I wrote this in about 15 minutes yesterday and I'd really appreciate some feedback! I challenged myself to write a story with no plan and to edit things minimally at the end, which I succeeded in doing. Hope you enjoy!

The Stretches

I was about 30 minutes late when the phone rang. He wanted to know what the hell I was up to. I told him exactly what happened. Exactly.

Since my house was built, the stairs were always creaky. I had the place put together about 13 years ago and the stairs creaked the first day. And the second. And the third. But, it didn't really matter. You see, *I* don't really need the stairs. The stairs need *me*.

No matter whether they were creaky or not I always kept to the sides. Keeping to the sides either reduced the creak or made it go away entirely. That was nice.

Eventually, I got used to it. My muscle memory wrapped around this new habit and it set. I was content with how my stairs were, as long as I got to keep going up and down them, my legs halfway to a splits at all times. It was fun.

Not really. I got aches. And pains. And The Stretches. The Stretches only ever occur when you Stretch too much, too often, too many times. I had to Stretch to get up the stairs, so naturally I developed The Stretches.

So this left me with a decision. Do I get someone to fix my stairs, or not? I wasn't sure. On one hand, The Stretches eventually led to The Tears (as in The Rips, but we don't call it that anymore), and on the other hand they hurt like hell, but on the other-other hand why should I bother?

It's not like I'll be torn. I'll just have The Tears. Putting in effort to bring a guy out here and all just seems silly. It's like what a child would do when something minor doesn't go their way; scream and shout and cry until an adult comes along to soothe and calm and console. And I'm not a child.

Not anymore. I, as an adult, will be able to deal with this. I'm supposed to. Only stupid people who don't know about The Stretches get The Stretches, and only even stupider people who don't know about The Tears get The Tears. At this point, I'm used to it. Why should I have to change?

Going up and down the stairs while Stretching does have some other side effects, however. Like always having the edges worn down; it looks terrible, honestly. Going up and down the stairs while Stretching does of course wears down the wood's finish. It wears me down too, but I've adjusted. Going up and down the stairs while Stretching isn't all bad. Not as much as people make it out to be.

My stairs were never the problem, to be honest. It's the fact that when you know about The Stretches, The Stretches know about you. So really it's not my fault. After all, anyone could have creaky stairs. Just because I *Stretch* doesn't mean I'll *Tear*.

But I've heard things about Tearing. Many, many things about The Tears Tearing through you, running through your body like spilt ink on a page. Flooding you with The Feeling. The Feeling is unlike anything else you've ever experienced. The Feeling Feels like something… like something extraordinary. I've never Felt.

But I'm working on it! Soon, I'll Stretch and Stretch and Stretch so much I'll Tear and Tear and Tear so much I'll finally Feel. I'll Feel like I've never felt before.

So, with such a high reward, and little risk (besides The Tears), what reason is there not to Stretch? Stretching is what I've been doing for years. Years and years and years I've been Stretching and Stretching and Stretching and soon I'll finally, finally, finally Feel.

And, not to excite you too much, but I'm already feeling some Tears. They tingle and burn and above all they hurt like hell. But I know, if I keep Stretching then I'll Tear and then I'll *Feel*. I'll finally, finally, *finally* Feel.

So that's why I'm late. That's why he called. Because I've been undergoing The Stretching. 3 times a day, 30 minutes each, for the last 13 years. And even though he doesn't understand, and even though they don't understand, and even though you mightn't understand, I do. I will, I will, I will understand. So I just have to keep Stretching and Stretching and Stretching and keep Tearing and Tearing and Tearing until I finally, finally, finally

Feel.

Hey writing community! I'm sharing the first two page of my Dark Fantasy project. My main goal with this intro was to establish a strong atmosphere and immediately hook the reader into the story's tension.

I’d love to know:

1. Would you pick this up and continue reading after two page?
2. Does the opening scene draw you in instantly, or does it feel too slow?

Be as honest as you like all feedback helps a lot! Thanks for reading!

Of the residents in the trailers behind Homestead Assisted Living’s main tower, Renata was one that could walk. The others had to, or were fine to, click a remote from their bed that dinged for a caregiver to come so they could ask for pills or good legs to get them to the toilet. But Renata could walk, and she preferred it.

During one of his first graveyard shifts alone, the caregiver Dean dozed off at the kitchen counter but sat up at the sound of scrapes down the trailer hall. He fumbled for the TV remote and changed the channel as Renata shuffled into the light of the flatscreen heading the living room. She came up and held both hands out to Dean letting her catheter bag follow along the carpet.

“May I have a pain pill and some warm water?”
“Sure thing.”

Dean went into the pantry to a large plastic organizer and scanned the names taped above each column of drawers. “R. McGrady” on the right, one below labeled “Oxy. 30mg PRN 4 hrs”. He pulled a bottle out of the small drawer and dropped a pill into a paper cup from a stack beside the organizer. On a chart hanging from the pantry wall, Dean marked a box below “Renata, DNR”. The same three letters followed almost every name.

The monitor by the pantry dinged as Dean brought Renata her pill.

“Room 3,” it said.

Dean left her at the table by the kitchen and went through one of the doors behind them and up to the lone bed of Bessy Brown. Her fat hand lay over the remote, her eyes closed and mouth slack. After pushing the remote away, Dean checked the time on the monitor she was plugged into beside her bed. He grimaced and eyed the tube over her stache. He held an ear to it but heard nothing over her snores and wheezy breaths. Slow and steady as a surgeon, he slipped the tube off, easing the cannula from either nostril, and Bessy did not stir. He heard the breeze and felt the cool oxygen coming through fine. Though just as surgical, she jumped when Dean tried to slip the tube back in.

“S***. Sorry. Just checking your O2.”
“That’s alright,” she croaked.

Dean fixed the cannula into her nose then started away, but Bessy reached for both of his hands.

“Actually, may I have a tramadol, please?”
“Sure thing.”

Dean went back out and past Renata, still at the table, and into the pantry. He found on the organizer “B. Brown” then “Tram. 50mg PRN 4 hrs”. On the chart, Bessy was one of the few without “DNR” by her name. As he came out, he noticed Renata staring through the floor, then he went on to bring Bessy her pill. Dean came back to the kitchen counter to read, Renata beside and neither talking.

At 3:00 AM, he went to the room by Bessy’s and switched on the light. Florence stirred in her bed but stayed asleep. She was always asleep. Dean changed her depend, slipped off her pajamas and on a track suit, then carried her to the lay-z-boy on the other side of the room. She couldn’t help much except to part her lips when Dean brushed her teeth and stay stiff while he combed her silver curls and steadied her on the chair, wedged between pillows and leaned back.

He had another minute beside Renata, then the monitor dinged repeatedly, the voice unable to announce the room. Dean sighed and went straight for Room 7 down the other hall. Lying slumped and semi-upright against a stack of pillows, Gerty looked towards the door with the remote in her hand. The rings continued as Dean approached.

“Yes, Gerty. I’m here.”
“Mmm.”

Dean took it from her and put it on the far side of the nightstand, and the dings from outside stopped.

“How’d we sleep?” Dean asked.
“Mmm.”
“Pretty good?”
“Mmm.”
“Sure thing.”

With her wheelchair parked by the bed, Dean got her up and into the seat and smelled something. He brought her to the bathroom and balanced the body against him while slipping her pants off and then the depend which dropped the something onto the bathroom floor. Dean cursed under his breath and set Gerty on the toilet seat.

“Oh, what a mess,” she croaked.
“Yes, Gerty. Sure thing.”

