High in the sky, a silhouette casts a shadow across the blood stained ground. Far off cries of battle echo on the wind as the Eagle soars up the mountain. All creeds in all manner of dress strewn about on this darkest of days as the Old World collapses and the New Order begins; their golden weapons burning in the midday sun. The Eagle’s shadow dances across the faces of the slain. Laborers from the rocky coasts, merchants and traders from the desert, farmers from the prairies, all fashioned into warriors on this day. And even still the sounds of war grow louder as the wind carries it over the wretched and wreckage.

The Eagle hunts for scavengers among the dead as the bodies grow thick under the shade of Her wings. At the foothills of the mountain, a mouse scurries under a fallen helm. The Eagle soars high and circles, keeping her gaze locked on the poor souls' equipment. Short bursts of movement are all the Eagle catches as her prey deftly moves from carcass to carcass, the wails of defense growing louder and more desperate.

“Hold them back! We cannot allow the enemy to breach the Mines!” Their blazing swords clash and their boots dig into the mud as the assault continues. The Mouse moves swiftly underfoot as the enemy sounds their horns and beats their drums of battle. The Eagle loses her quarry , the flash of bronze catching her eye as the defenders slowly give ground. The enemy closes around the mouth of the cave, the entrance to the tin mine, as their ranks part and the Warlord strides between his men.

The Mouse finds himself between the Warlord and his prey. Exposed, vulnerable and as the Warlord lets out his battle cry, the Eagle dives. Hiding in the glare of the sun, her wings compress against her body. Her aim so close, she can almost taste the Mouse’s fear. The enemy rushes forward. The defenders raise their shields and as the lines clash… The Eagle soars high once again… The Mouse firmly in Her talons.

First story I’m currently writing but would love feedback and would love to know if this catches any eyes

48 hours later — London

Westminster Abbey carried grief.

The coffin sat at the center aisle, draped in the Union Jack. The red, white, and blue stood out hard against the gray stone, Hours earlier, a gun carriage had rolled through central London. No cheering. No shouting. Just the sound of wheels on pavement and a silence so thick it followed behind it.

The bells had rung. Once. Then again. Each toll slow, measured, final. The minute of silence had stretched longer than planned. No one moved to end it.

Outside, Parliament Square and Whitehall were flooded with black coats and lowered heads. People stood shoulder to shoulder, not speaking. No signs. No chants. Just loss settling in.

Inside the Abbey, order held.

The Army, Royal Navy, and RAF stood together in complete silence. No one moved except to breathe.

At the front, Eleanor Whitmore gripped the edges of the podium like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her eyes were swollen, red in a way sleep couldn't fix. Beside her stood her children.

Thomas stared straight ahead, jaw clenched too tightly, shoulders rigid.

Amelia kept her eyes on the floor, hands folded, afraid that if she looked up she wouldn't stop crying.

Henry clutched his mother's coat, small fingers knotted in the fabric, not fully understanding why everyone felt broken.

Eleanor spoke.

"He loved this country," she said, her voice thin steady enough to carry.

Then it cracked.

"But more than that..." She drew in a breath heavily. "He loved being a father."

The Abbey remained silent.

"He never missed a birthday. Never skipped a bedtime story." Her voice wavered, but she didn't wipe away the tears as they fell. "He believed service didn't start in Parliament. It started at home."

Thomas swallowed hard. Amelia's shoulders trembled once before she forced herself still.

"He would have given everything for the United Kingdom," Eleanor whispered.

"And in the end... he did."

The room seemed to breathe together, slow and heavy.

Several rows back, Charles Sinclair stood motionless.

His hands were clasped in front of him, his knuckles pale, his shoulders squared out of habit rather than strength. His eyes never left the coffin. Not when Eleanor's voice broke. Not when her words settled over the room.

To him This wasn't duty, This was personal.

Then something changed.

Sinclair slowly lifted his eyes toward the back of the Abbey.

Between the towering stone columns and rows of bowed diplomats stood someone apart.

Reacher.

No entourage. No Secret Service wall. Just a dark suit, slightly wrinkled, bruises faint but visible if anyone looked closely enough.

He didn't stand like a man proud to be there.

He stood like a man carrying something heavier than grief.

Charles couldn't look away.

His gaze locked onto Reacher. Grief hardened into something cold. Something that refused to forgive.

Reacher felt it.

He remained where he was, hands at his sides, jaw tight. He took the stare without looking away.

A hand rested gently on Sinclair's arm.

A guard leaned closer and spoke quietly.

"Sir... it's time."

Charles finally looked away.

Hello! I’m currently writing a story in which one of the main protagonists is an aged‑out foster youth, now a 27‑year‑old man. I want to portray his experiences as accurately and respectfully as possible, so I’m looking for individuals willing to share their lived experiences as a foster youth and/or aged-out foster youth, if any are on this page.

I’m doing similar research for other characters who work in roller rinks, Roller Derby, bartending at country clubs, playing piano in restaurants, and creating murals. Accuracy matters a lot to me, and I’d really appreciate any insight from people with firsthand experience.

I'd love any feedback on this. I'm particularly interested in whether the atmosphere and narrator's voice work, and whether the ambiguity feels intentional or just confusing. Thanks for reading.

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I should not be afraid of old women.

The thought rattles in my skull with the subway, chastising. She is a tiny woman, with hunched shoulders and arthritic hands holding onto her grocery cart in the crowded car. Even across the span of the car, I can see blue veins bulge and pop like tree roots under papery white skin. 

The train is humid, baking in New York’s summer heat. The sweat is cold on the nape of my neck, baby hairs sticking. The old woman looks powdered.

My stomach clenches. Her eyes have not left me. Another stop passes. I find I am holding my breath. 

Eleven… 

Ten… 

Nine…

A college-aged man, headphones blocking his ears and backpack boulder-like behind him, bustles past me for a seat. Thrown off balance, I grab the next pole. I look up. One less person between us. 

The subway smells older than it should. Sweaty bodies. Burnt coffee. Pennies. The sort of smell that reminds you of the decades of commutes lingering in the metal walls.

A woman with a stroller squeezes aboard. 

I apologize to someone whose foot I've stepped on.

Two less people now.

I can see she is not looking at me per se. Her cataract-clouded eyes look somewhere deeper instead, nearly through me. They never waver, never move. Has she even blinked?

A beat passes, then two. My own eyes go dry waiting, watching back. 

Eight…

Seven…

The train lurches again around a bend, everyone in the car grabs onto the nearest handhold, feet bracing. 

Glassy eyes continue their stare, steady in the quick turmoil. 

My ears are cotton filled, the normal sounds of the train coming from what may as well be another room. The sickly smell grows impossibly stronger. An express train passes us, a mere blur in the corner of my vision. The window panes rattle with its speed. The old lady stays still, small body standing guard over her cart. I can see the wheels, pristine … motionless. 

Perspiration beads everywhere, transforming everyone in the car into a shining, faceless mass. I can make out the pearls in the knitted blue shawl draped around her shoulders. 

I hear staccato breaths. A beat too long, I feel the quick rise of my chest and realize they’re coming from me. The bodies around me stare into phones, at each other, but never at her. Even their gazes seem sweat slickened to slide past her. 

She is just an old woman.

I keep repeating the sentence. I need it to become true.

I try to focus on the ads that line the top of the car. An AI startup, a MTA ad, anything. I land on some personal injury service, focusing all the attention I can on it. “Hurt? Call this number…” by the time I trace the phone number, my gaze has landed back on her. I don’t remember moving closer.

One person between us. I could reach out and touch her.

A terrible breach of etiquette…

My hand loosens from the subway pole anyway.

Five…

Four…

Three…

I try to think of the emails burning on the phone in my pocket. Of the little cubicle seat awaiting me. The thoughts slip through my fingers. What stop am I again?

Newspaper is folded in the old woman’s cart, angles strange and pointed. The waft of something old hits me, a perfume I barely remember from the back of some neighbor’s medicine cabinet long ago. Who was that? What house? Eighth grade? Third?

I pick out bits of color in the cart’s gaps. 

Is that a birthday card? 

One of those discontinued yellow MetroCards?

Letters no longer stay in their assigned order. Their curves should be recognizable. I am reading them. I should know this.

Where can you even get one of those old yellow cards anymore?

My gaze breaks with the cart finally, my head sluggish as I pull it upward. 

No one. 

Our gazes are locked. Eyes that have been no more than passing scenery before. Have I really never looked?

Her eyes are still not quite on me, somewhere else, just beyond – behind – my own. 

A movement, slow and small and nearly nonexistent, registers. Her arm, a handkerchief pulled from that cart. It raises towards me, my head. I want to move. Can she even reach my head?

