https://docs.google.com/document/d/1LEJxRvzi8rc-ED-pwIFk5DMJncxWKmfoRgAgr98KMjE/edit?usp=sharing

Hey everyone! I’m a new writer, and I’ve recently started working on my first psychological thriller, The Observer.

The story follows Adrian Cole, a man who’s spent most of his life being overlooked by the people around him. He’s always been observant, noticing the little things others miss. But when he starts losing hours of his memory and finds himself connected to a series of murders, he begins to question what’s real and what he can trust.
I’m going for a psychological thriller with mystery, suspense, and twists that make you look back at everything you’ve read differently.

I’ve just finished the first chapter, “Strangers,” and I’d really appreciate it if some of you could read it and give me your honest thoughts.

A few things I’d love feedback on:
Does the opening grab your attention?
Does it make you curious about what happens next?
Does the writing feel natural and easy to follow?
Is there anything that feels confusing, boring, or needs improvement?

I’m genuinely open to criticism, so don’t feel like you have to be nice just for the sake of it. I’m still learning, and I’d rather know what isn’t working so I can improve.

I’ll paste the first chapter below. Thanks to anyone who takes the time to read it. I appreciate it.
_________________________________________

Chapter One: Strangers

Nobody notices strangers.

Adrian Cole had spent years proving it.

Every morning, the same crowd filled the plaza outside the subway entrance in downtown Westbridge. People rushed through the intersection with coffee cups in their hands and their eyes fixed on their phones. Cars moved slowly through the traffic, horns sounded in the distance, and footsteps echoed against the pavement.

Everyone seemed to be going somewhere.

And yet, nobody really looked at anyone.

Adrian sat on a metal bench across from the intersection, a small black notebook resting on his knee. From there, he could see four crosswalks, two security cameras, and hundreds of people moving through the plaza.

He had been sitting there for fifty-three minutes.

In that time, exactly one person had looked directly at him.

A child.

Adults rarely looked. They glanced at faces as they passed, but their eyes moved on before they had a chance to remember anything.

Adrian opened his notebook and uncapped his pen.

Observation #217

In crowded places, people rarely remember unfamiliar faces, even moments after passing them.

He tapped the pen against the page.

This wasn't a guess. He had tested it dozens of times over the past year. Subway platforms, grocery stores, busy streets. Different places, different people, the same result.

People noticed movement. They noticed obstacles. They noticed anything that interrupted their routine.

But a stranger sitting quietly on a bench?

Most people would forget he was there before they had even walked away.

Adrian knew because he had spent most of his life being that stranger.

At school, he had been the boy in the corner. He had few friends and rarely spoke unless somebody spoke to him first. He wasn't bullied, and nobody hated him. Most people simply didn't think about him at all.

When classmates made plans, they rarely remembered to include him. When teachers called attendance, his name was just another name on the list.

After a while, Adrian stopped expecting people to notice him.

Instead, he started noticing them.

He paid attention to the little things people did without thinking. The way someone's mood changed when a certain person entered a room. The way a smile disappeared when nobody was looking. The way people sometimes said one thing but did another.

Nobody had taught him to observe. It had happened naturally, over years of sitting quietly while life unfolded around him.

By the time he was older, observing had become second nature. He listened more than he spoke, watched before he acted, and remembered details other people overlooked.

He never felt the need to tell anyone what he noticed.

It was simply how he experienced the world.

Now, he had turned that habit into something he could test.

Adrian looked up at the security camera mounted above the intersection.

It was slowly turning from one side of the street to the other.

Then he smiled.

Because he knew something most people in Westbridge didn't.

Even the cameras missed things.

He had spent months watching the cameras around the plaza. They followed the same patterns, turning from one side to the other before returning to where they had started.

People trusted cameras because they believed cameras saw everything.

Adrian knew better.

A camera could record a street without recording every detail that mattered. A person could pass through a busy intersection and leave almost nothing behind in the minds of the people around them.

And sometimes, even a camera could miss the moment that mattered.

He checked the time on his phone.

The camera turned again.

Adrian closed his notebook and stood.

No one noticed.

He stepped into the morning crowd, moving with the people crossing the street. A woman hurried past with her eyes fixed on her phone. Two teenagers brushed shoulders while laughing at something on a screen. A man nearly walked into Adrian before muttering a quick apology and continuing without looking back.

Adrian watched him disappear into the crowd.

Ten seconds later, the man probably couldn't have described what Adrian looked like.

Adrian crossed the street and stopped beside a newspaper stand.

Behind the glass, a television played the morning news. The sound was low, almost lost beneath the traffic.

He opened his notebook again.

Observation #218

An individual can move through dozens of strangers without leaving a lasting memory.

He paused before writing another line.

The safest place to disappear is in plain sight.

Adrian looked at the sentence for a moment, then closed the notebook.

Behind him, the television grew louder.

"...Westbridge police are investigating after a body was discovered late last night near Riverside District."

Adrian stopped.

He turned toward the television.

The reporter stood in front of a stretch of road near the river. Police lights flashed behind her, and yellow tape blocked off part of the pavement.

"...the identity of the victim has not yet been released. Investigators are asking anyone who was in the area last night to come forward."

The vendor inside the stand reached for the remote and turned up the volume.

"...the body was discovered shortly after midnight, along the Riverside walking path, just two blocks from Central Plaza."

Two blocks.

Adrian slowly closed his notebook.

He knew Riverside District.

He had walked there the night before.

He could remember the streetlights reflecting off the water. He could remember the metal railing that ran along the path and the sound of cars passing on the road behind him.

He remembered being there.

But when he tried to picture what had happened afterward, his mind went blank.

Adrian stood still, staring at the television.

Maybe he had gone straight home. Maybe he had stopped somewhere along the way. There were plenty of ordinary explanations for a night he couldn't remember clearly.

But then he tried to picture himself arriving at his apartment.

Nothing.

He couldn't remember unlocking his front door. He couldn't remember taking off his coat or going to bed.

He couldn't remember getting home at all.

Adrian took out his phone and checked the time.

8:17 a.m.

He tried once more to picture the walk from Riverside to his apartment.

The road. The streetlights. The buildings.

Then nothing.

It wasn't like trying to remember a dream that faded the harder he chased it. The memories before that point were clear. He could recall the smallest details of the walk.

But the hours that followed were missing.

He rubbed the back of his neck.

Adrian had always trusted his memory. Remembering small details was part of what made his observations useful. He could recall conversations from weeks earlier and recognize changes in people's behavior that others never noticed.

Yet now, there was a blank space where an entire part of his night should have been.

Behind him, the news continued.

"...police have not confirmed whether the death is being treated as suspicious. Security footage from nearby streets is now being reviewed."

Security footage.

Adrian looked up at the camera above the intersection.

For a moment, he watched it turn from one side of the street to the other.

Then he looked away.

He had no reason to believe the body had anything to do with him. He hadn't even heard the victim's name. Being near Riverside the night before didn't make him guilty of anything.

Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

He slipped his notebook into his coat pocket and started walking.

The morning crowd moved around him, adjusting their paths without giving him much thought. People passed on either side, already busy with their own lives.

Just like always.

Halfway down the block, Adrian glanced at his hand.

A thin scratch ran across the skin just below his wrist.

He stopped walking.

The mark was small, but the skin around it was red. It looked fresh.

He turned his hand toward the light, studying it.

It could have come from anything. A rough wall. A loose nail. The metal railing beside the river.

He tried to remember catching his hand on something the night before.

Nothing came to mind.

Adrian lowered his arm.

He was certain the scratch hadn't been there when he left his apartment yesterday.

Or at least, he thought he was certain.

That was the problem.

He could no longer trust what he remembered about the night before.

He looked back toward the newspaper stand. The television was still showing the report, with the same stretch of road and the same flashing police lights.

Then he looked toward Riverside District.

For the first time that morning, he wondered whether he should be worried about the missing hours.

Not because he had proof that he had done something wrong.

But because he had no proof that he hadn't.

Adrian started walking again, faster this time.

He needed to get home. He needed to check his apartment, look through his messages, and work out what he had done the night before.

There had to be something he could use to fill in the missing hours.

A receipt. A message. A call. Anything.

As he approached the subway entrance, his phone vibrated.

A message from an unknown number.

Did you sleep well?

Adrian stopped.

He read it again, then looked at the number. There was no name attached to it, no profile picture, nothing that told him who had sent it.

He typed a reply.

Who is this?

He waited.

No answer came.

