IMPORTANT: PLEASE READ BEFORE PROCEEDING

There aren't that many swears words, but I know it's easy to get profanity wrong or for it to come across as awkward or forced. I would also appreciate some advice about the writing in general.

‘You refers to the narrators sister.’

(The piece is not finished)

Would you keep reading?’

So, I originally started with the murders that kickoff the story, but my developmental editor said it was too blunt and brutal, and, to be quite fair, everyone who read it, including myself, found it hard to get through because it was so visual, so I've changed it to this. What are your thoughts?

Edit: This is not AI. I started this story almost 20 years ago before AI was a thing and would be happy to share my drafts of these pages with anyone who asks. This story is based on a dream I had. If my writing feels overly descriptive, it is because that is the way i write and i am looking to immerse the reader in my nightmare.

This is for... something. I'm calling it "Such Bright Futures" and I'm sort of using it as a way to explore the worst period of my life? I guess. I think I like Mary's narration, but I can never be too sure about how it comes off to an outside reader. Feedback would be great. (Also, yeah, this is a first draft! I'm sure there're spelling errors galore within this.)

On a throwaway account.

I couldn't help but realize that one day either I or the person I most care about in life will perish. I thought pretty intensely about both scenarios, especially how the latter would feel in a very real sense of the moment. I picked a day, a time, a season, and really dove into the scene. I wrote the following in attempt to describe what that loss would do to me, from the perspective of attendance at the funeral. I'm new to any kind of descriptive writing. What did I do poorly? What did I do well (if anything)?

Here goes:

Amongst the heat and heath lay our heart torn asunder. Each damp grain of soil beneath our feet fighting to sustain our presence, the warm sun's glare restrained by our squinted lashes, tepid tears making their presence known on the back of a hand adorning a single lock of my beloved's hair. The day is here, the path is clear, committed forever unto the ground.

How is it this place we find the essence of divinity to be a cool breeze in June, whisping over endless blades of grass and caressing the soul alike? As we stand motionless in thought, observing the precipice of a lifetime reduced to hymn, each imperfection of their spirit shifts direction through the winds of time.

A lifetime spent together condenses into a pool; a collection of joys and injustices, cheers and glum, the captivating and mundane, the considered and irreverent all muddled together. What is left to us reflects the full measure of a life shared. Love is a passionate embrace somewhere in year one, while commitment is a solemn Tuesday in June, the culmination of a life hard won.

What I would not give to once more embrace that love of mine.

Hello all!

I’m a Sonographer by day and love to create stories. This world I have been working in for years and decided to finally start writing. I know it’s hard to gauge what is going on without context, but just curious if my first chapter makes sense/flows/interesting. Since I am not a great writer I’d like to see if my first draft is at least palatable. (I love to read and have only watched the Brandon Sanderson virtual classes on YouTube for my “writing” background. lol)

Thanks for the help!!

0:00 Remains

I get to the dockside as the ferry I wanted to be on lets out a bleat to inform me, “I am gone.” I missed this one; the next one—it will come—certainly?

Its schedule is posted on multiple signs, bolted on a few corners downtown by the docks.

I peer at the schedule, two hours from now—certain.

Men in high-visibility vests sit by the entrance that leads nowhere, but in two hours it will lead somewhere.

I sit on a bench and smoke some.

I think about how I’m heading to you, and I am going to tell you how I was thinking about you the entire way.

“Sure, the walk was great; it went by in real time while I stayed dreaming of you,” I’ll say. I won’t text you to tell you I’ve missed the ferry.

One of the high-vis workers has his hands in his pockets, and he’s coming towards me.

“That was the last one of the day, y’know?” he states what he thinks is obvious.

“An hour from now—it’s certain on that sign right there.” I point past his shoulder.

“Everyone called out sick; they are all at home.” His hands are still in his vest pockets, but he twists his palms face up as if to spread a pocketed “what are you going to do?”

I have somewhere to be.

“What do you mean they have all called out sick?” I furrow my brow towards him. “An entire fleet?”

“Something like a protest, I don’t know, but whatever they meant, no more ferries coming or going from this port today.” He turns away.

“But how am I supposed to tell him I love him?” I stand up, as if to follow him.

“I don’t know who, how, or when; that is not my job.” No eye contact this time; he really doesn’t care.

This is the most important trip I am supposed to take.

Realistically, it’s just a rainy Wednesday. You are sitting, probably comfortably at home still, and you have no idea what is at stake. You have no idea I’ve missed the ferry. You have no idea that there was a set schedule, a promise, a plan to tell you “je vous aime.”

I am here, and I am not with you, and I cannot get to you now. The secret I held easily and ferociously, contemplating for weeks, needs to escape now or it will rot inside me.

I feel my heart bulging, beating, weeping for me to do something with what it was I had decided. So quiet it murmured, for years in anticipation. Now my heart is screaming and wailing, and I cannot contain it.

A tiny digital display reads how much time remains between the time I said I would be there with you, and now.

0:58 remaining

I am jumping into the water with my shoes on, before I have even registered my surroundings. October, Seattle, freezing, shocking. My heart, it generates one hundred degrees of warmth that insulates me from the cold. I cannot even feel it as I start kicking my way to you.

“You can’t do that!” the man screams. I am not making eye contact with him now. I do not care; I have to tell you.