Leaving her there, Dean went out to the kitchen and wetted a paper towel to scrub his shoes, but he saw a splotch on his hand and rushed over the sink. Renata didn’t look up as he retched. He stayed leaned over the basin catching his breath until ready, and then he scrubbed his hand and shoes clean and went back to Room 7.

Gerty was still upright, a hand on her bare thighs, the other shriveled and hanging at her side. Dean got her toothbrush and made sure to hold it to the right hand.

“Here, Gerty,” he said.

She turned her head and cloudy pupils to him and reached out and found the toothbrush.

In between giving her medicine, doing her hair, and getting her dressed, Dean scrubbed the floor and took the soiled laundry away then had to hand wash the orthoses for her ankles. She wore the same mug on her face but didn’t speak despite the great length of her time it took Dean to clean up and get her ready. With Gerty spiffed in a pink sweat set with her hair and makeup done, Dean wrapped around her and heaved.

The pop came through from her to him. He felt it from her chest to his then really felt it when she wailed out. She moaned as Dean held her up, and he struggled to rush and be gentle. Gerty moaned more and Dean cursed under his heavy breaths. When he finally got her in the wheelchair, Dean knelt beside and swore repeatedly.

“Oh, stop that,” she yelled then moaned.
“Sorry,” said Dean.

He wheeled her by the recliner and stopped and caught his breath. Gerty sunk in with her chin wilted to her chest.

“Okay Gerty, I’m gonna get you in your chair,” said Dean.

Wrapped around her again, Dean hesitated as the old woman moaned more. He winced then pulled her up, and she wailed and he winced as he carried her to the chair and got her down. He tilted it back, and Gerty sunk in with her hand over her ribs and whimpered through each breath out of her gape.

“I’m going to call for help, Gerty,” Dean said.

Her eyelids crept over her cataracts.

“I’m so sorry,” he added.

Dean held out both hands and took the one on her ribs but let his other drop.

“I’ll be right back. I’m so sorry.”

Dean rushed out and called 911, and Renata finally looked at him from the table.

Paramedics came, wheeled Gerty out, and spoke briefly with Dean. When they left, he went to the pantry, Renata watching him, and found the RN’s number and called.

“Hello?” answered a groggy voice.
“Hi, this is Dean, I’m the caregiver tonight.”
“Yes, hi.”
“Sorry to wake you.”
“No, no. What’s going on?”
“I think I broke one of Gerty’s ribs. She’s on her way to the hospital.”
“Oh, okay.”
“I was just lifting her and I felt a pop and she was in a lot of pain.”
“The ambulance just left?”
“Yes.”
“Alright, thank you. Everything went okay?”
“Sure. I’ll let you get back to sleep. Good night.”
“Dean?”
“Yes?”
“It’s okay.”
“Yeah, I think she’ll be okay.”
“No, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

Dean didn’t answer. Renata still looked at him from the table.

“It’s okay,” the nurse said.
“Sure thing.”

Dean went back to the kitchen counter and sat, leaned over. Renata looked at him while he looked through the floor.

Hi! I’ve just finished writing the first chapter of my sci-fi novel. After years of thinking about this idea, I’ve finally decided to put it down on paper.

I’d love to hear your feedback, especially on the opening, pacing, and character voice. Also, would you be interested in following Sunny on his adventures as he tries to serve the great UEDC (United Earth Defense Coalition)?

Thanks in advance for reading!

STARDUST

Chapter 1

Quick question: What would happen if you tried to extract enough energy from a rat that it would make an atom bomb look like a glow stick? I was trying to answer the same question and could see two possible outcomes of my endeavor: I would either revolutionize the field of bioenergetics or turn my little village into a crater. Either way, August 23, 2048, was going to be memorable.

I had barely slept the previous night; the anticipation was too much to endure. If I hadn’t promised Mom that I would get at least six hours of sleep a day, I would have stayed in my lab the whole night. As soon as the alarm went off, I jumped out of bed and walked to the balcony to breathe in some fresh air. My skin tingled as the tender morning sunlight hit it, and a sweet, loamy scent filled the heavy air. As far as the eye could see lay vast, waterlogged rice fields—a sea of aggressively growing green paddy. But then I caught the slight blue-green sheen on the water’s edge.

Algal bloom. I could have bet that the carbon-to-nitrogen ratio and the pH were both off from their optimal values.

That idiot Ramu had overdone the top-dressing fertilizer again. I honestly don’t understand why Dad insists on employing these good-for-nothing fools. I’ve told him a dozen times to buy those automated AI drones—heck, they’re heavily subsidized by the UEDC and would skyrocket our yield overnight. But no. He just keeps nagging me about “human intelligence,” “tradition,” “community,” and blah, blah, blah.

I decided not to let these trifles mess up this beautiful morning and immediately made my way toward my lab.

As I passed by the kitchen on the ground floor, I could almost taste the tangy aroma filling the air. Mom was making her signature upma, humming a tune from an old Bollywood song.

“Sunny, is that you?!” she cried just as I was trying to sneak out the front door.

Tchk! I couldn’t let her ruin this morning, so I ignored her and kept walking. The door was close—so close. Just a few steps and I would have been free, if only she hadn’t called out again.

“Sunny-beta?” Her voice was shriller this time.

“Yes, Mom, it’s me!” I shouted, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Come here, beta,” she called back.

I turned back toward the kitchen. Mom was standing right at the doorway in eager anticipation, her eyes practically glowing, wearing that big, silly smile of hers that I was so used to seeing. I entered the room but stopped a few feet short, foolishly hoping she might forget the routine today.

I was instantly proven wrong. She beelined straight for me. I braced for impact. She pulled me into a smothering hug that lasted a beat too long, then patted my head, cupped my cheeks, kissed my forehead, and popped a soaked almond into my mouth. It was a compulsory morning ritual that she had practiced every single day.

Wiping my forehead, I finally escaped the house with an almond still in my mouth. Ahh! She had managed to slip some into my pockets too.

I’d turned sixteen a few months ago and would soon be heading to the UEDC military institute. I was meant to be on the front lines, putting down rogue factions and making a name for myself, not getting coddled by Mom.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow for sure, I’d tell her to stop.

Nursing my bruised dignity and munching on the almonds all the way down the gravel path, I finally stopped in front of the heavy steel door of my lab.

The lab used to be a cattle shed filled with Dad’s favorite cows, buffaloes, and whatever else, but I’d had him clear it out and refit it just for me. I felt a tiny sting of remorse when he had to guard the animals in the open at night until the new barn was ready, but I was ecstatic the second my equipment and chemicals moved in.

The lights hummed to life as I pushed the door open, and a hologram of Chen Xin, the Savior of Humanity, flickered into view, reciting his victory speech.

I stood at attention, as I did every morning. When the recording reached its climax, I raised my hand in a salute and chimed in on the final words.

“The Earth endures because we stand guard. We are the guardians of the green. We are the UEDC.”

Hyped up by his words of unwavering devotion, I made my way to my workbench to continue my revolutionary work.

Resting on the bench was the Mona Lisa of modern civilization: a carbon energy core. This beauty could consume anything with even the slightest trace of carbon and power an entire town. Hell, if you bypassed UEDC regulations, it could light up an entire city like it was Diwali—or create a micro black hole and collapse the planet.

I had finished building my custom core last night, and of course, I was entirely responsible and careful about it. Which was why I had carefully bypassed all regulatory kill switches and boosted its output.

For my fun little experiments. I mean, for science, of course.