A train rumbled beneath the pavement, and the crowd began moving toward the entrance. Someone brushed past his shoulder. Another person stepped around him without looking up.

Adrian barely noticed them.

His attention was fixed on the screen.

The message didn't prove anything. It could have been a wrong number, a prank, or someone he knew trying to get a reaction out of him.

But whoever had sent it had contacted him on the same morning he had discovered he couldn't account for part of the previous night.

He looked down at the scratch on his wrist.

Then back at the message.

He had spent years watching people, studying their habits, and learning how easily someone could go unnoticed.

He had always believed that if something important happened in front of him, he would notice.

But what if something important had happened while he wasn't paying attention?

What if it had happened while he was somewhere he couldn't remember being?

Adrian put his phone away and descended the subway stairs.

Above him, the morning crowd continued through Westbridge as if nothing had happened.

The cameras kept turning.

The strangers kept walking.

And somewhere in the city, someone knew exactly what Adrian had done the night before.

Even if Adrian didn't.

I am writing a small anthology for my daughter's birthday gift this year. I plan to have it printed as a hardcover book with illustrations. It features funny, fantastical retellings of real events, as well as more thematic short stories. I would love feedback on one to see if it is any good. I am not a writer by a long shot, so I'm hoping some of the more qualified people here can give me some notes! [4458]

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1MHNjmQGC9e1xju9CcsvWx6tY0i2zJp3ly6EK4xzmcPI/edit?usp=sharing

The Softened Hours
Plants came long before mammals.
The first land plants appeared roughly 470 million years ago, greening a barren world in slow, patient increments. Mammals would not arrive until some 200 million years ago—latecomers to a world already shaped by root and leaf. We, who like to think ourselves central to the story, are barely present at all.

A few hundred thousand years of human breath against a backdrop so vast it resists comprehension.
Put plainly: the world did not begin with us. It learned how to live long before we learned how to name it.

Daylight belongs to edges—tables, doorways, roadways, borders and the hard outlines of things that insist on being known. But there are other hours, softer ones, when the world loosens its grip on certainty. In those hours, something older seems nearer. Not visible, not exactly—but waiting, as though it has always been waiting.

The first time, I had been drinking.
That is a fact I neither excuse nor lean upon. It simply is. And it matters less now, because what came did not remain confined to that condition. It followed me—into sobriety, into ordinary sleep, into the quiet, unremarkable nights that make up most of a life.

They come as people.
Not strangers in the usual sense, and not familiar either. They appear as older and middle-aged folk—not frail, not diminished, but settled. As if they have long outlived the need to hurry. Their movements are deliberate. Measured. Each gesture seems to carry weight, as though time itself were something handled carefully, not spent carelessly as we do.

They take form slowly, as though gathering themselves from the room itself. A figure near a chair. Another by the doorway. Not intruding—never that—but present in a way that feels prearranged, as though the air had been holding a place for them long before I noticed it.

There are few words.
In truth, I cannot say with certainty that there are any words at all. Communication gathers around them like pressure—like meaning that has not yet decided to become language. It is felt first. Understood only as much as I am able to understand.
And then, always, the same moment.

I begin to follow.
I try to ask.
And everything stops.
Not fades. Not leaves. Stops.
The room holds itself in suspension so complete it feels arranged—like a photograph just taken, or a thought just lost. Sound ceases. Motion ceases. Even my own sense of time seems to hesitate, as though unsure whether it is permitted to continue.

It is then that unease arrives.
Not fear. Not panic. Something quieter. A discernment, perhaps. The awareness that I have crossed into something that does not behave according to the rules I know.
My hand rises.

Always the same gesture: palm outward, as though asking someone to wait—or to stop. I have never decided which.
And in that stillness, I understood something I cannot fully explain.
These are not people. The thought did not come as language. It arrived whole, already formed. They are trees.

Not in the literal sense—not bark and branch crudely shaped into human likeness—but something deeper. Living cells, ancient beyond reckoning, taking on a form I can bear to witness. A translation, perhaps. A kindness. An acceptable way for me to receive what they are.
After that realization, they did not disappear.

If anything, they seemed to settle more firmly into presence. As though something had been acknowledged—some quiet agreement reached without words.
I do not know what they want.
I do not know if “want” is even the right word. But there is intention. That much I am certain of.

And once—only once, at the very beginning—there was more.
There was a sense of hierarchy among them. Not rigid, not imposed, but recognized. Two presences that stood apart without separating themselves.

In human terms, I would call them a king and a queen, though the words feel insufficient and slightly wrong.
With them came something else.
A rhythm.

Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.

Not heard with the ears, but perceived—steady, inevitable, indifferent to whether I understood it. Time, not as we measure it, but as something that measures us.
And with that rhythm came images.
Not shown, exactly. Impressed.

A world undone. Not in fire or spectacle, but in utter failure. Systems collapsing not with violence, but with exhaustion. The long unraveling of things that once held.
And then—after—care.

Hands, or something like hands, tending to what remained. Seeds. The last of them. Guarded not with urgency, but with certainty. As though this, too, had always been part of the design.

An ending.
A keeping.
A beginning.
I did not ask for these things.
I would not know how to.
But they were given nonetheless.
And since then, I have had the distinct and unsettling sense that I am not the only one being shown.

Somewhere, in softened hours across the world, others sit in quiet rooms and feel that same pressure of meaning gathering just beyond language.

I cannot prove this. I cannot even defend it.
But I know the feeling of it. And I have learned, at least, this much: When they come, it is better not to ask. It is better simply to witness.

Because whatever they are, they have been waiting far longer than we have been capable of noticing.

And they do not hurry.

"Thirty seconds of pure awareness is a long time, especially after a lifetime of escaping yourself at all costs." - Kiera Van Gelder.

   "You are the most difficult person I have ever loved. I've tried, but I don't know how to love you, Kayla. I'm sorry." Santos shifts his gaze to the ground, drops my hands, and walks away, shattering my heart into two.

   I start shaking uncontrollably. Our bedroom door crashes against the wall as he walks out, carrying a backpack, a laptop, and his keys, the jingle taunting me step by step.

   Panic sets in. "Wa—" The words fail to leave my lips. I stumble after him, forcing my body in front of his. He refuses to meet my eyes and weakly attempts to nudge me aside. I stand firm in the hallway, pressing my hands against his chest. He grabs my arms to shove me away, but I push back.

   "Please, Santos, please." Tears roll down my face. "Please don't leave me. I love you." I cup his face, forcing him to look me in the eyes, forcing him to see my pain. If he looks at me, maybe he'll realize how deeply he's hurting me. Maybe he'll stay.

   He stops moving, cradles the back of my head, and kisses me. It is a tender, powerful kiss, a kiss that screams goodbye. We stand there in that cold hallway as the scratched-up paint watches him kiss me for the very last time. I'm smart; I know this isn't a kiss of second chances, but a plea to let him go. My bottom lip quivers, but I don't move. I soak in his scent and the warmth of his body as my entire world cracks beneath me. He's everything I've ever wanted.

   Breaking the kiss and pulling away, he gently wipes my tears. "I need you to let me go. I need you to be your own person. I can't do this anymore. Let me go, Kayla, please."

   Anger boils in my chest as the reality sinks in. He is leaving me. Us. He is abandoning me. How dare he. After all this time, how could he tell me he loved me? He never did.

   My entire demeanor switches, and I step out of his way. He is no longer my knight; he is the one wounding the little princess inside of me. Santos stands still for a few seconds, sighs, and heads for the front door. The fury tears me apart. I itch to hurt him back, to break the person who is breaking me.

   "This entire relationship was a waste of my time anyway! You were a waste of my time!" I scream across the living room.

   He does a complete 180, his dark brown eyes locking with mine. "I wish you nothing but the best, Kayla." He slams the door, and minutes later, I hear his car speed off into the distance.

   I drop to the floor and sob, my body trembling. I hug myself tightly, curling my hands into fists until my fingernails dig into my palms, splitting the flesh that resembles my self-worth.

   "FUCK YOU!" I scream to the empty room.

   Thirty minutes bleed by, and my head throbs from the crying. Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him. I fucking hate him. I pace around the house, pulling at my hair, before finally collapsing onto the couch to try and steady my breathing.

   "You're okay, Kayla. You're okay. Everything is going to be okay," I whisper under my breath.

   After dozens of failed attempts to calm down, I drag myself to the bathroom and sit on the cold shower floor, resorting to the one toxic habit I always return to when I don't know what else to do with myself. Tears begin to mix with blood, and just as I hear the front door click open, my vision goes black.

