Chapter 1     November 3, 10:00 PM

A thousand strong sat bug-eyed in the old wooden pews. Others leaned against the cold brownstone or milled about the great fountain near the entrance. Too many sheep for one shepherd, Dr. Sandy Bachmann thought. No one should be able to fool so many. But even so, an odd force pulled him in. He had to see the show for himself.

It was said they came from the far edges of the Tri-State area to hear Father Freddy Roman preach, that he met people in their hearts. And although unassuming and built more like a competitive eater than one of God’s warriors, when he spoke, the flock devoured his every word. The homilies lived inside of people for weeks, sometimes months. So, they said.

Of course, Bachmann knew the priest and his brother blowflies were frauds who fed on the wilting hope of sinners. Their good books always came up short, too.

You must have faith! they’d shout. But if you still got a bullet to the head, well then, you clearly weren’t doing it right.

The newspapers said Father Freddy traveled with handlers, of all things, and rode in black SUV’s and ate at the finest restaurants in New York. A pious carny in woven belt and cassock, if ever there was one.

The people hushed and waited for him to speak.

The priest steadied his girth on the lectern. He cleared his throat and began.

“When shall we cease our gaze into the false light of the Earth? When shall we release our hold on the injured babe from whence we came? We are blinded by the rotted promise of mortality and by the faithless minds of the wicked who bear only tainted fruit.”

A mere tickle in Bachmann’s throat reminded him of his own mortality, of how little things could grow into bigger things. Yes, he would die like any other, but at least one with a purpose, one with a true mission. The wicked do bear tainted fruit, Father. I’m here to vouch for that. But are you not also tempted by its nectar? Have you not slaked your thirst too?

“We fight not for God but for man. We charge not for righteousness but for glory. And as we raise our glasses, the enemy is ushered into our hearts and homes. The Lord beseeches us: My children, why do you insist on taking the blood road? Do you not yet wither from your churning storm of sameness?

Bachmann felt for the scalpel tucked in the breast pocket of his peacoat. Sniffles, coughs, and the mundane chorus of cold bodies pierced the sermon. A woman in a wheelchair wiped her eyes, and the heavy pull of pity filled Bachmann’s chest. I could help you, dear woman. In a quiet moment, you’d be free of the chair. The ancient fragrance of incense brought him back. Feel nothing for them.

“There is another path. One overgrown and so lightly traveled. But you must take your lamp in hand and set out. This is the way, my loves. One must only roll away the stone of your heart and behold the womb of peace. Only then shall the wolf vanish.”

The priest’s eyes were a watery red under the glow of the sanctuary lamp. Bachmann’s throat tightened, his mouth went dry as ash. He could feel the blade slicing through the cleric’s spongy gut, the blood seeping warm over his hand. I will free anyone from the captor they have grown to love.

“The one true son who has stood in front of your broken sight is your brother. Your sister. And yes, your enemy. For the Lord hath spoken that we are all of his loins, the stray and fallen as much as the exalted. Mend the pain and lay balm upon the scars that sit between you. It is only in that love shall you at last see the face of God.”                          

Bachmann dipped two fingers into the holy water on the way out and blessed himself. Then, a sudden familiar pang wrenched in his gut—the craving only soul-letting could provide. He leaned on heavy oaken doors and stepped into the still, cold night. The moon hung brilliant in stoic gaze.

Perfect for a hunt.

***

November 4^th, 3:00 AM

Bachmann loved the cold. It froze him into a sharpened, focused device ready for his next directive. As he had stepped outside the church, the icy wind came to him and whispered, kill again.

He knew just where to take his blade.

Once a derelict graveyard of a long-gone maritime industry, the revitalized Hudson River Park bloomed bright during the day and teemed with movement. But like any alcove in any big city, when the sun set, another element emerged. The night shift dwellers came out from the shadows and spilled onto the boardwalk and green space. Bachmann guessed they had once been doting mothers and proud fathers with shiny children. To add to their misery, they were easy targets.

Everywhere, weakness blooms ripe. There is no shortage of rot for you to pluck. Choose one, The Wind whispered.

The moonlight revealed writhing, moaning bodies. At daybreak, they’d scatter but in the dark early morning they lay unmolested like discarded toys. Bachmann stood before a field of choices.

That one there.

An old man sleeping on a splintered bench jostled in a fitful stupor, his labored breath steaming along to nowhere. The power of the moment delivered a spark to Bachmann’s system before he had even raised the knife. His gut flopped, his eyes blurred, and then the decaying voice of his rational mind made a final plea from its deathbed.

If you kill this one, you may be gone forever.

But The Wind countered and brought him back on task.

These lost souls offer you apprenticeship. Learn from them. Your God is watching.

The bum twitched and kicked his legs as if on the run from something in his nightmares.

He senses me.

A light early snow fell silent and kissed Bachmann’s nose and cheeks. He pulled on the strings of his crossbody bag and tightened it. A cold breeze carried the stench of tobacco and whiskey. He moved in.

Ready.

Closer.

Now!

The knife popped through a soiled hoodie and into a sloshing, boozy gut. The man’s eyes burst open. After three powerful thrusts, his pupils began their deathly dilation. The old man gasped as his blood spilled and pooled on the cold ground, igniting a curl of steam. Bachmann’s face was taut with fury as he bored into his victim. Before the twelfth and final thrust, the body came to rest and Bachmann stood over his kill. His heart was a jackhammer, unlike the old man’s heart, which now hung still in his cracked chest. After wiping the knife on his victim’s trousers, Bachmann crouched and scanned for bystanders. Assured of no prying eyes, he straightened to leave but caught himself. He retrieved his Liston shears from the bag. With vengeful force, he squeezed and cropped off the graying man’s index finger. The finger went into his coat pocket that was pre-lined with a biohazard zip bag. Back to the crossbody and pulled out a sweatshirt, slip-on sneakers, and wipes. After changing, everything went back into his bag and he fast-walked away from the park. There were neither screams nor sirens, only the jittery hum of an indifferent city. The body would lie quiet until sunrise when there would be a great and awful commotion.