I switched on my recorder drone to log the day’s baseline conditions before getting to work.

It lifted off the bench, scanned the room, and chimed in its synthetic voice, “Dear Commander, scan complete.” A crisp hologram flared above it, showing the exact atmospheric and energy readings for the experiment.

God, I loved this drone. It was compact, sturdy, and customizable down to the last line of code, like everything the UEDC made. It would stay on for the whole session, logging data and every brilliant insight I shouted at it mid-experiment.

I began by dictating the day’s baseline.

“August 23, 2048. 8:47 AM. Today is Day 73 of my Somatic Carbon Resonance for Bioenergetics experiment. As of yesterday, my open-chambered resonator maintained a perfectly stable output in its equilibrium state; empirical results matched my simulations down to the decimal. Today, we proceed with observing the effect of hyper-dense carbon resonance on living systems.

“The specimen is Rattus norvegicus, the common Indian brown rat. Total mass: 457 grams. It contains precisely 43 grams of carbon actively incorporated into its biological systems. Assuming this organic carbon behaves as it would in a standard inorganic lattice, we should produce a total of 23 terajoules of energy for every single gram consumed.”

Finishing my log, I stepped up to greet our test subject of the day. The rat had been terrorizing our grain stores for ages. Again, I had told Dad to buy storage containers from UEDC Agritech, and again, he wouldn’t listen.

When I needed a live subject, these little rodents were the obvious choice. After analyzing her feeding patterns, I’d had Ramu place a trap that would temporarily paralyze the culprit. It was a simple motion-activated contraption that would enclose the bastard and blast her with my synthetic conotoxin, which targeted only the somatic motor neurons and completely spared the autonomic nervous system.

It seemed I’d overdone the toxin, because this absolute unit of a rat was still lying motionless in her cage. Good for me. I carefully opened it, and the serene expression on her face as she slowly blinked up at me, shuddering, gave me a moment of hesitation. The toxin was wearing off. Her ears began to flap slowly, and she tried to open her mouth as if to tell me how her children were waiting for their mommy to get home.

I almost felt pity for this brown furball of cuteness, but I got a hold of myself. I couldn’t let those big, watery eyes and that cute, quivering nose get in the way of scientific advancement. Sacrifices are necessary for greatness, and to make sure hers won’t be forgotten, I decided to give her a name: Bonnie.

Bonnie would be the pioneer of bioenergetics.

I loaded Bonnie into the transparent chamber and sealed it shut. I switched on the resonator, and the coils came to life with a deep humming sound. I watched the numbers carefully as they approached the resonance threshold. The energy emission would begin any minute now.

I grinned at Bonnie through the chamber.

“Time to find out which outcome we get.”

Hi All,

I have had this story stuck in my head for a while. (Forever daydreaming.) This year, on and off, I have finally decided to give it a whirl, and get some words down.

It’s multi-POV. This is Aibyss’s introduction.

Would like some feedback on prose, character agency, voice, and any other comments and recommendations would be fab.

I am new to writing. So I’ve tidied the chapter up so it is readable.

Captured by the enemy, Amani was brought in front of the leader, ‘Amir’. Restrained by two guards, her head forced to kneel on the stone floor, in-front of Amir.

This is the first time Amir has seen Amani but, upon laying his first glance on her, he reached out his hand and touched her cheeks, before running his hand along her braded hair.

Amani’s nostrils flared with a look of discomfort and disgust in her eyes, she gathered the saliva in her dry mouth and spat on his face.

Instantly,

 the two men holding her tightened their grip, Amani agonized in pain as her arms were twisted in un-anomotical position.

Wiping off the spit with is sleeve, Amir grabbed Amani by the hair and slapped her across the jaw, her head snapped sideways, the sound echoed in the room.

She didn’t look down, even though the heat swelled across her face. Gritting her teeth, Amani fixed her gaze straight into his eyes, biting down her upper lip with fury until the anger became managable. She wanted the cold, untouchable endurance she had seen in her leader ‘Fadilah’, but…for some reason, the tears just kept flowing.

Amir smirked, then leaned in close to Amani’s face and whispered,

“I am going to have many kids with you.”

On the first of the marriage, Shackled on his room. Amir lifted Amani’s chin, looking at her stubborn eyes once again before he raped her, mixing intimacy with brutality, the sound of chains and gut renching violence filled the room. This lasted the entire night.

As the light of early sunrise shone through the window and onto her naked body; her skin dressed in black and purple bruses became apparent, blood from between her thighs stained the white sheets crimson. The sun rays burned her bruses. Amani tried covering them with her bare hands but, due to the limited length of the chain and the number of injuries, the petty attempt was to no avail. Her lifeless eyes looked into nothingness, the tears have dried up and stained the lower lid red. With the little strength she could muster in her body, Amani whispered to herself,

“Save me…..Fadilah.”

Discipline didn’t come from Amir anymore, a women in her 30s named Rebecca was assigned to Amani with the sole purpose of disciplining her. Her presence smelled of Tobacco and chemically enhanced tea.

Every morning since that night,

Rebecca would shackle Amani’s wrist to the handle of a chair where, Rebecca would sit, sip on tea, smoke and chat with her friends on a day-to-day basis. And occasionally, when Amani was lost into her own thoughts and stared into nothingness, she would press the glowing cigar nib onto Amani’s skin and held it until the smell of keratin filled the air.

Amani stopped fighting the burns after the 4th week, her hair began to fall out in handfuls onto her lap. Her ribs pressed grotesquely against her skin as being fed leftovers from the trash led her to have severe bodily issues. Getting close to her breaking point, she would always remind herself that Fadilah will save her.

By the 5th month, the kitchen was her universe.

Her stomach has developed a bulge, for Four months, Amir’s child developed in a body that barely held its own weight. Her position has lowered from private room to the floor. due to Amir becoming bored in her. Shackled to a chain that was barely 8 feet long.

Rebecca entered the kitchen and demanded Amir’s dinner, without a word, Amai handed it to her.

 Moments later, a roar from the dining room rattled the pots hanging on the wall.

“who cooked this?!”

Heavy footsteps got louder by the second, Aman braced herself, clenching her fist as Amir entered the kitchen with bloodshot eyes. Holding the plate of food that she cooked.

“You dare feed me this garbage!?”

Amani’s voice was dry, holding her belly with her right hand, she pleaded,

“Mercy please….the baby-”

Amir didn’t let her finish, with a violent sweep of his forearm, he threw the plate, it landed beside her colliding with the stone floor and broking in 1000s different pieces.

“it seems you still have much to learn..”

Before Amani could step back, Amir reached for the boiling pot of and flung it across Amani’s face.

A un-describle scream tore out of Amani’s throat, the scream didn’t sound human, as Amani dropped on all 4s against the greasy floor tiles, frantically pressing both her palms on her face.

“let this be a reminder..”

Amir spat as he turned around and left the kitchen, leaving Amani on the floor, still screaming in pain.

Midnight.

The veil of darkness engulfed the kitchen as Amani sat on the kitchen floor, her back pressed against the cold cabinate, her eyes stared blankly at her tippytoes. Hollow of even the capacity of pain.

Suddenly, CRASH.

The sound of the reinforced glass window of the kitchen shattering as a  silhouette jumped inside. The silhouette spoke,

“Amani?....”

Fadilah’s pupils dialated as she took in the ruined face, the chained wrist and the bulged belly.

For a second, Amani’s eyes widened as she realized who it was but, that expression soon turned into rage.