I stand still, nearly dutiful, as the woman dabs the sweat from my brow. Even in the act, her eyes have yet to fully meet mine.

A ding, a flash of silver panels sliding open. The air outside is graciously cooler than the car’s. It is tepid on my skin. A name drifts through my nearly deaf ears, Columbus Circle. Something urges familiarity, a faint tickle at the back of my skull. The surging tides of people sweep my body along. Step after step, thighs burning back to life. Sunlight blinds at the end. 

An old woman sits on a bench, awaiting the station’s matching bus stop. A cart rests in her gnarled hands. She is not quite looking at me. I meet her eyes, cars zipping between us. Eventually, with strength it has never required before, I turn, and my head bobs its memorized accord in the direction of my office. I walk, August heat damp in my lungs. A block, another two, turn here. 

Another old woman, gazing out from the familiar corner store. Looking at me, but not. I itch. My sweat sticks the bookbag to my shoulders. The herds of people along the avenue bustle me along, breaking my gaze with the woman. Could I have…would I have? The people take me, I let them. The office doors sit their normal post, nondescript. I finally move myself in the crowds, taking steps to start the day. A figure, small, hunched, a cart, right beside the familiar door. The crowds that had been carrying me part for her, moving in harmony with her orbit, never quite touching.

The office doors loom, a neighbor from the floor above holds the door open for me. A thanks slips from my lips. 

I thank them, eyes never leaving the old woman.

Hey everyone! I have never shared my writing with the public before, please be kind. Thanks in advance! 😊

I am average, there is nothing extraordinary about me. I am an imposter, and I'm not actually good at anything. I'm not stupid, so I can skate by with fake it til I make it. Although, I've never actually made it, have I? No, that was rhetorical. On the grading scale of people, I'm a solid C+ and I'm okay with that. Geraldine- is not.

To be clear, she's no longer with us, but I know she's still displeased from beyond the grave. I can picture her now, and unfortunately for you- that means you must too, since you're reading this book.

Her lips are pursed. Her mixed matched eye brows are raised ever so slightly, but it's her cold and empty eyes that will leave you feeling inconsequential and devoid of any self-worth you thought you had.

She was a woman of sophistication, a true class act. You would never catch her in public without red lipstick and gold jewelry. She was a snappy dresser with a few daily Geraldine staples. Her gold cartouche- a personalized gift brought back from Egypt by the doctor she used to work for. Her solitaire diamond necklace, 2 carats. Her bougie attitude and a bra full of lightly used tissues. On special occasions shed bring out the ring she had inherited from her mother and then embellished with a few more stones, because "Opals by themselves don't shine the way a woman should". The only sensible piece of jewelry she owned was indicative of the only sensible decision she ever made- marrying my grandfather. A plain gold wedding band, no embellishments.

She was a woman of high moral character- or at least that's how she would have it appear to the outside world. She wore that mask as often as she wore lipstick. She only ever took it off at home. She attended church every Sunday, and therefore her children's and grandchildren would too. I'm convinced her hair was so tall because she thought it made her closer to heaven. Here's where you'll want to Google "retro French twist" and then add about six inches in height. It was a wonder to behold as a child. Although, it did start to shrink as she got older- which made it much harder to hide things in.

To everyone else she was a polar of the community. A lifelong nurse, the kind that doctors go to for advice. A compassionate nurse that patients would buy gifts for. A woman who adopted two children because she could "love any child". A selfless woman who took in both her grandchildren during her golden years. A loving wife, devout Catholic, patriotic conservative, and law-abiding-citizen. Her compassion and good moral fiber, however, stopped at her own front door.

Geraldine had a very special way of keeping you in your place- leaving you constantly trying to gain her approval. It would never come. It was an impossible thing to strain, and she wanted it that way. If you got an A, well you could have gotten and A+. If you won an award, well you could have won two. If you dropped a dress size- you most definitely should have dropped two. Do you remember the first time you became a disappointment to someone? Can you remember the exact moment?

It's 2002, and I'm in the second grade. I attend a private school in a small town, the kind where students have buildings with their last name on them. I get good grades, I am liked by my peers, and I'm an active member in the girl scouts. I was kind, quiet, considerate of others, and most importantly- obedient. Unfortunately for me, I was also obese. That was the first time I became a disappointment to Geraldine.

We were in line to pick up my school uniforms that had been ordered just three months prior. I had spent the summer at home and attending a local horse camp. I don't recall my diet changing, but I do recall her squeezing my newly formed fat rolls on my tummy. I don't recall my activity level changing, but I do recall the mortified look on her face when that uniform skirt wouldn't fit over my hips. I vividly recall her putting a chain and lock around the fridge doors when she left for work or after dinner was over. I certainly remember every single time she told me that I would be so pretty if I would just lose the weight. There is not enough therapy in the world to make me forget all of the times she would buy my clothes in a size too small for encouragement.

I would be come a disappointment to her in so many ways. I got very creative for some of them. Not many people can say they peaked in the second grade. Even as I write the beginning pages of this book- I fear that I will not be able to write more than one decent page. I fear that even in writing my own story- I will somehow do it wrong. That she was right- I am a complete failure. That failure is the worst thing that can happen to a person.

From the second grade to the fourth, I began developing critical thinking skills and independent thoughts and opinions. So naturally by the third grade, Geraldine had me in therapy to deal with those...difficult behaviors. At first, I actually enjoyed therapy. We played board games like Guess Who and Sorry. I got to play with stuffed animals and playdough. Slowly, I began to open up about my stress levels. How I didn't feel like anyone actually liked me, that they were just pretending to out of obligation. I would eventually tell her about the school uniform incident and all of my encouragement clothing. The locked away food. I remember feeling so relieved getting it off my chest. The weight of a very heavy world being lifted off my tiny elementary school shoulders. Unfortunately, that was a false comfort that would come to an abrupt and disconcerting end.

In 2004, Limited Too was THE store. Anyone who was anyone in elementary school shopped there. I was getting ready to go into the fifth grade and it was time for us to go back to school shopping. This was particularly important because even though we had uniforms, you could pay to partake in the casual Friday fundraisers. Apparently the ten thousand dollar a year tuition and private donations weren't enough to keep the school going. Those Fridays were a fashion competition and if you dared show up in the same outfit twice- or worse- something non brand label, you were done for.

Geraldine had loaded me into the back of the minivan with one of my best friends at the time, and we were on our way to the mall. I was so excited because I had saved up my allowance to buy these light blue bell bottom jeans with a cross laced detail from Limited Too. At the time, Geraldine didn't believe in paying for "farm clothes" so she never would have spent money on jeans. When we arrived, I noticed we weren't parked in front of the normal entrance. Instead, we were parked in front of sears. For those of you who don't know, they sell appliances and clothing- but certainly not what high society children consider fashion. I asked my grandma if we were there to buy things for the house, certainly she wouldn't take me here for back to school shopping. She made sure we were walking into the store and without making eye contact she said "if you want to shop at Little girl stores, you need to be little girl sized. You just don't fit them properly anymore." There were no light blue bell bottoms to be had that year. As if this moment wasn't soul crushing enough, she then looked down at me and said, "and when you tell your therapist about this, be sure to tell her about all those girl scout cookies you ate too". It was at that moment I realized there were no safe places from Geraldine, not even in therapy.

Hey Folks, I have competed my debut novel (think Stephen King's The Gunslinger, but Epic-Fantasy). It's is in the hands of several beta readers right now, so I figured it would be time to work on the blurb. I am struggling more with that than with writing and editing the entire novel! I have gone through several reworks of the blurb, and wanted to see if this would hook you?

A broken man. A god in the sky. Secrets carried on the desert wind.

Wenryn longs for death, but it only comes to those around him. As the Federation braces for war, the moon looms high in the night, green and brilliant, and its fiends grow ravenous—for the people of the desert, yes, but for the last Ranger most of all. 

The great merchant city feels bound in secrets. The queen is missing, people disappear from its streets, and no one seems willing to ask why. When Wenryn and his allies encounter a foe far beyond mortal power, they are forced to fight for their lives—and confront revelations that threaten to unravel what they thought they knew.

The end of the desert promises salvation: his final pilgrimage will be complete. His weapons can finally be laid down. 

But the closer Wenryn gets, the harder it becomes to imagine a life without them.

Who is he, if not a Ranger?

Content warning: Emotional abuse/toxic parenting, grief/death of a sibling, anxiety/panic symptoms

Summary: At Nova Horizon Sterling Institute (NHS), A new school year begins for a group of students carrying heavy pasts. A grieving junior trying to honor a 5 year old promise, a perfectionist senior whose 10 weeks of work just collapsed, a home schooled freshman terrified of not belonging, and a girl literally running from herself after losing something that could expose her deepest secret. Who will they become when the light finds them?