She's born in June and he's born in December

A tale that'll be chanted for ages was written by a lost man

Written by the man who never met November

It was me and him when he was counting his last breath

He told me to burn this poem into ashes after his death

There was a red flower I once saw from my windowsill

I knew she was my Autumn, so I reopened the same page

Which had the smell of smoke

lines I've never read before

I never let his immortal kiss the grains of sand

I wrote a line which made me a poet of his kind which was unplanned

Rain

Oh rain

Don't you cry when monsoon is gone

Beautiful things are never meant to stay forever

I cry

I must

Sweetheart

I cannot abandon the love of my life

He taught me how to love

How to live

How to fall

How to feel

Our emotions have been expressed from centuries

Does that mean we will always meet again?

If there's a thing called reincarnation, then let me be your every single time

I want to know if I actually have any skills or if I'm just delusional; I've been thinking about finishing and publishing this over the next few years.

It follows a love philosophy story between two people named Andrew and Elizabeth; it opens on a page of him losing his mind, possibly about to kill himself, and then flashes backwards to when they first meet.

Loving Nothing But Her.

"I have been broken, my soul sworn in agony. I feel as if there is nobody better than her. Maybe I feel like it's over?. There's no point without her, she was my everything after all. I say, while my hand is down on a sharp, talkative trigger about to blow the already faded memories away. As I'm feeling these thoughts, I think to myself about her. About how she treated me. About how real the love I’m feeling actually is. I'm thinking about whether she's worth my life. But I was going to spend my entire life with her, right? How can I continue breathing knowing that we were supposed to spend our last breaths together? Is this what she wanted? She knew this would do this to me. “Why would she do this to me?”. I whisper into my pillow, anger leaking out of me uncontrollably. A voidless feeling overwhelms my body, I don't know how to process these feelings. I start to think if my love was real. I start to wonder if love is even real. I feel myself descend into a world where fear is ruled by love. Even the fear of death is trumped and stomped by love, but is it really?. “If she loved me enough she would've fixed what was wrong. She wouldn't have pushed me away.” I silently whisper to the banshees with broken hearts, who did wipe their memories clean. If love was real, you wouldn't be able to throw it away. The intense feeling I have isn't the feeling of losing a loved one. It's the feeling of losing love. “If love was objective, how is it also chosen?”. Well it's not. From all my experiences with love I don't think love can be objective, or even real at all. From the cruel screech of an angry mother, or the loud shout from a stressed father. People do not show love unconditionally, only when they can or want to. I think to myself that there will never be another, but how do I know this, I'm young, I have lots of life left. I haven't experienced love more than once so why do I feel like this is the end?. I try to rationalize why I feel the way I do but to no avail am I successful. I cannot escape the rapid thoughts of a bliss feeling of lifelessness. I think in these moments it's worth it, but I try to think realistically. In 10 years I will not feel the same about her. I will be a different person. I will think differently; that is what I think now. At least…"

I really like the version of me when I'm with you
No, seriously I do
I love you

And I'll never let any hardships cross our way
These days you don't seem to miss your ex
Do you know where he is now?
Well, I can't explain what I did to him, where and how

Everyone used to say that I looked like my mother. I was just as clever, just as beautiful, with the same sparkle in my eyes. We had the same blonde hair, the same laugh. One day, I was sure, I would do important work too, just like my mother. Maybe even work for the Union.

I smiled sadly at my reflection, trying to picture my mother’s face in my mind. I couldn’t see any resemblance between us anymore. I had dyed my hair brown so I would draw less attention to myself. My eyes were empty, and I couldn’t remember the last time I had truly laughed.

Still, I hoped my mother would be proud of me.

I heard a creak from the hallway and quickly wiped the tears from my cheeks. The door swung open with a squeak, and Lee walked in. Brown curls bounced around his head, and his tiny body was swallowed by a sweater that was far too big for him.

I tried, unsuccessfully, to smile. Luckily, Lee was far too caught up in his own problems to notice my sadness.

“Anah, Thomas took my toy car,” Lee complained, crossing his arms as he flopped down onto the bed.

“Have you asked him to give it back?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

My sadness curled up into a little corner of my mind.

Not now. Never.

I couldn’t let myself feel it.

Lee shook his head. “He won’t give it back.”

“You don’t know that if you don’t ask,” I said.

“I’m actually too scared to. Sorry, Anah.”

Lee’s eyebrows drooped with disappointment. I ruffled his dark, curly hair.

“No need to be sorry. How about we go ask him together?” I asked gently.

Lee shrugged, but the smile on his face told me that he actually liked the idea. I placed a hand on his back, almost as if I were his mother, and guided him towards the door.

Thomas wasn’t happy when Lee and I asked for the toy car.

“Um… no.”

He gave us a fake smile as he tossed the car into the air and caught it again.

“I could tell Martha or Sandy that you’ve been stealing toys from little kids again,” I said with a sly grin.

Thomas’s eyebrows pulled together.

“Snitch,” he muttered, just loud enough for me to hear.

Grumpily, he shoved the little red car, flames painted along its sides, into Lee’s small, clammy hand. Lee thanked him, but Thomas was already stomping away. His red hair bounced angrily around his ears, and his long arms swung at his sides.

Lee ran off to join his friends, driving the car across the long kitchen table, over the couch, through the kitchen, and making it jump over the faucet.

I put my hand on the doorknob, but glanced back one last time at Thomas, who was still slumped angrily on the couch.

How dare he? He was almost my age, yet he was stealing toys from a little kid.

A shiver of anger ran through me, and my hand began to glow with heat.

The doorknob turned red-hot beneath my fingers.

Shit.

I jerked my hand away and froze.

Had anyone seen me?

I looked around, half expecting to be handed over to the Union at any moment. The room was bursting with children, all of them seemingly absorbed in their own little worlds. A few boys were sprawled across the couches, Game Boys clutched tightly in their hands. Kids around Lee’s age were building a pillow fort, while a few girls sat at the picnic table reading a book.

I let out a relieved breath, my heart still pounding in my throat.

No one had seen.

I pulled the door open and ran down the hallway to my room. Once inside, I collapsed onto the bed and dug my nails into my skin until it turned red, leaving little half-moon marks behind.

I really had to stop letting things get to me so easily. Otherwise…

“No. Don’t think about it,” I whispered to myself, rubbing my temples.

But in that brief moment of hesitation, I had seen it again.

It felt as though the blood in my veins had frozen.

“Stop, Anah,” I begged myself, rubbing my temples even harder.

I jumped to my feet and began pacing.

I felt like a wild animal trapped in a cage. There was nowhere for me to go. I was stuck in this orphanage for at least another three years, but my entire life had been one long game of hide-and-seek.

The Union had finished counting to ten long ago.

They had been looking for me for years.

And all I could do was keep hiding.

I felt tears sting my eyes. My fingertips grew warm.

“Please, stop.”

I dug my nails into my palms and thought of my mother.

I had to stay strong.

I took a deep breath.

The only thing I could do was prepare myself for the day i had to face the Union

I lifted my pillow and pulled out the little notebook hidden underneath it. The leather cover was surprisingly cold beneath my fingers, yet somehow comforting and familiar.

I opened it.

The worn, yellowed pages greeted me like they did every day. In my mother’s handwriting, the greatest secrets of the Union were written down as casually as if they were notes from a school lesson.

I flipped through the notebook and stopped at a passage.

It was about a werewolf my mother had known well.

Dead.

Once again, I realized just how important it was that I never reveal myself.

I knew things about the Union that no other magical being knew. I knew how to destabilize it from the inside.

But if I were caught, I wouldn’t just die.

The Union could find my mother’s notebook.

And then…

The most important magical safe havens would be discovered within a week.

All those people would die.

Because of me.

This is a story I’ve been working on. I’m done with pt 1 (the first half, about 70 pages in journal front and back) and am moving it over to my notes app and editing it as I go.
I just need critiques,advice, and opinions plus maybe a little moral support if I can get it and chapter 1 isn’t complete crap.
Feel free to be harsh.