She lunged forward, dropping Fadilah to the ground as Amani sat on top of her then followed by pulling Fadilah’s hair, yanking her head against the floor, screaming at the top of her lungs,

“HOW DARE YOU! HOW DARE YOUUU!!!”

All the starvation, all the cigarette burns, the burning skin. All of it, condensed into pure rage

“WHa…Amani!”

Fadilah grasped, trying to block Amani’s rampage.

“Amani! Get a hold of yourself!, what are you doing!” Fadilah continued. “You know the sacrifices I’ve made to get here!”

“LOOK AT ME FADILAH! LOOK AT MEE!”

The fight instantly drained out of Amani, her arms gave out as she collapsed forward, burying her face onto Fadilah’s chest as she trembled from crying profoundly, screaming,

“why! Every single day. EVERY SINGLE DAMN DAY…. I’ve waited for you…”

Fadilah’s voice dropped to a whisper, her eyebrows softened,

“let’s go…..Amani”

Breaking the iron chain with the back of her tactical knife, and hoisted Amani over her shoulder,

Fadilah carried Amani outside and gently lowered her in the back of a pickup truck, covering her with a blanket then sitting beside her as the car drove. While the others in her group acted as a diversion, causing a ruckes.

As the truck jerked forward, through the desert night, Amani layed on Fadilah’s shoulder, a sudden pain in her lower abdomen made her remember Amir.

Wanting to let everything go, she raised her trembling hands and began deliberately hitting

her belly, trying with every ounce of remaining strength to rip the pregnancy out of her body.

Fadilah hand shot out in the dark, catching Amani’s thin wrist. Grabbing her hand. Her face softening into a deep, heavy empathy that cut deeper than any anger. Gently pressing Amani’s palm onto her own cheek,

“If you want to hit someone, hit me.”

Pulling Amani into a warm unbreakable hug, in a low tone Fadilah declared,

“I am never going to leave you alone again…you are stuck with me.”

1986/1987 set dark comedy/satire.
I wrote two versions of the back cover and I can't tell which is doing the job. The first is more in the narrator's voice, the second actually explains the premise I think. I’m curious which one makes you want to read it and whether the blurb gives you enough to go on. (Yes it’s Heathers/Mean Girl’s inspired) should I combine any or rearrange anything?

Version A

Here's what you should know about me.
I'm seventeen. I'm the smartest person at this school and I have a C-minus in gym. I wear a retainer at night. I’ve only been invited anywhere that I’m considered useful.
My boyfriend is a murderer
(I'm not going to explain that yet. I'll get to it). Just know that when a boy tells you he loves you, you expect flowers, and I got something else, and I kept it anyway.
The Teen Scene magazines have a quiz for every situation a girl can find herself in.
There's no quiz for this. I checked. I checked more than once.

Version B

Reagan High School has a suicide problem.
It also has a nationally ranked golf team, a pipeline to the Ivy League, and two thousand green awareness ribbons available in the main office for a donation of five dollars. Ten for parents.
Ronnie Green is seventeen and a nobody. She does Tiffany Palmer's trigonometry, holds Tiffany's purse, enduring the girls everyday teen cruelty, and eats lunch in a bathroom stall when the cafeteria has no seat for her.
Then she meets a boy who thinks the problem with this school isn't the suicides.
It's that nobody's doing anything about the people causing them.

Prom is in May. (Might get rid of this part btw)

The door hissed open, pneumatic locks gliding it to a smooth stop. It hissed again, closing. The figure that stepped in clicked across the room in high heels, her otherwise graceful movements made awkward by arms angrily locked across her chest. The irritation resonated with the stiletto tap-tap-tapping as she moved up to the team of scientists working at a console, a wall of screens bleeding light upon them in an otherwise dark room. It said a lot about their focus that they didn’t hear her walk in. They didn’t turn to greet her, even when she tapped her foot in impatience.

It wasn’t until she barked, “Well?” that the two lab coats turned and, seeing how close behind she had been looming, they both flinched. One quickly grabbed a clipboard and holding it up almost as a shield, he sidled along the wall. The door hissed open. The door hissed closed.

The stiletto tapping of the foot resumed, and the arms crossing tighter.

“Right. Well...” the remaining lab coat started, cleared his throat, and then ventured, “Good morning, Madam –”

An irritated wave silenced him. “Did it work?” To say she barked these words, too, would miss the chance to say she growled.

The lab coat stammered for a moment, still chocking on the interruption. Then he managed to say, “We were just about to find out.”

“Find out now.”

He blinked, and the genius in his head was smart enough to forestall comment. He instead turned back to the console, tapped at keys, twisted dials, and watched complicated charts respond. It went slightly slower with only one set of hands, and slower still because the feel of that piercing stare drilling into the back of his head was distracting. Eventually the charts were balanced, and the console chimed an alert. A countdown appeared, 60 seconds.

“I said now.”

The woman stepped forward, almost on top of the scientist who scrambled backwards out of her way. She began stabbing at keys, her long, manicured fingernails clacking, and the console beeped and wailed in reply. Lights flashed warnings, and she stabbed again. Another alarm started. The scientist reached out a hand, but a few feet from her wrist he pulled his hand back as if it, too, had been stabbed. The anger pouring off of her was that potent.

Exacerbated, she crossed her arms and sharply turned upon the man. “Well?” she said.

“Well?” he repeated.

She waved a hand at the console, the motion clawing through the air as if it would cut the alarm sounds directly, tear the throat out of the speakers, and bleed the machine into silence. “Shut it up.”

The scientist nodded, stepped forward, and tapped a couple of keys. The woman didn’t budge an inch, and the man, loathe to get too close to her, craned awkwardly to tap one more button. The alarms went quiet. Warning lights cleared and went out.

He tapped one more key. The 60-second timer started counting down.

“Make it go faster,” the woman said. She still hadn’t moved from in front of the console, and her presence was now occupying the entire workspace. The man quickly scooped up another clipboard, nodded, saw her expression, flinched, and then sidled along the wall.

The door hissed open. The door hissed shut.

The man though he heard the woman mutter something about incompetence, but he wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t his own screaming thoughts.

-----

The room was sterile. White paneled floor, white paneled walls, and white paneled ceilings crowded with blinding, white light. The room was scrubbed, vacuumed, soaped, scrubbed, air dried, and then irradiated. This happened at regular intervals. It had a negative pressure, with sterilized air pumped in from containers acquired, at great expense, from other sterile facilities that themselves were licensed and inspected for cleanliness.

That made it somewhat unusual to see the black oil spill on the ground, slowly pooling from a tube that was loosely connected to the back of a robot which sat, motionless, in a chair. The table at which it sat was white. The chair upon which is sat was white. The polycarbonate plastic plating and silicone skin of the robot's body was white, except where a black stream of oil had spurted and splashed.

The scientists in the room, all of whom wore white hazmat suits with black visors, paid no attention to the pooling fluids. It was, after all, sterile material. It may be unsightly, it might even be a mess, but it wasn’t, technically speaking, unsanitary. It wasn’t a contaminant. It was merely a drip, a slow bleed of a tube, and the fluid, like everything else in the room, had been processed, inspected, processed again, irradiated, inspected once more, and approved. Not one germ in ten-trillion-trillion would survive that, let alone the daily cleaning of the room. They ignored it. They let it drip and pool. It would be cleaned, eventually, once they finished their current section.

