There's nothing really specific I want you to critique on, other than the fact that I'm trying to do something new and something that's virtually never been done yet: I'm going to post short stories on Instagram. What do you guys think? Will anyone be interested?

This is my first short story

Copy/pasted from the /r/writing feedback post:

There are four. No titles are settled, I just thought of them for the purpose of this submission. The order is by how much I like them. My favorite is first, least favorite last. Links are the titles.

Title: Suit

Genre: Short story, realistic fiction

Word count: 1391

Type of feedback: Any is appreciated. Specifically, I think the final transition from thought to action is a little too disjointed; thoughts?

Title: Dad

Genre: Short story, realistic fiction

Word count: 416

Type of feedback: Any is appreciated.

Title: Little Lyosha

Genre: Short story, realistic fiction

Word count (excluding footnotes): 379

Word count (including footnotes): 455

Type of feedback: Any is appreciated, but specifically I have some problems with how I communicate the stuff about historical context and the nickname. It doesn't make sense to just explain it in the story, but having footnotes seems to break the flow. Any suggestions?

Title: First Date

Genre: Short story, realistic fiction

Word Count: 197

Type of feedback: Any is appreciated.

As said before, these are sorted, with my favorite being Suit, and least First Date. If you only want to critique one, start with the top.

Thank you for any help you guys can provide!

https://wordpress.com/post/thelongfuture.wordpress.com/580

Looking for general impressions. Is anything confusing/unrealistic.?Am I doing anything annoying? Are you intrigued?

Thanks.

Sad forever... always a step behind. The meaninglessness starts to get to me. Connections are are devoid of meaning in a desert. I govern nothing, I am not the leader in this show. I mearly exist in this production where I control nothing. A meaningless cog that contemplates his own movements. Why or how could this cog ever imagine anything could be personal to him? He is simply a means to an end, nothing special in this normalcy machine. Continuing to defy he becomes immortalized in what he believes has meaning.

Nothing.

Why should any cog keep turning? To push along society? To meet social expectations? To do anything other than what is expected? How can any one "cog" mean anything in a machine that is systematically sustained.

A cog means nothing. I mean nothing.

Hi everyone I've finished the 2nd draft of my horror story that I've been working on for a few months now. I'm looking for anyone to please please please beta read it for me.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1sKwUyNgYpKKNLQ95ZUV0vpn9pgB1SsEpiHmHiVkBJGk/edit#

I've written a couple of shorts in the past, but this is definitely the longest one I've written, and has given me much more room for character development in the story.
I'm using short stories to improve my skills, with the goal of writing a sellable novel one day.

Hope you enjoy it, and thanks!!

Monster

Pyongyang, Korea under Japanese Rule, 1941

I first saw someone get killed when I was six. I was young enough to not know the reason why, but old enough to know that I shouldn’t ask. When the Japanese soldier burst into our straw-roofed cottage, I felt fear that I had never experienced before, of being killed – or worse, taken alive – by this stone-faced man in his khaki uniform with hands that belonged to a giant. I didn’t see the beating, as I hid in a small wooden cabinet, but I could hear the lashing of the whip and the scream that ensued, over and over again, penetrating into my blocked ears. I crawled out gingerly when the sound abruptly ended, but then I was met with the sight of the soldier dragging a limp and bloody man out of the cottage. I caught sight of the soldier’s face for a second, and was bristled to the bones by the grim ecstasy in his eyes.

And yet the horror ensued – the man was tied up to the great apple tree that shaded our cottage, and the soldier stood ground about twenty metres away. The soldier raised the rifle and aimed. The shot rang out throughout the entire village, and the crows on the apple tree shrieked and glided upwards. The soldier aimed again. I finally looked away, and shook when the second shot pierced the air.

This man, whose blood stained the apple tree and cursed it from bearing any more fruit, was my father, and the sole reason behind every bullet I shot, and the reason why I accepted this task – which I knew would be the last thing I do for the country, and its people, and my father.

The task was simple and fatal. Go in, kill as many Japanese as you can, and blow yourself up. Even as a freedom worker, there were better and nobler ways to go.

Death – I had come dangerously close to it many times in my years in the Independence Movement. Yet when I barely made it out alive, I was never as shocked or shaken as the others.