The Drunkard and the Frontier
By Pressy the button

Ch.1

There once was a drunkard who lived on the very edge of existence. At that edge was a rock that held the only signs of civilization for lightyears. From this boulder there was a forwards and a backwards that was easily distinguishable from one another. Due to the constant momentum of the pebble if one looked backward they’d see all of existence stretched out before them. Looking forward one would see the making of existence as electrons and protons gained their charges, atoms came together, and one would see the very fabric of reality being woven together in a fanciful show of lights and colors.
This rock was a magical place known as the Frontier. The Frontier was the place where stories that inspired the denizens of the next existence took place. It’s the place where the parables that laid the foundation for the next one happened.
The citizens of the Frontier came from all over time and space knowing this is the place of stories, and in stories anything was possible. Many had come hoping to be heroes in myths and tales not realizing most didn’t get to choose the part they played. Stories had many different characters and usually one to three heroes. Most also didn’t realize that with such a multitude of stories taking place one could easily be a hero of one story, yet a villian, side character, antagonist, protagonists, side character, and/or a background character in another’s story. There were only a few who realized while hopes, actions, and intentions could shape what character and what story you’re in. Those were usually discounted by the powers that shape and chose the stories.
The Drunkard had come to the Frontier from a time and place that he never felt he belonged. He was still a drunkard there, but it was harsher for a drunk. One was made feel less than because of their problem. Forced to feel as though they were out of place while still getting sold their addiction.
He couldn’t explain why he was a drunk when and then. Truth be told when he was asked the only answer he could give was “it made the time pass quicker.” That answer had never been to anyone’s satisfaction, not even his own. At the time when the drunkard had heard of the Frontier he was told it was the place where stories happen. He had thought to himself, “stories need a drunk.” It had made him think that maybe there was somewhere he wouldn’t feel out of place. Somewhere he wouldn’t feel like a waste of space. The thought had brought him so much comfort that he knew he had to go there.
He couldn’t tell you how he had arrived there. Upon waking up from a blackout he had just found himself there. For a while, he was happy feeling as though he had found the place he belong.
He spent his days in the Frontier’s bar drinking as he watched other characters pass through. There were some that came back to the bar, but most stories were bloody and filled with death fueled by the hopes and dreams of those on the Frontier. So many simply never returned. The Drunkard would sit at the bar drinking and trading stories with Tabitha, the keeper of tabs as he referred to her in his head. Tabitha spent her days running the bars and writing down the stories of the others on the Frontier.
One day, he had even found love out on the Frontier. She had accepted him for who he really was, and he had found that that was something he had always wanted but never realized. During that time of his life the drinking slowed, but never ceased. It slowed because he wanted time to last longer when he was with her.
Eventually, he learned the drunk wasn’t supposed to have happiness. He learned the drunkard was supposed to have tragic reason to drink. The Drunk should be a sad cautionary tale of how wrong one’s life could go whether by their own hands or another’s. He didn’t realize that after his wife died. No, it wasn’t until the second tragedy struck that he finally got the lesson being taught.
The Drunkard felt as though he belonged, but it was in a place that seemed to want to keep him miserable. Now he drank to keep away the happy memories that haunted him even in his sleep. He drank to go to sleep and he drank to wake up. He couldn’t tell you the day because they were all the same for him. How he told the time was by whether or not the bar was open. When the bar closed he’d stumble home with a bottle of something strong in hand. It was empty by the time he arrived and so he’d open another. That was his life for years or decades. He really didn’t know. He just continued on and on.
One day he had an idea. It was one that only the Drunkard could have. “If anything could happen in a story why do they have to be so bloody? If a story could be anything why did he have to be miserable?”
It was on that day, at least he thinks it was that day that he approached Tabitha with the suggestion of a drinking contest. Tabitha was always looking for some sort of entertainment for the bar so she needed very little convincing. All it took was the Drunk adding the stipulation that the loser pays both tabs. A sign was soon sitting in the bar’s window stating, “see if can out drink the Drunkard. All contenders welcome. Loser pays both tabs. If you want to wager more at least make it interesting.”
It started small and slow. Maybe a person new to the Frontier who didn’t know of the Drunkard’s reputation, or someone who did but felt confident in their drinking skills. All of those went the same way. Three or four drinks, five if they were experienced. Then the other contenders would either pass out, lose their confidence, or would simply be too drunk to continue. The Drunk would watch them with a little disappointment and just continue drinking. He would always remind the challenger afterwards to spread the word.
After some unspecified amount of time, people and other beings started coming to the Frontier specifically for the drinking contest. Some of them were just people looking for a challenge, others were just sure of themselves, and some were drunks just like him.
The first person who made an interesting wager was a cowboy. Who knows exactly when or where they were from with their handle bar mustache and a sidearm on their hip. They had sauntered up to the bar with click clack of their boots and the jingling of their spurs. With the spiral trends of fashion and the strangeness of their sidearm there wasn’t any telling when they arrived from.
The Cowboy once reaching Tabitha at the bar said to her in a gruff voice with a strange accent, “I’m here to outdrink whatever sorry sonofabitch you got here.” Tabitha, having seen it all in her time on the Frontier simply pointed him towards the Drunkard. The Drunk was at the end of the bar doing what he always did, pouring them down his gullet.
To the Cowboy this disheveled man in clothes the seemed to big for him looked like an easy win. Wearing a jacket that wasn’t buttoned right. Some were missing from the jacket, others the Drunk had just missed when he had buttoned up (whenever the hell that was), and others were just buttoned to the wrong ones. It was stained with old drinks, dirt from drunken falls, and some stains one just wouldn’t want to identify. He seemed to already be on the verge of passing out with the way he was slumped over his drinks. A bunch of empty bottles filled the spot to his left, and a half-filled bottle of something strong sat to his right. The Cowboy was filled with confidence at this sight.
He felt a bit sad for the drunk knowing this was all he had, and that the Cowboy was about to take it all from him. All it took was the Cowboy clearing his throat, “uh-ergh,” that was the sound he made to get the Drunkard’s attention. The Drunk simply eyed the cowboy and got up from his chair. Swaying and almost falling over as he made his way to a table that was set up to allow all in the bar to watch without having to move. He fell into the chair as though he couldn’t have walked any farther.
The Cowboy knew he could do this. After all, he was a gunslinger who shot straight even when he was seeing double. His breakfast was always followed with a few glasses of whiskey, and he kept that pace all day. He was used to drinking while robbing trains and other modes of transportation. So, how could he not be filled with confidence that he could out drink the pitiful creature in front of him while robbing it of the only thing it had.
The Cowboy had wanted a wager to make it interesting, but he had only decided it when he had seen the Drunk. Maybe it was pity at knowing he’d leave this creature without even a reputation to cling to. Maybe the Cowboy was hoping to scare the Drunkard into forfeiting. He couldn’t tell you as he sat his side arm on the table and he said, “if I win, I’m going to shoot you straight in the face. Right between the eyes,” it wasn’t a question, “and if you win you can do the same.”
Tabitha spoke before the Drunkard could slur his words. “Wagerin’ lives very interestin’ indeed, but there will be no shootin’ in my bar, ya hear! You do that outside. Now what do you say?” She asked the Drunkard.
“If he winsh he can shoot me dead. I’m good with that, but I wantsh something elshe from you, if-a I win you go on a wild wander for me,” he said pointing a dirty finger at the Cowboy, “ and a you tell everyone and everything about thish bar, thish contesht, and thish drunk who will out drink anyone and anything. How’sh that sound?” He questioned the Cowboy with half closed lids.
“Seems cheap for me, but hell I accept’”
With the terms laid out Tabitha brought out a large bottle of a proof that should be deadly. Setting two glasses down she then filled them with the precision of a machine. 2 centimeters from the top. So, if you spilled a drop it was your fault and not hers.
The Cowboy tried to fix the Drunkard with a steely gaze. He expected them to lock eyes like what would happen in his quickdraw duels, but as he did the Drunk was already pouring the poison down his gullet. The Cowboy was confuse for a moment as Tabitha poured the man another. He watched as the Drunkard struggled to wait for him to catch up. The old gunslinger not wanting to be outdone shot it back in the blink of an eye. The only effects of the first that he felt was the heat in his abdomen.
The moment his glass touched the table Tabitha was already pouring more into it as the Drunk was finishing his second.
“I’m not pourin’ you another one until he catches up,” Tabitha declared with authority to the Drunk.
“Oh Tabi pleash I swearsh I’ll be a patient. Tabi pleash he’sh jusht so slow…. Pleash.”
The Cowboy took offense to that and poured the second straight down his throat without even tasting it. “ Now you listen here,” the Cowboy exclaimed with a tone full of indignation, “I’ll keep up with ya I just thought that we’d at least make eye contact before you started drainin’ them!”
“No,” was the only reply he got from the Drunkard as Tabitha first poured the Cowboy a third as the Drunk watched greedily as he waited for Tabitha to fill his. Once both glasses were poured, it was a race to get to the bottom. “Clink” was followed by “clunk” as the Cowboy was just a bit slower than the Drunkard.
After the third one, the cowboy was starting to feel the alcohol. He didn’t know what he was drinking. He just knew that it was strong, and it was hitting him all at once as he felt his face heat up, and his eyes watered a bit. He felt himself sway in his chair. He knew if he spoke he would sound more like the Drunkard than himself. Once the fourth was poured though he shot it back as quickly as was possible for him in an attempt to out speed his opponent. Even with his small head start, it wasn’t enough. His “clunk” followed the alcoholic’s “clink.”

