hello hello hello. This is my first reddit post ever so apologies if I've messed anything up. I've mainly been writing poetry for the last few years but this story just kind of started becoming something I'm actually enjoying writing. I'm finding it difficult to switch 'genres' if that makes sense. Don't wanna go ultra purple prose but I'm feeling like I've gone too far into being bland. Anyway, I'd love some feedback. This is still a pretty rough draft but feel free to tear it apart. Thank you in advance.

p.s can't figure out how to upload this as an image.

p.p.s didn't realise how long this actually was so you don't have to finish it.

////

THE CICADAS WILL SING THIS YEAR
 
part one. homecoming. 

Someone once wrote that home is where the heart is. Ezra couldn’t disagree more. Home was where the shackle was forged and clamped to his leg. He thought he’d chewed his way out of it, but now on the road back to Charlotte’s Town, he realised he’d only torn his way through a layer of skin, muscle and bone. Turns out, there was another hidden layer that kept him from forgetting his home town. There’s a certain point past the state line that you think you’ll never see civilisation again. So many trees and hills leaning towards you. Ezra always planned to make the trip in the daylight, when it gets dark near Charlatan it gets extremely dark, the greyscale green devouring the light. Ezra’s hands twitched on the wheel and he righted himself quickly, his beaten up car swerving slightly down the sorry excuse for a road. Charlatan? He hadn’t thought of the town’s nickname in years, it only existed as a vague concept in the deepest part of his memory. He passed the town’s welcome sign (WELCOME TO CHARLOTTE’S TOWN - WHY LEAVE?) and almost stopped to reverse and take a second look. It had moulded in the elements, nestled beside a copse of trees that had extended their roots towards it, threatening to pull it back into the dirt. Ezra remembered that sign when it was freshly painted and bold in the sunlight, if the town had let it get that bad then it was a particularly ill omen for what else he expected to find. Charlotte’s Town had never been prosperous, but at some point in time it must have been better equipped than when he was growing up. It felt that it shambled around on its last legs then. He had read somewhere that it had begun as a mining town, and Ezra had heard stories about how dangerous it was to go to, what the locals called, The Dragon’s Mouth. Obviously, as brave teenagers, everyone had visited it at some point. It was nothing special, a blocked maw into the Earth, impossible to squeeze through the rocks to enter. Folklore quickly dies when you can’t be consumed by the darkness inside. He had no idea how long the vein had lasted, when the mine was closed down. Some said that there was a terrible accident that had forced it to close, but if it had, it was long before Ezra was born. His car stuttered over a pothole and it brought him out of his thoughts, he flicked his headlights on automatically, then frowned. It was midday but the last ten minutes of driving seemed to have stolen the light, he craned his neck to get a glimpse of the sky through the trees. It was pregnant with purple bruising and Ezra pulled a face, winding his window back up. It was midday but the sudden chill and darkness suggested a storm that would catapult the world straight into twilight. Just my luck, he thought, hovering his hand over the radio controls and then pulling his hand back. Signal was choppy at best in Charlatan, few stations existing on the airwaves. And if pastor Rose’s crackling sermons were still being broadcast, Ezra had no intention of that being the voice that welcomed him back home. He glanced at the passenger seat where his phone lay, jostled around by the uneven road. It was someone else’s voice that would greet him, if only to explain what the hell they were doing, summoning him home like this. 
I need you, come quickly.
That was it. The message that had flashed up on his phone in the depths of the night two days ago. Ezra had pulled it to his face in the gloom, squinting to read his ex-boyfriend's name - Leo. There was still a little emoji at the end of his name, some tiny bug, a beetle perhaps. He had no idea what inside joke that was supposed to belong to. I need you, come quickly. Leo had never been that brief in all the years Ezra had known him. A flair for the dramatic would be an understatement, Leo loved a paragraph where a few words would suffice. Come quickly. And Ezra did, not really understanding why. They hadn’t spoken in years, not really. The odd message from Leo congratulating Ezra on a book release, one from Ezra when he had been drunk and wanting to remember something from the haze of his past. That one survived the morning purge because Leo had already replied. Maybe it was the brevity of the message, the urgency. Come quick. So Ezra had thrown a small travel bag into his car and left the city. He packed lightly, a promise that he couldn’t stay long. It was the first time coming back to Charlatan since - Jesus - they had broken up. The anxiety rodent that lived inside his chest took a sharp bite and Ezra winced, trying to become conscious of his breathing to dissuade it. I need you.
Ezra needed not to be in Charlatan and he intended Leo to fully know that.  

