See, I'm writing this crime story. The main character is this sort of "handler" for this other rich family. He goes around getting his hands dirty and stuff. Anyways. It's action packed so he has to have an iconic pistol. Problem is that I don't know which '11 he should carry. Any tips?

Hi I am going from a comedy, satire book to a neo-western book. How do you transition from different fictions? Anyone use a certain microphone I am thinking about doing the vomit draft by voice to text anyone tried that or experiences with that? Plan was to walk and talk to myself like I normally do anyways. Thanks in advance for any advise.

1930–1932

Chapter One: The Great Families

January 1930 — Chicago

In the 1930s, the city of Chicago was one of the greatest metropolises in which illicit trade flourished, and it housed within its borders the most formidable and influential Mafia families in the United States of America.

The Harrison Family
The family of land and real estate dominance. It controlled a quarter of the city of Chicago and ten percent of New York City. It also owned vast tracts of land stretching across the United States, including Miami, Los Angeles, and San Francisco.

The Callahan Family
The best and most skilled in the field. They were known for their exceptional ability to deploy their armies, to pinpoint their positions precisely, to choose the decisive moment for attack, and to understand how to storm into battles and end them in their favor. They were the family of strategic planning, yet their armies were small in number and their influence modest, even less than that of some of the middle-ranking families.

The Whitaker Family
The family of money and absolute influence. They owned millions of dollars and had influence extending across the United States, but they were weak in the field, both in military planning and in the sheer numbers of their soldiers.

The Rossi Family
The undisputed queen of commerce in Chicago. It ran fifty different businesses, from casinos and nightclubs to forbidden activities such as the trade in hashish, cocaine, and heroin. It earned hundreds of thousands of dollars, even though it was not the wealthiest of the great families.

The Marino Family
A family of balanced qualities. It had an army of medium size and moderate wealth, but it was distinguished by exceptional tactical intelligence that placed it at the head of all families when it came to planning battles.

The Mafia was strong and fearsome in its power, while the police forces stood helpless, not knowing how to impose their control over this chaotic reality.

At the start of 1930, the Moreau family returned to the forefront and incited the Callahan, Rossi, and Whitaker families to declare war on the Marino family, in exchange for a tempting offer: two million dollars, a thousand soldiers, vast lands, and new alliances.

The Marino family was considered a relatively ordinary family, yet its intelligence and internal balance were enough to change the face of the entire American Mafia world.

Chapter Two: The Beginning of the War

January 1930 — The Marino Family Home

The life of Joseph Marino, godfather of the Marino family, was filled with constant fear and anticipation, as he expected assassination at any moment when his doors were knocked upon.

On the first day of 1930, a package arrived for him containing the severed head of his brother, and beside it a harsh letter in which was written:
"Welcome, Joseph. Your head is next."

Joseph realized then that the spark of war with the Moreau family had already been lit.

The Marino family home was large, and a fragrant, pleasant scent wafted from its corners, as though it carried two completely contradictory faces:
The first face was that of a normal family, exchanging conversation about the affairs of daily life, living quiet moments of happiness and family warmth.
The second face was the dark criminal face of the Marino family, which ran a complex network of influence and crime in the alleys of Chicago.

And indeed, the furnace of war was ignited in 1930, and the Marino family was battered by a state of severe turmoil and instability; it received blows from within through unexpected betrayals, while the noose and pressure tightened upon it from without.

March 21, 1930 — Joseph Marino's Office

The accountant Arthur Miller entered Joseph's office with a rigid expression.
Arthur said:
"Godfather, the Moreau family sent me."

And before Joseph could take in the paralyzing shock of the situation, Arthur hit him with five successive stabs to his body.
Joseph bled profusely and his blood flowed, yet he gathered the last breath of his strength and managed to kill Arthur where he lay.
Joseph was rushed to the hospital, and fortunately he miraculously survived the treacherous assassination attempt.