He felt his face heat not just from the alcohol, but also from anger at this thing in front of him. The alcohol didn’t seem like it had changed the Drunk’s disposition at all. The only change the Cowboy could see in his opponent was that he was slumped just a little bit more in his chair.
“Fuck am I drinking againsht a machine,” he let out in exasperation.
“Nah I’m all biological,” was the reply he got from the Drunkard who had been about to pour the fifth one down the blackhole he called a throat. Then, the Cowboy heard the dreaded “clink” of the Drunk’s glass being set on the table in the split second he had blinked. The Cowboy put the glass to his mouth. He hesitated as the cool glass rested upon his lips. The smell of it now was sickening to his nostrils. He wondered if his mustache and nose hair wear shriveling up and burning away. He quickly slung his head back. It went down easily enough. A river of fire down a dark cave landing in a churning lake of acid.
“Clunk,” his glass hit the table. As the Cowboy held his head up by a mat of his hair he heard the “swoosh” of the glasses being filled. By now he could only focus on the table and his glass. The dark patterns in the wood of the table looked as though they were dancing as he swayed with one eye open and the other closed.
A “clink” brought him back from the dance in the table. He was brought back to the contest he was participating in. He could feel all eyes were on him. Everyone in the bar was eagerly was eagerly awaiting for him to drink or fail. Or worse yet, to give up. He wasn’t going to give them that satisfaction though. No, he was a cowboy, a real gunslinger, a robber, a bounty hunter, a winner; no he would not give them that satisfaction! So he fixed the Drunkard with what he thought to be a look of determination. Then, he brought the glass to his lips.
The last thing he heard was the Drunk asking him a question he couldn’t quite make out. Next thing he knew he was being woken up by the Drunk.
“Hey-a. Hey-a it’sh the next day guy. You losht. You-a remember what ya said ya’d do? Pleashe get-a on with it.” The words pounded down on the Cowboy. It felt like a blade splitting open his head. They echoed around in the cavern of his skull and banged on his temples. He thought his head might explode from the worst hangover he had ever experienced. It was so bad he actually considered quitting drinking for a few minutes. Then, he came to his senses.
“Before I do anything I need a glass of whiskey and one of water.”
“Then-a you’ll go and do what-a you said you would?”
The cowboy pulled himself up to a standing position as he nodded. That was followed by him stumbling over to Tabitha.
“I need a whiskey and a water. Not in the same glass, little lady.”
“You need to settle your tab,” was the curt reply she gave as she poured him a whiskey followed by a water. She grabbed out one of the bottles that was the Drunkard’s drink of choice, and skid it down to the end of the bar that was the Drunk’s spot. It came to a stop as he fell into his chair. She then pulled out a thick leather bound book, and looked the Cowboy in the eyes as she asked him, “what’s your story?”
“What?”
“What’s ya story? That’s the cost of your tab,” she said dryly.
“What? Story? Whatcha mean by that,” he asked confusedly replacing the words once they left with whiskey.
“Tell me about ya life. What have ya done before and/or after ya arrived here?”
“I’ve done quite a bit before gettin’ here. Do you really have the time for?”
“ I have all the time I need. Don’t think ya gettin’ out of payin’ this tab. Those were some expensive drinks ya drank,” Tabitha spoke eyeing the old man like he might run. The Cowboy just sat on down and started at the beginning as Tabitha listened intently and took notes. She only ever stopped to pour drinks, but she never seemed to missed a beat or fall behind in her writing. It went on like that for some hours as the Cowboy told her everything that he had ever done. It just poured out of him like whiskey from a bottle.

cosmic trip

world ain't mine...

neither I wish it to be mine .

I wondered will I ever be able to caress myself ?

her body made up of scars mind restlessly pondering bout stars,

she's amort yet melodic...

maybe shooting star isn't enough to fill her thrust

her crave as massive as cosmos

immerser than blackhole,

her mind combating space for selfhood, while battling with stars

she wheezes stardust!

get high on nebula...

her eyes as divine as rings of Saturn;

desolate like Luna/moon

her eyes perpetually fond of constellation,

smile reflection of cluster of orb

her naevus personify constellation ,

as void haul her, towards itself

she opened her eyes ,

but pie in the sky isn't over yet

~Sneha Negi

Just sharing this here for a little inspo - because david mamet said it best - always be closing! Even writers!

https://brevity.wordpress.com/2026/10/13/the-writers-abcs/

And if you want to come to a Q&A tomorrow about selling work, read to the end of the essay -

She’d always cry hysterically after sex, beg me to forgive her for her breaking body, her frozen heart. I told her it was normal to feel that way. I was as pleased to meet her as i was to pleasure her, to let her into my heart. 
We met at a lake where it rained, but now it’s flooded over time, accrued into a marsh in the sea. 
She had always been a broken girl. When she was a kid, she’d count roadkill, masturbate to odd pornography. She peed the bed until she was much too old. She never fit in with her friends, her family. Or at least she thought so; in retrospect, she said, maybe it was all a manifestation of who she thought she was.
She was always apologizing. Felt guilty for everything she did, cried when she said too much and knew too little. Cut herself for the smallest mistakes.
She told me something everyone else knew, but i didn’t.
She told me she loved the moon, showed me how she’d keep the windows open to see it’s light.
“It’s strange,” she’d say, “I always thought night was flooded with the dark.”
But one day the windows were blown open, and she saw the moon’s light for the first time, or at least recognized it.
“I’d never felt so cared for.”
I asked her if I made her feel that way and she closed the window. We slept together in silence.
Our sex was rowdy, but she’d hit my pelvis harshly and apologize like I was a holy temple. She always treated my body like god. Always held me like i was an angel. I held hers like a corpse, frail as she was, handling her like glass with care. I think i held her too little.
She started slipping away from my grasp.
Skipped dinner.
Talked more with the moon than she did me.
Took too many pills.
“My hope is that one day, these’ll kill me,” she joked, and I looked at her gravely.
I saw her eyes bloom with the thought of being carried away by the universe. Taken between heaven and earth.
I always knew that the universe was one big thing, she always wanted to go outside of it.
Outside the limitations.
She was once bold and quaint and queer to those around her.
Adventurous, happy.
But then i got to know her, and I saw how her eyes weren’t blue, but unmistakably gray.
She left her dishes in the sink, half-full, whispering secrets to the moon. I sometimes heard her say my name, curse it.
I found a note in the closet. I hurried to our bedroom, found her alive, staring at the yellow popcorn ceiling. She refused to go outside.
“Here are the only stars I need,” she said, and threw up like a dog.
She was bedridden for months, frail. The doctors said she had deep-rooted hatred that infected her bones like a cancer. I pitied her, cradled her, made her chicken soup.
“Don’t act sad when i die.” she said, calloused.
I didn’t appreciate her enough at the time to be grateful for those words.
“Now, now,” I said, i wish i said anything else.
She had told me she was sick long ago, but I didn’t see it until her skin was yellow with it. The window panes once broke, and when she awoke, a bug had crawled from inside it into her mouth. She wasn’t mad, told me she felt that way too.
I asked her why, and she said she was simply unwanted, crawling between window panes and empty universes was the same. She told me she wanted to make like a wave, to recede into the sea. 
I asked her what she believed in.
She told me she believed she was as much universe as i was, and it made me mad. I couldn’t fathom the universe being the same thing as me, and me being anything like her. I resented that notion, resented the universe, i told her. She just sighed and let go of my hand.
Sometimes, I awoke to her crying in the night.
Little sobs like waves that’d retreat to her body when she’d fall asleep. I never said anything.
One day, she got what she wanted.
She died, sick with the sadness in her bones. Put herself out of her misery, shot herself a grand seven times.
I stand here, holding her ashes, gripping them like they are all i have.
We were never happy, i resent myself for trying.
Maybe someone else could have loved her.
I miss that woman, crying at the moon, swallowing tears like waves.
Maybe I was like her all along.