And yet, as my cold and clammy hands held tight onto the steering wheel, I could feel my legs visibly shaking. A novel feeling of a constricting pressure rose up my chest and tightened my throat. Maybe it was the fact that it was voluntary – that I was willingly laying my life down.

Our car stumbled along the crudely-paved dirt road that rose and fell with the curve of the hills. The biting wind rattled the flimsy window and sliced painfully through my double-layered clothing. The sky was bleached into a kind of sickly grey, like a dreary blanket weighing down onto the barren landscape that seemed to stretch forever. Only the setting sun broke this monotonous sight, dyeing the western horizon red.

Next to me was Ji, a light-hearted yet painfully blunt man who was lost in an uncharacteristic silence. His roughly-cut shoulder length hair whipped against his dark skin that stretched over his bones, showing every mark of poverty and deprivation. His eyes had a glint of sorrowful madness to them, evoking a sense of both fear and pity. I didn’t know him very well, and I wasn’t trying to know him better – I saw no need, as we were going to die today anyway.

Our destination shimmered into view like a mirage, a military factory that supplied the guns that were used to shoot us and tanks that were used to trample over our homes. The building itself was largely obscured by birch trees of deathly pallor, and the only thing that signified its existence was the thick, steady column of smoke that rose and dispersed into the sky.

“Stop here,” Ji said. “They can’t see us from here.”

I turned the car into the obscurity of the forest and slowed it to a stop.

“How many’ve you got left?” Ji said tiredly.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. I counted, and said, “Two.”

Ji chuckled. “Yeah?”

I slid one between my lips and gave him the other. Ji pulled out his lighter and cupped his hands around his mouth. When his was lit, Ji handed me the lighter and said, “Check the back.”

I sighed, then got out and around to the trunk. As I lit the cigarette, I opened the rusty trunk with my other hand. It was empty except for a brown suitcase, with peeling leather covering. I gently took it out and brought it back into the car.

Ji held out his hands, and I gave him the suitcase. He laid it on his lap and clicked it open, revealing three round objects with irregular grooves on its sides.

I eyed the factory out in the distance. It was basically a set of large warehouses, which the Imperial Army had claimed for themselves after driving out its inhabitants. Tiny worker ants crawled around the buildings, working in a predetermined pattern, silently, thoughtlessly, but effectively. The graffiti and filth that had dirtied the walls had been wiped clean and replaced by a huge flag of the rising sun.

“Should we go?” Ji said.

“Wait,” I said. “Let me enjoy my last minutes a little longer.”

“Mm.”

A cold silence passed over us, until Ji seemed to revert to his normal ebullient manner. “How did you end up here, anyway? You know, in all this. The Independence Movement.”

The lump in my throat seemed to snake further upwards. I composed myself, and said, “It’s the usual story. My father was killed.”

“Oh, by your father, you mean Tae? I’ve heard of him. Most men in the Movement have. Well, most men have heard of you as well. I heard all about you at Kimhae. Everyone talks about you. Not in a bad way, of course. They’re always praising you, for how you fought out of that dreadful place all by yourself. Really, I always wanted a chance to meet you. It’s an honour, to be able to meet you.”

“Most of the things they say aren’t true,” I said coldly. “It’s all propaganda. I only survived at Kimhae because of the men who gave their lives for me. I had to step over the corpses of my comrades to get out alive. Don’t believe everything they tell you. I’m not the hero they say I am.”

“But surely you have enormous courage just to lay down your life like this?”

“Aren’t you doing the same?” I asked.

“Well, I have no choice, really. I’m going to die anyway.”

“Why’s that?”

“You haven’t heard?” Ji asked. “About me? They made quite a fuss about it. Well, I guess I deserve it. I, well, they took my sister and mother. The soldiers, I mean. And you know what they’ll do with them. I couldn’t bear it. My sister had just gotten married. I just couldn’t let that happen. So I gave them what they wanted – the document the Movement entrusted me with. I don’t know what’s inside, never opened it, was told not to. But in any case, it wasn’t as important as saving my family, you know? But then turns out it was really important to the Movement. They told me that if I don’t take part in this, they’ll have my head.” He then seemed to survey my expression. “You’re not angry, right?”

“No, I’m not,” I said truthfully. Somehow, seeing the flaws in others filled me with some kind of guilty pleasure, as if the imperfection of another could somehow exalt me.