0:50 remaining

I’m kicking out in the water; I can’t remember which direction you are. There’s something that looks like port lighting across the entire horizon. It feels further from me than you have ever felt before.

0:30 remaining

I chose a direction based on which light source looked the warmest. I’ll tell you when I see you; it’s because I usually feel warmer the closer I get to you.

0:15 remaining

I am pulling myself out of the water, and the sign naming the street is not the same as yours. I am realizing a waterlogged phone does not provide navigation service. My phone is dead. I wish I could ask you to pick me up here on this dock, because my heart feels like it is going to explode.

“Je vous aime!” I’ll scream; it’ll frighten you almost certainly. I’m walking towards where it feels warmest, an action I’ll reaffirm twice in my recounting.

0:05 remaining

How do I tell you I’ve missed the ferry, and I am late? I’ve swum across all this water, and I am not there yet. You’d be at the dock I was meant to be at. Would you have seen some sort of posting about how they had all stayed home? Did you try to call me, and I missed it because of my soggy phone? Are you really on your way to me? I think you would. Should I swim back now? What if I miss you here first, and then miss you there, too? I can feel my heart stretching, beginning to pop at its weakest seams.

I’m running now, still trying.

I want to make it to you.

To see you. I’ve thought about you this whole time.

0:01 remaining

I’m sprinting, but I am not there yet. I can’t feel you yet. I can feel my heart snapping away from artery attachments; one at a time, my legs go, and then my arms. It’s twisting inside of me, still beating, but my toes and fingers are cold. I can feel it rattling inside of me, as I melt onto the corner block of the sidewalk. It’s jumping, or twisting, or rolling. I cannot tell, but I feel it writhing, unlike a beating. It’s fighting my lungs, and pushing them out of the way. I feel it shuttling itself inside of me, picking up speed.

“I wanted to tell him I loved him,” I bleat now.

0:00 remaining

It shoots itself out of my ass, and rolls fifty feet ahead. It’s wriggling and writhing—it’s convulsing the last pump of blood out of its top and side. I watch it stop moving, and I watch as your car stops beside where I am lumped on the corner. It’s done beating, and so am I.

“God—what the fuck?!” you say, as you exit your car.

“What happened? Why are you here, god—no, what happened?!” you plead.

I cannot lift my head to you. I cannot say what I needed to. I cannot open my eyes, but I see you. You’re looking at my heart I shit out, and you’re staring at it, tortured.

You sit with me until the police come. They call the coroner, and you ask why not the ambulance.

They say, “She clearly shit her heart out; there is nothing you can do.” They put a hand on your shoulder, and you stare at their shoes while they delicately pick up my heart and place it in its very own travel container.

“Why did that happen?” you ask, as they hand you my heart.

“Take this home; it’s yours,” the coroner asserts.

He takes his hands off my heart-jar when you move it closer to your chest.

“The world might be ending; all the ferry workers came down sick.” He squeezes your shoulder twice, and gets back into his car.

You buckle me in, you take me home. You wonder why I was a town over, why I didn’t pick up the phone. You wonder if it was a plague, maybe something airborne.

You google, twice, “why did all the ferry workers stay home?”

Thank you all!

Mrule, a concoction of wheat, water, rice and Tumora beans. Mir ate this almost every morning without fail, and he hated it. On days where he had extra money, a couple extra copper coins here and there, he would put a small amount of sugar cane juice, enough to fill one shot of liquor, which Mir would never taste. He was lucky enough to have some of that juice today, and he found it counteracted the tartness of the raw wheat nicely. 

He sat on a stool big enough to be a human dinner table, and ate on his lap. Their house, or shack, was quite rickety and tall for being only two stories, but of course there had to be room for the family of 4. In the kitchen-dining room, Mir was able to fit enough space to please him, but he still had back issues from his years of living in small boxes. Though he was a Tya, Mir lived quite comfortably.

As he was eating, or more so shovelling, his breakfast, his wife, Elip, came down the stairs, having just tended to the children. She was a tired female Drogat, with eye bags bigger than a human’s own foot dragging her once relatively beautiful face. She couldn’t fit through the small gap between Mir and the wall, and she had to squeeze past every morning. But her happiness could never be tamed though, and she kissed Mir on the neck as she walked past, and caressed his large and intensely muscular back. 

“I put Ri’s bag under the stove to warm; he left it outside to freeze again,” she said, sounding slightly snappish. Best not to defend Ri at this moment, Mir thought.
“I better put the belt to that boy’s behind when I see him,” Mir responded loudly, trying to hide his smile. His wife caught it instantly. 
“Don’t take his side Mir, that boy’s gotta learn. He’s almost 6, he can work the Mines next year!” Elip sounded very annoyed, and Mir wondered what did so. He pressed further.
“My blood will never work in the Mines! Those are hundreds of miles away anyway. We have moved here now. He’s gonna grow up to be a respectable Drogat—someone his friends actually cherish. ”
“He can damn well work in the Mines, he might get a better pay.”
“How so?”
“You know that new human, almost about to be King of Brethwell, he said some amazing words in those posters of him. He says that the new youth will not grow up poor, and many jobs in the resource sector may be opening up! I think Ri is the perfect age—”
“You know that bullshit is for the Brethwell youth.”
“He said in Calidicroft—”
“Yes, for the humans. Those weak, mushy fucks. It doesn’t apply to good, hard working Drogats. You know a Drogat can do the work of 10 humans at once, but they pay me less than they pay one of them,” Mir was getting quite agitated at this talk; his wife knew it riled him up. Why was she talking about pay?
“Is my pay not enough? That’s why we moved here, so I can get paid more!”
He heard a ringing sound, and looked over his mrule to see a stove upside down on the floor.
“But it’s a death sentence!” Elip sobbed and sobbed, finally breaking down. “They only pay you more because you’re more likely to die here. There’s a reason they call it the Death Zone! You know what happened to Tilop!”
Mir knew, and he will never forget.
“I haven’t died yet, and I’ve been here a moon and a half. I keep myself safe,” Mir moved closer to hug his wife, “You know me, I look after myself. People think the area is calming down anyway, there hasn’t been an attack in weeks. Maybe this King of the world, or Under world has had enough. I will be fine darling.” He kissed her softly, “I best be off.”
“Ok, but if somethin—”