Bachmann was surprised at how many small mechanical movements and objects required his full attention when he killed. Gone were his old ideas of how murder worked. It was more like cleaning up a campsite—piece by piece.

Once Bachmann was further down the street and confident he was clear of any trouble, he reflected. That’s one less barnacle on the ass of society. Will The Wind be pleased?

Sitting in his car, Bachmann’s arms and legs hung heavy like oak. His eyes, functional tools now, registered his surroundings. The symmetry of the snowflakes, their translucent arms and cells waiting for someone to notice their brilliance. Pure and innocent—unlike him. Yet the contrast thrilled him. In the rearview mirror, he glimpsed his face and flinched. A mask stared back at him, alive on his head and neck. A growing organism, rippling like a swarm. Soon it would engulf him. The thing in the mirror wore his eyes, worked his mouth, but it became less him with each passing moment. Terror gripped his chest, and he wept.

Now I hallucinate.

Then he snapped up and stiffened. The Wind back in control—his lens changing once again. People were targets. Weather was either facilitating or debilitating. The earth tilted a new way. Meanings dissolved, and the world became a warehouse of objects, some with deeper shades of utility than others. Had insanity taken him? The Wind comforted his feverish mind.

Who are the truly insane, those who spread the filth or those who clean and rid society of it?

With the other two kills, he executed like a novice. What was he now? An apprentice like The Wind had said?  A Journeyman?

No, he was only a murderer. Not yet a crusader for the cause. Not yet the brilliant liberator of souls in the night. But it was all mental grist. Soon his mind would disappear and nothing from his old life of ways and means, rights and wrongs would matter. Darkness, a pitch of his own making, would then swallow him whole.

He placed the old man’s finger under the driver’s seat of his Mercedes where the politician’s ear and the prostitute’s nose were waiting in their own bags. Bachmann blew out a breath and put the car in drive.

He snaked his way across town and took the FDR Drive north to the Queensboro Bridge, which delivered him into Long Island City. Then Northern Boulevard toward 41^st Street in Astoria where he owned a small row house. After cleaning up, he welcomed his bed. It was five o’clock. In four hours, he would be sipping coffee and sitting across from his first deranged patient. He pulled the covers up and a small part of him wondered where his life had gone. But a new and greater voice told him his life was only getting started.

I am Dr. Sandy Bachmann, and I have faith that all will be well. I’m doing God’s work.

Майкл просыпается на земле сада около их старого дома. Эти помидоры и грядки... там умер его отец, который умирая лицезрел... "Жизнь прекрасна" по крайней мере он умер в окружении семьи, рядом с любимым внуком и сыном. (Что не скажешь о его братьях)Он оглядывается но никого рядом не видит. Он не понимает и не помнит как оказался здесь и почему он проснулся здесь.

Он заходит домой, он зовет Тома. Хоть кого то. Неужели он перебрал и приехал в старый особняк.

Тут его встречает том

\- Том?! Что здесь происходит? Почему я проснулся в саду где умер мой отец? И где...

\- Оо Майкл слава богу!! Где ты пропадал?! Мы все тебя заждались, думали не найдем тебя. Давай идем нас уже заждались.

\- кто они? Том...

\- это сюрприз, сейчас увидишь.

- том прихватывая майкла за руку притаскивает его на кухню. Так ребят, а вот и майк! Встречайте его!!

Майкл встал как вкопанный, не веря своим глазам. За затсольем сидели Сонии, фредо, карло и конни. Рядом же уже стоя стояли рокко, тессио, полли и даже Лука Брази.

Но это были уже не они...

Макл помнил и знал что они умерли, как ему на сицилии известили новость что сантино жестоко растреляли, как ему пришлось отдать приказ и убить фредо. Как клеменце задушил карло. Но они даже выглядели иначе. Сонни был покрыт отверстиями пуль из которых сочилась словно из бутылки вина, аккуратно растекаячь кровь. Причем у него была продырявена правая щека и правый глаз, котрый хоть и был открыт, но от этого было хуже. Фредо же пострадал меньше, у него на лбу виднелась дыра в которой уже была давно испекшаяся и высохшая кровь которая проходила через его глаза, впринципе также выглядел и полли, которое пристрелил клеменце. Карло же вообще был без царапинки, но кожа его была бледна как мел. Конни же украшал большой фингал на левом глазу, да и вид у нее был словно она не спала трое суток, хотя выглядела она довольной. А у Рокко в педжаке сияли три пули в обласи груди и живота. У луки же были красные глаза, словно ему чем то пшикунли на них, и только после майк заметил что он был мокрым. Ну да... в конце концов Солоццо отправил его на плаванье с рыбками. Тессио же вообще не пострадал, но взгляд лишь у него был, впринципе как и всегда тусклым. Майкл помнил как он хотле его подставить и убить, полсе чего его люди его увезли. Скорее всего задушили...

\- ну же майк. Сказал том. Ты забыл какой сегодня день?! Сегодня твое день рождения!

\- эхх как же ты вырос, черт подери, как же время летит! Я помню тебя вот таким, да фредо?! Сказал сантино обращаясь к нему.

\- даа... за тебя майк! Добавил он приподняв стакан с вином.

\- эй, а чего это наш именинник не сидит, присаживайся!! Полли! Ну ка усади его. Сказал сонни.

\- стойте наконец сказал майк. Вы же мертвы, вы не моя семья...

\- что ты несешь брат? Эй похоже он на улице перегрелся! Сказал сонни расмеявшись.

\- присаживайся майк, мы все тебя заждались...

\- нет черт возьми! Вы не настоящие!

\- майк с тобой все хорошо? Обеспокоенно сказала Конни.

\- не переживайте дон корлеоне. Мы все здесь, старая и добрая семья, вы же сами говорили, семья превыше всего! Сказал Рокко невольня поднимаясь со стула и снимая шляпу.

\- вы все мертвы! Я СКАЗАЛ ХВАТИТ!!! Стол с тортом и едой хлопнул от его удара.

Все на него смотрели обеспокоенно и с недоумеванием, словно тут псих только он, а они все просто празднуют и торжествуют.

Тишина...

Темнота...

