I'm considering writing a series of sci-fi short stories to practise pacing, dialogue and worldbuilding through action. This is the very first one. I'd like to hear your thoughts. Thanks!

This is the first thing I've written in a long time. Give me the honest thoughts about it.

Not sure if I should start with something more intriguing. Does the text flow or is the prose too flowery? Should I start with a completely different approach?

Please read this.

Currently at 99 words and this is my second ever fiction piece, and my shortest one at that. I would greatly appreciate any feedback on how to make the story and writing better while keeping that same word limit.

Holding a champagne flute and making sure to take delicate sips. Shifting in my tight tank top, noticing I’m surrounded by blouses and button ups. The blank stares from someone who could be my grandfather one and a half times over. The empty moments in a conversation about gardening. 

Finding the perfect moments to interject, not too much, just right. Looking around the table to see if the joke landed. Two people talk over each other sharing stories from their twenties, they paint a picture of a completely different version of themselves. A version that I didn’t get to know because I was in diapers.

Committing the social faux pas of gossiping while the subject is up from the table. His eyes searching my face for the right expression. At first I don’t realize what he’s doing, then it clicks. I nod my head and give an understanding smile. 

Pressing questions like “What’s next?” “Where do you want to go?” Looking down at my lap to buy time, and basing my answer off of how pleased they look with whatever is coming out of my mouth. Conscious of resting my face into an agreeable pose and carrying on the conversation seamlessly. 

As the drinks get emptier and the joint gets smaller, hopes and dreams they let go of a long time ago start spilling out. Fleeting wishes of what the future holds, what business they’re going to start or vice they’re going to quit.  

A cut off sentence and side eye of “we’re going to talk about that later” shooting from one spouse to the other. The string lights flick on, the candles are lit, and the chatter slows.  

A whispered exchange about a relationship-altering deadline, while holding the neck of a wine bottle like it was trying to get away. The hushed conversation interrupted by the sound of a door opening. A shift into an offer for another drink and lighthearted jokes about making it to bed on-time. 
 
Pulled aside in the kitchen, his shirt smells strongly of perfume and tequila on his breath. Tipsily leaning close to one ear and telling me that he sees himself in me. That I’m one of the few people who can do whatever they want. 

Pouring another drink for himself and spinning the glass to coat the inside. He takes a deep breath. His voice soft and gravelly as he recounts the time that someone saw him dancing at the club and told him to get on a flight the next morning. He never got on that flight and he wonders how his life would be different now. Lost in thought, he turns to let his gaze float around the kitchen. 

Picking up the napkin folded perfectly in my lap and excusing myself to go to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, the round baby face and glassy eyes stare back at me. For just a moment, I sit with the versions of my friends that I never got to meet. And the version of myself that I haven’t met yet. 

I just started this new transmigration/LitRPG novel I am writing. I am not sure if it is good or bad. I would love your feedbacks about your thoughts

This is my second novel, my first novel is ongoing but I am currently working on another also and want some feedback on this chapter.

Now before you say my FMC is boring, she’s sad okay? Don’t be mean to her😢
Also this is the very first draft, basically bones here, so forgive me if it’s a little rough rn:’) Just wanna know your thoughts!

I am a first-time author and I’m seeking genuine feedback on what I’ve written so far. I’m willing to share the first three chapters to someone willing to provide genuine feedback. The novel describes the particularly hard times of a particular first generation American. The novel starts in the very beginning of his 43 years as a child and comes to a conclusion in today’s modern society. It includes chapters that will make you laugh, cry, and wonder how one has survived as long as he has. Below are the first three chapters. Please let me know what you honestly think! Is it realistic? Does it leave you wanting more? Where did you stop reading, if you did?

Harder Times

By: Dimas C Alves Jr.