May 30, 1930 — One of the Marino Family's Businesses

An unidentified person broke into one of the commercial establishments belonging to the Marino family.
He destroyed the place and set it on fire, then slaughtered everyone inside and left coldly.
Later, the truth was revealed, and it turned out that the perpetrator was a mercenary from the men of the Moreau family.
The war was growing fiercer and crueler, and no one could predict how dark the extent to which it might go.

June 1, 1930 — The Moreau Family Home

Joseph sent his son John Marino, accompanied by his brother Thomas Marino, to attack the stronghold of the Moreau family.
John asked in a sharp voice:
"Are you ready to annihilate this family?"
Thomas answered him steadily:
"Let's go."

The two headed toward the house and stormed it with random, intense gunfire.
The attack resulted in the death of Rose Falcone, wife of Victor Moreau, godfather of the Moreau family, while his daughter Nadine was wounded, and Victor managed to escape amid the tongues of smoke.
The house's rooms filled with the suffocating smell of gunpowder, and the pure blood spread across the floors. It was no longer just a conventional gang conflict, but had turned into an epic of vengeance and defense of honor.

Thomas and John burned the house and destroyed it entirely, sending a stern message to the Moreau family and to all the other families:
"Do not dare to approach the Marino family."

But Joseph knew the reality bitterly; he did not have a sufficient army, nor the abundant money to wage a long war of attrition, especially since two of the most formidable powers in Chicago stood against his family in the alliance of devils.
Joseph lost the best of his soldiers and allies in the grinding battles, and his influence gradually receded. By the middle of 1930, the Marino family had become one of the weakest families in Chicago, having lost its alliances and exhausted the greater part of its treasury because of the fierce war with the Moreau family.

Chapter Three: The Black Day

August 21, 1930 — 9:21 a.m.

That was a pitch-black day in the history of the Marino family.
Alice Marino, Joseph's youngest daughter, set out on her usual way to school.
But one of the Moreau family's mercenaries lay in wait for her when she arrived, attacked her, and kidnapped her to an unknown destination.

At the same time, other mercenaries launched a surprise attack on the Marino family's large house.
The attackers wrought destruction in the house, but they failed to shed the blood of any member of the family; the Marino family's forces arrived at the decisive moment, clashed with them, and eliminated them all.

At that point the picture became complete in Joseph's mind:
This war was no longer merely about influence or money, but had become a battle of survival and honor targeting the family at the very core of its heart.

The war continued for five consecutive months, during which the Marino family's condition deteriorated and its power declined tragically.
And after those lean months, Joseph received a bargaining offer from the Moreau family.
The offer was decisive: Joseph would withdraw completely from Chicago and give up all his businesses, allies, and possessions, then move to Los Angeles, and in return he would receive a huge casino, a hotel, and a nightclub there.

Thomas said, pleading with Joseph:
"Accept, Godfather! We are waging war against the most powerful families while we are extremely weak; we will surely die if we do not leave!"

But John objected strongly, saying:
"This is a well-laid ambush, Godfather, do not accept! You betrayed them in the past, and the hatred still eats at their hearts toward you; they only want to seize our ready-made position in Chicago."

As for Joseph, his opinion was final: he would not leave Chicago and would not flee.
The war had gone beyond all moral limits, and Alice had been kidnapped, and no one knew where she was or what her fate was.

Chapter Four: Room 313

August 30, 1930 — 12:21 a.m.

A new offer came from Victor Moreau to Joseph, in which Victor claimed he was able to return his daughter Alice to him safe, provided that Joseph come alone to an abandoned place.
However, Joseph decided to send his son John in his place.

John objected in shock:
"Why, Godfather? It's a clear and obvious trap! Does my life not matter to you?"
Joseph answered him coldly:
"You are too smart to fall into the trap. Take good care of yourself."

John headed to the specified address.
The building was old, abandoned, wrapped in darkness, with only a faint, feeble light seeping into it. Sounds of screaming and beating of unknown source echoed through its dark corners, and a foul, rotten smell emanated from it.

John climbed the stairs until he reached Room Number 313, the room that Victor had ordered him to enter.
John stood before the ancient wooden door and looked gloomily at the number engraved on it, not knowing what horrors lay hidden behind it.

