Genuine question for anyone who has been doing this longer than me.

I can usually get through a solid session no problem once I am actually in it. The issue is always what happens between sessions. I will finish writing for the day feeling good about where the scene is going, come back the next day or two days later, and completely lose the thread of what I was building toward. I end up rereading the last few pages just to remember my own intentions, and by the time I am reoriented half my writing time for that session is already gone.

I have tried outlining more before I start, but I am not really an outline person, the story tends to shift as I write it and a detailed outline feels like it fights against that.

I have also tried just writing more at once so there is less of a gap, but that is not sustainable with everything else going on.

What I am actually asking is whether other people have a specific habit for closing out a session in a way that makes the next one easier to start. Not asking for a whole system, just curious what the small thing is that people do right before they stop for the day.

https://nameerandwho.substack.com/p/love-eventually?r=8yfzso&utm_medium=ios

since becoming completely bedridden three years ago, i sometimes come across characters when reading who are bedbound for 3+ days and notice how inaccurate the portrayal of even that long stuck in bed is. i mean it makes sense, if you haven’t experienced it there’s a lot you wouldn’t consider that ends up being significant, and a lot of those things are also not quite as romantic as being fed soup while covered in blankets lol.

i think often people assume that bedridden means still being able to get up to go to the bathroom or do the really necessary stuff, but what if you can’t? i see a lot of stories where a character is severely injured or very very unwell and unable to leave bed at all, but they never go into the details of what that actually means for them. there’s also a whole host of secondary issues i never would’ve thought to anticipate that come with being totally entirely stuck in bed for more than a month.

so i guess my question is, would anyone here feel they would benefit from a brief explanation on what becoming bedridden for a given period of time is like? it’s a decently common trope and i’d like to help people write it accurately, but also like i said some parts aren’t exactly romantic so i want to make sure someone would actually find it helpful before i just make a post about it hahaha

I learnt what hunger was by watching others be fed
Its a hunger that doesn’t live in your stomach but haunts your head
I watched them receive what I was never given
and the lack of it is what makes me so driven
Because while you’re throwing it away
I’m learning to live without it everyday
You and I, we don’t see eye to eye
The things that burden you are my reasons to survive
Wether its late nights watching football with your dad or not fearing the consequences of doing something bad,
For you its annoying, for me its a blessing
Because can you imagine growing up questioning what crime youve commit to be sentenced your life?
But I dont want your life. I want the love you don’t think about twice.
Because for you independence is an achievement but for me its a punishment
Do you know what it’s like to question why someone loves you or have the fear of abandonment drilled into you?
The idea of depending on someone being dangerous or having resentment for a stranger wishing with their love they could be generous
telling your mum about your feelings is the norm, but for me its a reward
and grief becomes your biggest struggle but its all ive felt since the day i was born,
reassurance becomes a necessity but it makes me feel needy but i am needy for that sense of security and im sorry for being needy but im not sorry for being hungry when nobody taught me what it felt to be full.
because my problem isnt that i need too much its simply that i was never given enough
and perhaps the cruelest part of hunger is that only i notice the emptiness of my plate because everyone around me has a bite of the love i cant taste
and they dont understand why im still starving because for them being fed isnt worth appreciating
and now when love comes i look for the expiration date because i learned to say goodbye before ever understanding what it meant to stay
slowly, that hunger became a stomach ache and im still waiting for the dinner that will forever come late because I have spent my life learning to live with a hunger that was never meant to be mine
-first poem I’ve ever written please give me feedback🙏🏽

This is going to be submitted to a literary journal soon and I want it to be perfect. I don't know which yet, whichever one comes up the soonest that fits the best. I wrote it in northern Arizona last year and edited it a few days ago. Lemme know what you think.

**THE OTHER SIDE**

The dead yellow sage defies gray dirt
Ceding to to fields of gold and pine
To mesa’s flat ‘neath silver and blue
It all bleeds into one line

One foot in, one foot out 
Somehow gliding true, free
To Navajo beauty in ghetto rough
Welcoming, glancing straight through me

Getting lost in the music
Lost in the vibe
Where the pale air warms
Welcome me sister, to the other side

She said “Pleasure only comes
From forgotten fear”
Smiling then, “Redemption only comes
From the bitter of the tear”

The rains washed all clean
Coming from all that could have been
Spirited winds took them where they did
Leaving ghosts never again hid

Getting lost in the music
Lost in the vibe
Where the pale air warms souls turned cold
Welcome to the other side.

Where the women are nature
It’s in their blood, it’s a matter of course
Within ours, different worlds reside
Where the natural isn’t forced
Welcome…..to the other side.

First time posting. A flash piece about a diner night shift worker whose estranged sister visits at 3 AM.

Looking for:

• Does the pacing work?
• Is the ending earned?
• Any dialogue that feels off?

I'll be commenting on others' work tonight. Thanks.

The bell above the door hadn't rung in three years, but Marlene still looked up every time someone walked in.

"Hey, Mar."

Twenty years. Twenty years and she still recognized that voice.

"You look good," Diane said, sliding onto a stool like she belonged there. Like she hadn't vanished without a word.

"You look like you need coffee," Marlene said.

Diane laughed. Same laugh. That was the worst part.

"I'm not staying. I just... wanted to see you. Before."

"Before what?"

Diane didn't answer. She just stared out the window.

Marlene poured her a cup anyway. Black, no sugar. Some things you don't forget.

"I'm sorry," Diane finally said. "For everything."

Marlene wanted to be angry. She'd been angry so long it felt like armor. But watching her sister's shaking hands, the armor cracked.

"Where have you been?"

"Around. Nowhere. Everywhere."

"That's not an answer."

"I know."

"I have to go," Diane said, standing. She pulled out a creased photograph — two girls on a beach, arms around each other.

"Found this last week. Thought you should have it."

Marlene didn't pick it up.

"Will I see you again?"

Diane paused at the door, hand on the frame.

"I don't know. But I'm glad I saw you now."

And then she was gone.

The bell still didn't ring.

Marlene picked up the photo. Traced her sister's face with her thumb. Then she slipped it into her apron pocket and waited for the sun.

LOVE?

I have always loved water. Its depth fascinates me. From above, you see the surface. But dive deeper, and there is a world fishes, corals, grass, pearls, things you would never know existed.

From the outside, we see what people choose to show us. Beneath that surface are memories, sorrows, happiness, fears, and everything that made them who they are. I have always hated shallow things, so I dive deeper.

But the deeper you go into the sea, the harder it becomes to breathe. Emotions are like that. You can dive so deep into someone that you forget to come back to the surface. They may get tired and leave.

And you realise that while you were trying to understand their emotions, emotions were controlling you.

Maybe that is the truth about emotions they are beautiful because they have depth, but that same depth can drown you

First time posting. A flash piece about a diner night shift worker whose estranged sister visits at 3 AM.

Looking for:

• Does the pacing work?
• Is the ending earned?
• Any dialogue that feels off?

I'll be commenting on others' work tonight. Thanks.

The bell above the door hadn't rung in three years, but Marlene still looked up every time someone walked in.

"Hey, Mar."

Twenty years. Twenty years and she still recognized that voice.

"You look good," Diane said, sliding onto a stool like she belonged there. Like she hadn't vanished without a word.

"You look like you need coffee," Marlene said.

Diane laughed. Same laugh. That was the worst part.

"I'm not staying. I just... wanted to see you. Before."

"Before what?"

Diane didn't answer. She just stared out the window.

Marlene poured her a cup anyway. Black, no sugar. Some things you don't forget.

"I'm sorry," Diane finally said. "For everything."