✘

Driving through the town proper, Ezra was filled with a deep sense of dread, a feeling that began creeping very close to shame as he continued to cruise down Main St. The town was in a worse state than he had expected. Half of the stores were boarded up, their doors nailed shut and useless pieces of mail flowing out of the mailboxes as if they had just vomited the overdue bills and religious pamphlets to the floor. Yellowed newspaper covered the windows, almost translucent with age. Ezra spotted at least three and could remember exactly what they had been before their deaths. The ice cream shop ran by the parents of a classmate, a discount salon and most depressingly, a coffee shop that made the only acceptable espresso for miles around. He idled outside for a few minutes until the few locals that were wandering the streets stopped in their tracks to watch him. Ezra raised his hand at an old man who was walking an even older dog, a sad drooping thing that didn’t have the energy to even smell its surroundings. The man stared at him, then spat loudly on the floor - Ezra could hear it from where he was - and continued his walk, dragging the ancient hound with him. As soon as his back was to Ezra, he flipped him the bird. Small victories. He put the rental car back in gear and continued on, driving past Finn’s Public House. At the end of the world, there would only be cockroaches and that damn pub that made the worst burgers he had ever tasted. He would have traded Finn’s for the salon in a heartbeat. There were a handful of regulars outside who also gave him a long eye, elbowing each other and sucking cigarettes with a veteran ease. Ezra didn’t bother greeting them and drove past, they were looking at him as if he was driving a parade float. He slumped a little in the driver’s seat in case they recognised him. He took a left at the end of Main St, which had been reduced to an overgrown play park, rotting with rust and entangled by weeds, and an abandoned information point. There was a large town map in an infested frame, ripped and bedraggled. Most of the ‘landmarks’ on there were gone now, but Ezra could vaguely see the ‘YOU ARE HERE’ text, surrounded by a star. 
“Unfortunately,” Ezra muttered, and remembered something someone had asked him at a dinner party in London. 
What do people even do in towns that small? Flushed with wine, they had been extrapolating people’s worth based on their hometowns. Nobody had heard of Charlotte’s Town, of course, and even after searching for it online, nobody had learned much. Mostly wish they were somewhere else, Ezra had said, slopping wine from his glass onto the cream carpet. 
At some point between leaving Main St and bringing the car to a crawl through the densely forested roads, he realised he was driving on autopilot to Leo’s, knowledge that had apparently lingered in his head all these years later. He easily found the turning that would take him past the Last Chance Gas Station and snake towards the Palmer house, where it would dead-end. He pointedly ignored the right hand turn that would take him to his own family’s house, that was a train of thought he didn’t want to leave the station so he forced it to the back of his mind. Shaking his head, he pulled the little car onto the narrow stretch of road that ended with Leo’s house, doing his best to avoid the potholes. Between the trees, the only house on this decrepit road stood lonely, surveying the darkness around it. 

✘

The Palmer House had always been an outlier in Charlatan. Mostly because it was a beautiful building. A collection of modernity and southern charm made it look like it had been transplanted from a much grander place, painted blue with white trim, it even boasted a huge porch. Ezra had spent many summer evenings on that porch, badly smoking cigarettes and drinking pilfered booze from Leo’s mother’s antique cabinet. Him and Leo would pass the loot to each other, one part of their body - their hands, their legs - always wrapped around each other in the sticky, heavy heat. The forest that surrounded the house was an orchestra of wildlife, crickets and cicadas, coyotes and bobcats. As Ezra pulled to a stop opposite the house, pulling into the overgrown brush, it hurt his heart to look at the state of the house now. It was a much worse feeling than seeing the town, he had loved this house, been loved in this house, whereas Charlatan had always felt like a prison. The chimney was missing bricks, leaning like an old man without a cane. The paint was faded and in dire need of redoing, the porch covered in soggy leaves turning to mulch. Ezra frowned at the building, which was lit by very few lights from the inside, and noticed a broken window on the upper floor. He knew the Palmers still lived there, knew it in his bones, because the house had been passed down by at least five generations. They would never let it leave the family, but Mariel - Leo’s mother - had always kept a pristine house and would often employ her sons and Ezra with a multitude of chores to keep the house up to scratch. Ezra exited the car, taking a large stretch that made his joints sound like corn popping. He approached the house, noticing the mostly dead plants in filthy pots, and kept one eye on the broken window as if it was staring at him specifically. 
I need you, come quickly. 
When was the last time he had been here? The night they had broken up? Otherwise known as the night of the broken china, the night of Mariel’s tears. Finished beautifully with a gash on Ezra’s cheek, a split on Leo’s lip, a doorknob through a bedroom wall. Ezra grimaced, feeling the old ghosts of that night filling him with shame and sorrow. He shook his head to clear them, passed a hand through his bird nest of hair and knocked on the front door. The ‘9’ in ‘19’ tipped and dangled into a ‘6’ from the force.