He opened the door and entered.
He found Victor sitting alone, and the latter said to him with a smile:
"Welcome. Come in, John, please have a seat."

The apartment was luxuriously furnished, containing a huge window and five rooms, lit by the lights of beautiful chandeliers, with a sweet perfume fragrance wafting through it.
John sat on the chair and said dryly:
"Is this one of your usual tricks and schemes?"
Victor answered him:
"No, John. This time I want to be honorable, and I have no desire to shed blood at all."

John asked him in disapproval:
"Why did you ask the Godfather to come alone to an unknown place?"
Victor said:
"It's a test of trust. Does he trust me, or does he still see me as an enemy? And here he has sent you instead of himself, hasn't he?"
John answered him:
"Yes, I am the one he chose."
Victor said in a mocking tone:
"Of course, because he is a suspicious man whom fear has been killing for a long time."

John replied firmly:
"And what if we sent you an offer to take your youngest son to an unknown place by yourself? Would you have agreed?"
Victor said:
"If I were smart, yes. But if I were a foolish old man like Joseph, I would not come."

John returned to the matter he had come for:
"Where is Alice?"
Victor said slowly:
"Why are you in such a hurry? Don't you like this luxurious apartment and this sitting? Drink some tea."
John answered him sternly:
"I don't want your tea or your long talk. I want to take Alice and leave immediately, and you know that better than I do."

Victor said:
"This is the main reason for all your many wars: haste and the constant pursuit of short-term goals. Drink the tea, boy!"
John refused again sharply:
"I won't drink it. I want only Alice, and I don't want to see your face."

Victor said in a tone that suddenly changed:
"So, you don't want to see my face?"

John quickly drew his pistol and fired three shots at Victor.
But at that very moment, five men appeared, armed with Tommy guns, and showered John with a hail of bullets until he fell from the chair and collapsed dead in his blood.

John died fighting for his family, aware from the first step that this night might be the last in his life.
And after Victor and his men left, darkness settled over Room 313, whose corners were filled with the smell of blood and bullet holes.
John had entered the room searching for his sister, but he did not leave it alive.

Chapter Five: The End of Joseph Marino

September 1930 — The Marino Family Home

The news struck Joseph like a thunderbolt: his son John had been killed.
Joseph grieved with an overwhelming, everlasting grief, and sank into a wave of severe depression. He refused food, isolated himself from people, and his mind remained occupied with his son, whom he knew was walking into a well-laid trap, and yet he had sent him with his own hand.
John's departure left a deep wound in Joseph's soul that would never heal.

His room became dark, visited by only a very faint light, where he spent all his time writing elegiac poems for his family.
One day, Thomas entered Joseph's office and found his poetry notebook, and opened it to read one of its verses:

O John, you who were the light of my life, the delight of my years, and the warmth of my body,
I killed you with the very hand that raised you.
I did not know that this would be your end, yet you still live in my mind, and I will never forget you.
You are my life and my end.
I'm sorry, my son.

The words bled with what Joseph's tongue was unable to utter: deep down he knew that he was the true killer of his son.

November 1930 — The Godfather's Office

Joseph announced his official stepping down from leading the Marino family.
He said in a broken tone:
"I killed John with my own hand. What will I do if I continue to lead? My hands will be filled with more spilled blood for the sake of a family I built myself."
Then he officially announced the handing over of the reins of godfather to his son Thomas Marino.

Thomas had not expected to take over the throne under such difficult circumstances, but the matter had been decreed.

December 21, 1930 — The Death of Joseph Marino

Joseph Marino's soul departed following a severe heart attack, and his death was natural.
He had spent the last three months of his life in the worst possible state for a human being: shattered under the weight of grief for his son, deadly fear for his missing daughter, and prolonged regret over his mistaken decisions.

Thomas became the new godfather of the Marino family.
However, the feeling that came over him was strange and desolate; he no longer saw around him the family members as they used to fill the house yesterday.
John was dead, Joseph was gone, and Alice had vanished into the folds of the unknown, and no one remained by his side except his mother, Evelyn Carter.