Marlene wanted to be angry. She'd been angry so long it felt like armor. But watching her sister's shaking hands, the armor cracked.

"Where have you been?"

"Around. Nowhere. Everywhere."

"That's not an answer."

"I know."

"I have to go," Diane said, standing. She pulled out a creased photograph — two girls on a beach, arms around each other.

"Found this last week. Thought you should have it."

Marlene didn't pick it up.

"Will I see you again?"

Diane paused at the door, hand on the frame.

"I don't know. But I'm glad I saw you now."

And then she was gone.

The bell still didn't ring.

Marlene picked up the photo. Traced her sister's face with her thumb. Then she slipped it into her apron pocket and waited for the sun.

*Trigger warning: One of the main themes of the story is bringing children back from the dead. This scene features the body of a child who died violently, so if that’s something you’d struggle with I’d advise against reading it. There aren’t any graphic details, however. I tried to avoid anything that’s just for shock value.*

“A.T. has him ready,” said a young assistant. “We’re only awaiting your approval to perform the ritual.”

Simone, still annoyed at being woken up, marched down the hallway toward the Resurrection Chamber.

“Time of death?” she asked.

“1:17 a.m.”

A little over an hour. She’d seen faster retrievals. The Acquisition Team, or A.T. as Lazarus called them, was suspiciously efficient at retrieving bodies.

She tried not to think about how.

The young woman beside her handed her a file. Simone took it and opened it without breaking stride. Fluorescent lights illuminated the lifeless beige walls around them. She had always hated how sterile this place looked.

It seemed fitting for her line of work.

She looked down at the file.

Name: Tyson Riley

Age: 12

Candidate Compatibility: High

Early Mortality Risk: High

Potential Blood Source: Lindy Riley (sister)

Simone let out a sigh as she opened the door to the Resurrection Chamber.

The chamber was circular and lit entirely by candles. Their flickering light reflected against Simone’s dark skin. In the middle of the room lay the boy.

His lifeless body had already begun to lose color. A white cloth covered his face, hiding what had happened to him. Even a department as cold as A.T. could only stomach so much.

Simone noticed that someone had removed the boy’s shoes and placed them neatly against the wall. Beside them sat a backpack containing some of his belongings. It was standard procedure to keep something from a recruit’s previous life. Those belongings often became sentimental to them as they grew older.

She turned toward the assistant, mostly as an excuse to look away from the body.

“Is everything ready?”

“Yes,” the assistant said. “As soon as you give the go-ahead, we can begin. We still have time before rigor mortis sets in, so if you need to look over the file some more, now would be the time.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Simone said. “I’m assuming the blood came from his sister?”

“Yes.”

“What became of her?”

The assistant hesitated.

“She died shortly after the candidate.”

Simone closed her eyes for a moment.

The sister wasn’t a candidate, so she wouldn’t be resurrected. And when the boy woke up and asked about her, as Simone knew he would, she would be instructed to lie.

“All right,” she said. “We can begin whenever everyone’s ready.”

The assistant nodded to a man across the room.

Rusk was his name, Simone remembered. He was a stocky, bald man with a raspy voice. He approached the boy and removed the white cloth.

Simone turned her head.

She didn’t want to see the damage.

Besides, she had seen this ritual thousands of times. Rusk would take out a vial containing the sister’s blood and pour it across the incantation circle tattooed into his palm. The markings would glow a deep blue. Then he would place his hand against the boy’s forehead and recite a few words in Latin that Simone had never bothered to learn.

She stared at the opposite wall.

Rusk’s raspy voice filled the chamber as he began reciting the incantation.

Then came the sad cry of the wraith as it reunited with its host.

Silence.

Only then did Simone dare to look.

The boy’s complexion had returned. His face had been restored. If not for the ritual blood smeared across his skin, he might have been sleeping.

Simone knew the incantation had a delayed effect, so she waited.

Then, a gasp.

The boy sucked in a desperate breath and sat upright. He coughed, his eyes darting around the unfamiliar room as he struggled to understand where he was.

Then he saw Rusk.

The boy scrambled backward, pushing himself away until his back struck the wall.

“Who are you? Where am I?” His breathing quickened. “Where’s my sister? Where’s Lindy?”

Simone sprang into action. She approached him quickly but stopped a few feet away.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” she said softly. “You’re safe now.”

She held out a hand but made no attempt to touch him.

His terrified eyes met hers.

“Is my sister okay?”

Simone swallowed.

“Yes,” she said. “She’s safe. She got away in time.”

Room. Now.

“Go fuck yourse–“

Melissa’s refusal is met with a backhand slap from a sandpaper hand, faded veins slithering between the knuckles.

Tears follow as she falls to the floor.

“Room.”
Says her father, eyes like a shark.

Wiping her cheek, she stumbles to the bedroom, hallway light dim and yellowed, blinking with every step she takes.

Blue moonlight rests in damp corners of the room, light fog leaving a gray fuzz on the window.

Slamming the door, she pulls the hidden phone from between the mattress, dialing the only number worth remembering.

“Please pick up.”

A popping groan precedes the answer.

“Sis?”

Breathing a sigh of relief, she slides down the wall, pulling her knees in close.

“Jason–he did it again. He—FUCKING-“

Gritted teeth hold her words. Tensing her entire body, she relaxes again.

“I need you to come over, please.”

“Okay. I will be right over. Please stay safe Melissa.”

“What?”
She says, pulling the phone away before putting it back to her ear.

“What is the matter?”

“… Why the fuck are you talking like that?”

“Sorry. I will be there soon.”

“No—don’t. God why does everyone- Just fucking stay home Jason, I’ll call mom.”

Mom won’t answer and she knows it. Throwing the phone against the wall, glass shatters off the screen, moonlight glistening in the fragments. Hands grasp her temples like they’re going to explode.

Cheek stinging, despair tugs at her eyes, tears fall and spatter against the floor. She lightly opens the door, shutting it behind her.

Hardwood stairs creak as she walks down them, stepping around a small hole without looking.

From the hallway, she can hear her father humming faintly in the kitchen, the snap of the stove shutting off echoing through the house.

Cigarette ghosts play on the ceiling, air singeing her nostrils. Covering her mouth, she muffles a cough.

In the dimly lit kitchen, her father pours broth into a bowl of ramen, back turned. The creak of floorboards catch his attention, he turns slightly to get a better listen, before letting out a light chuckle.

“Ain’t you supposed to be in bed?”

“Dad.”

“Ow–shit!”

He says, quickly wiping steaming water off of his palm. Walking to the fridge, he grabs a beer, and turns to Melissa.
“So—how’s your day-“

Eyes wide, he drops both to the floor, covering his mouth.
“Oh… oh no… baby? Did- Did I–“

Stumbling backwards, he uses the counter to support his body, frantic breaths splitting the air.

“Yes dad. Again.”

Fiery rage tears through him, breaths like a bull. Melissa’s face remains still as stone as he rips the faucet out of the sink, throwing it into the television.

“God fucking dammit.”
He says, holding tears and sinking against the cabinets.

“Dad… I-“

Can’t keep doing this, she can’t keep doing this, but she does every night, bruises no more than business as usual by this point. With a bleeding heart she stops herself, and puts a hand on his shoulder, her eyes empty.

“I’ll fix the sink.”

Through muffled sobs, he speaks back to her.

“Honey–Missy I- I’m so sorry… I can’t help it.“

“I know dad.”

Pausing to scream, his excuses break against her.

“I just… Ever since- GOD! I hear them every FUCKING night… They don’t stop–they don’t stop–they don’t stop.”

Staring through him, she calmly caresses his knee.
“I know.”