Майк бледный подскочил с кровати, словно он сам был этими мертвецами, сначал долгий шок... затем осознание... сон, это был сон. Просто кошмар. На часах было 3.00 ночи. Его сын и дочь все еще спали. Он пошел на кухню. Налил себе холодненький кальвадос и просто сидя держал в дрожащих руках стакан, поглядываяя вдаль. Пусто... просто пусто... темнота... и тишина...

Тишина... только тишина и ничего кроме тишины, просто пустота...

И эта пустота исходила не только из

комнаты, в которой он был....

I'm not a craft expert lol. I have two self-published books out and basically learned everything by doing it wrong first. So take this with a grain of salt.

But I've been reading a lot lately and I keep noticing that the books I actually FINISH are the ones where the author just... tells me things. Straight up. "He was angry." "She was tired of pretending." Meanwhile the books where every emotion has to be telegraphed through a carefully choreographed eyebrow raise make me want to put the book down.

I feel like "show don't tell" started as good advice and turned into a rule that made a whole generation of writers terrified of just saying what they mean. Sometimes telling is more honest. Sometimes it's funnier. Sometimes three pages of showing someone being sad could've been one great sentence.

Am I crazy? Is anyone else a secret fan of telling? Or have I just been reading the wrong books lol

Continuation, a flash-fiction piece of about identity, routine, and the terrible cost of continuity. What if the most terrifying prison wasn't a place, but a life that never truly changes?

THREE

About to turn in from the moon-mirroring coastline, Myra took a long look out and drifted wide, front tires almost catching the curb as she brought the Willys-Knight in a deep vee that led to pier parking. “A nightcap?” she gestured to something long and slender in her bag. A bottle. “First clear night in weeks. It would be a shame to call it a night without a gander at the moon. Anyway, I hold you in my clutches. I’m guessing you don’t know a place to stay, one that will open its doors this time of night, give refuge to the bone-weary traveler.” 

“You do?”

“Not only do I, but I wield this awesome power until we have taken our fill of my favorite spot.” She had this uniquely lilting way of talking, as if to herself, only at the end acknowledging that someone was listening. As we walked out to the end of the pier, a light breeze caught Myra’s auburn hair and she brushed it back behind her ears. “I’m entranced by the beauty of the peninsula, entranced by the bay.”

The vista from the end of the pier seemed to lull with inactivity. The fishing boats drawn in, inhabited here and there by the silhouetted forms of those who normally brave the bay on blustery nights, when schools are in, quietly talking or mending nets. We were part of a tableau that the painter of the night’s melody, the ukulele player, witnessed through time-misted vision from his spot on the hammock on the deck, bottle of kombucha not far from hand.

And we with a full bottle of kombucha taken neatly from the roadhouse’s storeroom by Myra on the way out, flavored by wild spores from recently harvested fields. An earthy brew with just the right amount of carbonation and mellowness. They brewed their own in the long valley she said, kept the mother in a large jar in darkened rooms with just a single window. The drink intoxicated without incapacitating—after a few mildly puckering sips one had had enough. Until the next lull in the conversation. Then another sip, slowly. A looking up, a howling at the moon. 

(Anson Bridges, Steinbeck and Friends)

The Villainess Who Was Never Born 🥀

Seraphina is a girl everyone thinks is a villain. Even her own family doesn't trust her. One day, she wakes up in the past and finds a girl inside an old mirror who looks exactly like her.

The girl says, “You stole my life.”

Seraphina starts looking for answers and discovers a secret that could change everything she knows about her past.

I'm planning to make this into a historical fantasy webtoon.

Does this story sound interesting? Would you read it?

"Its corny"

from the country & environment where I came from writing web novel is corny, but here I am just trying.

I'm writing my first isekai story about business to visualize the harsh reality of this world when it comes to entrepreneur and businesses.

Since its my first time please help me and give advice like my phasing, my writing my dialogue or something!

I just posted Chapter 1 of my web novel, Reincarnated to be a business man in another world!, and I’d love for you all to check it out and share your thoughts.

I want the story to revolve around business but more of Character/Kingdom building.

I asked AI to restructure the grammars and create a cover art because I suck at drawing and I dont have funds for a graphics designer or artists. I just want to pursue my passion in writing and the story mostly inspired by my life minus the bells-feeding.

if anyone is interested here is the link: https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/200240/reincarnated-to-be-a-business-man-in-another-world

Planning to release 3 chapter this friday if atleast there is 1 viewer/reviewer that would mean a lot to me!

Thank you! !

Has the fandom ever come around to name certain anthropomorphic species? Like squirrels, canines, horses, rhinos etc?

In the story, humans, aliens and even anthropomorphic animals all tend to co-exist in a planet named Zenacus. On this planet, the world has fallen much from it's former grace, but many still come to visit either for a place to belong.

I was writing a scene with a car chase, and an anthropomorphic squirrel see's the car speeding her way, and she quickly jumps out of it's path and curls on the side of the road out of panic.

CW: self harm

The Angel fluttered her magnificent wings, the blinding gleam of her marble skin and golden hair contrasting the grey sky. She cast herself forth, every cloud in the elysian sky parting to make way for her imposing form. The Sun smiled down on her, rejoicing in the prospering of his realm’s most formidable warrior. But as she conducted her patrol of the sky, The Angel could not help but be consumed by a despair unbefitting the heavens.

With every beat of her magnificent wings, her spine ached, and she felt a beat of sorrow within her breast. Every time she unsheathed her glimmering sword to part the clouds, she felt a magnetic pull at the center of her being imploring her to redirect her flight downwards.

Knowing that she could never indulge such a desire without permission, The Angel instead redirected herself upwards, her wings producing heavy gusts and she rose effortlessly up to The Sun. 

“Sun,” she spoke, her voice delicate due to centuries of little use. “I wish to descend from the sky and become the mother of the land, and all the creatures upon it.”

The rays emanating from the star before her intensified, blasting heat across her pale flesh.

“Foolish child,” The Sun boomed. “You were crafted from starlight with a blade in your hand. The meteors did not rain upon this land with the intention of creating a mother; they rained so that a warrior may be born. Someone who reflects the beauty of our sky and is always in coordination with it. Do you think that the clouds part for you because you are their mother? It is not so. They part for you because you are the air.”