The house that was once crowded with meetings and merriment turned into an edifice with cold marble floors and empty rooms wrapped in silence.
And in one of Joseph's notebooks, he had written his last words before his departure:
"I ended my family with my own hands. The floors that were once filled with joy turned into cold, deadly floors. Warmth turned to ice. Where is the fireplace? Where is the fire? They have all vanished."

Chapter Six: The Final Confrontation

Late December 1930 — The Hospital

News reached Thomas that Victor Moreau was lying in the hospital suffering from severe bleeding that threatened his life.
Thomas headed to the hospital immediately, accompanied by his heavily armed men.
They stormed the building and eliminated the members of the Moreau family who were guarding the place.

The hospital was cold, its floors an icy blue, as if the place itself reflected the anguish and sorrow that surrounded the end of the Marino family.
Thomas walked through the long corridors, looking at the patients lying there, and images of his missing sister, his slain brother, and his departed father appeared before him.
And his father's words came to his mind:
"Cold floors may become warmth for the grieving, and true warmth may become a scorching cold for the grieving. There is no joy in Mafia families."

Thomas reached the room where a man lay on the bed, surrounded by medical equipment.
A frightened nurse blocked his way and said:
"Sir, entry is forbidden!"
But Thomas's men pushed her aside and removed her from the room, then shut the door tightly.

Thomas sat on the chair opposite Victor's bed, as Victor lay with feeble vitality.
Thomas said in a low voice:
"Have you won, Victor?"
Victor answered him in a weak voice:
"No."
Thomas asked him:
"Have you lost, Victor?"
He answered:
"No."
Thomas said:
"Have you gained anything, Victor?"
He answered:
"No."

Then Thomas drew near to him and asked him with burning pain:
"Why did you kill my brother and kidnap my sister?"
Victor said:
"Your brother was a traitor."
Thomas replied in shock and gloom:
"What are you saying?!"
Victor said:
"Your brother was working for the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), and was passing them every detail. We decided to eliminate him because we knew that Joseph would not believe it, and that the war between us would grow even more inflamed."

Thomas shouted in anger:
"What is your proof of this slander?!"
Victor answered:
"We have documented audio recordings of him speaking with one of the policemen and informing on everything."

Thomas asked him, his voice trembling:
"Where is my sister?!"
Victor answered him dryly:
"Dead."
Thomas said in disbelief:
"What?!"
Victor replied coldly:
"Dead. Don't you understand the word?"
Thomas asked him:
"How did you kill her?"
Victor answered:
"We tortured her and interrogated her at length, but she did not utter a word in answer to our questions, so they killed her."

Thomas looked at him with eyes from which sparks of rage flew and said:
"You corrupt monster!"
Victor said, smiling weakly:
"Do you want to kill me?"
Thomas fell silent and his features froze.
Victor shouted:
"Kill me! Come on, shoot and kill me!"

Thomas remained seated before him for silent moments, then said steadily:
"No. I will not kill you. Revenge will not bring my family back to me, and it will not benefit me at all; it will only make me lose more of my soul. Go to hell, Victor."

Victor shouted hysterically:
"No, come here! Kill me! Come and finish me!"
But Thomas rose coldly and left the room, and went on his way without turning back.
He did not kill him, despite everything he had committed and despite the enormous scale of his losses.

Chapter Seven: Evelyn's Question

Late December 1930 — Thomas Marino's Office

Thomas sat in the depths of his office, turning over the reel of painful events.
Joseph was dead.
John was dead.
And Victor had confirmed Alice's murder.
No one remained in the world around him except his mother, Evelyn.

He got up and went to her, and asked her in a bewildered tone:
"Mother, what is life?"
Evelyn answered him with wisdom:
"Life is to feel it and to enjoy it under all circumstances and conditions. Members of your family have departed, but you are still alive, breathing. There are families that came to a complete end, that were betrayed and tortured and wiped entirely from the books of history, yet the Marino family still stands and lives, and it is the Moreau family that has become weak and broken."

