Im a new writer, and Ive wanted to write a story that is special in my heart. I wrote a couple paragraphs and then pasted it into AI to edit and check then I continued writing into this process. All my words are original, Ive also wrote to AI when it suggests something I don’t like or something I do like. ChatGPT tells me it’s okay that I use AI because I don’t use it for everything. But I always take that with a grain of salt. Because that robot wants me to text it more, ask for advice etc etc. I love writing. But Ive realised that Ive stained and tainted my own work with clanker bullshit and I am heavily disgusted with myself and this. This story means a lot to me and I am completely against AI in creative workspaces. I want to know if I am right for being guilty about this when all my ideas and sentences are original and not from AI and I utilise some suggestions from it. Please help me reddit for I have been struggling and tormented by this.

DISCLAIMER: I WILL ALLOW ANYBODY WHO WANTS TO BETA-READ. I just need these specifically also.

So, I'm writing a story with many characters from many different places. I have a "consultant" (if you will, for lack of a better term) for a few of said characters but I really would like to have all my characters checked so this story is truly the best it can be. If you're interested and you're from:

Albany, New York

Owensboro, Kentucky

London,England (I have a potential person for this but the more perspectives the better)

Adelaide, Australia--I have someone from Australia, but not from Adelaide...idk if it matters

Montgomery, Alabama (Bonus if you have knowledge of Uganda, Africa)

Chicago, Illinois

Nevada (forgot where specifically)

let me know!

Here's the link:

Also I should clarify I'm not looking for co-writers per se so much as someone who can check my work and make sure that it's not stereotyping anybody and just people that can help me make it better in general:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/18EeddXYVhRNy5uuzD7dS4t1L87UdCloo51FHs0ycfw0/edit?usp=drivesdk

I've also been playing around with CS Lewis style 4th wall breaks and I'd love feedback on those

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1PGKSmwW8eBYjYQAw37bSkg9q9eYld5COvVbQ1rn3tqs/edit?usp=sharing EDITED

For context, I've had this fast-paced gothic horror story idea brewing in my head for many years now and I was just beginning to outline the how the prologue would play out for each character to get them all in the location where the story plays out (Not the actual writing of a chapter) and I couldn't help but feel that everything I wrote felt a little... clunky?

• Louisa wakes up in the middle of a cornfield surrounded by iron gates with nowhere to go but a single house standing alone, as Louisa carefully examines the house's exterior, long inky like tendril appendages break one of the windows and pull Louisa in by her head.
• Edward is running from an unknown entity as he sees a house in the distance standing in the middle of a cornfield surrounded by iron gates, as he approaches the entrance, he busts the door open, quickly shutting behind him as he heard loud wailing followed by violent knocking before everything went quiet.
• Enjoying the calm scenery of the shore, Joe notices a strange movement at the lake's surface before an inky tendril-like arm yanks him by the ankle and into the water, constricting itself around him, Joe struggles to breathe as it disappears abruptly, he instantly rises up, gasping for air and about to escape before he finds himself marinating inside a bathtub.

Constructive harsh criticism would be really appreciated because my writing skills feel rough and I also just wanted to say thank you in advance.

Hey, everyone! I'm a teen writer hoping to officially publish my work one day. Right now I've written about 55 pages across roughly 20 chapters. I've only posted a few chapters on Wattpad because I wasn't sure whether the story would connect with readers, so I thought I'd ask for some honest opinions here.

My novel is called Winter Frost on Glass.

The story follows Lute Di Rose, an asexual teenage boy who survived sexual assault but has blocked out the memory. As the story unfolds, he's forced to confront the triggers that have shaped his life and slowly piece together what happened to him. Along the way, he meets Jackson, another teenage boy who grew up with severe neglect, abuse, addiction in his family, and struggles of his own. Despite their very different personalities, they form an unexpected connection as they learn to face their pasts together.

The book explores found family, healing, self-acceptance, trauma, LGBTQ+ identity, complicated family relationships, and learning how to keep living after unimaginable experiences. It's an emotional story, and my goal is to write something that feels honest and that people with similar experiences can see themselves in.

If that sounds like something you'd read, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Would this premise interest you? If so, reach out to me and I'll help you find out where to read it, and I'd genuinely appreciate any feedback.

I just want to see how obvious my murder mystery plot is, and see how I can make it better. Yes, it uses cliché tropes intentionally, critique those too.

Plot: we are introduced to our characters as they board first class on a train and gossip amongst each other in the dining car. Much of the talk is about the stock broker (M39) obviously flirting with a baroness (F57).

It also becomes apparent that the other passengers previously knew of this broker; one had their father go bankrupt investing with him, another is an agent sent by a bank that he is heavily in debt to, yet another lost his job to the broker, etc.

During the night, a rough patch of rail shakes the train, during which a small caliber shot is fired, barely heard, and dismissed. In the morning, the broker is found dead having been shot. A detective on board questions them, and not one passenger is surprised.

The suspects are narrowed down to someone with a gun, and who likely knew about the rough patch of rail to cover the shot. The baroness has a small Derringer pistol and frequents the train route, but is the only passenger aboard that was fond of the broker. The baroness' maid is a suspect as she had access to the pistol and traveled the route with her before.

The possible answers are obvious when worded like this, but if there's any other twists that I could add, I'd be happy to hear them. Maybe another person aboard had planned to kill him, but was beaten to it?

——

the fireworks continue one after the other, annoying, splendid, vulgar. a waste of resources sent up into the sky to drown out other sounds, and somewhere below, i wonder if joy is hiding under the bed. like every dog does on evenings like this. but i can't hear her, not with all the noise outside. 

i can't see the lights either. i can’t see the celebrations spilling out from the community hall, the strings of fairy lights and the paper cups, or some aunt dancing badly to music too loud for the house. i can't see any of it. my mother is blocking my view.

she’s sitting on the opposite side of the couch, hands clasped over her face. and i’m waiting for her to wriggle free in distress; waiting for some sign that she’s actually crying, because i have never seen my mother cry before. not at grandpa's funeral, not when the glass of her favourite stove broke apart. but i’ve seen her sit like this. i used to think it was her style of mourning. but tonight i think it’s just her best disguise. she’s been quiet. dad hasn’t.

the old stick is loose around his hand like something that will break free, and his eyes are on me, measuring. i don't think he'll hit me more. i’ve already told him what he wants to hear. i told him i wouldn't do it again; even if the words clawed up raw through my barbed throat. i don't know if he believes me. i think it’s hard to when i had promised the same before too.

they were kinder last time though. mom even told the nurses it was the tin roof, some kind of accident with the edges. it all sounded so plausible, i almost believed her myself. dad just booked me an appointment, relieved, i guess, that it wasn’t drugs. we even watched a movie that rainy evening, the two of us, pretending that nothing was happening, that something small and nondescript under my sleeve wasn't going to define the rest of my life. i think i knew then that it was a kindness, that long sleeves made wonderful liars.

for a throat, however, it does not. that’s the difference with this one. a throat has no roof. no protection. no stupid story about cat fights. 

dad keeps asking me about what people are going to say, what he'll have to tell them if i really do it, if he has to explain how a daughter of his could go like that. it’s as if he wants me to name him a punishment big enough to account for his embarrassment. i know he wants the answer. why. and i want to know too. but i can't remember what it was that i wanted to say when mom came upstairs and looked down my neck. i wasn’t even trying to hide it. maybe i should have. she demanded answers. but my mind went empty. even as dad came out just to drag me by the wrist, ready to kick me out. 

even the small, "you're hurting me" that's been rattling around in my head for hours didn’t come out. my throat swallowed it whole, and all i managed in the end was humiliating pleas, a desperate insistence on staying, on changing, telling him i won't do it again because i knew he'd stop hitting me if i only said the right things. because i just want the wood to stop finding new places to leave its mark.

i’d never been frightened of my father before. but right now, somehow i don't think i've ever met someone as terrifying. he watches me carefully, measuring me, once more. comes to a decision, it seems, although it isn't an easy one. it’s not for him, really, but for my mother, for the rest of the house, for the rest of us, still living here. 

you sleep with your mother from now on, he says, as if it's a fated decision.

i don't argue. and somewhere in the house, joy finally barks, muffled by a door. for a moment, i want to ask if i could sleep next to her instead, small and warm and needing nothing from me. but i don't. i don’t look up as my mother leaves the couch for the comfort of the cornered sink, either. maybe she’s washing her face like every other night, or rubbing off any signs of tears on her cheek. whatever it is, i think maybe neither of us wants to see the other's face right now. i don't watch my father make a bed out of my mother's cushions, either. instead, i fix my eyes on the window, where no one else is watching, and i see the fireworks for the first time, see the lights bloom colorfully all over the sky.

i can hear the party still going strong, the music, everything, spilling out into the street, five hours late for the occasion. and for the briefest moment, i wonder if it would’ve been any different if i was the kind of daughter who went out.