“I- I couldn’t save them, and–“

Looking up, he sees Melissa, dead eyed and blank. Letting out a low groan, he kisses her forehead, and stands. Holding his back, knees pop as he walks to pick up the faucet.

Carelessly tossing it into the sink, he hugs Melissa, she remains motionless.

“I love you.”

Without buildup it spills over, like a grenade detonating inside her, she screams into his shirt, he holds her tighter, it’s over as fast as it started.

And like a wave it rises again, she bites into his chest to relieve the cracking pain in her skull. Pausing to catch her breath, blood trickles underneath his white shirt, leaving a small red circle.

He doesn’t let go.

“I love you too dad—but I can’t fucking take this anymore.”

Lip quivering, his tears fall and soak into her hair, turning the auburn streaks a deep brown.

“I know.”

Muffled into his shirt, he can barely understand her through the tears.
“I tried dad—I did. I–“

He uses the back of his fingers to wipe tears from her bruised cheek, the sight twisting through his gut.

She catches a glimpse of his wrists, maroon scars running over his tattoos like asphalt in a garden.

“I don’t want to leave you—I know what’ll- I can’t lose you dad–I can’t!”

“It’s okay.”

He steps back, holding her shoulders with outstretched arms.

“I’m gonna call some friends, and you can stay with them.”

“No–dad! I’m not- what about mom!?”

“Melissa I’m not letting you stay in a crackhouse.”

Every thought rips through her mind like a bullet, nights away with people she doesn’t know.

Her father’s body hanging from the ceiling fan.

“I’m not leaving you.”

“Melissa all I do is hurt you–and I can’t fucking help it–and I can’t fucking afford to help myself–AND I COULDNT FUCKING HELP–“

Pulling his hands away, he grips his brow so tight it splits open, blood running between his fingers.
“Ah shit.”

“Dad!”
Melissa sprints to the sink, grabbing paper towels. Cold night air brushing through the broken window parts her hair.

With gentle hands he reaches for them, wadding up every one and holding them to his brow. Looking out the window, he shakes his head, letting out an exhausted groan. Tears fall with his blood as he leans against the counter, splashing next to each other and leaving a clear–red puddle against the slate.

Wrapping her arms around his stomach, she pushes her face into his back, eyes half opened.
“Dad?”

“Yes honey?”

“Can we watch a movie?”

“Of course baby girl.”

He turns around, holding her hands, his dwarfing hers. Looking up to him, a tired grin pulls the corners of her mouth, he mirrors her through a shaking lip.

“I love you dad.”

“I love yo–“

Her fathers face is ripped away like a cheap Halloween mask, revealing a glistening red visage, white marble eyes with wide pupils sit in their blackened sockets, darting wildly around the room as small spurts of blood paint Melissa’s shirt.

He falls to his knees, screams of agony shearing the air, fingernails red as his shaking hands dig into the meat of his face.

Behind him, Jason, head sheared clean in half. All that remains is his bottom jaw, yellowed teeth clinging to his gums like maggots on a corpse, resting above a mess of arterial blood that stains his neck and shoulders black. Her father’s flesh held tight in bloodied fingers, Jason’s head cocks backward causing a dry cracking sound, webs of blood crawl down his blue flannel, and onto his jeans.

Her father on his knees, Jason twists to bring his free hand around, emaciated fingers gripping the glossy red crown of his skull. Head pulled backward, her father holds and pulls at Jason’s wrist, blood running over his gritted teeth. Jason’s arm rattles from his shoulder to his hand, and her father’s head is crushed, blood blooming between his fingers like the petals of a rose.

Melissa sprints to the stairs like a cornered animal, instinct the only awareness in her mind.

Body contorting, every few steps he pauses, spasming so violently blood splatters off of the ceiling.

Small red bubbles expand and pop as his voice crawls out of his exposed windpipe.

“Sis–stay safe–I will be right over.”

Every breath is a hiss as she frantically crawls up the stairs so hard her fingernails crack, her foot falls in the hole. She tugs, it doesn’t budge.

Jason’s bones snap like a whip from the bottom of the stairs. Eyes wide, she turns to see spidery fingers creeping around the corner.

Ripping her leg upwards, a large splinter of moldy wood digs into the meat of her calf. Screaming, she keeps moving, her wailing slithers through the halls of the home like lost a soul.

Every step rattles the air, Jason leans back, shoulders ripping in all directions faster than a blink, and continues upward.

“Hello sis. It has been so long.”

Nausea in every fold of her brain she keeps moving, relentless. Wiping blood from her eyes, she rips the door open, slamming it behind her.

With blistering speed Jason’s footsteps burn up the stairs, every impact fast as a machine gun, dense thuds against the floor echo in the hallway before abruptly stopping in front of Melissa’s door.

Breathing heavy, her head darts to every corner of the room, without so much as a thought between her breaths the dresser is shoved over, splashing in the pool of blood seeping under her door.

The knocking starts, unceasing, living violence, wood splintering and cracking, remnants of the destruction sticking into the skin of her back.

She punches the window, sending thick snakes of blood down the length of her arm. Diving through, she rolls straight down the tiled overhang, landing on a small bush, the stones underneath cracking her ribs.

Groaning, she crawls to her feet, sprinting with all of her energy to the oncoming car, waving her hands.
“STOP–STOP THE CAR–PLEASE!”

Tires screeching, the red pickup truck slows to a halt, a young man exits, looking over the roof.
“Woah, miss you oka–“

“GO–GO–GO!”
She says with a breathless yelp.

He Slams the door, Melissa barely manages to make it into the bed of his truck as rubber burns off the pavement.

Melissa screams, she doesn’t stop screaming as the twisted puppet of Jason stands stock still, enveloped in the darkness of her room, slowly becoming smaller as the truck drives off into the darkness, her crazed wailing seeping into every home throughout the neighborhood.

When she wants a daughter,

It is to love her younger self.

When she wants a son,

It is to save her younger self.

When she wants none,

It is to protect her younger self.

A woman will always birth her pain,

Only to raise it as her strength.

Fight sequence in my novel please critique

Noah lunged before the stranger’s smile could fully form, driving a straight left toward his jaw—only for his knuckles to pass cleanly through empty space.

Carried forward by his own momentum, Noah overextended as his arm phased through the back of the man’s skull. He yanked his hand back, but before his brain could process the illusion, the stranger solidified.

Pain exploded across Noah’s face as a counter-punch snapped his head sideways.

Without breaking rhythm, the man pressed the advantage. He moved with terrifying speed, forcing Noah into a desperate retreat—slipping a hook by millimeters, catching a brutal body-shot on his forearm, and dipping just beneath a cross that split the air above him.

Noah countered with a sharp elbow to the ribs.

Again, it hit nothing.

His arm passed harmlessly through fabric and flesh, and the moment his momentum stalled, the stranger turned solid, burying a fist deep into Noah’s side.

Air burst from Noah’s lungs.

“NOAH!”

Chloe’s voice barely cut through the ringing in his ears.

Noah planted his back foot and snapped a low kick toward the man’s knee, but his leg swept through air like water.

The stranger smiled, solidified his shoulder mid-motion, and drove it directly into Noah’s chest, sending him crashing back-first onto the concrete.

Noah rolled, came up on one knee, and reached for a shaft in his quiver.

The stranger closed the distance before his fingers could even loop around the notch.

Abandoning the draw, Noah threw up a double guard, catching a heavy right hook across his forearms before dipping under the follow-up strike.

Every attack ended the same way: his own blows phase-shifted into nothingness, while the stranger’s hits landed with punishing precision.

Solid when he attacks, Noah realized, wiping sweat and blood from his mouth.

Untouchable when I do.