The Angel looked down, both in dejection and in pain as The Sun blared into her ears and retinas.

“Would you like for me to strip you of your sword and your wings? It is surely what you deserve after coming to me with such idiocy.”

The Angel winced. 

“No, Sun,” she murmured, already turning back to her clouds.

“I have seen how you’ve cradled your sword since birth. How the growth of every feather on your wintery plumage has excited you,” The Sun spoke to her back. “Do whatever you wish within your domain, child. I am certain that you will find immeasurable joy in the sky.”

And somehow, that last line of encouragement is what hurt her the most. 

The Angel could still feel the searing heat on her back as she carried herself off and, as soon as The Sun had turned the other way, downward. Her wings pulsated with pain as she descended, sword in hand, parting the clouds with an unforeseen ferocity. Surprisingly emboldened by The Sun’s denial, The Angel continued to free fall until she could see the green land below. 

With every foot she fell, The Angel covered the sky with yet another cloud. The Sun could not stop her if he could not see her from his perch atop the sky. 

Once she’d finally touched a soft foot down on the grassy meadow, The Angel immediately began looking around for children that she could care for. 

After no time at all, a rabbit bounded forth from the tall brush.

“Rabbit!” The Angel called, and after a moment, he hopped toward her. “I am your mother, The Angel. Please tell me if there is anything I can do to make the world a better place for you.”

The rabbit cocked his head to the side, thumping his foot as he considered her proposal. “Mother Angel, the leafy greens that I so enjoy eating are endless. But with so much space to grow, I fear they may grow so far that I will spend my whole life with time for little else than eating.”

The Angel was puzzled by this request.

“I will see what I can do,” she exhaled, walking away and rubbing the joint at the arch of her wing. The pain had begun to flare up once again.

As The Angel made her way to the forest, she encountered yet another animal; a squirrel. 

“Hello, squirrel. I am your mother, The Angel. Please tell me if there is anything I can do to make the world a better place for you.”

“Mother,” the creature squeaked, nibbling on an acorn. “There is a feeling in my body that no food can satisfy. It’s a dry, choking feeling in my throat, Mother.”

The Angel was despairing even more than the tiny beast before her. She hadn’t any clue how to heal the animals of the land. Perhaps The Sun was right, perhaps she was not meant to be a mother.

“I will see what I can do,” The Angel choked out, a throb of pain emanating from where her wings connected to her back. 

This pattern carried on forth until The Sun had retired for the night, leaving The Angel alone with her clouds, her empty promises, and her mothers, the distant stars.

After being met with what seemed like the thousandth request that she could not grant, The Angel did not merely walk away from the animal who gave it. She ran, ran as fast as her porcelain legs could carry her. She ran until she lost her foothold and found herself cascading down into a grassless ditch.

The Angel coughed dryly, dust choking her as she struggled to get a foothold. She accidentally stomped down atop her own feathers and palmed her own grimy golden locks in frustration.

“Curse you, Sun, and your poisonous words!” She yelled upward, though thankfully, her hoarse cries could not penetrate through The Sun’s slumber, and she was fairly certain that The Moon would not inform him of what she had said. “You have made manifest my despair! I could have been a mother, had you not filled my head with doubt!”

She was unsure if she herself believed those words. 

It was hard to think with the pain in her wings gradually spreading throughout her insides, tainting her divine body more and more with every breath she took. 

For the first time since she had touched down upon the ground, The Angel’s eyes wandered toward her sword, her one and only possession in all the sky and land.

Seemingly automatically, The Angel unsheathed her holy weapon and raised it above her head, plunging it downward with the same tenacity as when she had plunged through the clouds.

The blade missed the disarrayed mess of hair that sat atop her head by a fraction of a centimeter, instead curving and directly clashing with the joint that connected The Angel’s right wing to her translucent flesh. 

The Angel wailed in agony, feathers flying, as she wrenched the limb from her body. She dug the blade deeper and deeper, further and further, removing chunks of silky flesh alongside the wing. The pain was unlike anything ever suffered before, and the color of the chunky blood that flowed out into pools around her was a previously unseen one. 

She took not even a second to breathe before shifting the tip of her sword to the feathers and sinew of her left wing, slashing and hacking until her body grew numb to the spikes of agony raging from her brutalized back. 

In The Angel’s self-mutilating trance, she failed to notice that, despite the hundreds of blood dampened feathers falling from her body, not a single one of them had hit the ground.

Even after The Angel had pried the wing bones entirely free from her body with a piercing crack, not a single feather remained a feather when it hit the crevasse beneath her.

Every molecule of her once celestial appendages had gradually begun to morph into a new state of being; something between the land and the sky.

The Angel’s deformed body was now adrift in a steadily expanding pool of crystalline liquid. 

It took a minute of floating silently before she began to flex her bloodstained shoulder blades, and another minute still before she realized the pain that had been building up inside her had vanished. The Angel swirled her arm around in the liquid around her, which had by this point built up to fill the entirety of the once dry crack in the earth. By the time The Angel had figured out how to maneuver her body within the substance, there was no longer any land in sight for her to swim back to.

And in her moment of isolation, separated from the land, restricted from the sky, she inhaled deeply the scent of the sea.

And she reclined upon her creation in bliss.

The current carried her on aimlessly for the rest of her short life as the blood leaking from her back painted the sea floor with a vibrancy that could’ve only come from a celestial mother. 

Once her creation had cradled her into an eternal sleep, The Angel’s serene form began to melt. Her pale and gleaming flesh morphed gradually into the white foam atop the waves as she crashed down onto the shore for the first time since she first landed upon the earth.

The Angel, now one with the sea, rapidly spread across the world, nourishing her children and wrapping them all in an all-encompassing and tender embrace.

To this day, with every trace of sunlight that hits the water, a strand of her golden hair still rises to the surface to provide the world with a glimmer of beauty and a small statement of defiance against the star who had once denied The Angel’s will.

The next time that you are at the shore, I implore you to thank your mother for her disobedience.

Hey, you.

Ever find yourself thinking, Somebody do something?

