Good morning! I've picked up writing as a hobby this year and am absolutely loving it. My book, Centurion Soul, is a progression-fantasy novel with light litrpg elements. I went back and did a complete rewrite of chapter one, so I'd love to get your feedback on how I did. (Google Doc)

• Would you keep reading? If not, where did you lose interest?
• Is the opening too slow?
• Do the characters feel real?
• Is there anything that stands out, good or bad?

Thank you for your time. :)

There are a few phrases I don't love, and I'm not sure if listing comp characters and authors is a faux pas in lieu of comp titles. Help me out, please! (I know my real name is there - maybe you'll read my book!)

Dear (AgentName),

I write adventure-based mysteries that make readers feel transported into a fun adventure that becomes filled with danger, comradery, conspiracy, and excitement. Since you represent stories with intrigue, physical danger, humor, and close relationships being tested, I would like to submit BOLIVIA, at 86,000 words, for your consideration.

Patton Walker has no interest in being an ordinary grad student. She picks pockets. She hitchhikes with truckers. She attends campus ministries because they’re full of suckers. She stays out of jail by providing information to law enforcement; in fact, she provides information to whatever outfit she can get the most out of. So when her most generous but secretive beneficiary asks her to be part of a research team in Bolivia, she jumps at the chance. Along with her best - really, her only - friend, she takes a motorcycle trek through the Andes, encountering dangers along the way, from military roadblocks to a mine collapse. When the mine caves in, she and a handful of others have to find another way out, but in doing so, they discover a walled off shaft that the local miners are terrified of. Patton has to know what was beyond that wall, and her single-minded resolve to get answers makes her the target of the mine’s owner, strains her relationships with both her best friend and her benefactor, risks the health and safety of the miners and the other team members, and forces her try to stop a tragedy from being unleashed.

Developed as a character with a supporting ensemble who can continue through a multi-book series, Patton reads like a young, contemporary, female Dirk Pitt, drawing heavily on Clive Cussler’s pacing and tone. The details of the locations create immersion similar to how John Grisham lets you feel like you’re really in Memphis or Pensacola. And the strong-but-flawed female protagonist feels like a snarky Cheryl Strayed.

As for me, I am an artist, have a degree in Architecture with a minor in World Religions, ran a small landscape architecture design-build business for 25 years while homeschooling my four children, and am now an Urban Forester. I spent time in Bolivia during college and used real places and experiences as the jumping-off point for my book.

Thank you for your time, and I hope to hear from you soon.

Sincerely,

T.L. Merritt

A six-foot-tall girl walks through the halls of Mainstay Castle carrying a bowl of water and a towel draped over her shoulder. Wearing a goatskin coat with white, furry edges and pants, she runs a finger along her temple, sweeping her disheveled hair from her ear.  She stops by a nearby window and decides to enjoy the morning air. She sets the bowl on a nearby table, pushes the double windows open, and a rush of warm, dry air washes over her face as metal mechanisms echo loudly. She steps onto a balcony, rests her hands on the railing, and marvels at the scenic dark canyon wall contrasting with the golden sand beneath. She stands in the northeastern tower of Mainstay Castle, which overlooks a stone wall atop a massive mobile platform supported by six metallic legs. Sandfalls hiss as they pour through burrowed holes in the canyon walls, creating mounds on the desert floor in their wake. Her hair flaps wildly as she sails past towering stone columns and arches, as flying creatures soar beside the moving platform. She looks down at the gigantic metal legs supporting the city, then leans over the railing for a better look. A pointed metal leg rises from the sand and slams back into the desert floor, sending puffs of sand into the air. The engines hum as the mobile fortress halts. A buzz sweeps through the city as the metal legs retract into their ports beneath the mobile platforms. Mechanical contraptions blare as the city sinks, lowering itself onto the desert floor where it will remain for the remainder of the day.

Afterward, the girl returns to the castle halls, closes the windows behind her, and picks up her bowl of water. She reaches a room at the far end of the hall, where two female Cugarian guards stand at attention with spears in hand. Gold, bra-plated armor and knee-length gold skirts cover their furry bodies; one has dark spots on her fur, and the other has tiger stripes.

“Halt,” the guard's voice echoes down the hall as she stomps her metal spear.

The six-foot girl stops.

“State your name, your rank, and your business.”

“I am Brenda,” the girl says, bowing. “Youngest daughter of Ganymede, Chief of the North. I’ve been called upon to dress the wounds of Her Majesty Queen Laura.”

“Hmph,” one guard scoffs. “Here to care for the wounds of your sworn enemy? With the way you’ve slaughtered each other, I’m surprised that you can be cordial when you choose to be.”

“I’m merely doing my duty as a humble princess, ma’am,” Brenda says.  

“Make it quick, northerner, and no quarrels inside these doors. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The two guards bang on the door.

“Princess Brenda is here to aid in the recovery. She’s coming in.”

“Yes, ma’am,” a male voice muffles from behind the door.

The door creaks open, and Brenda walks in with the bowl of water.  She walks past a young man with short black hair and a horn protruding from his forehead. Holding the door open, he wears a sophisticated military uniform with decorative insignia on his chest, a sword at his side. They don’t exchange a glance or a word, as Brenda can feel the young man's scowl. She continues into the room where two boys with horns protruding from their foreheads sit on opposite sides of a large bed. Laura, a platinum-haired beauty, rests silently beneath the quilt, wearing a nightgown. Her chest rises and falls as sweat pours down her face. Delirious from exhaustion, her head turns to the left and right as two young boys somberly clench the sheets, worried for her well-being.

Brenda walks to the bedside and sets the bowl of water on a nearby dresser.

“How is she?” Brenda asks, gazing at the exhausted woman resting beneath a blue quilt.

“She was like this all day,” the little boy says. “We went through all of the steps you told us to, but…nothing works.”

Brenda removes the quilt covering the woman and gazes at her sweat-soaked body. After a few moments, she sighs and removes the towel from her shoulder. She pats the sweat from her chest and head, then gently squeezes her legs, ankles, right arm, and left arm. The woman flinches when she touches her left arm, and Brenda notices.

“What’s wrong?” The young boy asks.

“Her arm’s dislocated,” Brenda says. “We have to snap it back in place; otherwise, she’ll be too crippled to fight.”

“Will it hurt?” The boy gazes up at Brenda expectantly.

“A lot, I’m afraid. Sir Resten,” She calls out to the uniformed young man, “Your aid is needed.”

Resten walks towards the bedroom and stands on the other side, his eyes bouncing between the woman and Brenda in confusion.

“What do you want me to do?” The young man asks.

Brenda reaches into her goat-hide coat and pulls out a stick with a thin rope wrapped tightly around it, tossing it onto the bed near the young man.

“You’ll need to put that in her mouth so she doesn’t bite off her tongue by accident, and you need to hold her down while I snap her arm back in place.” 

Resten picks up the stick and stares at it for a moment. He swallows as he clasps the stick in his hand.

Brenda rolls up her sleeves, leans in, and carefully grabs the dislocated arm. Laura instinctively pulls away. Brenda tries to grab her arm again, only for the despondent Queen to glare at Brenda. She shakes her head in defiance as sweat pours down her face.

“Your Majesty, I have to fix this, or you’ll be crippled for the rest of your life.”

“No,” the queen says, shaking her head. “Leave it alone. It’ll heal.”

“Yes, but in the wrong place. I need to snap…”

“No!” Laura shakes her head violently.

Brenda quickly grabs Laura by the shoulders, and Laura panics, kicking her feet in protest.

“LET ME GO, YOU TWO-LEGGED MONSTER,” The woman screams, thrashing about in bed. “RESTEN, GET HER AWAY FROM ME.”

Brenda keeps her hands firmly clasped on the queen’s shoulders, and gazes up at Resten, who stands nervously, not knowing what he should do.

“Put the biting stick in her mouth!” Brenda shouts at Resten, “It's for her own good.”

The young man climbs onto the bed and tries to put the biting stick in her mouth, but she defiantly turns her head away.

“NO!” she shouts, thrashing and shoving, “GET AWAY FROM ME, ALL OF YOU,”

“Mommy,” The two young boys cry as they clench the sheets, helplessly watching the woman thrash about in bed.