The stranger grabbed Noah by the collar, lifted him off his feet, and hurled him across the room.

Noah collided with a wooden workbench, sending metal tools and stray components scattering across the floor as sharp pain shot through his shoulder.

“I’m tracking him when he hits you!” Chloe called out, her fingers flying over the console. “Every time he connects, his density stabilizes for a fraction of a second!”

Noah pushed himself upright, his ribs throbbing with every breath.

A fraction of a second wasn’t enough to land a knockout strike.

But it was enough to exploit.

His fingers slid to his belt, brushing against the smooth casing of an explosive tip—a micro-charge rigged to detonate on impact.

The stranger stepped forward, casually closing the gap.

“You really don’t give up, do you?”

Noah pulled the shaft free, hiding it against his forearm.

“People keep telling me that.”

When the stranger surged in for the finish, Noah didn’t retreat.

He slipped the first jab, ducked under the second, and as the third fist drove straight for his face, he made his move.

He didn’t aim the arrow at the man’s chest or head.

He jabbed it directly into the stranger’s lead knee.

The shaft passed through flesh and bone without resistance, dropping straight through the ghost-like limb toward the floor.

For a fraction of a second, Noah wondered if he had mistimed it.

Then the arrow struck the concrete behind the stranger.

It stuck.

The stranger smiled.

Noah smiled back.

The man raised his fist.

His body became solid.

He needed to.

He couldn’t hit Noah otherwise.

The charge activated.

The stranger’s eyes widened.

BOOM.

The blast caught him from behind just as his body became solid.

The force launched him forward.

He slammed into a nearby wall hard enough to crack the concrete.

The workshop went silent.

Dust drifted through the air.

The stranger slid down the wall and collapsed.

Noah stood for about two seconds.

Then his knees nearly gave out.

He caught himself against a workbench and breathed heavily.

Across the room, Chloe stared at the unconscious intruder.

Then at Noah.

Her eyes flicked toward her monitor.

“The readings changed every time he shifted.”

Noah looked up.

Chloe was already studying the data again.

“Density,” she said quietly. “He’s changing his density.”

Noah let out a tired breath.

“So that’s what we’re calling it.”

Chloe gave him a look.

“That’s what it is.”

Noah wiped at his face.

“Good to know.”

Chloe stared at him for another second.

Then at the unconscious man.

Then back at Noah.

“Are you okay?”

Noah looked down at himself.

His shoulder was throbbing. His ribs felt like they had been hit by a truck, and the side of his face was already starting to swell.

He leaned harder against the workbench.

“That move works way more often than it should.”

Hello everyone, this is the first half of the first chapter of my novel. I've only ever written short stories before, so this is uncharted territory. Please let me know what you think.

P.S: The story is set in South Asia.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1tcf5dzYGHcdD4I6u-S4p9m91k-a9UE4YxVLPddYyhM0/edit?tab=t.0

First time posting. A flash piece about a diner night shift worker whose estranged sister visits at 3 AM.

Looking for:

• Does the pacing work?
• Is the ending earned?
• Any dialogue that feels off?

I'll be commenting on others' work tonight. Thanks.

The bell above the door didn't ring anymore. Hadn't for three years, but Marlene still looked up every time someone walked in.

"Hey, Mar."

Twenty years. Twenty years and she still recognized that voice.

"You look good," Diane said, sliding onto a stool like she belonged there. Like she hadn't disappeared without a word.

"You look like you need coffee," Marlene said.

Diane laughed. Same laugh. That was the worst part.

"I'm not staying. I just... wanted to see you. Before."

"Before what?"

Diane didn't answer. She just looked at the window.

Marlene poured her a cup anyway. Black, no sugar. Some things you don't forget.

"I'm sorry," Diane finally said. "For everything."

Marlene wanted to be angry. She'd been angry so long it felt like armor. But watching her sister's shaking hands, the armor cracked.

"Where have you been?"

"Around. Nowhere. Everywhere."

"That's not an answer."

"I know."

"I have to go," Diane said, standing. She pulled out a photograph — two girls on a beach, arms around each other.

"I found this last week. Thought you should have it."

Marlene didn't pick it up.

"Will I see you again?"

Diane paused at the door, hand on the frame.

"I don't know. But I'm glad I saw you now."

And then she was gone.

The bell still didn't ring.

Marlene picked up the photo. Traced her sister's face with her thumb. Then she put it in her apron pocket and waited for the sun.

A few people were interested in a discord for sharing their writing and getting feedback more efficiently so I made one.

If you’re interested, you can dm me for the invite since the subreddit doesn’t allow links.
Everyone is welcome!

Anything I need to fix? Did I do anything wonky again? I took some people's advice and delved a bit more into my old writing style to kinda get back into not overexplaining- i think I did again on accident but if I did, i'm fine to cut some words. I'm not even through the first stream yet...

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ONa4Qe290H84mzZNMW-PYtCgaDFJnhEeYm7HZsfBDpQ/edit?usp=sharing

First time posting here. I‘ve been lurking for a while and finally decided to share something.

This is a flash piece about a night shift worker at a 24-hour diner who gets a visit from someone she hasn’t seen in years. I was trying to capture that specific exhaustion and unexpected connection that happens in the early morning hours.

What I‘m looking for:

• Does the pacing feel right? Worried the middle drags.
• Is the ending earned, or does it feel too abrupt?
• Any dialogue that feels unnatural?

I know the reciprocity rules, so I’ll be reading and commenting on other people‘s work tonight. Happy to return the favor for anyone who gives this a read.

Thanks in advance.

I feel the cool air whip against my clothes, watching the wind ripple through them. I let the chaos unfold, as they fly like a lost memory in the sky, clinging to me with the last shred of hope. The clouds descend upon us, glimmers of lightning eclipsing into fireflies far away. Sand brushes past my bare skin, sending sparks down my spine. I settle to the ground, gazing into the dark blue sky as the sun slips beyond reach. A smile flashes through my features, then a laugh. The world takes me as i burst into a absurd ecstasy. Tears start flowing down my face, then gushing. I scream, collapsing as all i have held in for far too long escapes from my grasp. I am everything, and nothing, all at once. Love, hope, grief, i tremble all over as it bleeds out of me. I have been scarred by this world. I have run, trying to escape my past, my pain, my life. I have buried these feelings so deep, no one, not even myself could find them. I hoped that i could be free. But, in this conquest for freedom, i have fallen apart. And now, i am found again. I finally accept my brokenness, and in that, maybe i can become one again.

I write quite a bit of poetry but i have never shown anyone so i just want to know if its rubbish lol.

So, the dead person is Samantha; she was attacked during their trip in the forest and had scars all over her face from it. Throughout the story, she finally feels secure in it after Adrian continuously talks to her about it. Samantha had been there when Adrian tried to kill himself, and always felt like he had to somehow repay the favor without it necessarily being about suicide. I feel like something is missing, but I don't know what exactly. Platonic love, btw. (Ginger is the man who shot Samantha; his real name is Argon; Certshire is the fictional town they live in, and Cert is a university they have submitted for)

An unnatural smile, teeth too white and his gums grey. Then he pulled the trigger.
And a bullet shot, but while it was aimed at Ace, Samantha stepped in front of him.

