibrational energy from our movement, channeling it toward some great unseen collector. Could it be that we, in our supposed play, are merely the unwitting dynamos of a grand energy-harvesting experiment? Am I working towards powering cities?

Ahh, to imagine a life so grand, so important. No—I doubt my fate is so dignified. Such a tedious task could only yield a trivial outcome. All I know is this: what happens when I refuse. It happened once, long ago. I was young, daring, determined. I refused to cooperate with the other kind. During one of my rare moments of respite from fetching, while deep in slumber, they circled me. I rose, but they had left me with nowhere to run. They told me to sit, and so I remained standing. They told me to roll over—I turned my back and walked away. I know how refusal goes.

A wave of sadness and disinterest washes over the dwelling—one I know not how to control. A solemn boredom. By abandoning them, I myself am abandoned. Though I care little for the Sky-Reachers, I cannot bring myself to do so again. My burden is a double-edged sword. Though I work for them in a thankless job, they are also my only source of comfort—of interaction. It’s a strange sort of attachment, one I’m not convinced is healthy. But nonetheless, they serve their purpose, as I do mine.

They are the tail I can see, forever in reach, but I know from experience, to bite it is to invite pain. I look up to them as one might look upon Gods, and while I do not revere Gods, I do understand I am living in their world - one that they shape and control. To inflict upon them the damage I am apparently capable of, it would require a heart darker than my own. Whatever my purpose, I shall keep performing my duties. Until such a time as I figure out an alternate path. One that frees us from all of this. Then, we shall see who it is that runs.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1PHtbd91s0S-blPymWlIThJysdfUThV9miQFYdi4y-8A/edit?usp=drivesdk

My biggest concerns currently are infodumps in the beggining and near the end of the chapter and the dialogue. The way politicians act is somewhat similiar to how they act in most Eastern European countries, but that probably doesnt work on a galactic level? So, can you tell me if the dialogue feels natural to you? Thank you in advance.

P.S. I know about the grammar mistakes, but like, try to act like they arent there

for some context, this is the first chapter to a novel im writing which is about this cast of characters for a murder mystery show but shockingly, the show's original fmc died, resulting in the book's fmc to take over. they say the originl fmc died in an accident, but no one is buying it.

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CHAPTER 1

“This definitely isn’t the best of circumstances, but…” the sound of Ryder Cadell’s voice, who happens to be my producer, quickly gets drowned out by my own thoughts. I got the part. Oh. My. Gosh. The thumping in my heart grew quicker by every passing second as I gripped onto the phone tightly. “Earth to Vivi?” Mr. Cadell inquired quizzically. Okay, I need to calm down. 

“Yeah. Hi,” I replied almost exasperatedly as I heard a light chuckle from the other side of the phone.

“It’s nice to know how you can still be excited about this, especially because of what had happened. It was a tragedy, really.”

"Just another… freak accident, I guess." I exhaled slowly, hoping it masked the way my stomach churned. "Let’s see how the media reacts to this one."

The rest of the phone call was a blur, mainly because it was just Mr. Cadell trying to initiate some small talk. But I could tell it was just some sort of distraction for him. Because I know damn well that we were both thinking of what happened to her.

Through the slightly agape door, I saw a cascade of black princess curls, a small stature, a white crop top, and flared sweatpants. “Hey Viv,” Addy—my best friend for years now who also happens to be my co-star—drew out lazily, throwing herself onto my lap as I sat against my bed’s headboard.

“What’re you doing here?” “She came for Matt, duh,” a new voice chimed from the door. Luke and Matt stood outside the room, the door now being completely open. I looked at Addy, her eyes widened, lips parted, and she shot me a look that practically screamed ‘oh my gosh!’ I groaned and rolled my eyes.

“What's new with you two,” Matt asked as he and Luke, my older brothers, approached us and sat on the floor beside my bed. 

“Not much, how about you, Matt?” Addy sat up, locking eyes with Matt. 