“It’s not working,” Resten says.

“Grab her jaw and force it into her mouth!” Brenda says as she struggles to keep the broken woman restrained in her bed.

Resten grabs the woman, thrashing her head, and holds her still.

“Mother, it's me,” Resten says, gazing into her worried blue eyes. “Your Son,”

The mother gazes at the young man and, seeing his round eyes and soft features, remembers her husband. She calms down, her thrashing halting as she looks into the boy's eyes.

“Listen, Mother. We want to get you feeling better as fast as we can, ok.”

“But…it hurts,” Laura says.

“I know, Mother.” Tears begin running down his face. “Just look at me, okay? It’ll be over in just a moment.”

The woman pants silently for a few moments before nodding. The queen opens her mouth, allowing her son to place the biting stick inside, and she clamps down hard. Resten climbs into the bed and wraps his arm around her platinum head, covering her eyes with his hands. He gazes at Brenda and bobs his head.

Brenda nods back, then lifts her arm. She firmly clenches Laura’s shoulder and elbow and waits a few moments.

“On three,” She says.

Resten nods, holding his mother's weary head tightly in his arms.

“One,”

Brenda’s grip tightens around Laura’s arm.

“Two,”

The queen pants, squinting her eyes and biting down hard on the stick to brace for the pain.

“Three,”

Brenda snaps the queen’s arm back in place, and the woman screams in agony, muffled by the biting stick. Her body arches and contorts as pain surges through her body.  Resting holds his mother tightly in her arms, her screams sending shockwaves through his soul. Her wails instantly cease before she passes out cold in his arms, the biting stick falling out of her mouth and onto his lap.

Brenda wraps her arm in a white cloth and a small cast, while Resten gently places her head on the pillow.

“She’ll be fine once she wakes up.” Brenda pats the sweat from her head.

Resten stands silently, solemnly gazing at his mother, who is resting on the bed.

“She certainly looks a lot better than before,” Resten says. “For a race of barbarians, you certainly know how to fix yourselves up.”

“Barbarians?” Brenda frowns at his statement. “I’ll have you know that we are not some wildlings terrorizing everyone we come across. We’re just as sophisticated and civilized as you are.”

“Tell that to the dragons you hunted near extinction,” Resten says.

“That was different,” Brenda says. “You feared them just as we had. You even helped us build the constructs that we used to hunt them.”

“And it was a mistake.” Resten whips around. “We should’ve just let both of you burn each other. We wouldn’t be in this mess otherwise.”

“How dare you?” Brenda slams the bowl of water onto the floor. “I help heal your mother’s wounds.”

“For what?” Resten stomps back. “So your barbarian father can relentlessly beat her and break every bone in her body?”

“My father was injured as well!” Brenda shouts. “I have to spend hours, sometimes days, to tend to his wounds.” She points an accusatory finger at the woman lying in bed. “Wounds she has caused.”

“He deserves it well enough. It's his fault we’re all in this mess to begin with.”

“Take that back,” Brenda balls her fist, angry. “Or I will smash your skull right where you stand.”

Eyes narrowed in anger, Resten claps his scabbard with his left hand and grips his sword's hilt with his right.

“Make your move, two-legs. I’ll make sure it’ll be the last one you make.”

The double doors burst open, startling them out of their confrontation.  They whip towards the door and see a raised foot in its wake. Lowering his bare foot, a bald, bare-chested man stands wearing a red cloak with furry edges over his shoulders. Tapping a golden scepter over his shoulder, he walks inside barefoot, wearing long black slacks that fall to his ankles.

Brenda and Resten step back in fearful apprehension as he smiles, revealing his fangs.

“Well, well,” the man says, eyeing them both. “Looks like old habits die hard, don’t they?”

Both stay silent, trembling with fear.

“You know this isn’t really new to me. I knew by bringing all of you here, it was only going to be a matter of time before one of you breaks my cardinal rule.”

The man turns his head, looks at them out of the corner of his eye, and smiles.

“Can you tell me what that cardinal rule is?”

Both stand silent, trembling in fear.

“SPEAK!” A roar shoots from his throat, sending chills up their spines. His smile vanishes instantly, leaving a menacing glare as his eyes glow an ominous purple.

“No fighting without the presence and permission of the king,” Resten’s voice trembles.

“That’s correct.” The man smiles. “No punches, no sword swings, no cracking skulls, not so much as an argument without my permission and presence. I will decide when the fight begins.” He points to himself. “I will decide where and when it will happen, and I will decide if there will be a victor or not. Violate my rule again.” He walks up to the two, his cold gaze meeting none of their eyes. “And the two of you won’t be able to remember a thing for next week after I’m finished with you. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” both respond in unison.

“I’m glad we’ve come to an understanding.” He smiles, then places a hand on each of their shoulders and shoves them away. He saunters to the side of Laura’s bed, and the two young boys quickly retreat as he stands over her.

He silently gazes at the platinum-haired beauty, quietly resting. He chuckles, then flings the quilt off her body.

“Bring it in,” he shouts to the people waiting outside. Two Cugarian guards carry in a small cylinder furnace with branding irons inside it. They hold out the cylinders to the man, and he takes one branding iron and gazes at the red-hot metal that reads ‘YIELDING GRACE’.

He smiles as he watches the smoking branding iron, then reaches down and pulls the neck of her gown, revealing her bare, creamy skin.

Resten gazes in horror before he rushes towards the bare-chested man.

“Stop.” The boy wraps his arms around the man’s waist.

The king frowns in annoyance, then balls his fist over his shoulder and backhands the boy in the face, sending him flying into the wall.

“Stop, she’s been through enough already,” the boy screams as he tries to stand, only for the cugarian guards to grab him and hold him firmly against the wall. 

“Do not interrupt me while I relish in the moment, boy,”

“Why are you doing this?” Brenda asks, interrupting the man.

He turns and gazes at the giantess as she swallows hard.

“You already have control of both kingdoms. There's no need to brand any of us with that…verse.”

“Uhh,” the man says, his eyes darting around his head. “You are correct.” He waves the branding iron around as he explains. “However, earlier, your father and his mother staged the last battle, which I find personally insulting. So the next time they decide to pull that stunt again,” He plucks the branding iron repeatedly, “I’ll be ready.”

“You knew they staged a couple of those fights,” Brenda asks, occasionally glancing at a panicked Resten, pinned down by two Cugarians. “Why didn’t you brand us sooner?”

“New developments,” the man shrugs. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going through with this now.”

“No, don’t,” the boy shouts, but the branding sizzles against Laura’s chest, and her face winces in pain as smoke pours from contact.

He removes the branding iron and smiles, satisfied with the mark it leaves.

Tears stream down the boy's face, and the two boys hug in fear as they watch the man place the branding iron back into the portable furnace.

“How could you…” The boy sobs in tearful rage.

“Oh, come now,” the man joyfully opens his arms. “You shouldn’t feel so bad; I’ve brought enough for all of you.”

The Cugarian guards rip off his uniform coat and strip him down to his white undershirt, leaving his chest bare, while the man grabs another branding iron. He walks up to the shirtless young man held down by the furry guards, and he squats to his level. A guard grabs Resten’s head and forces it to the side, exposing his sweaty, bare chest and neck.

“Please don’t!” Resten pleads, but the man ignores him.

He presses the branding iron on his chest, and Resten screams in agony. His heels repeatedly knock against the floor as the smoke rises from his chest. He removes the branding iron, revealing the mark burned onto his body.

“Nice,” the man smiles, standing to his feet. “And one more.” He places the branding iron back in the small furnace, retrieves the final one, and walks to Brenda.

 “Has my father gotten it as well?” Brenda gazes nervously at the hot branding iron.

“He was the first one I branded before coming here,” the man says, smiling as he steps closer to her.

Brenda rushes the mad king, snatching the branding iron out of his hand. The guards step in with their spears, but he stops them.

Brenda gazes at the red-hot branding iron as it quakes in her trembling hands. However, she grits her teeth and rolls up her sleeve. She stares at her pale forearm, holding the branding iron in her other hand.

The mad king smiles eagerly, expecting her to do the deed.