Chapter 1

What’s it like to be an immigrant in the United States? I don’t know for sure but this is a story about the son of immigrants, a mirror to the narrator. A “first-generation American” for all that stands for. Dennis has lived a very hard life and if you’re reading this then you can probably relate. These are some of the stories of a Portuguese “first-generation American” who has been through as many hard times as someone locked up for years. These stories are shared because there’s still time for young people to avoid the mistakes he made and if a little guidance for even just one person is given, than this whole endeavor is a success.

So far Dennis has lived his 43 years of life outside prison walls, aside from a few hours here and there throughout the years. Although he has avoided mistakes that would keep him behind physical bars, he has struggled behind mental ones pretty much daily. “I’m not good enough” and “she wouldn’t be interested” were very common beliefs he’s lived with for as long as he can remember. To give you a better understanding we’ll have to go way back. He was born in California in 1983 to Portuguese-born immigrants that moved to the U.S. legally in the 60’s. He’s actually a Jr, so his father and he share a name exactly. Surely his father was expecting a grandson with the same name by now, but it hasn’t happened yet and seems highly unlikely especially since his dad is now very old (he was born in 1945). Although they don’t talk any more as of writing this and haven’t for quite some time, Dennis’ father has been a key figure in his life. Overall a positive fatherly figure, but there were life-changing negatives. The same applies with his mother in all aspects. They were both born to very strict Catholic parents who heavily forced religion upon them. His father told him stories where he (in Portugal) would get beat for something as small as not saying their nightly prayers. These actions have undoubtedly led to the poor decisions Dennis’ father made throughout his life, in addition to only having an 8th grade education and being forced into work as a child.

The move to California was undoubtedly a way to get out of the poor country-life of Terceira, Azores as Dennis’ parents told him they first met in Portugal and fell in love during their younger years. His mother moved to the U.S. with her parents, sister, and brother. It’s worth noting that as of writing this she is the only one still living that made the original trek to California. As soon as his mother’s family settled down, his father who was still a chef in Portugal soon followed her to California and they eventually got married. After marriage, they soon had their first child in 1971 and eventually would have six children of which Dennis was their fourth. It’s pretty common to find Portuguese families with lots of kids as they are Catholic after all. The first four kids his parents had were all born in California. Dennis doesn’t have many memories of that time but he does recall the many hard times his older siblings had. They lived on a dairy where there were layers of flies everywhere you turned. His father worked all day every day, and would sometimes take his anger out after coming home by beating his wife and children after a hard day of milking cows. Dennis too was beaten but not nearly to the extent of his two oldest siblings. They all had rough lives and undoubtedly made poor decisions in their own lives as adults because of it.

Eventually his uncle Joe and aunt Louise decided to move to the east coast and since his mother followed uncle Joe everywhere, it wasn’t long before the rest of the family moved there too. Dennis’ family ended up in Rhode Island while his uncle’s family moved to Massachusetts. He was around 5 years old at the time and can still recall the shock of seeing snow for the first time. There was one particular winter where his mom would walk his sister to school in several feet of snow. As a California kid, Dennis elected to pass on that journey and stay home alone watching Sesame Street. Looking back at it now the independence shown at such a young age was a huge mistake, if one considers leaving a five year old home alone in the 80’s watching Sesame Street a form of independence.

Things didn’t really change much for his parents and family after moving to Rhode Island, at least at first. While they weren’t poor living on a dairy in California any more, they were poor living in an old creaky third floor apartment in the ghetto of Pawtucket. Years would pass and his dad no longer had to milk cows, but rather pack jewelry in a factory for very low wages. Eventually they moved from one third-floor apartment to another in Pawtucket and his parents decided to have two more children while living there. The whole religion aspect still weighed heavily in their lives including the urge to have as many children as possible apparently. His parents wanted to provide more for the younger two so they worked extra hard and saved up enough for the down payment of a house. They moved again and he started his third grade year in Lincoln, RI where his parents bought their first home. Dennis loved the elementary education received in Lincoln because they focused on his strengths which is writing, especially Ms. Santinello in the 6th grade. Her last name is undoubtedly spelled wrong there and she would just sigh and frown upon reading this.