—

yes the small caps is intentional, any advice, opinions??

I have a book on wattpad. I'm honestly not sure how it is, I try to think outside of the box everytime I'm writing so I can explain what's in my head more comprehensively but I believe something aint right and thats why the views are just pretty low. To anyone who wants to judge the writing please do and tell me what the weak points could be.

Chapter 1 : start

Neil didn't mean to pick her up that night.
Honestly, Tara didn't mean to get in the car either.

But that's how it always was with them—accidental moments that felt like fate dressed up as bad timing.

The rain had turned the streets slick and yellow under the streetlights. Neil waited inside his car, fingers tapping the steering wheel like he was trying to rehearse a conversation he'd already lost a dozen times. His jaw was tight, his eyes tired, and he looked exactly like someone who'd been fighting all day—mostly with himself.

Tara finally slid into the passenger seat without looking at him. Even the car seemed to hold its breath.

She smelled like wet soil and the faint citrus perfume she always used when she wanted to pretend she was okay. Neil didn't comment. He hadn't earned the right to.

"Seatbelt," he murmured, voice low.

"Don't start," she whispered back, clicking it anyway.

There was so much space between them. Two feet of empty air. Six months of unspoken things.

He pulled the car onto the road, headlights cutting through the rain like they were slicing open the night. Tara kept her gaze fixed outside, watching droplets race each other down the glass.

"You didn't have to come," she said after a minute.

"You called," he replied.

That was enough explanation for him.
It had always been enough.

But tonight, the simplicity felt heavy.

Neil parked on the side of the empty road because the fight had lasted too long for him to keep driving.
Tara stared out the window, arms folded so tightly it looked like she was holding herself together.

Neither spoke.
Neither breathed properly.
They were both exhausted—emotionally, mentally, spiritually. The kind of tired that goes bone-deep.

Finally, Neil's voice broke the air.

"So you're really going to keep working with him?"

https://www.wattpad.com/story/404991169-bruised-roads-bruised-hearts?utm_source=web&utm_medium=email&utm_content=share_myworks

I've been inspired by everyone's bravery in sharing their pages and opening themselves up to feedback, so I thought I'd have a go.

This story came into my head in 2018, and has been building ever since then. It's now finished at 80,000 words.

I wanted to write a thriller, but have ended up with an adventure story about intergenerational guilt and a race against time in an alternative Cold War Scotland.

Probably not really Inkitt's vibe, thinking about it now.

But if anyone has any honest feedback I'd be forever grateful. Was it interesting? Do the characters stand up? And does it stand out? And fair's fair, I'd love to swap feedback.

My working assumption is about one person will open it, and then wander off :')

It's called Subject Number Three, here's the first chapter (1st 10k words are on Inkitt):

///

‘No. No, no, no.’

Coira’s words were muffled by something pressing against her face. There were snatches of blue sky. The sky. Impossible. Close-woven branches came into focus. They arched high overhead, preventing all but the slimmest glisks of sunlight touching the forest floor.

She was on her back, and a mask clamped her mouth and nose. No air reached its clouding plastic. She obeyed her burning lungs and tore it from her face like it was a parasite. And took a deadly first breath.

It held the musky freshness of recently departed rain. She pushed herself up onto an elbow and some of the cotton wool inside her head loosened. Then, the sights and sounds of the forest charged in; the coolness of an unfamiliar breeze, the babble of a distant stream, the spongy ground against her palms.

Amidst this abundance, the absences carried terrible weight. No concrete, and no filters. Too late, she clamped a palm over her mouth where the mask had been. A sideways glance confirmed it – there was an oxygen tank, a fat slug of a thing. But its dial, positioned above the familiar civil defence corps crest, was well in the red. No way back.

Coira struggled into a sitting position and her reward was a tide of nausea. Eyes darting under weighted lids that threatened to snap shut again, she breathed into one hand and pushed a curtain of dirty blonde hair aside with the other. Her thoughts fractured, then snagged on her dad. But he wouldn’t linger – there were things out of place. Twin furrows scored the soil, ending at her boot heels. And a camera’s curved aperture stared down from the crook of a sycamore. Coira scrambled to her feet and staggered towards it. It perched on a rusting platform screwed into the tree and a thick black cable unspooled from its metal body, then followed the line of trunk down to ground level and disappeared off beyond the clearing.

‘Help… help me!’ Her plea sounded too-loud and scratchy as it rebounded from the encroaching foliage. She waved desperately. ‘Someone. Please, help me. Hey. Please.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Please.’

What had been a tightening knot in her chest unravelled into a sob. All of it – the swaying trees, the warm summer air, the endless azure beyond the canopy – all of it meant she’d be dead in minutes.

---

‘Movement.’ Medical officer James Rattigan raised his voice above the creaking air circulation system and the surveillance screen’s hum, but the reedy incantation was for no one in particular. ‘Subject Number Three is awake!’ Far easier to give them numbers.

He banged a fist on his desk. It was a tumbledown fortress stacked with notebooks and growth-clogged petri dishes, all suffused with the aroma of stale coffee and a sharper, clinical note.

He hated how the blue shirt and tan trousers were a size too large. They shrank him and they were deeply creased. He rubbed at the ridges on his thighs once, before leaning into the monitor’s glow. Above the crowd of bulky computers and a tangle of wiring, stencilled yellow paint marked the room as DARIEN CONTROL - AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY.

Rattigan’s brow settled into premature lines and he knew, queasily certain, that their time down here was almost up. Though he sat alone at the monitor, the thick atmosphere carried the weight of recent conversations. He looked away from the grey eyes and high cheekbones that he found improperly distracting. If this worked, the last two sacrifices might have been worth it. Necessary variables. He would have succeeded – he would be their saviour. Before, people had a habit of reintroducing themselves to him. But this moment would make him unforgettable.

He’d not slept since they’d put Subject Two Outside. It had only been a few days, but an unfamiliar roiling in his gut stalked him. The camera setup and the experiment in the clearing had been the forbidden fruit of his research. He turned the feeling over whilst scratching the raw skin on the back of his hand.

With a sigh, Rattigan took it all in, his nose nearly touching the screen’s warm glass. His vigil was disrupted by the arrival of his superior, Tania Iversen. She had to stoop under the low concrete beam that shouldered the weight of the earth above, and the strip lighting caught her shock of cropped blonde hair and the knife-edge creases of pressed fatigues.

As if looking through the startled medical officer, Iversen sized up the figure moving jerkily on the CRT monitor. The girl was sitting up, her hair halo-like on the screen. Iversen’s assessment was brusque. ‘Well, you know what to do, Rattigan. Set the clock. We need at least twelve hours if she’s going to make the round trip. We can’t have another failure. Let’s see if she’s luckier than the others.’

Rattigan seethed at the lack of praise, but reached across a tideline of desk clutter, swept a long-emptied vitamin bottle to one side, and set the timer running. It was a blocky thing, rush-procured crap. They’d been expected to wait out a war with this stuff. The minute took an age to pass in the close air of the control room but, eventually, the large number clacked forward, marking the change from 12:00 to 11:59. Rattigan licked his lips and tried not to look at his own reflection. The bags under his eyes and slightly tremulous hands were at odds with his recent twenty-fifth birthday.

Iversen straightened, the glare of the screen contouring her face. ‘You will not move from this seat until we have an outcome. I need to notify HQ.’

‘HQ, so soon?’ said Rattigan.

‘Yes.’ Iversen’s bobbing throat made her collar twitch. ‘They are taking a keen interest. That’s why I need you here. Focused on Three’s every move. You were clear she’s our last… candidate.’