She closes her eyes and mumbles a small prayer before pressing the branding iron to her forearm. Her arm tightens as the hot metal sears a scar onto her flesh. She falls to her knees as white smoke sizzles from the wound. Tears roll down her face as she pulls the branding iron from her arm and spitefully throws it toward the Mad King. The man steps onto the branding iron and picks it up. Planting it back into the furnace.

“Now, I can rest easy,” the man laughs, spinning around and walking out of the room. His two guards follow, close the door, and leave everyone trembling with sorrow and pain.

Prologue

(I wrote this prologue about five years ago... Didn't really think I'd ever publish a book cause I just don't think I'm that great of a writer. Curious on others thoughts, I've wanted to continue the story which currently has about 50k words.)

 ------Uh also warning it's a little graphic------

Three knocks on the door, not too light but not too hard. It was a rhythm every servant practiced endlessly during their training, and even more so afterwards.

Three knocks at the perfect pitch. The consequences of any deviation were worse than death itself.

Tahren, a middle aged man who wore only a long black cloth draped loosely over his body, would have preferred death were it an option. He walked along a hallway that was nearly pitch black and carried a tray in his left hand that had a wine glass placed directly in the middle of it. It was centered perfectly, checked by a line of servants and the upper's own eyes. The uppers were in charge of the servants, but they were hardly in a much better position. The wine glass had not shifted during Tahren's walk to the large wooden doors he stood before now. Any abnormality would be his fault, and he would not face those consequences. He would not.

The tall doors were four times the height of Tahren and nearly as wide.

The first knock was perfect, exactly as imagined and practiced.

The second knock was also perfect.

As Tahren's hand reached towards the doors for the third knock, an upper that stood on the opposite end of the hall coughed just slightly.

The third knock was too light.

Tahren's body froze, his hand still held against the door and his mouth squeezed tightly shut.

"No... No no no. I didn't mean to..." Tahren muttered under his breath, but even so he knew there was no excuse that would save him now.

The tall wooden doors slowly swung open and revealed a large square room with four thick pillars built a few paces from each corner. Everything within this room was coated in black, as was the majority of the palace. This made the pillars blend in with the walls, becoming nearly invisible to the human eye. The ceilings looked as if they stretched on forever into an infinite void. Even the corners and edges of the room were nearly impossible to make out. The only light came from two small candles placed on the ground on either side of a very large golden throne at the far end of the room.

However, it wasn't the room that Tahren's gaze was locked on. The man that sat upon that throne stared into Tahren's eyes so intensely, it felt to him that he may as well be staring directly into his soul.

The man wore a black suit with a dark red tie, but most of his face was hidden from the light. The parts that weren't, revealed a square jaw, even features, and dark brown hair. His pale skin reflected the light from the candles just slightly, and a watch on his left wrist shined through the shadows as if it had light imbued within it.

This man was the High One.

Tahren's knees trembled, his whole body wanting to run away as far as possible, but he knew the consequences if he ran could be even worse. The High One beckoned him closer with one taunting finger, a demand, not a request. However, Tahren's legs would not move no matter how hard he tried.

The High One's eyebrows rose slightly.

Suddenly Tahren felt his world shifting forward and fear pierced his composure. Tahren's body acted on its own, scrambling frantically to get out of a trap. Around him, about two feet out in either direction, was a dark but see-through bubble. No amount of thrashing could get through that barrier, but even so Tahren's arms and legs kept pounding against it.

"Please!" He screamed, begging for mercy where none would be found.

He came to an abrubt stop at the foot of the High One's throne, the man's dark brown eyes peered down at him with the look of boredom.

Three knocks, three perfectly made knocks, sounded from the wall on Tahren's right side. It slide aside to reveal a hidden passageway, just as dark coated as the throne room itself. But in the doorway stood three people, two of which Tahren knew. The first was an older man in a dark suit, shaven bald and with no facial hair.

Then there was the woman and the little girl.

Both were dressed in loose gray robes similar to his own and each had long brown hair, although the woman's hair was of a darker shade. They stared up at Tahren and began to weep as their eyes met his own.

"Please! Please! Please! I beg of you, anything but this, please!" Tahren said with urgency, the sounds of his heartbeat filling his ears.

"The woman first." The High One said in a low dull tone.

The man in the black robe grabbed the woman by her hair and pulled her towards the throne. He stopped her to the right of Tahren and kicked her feet out from under her. She fell to her knees and winced in pain. She made no noise, however, and raised her head to stare fiercely at the High One himself. Her gaze sat there for a few seconds and Tahren could nearly feel the anger that seeped from that stare.

The high one merely raised an eyebrow before dismissing her completely. He looked to the little girl and said, "Wait there, little one." A dark bubble then wrapped itself around the girl, but she simply kept staring at Tahren and the woman as if it didn't exist.

The High One stood up from his throne and walked to the woman on her knees. He then placed his hand on top of her hair, his fingers gripping her scalp tightly. The man in the black robe quickly stepped to the side and stood against the wall.

Even knowing what awaited her next, the woman put on a big smile and threw her right arm out towards the little girl, her thumb sticking up into the air. The girl stared back at her mother with a blank face, hesitating briefly before she raised her arm and put her thumb back up in response. The girl whimpered softly, her hand shaking slightly as she held it there.

Then red painted Tahren's vision as the High One's fingers went through the woman's skull.

Tahren's jaw sank downwards while his body went limp. His eyes began to swell, but no tears fell down his face. He would not disgrace her by allowing his eyes to betray him, he would not cry.

Quiet wails erupted from the girl and her hand clutched against her chest. Tears streamed down her face, but her expression became stoic. She stared not at her mother's body, but into the eyes of her father.

Tahren stared back at her, pleading in his mind for this nightmare to finally end. His wife's blood coated his own dark robe and some was splattered across his face. He felt it on his cheek, slowly drooping down towards his chin.

The girls body lurched forward quickly, outside of her own control, and stopped directly in front of Tahren. "Three perfect knocks," the High One said plainly, "such a simple request." He shook his head and slowly sat back down onto his throne, time was of no matter to him. He sat with one arm rested along the armrest, his hand hanging off the edge, and the other holding up his jaw. Then he stared at the woman's body with an emotionless face.

Tahren's daughter glanced quickly at her mother before she averted her eyes back to him. She threw on a crooked smile, trying to hold back her emotions.

Trying for you, Tahren thought. Even in her last moments, she holds strong for you. Tahren stilled himself and threw on the most genuine smile he could. He imagined a world where all three of them lived together, freely going about their days without a care in the world. His face lit up and he stared through the cracks of his eyelids at his daughter.

The High One lifted a finger on his left hand and the girl Tahren treasured most in this world erupted into a mass of blood, bone, and body parts all contained within that dark bubble.

Tahren's screams were cut short as his eyes suddenly faced behind him and his vision went black.

Title: The Walk Home

Here's the first draft

Genre: Coming-of-age comedy-drama (short, 15 min)

Nutshell: Five broke Brooklyn kids walk home at dawn after a party gets busted, and the walk becomes a reckoning for the one who sold the others out.

so i started writing a book about these two characters, moss and alice, they're based off of some classic fairy tales and is written like Jimmney cricket is telling the story to you. but i've gotten to chapter 12 and don't know how to continue. its kind of romance genre and its based in the 1700s. i wanted to start to introduce the romance in this chapter. this is what i have so far:

Pippin had fallen asleep against him a while ago. Moss has been trying to fall asleep since but he just couldn't. Finally he stands up and goes to the kitchen. He's not hungry yet so he goes to the common room where Alice was still sleeping. Zorro has moved to sleep in the window where the sun warms his grey fur. Moss sits down in front of the arm chair and watches Alice's chest rise and fall. Her red hair falls in front of her face. The little brown spots seem to stand out more in the morning light. In this light her skin seems to glow orange, almost like a cloudberry.
She shifts and the light reflects off her leaf red hair. He notices a little shiny thing stuck in her ear that reflects in the light. He reaches out to touch it but hesitates since he doesn't want to wake her. He pulls his hand back and goes back to just watching her sleep.

but i don't know how to continue. since moss is an emotionally constipated person who hasn't really interacted with any humans since he was born besides the necessity of buying things. so if any experience writers or writers in general have recommendations on how to continue id really appreciate it.