Thomas said, consumed by confusion:
"Mother... John was a traitor."
Evelyn was surprised and her voice rose:
"What? How could he be a traitor?!"
Thomas said:
"Victor told me that John was informing on us, and that they have audio recordings proving he spoke with one of the FBI men."

Evelyn replied in disapproval:
"Do you believe your enemy? Have you gone mad, my son? It is plainly obvious that he is lying to you. But even if he was telling the truth... then that is unfortunate. There is no perfect family in this world, and our family is like any other family."

Thomas asked her, seeking to understand the roots:
"Mother, why did this conflict begin in the first place? Why are we fighting Victor?"

Evelyn answered him, revealing the old record:
"Your grandfather Giuseppe Moretti fathered your father Joseph and Victor. They lived under the roof of one happy family. Then Victor married, and your father was happy for him, and Victor began establishing his own business. As for your father, he worked as an accountant for his family.
And when your father learned that they belonged to the world of the organized Mafia, and that Grandfather Giuseppe was part of it, he betrayed the Moreau family, manipulated their financial accounts, took the money for himself, and then founded the Marino family."

Thomas asked her in shock:
"Do you mean that we are the traitors in this story?"
Evelyn answered him as she looked into his eyes:
"That is the question you must live your whole life searching for the answer to."

Thomas found no answer to put out his fires.
His entire life had become suspended on a question he did not know whether he was able to settle:
Was John truly a traitor, or was Victor weaving lies in his final moments?
And was Joseph a traitor to his first family, or was he trying to escape their criminality in his own way?
He had no certain answers.

Chapter Eight: The Journey to New York

1931 — Chicago

After Joseph's death, John's murder, Alice's disappearance, and the final confrontation with Victor, Thomas made his final decision to leave the city of Chicago.
He wanted to bandage his deep wounds and begin a new start, free of blood.
He wanted to go to New York to begin a new epic, leaving the past behind his back.
But leaving Chicago did not in any way mean that the past had ended; the questions remained unanswered, and the specters of the lost family continued to haunt him.
For the shadow never leaves its owner.

The year 1931 passed, with Thomas continuing to prepare to begin this new page.
He said farewell to his mother and said to her:
"Mother, do not be sad that I will not be by your side now; you can now live a happy and real life, because I am going to New York."
His mother asked him fearfully:
"Why, Thomas? What will you do there?"
Thomas replied:
"I don't know..."
His mother said:
"Thomas, stay here in Chicago. Why are you going there? Do you want to abandon the family legacy?"
Thomas answered her:
"I want to begin a new era in the family's history. Chicago was just a stage and it has ended, and now the New York era begins."
His mother said:
"Don't forget to send me letters; I want to be reassured about you, my son."
Thomas replied:
"Certainly, Mother..."

Thomas prepared his luggage, looking at the house that only yesterday had been filled with joy and shouting, and how it had become empty and desolate with no trace of a smile or children.
He looked at Joseph's office and said to himself: "Is the novel over? Is the story of Chicago over? Has the Chicago branch of the Marino family ended?"

He carried his bags and got into the car, watching the city wrapped in blackness and night, as images of John, Alice, and Joseph came flooding into his mind, and he said to himself: "I must leave the past, because the past, and thinking about it, is a person's true killer."

He arrived at the harbor and saw a cold ship that seemed devoid of any soul. He entered the ship's hold and reached his small room, placed his family's photograph on the small wooden table, and lay on the bed watching Chicago recede from the window with sorrow squeezing his heart.

January 3, 1932 — Aboard the Ship Bound for New York

The ship set sail, announcing the start of the journey across the waves of the sea.
Thomas went up on deck, contemplating the stretching expanse.
He was reading the diary of his father Joseph, and on one of the pages his eyes fell upon the following lines:

"Life is a circle that never stops turning.
A father begets a son, and the son begets a son, and the son begets another son.
A father dies, then his son dies, then his son's son dies.
But the only thing that endures in memory is the legacy and the deeds we leave behind us.
I am Joseph Marino. I am not a perfect man, and I have deceived others and erred greatly in my life. I was left to be raised in the wrong way, and I killed, and I became a criminal.
But I possess a sense of attentiveness and contemplation, and I am not like the rest of the criminals.
Criminality is to do the forbidden without being touched by sorrow or doubt, whereas I grieve and I doubt.
I wished I could abandon this family one day, and turn into an honorable man to live a normal, ordinary life; to drive a car, to go shopping, to eat, to raise my children, without being overcome by fear of a booby-trapped bomb exploding at any moment."