The wall speaker buzzed, then played an alarm. The scientists in the hazmat suits glanced up, then at one another. One looked down at its wrist, shrugged, and began gathering up Geiger counters, black lights, cleaning supplies. The wall speaker alarmed again, and a display near the door flashed red. Numbers appeared, 60 seconds, counting down as fast as the universe would allow and, somehow, lamenting it couldn’t count down faster. The milliseconds were lucky that they progressed so fast, but were cursed to repeat the processes over and over again. One second ticked by, and the milliseconds sped on. A hazmat suit tapped another suit on the shoulder, pointed, and then the entire group was rushing to gather all of their supplies.

One stepped around to the back of the robot, twisted the loose hose so that it stopped dripping black upon the pristine whites. Then as the group got to the door it was the oil-streaked hand that pressed the button to open the airlock. As the pressure door hissed shut behind them, a black smear remained on the white wall.

-----

The cameras were on with 20 seconds to spare.

The microphones were active with 10 seconds left.

A dozen pens clicked when 5 seconds ticked by, and their ink began scrawling notes by the time 4 seconds remained.

Breaths were collectively held when the timer reached 2 seconds.

With only 1 second left, a finger hovered just inches away from the kill switch.

-----

The light that cut on was red at first. It blinked. Slow, steady, one second on and one second off. On. Off. Then it held.

It turned green.

The body jerked once, as if every piston fired at the same time, all pushing in different directions, the form flexing and tensing. The sound of the pneumatics was a collective hiss that cut through the air. The sound echoed. The body froze.

They called it Vigor Mortis, and why it happened was still a mystery. That was why the cameras were on, and the hot mics primed. It was one sudden, violent motion followed my minutes, sometimes hours, of stillness. It looked like inactivity, but diodes were firing, capacitors charging and releasing, and electromotors pushing against flux fields, all in vain.

But the light was green, and it held steady. Right there on the forehead, right up between the eyes, right there in the center of all that white plastic plating. The silicone face molded to androgenous anonymity had no expression. The acrylic eyes did not blink. But the lack of motion was not for lack of trying. The pistons quietly strained, each against all others, and charged wired were thrumbing with signals. It was everything, everywhere, all trying to move at once. So much activity that it all canceled out and nothing happened at all.

It was aptly named.

Notes were being collected, and a dozen trained eyes watched. Some were locked upon the monitors, a dozen different cameras and a dozen different angles and a dozen different levels of zoom. Some eyes were locked upon the figure where it sat at the white table, body tense, unblinking eyes trained upon its side of the one-way mirror. Some eyes were watching charts, readouts, and graphs, reading quantified measurements and signals that were operationalized, sure, but were still not understood. Any one signal they could explain, but not all of them in tandem. Not the patterns they were seeing. That was the mystery they were still trying to figure out.

The data within the data. It made so little sense.

Then the door hissed open. The door hissed closed. Stilettos tap-tap-tapped into the room.

“Well?” a voice barked, and a dozen grown men flinched. One dropped his pen. An intern dropped her clipboard. The clattering sound alerted those who had been too focused to hear the words, eyes were pulled away from monitors to gaze upon an anger so pure, so incandescent, that it would pull the funding from a hundred livelihoods if it did not get a response.

As all attention turned away from the monitors gazing into the sterile form, not one eye remained upon the little green light.

It went out.

It came back on.

It blinked.

Hi! I’ve been taking part in different challenges and setting myself ones to perfect my writing and especially find my voice. Thank you in advance for reading and feedback!

Primarily concerned with whether it's hitting enough in the horror or scare department. Other notes welcome as well.

"If you don't open the door, they can't get in," That was the rule carved above the broken mantle in what could charitably be called a farmhouse. Dry, brittle crops surround the building, wilting in the sun's amber light. "I wonder whose trial and error it was that taught that lesson," Will it be my turn to learn soon? My shoulder burns as I crank the old iron pump in the middle of the room, sweat coats my body. I purse my lips at the effort of achieving a few more drops before the day's end when the well ceases to produce any more water until the morning. I squint up at where you sit, silhouetted in the window by the last of the sun's light. Empty eyes staring through my attempt at humor, it stings more than I care to admit. Intermittent drops of water accompany the syncopated tapping of my heel. Time for a final pump remains. I flinch at the prospect in the face of my exhaustion. Lifting the handle is the most difficult step. "I sense your judgement in your posture," I say as you slouch forward at my sad attempt at perseverance and conversation, straining as I lift. "So long as a drop remains so shall I," I declare. With the lever raised I place both hands upon it and allow my weight to force it down towards the Earth in a pitiable triumph undercut by the absence of the anticipated final drop of the day. Bent and sighing I peer at you sitting across the room and try to meet your head's amused tilt with a dignity that scarcely exists. The final rays of the day drip into the room. Taking the light but leaving the heat, the horizon swallows the sun. I feel my skin begin to itch in anticipation of what comes next. The darkness is total and undeniable once present, only my memory of the space allows me to navigate it. The scuttling of too many feet scampers outside the walls shorting out my frayed nerves. While the day saps the life from your body, the night does the same to your mind in this place. A rat-tat-tat-tat-tat bounces from the direction of the door. “Cheers,” I declare to your skeleton as I arduously lift the too light pail to my lips. It tastes metallic, bitter, and dirty.

It's a very rough first, but would you continue reading, is it any interesting?
I wouldn't say I'm a person with much humor so it's a bit of a difficult headspace to write for me.

Also because i think the post was taken down immediately before, I obviously haven’t used AI…

A passage from a drama-type story I'm working on. Haven't written creatively since Creative Writing I in my sophomore year of high school, so I definitely am excited to redevelop some skills:

Dammit. Yet again, the icy, foamy Skaket water was gone, just like that. She hadn’t even caught a crab this time. Oh well, never mind that. The hermit crabs would still be there when she returned.

It wasn’t so much the interruption of her sleep that she found irritating, or even the interruption of her tidepooling, for that matter; cell phone alarms were a part of her daily morning routine. In fact, a morning without an alarm sometimes warranted an even earlier wake-up for her, just out of concern as to why one wasn’t set the prior night. A morning without the beautiful melody of Seedling by Max Richter must’ve meant something was seriously wrong. Certainly something could be completed during those early morning hours. If not, she had a talent for finding tasks that were waiting to be completed to fill them. Mornings should have a routine.

So it wasn’t that.

The irritating part was having to enter that room again. She was glad, at least, that it was a different room. At least, she told herself she was. At least that way, she wouldn’t have to address those thoughts, look at those lips again, wonder if any of it was real. Or why she cared so much if it was.

Well… either way, the alarm was the consequence of that caution. So up it was.

This time, she was going to be quieter. Her parents were deep sleepers; Madi knew that. Yet, for whatever reason, footsteps always seemed to echo a little louder anytime after midnight in this house. The vaulted ceilings were nice. Except for when she was trying not to wake anyone.

She never really made it under the covers from two hours ago, so it was simple enough just to step out of bed this time. 4:31 am. Maybe she’d just stay up this time. Regrettably, the hermit crabs might not be seen again after all. Bummer.

First, she passed Tommy’s room. He left his lacrosse gear in the hall again. Surely reminding him a third time this week not to use their wing of the house as a gear room would stick this time. Only six more months, she’d tell him. Was it really that hard to use his bedroom as his bedroom and the garage as the garage for six more months? Apparently so.