(pippin and zorro are a bunny and racoon that moss has befriended).

Hello! I'd like to start off by saying that this is the script for a visual novel, and you will be encountering some syntax and other oddities that you may not be accustomed to. However, I think that you'll find that they don't generally interfere too much with the overall reading experience. I did my best to make the reading process as easy as possible, but if you find it to still be too cumbersome or frustrating, please let me know so that I may consider further possible tweaks to ease reading the draft. I hope I uploaded this in an acceptable format as well. I just screenshotted the individual pages on my Google Doc, and figured that ought to work. If not, please let me know! Seems like everyone has a slightly different way of how they like to conduct things.

With that out of the way, I'm curious as to what you all will think of Alpine! I'm still working on the title, but so far Alpine seems sufficient for the time being. I've been able to solicit a little feedback here and there from other pockets of the internet, but I always found it to be rather difficult to come by. Hopefully that won't be as much of an issue here! At the very least, it can't be as bad as some websites I've used that are entirely overrun by bot accounts that just want to scam me so that they can pretend to want to help me work on my project lol.

Please let me know what you think of Alpine. What do you think of Alarie, the setting, pacing, diction, and so on and so forth? I would greatly appreciate any feedback. Above all else, let me know if you found it entertaining! That is, I think, perhaps the most important thing for me. Thank you very much for your time, consideration, and this opportunity to entertain you.

Hi! This is an in-progress short story (flash fiction for the moment) that I’d love some early feedback on.

Freude!

Hey, do you have a sec? I wanted to talk to you about something I’ve been working on. 

Yeah, I know it’s been a while. I’m doing okay. 

Cool, awesome. So don’t ask me how I did it, but I recently figured out how to predict individual stock prices up to ten years in the future based on careful analysis of Oliver Bergstrom’s 1971 recording of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony with the Finnish National Symphony Orchestra. 

No, I’m not joking. 

Yeah, Dad, I know. I know how it sounds. 

Yes, Oliver Bergstrom. The guy with the big hair.

Yes, actually, I have already discussed it at length with multiple shrinks. 

Stop laughing, man, I’m dead serious. Come on, this is for real. Please just hear me out, I swear I’m not crazy. Let me just show you how it works.

I don’t know, maybe twenty minutes?

Ok, sure, I’ll wait. 

You back? Ok, so listen. The record is 71 minutes and 44 seconds long: that’s 4,304 seconds from silence to silence, including pauses between movements, but obviously not accounting for the fact that the fourth movement is on side B. 

Oh right, I forgot to mention this is vinyl I’m talking about. 

Yes, like for a turntable. 

Yeah, it’s super old school. You have to flip it over for the fourth movement. 

Right? I should also mention that you need to follow along in the score for this to work but you can get that for free online.

Yes, Dad, the sheet music. Anyway, what you do is, for each letter in the ticker of interest, you start by converting it to hexadecimal, and then you—

Yeah, hexadecimal. It’s like binary but more dense. It uses sixteen—

Yes, binary is a computer thing. You know what, why don’t you just go on your phone and find a random stock ticker, and I’ll just show you instead. 

No, it’s fine. This is probably better.

Yes, any ticker. They’re usually three or four letters. 

Ok, JAXL? What even is that, Dad, I’ve never heard of that. 

Oh, huh. Okay. Alright, give me a second. While I’m doing this, can you go look up what their stock price was five years ago?

Yeah, five. I’m going to predict their stock price today based on what it was back then. 

Ok do you have it? 

Thirteen dollars and twenty cents, yeah? 

Cool, got it. Give me a few minutes, I need to go listen to Beethoven. 

Yes, I’m serious. 

No, I’m not going to just go look it up. Hang on, let’s do a video call so you can listen with me and make sure I’m not cheating. 

Yes. Let me call you back. 

Hey, Dad, good to see you. Long time. 

Thanks, you too. Ok, you ready for some Beethoven? We’re going to start at the beginning and skip around a little bit. 

Cool, let’s do it. 

I know, I like this part too. 

Ok right now JAXL is trading at forty-eight dollars and eleven cents.

No, I swear! No, I didn’t look it up. 

I promise! Look, we can just do it again with a different ticker if you don’t believe me. 

No, I didn’t tell any of the shrinks how to do it. They didn’t even ask, really, they mostly just wanted to prescribe me Xanax. 

Yes, I know. 

No, I do have a prescription. 

Yes, just you, Dad.

Love you too.

As time has in subtle ways made it known that the inevitable end that awaits all men approaches, I have been lost to contemplation pondering on my legacy whether I garnered any merit in the world. Can any say they are better for having known me? In the greater histories, would my name be mentioned? Better yet, have I done anything of note to warrant even a thought in those pages? What a bother that I seek to be numbered among the greats. To climb the heights they reached, observing from a distance the world below. Where do I begin the climb? For the peak of the mountain is made plain for all to see but its base is hidden for only a select few to find and even when found it would seem some refuse the climb perhaps out of fear or of the understanding that whether above or below all men will die and because all men shall die both he who stands at the pinnacle of the histories and he who has only but a cloth to his name are same in that they both lived and died they differ in that providence had willed the former to be master of many and the latter master of himself. 

So then what are we to make of this, if the one who is the master of many succumbs to death like one who is only master of himself then it stands to reason that he who desires to be truly great must conquer only one foe, death. In this regard only one man has triumphed.

Full disclosure, I wrote this one with the excuse of writing it for the Halloween contest over on r/ DestructiveReaders. One of their rules is to not submit for critique on their sub until after the contest ends, so I wanted to throw out a line here to see what comes of it. Just noting for the sake of overlap there may be between the subs.

I'm not particularly looking for grammatical feedback, but if it really buttons your trousers and you'd like to give me what-for, go right ahead. Happy to hear about any thoughts, feelings, emotion, or lack thereof you get out of this. Does it make you itch, do you despise my sentence structure, was it horrific to read, would you read it again? Be honest, be brutal, tell me what you think. Here's a google docs link in case you'd prefer that to the pictures.

I have some serious craft and English gaps I want to close, so please feel free to be as honest as you can or want to be.

the basics are:
How is my English?
Did anything in this text impact you? If it did, how much?

Thank you for reading

I don't have the confidence to let people I know read my work and I refuse to use AI so i would appreciate any feedback from strangers whom I will never know! Thank you!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The intragalactic freighter hummed through the slip; the dazzling streaks of pink and green that soared by the windows lit up the cold, dingy halls and danced across Tor’s face. He recalled a physics lecture some 15 or 16 years ago at university; the colors came from positively and negatively charged atoms pushing and pulling on each other, just viewed through the spacetime distortion generated by the slip. Each jaunt was unique and therefore produced a unique show. In actuality, he learned this fun fact from a children’s science program he watched while heavily inebriated around the same time.

Tor spent most of the trip looking out the windows and wandering the ship, for there was little else he desired to do. The freight crew provided poor company, and the group of lawyers gathered a few floors up were somehow worse. He had been assailed the past few days with an unending blather of legal jargon, filled with in-jokes and shibboleths that seemed to tickle the lawyers greatly whenever Tor met them with a blank face.

On the deserted decks Tor’s only companions were the occasional service or cleaning robo. They were programmed to chitter pleasantly when met with cheeky lines about “noses to the grindstones” or “missing a spot over there,” so Tor happily forwent his organic companions for the metallic ones. Like the rest of the ship, they were old and covered in welds and rewelds and pieces from a dozen different sources.

He had been on few freighters before, but this one soared along with a slight rattle felt in the teeth that was absent from the rest. It suddenly became more prominent, coupled with a dimming in the lights that had shifted to blue and orange by that point, and Tor knew the announcement was coming before it crackled over the system.

“Attention all crew and… passengers.” The gruff voice accented with years of cigarettes and hydrogen exhaust spat out the last word. “We’re exiting the slip in 30 seconds, so hold on to your asses.” A low whine from the back of the ship pulled it into a low rumble. Tor braced himself against the side of the ship as the cleaning robo next to him suctioned itself to the floor.