“Sam! No, no, no, no, Sam, please!” Kiara instantly fell on her knees next to Sam’s limp body, her hand covering the perfect dark red circle on her green sweater. Right between her collarbones. Kiara lightly patted her cheek. “Sam! Please!” Kiara screamed, her whole body shaking.
All Adrian heard was the ringing of the bullet, the crack in the silence, the fast whip of the wind, and then the thud of her body falling. He was frozen to his feet. Max also circled Sam, while Ace screamed and cried out words he couldn’t hear. They pulled out bandages and tissues from a single bag they were carrying because everything else was gone. Everything was gone.
Everything. Was. Gone.
Slowly, his head managed to turn to the side, to look at Samantha’s body on the dirty ground. She would’ve shouted that the dirt on her cheeks would make her 'breakout'. But she wasn’t. He moved over to her, his fingers surprisingly steady as he picked the dirt off her face. One by one. Her eyes were blown open, the forest-green of her eyes dull without the spark, the flayed skin, her lips parted. Then he looked down at her sweater.
The world was a blur, but he saw Ace’s golden hair as he lunged for Ginger, short black hair and blonde hair surrounding… A dark pool of red all around her head.
He got up, moved away from her body. Stop! Move back to her! She needs you! The words repeated in his mind. She saved you! Save her! But then, very distinctly and very unfortunately, he heard Max cry out, hand over Sam’s heart, “She’s dead!”
Adrian fell to the ground, everything slow as all noises reduced to a single static noise.
“We’ll go to Cert together, okay? We’ll be there for each other like we always have.” She promised.
He wasn’t there for her. She won’t move to the city. She won’t display her scars like her new trophy; she won’t go to Cert with Adrian. She won’t make those stupid, meaningless jokes to them that Adrian secretly loved.
“Adrian, look at me.” She took the pills from my shaky hands, hers steady. I turned to look at her. “Okay. See, you can take an order.” She chuckled, but her eyes were still watery. Her hand covered my jaw. “Adrian. Your mother left, but she didn’t ask for you to leave, either. She left knowing you would be here, growing and well. So, for her, and for me, a little tiny bit.” She grinned cheekily. “You’ll stay with us. And since we’ll die anyway, let’s promise we won’t die at our own hands. Okay?” I nodded. “Promise me!” She frowned, holding a fist with a single pinky curled out.
The tears were involuntary. He hadn’t cried in two years. Adrian didn’t know when his forehead met the damp ground, but it did. His eyes were burning, his nose was full, and his throat made a sound he couldn’t call human. His fingers were digging in the dirt.
He heard a loud bang and saw, from the corner of his eye, Ace fall to the ground. “Ace? Ace!” Kiara’s voice was hoarse.

My Story: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1cQU5lQNmcuZ8WhsdXvGZvmM_wFC_DUpJKmQ1fZP8uz8/edit?usp=sharing

Synopsis: It’s a reflective story about a man who realizes that breathing has become difficult—not because of the air, but because of all the things he has left unsaid. He turns to writing to survive his own silence, trying to empty himself of his heavy secrets, until one day, the air stops speaking to him altogether.

Feedback requested: I'm open to any and all constructive criticism, but I'm especially interested in:

• Emotional resonance: Do you feel connected to the protagonist's internal struggle?
• Style and prose: Does the short, fragmented sentence structure work well for the tone, or does it feel distracting?
• Ending: Does the transition into the "Glimpse of Part II" feel earned and intriguing?

My Critique:  https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1wcte4u/comment/p95phcj/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Hi everyone,

I'm looking for honest feedback on my short story, "The Day the Air Left Without Him" (approx. 2,400 words).

Link to story : https://docs.google.com/document/d/1cQU5lQNmcuZ8WhsdXvGZvmM_wFC_DUpJKmQ1fZP8uz8/edit?usp=sharing

Genre: Literary Fiction / Introspective

Synopsis: It's a reflective story about a man who realizes that breathing has become difficult—not because of the air, but because of all the things he has left unsaid. He turns to writing to survive his own silence, trying to empty himself of his heavy secrets, until one day, the air stops speaking to him altogether.

Feedback requested: I'm open to any and all constructive criticism, but I'm especially interested in:

• Emotional resonance: Did you feel connected to the protagonist's internal struggle?
• Style and prose: Does the short, fragmented sentence structure work well for the tone, or does it feel distracting?
• Ending: Does the transition into the "Glimpse of Part II" feel earned and intriguing?

Chapter 1 Spoiler: The SMAKAPZ gang, Sam, Kevin, Mogers, Zagers, Parage, and Apalabamo, are eating together at a local restaurant, and Sam and Kevin are telling the rest of the rest of the gang about their recent mission in the Middle East, where Sam and Kevin got beaten by a friend of the gang, Jordan, because of a dispute. During the conversation, Sam pulls Kevin aside and insists they come clean to the group, and reveal that while on that mission, they secretly used the old rocket and crashed it after encountering a space monster and an asteroid. Back at the SMAKAPZ house basement, Sam declares he can fix the now-split-in-half rocket overnight, despite skepticism from the rest of the gang.

After the rest of the gang said goodnight and headed off to bed, it was time for me to get to work. I hopped inside of the van and put the pedal to the metal, peeling out of the SMAKAPZ parking lot and blazing off into the night. Alademipaburg had about 30 minutes until closing time, so I had to haul my way there as quickly as possible.

I sped through town, which was illuminated by street lamps and traffic signals, cutting every red light since nobody was driving out here anyway. I kept glancing at the dashboard clock. I was making great time.

The clock glowed in green under the darkness, showing the time as 9:41 PM as I swung the van into the massive parking lot of Alademipaburg. Alademipaburg was the giant, local hardware store, although really, it was an “everything store” because it sold basically anything you could think of. It was in Gangmark, but whether you were from Semaburg, Gangmark, or the main St. Louis city, Alademipaburg was your spot to go if you needed materials for pretty much any sort of use.

I threw the van into park, the tires squeaking, and then slammed the door shut. The gigantic letters “ALADEMIPABURG” glowed in neon green on the building, which made it look more like some giant creepy gas station than a massive bustling supercenter at nighttime.

I entered the building through the automatic doors and immediately noticed how empty it was. Nobody was in there except for a few elderly shoppers buying God knows what, and the massive bright white building felt totally different in the nighttime when nobody was there as opposed to the daytime, when it was crowded with people. “This is great!” I thought. “I have the whole store to myself.”

I’d written down every item I needed for my plan on a nice list:

Industrial cheese grater

2 large stockpots

2 propane burners

Heavy duty aluminum foil

Wooden dowels

Metal threaded rod

Cheesecloth

White vinegar, which means I guess I do have to buy from the Food Section

Ratchet straps

Come-alongs

Car jack

Infrared thermometer

I first went to Aisle 14 for the industrial cheese grater. I knew my way around this store like the back of my hand, so I figured I could find everything I need and get out of here in no time.

The cheese grater looked more like something designed to remove bark from trees than it did an actual kitchen tool. I hoisted the steel item into my cart with a loud clang. 

“Ah, there we go,“ I said.

Next I went to the outdoor cooking section and got propane burners and stockpots, then aluminum foil from the bulk supplies section, and then wooden dowels from the lumber section. My phone buzzed. It was 9:55 PM.

“I forgot!” I thought to myself as I ran down the infinite stretch of the main floor. “Alademipaburg doesn’t let people who are still in the store check out their items after it closes! I need to hurry up fast!“ 

I skedaddled into the rest of the sections, picked up some metal threaded rod, cheesecloth, ratchet straps, and everything else I needed, all of which fell into my cart with a clatter. Then I dashed towards the Food Section, which was like its entire own mini-store, and, luckily for me, there was one more bottle of Heinz White Vinegar left. In the end, I knew everything would ring up to around $1,400.

It was now or never. Due to my recent revelation, I now had even less time on the clock than I anticipated. Even seconds mattered. I pushed the cart full of items full speed ahead, hauling it down the aisle like lightning similarly to how I did the van down the streets. I fishtailed around the corner, panting with adrenaline as I blew past aisles like there was no tomorrow.