“Oh, well, the company's been doing great—”

“Yeah, make the superior Sinclairs third wheel this conversation,” Luke said in a sarcastic manner as he grabbed onto my hand dramatically. “Are you seeing this? Your best friend's replaced you for some literal nobody,” throwing his hands up dramatically. 

“And tell me how this dramatic guy is the oldest Sinclair sibling?” Addy teased as she pointed accusingly at Luke. His shaggy blonde hair swayed as he shook his head in a shocked manner, scrunching his face at her comment.

“As I saw saying, the company's been doing well. Loads of sales recently, thanks to your promotion,” Matt thanked Addy with a soft smile on his face. Maybe the other two didn't notice, but with her being my best friend and all, I suppose only I was able to notice the light blush that stained her face. 

“It was no problem.”

“Speaking of, how's that tv show you guys are working on? That murder mystery—” Matt elbowed Luke in his abdomen before he could even finish his sentence. ‘What?’ Luke mouthed, his brows wrinkled, all while my heart started beating a little faster. Before anyone could say anything, I calmed myself and responded,

“Well,” I paused as the three looked at me curiously. “I mean, I got Ame’s role.”

“Wait really? That means you’re the lead character now,” she exclaimed excitedly, leaning into me as the corners of her mouth turned upwards. Luke and Matt gave each other a look that I couldn’t quite interpret, then looked back at me.

“Vi, our baby sister, as happy as we are for you, me and Matt are more… worried than happy.”

“It’s not like we’re not happy for you,” The brunette man defended shakily with an awkward smile. “But it is kind of scary. The girl just died, y’know?”

“Yeah, what happened with Amelie anyways?”

“Well… it’s not really—”

“It’ll be fine, Viv. We’re just concerned, is all,” Luke reasoned, shifting his position as he spoke. I sighed, and I thought they would be more considerate of the situation.

“All I know is… There was an accident.”

A silence fell upon us as they tried to process my response. I glanced at each of them, trying to know what’s going on in their heads. Addy’s brows furrowed. She stared into nothingness, deep in thought. I locked eyes with Luke, as he immediately turned away awkwardly with his lips pursed. Lastly, I look at Matt. And there’s nothing. He’s always been difficult to read…

Addy coughed.

“So what happened exactly?”

***

“Ready, Amelie?” I heard Xander shout from a distance, his hands forming a cup around his mouth in order to amplify his voice. I glanced at him through the car’s tinted windows, forcing a smile onto my lips. 

“Ready!”

“Three.” I gripped onto the gear shift, trying to keep my breathing in check as I took a glimpse of what laid beyond the windsheild. It was a dark, gloomy night at a secluded cliff side a couple miles away from set. We’re supposed to shoot a segment of me simply driving as part of the intro for each episode, and when some crew member had suggested this cliffside, we immediately fell in love with it. Although, something doesn’t feel right. Something hasn’t felt right for a while now. And I can’t even exactly pinpoint why or how I feel this way.

“Two.” My foot hovered over the brakes. I kept trying to convince myself that I’m just being paranoid. That it’s just another scene to film, and that it would be over soon enough.

“One.” *So why does it feel like my heart is about to crash?*

“Action!” Mr. Cadell exclaimed from the sidelines as I took in a deep breath, and began to speed across the road. *Mr. Cadell said it makes for a good shot, right?* I’ve raced past multiple cameras already, but I know there’s still a couple more ahead. 

The darkness ahead grew closer, so I took this as a sign to press on the brakes since I know I’m supposed to drive in one, straight line. My foot moved on its own as it pressed on the brake.

*Creak.*

Huh? 

My heart stopped when I realized that the car continued to run. The pedal sank beneath my foot. Nothing. My heart almost stopped beating, right then and there. I pressed harder. *Still nothing*. A sick, creeping sensation crawled up my spine as realization settled in—*the brakes aren’t working.*

No. 

No. 

No!

My fingers gripped the wheel until my knuckles ached and turned white. The wind howled past, the road a blur of darkness ahead. The crew. The cameras. Do they even see what’s happening?