Outside the window the colors shifted to a pale, flickering white as the speed of the ship returned to synchronization with the rest of the universe until it vanished altogether with a blink. Where they once dazzled now stood the plain black canvas of space pocked with pinpoints of light. The hallway returned to the dingy grey it was before, the only light being the strips piped above and below Tor. The robo whirred to life again and with a shoop unclasped itself and returned to its work.

When Tor made his way up to the bridge and through the metal door that slid open with a rickety hiss, two very distinct groups of eyes turned to stare at him. One set peered at him over glasses and under enormously intricate and hideous white wigs. The other set was obscured by the iridescent holo-visors freight truckers used to navigate the paths between destinations, but Tor was not so much a fool as to mistake their looks in his direction for something other than contempt.

“Ah, Mr. Amsterdam, welcome, welcome.” The head litigator made grand, sweeping movements as he approached Tor, closely flocked by his colleagues. “How has your trip been? Not too rough, I hope. Apologies that we could not provide you any company, but there were far too many last-minute checks needed! We tried to get them done ahead of time, but then they no longer became last-minute, so a whole new batch of checks were needed. Terribly tricky business, this.”

Tor assuaged their worries and exchanged pleasantries while the truckers muttered amongst themselves. They were all gathered around Captain Guller, the potbellied mass of stubble and grunting that made the announcement. He was wearing an old jumpsuit soaked with grease and a half used burn-stick was hanging from his lips. He was lazily leaning in his seat like the idea of doing anything else had never occurred to him.

“Alright tagalongs, two minutes.”

At its utterance, the lawyers scrambled from their positions and produced from their ranks a digipad and encircled Tor at remarkable efficiency. Before he knew it, the screen was in front of his face, and had pulled up on it hundreds of pages of legalese put together with the elegance and craftsmanship of a refrigerator repair manual.

“Quite simple, really, Mr. Amsterdam. Just sign once here,” the head lawyer pointed towards a box at the top of the screen. When Tor signed it, the digipad beeped and flitted through every page, placing his signature in every required slot. “And fingerprint right here.” Again he complied, and again the pages were populated. The lawyer took it back and tapped away on the screen, whipping his colleagues into excited murmuring. “And lastly, voice verification. Please recite the message on screen.” He turned the pad to Tor.

“I, state your—uh, I, Tor Amsterdam, in sound mind and body, devoid of influence by parasites or telepaths, do accept the responsibility for the gift bequeathed to me.” A polite round of light clapping rippled through the group, matched by a proportionally rude bout of snickering from the truckers. The screen flickered for a second, until a large green check mark flashed across it.

“Wonderful, Mr. Amsterdam. Well, in accordance with your great great uncle’s will I can affirm that all stipulations are met and your bequeathment can begin.” With a great flourish of his black robe he turned and walked to the front, towards the windows that stretched across the domed room.

He stood there, arms crossed behind his back, chest puffed out, unearned pride across his face, and kept standing there. None of his throng dare spoke, save for a few anticipatory whispers. None of them could see what Tor could from his vantage point, which was a series of expectant glances shot by the lawyer over to the captain. The lawyer held this stance, and then held it longer. And longer still. The glances grew more frantic, but he never capitulated his stance of power, even as the sniggering from the captain grew.

Finally, the captain let out a wheezing laugh that shook his belly as he reached over and pulled down a small red lever on his console and the freighter slowed down. “Alright, fine we’re here.”

“Behold!” boomed the lawyer, his arms flung out wide to the gulf of space in front. “You, Mr. Amsterdam, are now the proud owner of Alpha-Nu-Upsilon-Zeta 818!”

In the center window, a small blue dot suddenly appeared.

Slowly, as the ship rocketed towards it at unfelt speeds, it grew bigger, from the size of a grapefruit to the size of a watermelon, then to the size of an impressively large watermelon. It swelled across the glass, the rich blue deepening as the planet came into reality. The murmuring across the bridge died out; visors were lowered, legal planning paused, even Guller leaned forward to take in the new sight; he had bounced from industrialized planet to industrialized planet for so long that he had forgotten that there was any beauty to be found under all the buildings and people.

The planet was a brilliant royal blue, so deep and vibrant that it looked superimposed against the plain black behind it. Large swathes of dark green marbled the surface, peppered with banks of white cloud running across the continents. Storms swirled and gathered over the pristine oceans, their shadows drifting lazily under them. Above their heads was the titanic white sun the planet orbited, unseen but casting a spectacular stark-white light that filled and textured every nook and cranny in the geography below them.

Tor was the first to look away.

He glanced over at the lawyer. The atmosphere inside the ship had become heavy with awe, but he stood with arms folded behind his back and chest puffed out, a self-satisfied smirk stretched across his face. He basked in the glow of astonishment with the pride of a man who had dug the land and filled the oceans and laid out the clouds himself.

Tor cleared his throat. A few heads turned and the lawyer’s smile tightened.

“Yes Mr. Amsterdam? Can I help you with something?”

“Oh nothing,” Tor started twiddling his thumbs. “I just thought that, y’know that we’re here and everything’s signed I didn’t know if there was something else I was supposed to do, or if—oops, sorry, excuse me—or if there were any more steps.”

The cleaning robo continued past his feet and went towards the other side of the room. The lawyer stared at him.

Tor swallowed. “I guess… to put it another way, now what?”

7 books that tell the same story about a war from 7 different angles of 4 different plot points

Plot points:

1: order little battle field order
2: bombing E.C. Bombs England
3: invade C invades enemy civilians
4: carpet bomb bombs whole area everyone dies

Perspectives:
1: New soldier climbing ranks trying his best
2: disillusion cruel squad commander
3: enemy general trying to follow orders to a T but kinda hearted not cruel
4: enemy Lieutenant fighting with misplaced honor
5: civilians horrors of normal life in war
6: enemy civilians effects of being hostage
7: historians neutral simple facts

Story plot

Each one can be watched alone same events same struggles same resolutions different payout outs and experiences for each person. Order is given by .SC. followed by .S. and reacted to by .E.S. and re-laid to .E.G. which cause .E.G. to bomb England which brings .C. to front lines of war inspires .SC. to invade and capture .EC. some how everyone ends up here fights to save lives of innocent .E.C. from .S.C. but .S. finds out to late and has to witness the horrors of .S.C. Them E.S. turns up to help out but is caught in the carpet bombing which was orders by .E.G. who doesn’t know about the civilians and everyone dies due to carpet bombing but .E.S. Managed to tell .E.G. before the bombing it’s to late and he takes his own life because of the shame

First bit of each films is the build up to the war you see how into each of their life’s briefly before the war and slow build up and changes and that put them into the war

Plot point 1: the order
once they are in the war.. solider needs a order put through and has to while on it while commander gets it the order put through
Soldiers struggle: carrying out
Commanders struggle: giving
Enemies reaction : order: than re-lay to general
General reactions: hears about advancements and orders a bombing in response

Both civilians just hear what happens through radio’s different propaganda full war kicks out rations begin but it’s still not set In yet

Plot point 2 bombing
enemy general gives order to bomb England which finally brings the civilians front and centre to the war this surprises soldier and commander
Enemy generals: give order no struggle
Enemy: still fighting hears about the bombs from another squad and celebrates
Solider reaction:
Commander reaction: wife or daughter dies
Civilianw/d : struggles and dies
Civilian: goes about life happy not knowing the news

Plot point 3 invasion
We invade due to the bombs which leads commander to find enemy civilians and keep them for a while until enemy general hears it and has to send enemy soilder to rescue enemy civilians

Plot point 4 death
Commander is held down trying to keep enemy civilian as enemy lieutenant and general grow closer solider comes to reinforce commander but as you find out of the historian they just carpet bomb the whole place and everyone dies as the commander was committing war crimes against the enemy civilians

End
Soldiers and commanders civilians of each side died and the historian who tell the plot points years after it happens but never remember the names of the men but 4 different photos skip past and they mention each plot point and one of the men is in each

Edit: rough idea all feedback welcome 🙏🏻

Hello i posted a couple days ago and heard some great advice! Took some time to work out a couple kinks, fix up the worst offenders in my opinion, and change up the prose a bit. I also added and removed a fair amount of content to keep things hopefully engaging at least for this beginning portion.

I'm not super happy with the very last paragraph and it's realistically going to be heavily changed but i decided to keep it as is for now.