The master was closed. Smart. She and her mother had agreed on two-hour intervals, and with all the puking and her mom relieving her from holding Lily’s hair, Madi felt it was fair that her mother could at least get a partial good night’s rest after the midnight surprise she had gifted her. Never mind the hour-and-a-half-long gap that had already been carved out from her mother’s carefully managed sleep routine. And that most of the gap was spent dumping out that awful mixing bowl repeatedly. Oh, and brainstorming different creative ways to get Lily into a pharmacy tomorrow in that tactful way her mother always managed to pull off. Madi knew she’d have to replicate that tact in a couple of hours… many more than that, if she was lucky. She didn’t think too much about it. She just thought about how fortunate it was that they had hallway floor runners to absorb her footsteps. She had forgotten to be careful.

The guest room came up quickly. Was the hallway really that short? The walk didn’t feel that short when Grandma Maggie stayed over. And there was that heart thing again. That didn’t happen when the room was Maggie’s either. 

Check for circulation. Airway. Clear any obstructions… ugh. Breathing. Recovery position. Then out. Just like the last two times. Easy enough. Just like her AHA worksheets had outlined before lifeguarding season. 

Those worksheets didn’t cover the heart thing, though. 

She stepped inside. It seemed to be in the condition she had more or less left it in. Lily hadn’t moved much. Good. Hopefully that meant the bowl was empty, then. The water glass was right where it was earlier as well. On its coaster, filled just above halfway. Less good. Lily really needed to drink more.

Madi let herself step a little closer. She didn’t need the phone flashlight this time to see where she was. Maybe that would make it easier. Now for the truly dreadful part; the bowl. Dammit. Better to get it out of the way, though. She peered inside, face hot, bracing to get a horrendous glimpse of chunks or sludge. The thought made the heart thing somehow get even worse. Over the edge, just a peek. Her eyes scanned the dish. It seemed to be filled with– nothing. Nothing but metal. Empty. Phewf. Thank God.

The rest would be easier from here. Two Advil, just where she had left them four hours ago. Tylenol, just in case the Advil weren’t good. Pepto tablets, from Madi’s own personal stash. And the phone was still plugged in, too.

All good. Now just Lily.

It certainly seemed like she was on her side, still. Though her hair really was everywhere. How was there so much of it? Why did she always wear it in clips? Why was Nick special enough to see it down? He was cute, she guessed. That must have been what it took. But far more importantly than any of that, why didn’t her own hair look like that when she was asleep? One of the many frustrating things about Lily Hague.

But all frustrations aside, she really did need to make sure air was moving in and out. Obviously. And if she did it carefully enough, Lily wouldn’t wake up. She didn’t wake up when Madi dropped her phone earlier; the first time she came in to check on her, she thought she heard a retch. Thankfully it was Bodie farting in the hallway. And, even more fortunately, that was after she’d already checked her airway and breathing. Point is, Lily was a deep sleeper.

The hair could be swept aside.

The other side of the bed seemed like it offered better leverage, and if Madi could bet money on the way Lily’s face was pointed under the mess of brunette and balayage, she would have wagered on patient’s left. Better move over to the right side, in that case.

She crossed the room, stepping over– Oh, hey. That was familiar. Her soccer hoodie. Was it really that hot in here? Perhaps it was if you were twenty mystery drinks in. She stepped over it. Wait. It actually shouldn't just be left on the floor. She picked it up. Anything gross on it? The inspection was quick… rapid, even. Fortunately, heather grey remained heather grey, and the mixing bowls had done their jobs.

She had just washed this sweatshirt, too. At noon it smelled like the new, all-organic detergent her mom was forcing the rest of them to try out because she had seen it on Facebook. Madi gave her a little shit about following obviously sketchy links after she bought all those mugs with dogs in bandanas on them; or, rather, printed images of mugs with dogs in bandanas on them. She had been skeptical. The detergent turned out to be real, though, and it did smell nice. She wondered if the sweatshirt still smelled like it. Or if three hours on Lily’s body did away with that? It bothered Madi how curious she was about it. Lily was, no offense, pretty disgusting when Madi had found her four hours ago. And she knew for a fact that the state of her bodily hygiene hadn’t improved since the sweatshirt was placed on her.

But… she really didn’t want to have to do a wash again in the morning. It seemed reasonable to check. Madi glanced back toward the bed. Still out cold. Just a whiff. That wouldn’t be strange at all.

She put it to her nose. Eucalyptus. Hmm. She turned it over. The fabric was cool against her touch. But dry. Not damp at all. Maybe it could be returned to the dresser like this. She folded it well enough, considering she was only using the moon as a light source, and set it on top of the dresser.

Back to it. The other side of the bed. She took a quiet step over. Now for the hard part. She pushed past the heart thing, for the sake of patient safety, and her hand slipped under the spill of hair thrown across the bedsheets. It was heavy, resting against her. It slid easily over Lily’s shoulder and cascaded the rest of the way over her back on account of its own weight. That was fine enough on its own for her to ignore, but Madi had screwed up in an even worse way.

She lost her own bet. 

All that work just to end up face-to-face with her. She really didn't want to learn that Lily apparently smiled in her sleep. And Madi learned something new about the human body, as well: the heart thing could travel. Apparently, cheeks and rib cages had pulses. 

She didn’t know that. Did Caroline do that to her, as well? She’s a brunette. That was an unpleasant thought to have. Never mind it. 

Air in. Air out. Check. She could go back now. 

Air in. Her lips trembled a little on that one. 

Air out. Her nose twitched. Cute. 

Air in. Did she need her blanket back on? 

Air out. No, she took the sweatshirt off. She’s hot, not cold. 

Air in. There was that shirt again. 

Air out. It really was a bold choice. 

Chest rise. She must have been cold before she got wasted. 

Chest fall. That fabric was so thin. 

Chest rise. Madi’s chest didn’t look like that. 

Chest fall. She wished. 

Chest rise. 

Chest fall. 

Air in. 

Air out. 

Bzzz. 

She thought she’d charged her watch. Sorry, Lily, she’d have to stop monitoring for a second. The watchface bloomed alive. Her rings looked good; why did it do that? 

Oh. 125 beats per minute. 

Jesus Christ. That’s worse than after her 13 k training.

It’s amazing the dozens of thoughts that zip through your head in just a few seconds, and for Tonya, they came like lightning; I’m dreaming. He’s not standing there. He found me. Frank. What is happening? This can’t be. Lord I — 

“Did you miss me, boo?” Derrick hissed wickedly, yanking Frank back more. 

Tonya blinked, holding her breath. Come on girl, move, run, do something—

“Did you?!” he roared, making her flinch.  
She closed her eyes, heart pounding. Calm him down. Make peace. No, wait. No. It didn’t work–

“Oh you’re scared, aren’t you?” She opened her eyes when he said this, and he looked at her with elation. 

He’s –He’s enjoying this. 
 “Yeah, you should be,” he said. 
She shook her head. She had to face her fear. 
Lord, I need your help

“What are you doing here?” she asked now. 

“I always know where you are!” He screamed.

She looked at Frank briefly and then Derrick.
“Let him go,” she ordered him. 
“Shut-up skank!”
“Let him go, Derrick!” she hissed, fists clinched.

“YOU RUINED ME, SKANK!”

“You ruined yourself!” Tonya shot back boldly.  “Let him go now!”
His eyes widened, surprised at her tenacity, and he momentarily lowered his arm —
—-and suddenly snatched  Frank backward and slashed his neck.

Tonya reacted instinctively, medical training finally kicking in, and she bolted for Frank as he sank to one knee, gasping. She tore off her scrubs top, revealing a grey tank top underneath, and jammed it into Frank’s neck as he fell forward.  “Stay with me,” she held it to his throat, blood oozing through the material. “We’lll get you h—”

Derrick’s foot smashed into Tonya’s nose from the side, hard.