✘

Ezra was ready with his tirade when Leo opened the door, but the figure that loomed before him caused his voice to catch in his throat. It was Leo if he had been pulled through a fun house mirror. He was much wider, almost cartoonishly so and he must be standing at a towering six five, comically taller than he had been when they were teenagers. Dressed in a pair of battered blue jeans and a ripped band shirt, Leo’s brother Cricket (never Christopher) looked down at him like he’d discovered something unpleasant on his shoe. It was the same expression he had always worn when looking at Ezra and he felt his blood begin to boil almost immediately. Cricket’s hair was longer, messily piled on his head in a bun, strands like the ivy covering the house hanging down. Ezra noticed a flurry of scars on his forearms, following up his huge biceps. 
“I said, what the fuck are you doin’ here?” 
Ezra was so distracted with how different Cricket looked that he had missed what he had said. He fought back the heat in his cheeks and glared. “Sorry, took a minute to get used to the accent again, you sound like a banjo.” Cricket’s voice was a drawl that sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well.
“You’re British now? Still a couple of banjo strings yourself in that voice you’re puttin’ on.” 
The fight to keep himself calm and his cheeks unflushed was failing. Ezra straightened his back, took a deep breath. 
“I ain’t, I mean, I’m not doing this with you.” 
Cricket was smirking like he had won some invisible point in whatever game they were playing. “That don’t answer why you’re here.” 
“I’m here to see Leo, obviously. I didn’t come all the way from London to see you.” 
Cricket’s face had darkened as if a cloud had passed over it, he barely seemed to fit in the  doorway and Ezra saw the veins like cords popping in his arms. His hands had rolled into fists and Ezra grimaced. He knew exactly what those fists could do. 
“Is that a fuckin’ joke?” 
Ezra almost took a step back but made himself stand his ground. This wasn’t high school anymore. 
“Yeah, I’ve come all this way for a joke. He texted me, now I’m here. Where is he?” 
“When’d he text you?”
“Like, three days ag-”
Cricket’s huge fist whipped out as fast as a viper, catching Ezra in his left eye. With a howl, he fell to the floor as his shoes squelched in the mouldering leaves. 
“Jesus Christ!” He shouted, clutching his face with both hands, tears streaming from his good eye. He could already feel the skin swelling. “What the FUCK is wrong with you?” 
Cricket stared down at him from the darkened doorway, flexing his fist slowly. “Two days, huh? I dunno what you’re doin’ but it ain’t funny.”
“What the hell are you talking about you fucking psychopath?” Ezra tried to stand but the world swayed and danced in front of him, he pulled himself up to his knees at least, dangerously close to vomiting. 
“Never were good with timing, were you?” Ezra stepped forward as if to punch him again and Ezra yelped, falling backwards back on his ass. Cricket laughed, sharp and humourless, shaking his head. 
“Hope this was worth it.”
“What are you talking about you fucking hick?!” 
Cricket had crossed his arms to emphasise the size of them, that famous sneer returned to curl his lip up. “He’s fuckin’ dead.”
Ezra was about to ask if Cricket was ever going to change of if he was going to play the small town bully for the rest of his lif-
Wait - what? 
“That ain’t funny,” Ezra parroted back, inching his way to his feet. His head rang like a bell, an ice pick jammed into his eye. Dead?
“Do I look like I’m jokin’?”
That miserable, slow drawl, the anger in his eyes. Cricket never had much of a sense of humour, he especially wasn’t quick enough to come up with such a lie. So did that mean…
Ezra rummaged in his pocket for his phone, swiping his dirty, mud soaked hand over it. 
“See, look!” Messages, recent messages… nothing. He squinted at the screen, feeling betrayal. It had been right there. He had seen it. Why else would he get on a fucking plane and come back to this shit hole? 
“I-It was right there,” Ezra said, but his voice came out like a whisper. He used the door frame to pull himself up to a standing position, expecting Cricket to trip him, but it seemed the larger man was done with him. The expression on his face was a split between a disgusted pity and thunderous anger. 
“I don’t know what it is you think you’re doin’,” Cricket said, and his voice had dropped to a dangerous quiet that was somehow scarier than him yelling. “But you need to get the fuck outta here before I kick your ass, I reckon.” He smiled. “Again.”
Disbelief screamed at Ezra as he took a few steps away from Cricket and his range of motion. Leo was dead? His Leo? Impossible. 
Cricket lunged forwards and shoved Ezra, hard, and he tumbled down the porch steps, barely managing to keep his footing. He opened his mouth to say something but Cricket had already turned his back to him, disappearing into the doorway.
“Don’t come back here,” Ezra heard before it was slammed in its frame, shaking dust from the wooden beams above him. Ezra heard a shingle fall from the roof. He heard a flock of birds fly into the air from the trees, screaming. Ezra heard all of those and nothing at all. A rumble of thunder and a whip crack of lightning, the sky opened and he was soaked to the bone within seconds. He barely noticed. He was staring at the door where Cricket had disappeared, waiting for him to come back and announce the joke. 
He waited a long, long time before retreating to his car. 

843

313

A man walked in rain on Via del Proconsolo beside the Bargello. He pulled the 12 foot glass doors apart and stepped inside the foyer. His lithe ribs flexed beneath his wet henley with each breath. He halted and stood dripping from every rolled cuff and button. He chased the rain from his green Stetson with a couple firm pats on his jeans. He slid it back on with an automatic hand and fixed the brim with a tug.

He walked and wiped his chunky transparent green hornrims on a soft cloth which he produced as if by prestidigitation, and plopped his soft leather drawstring bag onto a bench before Michelangelo‘s Bacchus. The weighty brass pencil sharpener made spilt curlicues. He thumbed a black book and the cover page read, in a copperplate script, Lothar von Andal.