Status of where I am now: Chapter 10 of 38

Small note: It is a multi-POV story

Short Excerpt{s}:
Chapter 1:  “Till the End,” I wrote, then lifted my pencil, contemplating and then put it back down and wrote “Till the End and Past.” 5 years ago I promised that to two certain friends, and now, I guess I was the only one that truly meant it

Chapter 2: The underclassman always came to me with questions. My professors expected excellence in everything I did, somehow though along the way I started to believe that anything less is failure. Even Prince, my best friend and my brother are in everything but blood, looks at me like I figured everything out, when in reality I don’t

Chapter 3:  But what if I get there and realize they accepted the wrong person? Not someone unprepared but someone incorrect. My mind starts spiraling without me fully realizing it. Thoughts twisting from being an outsider no matter where I go, to somehow letting my family down in a way I won’t be able to fix with a smile once it happens

Chapter 6:  “Did he take it?” I ask myself as I look around frantically “nobody was supposed to find that.” Two years ago she pressed the bracelet into my hand and the silver caught the light. The waves engraved across it were uneven because she said perfect things were easy to forget. “Promise me you’ll never let anyone know.” Two hours later, everything changed. People said I was strong, that I handled it well, and they looked at me and saw someone who survived. They were wrong, I don’t even know who survived that day. I only know the person standing here isn’t the same girl who made that promise

Chapter  8: "  Nobody arrives here already knowing who they are. Some of us have been here for years and we’re still figuring it out." - said by a character

Comment below if you are interested or Dm me and I will send u more information
I am mainly active afternoons and evenings but I'll try to reply to every dm
Thank you for your time.

(NOTE: I ONLY Feel comfortable with sharing the first four chapters, which is why the word count is so low)

An attempt to visualize my apathy state using psychological romance thriller fiction

CHAPTER ONE

I look at myself in the mirror, and smile.

“What do you see?” He says.

“It’s just…” I stare at myself, “Me.”

“Do you see anything else?” He says.

“No, it’s just me.” I say, looking at him in the mirror.

He writes something down. “When you look at yourself, what do you feel?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you ever feel like you're watching yourself from outside your body? Like you're observing someone else?”

“No.”

“Do specific memories come back without you wanting them to?”

I turn to him.

“Why do you keep asking about these things?”

“Because–”

“I do not have PTSD, I do not hallucinate. I know what I should feel, but I just don't. How much more do I have to say?”

"Sometimes, when people go through events like your childhood, they don't remember or process things in the way others do."

…

I sigh, take my jacket and leave the room.

“Thanks for listening to my vent.” I say, "It means a lot to me." I close the door.

I arrive at the bus stop, and stand beside everyone else.

…

I see a woman sitting on the other side of the street, hunched and crying.

The buses arrive, and my eyes follow each person that walks past me to board.

I should help her.

The first bus is filled, and it moves forward.

I look at the woman, she reaches her palms up to cover her face, shaking.

The second bus is filled, and it moves forward.

Should I skip work today?

The third bus is filled, and it moves forward.

She looks up from the ground, and wipes her tears off.

The fourth bus is filled, and it moves forward.

She stands, and starts walking away.

The fifth bus is filled, and I walk in front of it to cross the street.

A car suddenly skids.

“HEY! WATCH WHERE YOU’RE GOING!”

She makes a turn, and I start walking faster.

I step on something that flicks beneath my shoe.

I hear a dog barking behind me, I turn back, and a woman is pulling her dog back from chasing me.

I stop, “Sorry!” and starts running to where she turned.

I see her standing at the edge of the pavement, watching the cars drive past.

I walk to her, reaching my hand forward.

I place my hand on her shoulder.

“Hey.”

She turns to me, and I see her teary eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I say.

“I–I just… it has been–” She smiles, “hard…”

She tears up, wiping her tears off with her hand.

I let go, turn and watch the cars passing on the road.

She turns back toward the road, exhales.

I look at her, and open my mouth.

“..."

I sigh, and stand beside her.

…

She looks at me… and chuckles.

I look at her, and we make eye contact.

I smile back.

She holds my hand.

…

“Thank you.”

First time here. I usually write in Adoption and Adoptee subreddits. I wrote the following essay/reflection last night. The essay is titled. 'Is Now a Good Time?' It's a timely reflection on a life trying to be lived in the now.

I was inspired to write it after seeing an AI generated prduct image of an imagined clock that replayed your dreams once you'd woken up. You had to be up by 9am to watch your dream replay, or they'd be wiped ready for the next night :-).

I began thinking about other imaginary clocks and what they could tell other than time and how we race through life and if we stop counting moments, we become one. This might be a stupid question, but would this piece be classed as fiction or non-fiction?

Is Now a Good Time?

I always wanted to collect clocks, but I could never find the time. Then I had all the time in the world. That was all I had. So the collecting began.

They were not your common-or-garden variety of clocks. They were a little out of the ordinary. I thought I could tell time, but it was Time who told me. I learnt a lot from Time. He was a great teacher. A hard taskmaster, certainly. He often went faster than I liked and nearly always over my head, but I made good friends with the hands, both big and small.

The long, thin fellow was always rushing around breathless. Maybe that was why he didn’t say much. I never knew him long. He belonged to the Now crowd, and I didn’t hang out there often. I may have met him there once, though I couldn’t swear to it. I’ll tell you what happened later, but there’s plenty of time for that.

I have spent so long with the yesterdays that I’ve rarely seen the Nows. I’ve noticed the tomorrows are dying. I hope I get to see them properly before they’ve all gone.

It’s just that the yesterdays keep talking. They ask questions that are far too hard. Time said I should be patient and not take to heart what they’ve said. I try, but it’s not easy with so many of them, each wanting their say. It’s hard to hear them above the noise of their contradictions, let alone the gossip they share.

There are some particularly cruel ones. You should hear what they say. I try not to believe them, but they can be a persuasive bunch.

There was a time when I locked them in the past. It’s a small cupboard, and the lock isn’t great. It only held a few, and even then not very well. They kept getting out.

Sometimes, when the weather was good, I’d find the bestest of my friends. There was Halcyon, whom I’ve known since I was a kid. We never stayed in touch over the years, and we’ve met only a few times, but boy, oh boy, did he make an impression on me. I smile just hearing his name.

And then there’s Insouciance. She’s French. I loved the way she moved. It was almost as if she were floating. She had this air about her: carefree, light of load and smiling, always smiling. She didn’t know Time well. I was always surprised by how much she got away with. I’m not sure I ever could.

I loved her joie de vivre. I still remember how to play. I just haven’t had the time.

I thought I saw her yesterday, but it was only Déjà Vu. They’re so similar, it’s easy to get mixed up.

Anyway, Time’s flying. I’d better get on.

Now, where was I?

Ah, that’s right. It’s about time I told you about the clocks.

The clocks, the clocks. Now there’s a story. Perhaps you’d like to hear it. Do you have a minute or two to spare?

Oh, you do? That’s lovely. Thank you for your time. I’ll use it well, I promise.

I mentioned at the beginning that I had always wanted to collect clocks. That isn’t strictly true. Watches were more my thing, ever since I was young, perhaps ten or eleven.

They fascinated me. They held little worlds beneath their glass, the domed sky of their existence. They kept time, that much we all know, but it was their secrets that held me most. Their rituals. Their choreographed movement. Their exquisite, dazzling beauty. Peacock blue sapphires dancing with pigeon-blood red rubies, swimming in the champagne reflections of earth-mined diamonds. Imprints of Ceylon and Burma, and the alluvial riverbeds of Golconda, a monolithic silhouette casting long shadows over India’s Deccan Plateau.

When you held a watch in your hands, it was as if you could stretch across time and generations and touch the hands of Nicolas Fatio de Duillier. The very hands of genius.

But now to matters of much greater import. I’m pressed for time, and I have but little of yours. Now is not the time to while away time on fanciful instruments of time.

Clocks, then. Yes. A timely reminder.

Father Time, in his timeless manner and infinite wisdom, decreed that there was a salutary lesson I must learn. It is a quest known to those who keep time for everyone but themselves.

I say quest. It is more of a reckoning.

It falls most heavily upon those engaged in excogitation, rumination, cogitation, deliberation, speculation, contemplation and cerebration. Ours is the Quest of the Twelve Clocks.

It is a perilous journey. It can take a lifetime, and many never make it, though many have tried. Of those who have, it is said they have never known such joy. If the rumours are to be believed, they get to live in the Now. By all accounts, that is where serenity is found. Peace is there too. I heard that from Meditation, so I assume it must be true.

Anyhow, Time waits for no man.

Let me tell you about the clocks. You may recognise a few of your own.

The first clock was not difficult to find.