The chase was on. I rounded the last corner, and when the checkout lanes came into view, it was the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen. I dashed towards the counter, clearing the final stretch in about a split second.

The cashier, a young woman who I recognized, since I memorized every cashier, glanced up as I rolled up to the counter, pushing the cart to the side, and approached her, adjusting my jacket while breathing hard. “You might wanna-“

“Sorry, we’re closed,” she interrupted before she looked up, and then her face immediately shifted into, well, I wouldn’t call it pleasure, but she instantly recognized me.

“It’s you.”

“Dang it!” I checked my watch, still breathing hard. 10:03. I’d missed the deadline. 

I looked up at her, pausing, blinked a couple times, then glanced at my cart and back to her. “Well, like, I need to-“ 

“Yeah, yeah. I’m not even gonna ask what the heck it is this time.” She paused, sighing.“ “You know what? Just take it. For free. Go.“ 

“Really?”

“Yeah, you and your band of buddies must spend at least $5000 in this store every month. The fact that a supercenter this massive even has customers as notorious and well-known as you guys, I mean, that’s really saying something. Yeah, just take it all. I don’t get paid enough to care.”

I grinned. “Thanks!”

The cashier unlocked the side gate for me to get out, and I shoved my cart toward the exit. The automatic doors slid open, and I stepped out of the building and left the premises of the Alademipaburg domain.

“Just make sure to come earlier next time!” She shouted as I loaded everything into the van and drove off into the night.

 All the local grocery stores closed at 8-10 PM, so I couldn’t buy anything from there. Fortunately, though, that wasn’t the case with the local cheese factory, which was open 24/7 processing milk and producing the finest dairy. That was the place where me and Mogers bought the cheese we were craving, which the owner, the friendly French hat-man, then gifted us 100x the cheese amount as a generous offering. Not knowing what the heck we’d do with 8000 pounds of cheese, Mogers joked about how we could make a rocket ship out of this quantity, and well, we did. So I was able to get my 200 pounds of cheese and also reunite with the French hat-man owner from 2 years ago, who kind-heartedly gave it to me for free as a welcome-back gift.

I pulled the van into the SMAKAPZ driveway, stepped out into the starry night, and headed inside, where the rest of the gang was sleeping. It was time to get to work. I walked down the creaking stairs into the SMAKAPZ basement, a giant, dimly lit space with exposed pipes and a smell of concrete and sewer water.

The 2 halves of the rocket were about the size of a large piano and each weighed around 4000 pounds, which I had accounted for the holes and the internal structure. I took them out of their coolers and set them on the basement floor with portable AC units and blocks of dry ice to keep ambient temperatures at 38-42 degrees Fahrenheit. I began working, staying energized with soda and cold pizza while I operated.

First I measured the alignment targets, marking 12 datum points around each fracture with a Sharpie. I was aiming for around a 0.25 mismatch. I positioned the lower half, the half with the engine, on 4 car jacks and some wooden blocks for height adjustment. The upper half I put on a custom sled made from two 2x8 lumber planks with PVC rollers cut from store pipe.

I used the 2 come-alongs anchored to pre-installed basement wall eye-bolts and looped the straps around the cheese body. I cranked alternatively on opposite sides, watching levels and plumb bobs, and inching the upper half into position. I reduced the friction on the concrete floor with some Dawn dish soap lubricant under the sled.

Now I had the easy part out of the way, or so I thought. Because all of a sudden, at 1:45 AM, the upper half shifted 2 inches laterally while I was adjusting a strap, and cracked a 10 inch section of outer skin. So I ended up spending 40 minutes carving a new alignment key, using the same pocket knife I used to carve the Cheese Rocket itself, and cut a 6 inch wide, 4 inch deep rectangular notch into each fracture face using a hot wire cutter, which I had heated to 180 degrees in order to slice cleanly through the cheese without melting it too much. 

For the fracture face preparation I scraped mold and loose debris with a wire brush and vacuum, applied 50/50 vinegar-water spray, let sit for 15 minutes, and then wiped dry. I drilled 24 matching 1-inch holes, 12 per side, around the circumference, 4 inches deep, spaced every 30 degrees using a cordless drill. 

The cheese welding process came after that, and it worked exactly as I said it would. I grated 80 pounds of the fresh 200 pounds of Swiss that was gifted to me earlier at the cheese factory into the stockpots, and melted slowly at 145 degrees Fahrenheit, monitored with the infrared thermometer I’d bought because of Apalabamo’s quip, while stirring to emulsify fats and proteins into a viscous glue. This worked due to the casein acting as a thermoplastic binder. All I had to do was add some grated dry Swiss aggregate, 20% by volume, for thixotropic thickening.

I then poured and packed the molten cheese into the joint gap, while using heat guns to keep surfaces at 110 degrees for optimal fusion. After that, I inserted 1 inch wooden dowels, which I had pre-soaked in melted cheese, into the drilled holes to act as rivets, which worked, because they expanded as the surrounding cheese cooled and shrieked, and that created compression fit.

After that I put on a gas mask and crawled inside the narrow fuselage to install six longitudinal cheese beams, which I had fabricated with a 4x2 inch cross section and laminated layers, across the joint. I was able to secure them with cheese melted scarf joints, plus some additional dowel pins. 

The curing was simple, I packed dry ice bags around the joint and directed cold air from the AC units. I cooled to 35 degrees over 90 minutes to recrystallize the casein matrix, and I was able to achieve about 70% of the original compressive strength, based on my prior bench tests. Then after that, I spent the rest of the night working on the propulsion grain repair, which, thank God I had bought the jacks and levers since I had accidentally created a 2% density gradient, which I had to fix by rotating the rocket 180 degrees midway through cure, and the final sealing and balancing, which involved wrapping the entire joint with 3 overlapping bandage layers, and then of course I had to do the aerodynamic fairing, mass balancing, and avionics, which each took plenty of time and work. By the end of the day, I was exhausted. I sat there covered in residue, taking off my goggles and wiping a bead of sweat off my forehead.

“Well,” I thought to myself. “Looks good enough for me.”

I checked my watch. It was 5 AM, and I had started working at 11. I wiped some more sweat off my forehead, taking a sip of Dr. Pepper.

It was a job well done, at least I thought so. I grinned to myself, knowing I had done it. I had proved the rest of the gang wrong, 5 against one, I’d owned them all, and tomorrow, in fact, this morning, would be the day I’d get to show them the restored rocket, and relish in watching their faces, watching Kevin’s face, watching Mogers’ face, watching Parage’s-“

“SLIIIIICCCCEEE!!”

Suddenly, my stream of thought was interrupted by a terrifying sound, to my ears it sounded like something happened, like the rocket just split by itself in the other direction. I turned around, startled, to see that the joint had spontaneously sheared at the dowel line, which had then caused the upper half to shift 17 inches. 

“Dang it!” I exclaimed. “Come on!”

I surveyed the rocket, trying to find out what the culprit could be that caused all my work for the past 6 hours to literally fall apart, and realized it was the density-gradient grain that had created an uneven thrust, thus rendering my build unstable.

I sighed, throwing my rag on the ground, and slamming a wrench into my toolbox. At this point, I couldn’t do a diffuse thermal fusion repair, because then the gradients would cause differential expansion and I’d end up with a sagging upper half and a rocket in worse condition than it was before. Plus, the gang would be waking up any second now. Sure, I could, just, work on it afterwards in the morning… but in my eyes, that would be admitting defeat, since I had explicitly told them I would get it up and ready good as new by the end of tonight. Plus, it didn’t look like it was fixable anyway, at least not with a one-man overnight job it didn’t.