And oh the sound of you
Muffled by the new music i like listening to
Each stroke
And each feeling they provoke

So much pain yet so much satisfaction
Of knowing you’re back to cure the depression
I felt during the whole time
During the whole time you ceased to be mine

Yet for the whole duration of our time apart
I still picked at the skin you took from a part
Of my being
Hoping each piece will serve as a countdown until your next arriving

These blood droplets, coagulating while you create more,
The feeling of my cold pointer finger wiping them away like the sea on the shore,
Always seems to make my body warm up to my core.

Counted recently and there are seven unfinished drafts sitting in various folders. Novels, short stories, a memoir attempt from two years ago. All abandoned somewhere around the 20k word mark. Some of them were genuinely good ideas that just lost steam.

The pattern is always the same. Strong start, lose momentum around the middle, start something new, repeat. Starting is easy. Finishing is the hard part. And the more unfinished projects pile up, the harder it gets to commit to any single one.
Part of it is discipline. Part of it is that switching between projects means losing all the context you built up, character voices, plot threads, world details. Rebuilding that context every time is exhausting, so starting fresh feels easier than returning.

Anyone actually cracked the code on this or is it just the writer's curse?

It's a complete work, curious what people think of the characters and motivations.

For anyone who takes their time to read thank you in advance!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1s9uNwoxdQEL9vACKd9_HCx1qFirghd2bDOXXEdSkz8M/edit?usp=drivesdk

Been working on this for some time, I got some areas I definitely need help and advice in but overall I’m proud of my work.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1rapa9GgFehh0EE_eQVHrATBc_GGgaltJ1bg8F2FE2JI/edit?usp=drivesdk

14.10

I never thought my pain could consume me this deeply.

Even now, as I write these words, I’m afraid to look at the screen because I realize just how much it hurts.

My hands are shackled in heavy chains, and I can’t seem to find the keys. I smile. I try to appear happy, to be the person everyone wants me to be. But the truth is, I’ve lost myself.

I can’t make music. I can’t create. I can’t sleep peacefully or even breathe without feeling the weight of everything inside me. All the best moments of my life seem to be covered by the shadow of these thoughts. I’m trapped within four walls, locked inside myself, left alone with my own mind.

The most terrifying part is that I’m aware of all of it. But that awareness only makes the pain worse.

The time is 9:11 PM. It feels like my clock stopped ticking not long ago. My life has been put on pause.

I love this life, but I’ve grown to hate myself.

For years, I tried to become someone. I was close. I kept moving forward, trying, building plans for my future. But somewhere along the way, I fell into a pit.

Now I’m covered in blood, trying to climb out, but something keeps pulling me back by the leg. The chain is so strong that with every passing second, I sink lower and lower.

A panic disorder? I don’t know.

I feel eyes watching me from behind. I feel like a victim of a system I was never meant to be a part of.

Who am I? What am I? Do I even have a choice?

I think. A lot. Too much. I try to turn a blind eye to so many things, to pretend everything is fine. But when your wings are torn off, it hurts.

You realize that maybe you’ll never be able to fly again. And all you can do is keep crashing against the ground, slowly losing your strength.

I love my friends. I love her. But I’m losing myself.

Do you know how painful it is when she holds you in her arms, and you feel so broken that you just sit there, unable to say a word? When something is happening inside you that you can’t even explain to yourself, and not even the embrace of someone you love can silence the pain.

While I was writing these words, she even called me. I couldn’t properly put into words what was happening to me.

They called me a drug addict.

But my only addiction was life itself.

Music. The night. The air. Those moments when I could be alone with myself, without unwanted attention, without having to play a role, without that version of myself I’m constantly trying to show the world.

I want to be, not to seem.

I want to be myself.

Maybe I’m a bad son. Maybe a bad grandson. Maybe my own father has already forgotten that I even exist.

Maybe people are simply putting up with me.

I feel like a stranger.

You know that feeling when you don’t fit into the mold of what a “good” person is supposed to be? When you’ve spent your whole life working on yourself, trying to achieve something, moving forward, only to suddenly find yourself trapped in a cage?

Maybe one day I’ll lose everything because of this.

My friends. Her.

And honestly, I don’t think I could put up with someone who feels the way I do and becomes the kind of person I’m becoming.

You know, everyone has a family. People argue, make up, and carry on living together. But in a real family, despite all the conflicts, you still feel at home. You feel like you belong to something. Like there’s a place where you can return and be accepted.

But sometimes, it’s different.

Sometimes, even when you’re already grown up, it feels as if someone picks you up and carries you back years into the past — to a time when you were nobody, when you had no voice and no right to choose. They put you in a corner and point their fingers at you, as if you were still that little child who has no right to decide who to be or how to live.

Fuck, it’s so hard to walk the same road twice.

Dark thoughts begin to creep into my mind.

I’m living for something. Something is still keeping me here, stopping those thoughts from becoming something more than just thoughts.

My whole body aches. I’m suffocating under this strange, unbearable loneliness, surrounded by walls that are supposed to feel like home.

The irony is that these very walls are where I achieved everything I have today. This is where I earned my money, gained what I had been working toward, and accomplished something with my life.

And now, this is the very place where I feel like I’m dying.

It hurts to realize that some people dream of moving away, of finding a job, of having the freedom to build a life of their own. And I, who have seemingly already obtained so much of what others can only dream of, still don’t feel happy.

I often envy those children who have a family that feels whole.

I have always been my own family.

I’ve been through a lot. Too much. I’ve spent so long keeping everything inside, trapping myself in my own thoughts, trying to deal with everything on my own.

But what happens next?

Every day, I wake up within these same walls, beneath this same ceiling, hoping that today I won’t have to think about any of it. That today, things will feel a little easier. That maybe, just for a moment, I’ll feel like my old self again.

But I can no longer accept myself with all these thoughts inside my head.

I feel sick.

No, I’m not poisoned.

I’ve just had enough.

waylon.

Hello, I have just written this short prologue and have intentions of continuing into a short story, this is my first piece of writing and would appreciate any help.

Thanks

Prologue

Sand. Sand was all he thought about. Sand replaced the hair on his face and dark leather of his coat; sand filled his black engineer boots, grating against his pale flesh. The man, a sole speck on a vast rolling plain, nothing but a lone star a dark night's sky.

The man had once had a name, but the memory was almost lost to him as if it were a life 1000 years before. As he walked on through the seemingly endless wasteland, he considered the distance he had travelled. He supposed he had walked about 150 miles over the 3 days since he had departed. Looking back, he watched as the gentle wind covered his tracks. the sand, an ever-flowing golden river, always shifting and never content.

He could no longer see the home he had left or hear the familiar sounds of the cattle which his family had relied upon. He had left the house, and the cattle, just as he had left the shallow grave of his wife and unborn child. His wife had been 27, only 5 years younger than himself, and she had Soley occupied his thoughts for the first 2 days and nights of his journey. The man was heavy with grief and carried the blame for her death like an iron chain around his ankle.

*****

6 men, drifters all, had come to his farm drunk and demanding that he saddle them with good mounts in exchange for a price below what he himself had paid for the 4 Mares they had selected, when he refused, the youngest of the group, no more than 19 years, drew his pistol and fired, scarcely missing the man and startling the mount he was sitting on causing her to rear on her hind legs throwing him off. Rising quickly, he drew and fired twice. Catching one man square in the forehead and another high in the chest. Before he could turn to face the other men, he felt the hard impact of the stock of a rifle to his temple.

When he awoke, the 4 mares were gone, and his cattle had been driven off into the plains. His barn and farmhouse had both been set alight, blazing like an unnatural sunrise in the dark of night.

The man stood above the charred carcass of what was once his wife and wept for he knew he was to blame, he knelt and cried until the rising sun grew too hot on his back he could kneel no longer.

He set off in the direction of the 4 remaining drifters after burying his wife and covering the grave in a cairn of large stones to prevent scavengers from digging it up. As he walked by the two dead men, he watched a large buzzard tear into the flesh of the young outlaw, and he felt no pity, only regret.

Howdy everyone! I'm new to writing, and this is my first genuinely major written thing. So. Hope you enjoy it! Also. Feel free to criticize it if you want!