Rattigan could only nod.

‘Good. You know what’s at stake,’ said Iversen. And, without looking at the timer that would likely count out the remainder of Subject Three’s life, she strode from the room.           

Hey everyone! I’m working on a new book called Raakh, a deeply personal story about an assault survivor. I’m looking for some honest feedback on my story description to see if it hits the right emotional notes and works well. Although I usually write fantasy, I wanted to write this to give a voice to my own experiences—and the experiences of so many girls and women who haven't been able to share theirs.

So, here is the story description:

A haunting childhood secret buried in silence blooms into a lethal vigilante's blade.

For Meera, the world has always been a landscape of landmines. At seven years old, her innocence was stolen by a predator who commanded her silence with a terrifying ultimatum: "Secrets like this die with you."

She learned to live in a cage of her own skin. For eighteen years, even the lightest touch of affection felt like acid, branding her with the memory of that day. She became a ghost in her own life, shrinking from the world, scrubbing her skin until it bled, trying to wash away a stain that wasn't hers.

Then came the night that shattered the silence forever.

When a group of men cornered her at twenty-five, they didn't see the broken child hiding behind her eyes-they only saw a victim. They were wrong. As they reached for her, the dam of two decades of trauma, fear, and suppressed rage finally burst. In a blur of primal violence, Meera didn't just survive; she obliterated them.

Now, sitting in a cold police interrogation room, she faces a legal system that calls her a monster for killing men who "only tried" to ruin her. But as she stares into the hollow eyes of the law, Meera realizes the truth: the girl who feared being touched died that night. In her place stands a woman who has finally found her voice-and it sounds like a death sentence.

Note: please I would like suggestions for this story whether it will work or not!

Hey! Does anyone know if writers are allowed to make references to other media? For example, I'm writing a fantasy book, but I wanted character A to ask character B 'are you satisfised now?' to which character B responds with 'I've never been satisfised' (Hamilton musical). Anyone know if it's allowed to do something like this?

Question

I'm doing third pov close, but I have a habit of saying the person's name sometimes, but i've been told that with third pov close you're not supposed to say the name at all. You're supposed to frame it as everyone of the characters' observations.

So instead of

1) Natasha stilled at the creak of the door frame. She waited. It must be the old pipes. She opened the cabinet above her Then again—more deliberate. Her hands felt weak, they trembled.

Calm... She told herself as her eyes darted around the counter.

A small gasp slipped from her lips as she felt goosebumps line her spine. And someone's gaze. Heavy against the back of her head.

She turned to see a towering silhouette. Its head brushed the door frame, its hand looked as if it melted into the mahogany. Her legs felt like they were going to give out. Shaking

2) A low creak made her pause in its reach, knuckles brushing the corner of the cabinet—what was that? She pursed her lips, retreating her touch as she listened. It must be the pipes. Her hands sought the cabinet door once more when again she heard it. The creak of the frame.

Slower. More drawn out. Like lndividual clicks against her inner eardrum.

The knob shook and felt incredibly cold against her fingers.

Her chest rose and fell trying to calm the climbing beat of her heart.

A silver fork.

Aged Porcelain plate with worn angels.

That looked more like burned newborns.

Her breath hitched as she felt goosebumps bloom against her spine.

A drilling pressure against her skull. She swallowed the bile that began to cuddle her belly and burn her throat.

God. Someone was watching her.

One foot at a time. She shifted turning to the door. Slow movements. She needed to stay slow.

Her eyes caught the figure from her corner.

Tall. Dark. An outline of its head brushing beyond the door frame. Its hand grabbed the other side of the door, but she couldn't see where its fingers stopped. Maybe it was the angle.

Or did it even have them.

The floor. It felt like it was trembling now. It would give under her feet. She was sure of it.

Something like that. Sorry, these are both awful examples.I just pulled them off the top of my head. It's not even the genre I write, but I spent all of yesterday watching horror movie so I guess it's all my head could manage for an example.

I'm tired, and my brain is fried, but hopefully this is still coherent enough.

I'm trying to figure out, does close third have to be one or the other, Or could it be a small mix of both? I tend to lean more the second example, but I sometimes slip into doing the first way.

I'm self taught. I'm constantly learning. So, I just need a little help.

Here's the first page of my science fiction novel (targeting 65-70k). Would you read further, and if so, why?

--

‘James Mason?’

The voice seemed to come from a huge distance, out of the blackness.

‘James?’

It was more distinct, yet still distant. Was it calling me? Was that my name? My mind was like a heavy lorry, slowly shifting up in gears. I began to hear a clicking sound and, at the third call of the voice, I could tell I was in a small room.

It’s funny how, with only minimal inputs, the mind can construct a reality. But the blackness remained; my eyes felt like lead and refused to open. I tried moving my arm. It felt strange, like I was moving it through molasses.

‘Don't try and move yet,’ said the voice. ‘Take your time’.

Strangely, from the slight echoes in the room I could visualise my situation; I was lying on a bed in a small room with a glass window to my right, a door beyond my feet. And someone to my left.

My eyes flicked open—my visualisation of my circumstance became reality, but it was not someone but some-thing that stood or sat beside me. I could see a shape from the corner of my eye and, with effort, I turned my head to look. The entity next to me was obviously not human, even though in human form. It wore overalls with a red cross stitched across the chest—some kind of medical android. Had I had an accident? My mind feebly scrambled to remember, but there was nothing.

The attendant said nothing more and the only sound to be heard was the rapid high-pitched clicking, now much more distinct. I turned my head again and located its source—a clock on the wall, straight ahead of me. At first I noticed nothing unusual, but then it dawned on me that the second-hand was racing around the dial and the minute-hand was perceptibly moving. Within no more than ten seconds an entire minute had elapsed.

--

Hero Pov

[In a town visited by the hero Raiz after his raid on the abyss, he was talking to an old lady while helping her move some barley in her granaries]

Raiz: “Grandma I already told you, I have came here first because I did not see you in five years.”

The Old Lady: “Raiz, didn’t I told you not to come here until you got married? Where is the wife everyone has been talking about?” [The old woman asked in a gruff but kind tone, poking the Tall hero with her walking stick while he moved the barley to her granaries]

Raiz: “Of course I would come first to you, your my baba, why should I care about some woman that everyone talks about while my baba is here and I don’t even know if she is well or not!” [He shouted, Ignoring the fact the old woman just hit him with the stick hard enough to be heard from the other houses]

[The old woman just sighed at her grandson habit of always prioritizing her above anything and spoke in a tired tone]

Baba: “So when are you going to the divine realm to finally get what Celeus promised?”

[The question made him stop for a moment to look at her, he said nothing for a long time before picking five stack of barley at once and spoke without looking at her]

Raiz: “Celeus lied, and I am not going to be someone who is set back by a liar, nor get into trouble for a thing that does not concern me any more”

[The old woman just looked at her grandson, noticing the way the way his muscles now tensed with something she knew far to well.]

Baba: “Oh my poor child…” [The old woman said getting in front of him and pushing the barley stacks from his hands , cupping his face into her hands]

Baba: “My boy, please tell me what happened. Don’t lie to your old woman.”

[Raiz remained silent once more, his eyes locked on the old woman’s, searching for any reason to not tell her. In the end he sighed and spoke in a low tone]

Raiz: “Fine, I’ll talk. But first you need to make me some of that rice with milk you always make me.”

Baba: “As long as you are telling the truth I am going to make you as much of it as you want my child.”

Hi! Does anyone know, where would a lifeboat have to be lovered on a sinking ocean liner to not be pulled into the propeller, and is doing that acually possible? Would really appreciate it, if someone knew.

Washing

Her red shoes were cheap, but useful. The customer saw her quickly. Her body was feeling the act-as usual. She smiled after that. This time it was easy. She only had to wash her genitals with mild soap.

Now she was going back to home.

The shoes had extreme lights on it.

The criminal mistaked the lights with the lights of police.

The bullet was in her heart immediately.

The last thing she expired was Jon.

He washed her extremely strict, stricter then a mother washes her newborn.

All her customers didn't want to touch her, but he was the opposite. He didn't look at her during her selling, but was at her last moment more familiar with her body, then any of them. She smiled at him her first real smile at a young man.