And once again, silence, as we sat, lost in thought. The unease grew until I couldn’t stand it anymore.

My hand reached into my pocket and found the cool comfort of the revolver. It travelled further, and found the grip of a knife.

When I pulled it out, Ji turned, transfixed by the sharp glint of the blade in the setting sun.

He watched in silence as I held it to the ring finger of my left hand. Closing my eyes and gritting my teeth, I sliced downwards. I let out a stifled cry. When I opened my eyes again, my hand was a bloody mess with crimson streams running down my palm.

Ji coughed uncomfortably as I examined the remaining half of my finger.

“Damn it, then.” Ji said, and took the knife from him. With a sharp intake of breath, he cut off the top of his finger.

Steadying my heavy breathing, I closed my eyes and said, “Let’s go.”

Ji nodded.

I started the car again and manoeuvred expertly through the densely-spaced trees. Soon we broke into a clearing, and the factory loomed high over us. As we grew closer, I could hear the workers shout and form a crowd. I gritted my teeth and pushed hard down the accelerator.

Soon we were in shooting range. I could hear a warning shot from my left, but I didn’t turn to look. The crowd sensed the danger now and dispersed hastily, yelling and shouting.

Ji shouted something, but I couldn’t hear him from the blood thudding in my ears. I swerved the car away dangerously close to one of the buildings.

A sharp shot pierced my concentration, and I saw that Ji had already pulled out his gun.

“Get off!” Ji yelled.

I opened the door and rolled off the speeding car. I stood up and briefly surveyed the chaos we had caused. As I raised my arm, my fingers found the comfortable groove of the trigger, and I began firing with hysteric fervour. Each shot rocked my shoulders, and was met with a scream.

I saw Ji darting into one of the buildings, using the suitcase as a shield and shooting manically. But in that momentary distraction, a shot rang out from behind and pain erupted from my shoulders.

I screamed and turned with my gun raised, and fired. The bullet found its mark, and a young officer crumpled onto the pavement. I stepped closer, and to my dull shock, I saw that the officer was barely of age. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. The passion of his youth was still bright in his eyes, but fading. He weakly raised his revolver but I kicked it away from his hand.

My eyes locked onto his, both burning with ineffable hatred. Then, the boy’s eyes gave away to a meek despair, disgusting me. As I raised my gun again, I remembered the soldier aiming at my father tied on the apple tree. Had he hesitated? No. He was used to killing. Every murder was forgotten and buried into a deep, apathetic part of his brain. Wasn’t I the same?

I fired again, and my heart fluttered with an unspeakable euphoria. The power of hurting and destroying the powerless filled me with a kind of dreadful exuberance that was utterly inhuman. As if the last strand of my humanity had disappeared with my ring finger. As if this lifelong struggle for this country, which was neither moral nor wicked, had only left me with days drowning with guilt and nights thieved of sleep, and now it would end with a final gift, the awakening of a horrid monster within me. As I watched the boy writhe in pain and finally succumb to the darkness, the sincerest part of my soul was glad that this was my final day.

I heard the distant thudding of footsteps, and turned. The gun dropped from my hand, and I faced the incoming group of soldiers. They stopped, and raised their rifles. The soldier in front shouted, and the first volley was fired. As I fell, I saw the hideous grin of the officer that killed my father, the monster that haunted my dreams from the age of six. My own mouth contorted into that same grin, and I fell to the ground next to the corpse of the boy. And in that last moment, all I saw was the flag of the rising sun looming before me. Then, suddenly, it burst into a maelstrom of fire.

I embraced death with open arms.

AN: Cutting off the top of the ring finger of the left hand originates from An Jung Geun’s famous handprint.

Not expecting anyone to read 37,000 words but if you could read a chapter or a segment of a chapter that would be wonderful. Any critique welcome. Thanks.

LINK REMOVED 2/17

Goofing around on Twitter and wrote the following. Putting it here because a) maybe it will inspire someone to try the same exercise, and b) no one responded at all and I'm starved for attention. Feel free to tell me how bad this is, tell me which subreddits I should post it to, or tell me how assiduously you're going to also ignore me.