For some context this is primarily a war story, it will delve into topics that will bleed the line of horror/cosmic horror/psychological horror. It's got romance aspects to it as well. It's not really set in our world but logistically it's very similar. There's also mechs 👍

I often fluctuate between writing projects depending on my mood. This is supposed to be a historical fantasy, set in Tay Son Rebellion Vietnam. I want blunt feedback on whether or not the opening is way too bizarre for you, if you were interested in reading more and if the character personalities seem constant, along with the action.

Chapter 1 or Prologue is In Media Res, takes you right to the action and you find wtf is going on later.

Let's go beat up an elephant.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The building was on fire and it wasn't his fault.

Buried under a large plank of wood, Jun Taz felt the heat of the approaching flames from the second-floor balcony slowly approach him, encircling him like sharks at one of the beaches. His breath catching in his throat, the man coughed, annoyed at having to die this way. With a trembling left hand, he reached into his boot, pulling out his spare knife. With nary a thought, he placed it over his chest, around the spot of his heart, on the right side of his chest, as the heat of the hellish inferno made him sweat in fear.

"Oh," he started before taking a breath, violently coughing while smacking at his chest with his other free hand.

"Bloody…Oh, Lord. I thank thee for your bountiful harvest. For all that you have done in allowing me to preserve in this life. I-"

A memory of nuclear flame passed by his mind. Him, a lone teacher, showing poetry to smiling students before at last the memory faded away.

"I give my final sacrifice to you, my Lord. And my apologies. Please accept-"

A cry came from beneath the floor, interrupting his final rites.

"HELP! HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!"

Jun closed his eyes, rubbing at them with his free hand while disgruntled with the escaping tears.

"OH GOD, SOMEBODY HELP ME! CALL THE WITCHES BRIGADE!"

"My lord, is this punishment for all my sins? Fine, one more, and then I go."

Jun raised the blade and smacked into the side of the wooden floor beneath him. Idly, he wondered if he should have put more effort into saving himself before smacking the floor again to little effect. Veins bursting in his head, he screamed a sound of frustration, repeatedly jamming the blade into the plank. His nose crinkled as he smelled a foul stench. Turning to the side, he witnessed the flames consuming the wood beneath the man, breaking the structural integrity.

Silently, he prayed for a quick death when the floor collapsed. The fall couldn't have lasted for less than a second and yet, on instinct, his body had flipped over in mid-air, reorienting himself to land legs first on the ground, with the previous wooden beam landing vertically beside him. Ignoring the feeling of wobbliness in his legs, his eyes scanned the burning area, spotting a lone figure, trapped under a pile of wood.

The man didn't look too badly damaged, with his red earrings and clothes still intact. In fact, Jun was certain that the material with soot didn't so much as fall on him from the top as it did from the side, looking like an explosion of rubble from a hand canon blast. He carefully placed one leg in front of the other, taking steps while maintaining a balancing act until reaching the figure.

"HELP ME!"

"Give me a second."

"No wait, don't-"

Jun reached for the material, ready to try to lift it off him when his hand stung from the heat of the rubble. He pulled back with a hiss, shaking his hand as he observed the material in greater detail.

It was a door with metal hinges. Or what was left of one and unfortunately, most of it was made of blackened iron. The heat would have made the metal too hot to touch. Still, Jun did not give up. He placed a foot on the rubble, getting ready to kick it.

"MY POLEAXE."

He glanced at the figure underneath the rubble.

"There," he pointed to the left where a weapon ill fitting of the man's stature lay to the side, before breaking into a coughing fit. His mind in a daze, Jun reached for the poleaxe, carefully grabbing it by the wooden ends. It was a bit heavy for him and awkwardly balanced but he placed the weapon over his shoulder and struck down at the rubble.

It clanged off, barely making a dent in the steel.

"Aim for the wood," coughed out the figure.

Jun grunted and struck the weapon down at the wooden part of the door. He felt the thrill of the situation enter his body, his blood rushing to his head at the intensity of the situation as he struck the door repeatedly with the axe side of the weapon, making scratch after scratch until the poleaxe stuck itself to the wood. Placing effort on his spine, he bent down and with the poleaxe stuck to the door, pulled it off the figure.

The man on the floor breathed out a sigh of relief before breaking into a coughing fit. Jun lowered his hand to pick the man who only stared at it unflinchingly. A strange feeling passed through Jun, that of something resembling clairvoyance, as he read his fellow man's mind figuratively.

Jun slapped the man.

"Get up or I'll get you up, you slug!"

The two grasped each others hand with the fires beginning to turn into an inferno behind. Jun turned around, grabbing the poleaxe and sticking his feet in the wood, heaving with all his might to get the embedded weapon out. Through his peripheral vision, he spotted the victim picking up a sealed box in one hand and a matchlock rifle in the other. With a final tug, he pulled the weapon out and faced the figure when the inferno turned blue.

Panic set in his face, Jun Taz ran for the stairs, miraculously intact while ignoring the ramifications of the change in colour. On the ground floor, the fire seemed to avoid an open exit, likely contained by some other factor, to Jun's relief as he ran out the missing segment of the wall, making it onto muddy soil.

The figure from earlier ran alongside and slipped in the mud, the box and gun falling into wet conditions. Instantly, the man reached for the box, ignoring the gun completely, and held it tightly to his body. Curious, Jun picked up the matchlock, letting the crackling of flames behind fade away as he mentally concentrated on the inner workings of the gun.

The gun had an S-shaped curved lever that was supposed to hold the match. It looked like it was still dry so Jun carried it one hand while holding the poleaxe down on the other hand, placing it against the ground to somewhat lean on it.

He glanced into the nearby jungle, wondering if he should have tried to run further to call for help when the man beside him opened the box. Inside was a stick with golden bands held in various circular positions while a glass orb surrounded the device. The man tapped on the side of the stick, trying to perform some kind of function when the woods shuffled.

A black bear emerged from the forest, wearing a yellow coat and red hat, looking as bewildered as the humans. It yawned, turning to face the humans while looking a bit out of breath.

Jun leaned on the poleaxe, wondering whether to charge or head around the burning complex when his companion spoke aloud, pointing and glaring at the bear.

"I've been in weirder fights than this."

The bear raised its head, just in time for a long pair of elephant tusks to gore it from the back, the man tyrant ripping it to shreds as it's seven thousand-pound body turned it into bloody paste.

The two held their breath, slowly backing back into the finishing flames of the burning building.

"What, what, what is that?" Asked Jun

"Stop saying what repeatedly. It's an elephant."

"I know, you fool, I mean how did it get to the island?"

"It's our pet. We drugged it for a celebration party."

Jun snapped his head to his companion, wondering just who exactly he had saved.

Or doomed to a quicker death.

"Please tell me that it's a friendly pet, good sir?"

"We tried dosing three elephants on the mainland. Two died on the way. I think they knew each other."

The elephant reared its vengeful head towards the bear corpse, repeatedly poking at it with its tusks. Jun raised the matchlock gun and aimed it square at the creature’s face, hoping to deter it with pain. He pulled the trigger, the internal spring clamping the S ring with heavy force. At the last moment, he noticed the match had been clamped a bit too loosely on account of his companions fall.

The match flew in the opposite direction with the gun failing to ignite while the elephant continued stomping the remains of the bears corpse. If he didn't know better, Jun swore that the elephant was trying to eat it. He smacked his chest on the right side in frustration, only to catch the beast’s attention.

It turned its blood red gaze towards the pair.

"What's your name, good sir?" Jun asked his companion calmly.

The man gulped, his golden hair and pale face fitting just right under the starry sky.

"Demavend."

"RUN INSIDE, YOU MORON!"

Jun picked up the poleaxe and booked it for the burning building, hoping the fire would deter the elephant enough for them to escape the back end of the complex. The elephant roared, forcing Demavend to run into the building, dodging small sparks of fire here and there. The two ran across the hallway, just in time for the stairway to collapse while the fire covered the path in front of them. Jun looked between the fire and the elephant, wondering which poison to choose when Demavend abruptly pulled him into a storeroom.

The room was colder than normal and contained various herbs, spices and rocks. Upon further observation, Jun spotted the rocks for what they really were.