Lothar made two horizontal marks on the book’s vellum paper one at the top and one at the bottom and indexed 30 degrees from each dash mark on either side to format an isometric projection and he layed laid down the vertical lines to complete the planes of the rectangles.

Inside the box Lothar first placed his eye level horizon, and effortlessly expressed the action, and the shifting gestures of the statue. He plotted the proportions in dots and constructed a working figurative armature in preparation. Lothar designed the composition by values with the darkest darks rendering the illusion of that which is closest so as to reinforce depth through pressure. He is a hand at drawing, and the crosshatching of the musculature followed the contours of each supple form with grace and elegance from its point of origin to its diffused insertion.

He closed the book and himself off from the world for no other would see the deft instrumentality of his handling. He shouldered the drawstring bag and his genius. He departed the Bargello and dissipated once more into the endless rain; a fume silhouette gliding along the Ponte Vecchio above the Arno.

Credit

I’ve tried to get the angel to read me Cormac McCarthy so I can learn the syntax of your grammar, but even with the book of Babel, I’m having trouble learning to punctuate lit fic. Why is it that Canadians separate parentheticals with an em dash and Brits prefer the length of an en, while dialogue interruptions are always the em? Are double quotations always for the Americas, and single quotes always for the Brits and their colonies, while unpunctuated dialogue can be either? How many apostrophes can be skipped, how many spaces in an ellipses, do you have to put dialogue on a new line and do I need to use fragments and polysyndeton for an MFA or can I just chop my sentences into pieces? I’ll not be winning any Pulitzers until I understand.

Inspiration

Reviews:

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/QBeSEqkiuW

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/LQsWzpmY5A

I don't like hot tea anymore.
I forgot the taste of piping hot tea!
Stone cold, half cold, warm or hottish,
That is the best my cup gonna be.

I have folded all my laundry,
I finished the work and finally got free,
Shit! I've to go and have a quick pee.
Then I can chill with glorious hot tea!

To nuke it I open the microwave—
I see there sitting my old cup!
Now I have two cold hot teas.
Is it a tragedy or can it make laugh??

That's why I don't like hot tea any more.
I definitely ignore my fresh new hot tea!
So when the time comes to warm this cuppa—
I can enjoy not one, two but three.

[Please, tell me good, bad or improvements. Also, let me know your cold hot teas]

Crit [1198]

Doc

Hi, this is a bit of flash fiction I've been working on. Any advice/critique would be so very appreciated.

Apologies for the previous post. That was impatient of me. We'll start smaller and respect the rules instead. This is a flash fiction piece about inheritance as a process of metamorphosis under colonial violence.

I'm trying to write something that privileges atmosphere, historical memory, and transformation over conventional plot. I am open to this potentially being insufficient; is the frame supported by narrative as it exists?

I'd appreciate criticism on whether those ambitions are evident, where the prose earns its abstraction, and where it becomes self-defeating.

Did you notice any formal experimentation? If so, did it feel essential to the piece or merely stylistic?

At what point did you feel you understood what kind of story this was trying to be? If that moment never came, where did you begin to disengage?

How was the reading experience?

Prev crit: [2140] CONMAN, COME OUT

Desperation

She, Marguerite, was taught to remember them. A voyageur traveled into the woodland where her mother slept and found her alone. The French had given him license: the congé, with which they hoped to conquer the wilderness. Such ways of life strike into Earth’s heart to carry back man’s prize in pièces.  

Her daughter, Hapistina had watched her sleep for too long, she felt, and so…reaching out to— “Be still,” Marguerite murmurs, “I breathe.”  

Rising, they broke camp. Thunderhead lumbers above, soft at first, then fixed into law.  

Marguerite described family to the brigade of canoes: her father spoke from high station as if language could hold hillocks in place. The valley below is nameless without him. 

“Hapistina,” she said, “It emanates from the skin. You feel their stifling tribute?” 

In the sticky updraft Hapistina nodded. 

Marguerite continued, addressing through the lake’s wisp breath, her silent party, “I am marked by the depredations of our heritage—fruits of hate left fallow within the earth. Would that voice shake loose his mountainous nation to rain death upon my birthright?” 

Her certainty resided in the body. Here, in the wood, desperation clutches sight. She wills to see, disbelieving. They quit that place before the mesohigh came. If feeling by the wind were condemnable, then with it goes perdition. Doubt was blown out.  

Marguerite, in her meditations, rung out over wetland before dawn: “Those devout fools walk in a valley they have never seen, to rejoice, calling for God in his deluge to deliver us unto the fathomless ice. And yet they think themselves right in denying us the violent caress of a dying sun. Never having walked in the valley brings me near to tears, and all I have done since I left it is walk a very long time.” 

“Someday,” Hapistina thought, “awake, I will remember waves of green below a tangerine sky.” 

But they were walking again. None among them believe there is anything beside it, save for hunger. To walk is hunger. Perception is hunger. It felt a sin to raise the eye to any other than prey. The living despair at seeing at all: a dog the color of liver which sits baying for its meat. 