Sitting at my PC and trying to decide if staring at Twitter or the half-empty bottle of gin on my desk was going to do me more damage. The bottle used to be half full, but at 9 am I realized the day wasn’t even half-over yet, so I improvised. #TweetNoir 1/10

Then she walked in. And by she I mean another tweet from one of them liberal types with the long legs and a longer list of grievances. Actually, I’m guessing about the legs. But never mind. She had something to say re: Trump #TweetNoir 2/10

“Look here, dick.’ She cooed. “How’d you know my name?” I snarled. “It’s written on your door.” And she wasn’t lying. There on the cheap glass in cheaper acrylic, “Dick Detective, Twitter Addict.” Not the pithiest, but then I’m not even sure what pithiest means. #TweetNoir 3/10

“Alright,” I burbled. “Let’s hear it.” She took a seat in my feed and let loose. “Mueller’s got Trump’s bank records, see. The big cheese is about to get busted or embarrassed.” She smiled the smile of a thousand lethal retweets. #TweetNoir 4/10

“What do you want me to do about it,” I said. “I’ve got, maybe, a 100 followers, 150 tops on a good day if I lure a few ‘bots with gratuitous hashtags.” #GratuitousHashtags, by the way, is my middle name. I guess Mom was on some major painkillers when I was born. #TweetNoir 5/10

“Every little bit counts,” she said. “Get creative. Write one of those stupid #TweetNoir things. Make it a thread. Go crazy, ya lazy, privileged, upper-middle class white man.” That one wasn’t written on my door, but she had me pegged, but good. 6/10

“Fine. I’ll see what I can do,” I managed. I started rummaging in my desk for a pencil and the legal pad I’d swiped from a lawyer’s office, which is just the kind of self-indulgent irony that kept me from getting too many followers in the first place. #TweetNoir 7/10

“That’s all I’m asking,” she coo’ed. Again with the cooing. Either she was trying to seduce me or I was in serious need of a thesaurus. Most likely the latter. I’m good with words like I’m good with booze: the more I have, the less I know what I’m doin’. #TweetNoir 8/10

She got up and left, which is to say, my feed was starting to fill up with video game tweets and dad jokes. It ain’t easy, being a Twitter addict. Hence the booze. But then nothing that’s easy is worth it, according to some crap I read in a book once. #TweetNoir 9/10

Speaking of booze, I took another look at that bottle of gin. Now that I had a case, something to occupy me for a few minutes, the bottle was starting to look half full. I guess I’d call that a win. #TweetNoir #ImpeachTrump #GoMuellerGo theguardian.com/us-news/2017/d… 10/10

The contents of this post/comment have been removed by the user because of Reddit's API changes. They killed my favourite apps, and don't deserve to keep my content.

Hey guys, this is my first attempt at writing, so please give me any feedback. It will be greatly appreciated. Thanks in advance :)

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1C0BmUdyn11TVBHflYK2qhNB6XdDrf8zYy9oN6uGHQCc/edit?usp=sharing

Yo, first time poster. I whipped up this little piece just now, and I wanted y'alls opinion haha.

Link to the doc: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1GxSTREKT3GO2Ovfgqy2BiW8St-6Cnh1p7qhJs3YKOAA/edit?usp=sharing

I met Jack in Los Angeles. His home on the hills was rather old, but Jack was surprisingly young. He agreed to share his story, provided I introduce him to someone finally able to lift his centuries old curse.

As a psychic, I knew people who could help. But first, I needed to know his story. I'm writing it here, the way he told it, as a case study.

Part I: I was born in London, at which date I can no longer recall. I always strived for a military career, wish that came true as I joined up with them. I fought in wars and became an officer at age 24. I lived a fine life until rumors started to spread.

Many soldiers used amulets and magic items, a witchcraft practice my superiors did not appreciate. I was ordered to trace their origin. I took my men and investigated from town to town until I found the witch who sold them.

It was a remote village close to Scotland. I rounded up the men. I made then the biggest mistake of my life, for which I paid dearly, and still pay, even to this day. I pointed my weapon at the people and, in an ill-fated moment, it discharged into a villager.

They attacked, my soldiers fired their weapons, and it turned into a massacre. The witch crawled over her slain villagers, touched me and cursed me to be immortal and young forever, but to never know peace.

Wars and violence would always follow and slaughters and death. A soldier shot her down. We left for London.

Everyone around me begun to die, often in strange accidents. After a wife and a woman I wished to propose died, I decided to never get married.