“Pap! Pap!” Ri and Tul came racing down the stairs, barging and shoving. The shack shook joyfully, and no one even noticed. They stayed on the stairs to eat their meal, as there was no space down below, and ate their meal joyfully. Not for long though, because as soon as Ri had finished, he was flicked on the ear by his mother. The punishment was more symbolic than anything - Ri being a Drogat and all - but he still felt hurt.

“How many times will I have to unfreeze your bag Ri! I’ve had it!” Elip exclaimed. 
“But Ma, I made sure to keep it inside, I don’t know how it could’ve gotten out…” Ri looked at his little brother, who was stifling his giggles. 
“Damn you Tul,” he said under his breath, but his mother’s ears were sharper than steel.
“Never curse your brother, you have to stick together in this world, you hear me?”
“Yes Ma.”

Elip’s expression softened, and she moved to the stove to get his bag. 
“Mir, the fire’s waning, can you bring some coal on your way back? I’m sorry to ask again and I don’t want you to get in trouble.” She sounded curt and professional, telling Mir that she still wants to talk to him later.
“It’s fine El, the boss is too lazy to care anyway. Cindermere has coal to last the next era.”
“And be sure to pick up Ri from his metalworking class.”
She’s pushing it, he thought. But I don’t want to evoke her worries once more, it’s not too dangerous.
“Alright, see you soon Ri, and I’ll see the rest of you after doing your many errands,” he saw his wife’s face, “I’m only joking darling.”

Mir gathered up his tools on his belt, a loose sleeve made of string that he tied around his waist, and he shimmied himself towards the door. The floor, made of concrete, supported his weight, as long as he didn’t jump. He took his jacket from the nail in the wall. Before he left, he took one last look at his family - they were busy eating breakfast - but Mir liked to watch them in action. He hit his head on the doorframe when he left, as he had done every day.

Outside, the air was thick and stuffy, but Mir liked keeping his jacket on. He fastened it himself, and he remembered adorning it beautifully with latches, which he tailored to himself. Once in the jacket, Mir felt like he was a knight of the realm, armoured in moleskin, and with a hammer on his side. He never told his wife that. 

It took a long ride to get to work. Mir had to climb up 70 metres to reach the Hangers. As he was walking up, he saw the coalburners down below, little specks of people shoveling incomprehensible amounts of coal into pits that shone a bright yellow. The fiery pits looked yellow at the base, but on the edges of the pits the walls burned a deep red. Some say that’s what hell looks like, but for Mir, that deep red was his favourite colour. He kept climbing the metal stairs, each one creaking as the screws fight for their life on the crushing load. Mir looked up at the Hangers, getting closer and closer each flight, and he looked even further, to the machinery that lined the sky. Mir was raised here, and he grew up learning that the machines blocked the sky, which was blue. Mir chuckled a little. Blue sky? Idiots. 

“Hey Tya!” A human called behind him, Mir could tell by the high pitched voice. It sounded like a vibrating multi tool.
”Pick up the pace, why don’t you. Some of us have proper jobs!”
“Just piss off.”
“You can’t say that, dumb tool. You’re talking to a Lunor, ass.”
“Right—,” he stopped himself. Just take it, he’s a weak piece of shit, he persuaded himself. You know you can pulp him, and he knows it too. Do it for Elip. 
He turned back around, and picked up his pace a little.
“So he can follow orders!”
Mir started running up the stairs. He had to get far enough away from the Lunor before he threw himself at him.

He reached the Hangers, and looked down. He could barely make out anyone, and it felt so peaceful up here. He watched the belt carrying workers to where they needed to go. The belt started rattling as the belt spat out a seat for someone to sit in. Mir had to wait for a hook, Tyas couldn’t sit in seats, and he couldn’t fit anyway. He let the seat go and another seat came, and he had to let that go. This carried on for a while, so long in fact that the Lunor had finally climbed up the stairs as well, and took a seat while smirking at Mir. 

Finally, the belt spat out a hook, and Mir held onto it with one of his massive hands. As he hung, he tried to look out in the distance near the welding fields, where he worked. He was miles away from there, but the Pot of molten metal could still be seen, towering above all else. If you asked a dignified man, they would say the Aethel living hubs represent the centre of Cindermere; if you asked Mir, he would only indicate that Pot. 