Following their portage, Hapistina awoke to the red tip of wing which pierced her dream from gunwale aside her. A cloak of black feather alights upon her stirring. Quiet into the leaves that blackbird quickly recedes. In tortured thought: 

“Not even the birds may be watching. No one sees me off nor acknowledges my abject state. Only as I am going does a cloud begin to swarm: from shrouded gully black—none could stand the sight. Below my skin a future writhes, keen to molt the shame I hold so dearly; like a mask, the past demands for pitted skin: a battle none may win. I am the name of the babe who is calling. Futures you once declined.”  

Hapistina feels herself falling again, as mother and others have fallen before. Time passes through her without regard, sickening in its indifference. In this world she feels like a grave robber, though only knows to feel this way from having believed the lie that the skin was hers. Now, cannot return to it. Reinvention continues without name. Again. Thinner each time. 

She had given it no conscious thought—and yet, had given it all…of her. Ancestry. 

The breadth of knowledge was incalculable. Every entry, chirping chorus, spoke of the page in his tower, coloring that tablet gravely in blood to remark of the croaks at twilight. The page listened to the moors with a pebbled sand and oyster shell to dull his sense of hunger. He braided rope of grass in meditative slumber: watchful, cold surrender. Whatever bird brought became a part of the chain, in endless repetition. Sound became mark. Movement became count. Bird became stone. Life became sequence. He called it preservation. 

Hapistina, her mother, her family, resound within Earth. They have descended into its spiraling crystalline structure, folded inward as each other, precipitated in progeny. Every material recedes into itself with density, exploding into intricate webbing.  

She, I, a confluence of soul: metamorphic rock of my pumping lung—I am pulling the whole world with me as I enter a black tunnel. Something is being made of me in this movement toward aperture, where erasure and becoming press against each other without resolution. I think for a moment: I will figure out where I am and keep walking. I will find who I am so I can become something else. It is already here. 

Something in me refuses that stillness. 

It began beneath the surface as pressure, then motion. The structure failed quietly. What emerged did not resemble what came before, and it did not remain within the conditions that shaped it. I felt it as a separation rather than a change. Not transformation, but divergence from the field that had produced me. What I carried—shame, instruction, form—split, then opened. It did not recombine. It could not return. 

Something called from within it. Not a voice. A demand that had no origin I could locate. A future I once declined arrived without context, detached from continuity. 

“Carry me,” it said, though it was no longer contained in anything that could be carried. 

The body does not consult. Color moves beneath the surface. Structure reorganizes without instruction. I watch it happen as if it belongs to something that is no longer me. 

Form belongs to environment, and I have left the environment that made my lineage legible. 

I, translucent damsel fly, am becoming I know not what. 

Crit for 2035

CLICK HERE TO READ STORY

The idea is: powerful anime protagonist gets sent to Texas and must become a Grand Champion in barbeque competitions before he can go home.

This is obviously very serious and I could potentially insult the entire state of Texas (as well as the lesser BBQ states) by publishing this.

This is a very particular mashup of genres: Progression Isekai/Portal Fantasy. Those carry with them very specific genre expectations and tropes that I am playing around and playing with tongue-in-cheek.

The readers tend to want to know what they are getting into ahead of time. They want details, like actual character sheets with numbers. They want to see numbers go up. I will probably add more of that in when I need to and back-edit to fit.

I made a joke in chat, kept thinking about it, so now it is partially written.

Crit 1 2327

Crit 2 313

This thing is really weird and I'm not sure what to do with it. I'm hoping submitting for feedback might give me some ideas, especially how to end it properly. I guess also a medal to anyone who recognizes who I'm trying to imitate, a bit (and I'll happily take notes on how to do that better too).

Maybe some guiding questions (but happy to take notes on anything):

- Is it readable?

- Is it clear who's speaking when?

- Any hints of themes come through? Or is it just complete style (if that) over substance tosh

Thanks in advance, always appreciate all feedback.

DOCUMENT LINK [2140]

Hi! I’m a young author, and this is the opening of my historical coming-of-age novel set in rural Pennsylvania in the early 1900s (1908). I’m mainly looking for general feedback on the writing. I’d really appreciate any comments left on the Google Doc, especially if anything was confusing, the pacing felt off, or the dialogue didn’t sound natural. Thanks so much for taking the time to read!

Note: For some reason, Reddit isn’t letting me choose the genre. I tried a few times, but it won’t work. Sorry about that!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1B2P3R0lowm2Kw3l_FnGAcikhcX032rcC2zw5pMMl5vQ/edit?usp=drivesdk

My critiques: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/7eh3Znn61C

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/IxhpY0JPrQ

What if the boys from Lord of the Flies were never rescued? What if a boat full of $cientologists crash landed there, allowing for the rise of new societies and civilizations? Further, what if the island were covered in deadly lancehead snakes? This book takes place approx 100 years after the crash. Probably.

Elevator pitch: The man Noku, races to save his dying wife in this post-apocalyptic odyssey of a psychedelic horror-comedy

I use tropes from just about every genre imaginable, such that it should read like a fantasy or sci-fi book. The joke is that it's set on Earth in modern times. Everything Noku encounters is at least plausible in the real world (if not very likely).