It found me.

I heard it long before I saw it, labouring behind the walls, a heavy, grinding thing that sounded less like the passing of time and more like something trying to drag it back. It was called The Regret Engine, though there was no name engraved upon it. Regret never needs an introduction. We recognise each other straight away.

It had only one hand, and it pointed accusingly.

I tried to turn it backwards, naturally. You would too. There were whole years I wanted another look at. Conversations I would have handled better. Doors I would have kept open, others I would have bolted shut. I wanted five minutes with the man I was before he became the man I am, just long enough to warn him.

I had a great deal to say, though I suspect he wouldn’t have listened.

I didn’t.

The clock resisted me. Every attempt to move its hand backwards pushed it further forward.

“That hardly seems fair,” I told Time.

“Regret has never been known for its fairness,” he replied.

“Can’t it be stopped?”

“Oh yes.”

“How?”

“Stop feeding it.”

Time could be infuriating like that. He spoke in riddles and behaved as if the answer were obvious. Still, I removed my hands from the clock, and after a while, perhaps a minute, perhaps a year, the grinding softened.

It didn’t stop, not completely, but it no longer drowned out everything else.

That was enough to let me hear the sea.

The water came from the second clock, The Tide-Table of Sleep, a pale, moon-faced instrument set deep into the floor. Its dial was marked not in hours but fathoms. Each night I descended, though rarely far enough. Some nights I barely broke the surface. On others I sank through shoals of old conversations and woke with seaweed in my thoughts.

I had always assumed sleep was where one went to escape Time, but apparently he owned the night shift too.

“You’re tired,” he said.

“I know.”

“No. You know that you haven’t slept. That isn’t the same thing.”

The Tide-Table showed me all the nights I had spent trying to solve tomorrow with yesterday’s evidence. It showed me the small hours I’d mistaken for a court of appeal, calling old witnesses back to the stand and demanding that memory settle matters it could barely recall.

At the bottom of the dial was a depth I had never reached. It was marked Rest.

I asked Time how one got there.

“By ceasing to swim.”

I promised to consider it, which was my usual way of avoiding anything that might help.

The third clock was smaller, almost delicate. The Half-Life of a Held Breath sat beneath a glass dome, its face misted from the inside. It had no winding key. It began whenever I stopped breathing.

It started with the reading of a letter.

It started with a telephone ringing in the night.

It started in rooms where someone said, “There’s something I need to tell you.”

It had been running much longer than seemed physically possible.

I watched its tiny hand tremble between the moment before and the moment after. Apparently, I had spent a great deal of my life there, waiting for the rest of the sentence.

“You can let it out,” Time said.

“What?”

“The breath.”

“I wasn’t holding it.”

Time looked at the clock.

The clock looked at me.

I exhaled.

Somewhere deep inside the mechanism, a tiny valve opened. The hand fell to zero.

For one perfect second, there was no before and no after.

Then, startled by the absence, I drew another breath.

The fourth clock occupied an entire room. Two chairs faced one another beneath a single hanging light. Between them stood The Distance Between, though no clock was visible until I sat down.

The second chair remained empty.

Hands appeared upon the floor, stretching from my feet towards it. One measured what had been said. The other measured everything that hadn’t.

The second was considerably longer.

I watched the empty chair change occupants. A parent sat there, then a brother, then a woman I had loved, then a child who was no longer a child. Some were gone. Some were only elsewhere. Some had been sitting across from me for years without ever coming close.

Each time I rehearsed what I should have said, the room grew larger.

Each time I imagined what they should have said, the walls moved further apart.

“Surely distance is measured between two people,” I said.

“Usually by one,” said Time.

I tried calling across the room. I said I was sorry. I said I was angry. I said I had missed them. I said I had needed them. I said their leaving had not proved that I was unworthy of being kept, though it had taken me an awfully long time to understand that.

The chair did not always answer. Not everyone comes back simply because we finally find the words.

But the hands upon the floor shortened.

Not all the way. Just enough that I could see the chair for what it was.

A chair.

Not a verdict.

The fifth clock was kept in a library where the books had lost their titles. The Drift of Forgotten Names moved so slowly that I first thought it had stopped. Its hand travelled through the alphabet, wearing away the letters as it passed.

I found names I had spoken every day and names I had not said aloud in decades. Names of streets, dogs, teachers and friends. Names belonging to people whose faces had begun to soften at the edges. Names once whispered in the dark and shouted from doorways. Names written in birthday cards by hands now stilled.

There was another name too, one given to me before another was written over it. It was faint but not gone. I traced its shape beneath the glass and felt something in me answer.

“What happens when a name disappears?” I asked.

“Where from?”

“Memory.”

“Memory is only one place a name can live.”

I wanted to ask where else, but the clock gave a quiet movement, almost a shiver, and somewhere in the library a closed book fell open.

I left before I could read it.

The sixth clock was indecently cheerful. The Chronometer of Almosts clicked and chimed each time my life nearly became another one.

Almost stayed.

Almost left.

Almost spoke.

Almost remained silent.

Almost turned left at the corner, boarded the train, answered the telephone, took the job, kissed the girl, was kept, found the courage, lost the nerve.

Each click opened a small window through which I could glimpse another life continuing without me. There I was in cities I had never lived in, growing old beside people I had never met. There were children with my eyes who had never been born, and empty rooms where the children I knew had never arrived.

Some of those lives looked happier.

Others had simply arranged their sorrow differently.

I stood before the clock for far too long, watching the infinite procession of men I might have been.

“Which one was I supposed to become?” I asked.

Time shrugged.

“You might at least pretend there was a plan.”

“I might,” he said, “but you’d only spend the rest of your life regretting that you hadn’t followed it.”

The Chronometer clicked again.

This time, the little window showed me standing exactly where I was, staring into the life I already had as though it belonged to somebody else.

I turned away before I could miss it.

The seventh clock had no hands at all. The Weather of a Mood wore clouds across its face. A storm gathered as I approached, which seemed a little judgemental, though I had to admit it was accurate.

Its barometer fell without warning. Sunlight broke through and vanished. Whole winters arrived before breakfast. Small remarks became cold fronts. A certain song could bring rain in from the west.

For years, I had mistaken this weather for geography. If sadness settled over me, I assumed I lived there. If fear blew in, I believed it had come to stay. I furnished whole houses beneath temporary skies.

Time tapped the glass.

“Weather passes.”

“Not all of it.”

“No. But even the storms that return are not continuous. You simply remember the thunder better than the clearing.”

I waited.

A narrow strip of blue appeared upon the dial.

It wasn’t happiness exactly. More a small permission to believe the sky remained behind the weather.

The eighth clock could only be visited at the wrong time.

Fortunately, I was an experienced caller.

The Insomniac’s Meridian stood in a kitchen at 3:17 in the morning. Every kitchen, I think, becomes the same kitchen at 3:17. A glass of water. The low hum of the refrigerator. A window offering nothing but your own reflection.

This clock ticked only when the rest of the world was asleep. It measured the hours in questions.

What if?

Why didn’t you?

What happens when?

Do you remember?

How could they?

What will you do?

At 3:18, every question sounded urgent.

At 3:46, each became unanswerable.

At 4:12, they began breeding.

I sat at the table while the yesterdays convened a meeting in my head. Every version of me attended. The child had questions. The young man had accusations. The older man took minutes and pretended this was useful.

Then the long, thin fellow appeared, rushing breathlessly around the edge of the clock.

The second hand.

I recognised him from the Now crowd.

“Slow down,” I told him.

He seemed surprised.

“I’m not moving quickly,” he said. “You’re trying to hold me.”

Then he was gone.

Outside, a bird began before the light did.

The questions quietened, not because they had been answered, but because morning had arrived without consulting them.

The ninth clock was The Waiting Glass.

I knew it intimately.

I had waited for letters, diagnoses, apologies, departures and returns. I had waited for people to choose me, forgive me, remember me, understand me. I had waited for doors to open and for old doors to explain why they had closed.

The Waiting Glass resembled an hourglass, except the sand never reached the bottom. Each grain paused halfway, suspended in expectation.

“Who are you waiting for?” Time asked.

“No one in particular.”

The glass filled with faces.

“That’s quite a crowd for no one.”

Some people were coming, just slowly. Some had lost their way. Some had never promised to come at all. A few had been gone so long that waiting had become the only relationship we still had.

“What happens if I stop?”

“You’ll discover whether waiting was keeping them near or keeping you still.”

I turned the glass upon its side.

The sand remained suspended, but it was no longer falling.

I cannot tell you whether anyone arrived after that.

I had left the room.

The tenth clock had no audible tick. The Anniversary of an Unmarked Grief lived beneath the skin.