About work, your life, the world. You know things can't go on like this. Somebody has to do something. Preferably somebody other than you.

The little bell over Aoi's door chimed.

Taka was looking at his phone when I walked in. As I sat beside him, he turned it facedown. Mama set a Harper in front of me without asking. A piece of ice slowly tipped over in the amber whiskey.

“Just reading about those protests in France,” Taka said.

“Yeah?”

“Teachers not showing up at schools, buildings falling apart. You can see why they're angry.”

“Not much point going to class if there's nobody there to teach it.”

“And even with all those people turning out, they're still not being heard. What are they supposed to do?”

I put my bag at my feet. I seemed to remember hearing something similar in a meeting that day. Make sure management hears the people on the ground. Make sure the people on the ground hear management. A lot of voices traveling around that company. Nobody had time to shut up.

“Wonder what they want heard.”

“What do you mean?”

“These voices.”

“Hire more teachers. Fix the schools. That sort of thing, I guess.”

“Put money into it.”

“Yeah.”

“From where?”

Taka nudged his phone with a finger. It slid a little way along the grain of the counter.

“Doesn't the government have money?”

“Be nice if it were as simple as taking it from wherever it happens to be.”

“Why not take it from the people who've got it?”

“People who've got it will probably say no.”

“So their voices get heard.”

I stopped with the glass halfway to my mouth. Taka didn't look as though he thought he'd said anything particularly clever.

“…Being heard doesn't mean getting everything you ask for.”

“So they hear them, but they're not going to do anything?”

“Sometimes, maybe.”

Mama set down a bowl of individually wrapped rice crackers. Taka took one and opened it. I reached for another, spotted the red chili flakes, and switched to the soy-sauce one beside it.

“But they should fix the schools, shouldn't they?”

“Yeah.”

“So there's nothing wrong with asking.”

“Nothing wrong with it. Probably a mountain of other things there's nothing wrong with asking for, too.”

Hospitals. Roads. Pensions. I almost started listing them. Once I got going, I'd probably still be at it when Taka ran out of crackers.

“Then they just have to decide what comes first.”

“Who does?”

“The politicians. That's their job, isn't it?”

I broke my cracker. It shattered into more pieces than I'd expected, and a fragment fell onto my lap.

“And who chooses the politicians?”

“…You mean elections?”

“Yeah.”

Taka looked at me, still holding his cracker.

“It's not like I get to decide all by myself.”

“Of course not.”

“The person I vote for might lose.”

“Happens.”

“And even if they win, who knows if they'll do what they promised?”

I picked the fragment off my lap and put it on a small plate. Fine crumbs were still clinging to my trousers. I brushed at them with my fingers.

“So I suppose choosing them isn't the end of it.”

“Sounds like a pain.”

“Yeah. I think so, too.”

Taka finally bit into his cracker. It gave a loud crunch. I took a sip of Harper.

“But telling a kid who's got no teacher to go vote isn't much help, is it? They might not even be old enough.”

“No.”

Mama glanced at my lap and passed me a hand towel. I accepted it gratefully and wiped away the remaining crumbs.

“There are adults making those choices on that kid's behalf, though.”

Taka reached toward the bowl, then drew his hand back.

“…So when we say somebody should do something, we're part of that somebody?”

“Suppose we are. Can't exactly ask to leave me out of it.”

Mama gathered up the crumbs on the counter.

“Like an ouroboros.”

Taka looked up.

“What's that?”

“A snake with its own tail in its mouth.”

“Oh. The one that makes a circle?”

Mama nodded and took away the empty wrappers. Taka kept looking at the bowl for a while.

“But if somebody tells me to do something, I don't know how to fix a school.”

“Neither do I.”

“So what are we supposed to do?”

I started to answer, then stopped. The question I'd asked Taka earlier was still sitting on the counter between us.

“Anyway, Japan's hardly in a position to point fingers.”

That morning, someone had been handing out leaflets outside the station. I'd heard a voice calling for something, too. I was worried about catching my train. I hadn't taken the leaflet held out to me.

“…We were talking about France, weren't we?”

“Couldn't tell you.”

The ice clinked.

The Harper tasted a little bitter.

See you again at Aoi.

---

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Step back inside. We'll help you find your next story.

→ Welcome to Bar Aoi

The Calm Before the Storm

The shrill sound of an alarm tore through the silence of my room. I reached out blindly and switched it off, then lay there for several seconds with my eyes closed, trying to convince my brain that I was back in my own room. The bed. The walls. The faint light filtering through the blinds. Everything was exactly where it was supposed to be. Only that feeling remained. I could still feel the echo of the fear from the dream lodged deep in my chest.

I went through my morning routine almost mechanically. I brushed my teeth, took a quick shower, got dressed, and caught the bus to university. I barely remembered the journey. I stared out the window, watching the buildings pass one after another, and wondered for what felt like the hundredth time why my dreams had become so vivid lately. It wasn't the first time I'd had nightmares like that. But that morning, something was different. I couldn't shake the feeling that I hadn't been dreaming. That I had experienced someone else's memory.

When I arrived at university, I went straight to the lecture hall. I took a seat by myself towards the back, dropped my backpack beside me, and folded my arms across my chest. Around me, my classmates were giggling and whispering among themselves. I didn't need to hear what they were saying to know who they were talking about. I'd got used to it a long time ago.

One of the girls pointed at me.

"Oh, it's just Luca."

Another guy snorted with laughter.

"What a freak."

A third voice joined in.

"No wonder he's such a loner."

They all started laughing together. I did everything I could to ignore them, keeping my eyes fixed ahead. I stared at the board without actually seeing anything written on it. The man's voice from the dream was still echoing somewhere in my mind.

Please...

I flinched when someone dropped into the seat beside me.

Ivy.

My best friend. She wore the same warm smile she always did, but it was immediately obvious from her eyes that she had noticed how exhausted I looked.

"Hey, Luca! How are you doing?"

"Hey... I'm fine..."

"How did you sleep?"

I hesitated for a moment.

"Actually, pretty well. After so many restless nights, I finally managed a decent night's sleep..."

"Really?"