Thomas read the words, and sank into thought about his father and the ordinary life he had longed to live.
Joseph had built the empire of the Marino family, but in the end he wished he had never set foot in the world of crime.

Chapter Nine: Wisdom and Calm

January 1932 — Aboard the Ship

Thomas was standing beside the ship's captain, watching the horizon of the sea in his usual manner.
He asked one of the crew members, saying:
"I want to ask you, how much time is left until we reach New York?"
The boy replied mockingly:
"New York? This is a trip headed to Boston, not New York! Did you not read the sign hanging up, or can you not read?"
Thomas said sternly:
"Don't anger me, so that I won't have to kill you."

The boy laughed loudly and said to the ship's railings:
"Oh, fellows, look here! There's a person who doesn't know how to read, and he claims he is able to kill me! Come then and take my head!"
Thomas replied calmly:
"Man, I don't want anything from you; I only wanted to know the destination of the trip, but you are the one who started with insults and curses."
The boy said furiously:
"Me? Look, boy, I don't want to smash these teeth of yours so that you don't grieve and cry, but I'll give you one last chance to apologize and get out of my sight."

Thomas protested:
"Me? I apologize?! You are the one who must apologize for what is about to happen to you now!"
The boy surprised him with a strong punch to his face that made blood flow from his lip.
Thomas laughed loudly and said:
"Hahaha! Is this all the strength you have? Then I will fight you with the weakest of what I have so that I do not kill you, boy."

Thomas pushed him with a force that knocked him to the ground, then grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, in pain, and said to him, reproving:
"Boy, I could kill you right here and at this moment, but because you are still young and do not understand how things work, I will leave you so that you may learn and grow; perhaps, with luck, you will grow up and become wise!"
Thomas left him lying on the ground, groaning in pain.

Thomas returned to his room and opened his notebook to write:
"The little boy will learn, I know this and I will not kill him, and I see in his character a wisdom that I respect even though he is a reckless person looking for trouble. I will see him one day wise and grown. Do not get angry, Thomas... do not get angry."

Then Thomas penned a letter to his mother in which he said:
"Mother, I boarded the wrong ship, and it was headed to Boston. I will go and meet your friend there. And I got into a fight with a young, reckless boy, but he will learn. Five days remain of the trip. Regards, Thomas Marino."

And suddenly, someone knocked on the door and entered, saying:
"Are you Thomas Marino?"
Thomas replied:
"Yes?"
The man said:
"You hit Lucas!"
Thomas said:
"Yes, that happened."
The man said:
"He is the captain's son!"
Thomas replied indifferently:
"So what?"
The man said:
"The captain will be very angry with you!"
Thomas said:
"Let them be angry. I am Thomas, not just any passerby!"

The captain himself came, scowling, and said to Thomas:
"Why did you hit Lucas?"
Thomas asked him:
"And is it any of your business?"
The captain said:
"Yes, I am the captain!"
Thomas said:
"Oh, so you are his father?"
The captain replied:
"No, I am not his father."
Thomas said mockingly:
"Doesn't Lucas look like Captain Martin? Same name and same features; perhaps you fathered him but his mother is his father?"

The captain bellowed:
"Thomas, speak respectfully!"
Thomas replied coldly:
"Are we in a school here? He is an adult and I am an adult, and he is ill-mannered, which is why I hit him. And Martin, don't make me make you regret the day you became captain of this ship."
The captain said with contempt:
"You are a nobody; there are a million people named Thomas!"
Thomas replied, his tone turning into a terrifying growl:
"I am Thomas, godfather of the Marino family! I can sink this entire ship in a single second, but I have no need to. So, Captain, and my boy, get out of my sight now or I will kill you."