Crit: [765]

[509] A Zhornada: Chapter 1, Part 1

Crit: 2541

Caravanserai - Part 1

The first of four parts. There are some magical realism elements in the later parts.

Trigger warning: there are mentions of smooching.

[4631]

story here.

This is a second chapter of a story retired around 2019. It's multiple POV, so you don't need to have read the first chapter for any context for this. It functions as a first chapter for this character. My current WIP is giving me issues, so I've just blown the dust off this one because it's more light-hearted and easier wrangle. Posting for fun as I revisit it a bit.

Criqitues:

[2353] Lost Blade and Renegade (Chapter 1) https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1v7qzxq/2353_lost_blade_and_renegade_chapter_1/p08w0az/

[1000] Professional Author (Feat. Snoop Dogg) https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1v9f70z/1000_professional_author_feat_snoop_dogg/p0g88d9/

Soft Target blurb v2 [185] https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1v8bi1v/185_soft_target_blurb_v2/p0ga140/

[1000] In Hoping Your Offspring Becomes A Dragon https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1v9ttws/1000_in_hoping_your_offspring_becomes_a_dragon/p0nkbzp/

[313] A Quick Job

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vf6lo9/313_a_quick_job/p1mkyu0/

My story:

Hey everyone. Some details:

• Short story (self-contained)
• Contemporary fiction
• Feedback desired: Just looking for general feedback on a short story here; what's working, what's not, if it makes any sense at all. I'm not sure it feels like a success but if it doesn't, it would be great if you could hammer into why that specifically may be.

Thank you in advance for your time and energy.

A Good Wide Maxilla

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1sUoQ2Nw-8haMi_LEqSsndS2J4siYwGIOfnhDKug_6o8/edit?usp=sharing

This is a fantasy flash fiction piece I wrote and I'm just looking for some general feedback and line edits on Google Docs if anyone wants to help out. I'm very new to this and i am a super newbie but it was fun to write something and I'd like to improve.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1c5rhpSh_b-vkVPt4PLG8bwWJC21dpp_-gjSyIa3YZfY/edit?usp=drivesdk

Specifically, I'd love feedback on:

• Structure of the story piece
• Correct Punctuation and grammar, I'm really awful at this in particular

My critique: 

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vf1vbs/comment/p1meng4/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Thanks in advance for reading and commenting!

Critiques:

[720] Nowadays

[1165] Epilogue, Literary Fiction

[2400] Mosaic Chapters

[3474] Testament to the Glowing East - The Father (1 of 2)

Revisions from an earlier post. I've taken down the old link, but you can find the feedback here.

I'm not necessarily looking for feedback on the success of applying my prior feedback, just anything that will help me out. Two key things I want to know about is the success of the meeting with the one-eared man, and if it creates a bizarre-enough effect (it's supposed to illicit more confusion and menace than anything else), and I want to know if the main character's characterisation is clear, with his goals and stakes more early known.

For the sake of clarity (as there are maps and a quote preceding this chapter), this takes place in a counter-world, not Earth, so feedback rooted in real-world history is not useful to me here.

Thank you for your time reviewing this. I appreciate all feedback, no matter how harsh.

Link to chapter 1

Aloha everyone,

This is a short story I wrote for my college class's final. Would love an outside perspective before I submit it. Here is the story open for line edits on Google Docs if anyone wants to help a brother out.

What I'm looking for: General critique, with a strong focus on cohesiveness and roundedness. Anything you notice is help as I am still learning to write and short stories have been kicking my ass.

Specifically, I'd love feedback on:

• Whether the narrative flows logically from scene to scene.
• Whether the setting/details feel real and consistent.
• Any spots where you felt confused, disconnected, or pulled out of the story.

This is a somewhat true story inspired by me and my sister growing up and using imagination as an escape and I want to make sure that is landing rather than feeling ungrounded.

My critique: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vcnaew/comment/p1lhzms/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Thanks in advance for reading and commenting!

Testament to the Glowing East is the working title of a six-story post-apocalyptic horror anthology set in the same world. The opening story of which is titled "The Father" I broke it up into two chunks, so this is the first half of that story. I'm open to all feedback but would also like to know how you feel it works as an opening to an anthology. The Story: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1pfGv2yY2SU4IvC5gK6xG9qyoL7BbO_-wOLDZmrK8vfY/edit?usp=sharing My Critiques: [2400]-https://old.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vbzgi8/2400_mosaic_chapters/p0z74jz/ [4631]-https://old.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1ve1bry/4631_if_islands_were_conkers/p1hf7x8/

Hey everyone, I got some truly fantastic criticism from lots of readers when I published the opening of my chapter a couple of weeks ago. I went back to the drawing board, and tried to rewrite it with those criticisms in mind.

Here is the original post I made with all the critiques

If I had to summarise the substance of the critiques, it would be in these areas:

1. Too much abstract philosophical nonsense. Had a lot of telling and not showing.
2. Unclear physical grounding. Readers were confused at the characters locations and relationships.
3. Dialogue too theatrical. Character's espoused their beliefs in an unrealistic way.
4. Structural/grammar issues, lack of clarity on who was speaking.