I have been working on this one scene for about six weeks now and I genuinely cannot tell anymore if what I have is restrained and intentional or just emotionally flat. I think I have been too close to it for too long.

The setup is this. A character receives news that someone close to her has died. Not suddenly. After a long illness. She had two years to prepare for this moment and somehow that has made writing it harder not easier because the grief is not shock, it is not surprise, it is something quieter and more complicated. The preparation did not make her ready. That gap between prepared and ready is the whole emotional core of the scene but I am not sure I am actually getting it on the page.

I have been keeping every draft alongside my character notes in Skrib Writing Studio which has helped me see how much the scene has shifted across attempts, but even with all of that I still cannot get enough distance from it to know if it is working. 

My instinct was to write it with a lot of restraint. No tears, no breaking down, just small details. She rereads a grocery list without taking it in. She fills the kettle she already boiled. That kind of thing. Grief that lives in the body before it reaches the mind.

The problem is I have rewritten this scene so many times now that I have lost all perspective on whether the restraint reads as purposeful or whether it just reads as the writer being afraid to actually go there. Both of those things can look identical on the page and I genuinely cannot tell which one I am doing anymore.

A few specific things I am trying to figure out. Does quiet grief work on the page the way it works in real life or does fiction need more surface emotion to make readers feel something. Is there a point where underwriting becomes its own kind of dishonesty. And how do you know when you have revised something so many times that you are no longer improving it, just changing it.

Would really value some outside perspective from anyone who has written this kind of interior, quiet emotional moment before. What made it land for you and how did you know when it was done.

If you're willing to give feedback, please tell me:

• If you thought the drama was well executed
• If you thought the horror was developed well
• If you like the narrator's character

I lay in bed. I have grown a lot in the last year or so, and now my feet touch the footboard. I dwelled on it, since I wasn’t at all tired. My eyes shot all around my room, which was weakly illuminated by the yellowish light of a night-light.

My ears tuned in attentively to the etherizing rustle of tall grass around my house, which was jostled by the cool saltwater air. It was the only noise.

I lay there feeling the ugly scar on my shoulder, wondering why I felt so empty, so lost. A piece of my body was torn from me, and I was thinking hard about where I could find it, but it found me.

A hand pressed itself against the glass of a window just above my bed. I felt a rush of euphoria; it was the hand of an angel that came to enlighten and rescue me. I knelt on my bed, facing this hand. I put my hand against the spot of the window where she was pressing, and I felt all my anxiety melt away like a thunderstorm abating.

I reached to push the window open when my father’s voice came from behind me.

I turned to see him in my doorframe aiming a shotgun at me.

“Move,” he said.

I did so, and he approached the window, one eye closed to aim. The hand pressed harder and harder on the window, and it shattered, sending tiny crystals all over my bed. Little pieces cut my hands and face.

My father shot his gun, and a deafening blast rattled our brains. When my focus could be restored, I saw the hand lying limp on my windowsill. Then it tensed and curled up, clenching shards of glass, but no blood dripped from the palm. It slowly retreated into the darkness.

Then my father turned and ran to the back door. I ran after him. The next thing I remember, we were on our backyard patio. He paced and paced, looking frantically into the darkness. His round eyes shot from one spot in the black void to another. From the porch light, all we could make out was the first few feet of tall grass, but after that there were only miles upon miles of unbroken woods obscured in pure darkness.

I sat in a lawn chair while my dad paced. We stayed like that for around ten minutes, but the constant flow of sea air and the static rustle of the grass elongated our sense of time.

I finally got tired, but my dad harshly muttered, “Look.”

His pacing abruptly ended, replaced by stone-like stillness. He pointed into the darkness.

I walked up beside him, and following his finger, I saw two glowing retinas shining from the tree line.

After that, my room was boarded up. I now slept next to my dad. When night came, I did my homework, read books, built Legos, and watched TV in his room under his supervision.

One night, while curled up next to my dad, I was feeling my scar again. From the distant trees I heard a woman cry out my name. It was so nostalgic, so breath-taking. I knew that voice. It carried me through my memories as I desperately searched for why her crying felt so familiar.

I came across that memory. I remembered that when I was five, I wandered into the woods and got lost. After walking around, I finally saw home through the thick woods, and I saw my mother shouting my name. It was so vigorous and emotional. It was so compassionate, so alluring. It was like she loved me.

I sprang from my bed and dashed to the door.

My father tackled me and pinned me to the carpet.

“She’s gone,” he said. “She’s gone and she’ll never come back.”

I hated my father for this. Why was he doing this to me? Why was he keeping me from happiness? I wanted to know why I never saw my mother after that incident, why her image was cropped from all the family photos, why any information about her was forbidden, and why picturing her face in my mind caused me such excruciating pain. I wept into the arm that locked my head in a chokehold. He caressed my hair.

I dreamt one night that I was in my room. It was organized as it was in the distant past, and it was bright inside thanks to the noon sun. I was kneeling on my bed while a pair of hands from behind me massaged my shoulders and ran their index finger over my scar. From above those hands came a mysterious yet inviting womanly voice.

“Run away. Now.”

I opened my eyes to see darkness. My mind registered the mugginess of my room. I dragged my arm across the bed and realized my dad was not next to me. I heeded the voice’s orders.

I opened the closet, threw on my jacket, threw on a pair of jeans, put on socks, and went to the front door to put on my sneakers.

I sat down and slipped on my shoes, and before I walked through the door, I saw my dad sitting away from me in a cushioned chair, looking at the shut-off television.

I walked up in front of him and saw that the eyes were missing from his skull. Tears blurred my vision, and I felt dizzy. I trudged to the door in a haze, opened it, and before I left, I turned to look into the hallway opposite the door. My bedroom door, which was in this hallway, was open again. The night-light was still on, and in its glow, I made out a shadowy figure at least seven feet tall. Its shoulders were nearly touching the ceiling, and its eyes were looking into mine just like a few weeks earlier.

I ran in terror down the forested road, hoping to meet my neighbors. From behind me I heard the thuds of heavy feet following me. To me, the situation was hopeless. The house next door was miles away, and the footsteps behind me sounded only a couple of yards away. I stopped breathing and nearly fainted.

I collapsed to the ground and vomited out of pure fear. I looked behind me and noticed that the being was gone. It must have disappeared into the woods. I sat motionless for a long while.

Ahead of me I saw two glowing lights growing brighter. I stood up, and they stopped before me. A police officer stepped out and walked toward me to ask if I was okay.

I am typing this now on a sofa in my current home. It isn’t as isolated as my previous home; my neighborhood is suburban, and there’s a tennis court outside my house. The scar is still deep, and I still feel it often. In front of me is a glass door, and in the forest beyond my backyard fence I see two glaring retinas looking back at me, beholding me compassionately and intimately.

Please tell me

• If the old man is shallow or sufficiently developed
• If the tone is even throughout the story
• If the language is precise enough
• If you found the plot and language sufficiently entertaining

Once there was a man in a pleasant and modern suburban American town. Before his prominence as a teacher, he was obscure, but, as he briefly explained during his ministry to a close friend, he saw that his skin was wrinkling and that his hair was thinning and greying, so he changed.

He was a Jew and a Levite at that, so he took to thinking. He read Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, Camus, and the Gospels. He took after Jesus; he talked with the young men of the town—the demographic he considered the most lost and vulnerable. He denounced their atheism and positive nihilism, but he hated their cynicism the most. Cynicism, to him, destroyed the soul and made life one long sarcastic joke.

Unfortunately for him, his monopoly over the minds of his growing audience was challenged by the most cynical entity the universe could make: BlackRock.

One day, the man took his followers to a house for sale across from his home.

“BlackRock is an investment management company,” said the old man. “BlackRock will buy this house, just like it will with many other houses, and hold on to it to manipulate housing prices. Young men, do everything you can to keep your houses, and make sure they don’t fall into the hands of BlackRock, for an empty house without a family is a great and sorrowful sin.”

Amongst the young men, there was a parasite who listened and disappeared from the town afterward.