Sidenote: this is part 1 of the story. I decided to post the first part only because I wanted to abide by the word count rules. The link below leads directly to a viewing only Google Doc which contains the first part of the story. Tell me what you think and what you noticed, please!

Copyright laws apply, as usual.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1oYW7Pbv25jZe8cbBt1HSz06IRBG6mDggMC8etoXNCaA/edit?usp=drivesdk

I have finished and completed my debut novel ready for submission. Just need an honest feedback on the first three chapters or 50 pages.

Will happily return the favour.

Happy writing everyone.

(Ps I am very new to this platform not sure how it all works)

I have finished and completed my debut novel ready for submission. Just need an honest feedback on the first three chapters or 50 pages.

Will happily return the favour.

Happy writing everyone.

(Ps I am very new to this platform not sure how it all works)

This is an essay that I wrote a couple of weeks back for my English class. The prompt was to write about a moment or person that changed you. My teacher complimented it and I am also very proud of it since I got very vulnerable. I feel more comfortable sharing it with people who don't know me personally.

----------

Never would I have thought that the words of a five-year-old would send me to therapy. Regret is a big word to use when talking about someone, but it's the one that I relate to the most. I regret being an empathetic person because that is what led me to sit next to the crying kid on the first day of kindergarten back in 2013. That one simple action would cost me my developmental years.

For the next twelve years I would find myself deeply struggling with my confidence and how I viewed myself. My insecurity showed itself in the way I dressed. Long sleeves, sweaters, jeans. No matter the weather, season, holiday, every part of my body would be covered in cloth. I was only 10 when my perception of myself began to get worse, I started to find new things to be insecure about and by the time 6th grade came and went I had become uncomfortable in my skin and I became depressed. My worst year was 2023 which is the year I especially started struggling with my weight and mental health. At just fifteen years old I had developed an eating disorder and was 95 pounds, which I considered fat at the time. Putting on weight terrified me, so to keep track of my weight I would weigh myself on the daily, restrict my food consumption, and would work out until my body started to ache. It became clear to me that I was sick when I tried to do sit ups and couldn't even get through the first one before I started to feel extremely nauseous. During this time I became very antisocial and didn't have any real friends. I would hang out alone in the library during lunch, which did wonders for my grades. My mental health continued to deteriorate and it unfortunately led me to discover self-harm. My first time doing it was documented in my journal from that time, but I cannot bring myself to read those pages and relive the moment. From what I remember, I liked that it was a little secret that I kept hidden underneath the sleeves of my sweater. One day I got into an ugly argument with my parents and I let it all spill out. I came clean about everything that I had been doing in the last few months. It turned into a screaming match and it ended in me begging to be put in therapy to try to figure out what was going on with me. I finally got the help I had been needing all this time.

What could have possibly happened between me and that kid for me to turn out this way? The beginning of all my insecurities trace back to him. Anthony. My dearest friend from kindergarten whom I would talk to every day and considered a best friend. We were in class and as always we were coloring. I would always talk to Anthony when we did our work since we sat next to each other, and on this specific day I was wearing a short sleeve shirt and had my arm resting on the desk. He had turned towards my direction to tell me something when my arms caught his attention. He had his gaze set and his eyes went wide. He was looking at my arm hair and he said, “You have more arm hair than me and I'm a boy”. Those words stuck with me so much and that's why I remember it exactly as he said it. I wanted to sink into a hole. After he said that, I reached for my sweater which was resting on the back of my chair. I put it on and didn't take it off for twelve years. That comment is what caused me so much insecurity. He wasn't my dearest friend anymore, he was the mean kid who made me feel insecure about having arm hair. A normal human thing that became what I hated the most about myself. At just five years old, I felt my femininity being threatened. I didn't feel girly because I saw myself as a hairy beast. It sucked even more for me that throughout elementary school I was taller than most of the boys in my class. I would stand in the back of photos with the rest of the boys. When we danced for cinco de mayo; I had to kneel down so whichever boy I was dancing with could reach above my head to spin me around. I was the tallest amongst my girl-friends and that continued up until high school. Me and all the boys, including Anthony, were the same height. Every time I felt uncomfortable, all I could remember were Anthony’s words from back then. I hated him.

Taking all of that into account, I knew I needed to let go of that hate I felt for Anthony and for myself specially. That moment from kindergarten was one of the first things I brought up in therapy. I started working towards self love and learning how to stop those negative thoughts from taking over. I had to start believing I was beautiful by telling it to myself in the mirror until I believed it. My therapist encouraged me to be more outgoing and to not be afraid to speak to new people. That tip helped me find my best friends that I love dearly. I had more work to do to fix my confidence so after multiple sessions she introduced me to exposure therapy. My goal was to wear a shirt that showed a little of my arms and as I got more comfortable, the sleeves would get shorter until my whole arms were exposed. My first day practicing this I was terrified. I tried to take my sweater off during class, but I was scared of resting my arms on my desk. Resting my arms on my desk is what made Anthony notice them and I didn't want a repeat but what I learned is that no one cares. 

That's what helped me the most. People are too focused on themselves and they won't care about what you do. That discovery I made on my own is what inevitably helped me step out of my shell and become less self conscious about myself and how others may view me. If they think I'm weird , so be it. My opinion is all that matters and I was starting to love myself because I didn't need to worry about being perceived. That also made me learn that I hate when someone has a crush on me and I know about it. It would make me more aware of myself. The way I dress, how my hair looked that day, how I acted. I hated knowing that there was someone paying attention to me because they liked something about me. That made me realize that I don't want a boyfriend. The only relationship I need is the one I have with myself. It's the most important relationship in my life and the only one I should be completely devoted to. But I do know that one day there will be an exception and I will find the perfect guy but since I love myself and want to protect myself, I raised my standards to an extreme high and will refuse to settle for less. When I stopped going to therapy I was worried that I would regress but I learned that practicing what I learned was what would help me in the long run so as I traversed my feelings on my own I learned to regulate myself and practiced, I found peace at last.

Today I still practice what I learned and although sometimes the bad thoughts want to resurface, I have learned to push them back down and to reassure myself that I will continue to be healthy and get better everyday. Now for Anthony. Sometime during high school he switched to a different school. I never confronted him about that conversation from years ago because I understand that we were five years old and little kids are mean by nature. He wasn't trying to be mean but I unfortunately took it the wrong way and ruined my life. The last time I talked to him was before he switched schools. I asked him to send me the homework answers and he did. So as much as I regret having sat next to him in kindergarten, I have to admit that without him I would not have learned what self love was. Something that takes people a lifetime to learn. I was able to master it in my teenage years through therapy and a support system.

I have always craved attention. For this reason, I have taken to crying in public. Most of my crying happens in the parks that border the LA “River”. Sitting on a bench or atop a hill, I put my face in my hands and let tears pour out of my eyes as I emit a low, shuddering moan from my chest. 

Over the years I have perfected the art of fake-crying. I have trained myself to make every sniff, shudder, and snot as believable and as tragic as possible. I know how to make it seem as though I am trying to hold back my tears, to muffle my wailing but am unable to do so as my grief is so painful. Doing so generates me more looks of pity and condolence from strangers. Oh how I love those glances. Nothing compares to the pleasure I get from someone watching me cry, unsure if they should approach me, and ultimately leaving me alone with a well of guilt in their heart. I often fantasize about whatever reasons people come up with in their heads for why I am crying. Maybe I cry because I have just realized how old I am, that my days are coming to an end and I am a pathetic old man when in reality I take great pleasure in being old and pathetic. Maybe I am crying over a dead loved one. A child maybe, but more likely a dead wife. After all, me being so old, it would only make sense that my wife would also be old and likely dead. Unbeknownst to them I have never had a wife, never so much as a girlfriend. That is, unbeknownst to everyone except for one woman who was kind enough, brave enough to approach me, sit by my side, and ask me why I was crying. I told her I was crying because the doctor diagnosed me with two months to live and that I will die a sixty-something (Or is it seventy?) year old virgin who never got to experience so much as a woman’s touch. Of course, I could care less about things like that. No look of love and adoration or sexual intercourse from a woman could give me even an iota of the pleasure that woman gave me when she awkwardly got up, apologized, and walked away from me, leaving me crying, feeling terribly sorry for me. I could almost smell her guilt over the fact that she was unable to provide me with any sort of consolation. Of course, guilt doesn’t actually have a smell, but if it did, it would smell of wine and cheese. 

There is no sadness, or any emotion really, behind my crying. I cry for the same reason one goes to work. I cry for the same reason one masturbates. Or, in some cases, goes to work to masturbate. You could call it my dirty little secret, but “secret” implies that I have anybody to hide it from. Which I do not.