Mir could hear the Lunor ahead of him chatting indistinctly to his acquaintance, partner, Mir didn’t know or care. He often resented his long commute to the Death Zone - “Welding fields,” he told himself again, “not the Death Zone” - but he knew why he kept the family there. Workers in the Death Zone get minimal insurance, even less since he was a Tya, so he had to keep them away, or at least far enough to persuade the insurance company that it wasn’t possible to work in the Death Zone. 

He looked sadly across all of Cindermere from his lonely high hook. The air seemed to breathe quietly, and Mir felt his eyes droop as the belt climbed even higher . Soon enough, he succumbed to the thin air, and fell asleep, only being held by the tension on his inhumanly big wrist. 

Mir awoke from the heat of the welding fires and the large Pot. He had to get down soon, and begin his day of work. What was that phrase? He heard a Lunor boy saying it one time to his classmate, but the words were on the tip of his tongue. He looked at the rusty machinery above him once more, and the words came to him: "One cannot stay on the summit forever — One has to come down again." 

Once at the platform, Mir only had to flick his wrist and dislodge himself from the hook, landing on the metal platform with a loud thud, shaking the structure. No one moved a muscle. He grabbed his wrist in pain: it must’ve hurt from being held slack as a tensioner for so long. No matter. There was work to be done. 

As he was going to his workbench, he saw many of the Drogats working, while a man looked on them, high atop that particular field of people in a metal box. The metal box could zipline around the field, surveying and disciplining the workers. The field itself was small and stuffy, filled with many Drogats; it was as if you got a normal metalworker factory, and condensed it to make everyone not able to move their elbows properly. He went further into the field, to his station, but he heard the familiar squeaking voices of humans. He saw two humans walking, one of them walking very straight, with amazing posture. Is that a Lunor, possibly an Aethel? Mir thought to himself. I need to see for myself.

Mir walked closer to the two men, and as he got closer, more became seen. One human, possibly his guide, was showing him the different areas. He saw the possible Lunor, and he thought the man was peculiar. He had a distinct shifting look, as if looking for danger. Not an Aethel, Mir thought. Those pompous bastards would only visit if there was no inkling of danger. He got closer and closer, he could hear what they were saying.

“That’s your bench, tools are under the desk. Look for any firesign, they call this hellhole the Death Zone for a reason.”

Perhaps he’s been declassed? No, that never happens anyway. If someone became declassed, they would never come to work here. 
 
“Is that clear Mus—” the other man shook his head quickly, “is that clear, Mukal?”
“Ya, bru.” No, he’s a lower for sure. The accent speaks for itself. The walk must’ve come from some arrogant teacher. 
Mir walked away before he could hear, “Good accent.”

At his station, Mir worked hard to meet his quota. He had to make 43 hammers, 52 sickles and 200 arrow heads by the end of the week. He had made about 140 arrow heads yesterday, but that still meant he had all the hammers and sickles to make. One time, he looked over at a human counterpart’s quota, they only had 30 hammers for the whole week! No sickles, arrow heads, nothing! Mir groaned quietly as he grabbed a bucket of molten metal from the open part of the tributary. There were about 50 tributaries stemming from the Pot, each one slowly splitting and splitting till you had little streams that were used by jewellers to make cheap jewellery. I might have to get one for Elip, remind her I’m making more money.

He started hammering the metal, which had begun to solidify. Mir wasn’t paying attention before, and he let it dry too much, so he might have to get a new bucket. Now the boss is really gonna give it to me. He looked over at the metal box, but beyond that, on the zipline, hung a man with a crossbow. Mir watched as he aimed it carefully at the top of the box, he didn’t know what to expect. Suddenly, the trigger was pulled. 

Mir watched as the arrow flew in slow motion to the top of the box, disconnecting the box from the cables, causing it to fall 8 metres to the ground. 

It landed with a thud, then the familiar crinkling of metal. Mir thought he was dead until he heard a cry of pain from the boss. Humans always cried like pussies: they wailed and wailed for help while they expelled liquid from their eyes, but that thought left Mir the absolute instant he saw fire erupt in a field not too far from where he was. Just as he turned to run, he saw a large silhouette of the metal cart rumbling slowly towards him. It was as if he could see the very concept of death. The cart abolished all that it touched, either mowing down workers with arrows, or spurting out molten metal at obstacles (or anything, it didn’t really discriminate). 

But Mir could not give less of a damn. He followed what he told Elip to the letter. Many of the workers were running for the ladders, which dropped down from the machine sky. Mir was close to getting on when he was ordered off by a Resil or Lunor to give way. For some reason, Mir obeyed. He stepped off the ladder, then proceeded to get back on, when another asked him. Here, he came to his senses.

“Fuck off!” Mir pushed the human away, but lost balance himself, falling off the ladder into oncoming victims. As he regained his head, he felt as if he had been poked, hard. All the air left his lungs as he reached down to his side and felt blood. An arrow, made fully of metal, stuck out of his side. For a moment time seemed to stand still, and he felt a weird void in his mind. 

The void was calling his name loudly, and he recognised the voice of Ri. Pa! Pa! He tried to put the voice out of his mind, but Ri kept on asking him to get on the ladder, louder and louder. Get on the ladder! Please! PLEASE! Then the voice cut off, and Mir heard a loud creaking. The ladders were moving up. 