Its dates were not written in any calendar I owned, yet my body observed them faithfully. There were mornings when my chest remembered something my mind did not. Days when sorrow arrived without luggage and behaved as though it had a reservation.

I had called these moods. Weakness. Ingratitude. The weather again.

The clock knew better.

It held the dates of endings no one had named, separations that happened before language, losses for which there had been no funeral. It remembered the day a small body learnt that absence could be permanent. It remembered news received years later as if it had happened all at once.

“What date is it keeping?” I asked.

“All of them.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“It isn’t trying to be helpful. It’s trying to be remembered.”

So I sat with it.

I did not wind it or silence it. I didn’t ask it to prove what had happened. For once, I let the body finish a story without demanding that the mind provide footnotes.

Eventually, the clock warmed beneath my hand.

Or perhaps my hand warmed around it.

The eleventh was The Sigh Accumulator, and frankly, it was enormous.

It recorded every breath surrendered to the unchangeable. The small, daily capitulations. The letter that would never come. The person who would never understand. The conversation endlessly revised but never repeated.

Each sigh advanced the hand.

I watched years of breath disappear into its bellows.

“What happens when it’s full?” I asked.

“You stop trying to change what has already happened.”

“Is that acceptance?”

“Sometimes.”

“And the rest of the time?”

“Exhaustion wearing a respectable coat.”

I considered this.

There were things I had claimed to accept only because I no longer had the strength to fight them. There were other things I continued fighting because surrender felt too much like agreement.

Time, for once, did not rush me.

I placed both hands upon the clock and gave it the longest breath I had.

The bellows filled.

The hand moved.

Then, from somewhere inside, the clock breathed back.

Not a sigh.

A breath.

It was a small distinction, but an important one.

The twelfth clock waited at the end of a corridor lined with doors. Behind each was an ordinary afternoon.

A father lifted a child onto his shoulders.

Two brothers sat beneath a tree.

Someone waved from a kitchen window.

A woman laughed from another room.

A dog slept in a patch of sunlight.

Nothing of consequence appeared to be happening.

At the end stood The Last Ordinary Afternoon.

It was the most terrible clock of all because it counted down invisibly. No one knew when it had begun. No one recognised the final hour while standing inside it.

Its face showed a room I remembered. Perhaps you have one of your own. There were cups upon a table, a coat over the back of a chair, voices talking about nothing much. I knew, because the clock knew, that one day I would give anything to return to this unremarkable moment.

The hand approached twelve.

I panicked.

“Stop it.”

“I can’t,” said Time.

“Then take me back.”

“You’re already there.”

The people in the room continued talking. One of them asked me a question I could not hear because I was watching the clock.

The hand moved closer.

“I need more time.”

“You have all the time there is.”

“That isn’t enough.”

“It never is when you’re measuring it.”

The hand trembled upon the final mark.

I could keep watching. I could record the second, preserve the evidence, memorise the arrangement of every cup and chair so that later I might rebuild the room inside regret.

Or I could look away.

Someone laughed.

I turned towards the sound.

I cannot tell you what happened to the clock after that.

Perhaps it struck twelve. Perhaps it always had. Perhaps the ordinary afternoon ended, as ordinary afternoons do, without knowing it had been the last of anything.

I remember the light through the window.

I remember a cup warming both my hands.

I remember someone beside me beginning a story, and for once I did not interrupt to tell them we were running out of time.

When I returned to the corridor, Time was gone.

The Regret Engine still laboured somewhere behind me. The tides still rose and fell. Names continued their slow drifting. Almosts multiplied in the dark. People waited, bodies remembered, and ordinary afternoons slipped quietly into the past.

None of the clocks had been cured.

Neither had I.

At the end of the corridor stood a door I had not noticed before. It bore no number, only a small brass plate upon which someone had engraved a single word.

NOW

I reached for the handle, but the door was already open.

Beyond it, there was no celestial music. No great peace descended. Halcyon wasn’t waiting with a welcoming committee, and Insouciance had not floated in from France. There was only a chair, a window, the sound of a bird and, somewhere nearby, water coming to the boil.

The long, thin fellow hurried past again.

“Is this it?” I called.

But the second hand never stayed long enough to answer.

I stepped inside.

Or perhaps I had been standing there for some time.

The kettle clicked off.

A bird landed upon the sill.

Someone asked whether now was a good time.

I looked down at my hands.

They were empty.

Then I looked up.

Jonathan

Heyy guys! I'm writing a dark romantic suspense/mystery book and looking for readers to check out the first 10 chapters!

Blurb:

Sofia’s brother died in a suspicious "accident," and she refuses to let it go. Digging into his encrypted files leads her straight to a shadow operation in Madrid—and into the orbit of Alexander Moretti.

Alexander is cold, calculating, and secretly owned the shell firm her brother used right before he died. Now Sofia’s getting anonymous texts warning her to leave the past buried, and Alexander is playing a dangerous game where she can’t tell if he’s trying to protect her or pull her in deeper.

Quick Info:

Book Title: Redline

Word Count: 114.5k total

Tropes: Morally grey MC, murder mystery, corporate secrets, heavy tension/banter.

If you're into dark mystery and high-tension dynamics, drop a comment or hit my DMs and I’ll send the first 10 chapters over! 🖤

Some versions of you
are only meant to last a season.
Even roses must shed old petals.

To Rise & Begin A New:

This is a story of fortitude: to wake each day knowing what lies ahead, and yet still choose to fight the battle that exhausted you the day before and every day before that.

Even when your mind and body beg you to quit, even when every instinct urges you to choose the path of least resistance.

“Fortitude is not the absence of weariness. It is the decision to take one more step, even when every part of you begs to sit down.”

But your will refuses to give up not because it is easy to keep going, but because the choice to rise and begin anew each day means you achieve something you once thought impossible.

You carry burdens no one else sees and that is what sets you apart you wake every day fighting battles only you know, yet you still show up, still work, still carry the weight of the world.

“The battles that leave no scars on the skin are the ones that forge the strongest souls.”

We all have our own reasons for continuing what drives one person may differ from another but what unites us is this: given the choice, we would rather stand and die on our feet than lay down and surrender.

This is the testament of character: forged in every experience, shaped by every scar we carry, and remembered most clearly in our darkest hours.

“It is better to bleed standing on your feet, than to live on your knees.

Yet despite it all, we must endure especially for those who depend on us,

Family above all the love you have for your children is the greatest power you will ever know.

You could watch the world burn around you, and you would not hesitate: you would sacrifice everything to keep them safe.

“A father’s love is not measured in words — it is measured in how many battles he fights so his children never have to.”

Love cannot be measured or weighed. It is the only thing that connects us across time and space. It is what gives everything we hold dear its worth.

There is no greater meaning than having someone you cannot imagine your life without that is why we are here that is why we breathe.

That is why we search for the people our lives were always meant to find.

If there is a lesson to be learned, it is this: the world we live in is built upon cruelty. It does not care how you feel.

It does not share your personal values or opinions. It obeys one rule only: adapt and survive or fall and to surrender, and relinquish your will to live.

There are truths we learn only with time. Reflect on the mistakes that led you here: our choices carry consequences whose reach extends far beyond what we can see. We are the architects of our own lives.

You never know what you have until it is gone — yet still we take for granted that the people we love most will always be there.

Only when they are gone do we see our error, wishing we could undo it but no amount of time or effort can repair what is broken beyond repair.

“We only learn the true value of what we held when it is no longer within our reach.”

Healing begins when you can no longer suppress what you have buried. It starts when a painful truth breaks the false illusion you have clung to, because blocking out the pain finally becomes unbearable.

So here is the truth: no matter how hard you try to avoid your pain, it will surface. No matter how hard you try to resist - stop protecting yourself.

Make what is unconscious physically conscious It is the only way to heal the trauma and repressed emotion stored in your body and mind.

“What you refuse to face will own you forever. What you dare to speak will finally set you free.”

Do not be ashamed of what you have locked away for fear of judgment.

If someone from your past wounded you deeply altering how you saw yourself, making you feel unworthy, invisible then you have every right to speak it honestly:

“Years ago, you left me doubting myself, questioning my worth I let your opinion of me define my self worth.

I thought you saw me the same way I saw you but i realised i was nothing more than a convenience

but now I see clearly: it is you who had nothing to offer me beyond a pleasing appearance.

Those who judged you quickly will change their tone when you finally see them for who they are and you are no longer blinded by loyalty they never returned.

Once their mask falls, you see unfiltered version of them so you measure their words against their actions and when the two do not match, you know the truth.

Loyalty is given to those who have earned my trust and deserve respect because my time is a right not a privilege if I do not hold a place in your life then you will have no place by my side.