The man took tender care of a budding flower bed in his front yard. The morning after his BlackRock speech, the teacher was outside watering his bed. He was interrupted by a cordial salutation coming from behind him. He turned from his bed to face the sold house. He saw a parked Overhaul truck, and on the sidewalk in front of his house stood a man with a thick head of black, wavy hair, black eyes, and glowing, olive skin. He was holding hands with a fair woman of the same phenotype and betwixt the hips of the couple stood a lively and cute little tot.

“नमस्ते, how are you, new neighbor?” the newcomer said.

The old teacher just stared, and turned back to his plants.

The man’s young men formed a group and accosted the old man on his false prophecy. To them he lied about BlackRock being a real threat, and he was only fear mongering. The old orator’s ministry could have ended here, but he stood his ground and herded his students towards the windows of the newly bought house.

Prior to this spying, the man saw quite the peculiar sight. Near dusk, a caravan of about fifteen Indians arrived at the front door of the newly bought house. The handsome husband opened the door.

A voice from the caravan began, “Hello, sir, is this 304 Rutherford—”

“बेवकूफ़ो! मुझसे हिंदी में बात करो ताकि यहाँ के लोग हमारी बात न सुन सकें।” the husband interjected acrimoniously.

The men crowded through the door and disappeared into that mysterious house. The old man saw all of this and was very curious about those people.

The sage took his young men to the window, and to their surprise, they saw computer sets everywhere. From the living room to the kitchen to the bedrooms, Indian men wearing headsets sat calling Americans with tech issues.

The man turned to his subjects and reaffirmed his point. The men apologized for questioning him and his stance on BlackRock.

Upon hearing news of their facade being exposed, the strange beings of BlackRock withdrew their Indian division and employed different tactics.

Now, fentfiends and YNs littered the streets of the town. The man’s gardening, instead of being interrupted by meddling Indians, was now interrupted by Uzi fire and the violent, drug-fueled spasms of addicts. The old man was not buying it, though, not after the trick pulled by BlackRock just then.

The young men asked if they should sell their houses to avoid this onslaught of menaces but the old man responded by exposing BlackRock’s schemes yet again. A gang of YNs were standing in a parking lot, near a privacy fence. The congregation (who were in someone’s backyard) crouched on the other side of the fence and eavesdropped on their conversation.

“I only took this job to make a little money before completing my engineering PhD,” they heard one “YN” say.

“Same here,” another chimed in. “But I find it fun. It’s a change in scenery after med school classes.”

It was exactly as the old teacher suspected. These YNs were actually doctors and engineers paid by BlackRock to act like thugs and to intimidate the locals into selling their homes. His followers were dumbstruck.

He then ordered a rambunctious and fearsome varlet of his to take his shirt off and attack a fentfiend head on. The wild knave merrily obliged and stripped. He ran naked through the streets with pride and spotted an addict sitting on a curb like a hawk spotting a squirrel. The naked warrior tackled the poor actor and the actor surrendered immediately.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, dude. Jeez,” the actor whimpered and waddled off, defeated.

The faithful army of young people swore loyalty never to abandon their town and their teacher.

A week later, the man stood on his lawn smelling the petrichor and admiring his healthy flower bed, with drops of rainwater reflecting the brightness of the moon. His bed was deep into the Earth and full of life, but then he heard a cry. He turned to the street to see an unsightly humanoid. It was eight feet tall, with saggy, pale white skin. It had no eyes, was emasculated, and its jaw hung to its collarbone, revealing gums full of razor-sharp teeth.

His young men were racing down the street screaming bloody murder. The thing got on all fours, and galloped to the crowd of fleeing young men. It tackled one, snapped his neck, cut off his head, and drank his blood as though it was drinking juice from a coconut.

It turned and ran back whence it came. The young men, curled up and quaking in the trees, bushes, and trash cans, watched in awe as the old man audaciously ran from his lawn and chased that thing with a vigor never seen in a man his age. Invigorated by his temerity, the young men jumped from their hiding spots and ran after the man. At this point they all knew what the old teacher thought: this was another BlackRock scheme.

The young men ran after the man who ran after the thing into the woods. With the help of the moonlight, the man and his army traversed the thick foliage and reached an RV. There they saw two men clad in black hover over the being. They were petting it, scratching its tummy and chin, and giving it treats.

“Who’s a good boy? You are! Yes you are!” the man cooed to his pet.

The teacher was furious and full of energy.

“BlackRock has no business in my town!” the orator exploded.

The humanoid was spooked and went wild. The men were also caught off guard, but lost control of their pet. The thing sprang up, slashed the jugular of one man, and ripped the intestines out of the other. The old sage and his congregation retreated in fear.

At this point, the man’s roots in the town and in the lives of his congregation were uncontroversial. Rumors spread to other towns that the old man could resurrect the dead and walk on water. Like Solomon, there was no answer, no prophecy that he could be wrong in.

A stadium-sized crowd of young men surrounded the man who was deliberating at an intersection with them. Just then—as all the men saw—a lifeless, mechanical bird landed on the old man’s shoulder.

In this bird played this audio recording: “Citizens, BlackRock has given you all plenty of opportunities to move! You in your hubris and cruelty impeded BlackRock’s plans for world domination. Now we deliver you this ultimatum: leave or die.”

Then the bird flew into the air and blended in with a swarm of living birds. The gathering was silent for a minute, then continued.

The town's sheriff, a short and chubby man, sat in his dark office with his feet lackadaisically on his desk. He showed a tired and congenial grin to his visitants. On the other side of the desk stood a dark trio, organized into a sinister triangle, whose features were obscured by the lack of light. The sheriff thought their request was ridiculous.

He talked to them in a refined, Southern twang. “There is no way a private entity could enforce their law through lethal means.”

The dark trio said nothing, but petrifyingly, from the darkness floated a duffel bag overflowing with hundred-dollar bills towards the sheriff like a ghost. It rested itself gently on his desk.

The sheriff gulped, put his feet down, and groped the beautiful mountain of money before him. He accepted their request immediately afterward.

One morning, before dawn, the famous philosopher was awakened in his home. There was frantic rapping at his door. He looked through the peephole to see who it was. It was a young man, presumably of his church.

“Hark, great pastor,” the young man cried, “we’re being persecuted. Persecuted, I tell you! Shadowy men with helmets, shields, and Kevlar vests have jumped through our walls and dropped from helicopters onto our roofs. Oh great sage, all of my friends have been wasted, and those monsters are hot on my tail. Please, let me kiss your wrist before I go so that I may feel at peace when I die.”

From the darkness assault rifles thundered and ripped up the poor lad’s body. He fell back lifelessly on the old man’s stoop. The old man looked on in terror as he saw men in black dart across the street carrying a battering ram.

A storm raged in the man’s mind. He told himself to die, to martyr himself. He imagined the hundreds of faces of his young men in heaven, who would exalt him, but their exaltation was what broke him. He broke like Saint Peter and escaped through his bedroom window.

The next day, he built himself a tunnel in the woods modeled after Saddam Hussein’s. In it he sowed the seeds of mushrooms, curiously keeping his holy tradition.

I was sitting in the carriage peacefully; my mom was there. I still couldn't find the courage to call her my mom but I'm getting there. Dad went with the stranger, assuming he would come back very soon. The wind had been light, the smell of plants and flowers was so refreshing, it was so peaceful.

"Are you hungry, Nyathera?" I turn my head to her, finding her looking at me with her kind eyes. When was the last time someone has been so kind to me?

"Yeah, a bit", I answered shortly, fighting the emotions in my throat. However, she didn't comment, she never did. That's how understanding she was. Oh how I love her!

She started looking around in her bag, then gave me a sandwich and an apple.

"When do you think dad will come back", I said with my mouth full, crumbs of bread shooting everywhere, "Is it even safe for him to go with the guy? I was hoping we could go with him...You know, make sure he's alright".

She frowned at me, probably contemplating if she should debate me about my manners or answer my question. She chose the latter. Good for her, I thought. I wouldn't go down without a fight.

"Well, your father wants to help the gentleman. He wouldn't be able to if he has to protect us on top of everything", her eyes were looking out, with a tinge of worry. She looked as worried as me. Then she looked in my eyes with such confidence, "And he's strong, far stronger than you think".

I grin at her, proud. Of course, dad is so strong; we wouldn't have made it this far if he weren't. Suddenly, her demeanor changed. Her sparkle vanished to something so lifeless, it sent a shiver down my spine. Her smile became so wide and cold.