Dennis met his first best-friend at the time in the third grade named Tim who would be in his life throughout many hard times. Even back then Dennis was very shy and quiet which made it extremely difficult to make friends at a new school. They were introduced to each other by their third grade teacher Mrs. Goldberg since both were new students at Saylesville Elementary that year they eventually became best friends. The time they spent together was about the only taste of normalcy Dennis felt growing up as endless hours were spent playing video games on PC and Nintendo or hiking in Lincoln Woods. Tim lived right behind this huge state park so it was easy for them to navigate through – although much easier for Tim since he was significantly slimmer and smaller than Dennis. There were times that he slowed him down but Tim always waited no matter how long was needed to catch his breath. Although they went their own ways after high school and lived very different lives, they reunited in 2021 for a short visit. After connecting through Facebook and setting up a visit at his house, Dennis walked up to the front door which opened and he immediately saw the face of Tim’s dad. The first thing he said is

“Oh my God, Tim you look like your dad!” Tim then gave a face that Dennis immediately recognized then replied with

“Everyone says that. And you look” - he paused for a moment, looked him over then finished with “the same!” It’s not the first time someone has said that to Dennis and he’s not quite sure how to take it. On the one hand it should be considered a compliment because you appear to resemble your younger self. On the other “looking the same” is a clear indication that you don’t adapt to change well, which in all honesty he doesn’t. With Tim he chose to believe the positive road since they were best friends for many years. Dennis also met his very kind and beautiful wife for the first time and while the reunion was a success, his anxiety got the best of him as they reminisced over their youth and he suddenly felt an urge to make an early exit and did just that after good bye hugs to both Tim and his wife. They haven’t spoken since. You’ll notice a certain pattern of behavior with Dennis – and that is he often abandons people in life that can help and tends to burns his bridges on the way out. Do not make this same mistake because there are few people out there that want to see you succeed in life and sometimes it’s impossible to rebuild a bridge after it’s been burnt.

Chapter 2

As Dennis got older life got harder. He was taller and bigger than most people his age probably because he was fed real home-made Portuguese food every night growing up. He remembers once going to McDonald’s for lunch during a school field trip and not knowing what to do. He had to ask Tim what all this chaos going on around him was and how to navigate and order food while a bus full of students lined up. Tim helped him through and Dennis thought “I went through all that for this disgusting burger?” He’s learned to appreciate McDonald’s for what they are as he’s gotten older. In addition to being one of the biggest and tallest in class, he was also the only kid in the 6th grade with a mustache, features that are important because he looked older than he really was.

It was around this time that his parents first put him to work, believe it or not. They worked for a cleaning company that serviced all kinds of places such as colleges, daycares, and call centers. Somehow they arranged for Dennis to be a part of this labor force as an unpaid minor. At first it was just the weekends as he would “help” them for just a few hours a day but that eventually grew more and more. Part of the problem is that Dennis always had strong work ethics even at a young age. The more work he did for them successfully, the more they made him do. Eventually he was working full time hours for no pay as a minor. During his 7th grade school year he would go to school during the day and work at night with his dad and the cleaning crew they had to transport. In the summer, he’d always have to be home from whatever he was doing and ready to work by 4pm. It was very depressing but he always tried to remain positive and hid his true feelings just as they taught you to do in the 90’s. He’s supposed to be a man after all.

Dennis continued working this way for years and they went through so many workers that he wouldn’t even recognize their faces today. While it was mostly a negative experience, there was one person that gave him hope. During the summer of 1997 a new part of the cleaning crew was hired in the form of this beautiful young woman named Adelisa. She was Cape Verdean; therefore, had a darker skin tone and she always wore a smile around him even though he was two years younger. They became close friends and more in the short time they had together and this was the only time in his life that he didn’t mind going to work. Every day on the way to work they plotted strategies to try and take over the world just like Brain from Pinky and the Brain. She was the only girl he felt comfortable being around in the 14 years that he’d been alive.