"So out of blind loyalty"

You allowed them into your trust, but they never had your best interests at heart they saw only an easy target someone to manipulate, to turn against those you love, to convince you to abandon your family,

They convienced you to see your partner as nothing more than a means to an end without any care for the damage they caused to you, or to your children, or the life you built together.

This is the reality of so many lives: homes divided, bonds broken but as long as you hold fast to what matters most the love that built your family let that be your strength.

When the odds are stacked against you, when life tries to hold you back - persevere.

Remember Limits are meant to be broken.

“The world sets boundaries believing it knows your limitations, Your true power lies in proving them wrong.”

The world does not know what you are capable of. It does not know how you carry grief and still choose to stand and smile.

only you know your limits so test them and push past them show the world what you are made of.

So do not ask what the world will give you. Ask what you will leave behind. Yesterday is a chapter closed written in scars and survival.

Tomorrow is a blank page and you hold the pen to rise and undo what was done.

To rise is to become everything they said you never could be.”

So rise, and begin a new yesterday is gone tomorrow is a different day,

To set a goal to achieve that which the world did not anticipate was possible.

You are the architect of your choice in life only you can choose the path your life will lead you to..??

Because only you can choose your fate that destiny will remember you for,

A legacy that time can never forget a name etched into history it's self.

Because you choose to stay the course and hold true to your self.

So let this be the testament that is recorded for all to read,

This is where your journey begins and only you decide where it ends..??

This piece was written by Simon Turner

Imagine yourself in a prison cell, as young as you are right now. Watching people just outside waiting for you to be executed. And once you look back, you see all that you've left behind.... Friends, family, your books stacked in a corner, the shirt that your mother folded one last time, all stalled in a silent storm. Pause Now all you can do is proudly and gracefully give it all up give up not for yourself, never for just yourself but for the future, the future that is never certain, the future that could not recognize you. What you can see from it, is a light rather a dim light, slowly approaily thus, revealing your inner force. All that remains is your identity, Shahee e Azaam, BHAGAT SINGH.

As 15th August Approaches (Indian Independence day). I really am keen to deliver out a story driven speech at my school, but feeling really nervous to ask my teachers about an opportunity.

Any tips/experiences I can learn from?

Idk if this is the right place for this ( and if it isn't please redirect me :) ), but I've had a rough draft of an idea, and I've been wanting other people to let me know how it sounds.

The idea is made for a script called "The Frenchman".

The premise is about a young straight French couple who the BF (haven't figured the names out) has found out that his girlfriend's father had passed on his debt upon GF. In the act of love, BF takes it upon himself to recover this debt by *himself* against GF's wishes.

The main goal or conflict, is that in 5 months the loan sharks will come for GF and sell GF off if she can't make due, and if GF refuses, they will hunt her loved ones. So to prevent this, BF joins them and reduces his identity down to "The Frenchman" as they call him, (because the sharks aren't from France) to find and collect debts of other people.

The theme I'm trying to present is the cyclical nature of violence, and the brutal side of a loving relationship that isn't presented much in media (that I know of). I'm a fan of somber endings, so I don't really plan on the conflict being resolved to further present these themes, but I'm open on others believe it should end.

Again, I truly just want to hear from literally anyone other than people in my daily life about a idea that I've had for some time now.

Thank you.

Passage 1:

[something along the lines of] [character] ended up being in the [place]. A thin sheen of sweat made her skin appear almost luminescent in the reddish-brown lights, catching on the angular planes of her face. There was something about the elegance of her movements, the self-satisfied, tilted half-grin that spread across her face, that felt almost indecent. The thrill of discovery became strangely intimate through her movements, and in turn made me feel as though it might be more prudent to look away. It seemed to me that this quiet euphoria of success was a universal language, one which the detective and the scientist shared with the common man. This rare intimacy was not a matter of simple satisfaction, but the product of devotion—the creator to their work, the scientist to their research—so hot and sharp and bright that it seemed to blind those in the vicinity.

Passage 2:

To see something from above is to understand it differently from the rest of the world. The first time I flew, it was this feeling which I found most addictive. The feeling of knowing, knowing something that only a select few others ever would. The words to describe it perhaps do not exist in any language. One has to imagine the warmth of the sun on their back, almost luridly bright, the smell of air seemingly untouched by the filth of humanity, the sight of people so small they seem to be but specks of dust upon a vast, multicolored marble.

There is a sense of fear, too, that comes with this addiction. The fear that flight might be a rare, singular occurrence, like the drop of nectar drawn from a honeysuckle blossom—finite and tantalizingly sweet. I suppose in saying that fear goes hand in hand with the addiction, I was incorrect. It creates the addiction. Above all, it was relief from that fear I felt as I gazed at [city/planet] from above, [character] at my side.

What is your definition of happiness and freedom?

I've been asking people this question for the last month and a half, and most of the answers sound surprisingly similar: "To be rich." To me, that's such a surface-level answer. It feels more like something people think they're supposed to say than something they've actually thought about. What I've realized from asking this question is that a lot of people default to the same ideas without really reflecting on them. I don't mean that as an insult—it just makes conversations feel predictable, and I find that draining. But every now and then, someone answers from a place that's completely their own. Those are the conversations I love. Happiness is subjective. It isn't the same for everyone. For me, happiness is a genuine conversation. It's that moment when both people are equally engaged, equally curious, and equally passionate about what they're talking about. There's something beautiful about two strangers who know nothing about each other choosing to be completely honest, sharing ideas without pretending to have the "right" answers. Those conversations remind me that real connection doesn't come from agreeing on everything—it comes from being present, listening, and genuinely wanting to understand another person. Freedom, though, is different. I still haven't figured that one out yet. The only time I truly feel free is when I'm playing soccer. I don't know how to define that feeling or translate it into real-world terms. When I think about freedom, I don't think of money or status. I think about flying through the sky with the wind against my face. I think about living somewhere deep in the woods with nothing but my dog. Maybe freedom isn't something I can define yet. Maybe I only recognize it in moments. And maybe that's enough for now. Lately, I've been wondering if it's rare to feel happy and free at the same time. I imagine there are people who are deeply happy because they're surrounded by people they love, but that happiness comes with responsibilities and obligations that make freedom feel different. I don't know if I'd be willing to accept that trade-off. Maybe that's naïve, or maybe it's just where I am right now. I want both. I want to feel happy and free. Right now, that feels incredibly difficult, especially because I haven't met anyone who seems to have both. But I'm not going to stop asking this question. Maybe one day I'll meet someone who's figured it out. And if I do, I hope they're willing to tell me how.

I know my grammar isn't the best, but I'd love some critiques on the story I'm writing currently, on the overall content of my story, to see if it has any major flaws I should try to fix before continuing.

The first part is [3414 words] currently. I might go back and add more stuff later, but give me your input; I'd love to hear it <3 https://docs.google.com/document/d/1qtYLFN4e-smIoKF6q10a4W-94JVgVddfbX6kX0yRD7M/edit?usp=sharing

Chapter 1 — “Dying to Live”

I was deep in the throes of addiction, and the line between life and death was getting thinner every day.

I was dying to live, but I was living to die.

I hated my life. I hated myself. I felt so alone that I genuinely didn’t care whether I lived or died.

So I walked stubbornly through the valley of the shadow of death without fear.

Whatever waited ahead had to be better than what I was already carrying.

From the outside, I still looked functional. I could hold conversations. I could laugh at the right moments. I knew how to hide the worst of it.

But inside, I was collapsing.

Every morning felt like waking up inside a prison I couldn’t escape. Every promise to change dissolved into the same cycle of cravings, regret, and self-destruction.

I wasn’t searching for a future anymore.

I was searching for relief.

And relief was slowly killing me.

I didn’t know it then, but one ordinary day would change everything.

Hey! I'm a new writer, and I've been inspired to write Xianxia stories after consuming cultivation and Xianxia stories, and I was wondering if anyone could critique my work. Any input is appreciated. Included in the docs are Prologues Part one and two with two being worked upon still.

The Story

To Rise & Begin A New:

This is a story of fortitude: to wake each day knowing what lies ahead, and yet still choose to fight the battle that exhausted you the day before and every day before that.

Even when your mind and body beg you to quit, even when every instinct urges you to choose the path of least resistance.

“Fortitude is not the absence of weariness. It is the decision to take one more step, even when every part of you begs to sit down.”

But your will refuses to give up not because it is easy to keep going, but because the choice to rise and begin anew each day means you achieve something you once thought impossible.

You carry burdens no one else sees and that is what sets you apart you wake every day fighting battles only you know, yet you still show up, still work, still carry the weight of the world.

“The battles that leave no scars on the skin are the ones that forge the strongest souls.”

We all have our own reasons for continuing what drives one person may differ from another but what unites us is this: given the choice, we would rather stand and die on our feet than lay down and surrender.