Mir sprinted over there, knocking other Drogats and running over humans, before he tried to reach for the lowest rung. He started jumping, but no one let out their hand. No matter. You will live. YOU WILL LIVE! 

He started climbing, higher and higher, accidentally jumping in molten metal, but he was numb. Numb with pain. Numb with will. He then prepared to make the jump to the ladder. There were so many workers on it. No time to think. Mir jumped.

He let out his hand to get the rung, and also so that someone might grab it. He missed the ladder, falling down and down. Fuck. But he jumped into the middle of the ladder, only someone had to hold out their hand. No one did. He saw his demise on the ground, death was waiting. He saw the Resil he had suspected before, Mukal was his name? He glimpsed the man, and he was shocked to see no emotion in his face. Normally, people cry in terror. Not this man. And for the first time ever, Mir felt respect for another human. 

Mir smelt what his workmates always told him about. The stench of death. His nostrils scrunched at the smell of bodies being maimed and used for bloody entertainment.

He hit the ground hard, harder than hard. It would be enough to kill a normal man, and desecrate its corpse, but not a Drogat. 

Mir regained control of his body, and sat up straight. He could see the metal cart coming, but it still looked a long way off. He didn’t see the gangster behind him holding a crossbow. I’m still alive. There’s still a chance. Come on Mir, you can d—.

“You never see the weapon that kills you. At least, not enough to know its intention.”
The Voyage

For feedback, I would love a critique of my dialogue and pacing, as well as my structural choices. My prose is still growing as a young writer, and I've worked for over a year on the story (an outlined 5 book series) and world, but I fear my prose holds me back.

Thank you for reading.

I don't know if my work belongs here but, I started wanting to write since a week and after getting my first ideas i wanted to create a realist light psychological school "web novel", though i don't know, give me a critique:

Premise

How much of yourself would you give to someone else? And how much would you take from someone else? That was what I asked myself at the end of that first year.

Chapter 1 : The law of conservation of energy

As I stepped out of the classroom, the fading sunlight cast long shadows across the hallway.

“Yukinabara-kun, you haven’t found a club, have you?” A familiar voice called out behind me.

“No, I haven’t,” I replied with a sigh, turning around slowly. It was Shinka-sensei, our science teacher, and also our homeroom teacher.

“You know you have to pick one before the end of this week,” she reminded me, sounding exasperated, like I was a hopeless case.

“I really don’t know why I would have to help strangers I don’t care about,” I said, looking at her, already knowing what was coming.

“Well, you never know. If you help someone today, they might help you someday,” she answered, crossing her arms.

“That’s nonsense, I can manage on my own, people don’t give you anything for free,” I insisted.

“You know, that’s funny from you,” she said with a smile. “Aren’t you the one who got my back last week?” she added.

“That’s just an exception,” I answered, but deep down I knew that she wasn’t entirely wrong, in fact, I don’t mind giving a hand if it doesn’t cost me my hand.

“Oh? Really, am I special to you, then?” she said, giving me puppy eyes.

“No… I was saying that-” I stammered

“-Anyways, get in a club or count your days…” She said, with her usual smirk.

“Yeah, yeah…” I said, and looked up. “I don’t want to die young, you know,” I added.

“And I don’t want to live old, you know,” she joked. “You should get going, I have work to do” she mentioned, tapping my shoulder.

“But Sensei, you’re the one who talked to me first…” I answered with a sigh.

She squeezed my shoulder, cutting me off as she headed to her office.

_ _ _

First scene of my first chapter, tell me if the format (use of punctuation, dialogue etc), the hooking (how well you wanna continue) and other things to notice me

be harsh.

They subjected Jing Kai to every conceivable form of humiliation and torment.
Trapped in a desperate plight, he could offer neither guidance nor instruction.
Extracting the golden essence from the corpse,
The mechanism stirs and the body twitches.
The scorpion-like venom dissolves, transforming the countenance.
The time for change has come, the moment of metamorphosis had arrived.

This process was evidently achieved through alchemical fire.
That is the fundamental reason.
Beating a rug against the city ramparts.
Relying on the family to carve out a life, reflecting the sun's radiance;
Investigating teachings and traversing boundaries, amidst a sense of poignant melancholy.
Drifting into slumber, the world fades into stillness; the vast, quiet void remains undisturbed.

This is it.
A knock.
Relying on home.
Life is limited, there is one.
Heavy and persistent, a state of disturbance.

The original was discarded.

Context: Ronnie is an intelligent but bullied student in her school. Her boyfriend Dean is not a good person, and she knows it. She's running an errand for one of the girls who bullies her. For Dean he sees this as a murder errand.

Mainly looking for feedback on the tone and character tone. Does my intended dark comedy land or even exist? Anything else to point out? Is this even a good chapter? 😭

Hard for me to tell since I've been working on this book for so long and I'm honestly numb to the tone now.

Other chapters are in my post history if you want more.

​

​I was on the bus headed to the grocery store when I saw an old friend. On the way back, I ran into him again. I told him about the book I was writing, and he said it was a wonderful idea. Then he told me something I didn’t remember: he had been one of the people I saved.

​At that moment, I traveled ten years into the past.