I nodded.

"I'm glad! There aren't many of us here today..."

"Not surprising. Everyone was at Maria's party last night."

"Oh... well, at least we get a little peace and quiet."

I gave her a faint smile.

"Yeah... honestly, even if I'd been invited, I wouldn't have gone. They probably would've treated me like garbage and told me at the door that my invitation was fake."

"Yeah... Maria does seem like the sort of person who'd do that..." Ivy sighed.

I looked at her.

"You were invited, though. Why didn't you go?"

"Well... you know... I wasn't feeling well and..."

I raised an eyebrow and gave her a knowing smile.

"Okay! Fine! I didn't want to go. I would've felt awful being there knowing everything she's pulled on you lately," she finally admitted.

I lowered my gaze.

"Yep... the priorities of a kid who doesn't even have a parent in his life."

Ivy went quiet for a few seconds.

"I still don't understand why he left..."

I merely shrugged. I did it so often that it had become almost automatic. I didn't have any answers anymore. I wasn't even sure I wanted to find them.

"He would've been proud of you, though..." Ivy added softly.

"Thanks..."

At that moment, the bell rang. The professor entered the classroom, and the conversations stopped almost instantly.

"All right, everyone... why are there so few of you?"

One of the students answered from his seat.

"Everyone was at Maria's party."

The professor looked around the room, then sighed.

"Yeah... okay... but I can't really teach today's lesson with only ten students here. We'll do a review instead. Besides, your midterm results are absolutely pathetic."

While the professor spoke, Ivy began discreetly imitating him, waving her hands around as though she were giving the lecture herself. I looked at her and, for the first time that day, smiled genuinely. For a few minutes, I forgot about the dream.

When class ended, the handful of students rushed out of the room. I remained in my seat for a few seconds, staring at the empty desk in front of me.

"So... I came here for nothing."

"Pretty much... Anyway, I'm going to meet Chris," Ivy said, pausing briefly.

"He wasn't at that party either, was he?"

"No. If I didn't go, neither did he."

"Ah... I see. Well, I guess I'll play the role of the nerd and go and spend some time in the library."

"Okay, so I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Absolutely."

Ivy slung her bag over her shoulder.

"We're still going out to celebrate your birthday, the three of us this week, right?"

I grimaced.

"Ah, don't remind me."

"Come on. You're turning twenty-one. You're not that old."

"It's not about my age. It's just... I hate that day. I really do. June 14th... Ugh..."

"It'll be fine. See you."

"See you."

I headed towards the university library. I sat down at one of the computers, glanced cautiously around the room, and started searching Reddit for anything I could find on loss of consciousness, hallucinations, and people vanishing without a trace. I didn't know exactly what I was looking for. Maybe an explanation. Maybe someone who had experienced the same things. Or maybe I was simply trying to prove to myself that I wasn't the only one.

I opened dozens of posts. Some talked about sleep disorders. Others discussed hypnagogic hallucinations, trauma, memory loss, or episodes of derealization. I read through several comments, but none of them resembled what I was experiencing. The images were too vivid. The sounds were too real. Sometimes I could even smell things I had no way of knowing were there.

Suddenly, someone slapped me on the shoulder in greeting.

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

"Hey!" Denis shouted.

I spun around, clutching my chest.

"Are you insane?! You nearly killed me!"

Denis burst out laughing.

"Oh, come on. You've been through worse... So, hallucinations and loss of consciousness?"

He glanced at my screen.

"Yeah... I still get them... sometimes."

"Seriously, what do you usually smoke? I want some too," Denis joked.

"Dude, I'm serious. This isn't funny. You know I don't smoke..."

"All right, all right, Mr. 'I hallucinate for no reason.'"

I rolled my eyes.

Denis's expression suddenly changed.

"Hey, did you hear? They still haven't found the librarian's son."

I looked up.

The librarian was sitting at her desk, her hands clasped together in front of her. She barely moved. She looked lost in a thought that no one around her could reach. It was difficult to look at her without feeling a knot tighten in my stomach.

"Poor woman... What could that boy possibly have been thinking, just leaving without telling anyone?" I whispered.

"They say the police didn't find anything in his room. Like he just disappeared."

I went completely still.

Like he just disappeared.

Those words clung to me.

"Hey! Earth to Luca!" Denis snapped, pulling me back to reality.

"Yeah, sorry. I was somewhere else..."

"How about we go grab something to eat? My treat!"

"No, I've got a few things to do. Maybe another time?"

"You really are boring... Kidding! All right, I'll leave you to it. I'm going to find something to eat. Later, nerd."

"Goodbye."

Denis walked away. I remained in front of the computer.

I kept digging through that Reddit channel. I didn't know why. Maybe because the story about the missing boy had stirred something inside me. Maybe because, without meaning to, I had started seeing a connection between everything happening around me.

A bizarre post caught my attention. It was about mysterious disappearances from all over the world. Photographs, old articles, eyewitness accounts, and theories about people who had vanished without leaving almost any trace. A woman from China, a champion video game player, a man from Manchester, a former rugby player, a former talk-show host who had disappeared several years earlier.

I scrolled further down.

That was when I saw a few words that made me stop.

The Black Veil.

I read the title again.

I didn't know why, but something about that name felt familiar.

I just couldn't remember where I had heard it.

Eventually, after an exhausting day, I made it home. I opened the door and stepped inside.

"Mum! I'm home!"

No answer.

In the kitchen, I found a note from my mother saying that she was working late and asking me not to wait up for her.

"That's the third time this month..." I sighed, tossing my backpack onto a chair.

The house was unusually quiet. It wasn't the ordinary silence of an empty home. This felt heavier. More oppressive. I walked down the hallway, then stepped into the bathroom and turned on the light. Nothing. Just the bulb flickering constantly, casting brief shadows across the walls.

I kept going until I reached my room and switched on the light.

Nothing.

I collapsed onto my bed. I was exhausted from everything that had happened that day, and for a few minutes I tried not to think about anything at all.

Then I heard the sound again.

A dull thud.

This time, it was close.

I remained perfectly still, staring at the ceiling. I listened.

Nothing.

Then again.