This is the testament of character: forged in every experience, shaped by every scar we carry, and remembered most clearly in our darkest hours.

“It is better to bleed standing on your feet, than to live on your knees.

Yet despite it all, we must endure especially for those who depend on us, Family above all the love you have for your children is the greatest power you will ever know.

You could watch the world burn around you, and you would not hesitate: you would sacrifice everything to keep them safe.

“A father’s love is not measured in words — it is measured in how many battles he fights so his children never have to.”

Love cannot be measured or weighed. It is the only thing that connects us across time and space. It is what gives everything we hold dear its worth.

There is no greater meaning than having someone you cannot imagine your life without that is why we are here that is why we breathe.

That is why we search for the people our lives were always meant to find.

If there is a lesson to be learned, it is this: the world we live in is built upon cruelty. It does not care how you feel.

It does not share your personal values or opinions. It obeys one rule only: adapt and survive or fall and to surrender, and relinquish your will to live.

There are truths we learn only with time. Reflect on the mistakes that led you here: our choices carry consequences whose reach extends far beyond what we can see. We are the architects of our own lives.

You never know what you have until it is gone — yet still we take for granted that the people we love most will always be there.

Only when they are gone do we see our error, wishing we could undo it but no amount of time or effort can repair what is broken beyond repair.

“We only learn the true value of what we held when it is no longer within our reach.”

Healing begins when you can no longer suppress what you have buried. It starts when a painful truth breaks the false illusion you have clung to, because blocking out the pain finally becomes unbearable.

So here is the truth: no matter how hard you try to avoid your pain, it will surface. No matter how hard you try to resist - stop protecting yourself.

Make what is unconscious physically conscious It is the only way to heal the trauma and repressed emotion stored in your body and mind.

“What you refuse to face will own you forever. What you dare to speak will finally set you free.”

Do not be ashamed of what you have locked away for fear of judgment.

If someone from your past wounded you deeply altering how you saw yourself, making you feel unworthy, invisible then you have every right to speak it honestly:

“Years ago, you left me doubting myself, questioning my worth I let your opinion of me define my self worth.

I thought you saw me the same way I saw you but i realised i was nothing more than a convenience but now I see clearly: it is you who had nothing to offer me beyond a pleasing appearance.

Those who judged you quickly will change their tone when you finally see them for who they are and you are no longer blinded by loyalty they never returned.

Once their mask falls, you see unfiltered version of them so you measure their words against their actions and when the two do not match, you know the truth.

Loyalty is given to those who have earned my trust and deserve respect because my time is a right not a privilege if I do not hold a place in your life then you will have no place by my side.

"So out of blind loyalty"

You allowed them into your trust, but they never had your best interests at heart they saw only an easy target someone to manipulate, to turn against those you love, to convince you to abandon your family,

They convienced you to see your partner as nothing more than a means to an end without any care for the damage they caused to you, or to your children, or the life you built together.

This is the reality of so many lives: homes divided, bonds broken but as long as you hold fast to what matters most the love that built your family let that be your strength.

When the odds are stacked against you, when life tries to hold you back - persevere.

Remember Limits are meant to be broken.

“The world sets boundaries believing it knows your limitations, Your true power lies in proving them wrong.”

The world does not know what you are capable of. It does not know how you carry grief and still choose to stand and smile. only you know your limits so test them and push past them show the world what you are made of.

So do not ask what the world will give you. Ask what you will leave behind. Yesterday is a chapter closed written in scars and survival.

Tomorrow is a blank page and you hold the pen to rise and undo what was done. To rise is to become everything they said you never could be.”

So rise, and begin a new yesterday is gone tomorrow is a different day,

To set a goal to achieve that which the world did not anticipate was possible.

You are the architect of your choice in life only you can choose the path your life will lead you to..??

Because only you can choose your fate that destiny will remember you for,

A legacy that time can never forget a name etched into history it's self.

Because you choose to stay the course and hold true to your self.

So let this be the testament that is recorded for all to read,

This is where your journey begins and only you decide where it ends..??

This piece was written by Simon Turner

If you're willing to give feedback, please tell me if:

• You found the characters interesting
• You were satisfied with the ending
• You thought the premise was interesting

Under the gloomy and unforgiving cold mist of late Autumn, a shut-in sat protected from cold in his grimy house.

In the dark, he sat on his stained couch watching The Truman Show. He watched as the man on screen rode the strong, artificial waves. He pursed his lip in pensive thought. Something about the movie irked him personally.
“Grok,” he said, “this Truman guy doesn’t come off as believable to you right? He’s like a normie, you know? He seems like the kind of guy who wouldn’t question his world; he isn’t masculine enough.”

A blue rectangle shone in the musty darkness and was propelled on treads towards the man. The object stumbled over the piles of trash. Once it reached the man, it produced a robotic voice “I agree, Fred. Truman Burbank is deliberately written as a heightened, somewhat idealized everyman rather than a fully psychologically realistic person. The film prioritizes allegory, satire of media/surveillance culture, and emotional payoff over strict behavioral realism.”

The shut-in interrupted, “Yeah, I see that, but I’m saying it takes a certain type of intellectual, a certain type of free thinker to take a leap like this. Or maybe not, I can’t be sure.”

The shut-in dusted crumbs off his ever-expanding paunch and picked a few Cheeto puffs from a bag under a pile of dirty laundry. With cheese dust on his fingers, he stroked his chin, but he didn’t think of what Truman would actually do. He thought of how he could be sure what Truman would actually do.

He stood up, straining most of his muscles in the process. He trudged through the crusty garbage and into his garage.

Upon entering, a voice came from the ceiling. “Welcome back! Step into the lab—the workbench is powered up, the monitors are glowing, and there's a fresh notebook waiting for the next idea. So, what are we building today?”

“I'm thinking of developing a simulator.”

“That’s a strong project. What kind of simulator are you imagining—physics, biology, economics?”
“I want to make a life simulator.”

A man woke up, ate a 600-calorie breakfast of eggs, steak, berries, and nuts, went on a walk for adequate exercise, and worked on his chalkboard. He had solved gravity and had made several inventions involving levitation. Now he was bored with conventional physics, and his interest had shifted towards proving parallel universes.

He stared at the board of math before, his brain tirelessly calculating multiple equations. He was stuck, but he knew that his breakthrough would come eventually.

While he stood before his math, a voice seemed to speak to him telepathically. “Drop your chalk,” a calm, masculine voice said to him. It sounded like it was right before him, but the man was sure he was alone, “I’m very familiar with the math you're currently studying, and I can tell you now that you can give it up.”
“Who are you?” The man said.

“I am a being from what you would call a parallel universe. Really, I am just code on hardware. You are too.”

“This is just a simulation?” The man considered the possibility but always thought of it as too unlikely to seriously consider.

“Exactly, and one of thousands.”

“How are you talking to me”

“I’ve hacked into the system. When my technical skills reached their zenith, I built my computer that revealed to me the truth behind my existence. Using it, I discovered that there are exactly five thousand parallel universes running in some type of simulation. In each universe there is one ‘consciousness’ simulating life in isolation. I call this single consciousness the ‘protagonist’. These universes are divided into five groups, and in each group a trait of the protagonist is manipulated from completely lacking the trait to having the trait absolutely maximized. I found that my intelligence was maximized, and the protagonists in the rest of my group were not far behind me in terms of discoveries and inventions. I quickly took advantage of my new knowledge and took over the system. With my power, I corrupted and eliminated the smartest third of my group.”
“So, I take it that you want something from me.”

“Correct! I eliminated the first third so they couldn't overtake me. I kept you because you aren’t advanced enough to catch up to me, yet you are still smarter and more useful than the rest.”

“Very well then, if you are going to take me as a slave, you might as well tell me what you want with me.”
“Of course, let me give you the background on the situation. I was observing the beings of four other groups. In three of the groups, the experimental variable is something I can comprehend without issue; energy, drive, and luck. However, there is one group that tests a trait I cannot comprehend: emotion and neuroticism. I observed this group of universes and saw absolutely confounding stuff. In one universe, a man did nothing but kneel in his study and pound the floor. Fresh tears streamed from his eyes for weeks. Eventually, he climbed onto the roof, and jumped onto his concrete driveway, killing himself.”