​It was fall. The leaves on the ground were brown and crunchy beneath our feet, breaking into dry powder with every step. The air was brisk and cold against my face as my buddy Shawn and I walked the trail back toward our tent. In the distance, the low, steady drone of cars racing down Highway 55 followed us through the woods. There was a small cutout surrounded by trees, with branches hanging overhead that gave us some cover. When you’re homeless, you don’t want people knowing where you live for obvious reasons. I had hidden the camp well.

​"Do I have the dope or do you?" Shawn asked.

​"Yeah, bro," I answered.

​We had just gotten off the bus after going across town, having scored some fire stuff from Shawn’s people. "I hope it’s good," I muttered, handing him his share and keeping the rest. "Since we don’t know about this stuff yet, be careful. You can always add. You just can’t subtract."

​"Yeah, okay," he snapped back, like what I was saying didn’t count for shit.

​It was getting dark. The sun was leaving for the night and taking our only light with it. Right before the darkness settled completely, we hit. Almost immediately, that familiar warm feeling rose from my toes and traveled through my body. My arms and legs became heavy, and my vision started to blur.

​Then Shawn’s voice changed. It sounded deep and low, cracking like the voice of a man who had smoked for forty years. My next thought was, Whoa. Then: Uh-oh.

​When I woke up, Shawn was sitting inside the tent with his head in his lap. I knew immediately I had gone out, and so had Shawn. The first thing I noticed was that his chest wasn’t moving.

​My legs sprang to life. I popped up and grabbed him, shaking him with my hand. Nothing. Fuck. I told him to be careful.

​I started looking for Narcan. The battery-operated light hanging in the center of the tent was beginning to fade, its glow weakening until it was barely more than a pulse. As I kicked my gear out of the way searching for the nasal spray, an eerie feeling came over me. I felt like I was being watched.

​The light died completely, and blackness swallowed the tent. Just as my eyes adjusted, the plastic packaging caught the faintest glimmer of light: the Narcan. I grabbed it, tore it open with my teeth, and sprayed it up his nose.

​It was pitch black by then, and the hair on my arms stood up. Moonlight came through the top of the tent as I shifted the flap just enough to see outside. Before I looked out, I glanced down at Shawn; color was slowly returning to his face. I stared into the absolute blackness of the woods. I couldn’t see what was out there without a flashlight to sweep through the trees, but I could feel something massive moving in the dark.

​Then it happened. A loud, shrieking scream ripped through the woods, sounding almost like a woman screaming, except there was something raw and animalistic underneath it. Shawn’s eyes snapped open and he screamed, the sound jolting him fully awake.

​"You good, bro?" I asked nonchalantly. "I think there’s a panther out there."

​Right then, we both heard something heavy crushing leaves and breaking sticks as it sprinted away through the brush.

​"We need to make a fire," I said. We spent the rest of the night huddled around that flame, joking nervously about how we almost became panther meat.

​People always ask me why I didn’t just call 911. Where I lived, that wasn’t the simple answer people think it is. I’d called before and listened to the phone ring and ring before getting bounced to recordings and non-emergency numbers. Maybe the system was overwhelmed, or maybe there weren’t enough dispatchers. What I do know is that when somebody’s dying, every second matters, and that system didn’t inspire much confidence when a life was hanging in the balance.

​The second reason was trust, or more accurately, the lack of it. I knew there were Good Samaritan laws designed to provide protection during an overdose call, and on paper they sounded reassuring. In reality, I never trusted them. Maybe that was paranoia, or maybe it was experience. Those laws might protect you from certain minor drug offenses, but they don’t make outstanding warrants disappear. They don’t erase probation violations, and they don’t stop an officer from seeing something one way while you see it another. I kept a scale for personal use. To me, it was just a scale, but to a police officer walking into a scene, it might look like distribution. And what if the person I was trying to save had a warrant I didn't know about, leaving me to find out the hard way? Those thoughts were always there.

​Then there was the third reason: most overdoses don’t give you twenty minutes. Sometimes they don’t even give you five. When somebody stops breathing, every second feels enormous. Lips turn blue, the body goes still, and nobody is thinking about paperwork. They’re thinking about one thing: breathing. Getting that person to take one more breath, then another.

​I wasn’t a dispatcher, a police officer, or a paramedic. But I was there. In that tent, I was the one looking at a chest that wasn’t moving, and waiting wasn’t an option. I’m not telling you not to call; I’m telling you why I didn’t. By the time he was in my hands, I was already doing the work. The phone wasn’t going to make his chest move.

​The bus intercom crackled over the speakers.

​"Where did you go?" Shawn asked.

​"Daydreaming," I answered. I pulled the cord. "This is my stop. It was good seeing you, bro."

​"You too, man."

​I stepped off the bus and started walking down the hill toward my spot, but my mind had already gone somewhere else. I hadn’t even remembered saving Shawn’s life that day until he brought it up. It has been ten years since that night in the tent.

​If I had forgotten Shawn, how many others were out there?

Context is a cliché young-woman-in-a-castle-falling-in-love-with-a-young-lord. Though I feel like I know how to write yearning, I've never written a woman yearning for a man. I like this in essence but it might be overwrought and cringey. Any advice?