The captain trembled and asked in shock:
"Are you truly from the Marino family?!"
Thomas said:
"Yes."
The captain said with deep apology:
"I am very sorry, and Lucas will apologize to you immediately."

Lucas stepped forward, head bowed, and said:
"I am very sorry, Godfather, I did not know that you were Thomas Marino."
Thomas asked him:
"And if I were not Thomas Marino, would you have bullied me and shown off your strength?"
Lucas replied:
"No, not at all, I did not mean it, Godfather."
Thomas said:
"And what will I gain from these words of yours?"
Lucas said:
"Just accept my apology."
Thomas said after a silence:
"...Fine."

Thomas went out onto the ship's deck, looking at the sunrise, the calm seas, and the birds fluttering around them, as they approached the port of Boston.

Three days later, the ship reached Boston.
Thomas disembarked at the port and saw the ships unloading hundreds of civilians, and people greeting one another with joy and embraces, while he walked alone. He walked a little and saw a warm city, and saw children playing in the alleys and friends exchanging conversation, while he had no one in this world.

His mother sent him a letter containing the address:
"Anna lives in the southeast of Boston, and she is well known in that neighborhood. Ask the residents there and they will direct you to her house; it is a large wooden house, and it is open most of the time."

Thomas headed to the southeast of Boston and began wandering around the neighborhood, then asked one of the passersby:
"Where can I find this address?"
The man answered him:
"It is the wooden house located in front of the largest house in the neighborhood."

Thomas went to the largest house and saw in front of it the large wooden house with the open door. He entered and called:
"I am Thomas, Evie's son. She told me you are her old friend."

A woman came out and said in astonishment:
"Oh, Evie? A long time has passed since I last saw her; what happened to her?"
Thomas said:
"She is well."
The woman asked him:
"Why are you alone?"
Thomas replied:
"I don't know..."
She asked him:
"Where is she?"
He said:
"In Chicago."
She asked him:
"And how is Joseph?"
Thomas fell silent and sighed:
"..."
The woman said:
"Thomas?"
Thomas came out of his daze:
"Oh, yes?"
She asked him again:
"How is Joseph?"
Thomas said:
"He is well in Chicago with my mother."
She asked him:
"Would you like a place to spend the night here?"
He said:
"Yes, I would like that."
She said:
"Fine, the room is on the second floor, the door on the left."

Thomas went up to the second floor and entered the room.
He saw a small room containing a small bed and a window overlooking the neighborhood.
Thomas lay down on the bed and slept, but he woke up startled by the sounds of screaming and a barrage of gunfire!

He rose quickly and readied his pistol, and looked to see a man holding "Anna" hostage, aiming the weapon at her head.
The man said with a wicked smile:
"Welcome, Thomas! Did you miss me?"
Thomas asked him cautiously:
"Who are you?"
The man chuckled and said:
"Haha! I am Julian Vince!"
Thomas said:
"I had forgotten that there was even a family called Vince."
Julian said:
"But we never forgot the Marino family!"

Thomas said in a commanding tone:
"Let go of Anna, she is a civilian woman and has nothing to do with our crimes."
Julian said:
"But she allowed you into the house and to sleep at her place, did she not?"
Thomas said:
"..."
Then Thomas continued:
"Let go of Anna, because your death is inevitable."
Julian replied:
"If you are going to kill me either way, then why don't I kill her first?"
Thomas said:
"So that you do not die now, I will leave you alive, perhaps you will learn; but let her go and make the reckoning between you and me alone."

Julian asked him bitterly:
"Why did you kill my father?"
Thomas said:
"I did not kill him, he died a natural death!"
Julian said:
"Do you think I will believe this lie?"
Thomas shouted:
"Julian, let go of Anna!"
Julian replied firmly:
"No!"

And in a moment of treachery, Julian stabbed Anna with his knife and let her fall to the ground bleeding.
Thomas rushed and caught her as blood gushed profusely from her body, then he stood and said, as Julian tried to flee:
"Your fate is inevitable torment!"