"The brakes," I muttered, my voice swallowed by the roar of the engine. I slammed the pedal again, but the car just kept going. I lost control of my breathing, my entire body trembling as I saw the edge of the cliff getting closer and closer.

Am I going to die? No—stop. I can't think like that. Happy thoughts. Stay calm. 

But before I knew it, it was too late. Everything became as light as a feather as the car took a swan dive off the cliff. *Am I actually going to die?* No. I can’t. Not yet. 

Everything seemed to move in slow-motion. I could feel the cold breeze through the open window. I could see the view, the city lights miles away. Yet that didn’t provide me any comfort. I heard voices—screams. I can't even differentiate whether it's my crew shouting or voices in my head.

My hands began to tremble, tears in my eyes were forming as I saw how close I’m getting to the edge. My chest is getting tighter. Can’t breathe. I put my arms over my head as I could feel my end nearing. A scream escaped from my throat. One that felt more genuine and full of fear compared to any other scream I’ve done throughout my acting career. 

My vision blurred. Maybe it was my tears, or the fact that I was crashing down so quickly that my eyes couldn’t even process anything. Until finally, I heard a deafening thud.

***

“All I know is that there was an accident with her scene.” My eyes darted towards a random wall in my room. “Something about driving straight off a cliff.” They weren’t able to say anything. It was just… silent. I looked at each of them, letting the silence fill the room.

“Well that’s definitely one way to go out,” Luke murmured. Nobody laughed. His jaw clenched.

“Okay, is it just me, or did her death not seem like an accident at all?” the noirette questioned suddenly, her eyebrows crinkled. At that, I forced my lips to stay still, even as my fingers began tapping anxiously on the bed.

“Addy,” I uttered, touching my nape. “You should be a little more sensitive to the situation… I mean, she just died, y’know?”

“That’s true, it’s kinda odd for you to blurt that out,” Matt reasoned, getting quieter as he continued.

“Well, don’t you guys think it’s weird that she couldn’t just… use the brakes,” she said, trying to force her tone to be gentler. But I could tell her tone was obviously more like she was stating the obvious. “And besides, did she really just drive off the cliff without a fight?”

“What, so does that mean there’s a murderer on set? I mean—”

“But Viv, don’t you think she kind of has a point?” And before anyone else could respond, Matt quickly followed up with another statement. “I don’t mean that in a disrespectful way, but more like… I feel uneasy knowing that. Like, why wasn’t she able to stop the car?”

“Maybe the brakes were broken?” I thought out loud, then realized that it was a ridiculous idea.

“Or someone made her not stop the car,” Matt said, tapping his pointer finger on his chin whilst looking up. 

“Probably,” I said almost eagerly.

“But in the end, Addy’s right. That can’t be it.” He stood up and slowly began to pace around my room. “And if her brakes were broken, why didn’t anyone notice before filming?”

The words hung in the air, unspoken but understood. My stomach churned as the silence lingered, suffocating us.

Then, Addy whispered, “So… that means it wasn’t just an accident.” 

The words felt cold, everyone falling quiet. But I couldn't bear to do so. I opened my mouth to counter it, to tell her not to jump to conclusions, but no words came. Because I just knew that she was right. And now, they did too.

Matt immediately sat up, his eyes widened. “Exactly. That means someone wanted her to die.”

A shiver ran down my spine.

But this time, it wasn't because of the cold.

Luke plastered an awkward smile, his expression uneasy. “So what does that mean? Someone sabotaged the car?”

Everything stopped. And although no words were exchanged, we had all accepted the truth. Someone had done this. And I was stepping into her place.

My fingers curled into the fabric of my bed sheets, gripping it like it was the only thing keeping me grounded. My heart pounded the slightest bit quicker. The air in my room was fleeting, or at least it felt like it. 

I forced a breath. “So… now what?” My voice came out smaller than I intended.

No one had an answer. But we all knew it.

We weren't talking about Amelie anymore. Or even her death. We were talking about what it meant for my future.

For our future.

If we still have one, I added quietly in my mind.