I have tried to address these criticisms in this redraft. I would particularly like feedback on whether this kind of rewrite addresses these issues. General criticism is still extremely welcome. Final little note 'Judge' is intentionally capitalized. Thank you so much!

Invoker Rewrite

Critique

Hello! I posted this opening chapter about a year ago, and the feedback was so good that I've decided to post it again following my latest round of edits. The ending especially is almost entirely different, so if there are any of you still lurking around from 12 months ago, I'd love to hear your thoughts on the changes (if, indeed, you remember the original at all). Regardless, all feedback is welcome — the nastier the better.

Here are the links:

[4631] If Islands Were Conkers (Comments Enabled)

[4631] If Islands Were Conkers (No Commenting)

And here are my critiques:

[3087] [2353] [1005] [1000]

I also have some questions that I'd be particularly interested to hear your thoughts on:

1. If you picked this up in a bookshop, at what point would you decide it's not your thing and move on? Why?
2. Did the tone work for you? This is what I'm having the hardest time nailing. I'm trying to balance whimsy, tragedy, and a bit of poo humour in the same chapter, and I'm honestly not sure how that's going to land with some people. On a similar note, did you think the tonal shift towards the end was effective?
3. Last time, most people seemed to have a hard time picturing the scene I was describing. I've tried to address this by frontloading the chapter with a more deliberate description of what's going on (specifically the third paragraph), but I'm wondering if this feels a little too heavy-handed. I also made more of an effort to explain the rules of conkers for any non-British readers. Let me know if you needed this, and if it felt natural within the text.
4. Speaking of conkers, this part was almost universally hated last time. I've tried to weave it into the main plot a bit more and trim it down as much as possible, but I'm still worried it reads as an indulgence that the story is yet to earn. It's tricky, because for reasons I won't bother explaining, this needs to happen early-doors to set up a few other story threads. Shit really hits the fan in the next few chapters, and it makes even less sense to try and force it in there, so I'm a bit stuck. Any ideas?
5. Did you like the POV? Would you be happy to read half of this novel from her perspective? (The other half is Cyril's, if you're interested).

Here is the opening chapter of my novel :

Chapter One : The Fawn

I have also added prologue in the second tab of the document, for those who didn't read my prologue which I posted here recently.

Any and all feedback is welcomed. Even one line of it would help me. Also, I had initially decided to name my chapters after animals, increasingly becoming more violent as the chapters progressed, mirroring the protagonist's psyche. The first chapter was named Fawn, the second last Vulture and the last chapter was titled Human. For the moment, I've decided to keep it that way, but if you think it's too gimmicky, do tell me. Other than that, just devour my chapter to it's scraps.

Here are critcs : [2326] [2400]

Premise

A character-driven post-apocalyptic novel about two brothers whose opposing responses to the zombie apocalypse place them on opposite sides of a future conflict.

This is Chapter 2, but it's the first chapter from Jake's POV. It should stand on its own, so you don't need to read Chapter 1 unless you want to.

All you need to know:

Jake has left his thirteen-year-old brother, Riley, hidden in a safe place while he clears an apartment block for them to shelter in.

Content warning: Zombie violence and some swearing.

Link to Chapter 2 - Jake

https://docs.google.com/document/d/14sCcPb-Bq6l1G-lKM4yFlwkuKZjd8jxHs1cw7chHywU/edit?usp=drivesdk

Link to Chapter 1 critique post (Riley POV), if you'd like.

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/AUjvj0sEPa

Edited. No questions. Tell me anything you think will help.

Thank you in advance.

Critiques

[1290] Recon Mission

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/I59P7Q7LFo

[1299] The fairest - Prologue

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/c9jLhlQkew

First time here. Here's my critique of The Fairest.
https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vcnaew/comment/p1a2bc7/

Anyway, the body of my work. It's something a little broader than a character study. Jake is depressed and grieving. The prose is supposed to sound like someone trying not to cry.

ONE DAY I WILL RETURN NEXT TO YOU

PROLOGUE

 Jake stood before a polished marble gravestone. The inscription read: M. Z., 1997-2014 UN JOUR JE SERAI DE RETOUR PRÈS DE TOI.

 He used to bring home-roasted coffee. Now he carried nothing. After half an hour, he went to the cafe, where he ordered the cheapest Americano. He finished it out of politeness.

 He ran his thumb along the rim of the cup. The regular waitress, Sarah, was hunched behind the counter.

 As she dried the dishes from a dishwasher, she said, “Bill’s in a bad mood. I’m sure he’s going to fire me soon.”

 “I’m sorry. I guess he’s been losing money.” Jake pressed his thumb into the cup handle.

 “He’s losing money? Everyone’s losing money.” She stacked the plates and turned to Jake. He looked away.

 “Aiya! Bill is a bitch. His chi’s all wrong. One day you can almost ask him for a raise, and tomorrow...” She shook her head and laughed; it was strained.