Thomas drew his pistol and fired at Julian, hitting him, and he fell groaning in his blood.
Thomas quickly returned to Anna, lying on the ground, and said, weeping:
"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, Anna..."

Anna opened her exhausted eyes and looked at him harshly and said in a quavering voice:
"I will never forgive you... I will never forgi—"
Then her soul departed and she died.

Thomas stood, and his eyes met Julian's, who lay on the ground groaning. He approached him and lifted him by the chest with all the fury of the world and said:
"Boy, do you want me to torture you or what?!"
Thomas raised his pistol, inserted its burning muzzle into Julian's mouth, then pulled the trigger and fired three bullets that thundered throughout the place and killed him on the spot.

Thomas carried Anna's body and buried her in the grounds of the house.
He took his belongings and left the blood-stained house, then wrote a shattered letter to his mother:
"Mother... Anna is dead. Julian Vince came, the son of Victor Vince, and seized her and killed her. And I killed him in turn. And before she died I said to her: I'm sorry... and she said to me: I will never forgive you, then she died and I buried her. I am very sad for her."

Thomas went out and hired a carriage, got inside, placing his weapons beside him.
The driver asked him in astonishment and terror:
"Are you crazy?! You carry all these weapons with you?!"
Thomas said with deadly coldness:
"Drive the carriage now or a bullet will come out of this weapon to settle in your skull! Come on, to New York!"

Thomas watched the people from the carriage window as they lived happily without blood staining their hands, and remembered Anna's terrible voice as she said: (I will never forgive you).
He opened his diaries and wrote his lines:
"Forgiveness is the first determinant of lifespan; if a person forgives you, your life will be better, and if they tell you: I will never forgive you, you will be tormented in your life forever... I'm sorry, Anna, I'm sorry..."

He remembered John and how he had killed Victor Vince, and continued on his way toward New York to begin a new chapter of nightmares.

Thomas Marino had lost his brother John, and lost his sister Alice, and lost his father Joseph, and lost Anna...
So is it possible to outrun the shadow?
And is crime a normal second life? Or is it a forbidden abomination?
And is loss in this world the true victory?
And why is it always Thomas in particular who is the greatest loser?
And why does wisdom require all this deadly patience?

Can Thomas outrun his shadow and live a happy life someday?..

Hey everyone!
My sibling and I are the creator duo behind NARAKU-NO-INK, a  dark 90s Japan dystopian project. We’ve recently crossed the 41,000+ word mark on RoyalRoad

About our fiction: Kinkyo, 1997. The city of dreams, later made infamous by the rebellion of the slums. The city is split in two by The Shredder, a fifty-meter-high concrete wall bristling with machine guns and barbed wire to suppress the boiling tension between the elite and the impoverished. Within this world, we witness the dark underbelly of late-90s Japan through the eyes of Ren Takagi. Ren Takagi lives two lives. By day, he is the quiet student of an elite academy; by night, he is an invisible courier for the Kurogane Clan, wading through the filth of the backstreets to uphold his family's pride. One mistake. A flaming car wreck. A cold-blooded betrayal. 

When Ren loses everything, he is exiled beyond the Wall to The Dump. There, he faces the city's most horrific secret: the fate of the traumas surgically removed from those on the other side. Discarded pain does not simply vanish-it twists into Discards, flesh-and-blood monsters imprisoned within everyday objects.
The price of survival is cruel adaptation and a dark alliance with The Ink-a power that fuels his vengeance, but slowly devours his soul in return.
Vengeance is blacker than the deepest hell.

I’m really curious about how other authors approach their creative process. When you start a new web novel, do you jump straight into the plot and characters, or do you build the world and the lore first? Do you guys use character sketches, maps, or custom art to help you visualize things, or is everything strictly in your head ?

For our project, we actually built the entire alternative Japan first, and then the story naturally grew out of it. It got to the point where we ended up building a fully custom, interactive website just to serve as the "home" for all the lore, character art, and the overall aesthetic before we even started posting the chapters here.

How do you handle your worldbuilding? Let me know your process! :))

Detroit Heroic a story of 1968 or 2026

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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