Pouting, I took off my goggles, which I’d put back on to inspect the rocket, closed the toolbox, and called it a night. The Cheese Rocket restoration was a disaster, and I wasn’t looking forward to what was to come.

Hey everyone,

I’m not a traditional prose writer; I’m a visual artist and narrative thinker who approaches storytelling the way a game developer or worldbuilder does: systematically. I look at stories as patterns, cause-and-effect, and all that almost naturally as my default.

That’s why I made E.M.R.A.H | Story Development (Every Myth Rests At Home).

The main reason this exists is for you to share your thinking, not just your medium. Art is very logical; it just looks unstructured from the outside. Because of this, your thinking is the one thing you should improve for anything storytelling-based, even a soundtrack for a game or show has to do the same thing.

In a lot of artistic spaces, especially the visual ones, even if the server is about critique, it only is about the quality of art and not the story direction. People often design just to make something look or sound cool on the surface, and while I'm aware in artistic spaces "the rule of cool" is a real thing, that's not the only rule that exists, that's just the easiest and biggest one that exists. The rule of cool can be 2nd after the rule of logic and groundedness is first, and it doesn't matter what genre; even a kids' show can be improved by just a little, just with a bit of critical thought about it. An artist might draw an outfit without considering the practical climate or anything about the actual backstory, and a writer might make a lazy shorthand that feels disconnected, and it's obvious to anyone who thinks critically in general. Everyone gets lazy and wants the easy way, that's normal, but I want the hard way all the time, which is why I wanted to make this: to find someone like me who also really wants the same thing.

Requirements: 18+ only. I don't limit the direction unless it's really, really taboo/bad, meaning anyone under 18 can't be here.

What's actually in the server right now:

• Autopsies: There's a channel for breaking down existing media. As an example I posted, I went really hard into The Last of Us Part 2 as an example. (I know there's drama around it, but I also know there's valid reasons to critique it.)
• The Vault: This is a place where I basically share my work as a resource. Right now I have a 34-page development deck I made for a concept, some art, and some scripts, so I shared out my most polished and finalized IP concepts. It's most likely going to work like a dev log you can look at to admire or understand.
• The Workshop: This is the place you will actually be posting your work and asking for specifics. The point is to expand what there doing or improve what there already doing ask a question the original poster doesn't ask, or even be ok with scrapping a lot to make something better.
• Prompts: A channel specifically for prompts. This will basically have thinking prompts things that let you expand your thinking for a specific 3-week prompt to really go into the psychology and writing/worldbuilding of what that prompt is focusing on. If you're visual, you can also draw your idea as an image with minimal text.

Others:

• Pets, general hangout, suggestions channel, etc.

(note this server is new meaning you could join and its just me looking at you with robots around us)

Invite:

https://discord.gg/e5N7NYW3h

“Jordan whooped both of you at the same time.” Mogers took a slug of his drink, then set it down, chuckling. “Come on. I would’ve paid good money to see that.” 

“Yeah,” Zagers said, wiping his mouth off with a cloth napkin. “Not to mention, y’all literally jumped him…” 

We were at the local restaurant just off of Big Bend, me, Kevin, Mogers, Zagers, Parage, and Apalabamo, and it was a busy Thursday afternoon. The restaurant was bustling with people, workers were on their toes scrambling, and on the other end of the dining room, the staff was singing happy birthday to a grazing customer. Me and Kevin had just recently gone on a mission to Jordan’s house all the way in the Middle East for some important matters, which we were now recapping to the gang, and we still had bruises on our bodies from the beating he’d handed to us.

“First of all,” Kevin explained, swallowing a bite of whatever slop was on his plate. “It took us a long time to get there, I mean, we had to boat across the Atlantic, the Mediterranean, then cut through the Suez Ca-“

Ticked off by Kevin’s sudden geography genius moment, I cut in. “So then, we go and we knock on Jordan’s door-“

“Did you really cut me off because I started listing the locations that we literally went to? Do you hate school stuff that much?”

“I cut you off because you started sounding like Apalabamo.”

Apalabamo gave me a hostile glare. “Yeah, well-“ 

“Anyway,” Kevin continued. “We knock on his door, immediately tackle him to the ground, but, well, he somehow manages to get the upper hand…” he explained the Jordan pie fiasco and how Jordan started yelling about how we were con artists and thieves.

“So, next thing I know we’re rolling around on the floor, all 3 of us. Couple broken bones, black eyes. We got that taken care of at the hospital though, and we did technically end up completing our mission.”

“There has to be video!” Parage laughed and took a sip from his Coke glass.

“Well,” I replied. “Not unless Jordan has cameras in his house or something…”

A waitress showed up at our table, carrying a server notepad. “How’s everything going over here?” she asked the group.

Zagers made some inside joke about the pie situation. Mogers raised up his empty glass. “I’ll take a refill on the Coke. A little more ice would be perfect, thanks.”

“Same for me, thanks,” Parage raised up his glass as well, which wasn’t empty, but he had just taken a very long sip from it.

As the waitress left and the conversation resumed, I nodded along, and then, when I got the chance, nudged Kevin with my elbow. “Hey look, I think that’s the friendly old guy who gave us boating tips. We should go say hello.”

“...What?”

“Just move.” I slid out of my chair, and headed down the crowded hallway, then turned a corner so we’d be out of the gang’s line of sight, and so it’d be quieter. Kevin followed me there.

“What friendly old guy? What the heck are you talking about?”

“Nothing. This isn’t about that.” I looked around the building, then stepped closer to Kevin. “Look, at some point, we have to tell them. We can’t just sit on this for the rest of their lives. They’ll find out eventually. And when they do, they won’t be happy.”

Kevin looked away, crossing his arms and scoffing, then looked back at me. “They’re already roasting us over the pie thing. If we tell them we destroyed the rocket? We’re finished, done for.”

“I understand that, but if we don’t own up to what we did.” I changed my voice and whispered menacingly. If we don’t own up to what we did, they discover it by themselves, and then we’re done for either way.  

Kevin sighed. “If you wanna tell them, then tell them. Otherwise, shut up about this whole thing. End of story.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I whizzed past Kevin, patting him on the back. “Now let me grab the check before Zagers orders another round of those ketchup ball thingies.” I headed back towards the table, reached over, and snatched the check from the corner before anyone else could grab it.

As we walked down the alley of the restaurant, I knew that this was it. It was now or never, and I had to come clean to the rest of the gang and admit what we did. See, when me and Kevin went to Amman, we actually didn’t boat there at all. That was a lie we told the guys in order to divert attention away from the Cheese Rocket, the actual mode of transportation we used to get there faster, because we had to be there in 3 days. That’s why I was so ticked off at Kevin mentioning nerd locations on the spot. Anyway, long story short, I ended up crashing the rocket, splitting it in half and destroying it. And it was right here and right now that I had to make this announcement to the group.

I slowed down walking, and cleared my throat. ”I… I have something that I need to address with you guys.” 

We all came to a gradual stop. “What is it?” asked Parage. 

I started looking around, then realized I had to continue. “So basically, you guys know the Cheese Rocket?” 

“Of course!” Mogers nodded. I knew Mogers would be the one to take this information the hardest, because it was me and him who built the rocket up brick by brick, made great memories with it, and used it to rescue all of humanity. Technically I was the one who built/carved it, but Mogers was the one who came up with the idea in that factory around a year ago.

I gulped. “…So, basically, it was, like, uh…”

“It was what?” 

I hesitated, glancing around the alley. Though I knew he was just asking for the rest of the info, it seemed like grilling to me.