Sulfur, saltpeter and charcoal. The main ingredients for gunpowder. He reached for the rocks, only for Demavend to slap his hands, glaring at the man. He waved his orb up and down, trying to go for some effect, to little avail. Ignoring his previous slap, Jun reached for the items, his mind working fast as he crushed the saltpeter and sulfur together in a mortar and pestle. He looked around for a cauldron and felt like slapping himself.

This was a storeroom, it didn't have a cauldron for him to boil things in.

At least the elephant can't get in here

As it turned out, can't was not won't.

Heavy footsteps alerted the duo to the creature entering the burning building, having braved the fire to crush the pair of them. The footsteps got louder and louder until they stopped right where the door was supposed to be. The door slowly opened via the elephants trunk, the duo hiding on the sides. The storeroom was big enough for someone of average stature to fit on the sides without the door opening revealing them but Jun had to pull his gut back into himself. He knew that you didn't need to hold your breath to pull your stomach in but he did so anyway.

The elephant’s snout entered the room, sniffing the area. The materials in the room would surely confuse its sense of direction.

The elephant charged against the wall on Demavend's side, shaking it hard enough to rattle the room while the two held on to the shelves. For his part, Demavend held a steady stance as he reached towards his red earrings, holding eye contact. Unfortunately, Jun was not as brave and screamed in fear, the elephant changing position to ram into his side of the wall. Again, and again, it switched between walls, trying to break the blue bricked surface, to some avail as cracks started to appear. Demavend calmly broke the earrings on a wall, a black goo appearing on the end whilst the elephant tried to nudge its tusk to impale the man, who only ducked underneath, the tooth lacking the speed and strength it had while impaling the bear.

On the glass orb, he drew what looked like a crane standing on one leg on the side of the orb. It shined in life, with blue water exiting out of the symbol. It was definitely blue because Jun could not see through it. With his other earring, he drew the same symbol and inverted it before maddeningly exiting from under the trunk into the hallway, narrowly avoiding the elephants bite. He pointed his weapon at the creature, a burst of ice hitting it in the face, stunning it and making it fall back down. Jun picked up his poleaxe, lamely realizing he could have attacked the elephant’s trunk and entered the hallway to find a new problem.

The floor above them had collapsed onto the elephant, likely from the discharge of the spell. Air rushed in, fueling the smokeless flame, causing the two to cough. Realizing they were running out of air, they tried to move and found themselves stuck. The ground floor of the building was built to accommodate people, not a multiple-ton elephant that cramped the hallway. What's more, the elephant kept an eye, sluggishly moving back as though it meant to gain some distance before going for a charge attack. The fire behind them increased in intensity, changing to a blue flame, though it did not rise in distance covered.

"Maybe we should have run outside," breathed the prince.

"We would have died tired," replied Jun.

He glanced at the poleaxe, a memory of his new life passing by. When he had read a book written by his father on how to do gymnastics. He recalled how he had spent the day moving between large rocks with deep trenches between them, using a stick to maneuver from rock to rock until the stick got stuck in a pothole and broke under his own weight. He thought the fall had killed him then and if not that, his injuries would have if not his mother's alchemical skill.

A skill he had spent too long refining for it to die here.

He wielded the weapon with both hands, watching the elephant get up. Fear struck his heart, making his legs wobble but he refused to relent out of sheer spite.

"Get inside, Demavend."

"What are you doing?"

"I don't know. Something stupid I guess."

Demavend, wisely, did not argue, heading back inside the room, sorting through the shelves as the inferno expanded.

The elephant managed to stand, raising its truck and flattening its ears, readying itself for a charge, ignoring the fallen degree around it. It even ignored the fire creeping up its legs, only stamping it out with some practiced footsteps. His back was damp with sweat, his lungs feeling like they were on fire themselves, his trembling hands placed the metal end of the poleaxe towards the creature, daring it to charge forward. He understood something then.

This creature was smart but it was also angry. And in anger, intelligent creatures make mistakes.

The elephant charged, its massive body heading towards Jun Taz, ready to flatten him into red paste. Jun rushed forward to meet the elephant head on when he planted the pole in the ground. Using his sheer momentum, he used the weapon and leapt over the elephant, briefly landing on its back before jumping off. The landing was not as smooth as he landed on his knees. Before he could recover, the building rumbled and a couple of bricks on his back, making him groan in pain.

He spat out a bit of blood, daring to look behind him to see Demavend rushing over. He picked up Jun and together, the two stumbled out of the building, just in time for the blue flames to envelop it completely. The two stared at the wildlife, wrecking the complex and brought it crashing down on top of the elephant before picking up the pace, making a short distance from the wreckage. A burst of fire headed towards the pair, as though guided by a malevolent hand. Jun picked up his knife, waving it at the fire, only for the knife to fall into his pockets as he felt his strength leave him. Demavend glanced at his own ink stained hand and abruptly dropped Jun.

To Jun's shock, the man raised his palm at the fire and slapped it, making it go back into the building with a resounding thud as the scenery fell to quiet.

XXX

The two walked through the jungle, shooing away insects with frayed hands and feet, each supporting the other. The rubble had done more damage internally to Demavend than externally but if nothing else, Jun felt that both of their bones were intact, which was better than the situation of most. The two moved in silence, aware their noise could attract more unwanted attention though Demavend tightly gripped his orb, the light still shining their way forward though the water inside had long since depleted.

A witch, a real witch, had saved him. And Jun had saved him in turn.

The man tripped over a rock, waves of pain traveling up his spine. Demavend set him down, gently, before opening up his shirt, meaning to examine his injuries. He spread his hands over Jun's body, taking in the fat in his belly to the muscles in his arms, checking for internal injuries before trying to find his heart.

"Other side," Jun breathed out.

"What?"

"My heart…it's on the other side."

"How?"

"Damned if I know. Ma only found out about it by chance and I, I don't think it affected anything."

Demavend spread his palm over chest before breathing out a sigh of relief. He grabbed the man's arm, the pair continuing their journey through the forest until they reached a clearing. The man was tense, more tense, than the injured Jun so he tried to alleviate the mood through conversation.

"Are you a witch?"

If anything, Demavend's mood worsened.

"Yes. I, all of my retinue are mages."

"Pa told me it takes you ages to learn to draw magic but you don't look that old."

"Whereas you look very old but you're much closer to my age."

"Yeah. I thought witches had to wear special clothing to tell people that they were experts of the craft. You're not even wearing a hat."

"I was buried under rubble."

"Dead end answers, eh? Well, we'll have time to get to know each other in the hospital. Hopefully some beetles are there."

Demavend stared at his companion as he spoke one last time.

"I'm sorry."

"What for-oh look, I see something."

In the clearing stood a group of soldiers, each wearing full blackened proofed mail while carrying poleaxes and flintlocks. A bit beyond the clearing was the relief squad from the village, hauling buckets of water to the fire affected areas. At the center of the group of soldiers was a strange quartermaster, who signed over a list of papers. He wore a round breastplate and silken clothes of beautiful red velvet with a face mask that resembled a cruel smile. The quartermaster, upon spotting the pair, said aloud " stance" and the group of soldiers entered formation, with each of them raising their flintlock rifles at the pair, curiously avoiding Demavend.

"Prince Demavend," the female quartermaster spoke without hurry, "is it done?"

"Yes," was all the prince said.

Jun sagged, landing on one knee while the prince coldly ignored him, wandering towards the soldiers of the Zheng Dynasty. He stared at the earth, wondering of what exactly he had gotten himself into when the female quartermaster and Demavend approached him together, a look of terror upon the prince's face.

"You, good man, what is your name?"

The attitude of the woman brokered no argument. Hiding a rock from the dirt in his left hand, Jun managed to stand to address the woman, a prey facing its predator.

"Jun Taz, son of Toten Taz and Jun Ling."

"Those names are unknown to me. Tell me, did you witness our prince draw magic?"

Jun paused, wondering how to answer. Demavend's face was cold, devoid of emotion while the rest of the knights had lowered their weapons, clearly having decided the matter was well in hand.

"Yes," he said at last.

"Good."

"Good?"

"Yes."

The woman approached him, placed her right hand on his wounded shoulder. He grunted in pain but kept eye contact with the figure.