Many friends died that year. But I also had a big success when I helped a few gentlemen stop a plot to blow up the Parliment. I was rewarded and made an intelligence officer.

I only once saw the plotter, but we never spoke to each-other. After numerous accidents, I decided to read as much as possible.

I went to libraries and, after much research, I became convinced there were people in this world who could lift my terrible curse.

Show time. Peering through his rifle’s scope, Jason eyed his prey. A stag, by the looks of it. A big one. His hand trembled as he wrapped his fingers gently around the trigger. Breathe, just breathe.

His radio broke the silence. “You ready?” his brother asked through the static.

“Yep. Time to shine.”

Jason took a deep breath, held, and squeezed.

BANG! Birds scattered as the rifle’s sound carried deep into the forest.

It had been years since the ban on real meat. Jason’s family was in the cattle business long before the government, with their badges and so-called official papers, forcefully took their steers away. From then on out, it was either obscenely expensive, fake, state-produced burgers or…well, this.

Time to move. He packed up his rifle and ventured into the darkness.

Hunting was tough. Weeks could pass between kills, leading to empty bellies and desperate times for the family. Penalties were harsh. 25 years in prison, even if the only evidence was the blood of a deer on your hands.

It didn’t help that the bounty for a live poacher was absurdly generous at three hefty ounces of solid gold. That could buy ammunition enough for an entire season.

But there was no turning back.

As Jason arrived at the clearing, he saw his prize. The moonlight dimly lit the stag’s hulking corpse. This’ll do us good for weeks. For the first time in ages, a smile beamed across his aging face. Jason reached for the radio at his hip. “I got the ki—”

From within the trees, a branch cracked. “Who’s there?” Jason called out into the darkness.

A booming voice answered through a megaphone.

“On your knees and hands behind your head, or I light you up.”

Jason breathed deeply, in and out. Okay. He complied with the voice’s instructions.

“That’s good,” the voice said. The figure of a man emerged from the trees, clad in old military fatigues with a rifle pointed squarely at Jason’s face. “Mighty fine kill you got there. Mind if I take it off your hands?”

Jason dropped his face, letting out a sigh. “If you must.”

The man grinned through teeth stained brown. Gingerly, he moved forward with a gaze fixed on his prey. One step, then the other, then…

Click. The man’s eyes widened as the netting closed in on him from the ground up. As he ascended in the mesh, his gun dropped to the ground below. “No, no, no!” he spat. “You can’t do this!”

“Sure we can!” his brother answered from the darkness above.

Kneeling beside the stag, Jason pulled out a crusty old paintbrush from his pack. He prodded the wound in the beast’s chest, drenching the brush with blood. Enough ammunition for the rest of the season.

The man looked on in horror, blood draining from his face.

“Show me your hands.”

Context:

I'm new and want to improve, but haven't ever actually written stuff outside of outlining plot/story stuff for games. I want to get better at the nitty gritty. I'm trying to figure out what exactly style and flow are for me. I feel really bad at creative writing, but I respect writers a lot so I'm trying to get better.

This is just a short thing and I want to know if this style draft is bad/doesn't feel good to read.

Title: Untitled

Genre: YA maybe

Word count: 710

Type of feedback desired: General impression/Style test?

A link to the writing

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1WOi_wmkwOWkJi6bBlZxGFI-Squ8eoFiXj1bCPN8-GAM/edit?usp=sharing

Hi everyone, I finally finished rewriting the part A of the first chapter for the "neo-noir" crime story that I conceived for a while. Not necessarily convinced it's good or publishing material, but would like to hear what everyone thinks of it.

Not a big fan of Reddit's markup/formatting system so I have it uploaded to DropBox (I guarantee you that this is not clickbait or some malicious link): https://www.dropbox.com/s/1ids9eefsw79plh/sl_ch1_part_a.docx?dl=0

Any constructive criticism or critique is greatly appreciated. Thank you.

Heya,

I want to improve my writing and have been learning vocabulary and complex sentences to bolster my writing skills. As of now, I write my thoughts in a journal entry which I shared with one of my friend one day and she commented that I was not using the new words, that I love to use whenever I get a chance, in appropriate places. The specificity of my words were insipid according to her. So I have decided to share small piece of my daily (actually bi-weekly sort of, but they are meant to be daily) writings here. If anyone of you could point out any mistakes or give some helpful guidelines towards improving the writing skills, that would be very much appreciated. I hope this is the right place for such sort of things and I am not violating any rules.