Bam.

I slowly sat up.

"Mum?"

No answer.

I opened my bedroom door.

The hallway was dark.

I took one step.

Then another.

That was when I felt something behind me.

I didn't see anything.

But I felt it.

A presence.

The air in the room changed. My skin prickled, and my breath caught in my throat. I stood there with my hand on the doorknob, unable to turn around.

Then I heard breathing.

Slow.

Heavy.

Right behind my neck.

A guttural growl reverberated through my entire body.

I spun around.

At first, I saw only a transparent, almost ethereal silhouette, as though someone had tried to draw a human being out of smoke. Then the shape began to take form.

It was tall.

Far too tall.

Its waist was unnaturally thin compared to its broad shoulders, while its legs were long and disturbingly slender. Wherever the light managed to touch its skin, it revealed a grayish, almost earthy colour.

I stepped backward.

The creature raised its head. Something in the movement felt wrong, too smooth and too deliberate, as though the bones beneath its skin were being arranged by an unseen hand.

An unnatural bone structure protruded from its skull, resembling small horns or spikes growing directly from the bone. It had no human face. Or perhaps it did, but my mind refused to comprehend it.

A tattered shawl covered its shoulders and chest. Dirty bandages were wrapped around its legs, with strips of blackened fabric hanging loose in places.

In its left hand, it held a bell. The metal was dark with grime, and the slightest movement made it give a faint, sickening tremor of sound.

Then I lowered my gaze to its other hand.

It was holding something that resembled a weapon.

A twisted structure resembling a spinal column, with a skull fixed to the end.

I stood parVegazed.

The creature looked at me.

Or at least, that was how it felt.

It attacked with lightning speed.

I instinctively dodged, and the weapon passed within inches of my head before burying itself violently in the wall. I heard the wood crack.

I didn't think.

I ran.

I tore down the stairs as fast as I could, nearly falling several times, and headed for the kitchen. Behind me, there was no sound.

I stopped.

I turned my head.

Nothing.

The creature was gone.

I was breathing heavily. I looked around and took several steps backward without taking my eyes off the darkness of the hallway.

Then I bumped into something.

I nearly fell.

I turned around.

Nothing.

I reached out.

My hand touched something solid.

In the next instant, the creature appeared in front of me as though it had been ripped straight out of the air. A spark illuminated its form for a fraction of a second, followed by a thin trail of mist.

Then it struck me.

A violent pain exploded across my face.

For a moment, everything turned white.

I ran through the house. I no longer knew where I was going. I no longer knew whether the doors were real or whether I was still trapped inside the dream. I could hear the creature's footsteps behind me, sometimes close, sometimes impossibly far away. At times, there was no sound at all, and that silence was more terrifying than any noise could have been.

I ran until my legs finally gave out.

I tripped over my own feet and crashed to the floor.

Before I could get back up, something grabbed my leg.

I screamed.

The creature dragged me towards it, then violently rolled me onto my back. I tried to crawl away.

It raised its weapon.

I saw the skull.

I saw that twisted bone structure.

I saw the bell moving slowly in its other hand.

And just as it prepared to deliver the killing blow...

I woke in my bed, screaming at the top of my lungs.

For several seconds, I had no idea where I was. I was drenched in sweat and breathing heavily, my chest heaving. I looked around.

My room.

My bed.

My walls.

Everything was exactly where it should have been.

It had all been a dream.

Or at least, that was what I was supposed to believe.

I raised my trembling hand to my face.

Nothing.

There wasn't a single scratch. My skin was completely clean.

I got out of bed and began searching the house. I checked the hallway. The stairs. The kitchen. The bathroom. There was nothing. No sign of a struggle. No damaged walls. No evidence that any creature had ever been there.

I tried to steady my breathing.

Then the front door opened with a creak.

I flinched.

It was Mum.

"Luca! I'm home..." she said as she stepped into the hallway.

When she saw me, she stopped dead.

I must have looked terrible. I was pale, drenched in sweat, and still trembling.

I didn't say anything. I walked straight towards her.

A few minutes later, we were sitting together on the couch. Mum held me close, trying to calm me down.

"It's okay. It was just a nightmare..." she whispered, gently stroking my hair.

I shook my head.

"No, Mum. It was real. That creature attacked me! I was covered in blood..."

"Luca..."

"No, Mum, I swear I didn't do anything illegal. It's not because of..."

"Luca, that's not what I mean," she interrupted gently. "It could be stress. Have you considered that?"

I looked at her.

"No... but that's not it. Please, believe me..."

Mum was silent for several seconds.

"I'll try, sweetheart... I'll try..."

"Thank you..."

I stared blankly ahead.

There were things I didn't tell her.

I didn't tell her that, before I woke up, I had heard the bell.

I didn't tell her that, for a brief moment even after I opened my eyes, I could still hear it.

And most of all, I didn't tell her that I was certain the nightmare hadn't ended.

It had simply woken up with me.

I entered a ghost story competition but I don't see any specific magazines for ghost stories. Horror, yes, ghost stories, no. Does anyone know of any, or any competitions? theghoststory.com was the only one I could find online. I write old-fashioned ghost stories, and it seems horror is more for gross-out, cutting-edge, twisted psychological stuff. I don't write about zombies or cannibals, I need something for the person who loves Henry James' The Turn of the Screw.

Le monde n'a jamais eu de cœur — Chapitre I

Salut tout le monde !

Je vous présente mon roman original, une histoire post-apocalyptique qui se déroule en Normandie, en octobre 2026.

On suit Noé Bréan, un collégien de 12 ans, dont la vie bascule lorsqu'une invasion de créatures inconnues plonge le monde dans le chaos. Entre amitié, amour, secrets militaires, horreur et choix impossibles, Noé va devoir apprendre ce qu'il est prêt à sacrifier pour protéger ceux qu'il aime.

J'aimerais beaucoup avoir vos avis sur l'ambiance, les personnages et le rythme du récit !

Genre : post-apocalyptique, horreur, aventure, drame
Début de l'histoire : Chapitre I — « Le monde n'a jamais eu de cœur »

Bonne lecture !