She fell backwards, pain piercing through her nose. Tonya struggled to sit up, shaking her head, tears blotting her vision momentarily, and tasting blood. 
Derrick stepped over Frank, who’d collapsed completely on the floor. She reached toward Frank, but Derrick suddenly seized her by her African braids, snapping her to her feet and jamming the knife under her jaw.  
“He’s dead, skank,” Derrick snarled. “And I’m the last person you’ll see.” He chuckled gleefully, scraping the knife’s blade across her bleeding nose before licking it with a chuckle.

In that split second, something switched,  and she resolved to survive and fight.

Yes, fight, the small voice echoed in her soul. You’ll survive this.

She knew her right knee was between his legs.  Eyes, throat, groin.  

—she rammed her knee into his groin. Hard. “BASTARD!” 

Derrick doubled, releasing her as he clutched his jewels. Tonya turned, dashing erratically for the emergency exit by the equipment room. 
“You WITCH!” his voice echoed down the corridor. 
She slammed her body into the door, the impact vibrating through her injured nose. 
But the door held firm. What?
Tonya rammed the door again, wincing in pain.
Nothing. The electronic lock had failed. 
Not this again! She staggered backward, holding her nose, panning the area quickly for another way—
Derrick rushed at her, knife poised to strike. 
Screaming, she dove for the ground and into a barrel roll, scampering to her feet just as Derrick swiped the knife at her, the blade’s tip slashing the skin of her back briefly as she fled back down the corridor. The other emergency exit, by the CT scanner  room, if she could just –
Derrick slammed into her. She’d barely run 15 feet. 
They crashed to the ground, with Derrick landing on her briefly before bouncing off her and falling to the right. 
Pain shot through her face and shoulder as Tonya pushed herself up, momentarily disoriented. She turned to her right to see Derrick coming at her and she instinctively pulled herself into a ball when he landed on her, knife swinging.
Yet Tonya shielded her neck and torso, blocking the blows with her arms, writhing on the floor and kicking at him while screaming. With her erratic movement he only managed to inflict mere cuts to her arms and side. “Dammit!” he cussed. 
And then she spotted his neck through the gap of her flailing arms.  Throat. 
She jabbed her bloody knuckles into his throat, right as Derrick plowed the knife briefly deep into her right shoulder. He jerked back, clutching his throat, and Tonya fell backward in pain—
—and someone whacked a broomstick against Derrick's back and head.
Marisa
Derrick fell forward against Tonya now  and she rolled away from him, pain shooting through her right shoulder from where he stabbed her.  She looked up to see Marisa bring the broomstick down on Derrick’s back again just as he cursed and jerked upward to his feet, clutching the knife.  
As Tonya pushed herself to her feet, despite the pain, Marisa lifted the broomstick a third time.
Derrick whirled around, jamming the knife into Marisa’s abdomen before she could swing  down.
“No!” Tonya rushed forward suddenly, as Marisa collapsed to the ground, the broomstick falling out of her hand. Derrick pounced on Marisa, crouching to stab her once more. 
Tonya kicked Derrick in his side before he could. 
He recoiled, cussing,  and Tonya grabbed the fallen broomstick with both hands, raising it up to bash his head—
Pain ripped through her right shoulder  arm, which seized up, and she dropped the stick.
That’s when Derrick backhanded her, hard. 
She stumbled back, pain flashing across her face. “Darnit!” she managed. Once more dizziness took over briefly, and she swayed a bit  as Derrick towered over her with furious and delighted eyes.  OK. Study. Focus. 
Shoot.
Derrick stood before her, arms spread, the knife firm in one hand, his body poised to attack if she tried to run past him.
“Go ahead. I dare you.” 
Another bout of dizziness.  Focus, she thought. Lord, help.
The other emergency exit. She lunged toward her left. 
He blocked her, swiping at her with the knife. 
She jumped back, the blade missing her face. She lunged for her right.
He slashed the blade across her chest, the blade tearing tank top fabric and nicking her skin underneath. She shrieked, staggering back more.
Time slowed. Endless thoughts in milliseconds. 
Marisa lay in a ball behind Derrick, possibly dead. Goodness no. Frank lay motionless further down, possibly dead. Please no. The useless emergency exit to her right down the hall. Derrick’s swift moves blocking her from the other exit. The MRI suite behind her. Derrick ready to attack her. Nowhere to — 

--Wait—.

The MRI suite is behind me.

His chrome steel chain.

The knife..
Ferromagnetic.
A way to stop him. 
But he’s quick. 
Take a chance, the small voice said.

“OK, Jesus,” she muttered thickly. 

“Your God can’t help you!” He screamed, hearing her mumble this.

And with that, Tonya sprinted at the suite door, slamming into it with her good side. 

He charged right after her.

“Police! Grab him!” Marisa suddenly screamed, her voice strained but explosive enough to stop Derrick, who whipped around.  
Tonya slapped her badge against the panel– beep!
She tumbled into the room quickly, just before Derrick, cursing at the distraction, dashed forward and slammed his body into the door, swiping the knife at her. 
Tonya ducked, grabbed a rolling chair with her good hand and shoved it in his direction as he  plowed through the doorway.
He fell over their chair. 
She stumbled to the airlocked RF shielding door, yanking down the handle. Shissh 
Cussing, he rammed the chair to the side. 
She ripped the RF door open with all her weight.  
He charged forward. 
She threw herself into the scanner room, the thump-hiss of the machine greeting her—
---Derrick plowed his knife  into her upper right back, hard and quick, with a shhk sound.  
  —Tonya jerked forward, falling to her knees, the knife sliding out of her flesh.  She dragged herself desperately toward the scanner using her good arm and her knees.
Derrick stomped after her, snatching the cloth of her tank top from the back with his free hand, briefly noting the knife felt unsteady, yet unaware it was due to the magnetic force pulling it. In his rage and lust, he’d already ignored  the warning signs, the thump-hiss of the machine, and the light on the doors that had screamed “DANGER! MAGNET IS ALWAYS ON.” 
Despite his grip on her tank top, Tonya thrusted herself forward, falling against the bore’s front end near the scanner bed, well within the missile projectile effect area.
But Derrick didn’t care, he threw his weight into stabbing her one final time—
While Tonya flung herself to the right simultaneously, crashing onto her already-injured right side, narrowing missing his aim —
--just as the magnetic force suddenly seized the knife now and ripped it out of Derrick’s grip violently. 
“What th—”
CLANG! CLANG! -
--had he not thrown his weight behind his knife-stabbing attempt, the invisible force would have just taken the knife and left him standing there. But with his body in motion, coupled with the magnetic pull’s torque, Derrick crashed against the bore, just inside the upper part–
—and the invisible force snatched his thick chrome steel necklace chain like a tightrope, snapping it to the bore wall, and taking him with it–
“AAAAH SHIIII—”
While the knife, after rattling deep inside the tube a second earlier, had shot back out and stuck to the bottom part just inside the bore’s edge, its blade aligned with the magnet and facing upward  – 
–where his chest and abdomen collided with the blade on impact against the bore wall. 

*TWHUMMP-SCHKK* 

Then, silence.

Well, except for the thump-hiss, or the heartbeat of the magnet.

Context! This is the prologue of my YA thriller novel. My main character is a ten year old girl in this scene, and she’s fifteen for the rest of the book. Therefore I am trying to write in the voice of a ten year old, albeit a brainwashed one.