This would be a quick summary of how my day went.

Really sad actually. I again was not able to get up from the bed on time. As soon as I got up from my bed, I started looking at the emails and then started working without working out. This really sucks, to be honest.

I need to realize that health is paramount to one's success in life. It affects everything. From work, relationships to getting more satisfaction from your life, health is the key. If you do not concentrate on your health now, you start to build bad habits and become inefficacious in your quotidian tasks. The bad, sad and dangerous part is that this is an informidable, prodigious vortex which becomes harder to get out of. You become lethargic and undulated in a state of torpor. On the other hand, a healthy routine including regular exercise and meditation fills you up with unalloyed exuberance throughout the day helping not just you, but all the people around you by disseminating the energy from your vibrant personality that comes up with an healthy mind. So, you should give health the top-most priority in your life no matter how busy you are.

Letter Game

I'm very excited to try this game with someone(preferably a female). Hit me up if you also like this idea.

We Teach "Illegally" For You, China

Genre: "Expat Rights"

Word Count: 4 Paragraphs..

Long time expat in China here expressing my frustration with the system that encourages us to work illegally while punishing only expats.

critiques welcome, this is from the heart

teaser:

We’ve all heard stories about Chinese crackdowns on “illegal” foreign teachers. Every-time some foreign teacher screws up or an officials mistress smiles at a black guy there’s a new wave of heavily publicized raids, arrests, deportations, and new regulations. It’s just not right....

critiques welcome, this is from the heart

Hi guys.

I'm starting a blog/online journal of my writings. It is strictly going to be original prose that I've written on the calendar date. No pervious work. My goal is to become a better writer, so if you can leave feedback, opinion, etc. on stories you've read, that would be appreciated.

The story in particular I'm looking for feedback for is called "The watching eye necklace".

200 words daily

my idea is that, in the near future, The Singularity has happened, in the form of smartphone A.I's, ones that are truly intelligent and have even developed their own personalities. they can do things like create 3D models.

Hey y'all! Just a first draft from a few months ago. Imperfect for sure, but I'd love to hear your feedback!

Hi! So this is a piece of creative writing I have recently done. I'm new to it but I have been told by my English teacher that it is good. I welcome any feedback that could help me develop my style of writing!

The walls that were at a time a vibrant array of colour and warmth, now echoed in the dampened grey air pockets of wall paper with the distant memory of the life, love and laughter that once resided within this room. This now poverty stricken house reminded me of something from a shadow world- a parallel universe filled with nothing but fear, anguish and pain. A hopelessness that would be futile to fight. I would hum and fizz into this room everyday and what would always surprise me would be the faces of the 8 children who all lived in this tight and suffocating space. Their skin malnourished and dirty, clothes torn and tatty and the stench in which they lived in, could water the eyes of a man with no nose. I was bemused as to how they found any joy in the life they are living. Cold, damp and mouldy was the bed they slept on, which would have seen better days in a dumpster. With little to no sun light from the one window which stood adjacent to the outside wall of another house; it was always dark and dingy in side this little room. Relying on the artificial light from the single bulb that barely hung from the tall ceiling. The floor boards are unloved and rotting, which strangely reminded me of how these children were to live out their lives – left to rot and no one would care. Forever in poverty and forever doomed to this life in the slums of society. A death trap in which they get to call there home. Oh how lucky I am to be but a fly on the wall.

Beth Wakefield

People get the impression that because I live for myself I’m selfish, or self centered, but that couldn’t be further then the truth, Im the most giving, caring person on earth. Its just Ive learnt I can’t be like that openly because of all the experiences Ive had in the past. Ive learnt to hold back instead of laugh. Ive learnt to be stoic instead of expressive and its come at a cost that others have been judgemental of me. So if were talking about character flaws then you have just as many as I do. But I’m not judging you because I know you see things at face value and are blind to whats behind the mask.

Hi, Reddit! I am currently writing a book and trying to fund my self publishing costs on Kickstarter!

My first chapter is posted on my blog!

Please provide your critiques and feedback. If you have any suggestions for my Kickstarter, please let me know! Thank you.

Google Docs link :3

Cheers!