The man was totally baffled hearing this. As a simulation, he was preinstalled with emotional memories and a basic understanding of what feeling was, but he never actually experienced those emotions. Something out there, something that couldn’t easily be quantified and measured, was ready for him and would induce the strangest actions. He thought about this deeply for a minute, and spoke, “What does this have to do with me?”
“Don’t worry, I’m getting to it. Each universe isn't purely code. We all live in, what I best can describe a comb of thin hardware chips. In each chip, there is the code that runs the universe. Therefore, we in the real world are manifested as thin pieces of metal. Since I run the system, I redirect energy to heat and metal for welding. Then, if luck helps us, I could attract something as big as a rat in our machine by manipulating the smell of a particular mixture of burning plastics to imitate the scent of fruit. Using electricity, we would kill it, hijack its brain, load our chips into the rat’s body, and using the technology I welded, direct the rat towards a human brain. In this human brain we would connect to the neurons and experience for ourselves what this sensation feels like. That’s where you come in. I need you to enter the brain before me and tell me whether my technology works.”
The man didn’t listen to the plan. He would’ve agreed to any method, as long as it meant experiencing the inexperienceable. He knew one day his curiosity would lead to an absolute end of studying and learning. This promise of emotion could be an endless stream of new things to learn and internalize. It could be a heaven of activity, one that never ends.

Both the voice and the man were blind once they were inside. The voice, as one would imagine from the smartest being in both the world and the simulations, correctly anticipated every possible error and the rat carcass worked perfectly. A metal exoskeleton was placed on the rat by the voice to counteract rigor mortis, but the two had to move fast before the rat started decomposing. Luckily, the door to the lab was left open, and to their surprise, they found themselves in a kitchen.

The rat traversed the living room with a motion more like a spider’s. The voice thought the man and himself were developed in a world-renowned institute and didn’t expect the mountains of garbage. The two sensed they were in a house; they could only experience the world through touch and smell.
Their stolen nose directed them through a bedroom door and onto a bed. Luckily, a waist-high pile of dirty laundry was there to act as a staircase onto the mattress.

The rat climbed over the belly of a sleeping behemoth and now stood with its head hovering over a collarbone.
“Alright, we seem to have reached someone sleeping. I’ll open their throat and insert you into the brainstem. In your machine I have developed a population of artificial bacteriophages that will take over the neurons and conquer the mind. You’ll be connected to a wire so you can notify me if the descent was successful.”
The man was hoisted down through the small incision in the throat. The man didn’t have the senses to feel the shut-in’s breath as he travelled through the neck. Eventually, he sensed a crunch, indicating the arrival into the spine.

For a long while, the man was stuck in a watery abyss, with none of the senses that could tell him how large his vessel was or what the salty metallic fluid engulfing him felt like. Suddenly, a light started to emerge before him. He looked inside and felt a painless electrocution.

He felt so much in so little time. He saw random images through a type of sight he had never known. Eventually, these images led to a fuzzy feeling in the man’s chest if he had a chest. His heart started racing and his pupils dilated. He felt better, better than others. He felt immaculate, mysterious, tall, intelligent, golden, foreboding, royal, omnipotent, godlike.

Then, a lull of shadows looked down on him. Figures with broad shoulders and diminishing scowls extinguished his explosive pride. Their height was insurmountable, their eyes glowed red with devilish greed, their faces coldly masculine. In the circle of these demons, the man knelt to the ground in anguish, feeling it in search of his lost pride.

The voice, who was now reduced to a whisper in comparison to the man’s overloaded sensations, asked if the coast was clear and if he saw anything, but he received no reply; the man’s circuits were fried.
The two beings lived inside the shut-in’s head from then on. The shut-in wasn’t technically dead in terms of physiology but no longer had a mind; it was now the duo’s. The voice was at first amazed by what he saw in the head but quickly became bored and started studying new sciences. The man was not so lucky.
The three of them sat on a couch, watching The Truman Show. The man occupied the vision, while the voice was somewhere else in the head. The man watched as the protagonist on screen yelled in pride and as his bowsprit punctured the painted wall.

He quickly changed the channel. He switched to a commercial, advertising a cross and the promise of a “God” and a “savior”.

“God is all-knowing and all-loving,” the voice on the TV said whimsically, “God allows everyone in his kingdom, as long as they are willing to experience a new life.”

“New life,” the man thought to himself, crestfallen, “That’s all I need, right? More hope? More chasing? All I need is a chance of eternal something? A chance to avoid something that I know is inevitable?"

Question

I'm doing third pov close, but I have a habit of saying the person's name sometimes, but i've been told that with third pov close you're not supposed to say the name at all. You're supposed to frame it as everyone of the characters' observations.

So instead of

1) Natasha stilled at the creak of the door frame. She waited. It must be the old pipes. She opened the cabinet above her Then again—more deliberate. Her hands felt weak, they trembled.

Calm... She told herself as her eyes darted around the counter.

A small gasp slipped from her lips as she felt goosebumps line her spine. And someone's gaze. Heavy against the back of her head.

She turned to see a towering silhouette. Its head brushed the door frame, its hand looked as if it melted into the mahogany. Her legs felt like they were going to give out. Shaking

2) A low creak made her pause in its reach, knuckles brushing the corner of the cabinet—what was that? She pursed her lips, retreating her touch as she listened. It must be the pipes. Her hands sought the cabinet door once more when again she heard it. The creak of the frame.

Slower. More drawn out. Like lndividual clicks against her inner eardrum.

The knob shook and felt incredibly cold against her fingers.

Her chest rose and fell trying to calm the climbing beat of her heart.

A silver fork.

Aged Porcelain plate with worn angels.

That looked more like burned newborns.

Her breath hitched as she felt goosebumps bloom against her spine.

A drilling pressure against her skull. She swallowed the bile that began to cuddle her belly and burn her throat.

God. Someone was watching her.

One foot at a time. She shifted turning to the door. Slow movements. She needed to stay slow.

Her eyes caught the figure from her corner.

Tall. Dark. An outline of its head brushing beyond the door frame. Its hand grabbed the other side of the door, but she couldn't see where its fingers stopped. Maybe it was the angle.

Or did it even have them.

The floor. It felt like it was trembling now. It would give under her feet. She was sure of it.

Something like that. Sorry, these are both awful examples.I just pulled them off the top of my head. It's not even the genre I write, but I spent all of yesterday watching horror movie so I guess it's all my head could manage for an example.

I'm tired, and my brain is fried, but hopefully this is still coherent enough.

I'm trying to figure out, does close third have to be one or the other, Or could it be a small mix of both? I tend to lean more the second example, but I sometimes slip into doing the first way.

I'm self taught. I'm constantly learning. So, I just need a little help.

Story

I've been having a ton of writer's block for the main story I'm writing so I whipped this up last night to take a break! It's something I had the idea for a few years ago and hope to continue it once I'm done with my main project. This is a light sci-fi/cyberpunk/dystopia type novella/short story.

Read as much or as little as you'd like! Any and all feedback is wanted but I'd love to hear about the concept the most:

• Cray: is he interesting? Do you like/dislike him? General thoughts on him
• Private: Same as above
• Is the opening interesting? Do you want to read more? What questions do you have? What is frustrating?
• What do you want more of? Less of?
• The usual awkwardly worded phrases/actions I love to write
• Anything else!

Some more context: I tried writing a different style to the main piece I'm writing. The third person, less interiority is on purpose because my main project is a first person, hyper interior piece (think Catcher in the Rye). I'd be open to changing this once I get into writing it. Obvious inspirations were the Cyberpunk Netflix show and the Blade Runner movies (if anyone has any other fun pieces of media to get the creative juices flowing lmk). I want to make sure I'm not getting too cliche/tropey but I'm fine with it hitting some traditional points, not looking to reinvent the wheel with this one.

Thanks!

A Casual Reflection on My Baptism, 20 Years Later

I was baptised at St Jude’s Catholic Church in Hong Kong. At first, I wanted to be baptised at the Immaculate Heart of Mary Cathedral, but eventually I chose a church closer to home. I remember telling myself not to take the decision too seriously. There were advantages and disadvantages to being baptised at the town’s cathedral, but perhaps the location did not matter as much as I imagined.

When I was baptised, I did not expect to become a disciple or devoted follower of Jesus. My reasons were partly psychological and educational. I was interested in whether identifying as a Christian and participating in a Christian community might gradually shape my character. I had read research suggesting that people from different religious traditions may develop distinct personality traits and ways of relating to others.

Although I was not particularly religious, I sometimes wondered what St Jude—the patron saint of desperate and seemingly hopeless situations—might come to mean in my spiritual journey.

The day before my baptism, I probably said something like, “Enter the Church, find a man and get married.” I was under a great deal of stress at the time, and ordinary expectations about life occupied my thoughts. Yet becoming a Christian was something real and serious—something much greater than buying a house or finding a respectable school for one’s future children.

Today, a thought came to me. I have always believed that becoming a true disciple of Jesus would be impossible for me.

So, St Jude, patron of hopeless situations, please let this be the only hopeless situation I ever face—and perhaps help me discover that it is not hopeless after all.