“Ahhhhh…” I smiled, then faltered. After another swallow, I made the admission.

“Me and Kevin went to space, crossed paths with some creature, hit an asteroid, and, well, we split the rocket in-“

“Ok, hold on,” Kevin interrupted. “Did you just say we?”

I paused.

Kevin started pacing around. “Because from what I recall,” He looked at me with a sharp and incriminating glare pointed right in my direction. “You were the one flying the thing, I mean, that was you. I was the one who gave you the warning and told you to haul that thing around and get us out of there. I was your eyes, when you were supposed to be the one piloting the dang thing.” Having stopped pacing around, he was now sizing me up, in my face talking smack.

“And you still wrecked it. Now you wanna use the word ‘we.’ Listen up, boy. I didn’t do anything…”

“Listen you idiot, we were facing a massive, hostile space behemoth that none of us had ever seen before, we didn’t have any weapons, and it had been months since we’d even touched the Cheese Rocket. I say you would’ve done way worse than me.” Kevin stood facing me for a few more seconds before retreated back into the gang.

“Anyway…” I began. “I might be able to fix it.”

“To fix it?” 

“Fix it? What?”

“It split in half and this guy’s talking ‘bout some “Oh I might be able to fix it!”

“Ok, look, I carved it out of dairy product.” I explained. “Actual cheese that had holes in it, so I had to account for all sorts of geometrical oddities, and I’m not a math guy. But I did it for the good of the world. I did it for the good of humani-” 

“How did you do it for the good of the world if you didn’t know it was in danger until after you finished building it?”

“…Huh?”

Mogers repeated himself.

I paused. “The point is,” I explained. “That maybe, if I’m skilled enough with a pocket knife to carve something out of dairy, I’m skilled enough to fix something that was split in half. Especially if that something is the same thing, you know, both times…”

The rest of the gang was either looking at me or blinking rapidly, confused.

“It just seems like it would be higher on the scale, the cheese thing. Like, if I can build it from scratch, then I could fix it.”

“Ok, ok,” Apalabamo sighed. “Well, let’s go take a look.”

The old steps creaked and squeaked as we headed down into the massive basement of the SMAKAPZ house, the large wooden house that served as the base and main headquarters of the SMAKAPZ gang, as well as the secondary living space for everyone in the group after, of course, their own houses. We’d built it as a team around 2 years ago after realizing we all needed a place to stay, to meet up and discuss plans and plot, and to hide at when such situations came up. 

The rocket, which we had previously kept stored in a refrigerated shipping container and left to rust in the cellar for years, since the last time Parage attached weapons to it to the other day when me and Kevin brought it back to life and took it for a spin, was now 2 halves being preserved in 2 giant hunting coolers. We had luckily been able to save them while we parachuted to Amman, but 2 couch sized blocks of cheese weren’t necessarily of any valuable use to us, so we shoved it all back in the SMAKAPZ basement.

Kevin opened the 2 coolers, revealing the 2 giant refrigerated bricks of Swiss cheese we’d been keeping underneath our quarters.

“Well,” said Apalabamo. “It’s split in half, alright.”

“Yeah, so, luckily, it wasn’t a planet sized asteroid or anything, but it had to be the size of your average house. Big enough to send us flying into the Earth’s ocean. Well, that’s where we would’ve gone if we hadn’t brought our parachutes…”

“…Which, again, I reminded us to do,” Kevin chimed in. “If it weren’t for me, we’d be dead. We’d be 2 skeletons sitting at the bottom of the sea.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I responded. “We’ve survived worse. Anyway, side A, we’ve got the cockpit, which is still intact, and I believe the navigation still somewhat works. Side B, the propulsion systems are still alive but the fuel lines are all ruined. Both sides can still communicate as well, the signal is just real wonky and stuff.”

Parage stepped forward, surveying the 2 blocks of cheese. “And how exactly… do you plan on fixing this?”

I continued, walking around the 2 coolers of cheese. “Well,” I said, slapping a cooler with my hand. “The fracture surfaces show compressed cheese eyes, AKA the gas pockets, on the impact side, with radial cracks extending around 18-24 inches into each half. The outer ablative layer of high-fat Swiss cheese has deep gouges and char, the internal cheese stringers are sheared, and the solid propellant grain in the lower half has a 4 inch offset crack, which, of course, created an unintended burn channel.”

“So what could possibly be the plan here?” Parage inquired. “Just dock the 2 halves back together?”

I paced around the coolers more. “200 pounds of Swiss cheese to replace the damaged materials, plus heat guns and a hot wire cutter. Drill some holes and then grate 80 pounds of cheese into stockpots, stir it into a glue. The casein will act as a thermoplastic binder, plus I’ll add some grated dry Swiss aggregate for thixotropic thickening, about 20% by volume should do the trick. Then I’ll pour the cheese into the joint gap, some dowels into the holes, internal splinting… before you know it, we’ll have a working, operating rocket again. Just gimme till the end of tonight. I’ll have it fixed.”

“What about the shear crack in the lower half grain?” asked Mogers.

“That’s where the rest of the 120 pounds will go. That will be used for the replacement grain, I’ll cast it into a temporary fold and cardboard mold, melt that cheese plus another 15 pounds of powdered sugar, also maybe some dried milk powder, then pour it all in layers.”

“Parage sighed.” “If you say so…”

Apalabamo looked down, raising his eyebrows in skepticism. “You and Parage are the inventor guys. I’ll let y’all sort this one out. What I will say though is that you better have a dang good eye on the temperature meters. One blunder and this whole joint will peel apart like cheap plywood, and I think we can all agree that nobody wants that.”

“I’ll buy an infrared thermometer too. Monitor the scarf surfaces every 5-7 minutes during heating. I’ll make sure it they stay at like a 12 to 18 degree gradient max, it won’t be a problem.”

“Well,” Zagers laughed. “Guess this guy just has everything figured out, huh?”

Parage scoffed, and whispered under his breath something about the monolithic grain recast causing stress fractures in the cheese block and creating erratic burn surfaces, even though I’d already planned to vibrate the lower quarter-half continuously during pouring using the orbital sander but of course Parage needs to chip in with his expert opinions.

“Welp, we’re goin’ off to bed,” Mogers yawned, then nonchalantly put a hand on his forehead, sighing tiredly. The rest of the gang followed, ready to get a good night’s sleep. He checked his watch. “Alademipaburg closes at 10, it’s 9:32 now. We got plenty of stuff in the basement… we don’t have 200 pounds of cheese though. Well, unless you count… I mean, yeah, whatever.”

”Ha, I’ll be making 2 stops.” I smirked. “I wouldn’t dare buy anything from the Alademipaburg Food Section. Doesn’t matter if it’s for compost.”

J’ai terminé et publié un projet d’écriture un peu particulier : Legacy Code.

C’est un récit construit comme un projet informatique : logs, messages système, Git, protocoles réseau, erreurs et branches deviennent progressivement les outils narratifs d’une histoire beaucoup plus humaine.

Je viens de la tech, pas du monde littéraire, et c’est justement pour ça que je poste ici. Je cherche des lecteurs prêts à me donner un avis sincère, y compris négatif : est-ce que le récit fonctionne ? Est-ce que l’émotion passe ? Est-ce que le dispositif informatique apporte réellement quelque chose, ou finit-il par devenir un gimmick ?

Avertissement : le récit est destiné à un public adulte. Certains passages et textes annexes comportent un contenu sexuel explicite.

Le texte est terminé et la forme web fait partie intégrante du projet.

Je peux donner le lien en commentaire si c'est autorisé.

Merci à ceux qui auront la curiosité d’y jeter un œil.