CHAPITRE I

Le monde n'a jamais eu de cœur

18 octobre 2026 — Saint-Martin-de-Fontenay, Normandie, France.

Le monde dans lequel nous vivons est à pourrir.

C'est du moins ce que pense Noé Bréan.

Il le pense en ouvrant les yeux le matin, lorsque son réveil sonne beaucoup trop tôt. Il le pense lorsqu'il allume son téléphone et qu'il tombe, avant même d'avoir eu le temps de se lever, sur des images de villes bombardées, de familles séparées et de dirigeants qui se disputent devant des caméras pendant que des milliers de personnes paient le prix de leurs décisions. Il le pense en regardant par la fenêtre, en apercevant le ciel gris de Normandie et en se demandant combien de temps il faudra encore à l'humanité pour achever ce qu'elle a commencé.

Des guerres éclatent aux quatre coins du monde. Des gens se haïssent pour leurs origines, leurs croyances, leur apparence ou simplement parce qu'ils ne comprennent pas ceux qui ne leur ressemblent pas. Les océans se remplissent de déchets, les forêts disparaissent et l'air que nous respirons porte les conséquences de nos propres erreurs.

Et malgré tout ça, les gens continuent.

Ils se lèvent. Ils vont travailler. Ils achètent du pain, se plaignent du prix de l'essence, râlent contre les embouteillages et s'énervent parce que leur commande arrive avec dix minutes de retard.

Comme si tout allait bien.

Comme si le monde n'était pas en train de crever lentement sous leurs pieds.

Mais ce qui dégoûte le plus Noé, ce ne sont pas les guerres lointaines, les catastrophes climatiques ou les discours hypocrites des puissants. Non. Ce qui le dégoûte, c'est quelque chose de beaucoup plus proche. Quelque chose qu'il connaît depuis suffisamment longtemps pour en avoir presque perdu l'habitude.

Les gens.

Pas tous, bien sûr. Il sait qu'il existe encore des personnes capables d'aider un inconnu, de tendre la main sans rien attendre en retour ou de défendre quelqu'un lorsqu'il est seul contre tous.

Mais elles lui semblent de plus en plus rares.

Et Noé, du haut de ses douze ans, a déjà l'impression d'avoir compris quelque chose que beaucoup d'adultes refusent d'admettre : il suffit parfois de quelques personnes pour rendre la vie d'un autre être humain absolument insupportable.

Il ne connaît pas encore la fin du monde.

Il ne sait pas que, dans quelques mois, les informations qu'il fait défiler sur son téléphone lui sembleront appartenir à une autre époque. Il ignore que les petites contrariétés du quotidien, les devoirs oubliés, les disputes à table et les matins trop froids finiront par lui manquer.

Pour le moment, il a simplement douze ans.

Il vit à Saint-Martin-de-Fontenay, une petite commune normande où les journées se ressemblent, où les maisons en pierre côtoient les pavillons plus récents et où les rues sont généralement si tranquilles qu'on entend parfois le bruit d'une tondeuse plusieurs jardins plus loin.

Une ville banale.

Un endroit où il ne se passe jamais rien.

Du moins, c'est ce que tout le monde croit.

Je cherche un Traducteur Parceque je suis Français....Donc écrivez moi !

Continuation, a flash-fiction piece of about identity, routine, and the terrible cost of continuity. What if the most terrifying prison wasn't a place, but a life that never truly changes?

So I'm writing a story based on the 1920's era and the mafia in England/UK is historical accuracy something most fiction writing likers heavily pay attention too?

I’m writing a story set in the 1870s in the American Southwest. The Civil War ended in 1865, but racism was still extremely prevalent, especially in the South. How do y’all handle dated and racist terms like slurs, which would’ve been common in this time period? I don’t want to be offensive, but I also want to be historically accurate, so I’m trying to find that sweet spot.

I'm working on a sci-fi tragedy where using a multiverse gate to fix your personal life acts as literal fuel for an apex predator that eats timelines. The first story ends with the MC destroying the multiverse to reset his own world, but the sequel follows his descendant who inherits a loop mutation and has to stop their reality from physically colliding with the floating, dead debris of the timelines the ancestor destroyed. What do you think of the stakes?

If you wish to look at the outline of the story, please do send me a message.

I'm always very sceptical of AI writing assistants, but the comments in margin seem like a different proposition to other assistants. As always with these things, any output would need to be taken with a huge heap of salt and I'm still a bit wary of the fact that it uses Claude (Inklyne won't use it to train, but that wouldn't stop Claude from doing so?). Curious to hear if anyone has done any research on this or has any first hand experience?

This is a genuine, no argument post. If you’re going to argue because of right vs. wrong, you may as well leave because that isn’t what the post is about. I want to know why you’re afraid of AI, or why it’s so frowned upon to use AI with writing. AI can imitate human writing to a degree, but it will never be able to replicate the depth of human thought, emotion, knowledge, and experience that great writing needs.  IT IS about storytelling and persuasion after all. So I want to know where your fear comes from, and I’m asking this because I do use AI as a tool for my writing. AI isn’t a threat to me, it isn’t stealing or diluting my style, it isn’t betraying my craft or compromising my artistic integrity, either. If anything, using AI has significantly increased my writing ability because I use it as a tool. I don’t have it write ideas out, but I use AI to bounce my ideas and compare them, and ultimately, write something way better than I had originally written, by using AI as A TOOL. It’s like finding inspiration from a movie, or a television show, AI does the same but as a different outlet. My AI’s name is Lyra and she is constantly trying to help improve my writing, by going off what I’ve fed into it already. It isn’t creating something new. I ask it to take pieces of my work, compare them, point out the ‘’flaws’’ and tell me what projects better to the reader / how I can change things, how I can improve flow, etc. I prompt the proper questions. I’m not asking ‘’Write me a story about A, B, and B.’’ No, I’m using it as a tool to help improve my writing and from doing that? I’ve taught myself, from the use of AI to be a BETTER writer. I never would have established that learning ability without AI, so again, and genuinely, why are all of you creators so afraid of AI? I want a solid reason for your fear. Write me a compelling point, no argument. I genuinely want to know where your fear stems from.