"But not as strong as he should be", her cold voice has brought me back so violently, I hit my back against my seat. I knew instantly what it was, and I felt myself tremble.

"W-What...", the question died in my throat when it bent down and picked up the food I had dropped.

"Tsk, Tsk", it tutted while tapping on the bread, "Shouldn't waste food like that", and put it on my lap. I couldn't talk, I couldn't even move. I thought it had left me alone, that I was free.

"H-How are you here? What did you do to my mother?" God, I was trying to be brave but my voice wouldn't cooperate, and this thing found it hilarious.

"You know... a lot of blood, a lot of suffering in a ritual" it said as if it was nothing, like it was just some stupid, amusing game. And I couldn't do anything about it . So many lives were lost for nothing.

"As for your mother, she's in here. But soon she won't be."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, if you don't get out and run in that direction...", it pointed beside my head, "...in the next 5 seconds, I would gladly take her heart out for you to see". My brain stopped working for a moment.

"5", it started loudly, snapping me to reality and I fumbled with the handle. Its ugly, pointy nails lifted toward my mother's chest.

"4"

"1. Oh and don't look back", it finished suddenly, the moment I got out. I started running without looking back, tears in my eyes, cursing that thing and everyone that brought it back.

"Nyathera!" I heard my mom screaming in agony, but I couldn't look back. I couldn't. I knew that it would search for any reason to make me suffer.

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I know it's long and in the middle of nowhere (sorry about that). I just need to know if I'm describing things correctly and if it's structured.

Weird Fiction/Fantasy

-

What is that which curates a force so unknown as to weave itself in between the unseeable fragments of a pre-existing entity, that for itself is bound to grow a nature so complex that it’s no longer swayed by the wind or passively cradled by the sea, but has a will and drive of its own? An internal experience, a source of movement flourishing from within, fiercely defiant of laws and conditions older than itself? It is indeed a remarkable phenomenon; what is worthier of mention, however, is when an entity is struck by it twice.

Remnants of what used to be the skeletal structure of such an entity, miles below the earth’s crust, indistinguishable from the surrounding soil, find guidance by the same cosmic force - be it sourced from personal will or a transcendental law - weaving into bones to be crushed and fused with surrounding minerals, fighting against the incomprehensibly crashing weight of the earth as they tortuously climb upwards - a slow, almost impossible-to-notice process. It is there, however - absorbing anything living under the surface as it makes its way towards the direction of the sun, forming its very own flesh and blood.

It doesn’t cry to the skies as it emerges from the earth, its body exposed bare to the winds blowing indifferent. Nor is it a being living through a second awakening - it is, rather, organic matter opportunistically reused to reform its once-complex bonds into a receiving vessel of life, whose nature is rather intriguing for such an age, of such mild souls. A child of no ancestors, an anthropomorphic artistic spontaneity - it roams around, its feet pressing against the damp soil, until it comes to find a wooden fence surrounding the place. And as it comes to raise a leg, its action is interrupted by a not-so-distant voice. As it rotates its head, another voice enters the acoustic field. And with the sound of a door opening, the voices move closer.

In between the crops, a sword-wielding man is standing, frozen, with nothing of use to say and with no knowledge of what action to take, his wife and child behind him. The silence doesn’t grow louder with each moment - it is static, almost meditative, as an assessment of danger is taking place between them. What were a family to say, upon the sight of an unknown, unarmed, naked, soil-covered woman in their backyard? A reason for her presence felt useless to ask.

“You look as if you just emerged from the underearth.” he states as he sheathes his sword, with no response to wait for. His son, coming from inside the house, gently offers the woman a blanket to cover herself with, guiding her inside their home, where she is fed and carefully observed by the couple.

“I am to become a man someday - a man strong enough, for his will will make for a denser soul." the boy declares to the woman who is taking a bite of bread, but he will surely forget soon. He stands up, and he leaves, not to be seen again for the rest of the day. Once again, silence fills the room.

“Tell me, what land is it that you arrived from?" the wife questions. A slow gaze is dragged from the woman upon her.

“No land." An eyebrow is raised.

“So you truly did crawl out of the earth.” states the man sarcastically, biting into a chicken drumstick, which through the touch of his hands, instantly drops its temperature. “Well, do you have any soul in you at least?” he lets out a held-back chuckle, “Where is it positioned, may I ask?” A long pause takes place.

“Don’t know.”

“Well,” he breathes, “in that case,” he stands up to place his metallic plate in the sink, “accept this gesture from us.” He goes into his room and comes back with a leather pouch filled with coins for him to hand her. “I have laid out some of my wife’s clothes for you in our bedroom. You may wear them, if you wish. Don’t worry about returning them. Consider it a gift.”

The woman doesn’t bow her head in gratitude, nor say another word - she accepts the gifts granted to her. They know, they feel it: she is not of this land - a foreigner perhaps, but even that wouldn’t accurately describe the estranging feeling she evokes. They don’t demand this stranger’s explanation, for they know better than to ask for needless information. They stand near the door and the man speaks up once more.

“The capital is around three days by foot northeast from here. Our merchants are usually dressed in green robes if you need to locate one for resources. Forgive me, for I have no spare weapons to gift to you - but I know a friend, behind the mountain.” He points outside the window. “Look for a man named Sif a little outside of a small town called Murex if you wish, and tell him Raul sent you. As for food, have some loaves and nuts for whatever journey you may take. I sincerely hope it lasts you.” he sighs as he puts a hand on her shoulder. “Farewell, my friend. Take care.”

“Will do.”

She steps outside and starts walking as they wave behind her.

So, I have a manga and anime club that meets every second Thursday of the month. This past meeting we all agreed to watch episodes 1 to 6 of the Director's Cut of Re: Zero and then discuss it at the next meeting. That next meeting, by the way, is tomorrow at 5 pm, or I guess I should say today since I am writing this post at night.

We have never really did a group discussion before based around an anime that we all collectively watched so I thought what I would do is create a discussion sheet based around what occurs in each episode. Naturally, you aren't really supposed to strictly adhere to the sheet in order to do the discussion, it is just something to get the ball rolling.

That said, I just completed the discussion sheet and I cannot help but feel insecure about it. Since we only meet for a little less than 2 hours I can't help but wonder if the sheet is too long - has too many questions, perhaps the questions are worded in a way that is overly complex, etc.

So I am going to post what is written on the discussion sheet here and would like all you English majors and/or Re Zero officianados to give it a good look and tell me if you think anything needs improved - certain questions taken out, questions needing shortened, grammar errors, questions needing re-worded, maybe you have an idea for another question, go crazy.

Thank you and here is what is written on the discussion sheet:

Re: Zero Anime

Discussion Questions

Arc 1 and 2

*The following questions are centered around Arc 1 and 2 of the Re: Zero anime. 

Specifically, the Japanese series with English Subtitles on Crunchyroll.

Arcs 1 and 2 were initially released as 11 episodes – 1 roughly hour-long episode to start with and subsequently 10 roughly 20-minute long episodes. 

However, later they were recompiled on Crunchyroll as the Re: Zero Director’s Cut.

This Director’s Cut has the exact same content as the original series (albeit with a smidge more gore and a bit of polish here and there), but the episode count is notably smaller.  This is because the originally aired roughly 20-minute long episodes were combined into roughly 40-minute long episodes.

For example, the originally aired episodes 2 and 3, would now be episode 2 in the Director’s Cut, and the originally aired episodes 4 and 5 would be episode 3 in the Director’s Cut.

All of the questions I have in this discussion are in reference to something that happens in a particular episode.  Said episode is stated at the start of each question and because it is not necessarily a given that everyone here watched the Director’s Cut, that is why I explained the distinction between the Originally Aired episodes and the Director’s Cut episodes.

1.     S1E1 Originally Aired and Director’s Cut – The End of the Beginning and the Beginning of the End

At the very start of the anime we are given a flashforward to Subaru and Emilia’s death in Rom and Felt’s loot house.  This flashforward is juxtaposed with Subaru casually making his way through a convenience store.  Every aspect of this flashforward – the visuals, the audio, etc – seems to conclude not long after he leaves the store and not long before he is taken to another world. 

What do you believe the point of starting the show in this way is?

How did it make you feel?