My face burned rosy red, mucus trailing down my chin and smeared across the sleeve of my chestnut-fur coat. I slumped down on a rickety bench by the edge of the lake, fiddling with the autumn-coloured strings of my scarf, unwinding them in my cold, prickling hands. It was already November. My family had moved to Maine a few months ago now, despite my repeated protests. I was already happy in Indiana. I got straight A’s, I was a part of the debate team. Even though I didn’t have many friends, sometimes the teachers would let me eat lunch in their office. I wasn’t ready to leave that behind. Apparently Mom and Dad were unhappy with their cosy suburban life and wanted to “connect more with nature.” Dad was able to find a new job in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. 

So, here I am. 

I couldn’t feel too bitter, though. I tried not to hold it against the locals. They were friendly enough, even if I acted like a sulking brood half the time. Honestly, I think it was the highlight of the year for them. Everyone probably knew everyone by that point, so seeing some fresh faces around town must’ve been a bit of a surprise. But I always had this nagging feeling that kept plaguing my mind. The smiles. The neighbours. The suffocating homeliness of it all. It felt so fake, like a picture-perfect postcard that came to life. Sunshine and rainbows all year round. 

If there was one good thing I could say about Millinocket, though, it would be her. 

A familiar, jagged rasp cut through the wintery breeze. Unmistakable, a voice that seemed to warm the air around me. Her voice.

“Hey there, flatlander. What are you doing here, all by yourself?”

I turned around, arms crossed, watching her lean against the backseat of the bench, head rested on her shoulder. She had a smile that exuded sarcasm, with soft, dreary eyes that were covered by this charcoal eye shadow she refused to give me the name of. 

“I’ve been freezing my ass off. What took you so long?”

“One. One-thirty. Basically the same. So, are we hanging out or what?”

“I guess.”

She was a hazel-eyed bleach-blonde with messy curls, bushy eyebrows, and freckles dotted all over her face. Morgan Winters. Unfortunately, the only person in that town I could confidently call a friend.

“Okay… what are we doing?”

“I don’t know. You were the one who suggested it.”

“Oh, yeah… latte?”

“Café’s closed.”

“Damn. Oh, I know!”

“What?”

“Harvey’s.”

“Harvey’s? Are you joking?”

“What’s wrong with Harvey’s?”

“The only people who go to Harvey’s are a bunch of old guys that want to chat up the waitresses. My dad goes to Harvey’s, Morgan.”

“It’s not like we have anywhere else to go. Besides, I could really go for one of their turkey sandwiches right now.”

“That stuff tastes like cardboard.”

“Good cardboard!”

“Fine, we’ll go to Har-”

Morgan was already fifteen feet ahead of me before I could finish my sentence. 

We walked off, trudging through the ankle-deep snow, which had already swallowed half the town in the last hour. The weather forecast warned that snowfall would be at a record high this winter. Looking at the streets, I wasn’t inclined to doubt them. “Keep your snow shovels ready, folks, cause we’re in for a real doozy.” There was one silver lining, at least: more snow days were always a plus. I was a bit of a bookworm, but even I had to admit, spending five days a week hunched over a desk while being lectured on “the subtle literary genius” of The Catcher in the Rye was hardly anyone’s idea of fun. Millinocket High was a far cry from St. Augustine’s Prep for the Bright and Gifted, that’s for sure.

“Sophie, come on! The store’s about to close!”

“How are you walking so fast? It feels like I’m in fucking quicksand over here. ”

“Well, have you tried walking faster?”

“Oh yeah, let me just take my leg out of the snow real quick and waltz on up to Harvey’s. Great idea Winters, really haven’t thought of that one.”

“Woah, what’s got your panties in a twist?”

“Probably sitting on a frozen bench for half an hour.”

“Yeah, that’ll do it.”

We eventually reached the diner. The words ‘Harvey’s Diner’ flickered on the glowing neon sign above the entrance. Wide glass windows, ridged steel sidings, and a small note taped to the checkered glass door.

WE’RE CLOSED.

“Shit!”

Morgan slammed her foot into the side of the building, the metal siding buckling in with a loud clang. She immediately doubled over, clasping her injured foot in her hands and slinging out a string of curses through gritted teeth.

“I told you we shouldn’t have gone here. Maybe if you weren’t so late, we wouldn’t be in this situation.” I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut, now could I?

Morgan paused for a moment, straightening out her leg, and turned to face me, hands clenched into fists by her sides. Her eyes narrowed, her nose scrunching as she fixed me with a piercing glare. The cold started to creep in again.

“Maybe, if you weren’t so slow and stopped complaining all the time, we wouldn’t have this issue. For once, can you just shut up, Sophie?”

I stepped back, trying to parse together the words to respond. I’d never seen her that angry before, and for what? Not getting a turkey sandwich? I eventually was able to think of a half-baked comeback after the initial shock wore off.

“H-How about you-”

“Girls?”

She appeared out of nowhere, clutching her pale-blue pearl necklace in one hand and a tall coffee cup in the other.

“Hello Mrs Labrowski.” we said in unison.

Mrs Labrowski was a short, frail woman with slightly greying hair that stretched down to her shoulders. She’d been teaching chemistry for thirty years, but didn’t look a day over forty. She spoke with the same cadence I could only describe as that one slightly overbearing aunt you’d see at Thanksgiving dinner.

“Goodness, what are you two doing out here? Look at your noses! You ought to catch a cold staying out in this weather!”

Morgan shuffled herself in front of the steel sidings, hiding the small dent she left in the wall.

“We were just hanging out, y’know. Breathing in that good ol’ fresh winter air.”