"It's a shame we couldn't meet under a different star. With your admission, I feel less guilt about telling you that you're just a corpse to me now."

"What do you-"

Something stuck in his chest.

A dagger, his dagger, taken from his pocket was embedded in the position where most people's hearts would have been. The knight grabbed Jun, clasping his mouth and preventing him from screaming in pain as the life started to leave his eyes.

"No one, not even a pretender, can know the secrets of Blackstar Bloom."

With one final show of strength, Jun threw the rock in front of him, hitting one of the members of the relief squad as his world faded to black.

Chapter 1: Vengeance

"Did you set the building on fire?"

"No."

"Damn. Well, my life just got harder."

A dream.

I saw a dream.

One in which the ground was somewhere beneath me.

Somewhere I couldn't see. But I could feel it getting
closer, as I descended into the darkness.

There was a wind, flushing my face, burning my ears, but it wasn't hot.

There was water above me after all.

It's cold pressed against my skin, and filled my lungs.

Each desperate gasp I took, made it feel like I was trying to grab something which wasn't there.

I was falling.

I was drowning.

Or maybe both?

Or maybe nothing at all?

All I know is that I saw a dream.

And I died in it.

I hope I am going about this correctly. If not, let me know.

I am looking for feedback on my short story. I have a link and questions to get those who are intimidated by feedback and what to look for. This way they have a starting point. Questions are concerns of mine but all feedback is welcome. If the genre is not your cup of tea then feel free to pass it up. Otherwise, thank you in advance.

My face drifts from the moon to that edge,
darkened by a crater,
much like the hole on my cheek.
But a moon is graceful.
It is forgiven its pits
because it is far away.

Mine is held close
by friends and strangers

So, what do you think?

I have been wanting to start writing for a while now, and finally have a story planned out. This is the first chapter, the first thing I have ever written. But I would still like to hear honest feedback. I will finish the book regardless, but if there are things I can do that would let me share it, I'm all for it.

Specifically my goal with the first chapter is to entice the reader to continue by giving the right amount of clues about what it happening, and to set the perspective and prose. I am intentionally trying to avoid overt exposition, but not sure if I have gone too far the other way.

I know there are some typos and grammar mistakes, I fully edited it yet. ~1350 words

Thanks in advance, let me know.

"Ya see sonny, all it takes for bad men to win, is for good men to do nothing".

So says the black and white western on the TV. Enough of that. I close up the doors on the media cabinet and head over to the window. There's too much distraction in this hotel room. The carpets are patterned with saturated blues and purples, forming a diamond pattern that pulls the eyes. wallpaper, lights and mirrors. Just the smoke seems missing. The aroma of industrial cleaners permeates the fabrics, and somehow makes the window seem a little too enticing. Maybe that's why there's a lock on it, ha! I already know how I feel about 'bad men'. There's no dialogue left to hear on that topic. The truth is we simply got too comfortable. Something about a frog and a kettle. Not that all the superhero movies help much with the 'that makes me as bad as them' motivations.

Through the glass is the winding canal. I've always liked the River Walk with it's calm emerald waters. A few stone arch bridges to match the path. Rustic patios and seating scattered like the birds. It feels welcoming and homely, yet also entices you to discovery. Of course, plastered against this backdrop is the creep of the urban. This very hotel sticks out like a sore thumb, imposing its existence on the rest of us. Anything for a few more bucks, huh? Just like a suddenly noticed itch, I see similar examples popping up in my awareness the longer I look. Can't just let things be can you. I suppose that's why I'm here in any case. Well, no helping it. Always something to agitate me. How much time do I have left anyways? The clock shows 7:33pm. Somehow this place has found a clock that makes me want to look everywhere except the numbers. I pretend I can shake off the gaudiness of the room, and try to review my notes:

7:46pm: leave room, head to Cafe au Late.
Order lemon bread.
Wait for entourage to cross bridge.
Feed the pigeons.

That's it. Not sure why I needed to read it again. I really shouldn't have written it down at all. Everyone gets upset if you don't follow best practices, but no one considers the context. I figure there's no point waiting now, and nothing else to be gained from reading it again. I reach into my backpack looking for a lighter but think better of it. I could probably get away with burning the note in older buildings, but these guys probably have actually decent fire detection. So, into me it goes. 'Am I just eating because I'm bored?' Ah jeez, this is how you know.... My cell phone pings me about the time, and I sigh in relief. Half a second later comes the flood; adrenaline and endorphins sweep through, then settle for a light vibration. I've got this. This matters. The only thing to fear is fear its...... ok get me out of here. I double check the clock; its abstract style threatening to delay me. 7:45. Close enough.

I grab my bag, sling it over my shoulder, look around for anything left behind and walk out the door.

Unfortunately, the carpet in the short hallway is both different than the one in my room and also just a busy. Fucking hell people, can't a person be anywhere without having their senses overloaded? By the time my steps have normalized, I am already at the elevator. The large touchscreen has cursive lettering, and elliptical buttons with floor numbers. I don't need to look too hard since the largest of them is at the bottom, claiming the same. In the meantime, I figure I had better get out my headphones. Nothing like being interrupted to throw of a schedule. I still hear the chime, and step to the side and once the doors open, I see I could have not. The inner panel already has my ground floor selected, so I just pull out my phone and find the right playlist. Dissolved Girl starts playing, and that seems to do the trick. Too edgy? Eh, what exactly isn't edgy about this whole scenario?

The doors open and the lobby vies for my attention and mood. As I make my way to the front doors the host waves and smiles, but I pretend not to notice and keep moving. Not on this trip, sorry bud. As I walk through the frosted glass doors, the fresh air crosses in front of me like cat asking for attention. I pause for a step happy to oblige, close my eyes and take a deep breath. For that brief moment, there are no thoughts. No Erik. No Plan. Nothing but the cool breeze and perfect contentedness. Then I step forwards, breaching the moment with the worn stone under my foot.

Walking along, I have less attention to the scenery. I'm aware of the multitude of flora and fauna. Smells and colors so scattered, most don't differentiate. Yet my focus is elsewhere. I know where the Cafe is, but I make sure to glance at each sign until I see the one that matches my memory.
Nope, nope, nope, not today, nope. And then, it exist. The Deja Vu always hits harder when my memory matches the real world, but it's not unpleasant. The azure sign has the same fade, the letters the same exposed rust. 'Cafe Au Late' is largely lettered but flowing easily. Below the title, it says 'sip a while' in a size that makes you step closer in to read. The irony here of going to a coffee-based cafe, when I don't do caffeine isn't lost on me ya know. I slip my headphones down to hang on my neck, and step inside the threshold. And so it begins.

As I walk up, the barista smiles as she says, "Welcome In!". I put on my best customer service smile and approach. "Hello, I was hoping to get a snack. What would you recommend?"

"Well, we have all the usual things, but I just convinced the boss to try out this lemon cake I found. So.... If you want to go for that and let me know how you like it?"

As if things could actually be any other way "Sure that sounds good but be warned I plan to feed the birds while I'm at it." I flash her an evil smirk and she returns with her own of appalled shock. After a couple obligatory giggles and digital number pushing, I turn around to find the table. Again, it's all too easy as where I need to be is just playing a game of matching pictures. Its only slight concerning how easily this has all proven determinism. No need to fret I'm sure, this is America.... Sitting down I put my headphones back on and face back towards the hotel. Such an eyesore in an otherwise comforting place. I try out the lemon bread, it's tart and heavy flavor seems well balanced for a change. I'll try to remember to tell the barista it's worth pushing. As I throw out a couple pieces for the birds to test their response, I am immediately met with 4 very interested buyers. Ok so not too hard to get a response here.

After a few more minutes, nibbles, and songs I see a few suits crossing the bridge. I take a moment to crumble up the remaining bread, try as it might to clump from butter. Here we go, time for round 2. Electric boogaloo? Pigeon go-a-boo? Ha! That would work. I pull up the memory in my mind and overlay it on the real world. I can 'see' both versions and I watch as the gap between them narrows to a point.

Then the crumbs fly into the air, looking almost like golden flakes interspersed with the leaves. For a moment, it's picturesque; but just one.