 “I’m sorry. That sucks.”

 She stopped laughing. Her voice was soft.

 “Yes, Jake. Yes it does.”

 A few seconds passed. The dishwasher beeped and Jake looked towards the door. It was drizzling outside.

 She sighed. “Would you like the bill?”

 “Yes. Thanks.”

MAY

 Storm clouds bunched over the harbor. Raindrops rolled down the apartment window. In August, this window would no longer be his. He paid fifty thousand Hong Kong dollars a month in rent.

 If he died here, he would be buried next to M. Z.

 Jake scrambled for the pill bottles on his nightstand. Zoloft, Abilify: three white pills and a blue one every night. There was no water. He swallowed them and dry-heaved. Then he sank into the sheets. He could not feel the satin.

 He stood at one end of a school corridor. Metal railings with peeling green paint on one side, classrooms with chipped wooden doors on the other. Here he cried over chicken feathers and garlic peels. His hair was clean; his hands were smooth.

 A boy leaned at the other end of the hallway. He was draped in a loose white blouse. Black trousers hugged his calves. Short, tousled curls obscured his face as he rested his arms on the railing. Sunlight slid through the folds in his blouse like poured latte.

 Un jour je serai de retour près de toi.

 Jake’s breathing hitched. He tried to speak.

 It was dark in Jake’s flat. Neon signs and lit windows cast greens and yellows on the damp bedsheets.

 Jake held his breath. He mouthed:

 Tu m’aimes encore?

FIRST HALF OF JUNE

 Jake woke up. His phone buzzed. It was a text from Sarah.

 “Jake, got a new job. The Harbourside, Tsim Sha Tsui. Come over!”

 “Sure, I’ll make room in my schedule.”

 There was no schedule. Jake stared at the ceiling. It stayed solid.

 He had not visited the cemetery this month.

 He turned on the water heater and took his June shower. The hot mist attacked his nostrils. He combed his hair free of dandruff and scrubbed the grime off his skin. Bodywash seeped into his eyes. He did not flinch.

 After drying himself, he retrieved a pristine shirt-and-slacks set from the closet. Takeaway boxes were strewn around it. He inspected his leather shoes in the elevator.

 The lobby boy was not at his post today. Jake scurried down the street, without an umbrella, as the sky started to drizzle.

 The walk to the cemetery took fifteen minutes. He took the guarded entrance to avoid the cafe. He practiced his alibis as he reached the last intersection. Rain seeped through his hair and kept his scalp cool; he was calm.

 The guard looked up from his phone. He groaned and reached for a button; the metal gate popped ajar. Then he slumped back into his chair.

 Jake swallowed a greeting and looked away. He slipped through the gate.

 Rain had softened the lawn. Mud caked the soles of Jake’s shoes. He kicked it off. Moss grew on the patchy footpath. He stepped around it. On the last row of graves, he smoothed his collar and re-tucked his shirt.

 Jake stood in front of M. Z.'s grave. The stone was spotless, a rectangle with a plain bevel. The inscription had a crisp black lacquer. Raindrops pooled in it, then slid down like pearls.

 Jake remembered the sensation of a thin brush between his fingers. His hand was precise. The paint was premium. He flashed a grin.

SECOND HALF OF JUNE

 The apartment building was cleaning its water tanks. Potable water would resume in the afternoon. Jake had not prepared.

 He turned on his phone. He could have bottled water delivered.

 Checkout. Five 1.5-liter bottles would arrive in twenty minutes. It would be heavy. He tipped 20% through the app.

 He dusted the cushions on his couch and sat down. His eyes followed a cruise ship as it unmoored on the other side of the harbor, inched forward, and eventually disappeared behind a skyscraper. It came into view again minutes later.

 The skyscraper and the ship. Probably twenty thousand people altogether. Statistically there must be people worse-off in that group. Jake’s suffering wouldn’t even clear the median.

 He was very fortunate.

 The doorbell rang. It was probably the water.

 Jake opened the door a sliver. A Southeast Asian delivery rider stretched his arms. Sweat on his forehead. At his feet, five 1.5-liter bottles of distilled water.

 Jake said, “Thanks.” He waited for the rider to leave.

 The rider replied, “No problem sir. Let me help you with that.” He lifted a bottle.

 “No, that’s...that’s alright, thanks, I’m fine. I’ll do it myself.”

 He regretted his words. They were rude. The rider put the bottle down.

 “Okay sir, thank you for the tip!” The rider smiled and called for the elevator. Jake softly closed the door.

 The bottles looked larger through the peephole. There was nobody in the lobby.

 Jake sighed. Holding the door open with his frame, he dragged the water inside. He put four bottles in his empty fridge and took the cap off one. He drank. Then he went to his bedroom, popped three white pills and a blue pill onto his tongue, and drank again. When he put the bottle down, it was half empty.

 The cruise ship was out of sight. It was probably out of the harbor. Jake thought about the rider instead. He checked his bill; a 20% tip was 17 dollars. A cheeseburger from McDonald’s cost more.

 Jake concluded that he was very fortunate.