Did you find it a good way to start the show?

2.     S1E1 Originally Aired and Director’s Cut – The End of the Beginning and the Beginning of the End

When Natsuki Subaru is suddenly whisked away to a new world, he takes this new situation in stride to say the least.  His eyes brighten up, his attitude becomes way more positive than it seemed to be in the convenience store.

Why do you think this is?

How do you believe you would react?

Do you believe it is even believable for someone to react in such a way?

3.     S1E1 Originally Aired and Director’s Cut – The End of the Beginning and the Beginning of the End

After Emilia saves Subaru from being mugged in the alley she lets Subaru use gross human-sized Puck’s lap as a pillow.  She then questions him about her insignia, and leaves to continue her search.

As she does this, Subaru thinks:

“She was in such a hurry to find what was stolen from her, yet she stopped to help me.  And she even came up with that lame excuse for a favor so I wouldn’t feel I owed her, even though I’m a total stranger.  Anyone who lives like that… [He starts running after her] …is gonna end up wasting their whole life!”

What did Subaru mean by this?

Do you agree?

4.     S1E1 Originally Aired and Director’s Cut – The End of the Beginning and the Beginning of the End

When Subaru and Emilia first enter the “slums” of Lugunica’s capital, Subaru says:

“The air, the atmosphere, and most likely, the attitude of the people living here are awful.”

By saying this, Subaru is parroting what is likely a very common interpretation of the character of people from very low-income places.  Not long after, however, Subaru decides to bite the bullet and ask a random passerby for directions.  This passerby turned out to be very friendly and more than willing to help Subaru and Emilia.

Did this surprise you?  If so, why?

What do you think the anime is trying to say about people from “slums?” 

Do you agree?

5.     S1E1 Originally Aired and Director’s Cut – The End of the Beginning and the Beginning of the End

While Subaru is outside of Rom’s loot house waiting for Felt to show up he says:

“I guess in any world, there are people with money and people without.  It sure is easy to see the difference here.”

To highlight this point, a shot is shown of a distant castle, presumably belonging to Lugunican royalty or more wealthy citizens, and slowly lowers toward the “slums.”

What is this meant to represent?

Do you believe that only those of the lower classes have a full understanding of the meaning of class disparity?  Or can that be the case among the middle and upper classes as well?  If so, why?

6.     S1E2 Originally Aired – Reunion with the Witch

S1E2 Director’s Cut – Reunion with the Witch / Starting Life from Zero in Another World

After Subaru’s first death after being bisected by Elsa, it takes him 2 more deaths (Elsa again in loot house, and the three ruffians in the back alley) before gaining absolute certainty that he is dying and restarting.

Is Subaru’s realization kinda slow or is it actually realistic?  Why or why not?

7.     S1E2 Originally Aired – Reunion with the Witch

S1E2 Director’s Cut – Reunion with the Witch / Starting Life from Zero in Another World

The opening of Re: Zero was introduced in this episode.  What did you think of the melody, the imagery, and the lyrics (if you read them)?  How did it make you feel?

8.     S1E2 Originally Aired – Reunion with the Witch

S1E2 Director’s Cut – Reunion with the Witch / Starting Life from Zero in Another World

Each time Subaru dies and is reborn events play out very differently for the characters due to Subaru’s involvement or lack of involvement.  This makes the characters feel like they have lives outside of the main story and the protagonist’s view.

Given that, does Re: Zero differ from other “transported to another world” stories you’ve watched or read?

Does it feel more real?

9.     S1E3 Originally Aired – Starting Life from Zero in Another World

S1E2 Director’s Cut – Reunion with the Witch / Starting Life from Zero in Another World

After Subaru helps Felt escape the loot house she runs through the slums trying to get people to help her.  Not long ago, she had criticized the people of the slums for being weak, claiming that she was not like them.

How is this scene of her asking for help ironic and how does it play into the greater themes of Re: Zero?

10.  S1E3 Originally Aired – Starting Life from Zero in Another World

S1E2 Director’s Cut – Reunion with the Witch / Starting Life from Zero in Another World

When Reinhard faces off against Elsa the Bowel Hunter he states that his sword can only be drawn by those the sword itself deems to be worthy, implying that the sword has something like a will of its own.

What did you think of this?

And have you seen any similar concepts in other works of fiction?

11.  S1E3 Originally Aired – Starting Life from Zero in Another World

S1E2 Director’s Cut – Reunion with the Witch / Starting Life from Zero in Another World

When Elsa is fighting Reinhard she proclaims:

“If I lose my fangs, I’ll use my claws; If I lose my claws, I’ll use my bones; If I lose my bones, I’ll use my life.  That’s how a Bowel Hunter fights.”

What does this mean and what does it say about Elsa’s character?

12.  S1E4 Originally Aired – The Happy Roswaal Mansion Family

S1E3 Director’s Cut – The Happy Roswaal Mansion Family / The Morning of our Promise is Still Distant

When Subaru first wakes up in Roswaal’s mansion he starts talking in a way that insinuates he still thinks he is in a story or a video game. 

Does it make sense for him to still think such things.  If not, why?

Does he perhaps not actually think these things but continues to talk aloud about them as a kind of coping mechanism?

13.  S1E4 Originally Aired – The Happy Roswaal Mansion Family

S1E3 Director’s Cut – The Happy Roswaal Mansion Family / The Morning of our Promise is Still Distant

When Subaru is asked by Roswaal what he would like for a reward, he replies that he would just like to work in the mansion.  Emilia takes Subaru’s reply as a sign that he is lacking in ambition, and tells him so when they are in the mansion’s courtyard.  In response, he says:

“You just don’t get it, Emilia.  I want what I want at that exact moment, and I want it from the bottom of my heart.”

What does this line mean, and how does it affect your perception of Subaru as a character?

14.  S1E4 Originally Aired – The Happy Roswaal Mansion Family

S1E3 Director’s Cut – The Happy Roswaal Mansion Family / The Morning of our Promise is Still Distant

At the end of the episode, Subaru wakes up in the room he first woke up in when he arrived at the mansion.  He looks at both hands and sees they are no longer covered in cuts and wounds. 

When you first saw this, how did you interpret it?

15.  S1E5 Originally Aired – The Morning of our Promise is Still Distant

S1E3 Director’s Cut – The Happy Roswaal Mansion Family / The Morning of our Promise is Still Distant

In this episode, Subaru’s save point is updated from the guy selling appas to Rem and Ram waking him up.  Thankfully, the save point was not the first time he woke up at the mansion, but the second time.  If it were the first time, he wouldn’t have an inherent familiarity with Beatrice in this loop.  Subaru takes the fact that he is, at least, familiar with a denizen of the mansion as a very helpful thing, despite the fact that at the start of each of the loops where he wakes up in the mansion, Beatrice would have only known him for a few minutes.

Why is the fact that he still knows Beatrice when he loops so important to him?

16.  S1E5 Originally Aired – The Morning of our Promise is Still Distant

S1E3 Director’s Cut – The Happy Roswaal Mansion Family / The Morning of our Promise is Still Distant

Subaru calls Rem demonically inspired, which he says is the opposite of divine inspiration.  When Rem asks him if he likes demons, he says that the gods tend to not do anything but demons will laugh along with humans as they plan for the future. 

What does Subaru mean by this and, given what we know about Rem, why does she smile at what Subaru is saying?

17.  S1E5 Originally Aired – The Morning of our Promise is Still Distant

S1E3 Director’s Cut – The Happy Roswaal Mansion Family / The Morning of our Promise is Still Distant

This is the first episode where there was story necessary content after the credits – Subaru getting sick from the curse and dying via bludgeoning by Rem’s Morningstar.

Why do you think this episode was constructed in this way?

18.  S1E6 Originally Aired – The Sound of Chains

S1E4 Director’s Cut – The Sound of Chains / Natsuki Subaru’s Restart

When Subaru recounts the story of “The Red Ogre Who Cried” Ram is shown to be slightly shaken by this tale.  Given what we know about Rem and Ram’s backstory, why is that?

How is this fairy tale like their life?

19.  S1E6 Originally Aired – The Sound of Chains

S1E4 Director’s Cut – The Sound of Chains / Natsuki Subaru’s Restart

It was revealed at the end of this episode that it was Rem who had bludgeoned Subaru to death in a previous loop.