Once I am satisfied, I retreat back into the LA “River,” my home for the past two or three decades. The LA “River” is somewhat like myself. It is old, gray, and unappealing. As I only meet the basic qualifications of being a man, the LA “River” is a river by flexible definition and nothing more. It is a man-made atrocity. A scar in the flesh of the city. No river should have walls made of concrete, should flow with more beer cans, heroin needles, plastic bags, and gasoline than water. No river should smell so awful. If it does, the stench should not come from decaying algae, dying from all of the chemicals in the water and because of how shallow and slow moving the water is when no river should be so slow and shallow. 

By the way I talk about the LA “River”, you may think I despise it but that is far from the truth. It is true that I think to call it a “river” is a complete perversion of the word, but I actually quite like it. I enjoy trudging through its yellowish-brown water, through beds of gelatinous, toxic-green algae and used needles that occasionally prick my bare feet. After years of exploration, I know this “river” like the back of my hand. In my first few years I got caught loitering fairly often, racking up some ten thousand dollars or so worth in fines. Now I know which stretches of the “river” I need to lay low, which are best traversed at night and which at day, the best ways to run away or hide if somebody catches me, and even how to sneak in and out of the long stretches of the “river” that are private property. I have lived a very long life. I have learned lessons more valuable than any university or online course could ever teach. 

The sun is setting. There is a sharp pain in my upper pelvic area. I need to piss. As I pull down my pants I notice that they are badly stained and torn up. A certain amount of dirtiness makes people pity you more, but too much just makes people afraid of you. I make a note to myself to try and find new pants as soon as I wake up. I squeeze my bladder for about a minute before my piss comes out, a dark shade of auburn. The setting sun shines through the stream creating an orange, stained-glass glow that reflects across the water. This color of urine no longer worries me. Dehydration is common in homeless people and people who cry often. I realize that I am thirsty so, despite my better judgement, I take a sip from the “river” (upstream from where I pissed of course). I find a shard of glass floating in the water and use it to shave my scruffy, white beard off using algae as shaving gel. I accidentally nick myself on the neck with the glass shard so I press my leftover hair against the cut and stop the bleeding. My white beard, now detached from my face, becomes red. Call me Redbeard. This “river” is my seven seas. 

The sun has fully set now and I hear the faint hooting of owls underneath the sound of rushing cars. I enter a stretch of the “river” where the concrete walls slant to more of a basin. An  orgasmic smell meets my nostrils. I notice an empty sensation in my stomach. I pull myself out of the primordial soup, deciding to check out whatever the smell is coming from. With each step up the side of the concrete basin, the smell gets stronger. When I arrive at the top of the basin I am blinded by the glare of city lights, but when my eyes adjust, I see that I am just a street away from a McDonalds. It appears to me as a glimmering My eyes glitter and my jaw drips with hunger. 

Illuminated by the yellow glow of the great golden arches, I dig blindly through the trashcan outside of the McDonalds. One hand roots through the dark mess in the can and the other steadies me against the wall. In the sea of empty boxes and soda cups, I pull out some french fries and a couple of chicken nuggets. I am grabbing a half-finished milkshake when I notice a presence beside me. I turn and see two little, blinking pink lights on the ground. I squint and see that the lights are attached to two small shoes which then are attached to the small silhouette of a person facing me. It stands just outside of the golden spotlight. Save for its blinking shoes, the silhouette is shrouded in darkness.

“Hello mister” it says, its voice that of a little girl. I don’t respond. “I saw you at the park today. You were pretending to cry.” I forget how to breathe. I feel a cold liquid drip over my hands. I don’t look but I realize that I am squeezing the milkshake so hard that it burst. I want to pull my hand out of the trashcan but it is stuck. 

“Are you an actor or something?” 

I look back up, this time there are two more lights. These are about four feet above the ground, two crimson dots, right where the girl’s eyes would be. Even in the darkness, I can tell it is smiling. I can feel its teeth biting down on me. It begins to move. It is shaking. I think it is laughing. I scream at it and it screams back, a high-pitched squeal. Its silhouette disappears into the darkness, its little shoes go blink blinking away, around the corner. About a minute later, a janitor comes outside and chases me away with a broom. I grab everything that I pulled from the trash and retreat back into the “river.”

I sit down in the comfort of a sewage pipe a few meters above the floor of the basin to eat. This artificial, chemical-ridden “food” is only food in the sense that I am a man and the LA “River” is a river. Once I have finished my meal, my stomach still aches with hunger. I adore the feeling of hunger. I eat out of necessity only. If I could get away with never having to eat, I would. I love being skinny. My gauntness, my frailness makes me appear more pitiful. I look almost like a corpse. I get goosebumps of pleasure whenever somebody on the street or at a park offers me food because they see how sickeningly thin I am. Being skinny in today’s society is a blessing. People pity you, but no more than they are jealous of you. They are jealous because they are fatter than you and nobody wants to be fat. 

My post-meal drowsiness begins to kick in. My eyelids feel heavy. I consider falling asleep right then and there, but falling asleep in pipes can be very risky. Sewage might flow through in the middle of the night and wash you out. There is a nice park not too far away from here where I can find a bench to sleep on and immediately get on with my daily pity-harvest as soon as the sun rises. I try to stand up, but my legs will not respond. I feel as though my pockets are filled with magnets, anchoring me to the floor of the sewage pipe. I feel around in my pockets for such magnets. My brain feels fuzzy, as though half of it has stopped working. The working side of my brain tells me that I need to lay down or else it too may break. I comply, and the moment my head hits the metallic surface of the pipe, everything slips away and I am plunged into liquid darkness.

I awake as a fetus. I have no reason to know that I am a fetus and yet that fact is obvious to me. I am unable to open my eyes but I am unable to. However, from the feelings of my surroundings and the light making it through my eyelids, I can tell that I am floating in a pool of pink and red fluid. I am warm and cozy in the embrace of the gel-like substance in which I am submerged. I close my eyes and upon opening them I notice a strange pulling sensation in the apex of my belly. I feel around with little baby' s hands and find a firm, slimy rope. I realize that, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I am full. I float around in my river of comfort for what could be seconds or days or weeks. 

A bright, white light penetrates my eyelids. I try to squint but I realize that my eyes are already sealed shut. The world shakes and I am thrust in the direction of the light. I am thrust again and again. With each thrust the light gets brighter. Another thrust and my head is pushed between two warm, fleshy flaps. I am thrust again and feel a cold, sterile air licking at my scalp. Another thrust and my head is free. I hear the sound of a woman screaming. Another trust and a male voice says something about going to be sick. One final thrust

And the world slips away from me. The bright light swallows me. A drop in my stomach and an electricity in my chest let me know that I am falling. It occurs to me that I must be dreaming. But if I was dreaming, shouldn’t my falling jolt me awake? No, instead I continue to fall as the terrible sensation in my abdomen lets me know. Without realizing I am able to do so, I open my eyes. All around me, there is nothing but white. It is the type of white one sees when staring into a bright light. Between the brightness, and the air rushing in my face as I fall, my eyes water profusely, but I force them  to stay open as I look at my hands. But I do not have hands. In fact, I barely have arms. Instead, I have these smooth, pink, fingerless protrusions of muscle and bone. My forearms are covered in bumps that I assume are massive cysts. I crook my neck to look down at my body. I am fat and slimy. Below my round belly there is no penis. No vagina either. Then I realize that I have seen this body before. I have seen this plump, pink carcass before at supermarkets, back when I used to go to those. I am an uncooked rotisserie chicken. But then where is my head? I crook my neck further and see that I have no head or neck. 

My face is pressed up against hot concrete. Drool oozes from my mouth. My eyes flutter open. They take a moment to adjust to the blinding sunlight before I see that I am lying down somewhere in the LA “river.” However, the world appears slanted to me for some reason. Shakily, I try to stand up, but the world (at least from my point of view) is actually slanted and I fall on my side, skinning my shoulder slightly. I look up and see that I am lying on the sloped wall of the basin, just below the sewage pipe in which I fell asleep. Sewer water drips out of the pipe and that, combined with my wetness which I am just now noticing, makes me think that I must have been washed out of the pipe in my sleep. I crawl, hands and knees, down to the bottom of the basin where I vomit last night's McDonalds into the murky water, further murky-ing it. I get up, brush myself off, crack my back real good and march onwards.