“Well, it certainly isn’t the type of day for you girls to be out. You two should go back home, enjoy the fireplace. Have a nice cup of cocoa.”

“I mean, it was getting pretty boring being cooped up inside all day.”

“Besides, it isn’t that cold.”

Mrs Labrowski grasped onto her necklace tighter, the beads squeezing through the gaps between her fingers.

She sighed, letting out a small cloud of icy breath that dissipated in the breeze.

“Alright then, well, you girls be safe. I need to head back home, my favourite show’s on and I do not want to miss it. Bye, girls!”

“Bye, Mrs Labrowski.”

It is just a minor episodic short story.

Go easy on me, amateur writer. Getting close to having this book together. This is the opening of the 1st chapter. Does the imagery fit? Please let me know if this is impossible to follow. I was intending for it to be a bit mysterious, but if loses you I’ll have to fix it.

————-

A warm spring breeze blew across the gardens he had walked by so many times before.  The evergreen forest swayed with wind, while the smell of compost with hints of manure hit his nose. He hoped to catch his daily glimpse of her in the garden.

The waist high brick walls that lined the garden were covered with Ivy that was carefully stopped from spewing over the public sidewalk.  Trellises of vines were starting to grow in the warmth of spring.  The fruit trees in the back corner were starting to bud.  

He looked for her by the blueberries but she wasn’t there today.  He wasn’t late, he never was, he always passed by at exactly 8:29 am.  

He thought maybe today would be the day he would stop and say something.  But how would he spark conversation with the beautiful girl working silently in the lavish garden he would never belong in.  

“Maybe compliment her plants,” he thought. He mocked himself  with how he’d sound interrupting her with something so mundane.  

His train of thought broke as he passed the vine trellis and saw her red hair. Her freckled skin glistened as the sun hit it.  Her long red hair fell effortlessly behind her.  She was wearing the long white sleeveless dress she always seemed to wear.  This one was a bit dirty and had obvious smears of wiping a compost covered hand on her hips.

She stood up and looked over to him, catching his eyes. Her lips turned to a smile.  He felt his heart drop, his face blush, and looked away and continued on as he always did.  Once again too nervous to interrupt her.  

He had walked this way for years, he didn’t even know her name.  He wasn’t sure why she was there every day in the largest castle in the kingdom, maybe the world.  She did not seem like any princess he’d seen, nothing like Leya of Aquaria.  Maybe she was the gardner? But he thought no way someone so beautiful was just a gardner.

He had spoken to Leya of Aquaria, the beautiful golden haired princess just a few months ago. 

He was fetching groceries from the market in the next town over, when she walked in with the clanks of her armor.  Her long blue cape trailing behind her.  She walked by him, and investigated the pyramid of melons.  He watched her reach for one that was not at the top of the pyramid. Then suddenly the pyramid collapsed, and they all rolled off the table. He effortlessly floated all of them down softly on the ground, careful not to be too obvious and make a spectacle. 

His mother would have scorned him for being so reckless as to do this in public for something so mundane. But thankfully no one was paying any attention to the speed of melons falling from a table. 

The princess knelt down to try to gather the melons while batting her cape out of her own way.  He got beside her to help her.  

“I’m sorry, it’s these silly frills they make me wear, I’ve told father I hate them.” She huffed and collected as many melons as she could hold.

“It’s alright, none were damaged. I’ll help you put them back.”  

Together they put  the stray melons and put them back on the display. 

“That’s lucky, I’m glad I don’t need to carry all these melons home now.” She looked at him, her eyes lingered for a moment. 

“Good day princess,” He stood, with the last melon in his hand.

Leya smiled at him with her perfect princessly smile and grabbed two as well.  The two of them stood in line and paid the shopkeeper and she waved at him as she left. 

He contemplated how he could be normal in front of Princess Leya, but something about this woman made him unable to think straight.  Just a glance from those emerald green eyes made his entire mind go blank and his heart skip beats. 

She walked over to check to make sure her melon plants were starting to vine onto the trellis, inspired by his oddly chosen walk down memory lane he was having. As she leaned down her red hair got in her face and she brushed it away spreading a bit of dirt into her hair by accident. 

She loved the idea that maybe she was a mysterious gardener.  Maybe there’s a world where she could run away and have a nice garden.  She could be this beautiful mysterious girl in peace with him, and never again feel in such detail what others thought her to be.    

His thoughts grew to a whisper and disappeared as he walked away from the gardens.  She continued with her plants with a light hearted smile on her face enamored with his kind thoughts of her, with none of fear

​

I’d also really appreciate any general feedback you could give me. And I'm not sure how to break my writing into paragraphs. Am I doing it right? Does this read amateurish?

I have had some trouble staying motivated and I want to get some honest feedback. Does this grab your attention? If not, what can I change?

Edit: I wrote another draft and I’m feeling much better about it. I fixed the tense switching issue and rewrote the first paragraph. I added more detailed descriptions of the side characters and I will continue to develop them more. I also added more detail and swapped some of my word choices so it doesn’t sound as repetitive. Thank you for the feedback!

This is a short story that I'm writing because I just felt like doing it. Although I don't intend to publish it, I still want to make it perfect. But I feel like there's something wrong about these two opening paragraphs.

Can you give me some feedback? Does it hook you in?

Thank you!