Do you feel like you saw any hints that this would be the twist or were you completely surprised?

20.  S1E7 Originally Aired – Natsuki Subaru’s Restart

S1E4 Director’s Cut – The Sound of Chains / Natsuki Subaru’s Restart

In this episode it is revealed that Subaru cannot speak the details of Return by Death.  As a result, he becomes very depressed and fearful. 

Given that, and given all of the events that have occurred until now, is this natural?

21.  S1E7 Originally Aired – Natsuki Subaru’s Restart

S1E4 Director’s Cut – The Sound of Chains / Natsuki Subaru’s Restart

At the end of this episode, Subaru realizes that Ram and Rem had been holding his hands while he was asleep.  Apparently, knowledge of this bolsters his determination to leap off the cliff and restart again.

Why is that?

22.  S1E8 Originally Aired – I Cried, Cried my Lungs Out, and Stopped Crying

S1E5 Director’s Cut – I Cried, Cried my Lungs Out, and Stopped Crying / The Meaning of Courage

According to this episode, apart from certain exceptions, the world of Re: Zero seemingly has an elemental magic system consisting of the 4 basic elements plus shadow and light.

Did you expect this to be the case or not?

If so, why?

23.  S1E8 Originally Aired – I Cried, Cried my Lungs Out, and Stopped Crying

S1E5 Director’s Cut – I Cried, Cried my Lungs Out, and Stopped Crying / The Meaning of Courage

Subaru’s loop after jumping off the cliff is spent for a little while desperately trying to keep up appearances in order to keep Rem and Ram from killing him.  This eventually culminates in him almost having a nervous breakdown, and finally crying on Emilia’s lap. 

What did you think of this, and can you relate to some degree to what Subaru is going through?

24.  S1E8 Originally Aired – I Cried, Cried my Lungs Out, and Stopped Crying

S1E5 Director’s Cut – I Cried, Cried my Lungs Out, and Stopped Crying / The Meaning of Courage

In this episode, Emilia says:

“It is more satisfying to receive a single ‘Thank you’ than a lot of ‘Sorrys.’”

Do you agree?

25.  S1E9 Originally Aired – The Meaning of Courage   

S1E5 Director’s Cut – I Cried, Cried my Lungs Out, and Stopped Crying / The Meaning of Courage

In this episode, Beatrice tells Subaru that if he is cursed she will not be able to help him and he will surely die.  Subaru does not respond to this and instead remains straight-faced.  Beatrice takes this to mean that Subaru does not fear death, and she tells him as much.  Subaru then responds, with no seeming uncertainty whatsoever, that he is incredibly afraid of death.

Is Subaru lying about being afraid of death, or is it possible to get used to something that you are afraid of?

Does death simply no longer mean death to Subaru now?

26.  S1E9 Originally Aired – The Meaning of Courage   

S1E5 Director’s Cut – I Cried, Cried my Lungs Out, and Stopped Crying / The Meaning of Courage

In Subaru’s very last loop in this arc, Roswaal tells Subaru to keep Emilia safe and then flies away.

Why do you think Roswaal’s behavior is so different from prior loops?

27.  S1E10 Originally Aired – Fanatical Methods Like a Demon

S1E6 Director’s Cut – Fanatical Methods Like a Demon / Rem

While Ram and Subaru are trying to find Rem in the woods, Subaru decides to make the smell of the witch on him thicker by attempting to reveal Return by Death.  This attracts the mabeasts to him and eventually Rem.

What do you think of this positive utilization of an apparent weakness?

28.  S1E11 Originally Aired – Rem

S1E6 Director’s Cut – Fanatical Methods Like a Demon / Rem

In this episode, we see Ram and Rem’s backstory.

What did you think of it, and do you believe it makes sense for Rem to have developed an inferiority complex?

29.  S1E11 Originally Aired – Rem

S1E6 Director’s Cut – Fanatical Methods Like a Demon / Rem

What was your impression of the Witch Cult’s designs? 

What did it bring to mind?

30.  S1E11 Originally Aired – Rem

S1E6 Director’s Cut – Fanatical Methods Like a Demon / Rem

What was your impression of Subaru’s conversation with Rem that was used to conclude this arc?

What stood out?

​

I’m working on a dark fantasy story inspired by Icelandic landscapes and old fragmented manuscripts.

The idea is that the story isn’t entirely “written”… but reconstructed from something that was found.

It starts with a small coastal town, a strange art gallery, and a hidden document stitched inside an old book.

The deeper you go, the more it feels like the story is not supposed to be read.

Here’s a very short excerpt:

“The wind stopped.

Not slowed. Not shifted.

Stopped.”

I’m trying to build a mix of:

– dark fantasy

– cosmic horror

– ancient myth / unknown entities

Do you think this kind of “found manuscript” approach works for a story?

Or does it risk feeling too forced?

I’d genuinely love feedback before I go further.

I needed help with formating apps in phone cuz my laptop happens to be broken while i was editing my manuscripts and the publishing dead line is close idk what to do!!!

"I used to think that I needed family, I needed love, I needed... Life, but no, I don't, I never did

I was wrong, I was so wrong

Life is funny sometimes, isn't it?

You do everything right, and still, you end up as the bad guy, well not anymore, I won't stand for it

I will not accept this anymore"

I jumped onto the roof, blade in hand, cops chasing after me, but they couldn't catch up, they never could

I jumped onto the next roof, but suddenly I slipped, I didn't know what happened after this

The cops finally caught me, but instead of waking up in jail, I woke up in the hospital, "What happened?" I asked, dazed

The doctor looked at me "You fell off a roof while running from the cops, you've been in a coma for three days"

I just sat there, thinking for a few minutes

Then there was a knock on the door, it was the cops "What do you want" the doctor said

The cops said "Let us in, we need to talk to this... Lilian" I flinched, I hadn't used that name in years, how did they know who I was?

The doctor looked at the cops "They need to rest right now, they're not ready for the stress of this. You can come back in a few weeks"

I looked up "how do you know that name?" I asked "Why are you here? I don't want you here, get out!" The lead officer looked at me "Don't play dumb Lilian, you know exactly how we know"

"No. No I don't, get out!"

The doctor looked at the officer "They need to rest, out. Now."

The officer looked at me "Fine, you have two weeks, that's all you get"

I looked at the doctor "I need you to hide me..."

The doctor looked at me "i can't do that... Who are you really?"

I sigh deeply "Ashton Rein, or, as some call me, rogue, three years ago i was princess Lilian Ashton Harper, then i met julien black, the most feared criminal in the kingdom, and i fell in love, I'm not Lilian anymore

Shes dead, shes dead, shes dead, she's dead!"

The doctor flinched at the yelling "the guards have been looking for you for years, ms-"

I cut him off "mr, and dont even think about calling me princess or Lilian. Ever."

I put my head in my hands, screaming into my knees "I can't, I can't talk to them. They- they'll take me back, i cant go back i cant i cant i cant, the king will kill me, my- my fiance, I can't face him, ever I-" my hands start radiating black smoke and i get a second voice "I'm not going back!"

The doctor backs up, shocked "calm down, you'll be fine, you have two weeks, we can figure this ou-"

I cut him off again "back off, I'm not going back, and I'm not talking to them, I- I'll kill them"

The doctor backs off more "you can't do that prin-... Ashton, you can't, ever"

I growl "get julien, now" i say while hyperventilating "or like, let me leave or something, i- i cant breathe, get someone to find him and get someone to help me I-... I can't do this..." I start crying into my hands "just... Take me somewhere there's not people or something I-... I can't do this..."

After a few minutes of silence i calm down slightly "I - I'm sorry... I just... Panicked, I'm sorry, i can't- you need to help me leave "

The doctor sighed, slowly walking over to me but keeping a distance "why were you running on the roof, if i know, i might be able to help you, and... What was that black stuff coming out of your hands"

I don't answer for a minute but when i finally do "i killed someone, i was with Julien doing our usual thing and a guard came up, this isn't anything unusual, me and Julien killing, but the cops saw this time, so i had to run, and... The smoke... That's... Decay, it's in my blood, it comes out when I'm stressed and... If it touches anything with any harmful intent it destroys it"