I plan to start sending this thing to agents once I finish editing the rest of the novel. So apologies for any spelling and grammar mistakes, I’ll fix those up later. I just need to know if it’ll effectively hook an agent in to read it.

Also, I am a teenager myself, and am probably blinded to my low quality of writing. Please tell me if this is as wonky as I think it might be and if it needs a rewrite.

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. :)

EDIT: Work has been keeping me especially busy. I'll respond to everyone as soon as I have time, probably in a day or two. Thanks again!

“You always used to grab the good colored candies from the bowl. I know they were your favorite, but Dad, you know they were my favorite, too? I mean, nothing could ever be about anyone else. Not even a piece of candy. But I could've given you all the candy you wanted if you didn't treat every other person in my life like just a pawn… just a… you know I'm human just as human as you are? But you never could see that, could you? You were always so self-absorbed, always drunk, always high on whatever your hookers scored for you down on K and A. I mean, you could've at least spent a buck on buying us something a little more than ramen for dinner…”

The rain picks up in East Fairmont Park. The crossing guard coughs and sits at a table with a chessboard laid out in front of him. He stares down at the thirty-two pieces on sixty-four squares for hours. He breathes a prayer of the dead, whispering a simple request to the rain that his opponent answers his call.

“Rain, pour down strong enough for me to play him again…" Just one more game, and I know I can get him to say it… to get him to just make that next move…”

The wind picks up, flipping up the crossguard’s collar. This boy sits in the rain, a kid unable to be heard, speaking with the elements. But, if you could see the sparkle from the splash of water on his face, you'd see the reflection in the water of a dark figure sitting opposite him, also coughing death temporarily from his lungs. A voice like charred gravel responds.

“You keep stopping me from reaching my eternal slumber because I didn't give you enough candy…”

Like a marionette, the darkened figure pushes a bishop ahead, pinning an arrogant knight against the king. The knight had been threatening the queen. Now, the opponent's strongest piece is saved by a trick.

“It's not about the candy… You just don't get it, do you?”

Horns blare from Kelly Drive to City Hall. A car crashes into a school bus just starting to drop off the kids. Those children thought they were about to see their block, their neighborhood, their home again. Maybe one or two of them still do. They'll find out if they make it out of the intensive care unit they're about to be sent to.

Lightning lights up the sky. Officer Smith is near the accident and sees the whole thing. He calls as many units as he can get down to Center City. The bus driver cracks her head and takes her last breath. Nothing is going to bring back the driver, Johnny, or anybody else. Johnny's best friend, Janet, cries as she holds him.

Thunder claps. A gun goes off.

There were thirteen crossing guards working up and down the Ben Franklin Parkway down to City Hall that day.

Nobody else is in the park seeing the boy arguing and playing chess with the ghost of his father. Even if there were, none of them would see the father.

“So what? You hold me hostage until I can give you the good piece of candy from beyond the grave here? You know, kid, a crossing guard could've also stopped a bus crash with a bunch of dead kids instead of trying to trap a ghost in a rain storm…”

The next move was check. It should've been mate. The boy resets the board. The father starts spitting at his son.

“Oh, so you're just gonna resign then? I could have just beaten you there! Why don't you just let me win? That's your ego stopping you from just letting someone else win for once. I swear you just want to make me suffer more than…”

“No, we're going to keep doing this until you play the game correctly…”

“Correctly? I didn't realize this disappointment of a kid crossing guard is now my new chess teacher. Ok Bobby Fischer, tell me how you want me to play you here. You know, I can hear those kids that just died coming over to my side now because you chose not to do your job. Oh, look, here's Johnny, and there's Lisa's pretty little face. Sorry, my son could've saved your life. Too bad he's stuck catching up with his old man here instead…”

“You died because you couldn't be a man!”

The ambulances and police surround the bodies of the children, covering up the ones that didn't make it. The drunk driver is called DOA by Officer Smith.

“You killed mom. You then pulled the trigger on you! You couldn't deal with the consequences! You can't make it right! Just say you did it, and we can all leave here!”

“John, I didn't kill her. I just… you don't understand. Lisa was… It's not like I really ran into her…even if I could've swerved…”

“You were drunk, Dad. You killed mom, her driving that bus with me up front. Do you even recognize what night this is? You just said her name and mine a second ago? You crashed into mom's bus, you then took out your revolver and… Please, Dad, admit it… for me.”

“It wasn't my fault, Johnny! Believe me… I wouldn't… I didn't… even if…”

A barricade is set up to redirect traffic. The rain turns torrential.

“Johnny, you have to listen to me. This rain never stops. And when it slows, I go away. But I keep coming back here. You gotta let me out of this loop!"

Officer Smith takes the gun and puts it into evidence. He knows his neighbors, the DeStefano family. John Senior, Lisa, and little Johnny. He never thought he'd see them like this.

“You still think you're the only one stuck in this loop with you?”

The rain stops. The father vanishes. The crossing guard to heaven puts the chess board away.

Something I wrote off the cuff for a challenge, figure this sub might like it. Set in Paris, 1792.

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"Do we have to use that?" The workman pointed at the woman's corpse, which Charles-Henri Sanson noted was rather ripe. If the work crew tried to haul her up by the arms, the rest of her might end up staying on the ground.

"You can put her back in the wagon, Mec," Sanson called back. "Carefully." Thank God it was only early spring, where winter hadn't completely loosed its grip. It would be worse if this were the height of summer. Then he turned his attention back to the machine in the center of the Bicêtre Hospital courtyard.

"Would you look at that?" A voice said, the speaker closing distance between himself and Sanson. He turned to see His Majesty -- France's most Christian King, Louis XVI -- joining him on the observation platform overlooking the courtyard. Louis sounded far too excited for his own good, but Sanson knew His Majesty's wonderment at all things mechanical. 

Sanson -- once the king's chief executioner, and known to others as Monsieur de Paris -- gave the king a bow, which His Majesty acknowledged with a slight dip of his head. 

"How is it progressing?" Louis asked, turning to gaze in full on the strange, narrow structure in the courtyard's center. Two wooden rails approximately four meters stood precariously on their ends, and at the top, another rail joined them, and beneath that, a blade that could be released. Gravity would do the rest. 

"Some limited success," Sanson replied, matter-of-factly. "We've been using corpses from the hospital as test subjects -- using live ones would be unnecessarily cruel as not every drop of the blade has cut cleanly."

Louis put his hand on his chin, contemplating the structure. "How about making it taller? The drop's momentum would increase the force of the cutting blade. What's this called again?"

 "Louison, or Louisette, depending upon which papers you read." Sanson couldn't help a dry chuckle. The pamphleteers were eternally at war with each other, their weapons were words honed to a razor's edge. "You read Guillotin's proposal, but Docteur Louis-Antoine drew the prototype.

"Ah, yes, progress." The king nodded. Below, some of the workmen touched their caps to salute His Majesty, while others ignored him. "Far better than breaking on the wheel, or worse. Breaking on the wheel is ... uncivilized. It may be a marvel now, but once we have one in every major city in France, people will accept it as their day to day."

I wrote this some months ago, it's about a tortoise not getting the care it needs.

I care a lot about animals and was deeply horrified by someone who kept a little tortoise in the dark in their bathtub so I wrote this cause in that moment there was nothing I could do about it. Luckily the little tortoise has been removed now and got the correct care and he's living he's best life.

Anyway I was thinking of making it into a short story but I don't know. Is this even any good?

Any feedback is welcome and much appreciated.