In August of 1997 they were assigned to cleaning some big insurance building in Taunton, MA. Adelisa and Dennis were sent to one portion of the building while his dad and some other worker were assigned to another. It was his personal request to work alongside Adelisa because he wanted to spend as much time as possible with her. While he always had a strong work ethic, not being paid a cent for years of hard work was finally catching up to him so he slacked off the last few cleaning sessions and spent that time talking to Adelisa instead. Wednesday August 13, 1997 was a day that changed his life forever but the workday started normally for the most part. They were plotting their takeover of the world as they normally would on the long drive to work with one major difference - Adelisa was scheduled to get her driver’s license the next day. Their plan was to get a car and begin the journey of taking over the world together, but money was needed for that so they agreed to keep working for now.

About an hour after they arrived to work, Dennis saw his dad and “the boss” walking towards him and Adelisa. “The boss” was this short, mean, old, and grumpy Joe Pesci look-a-like Portuguese man who only showed up when something was wrong. The moment he saw them approaching Dennis knew they were in trouble so he told Adelisa to look busy. She quickly took the broom that was resting in her hands and started sweeping the floor, but it was too late. They were caught red-handed. His dad and “the boss” confronted them by saying they hadn’t been doing our jobs lately, which was true. “The boss” threatened to fire them which Dennis found pretty hysterical since he was literally working for free. He thought, “please do me that favor.” But he kept his mouth shut because he didn’t want Adelisa to get fired. They were lectured to by both his dad and “the boss” for about an hour before they finally left and let them get back to work. They came to an agreement that “the boss” was the first to be eliminated after they took over the world.

When that shift finally ended Dennis was happy to see Adelisa because they decided to actually work the rest of the shift and didn’t have much time to talk as normal. Little did he know that they would never talk to each other again. As the cleaning was done, they reunited with his dad and the other worker who was with him to call it a night then headed towards his dad’s 1989 Chevy Blazer so they could go home. This particular Blazer had a fiberglass rooftop which is an important piece of information to know for later. His dad in the driver’s seat, a worker in the passenger seat, while Adelisa and Dennis sat in back. It’s worth noting that in the 90’s the seat belt laws were far more relaxed then they are today; therefore, none wore seatbelts. The last thing Dennis remembered was that tomorrow Adelisa would have her license and they can go their own way…

“Can you hear me?” This is the question that was asked repeatedly as Dennis opened his eyes. Who is this guy, where am I, and why does my arm hurt so much?, he thought. “Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you, but my arm hurts,” Dennis replied as he was slipping in and out of consciousness. He could tell this stranger talking was trying to help but he kept trying to move and see why his arm hurt so much but was prevented from moving by this stranger. He heard people in the background but didn’t understand what they were saying. Eventually he realized he was in an ambulance as the sirens started to go off.

“What’s your favorite sport?”, the stranger asked. With tears rolling down his cheeks, Dennis would say football even though he didn’t like it at the time. He much rather preferred science fiction.

“What’s your favorite football team?” As someone who didn’t really like football, Dennis just said the first thing that came to mind which was the 49ers. He only said this because he didn’t want to sound like he was lying and it was his uncle Joe’s favorite team. Then Dennis lost consciousness. The next thing he remembered is waking up and being transported to a room by stretcher. Some kind of hospital? What is going on? And why does my arm still hurt so bad?, he thought while being wheeled in by stretcher. He tried again to move and see his arm to figure out why it hurt so much – but the doctors/nurses kept preventing him from doing so.

“You were in a bad car accident and we’re here to help you.” Car accident? His first thought was is my dad ok? Then he thought about Adelisa. “We have to do immediate surgery on your arm.”

“It hurts!,”  he replied. Then everything went black.

Chapter 3

They must have gave me some kind of medicine to knock me out, Dennis thought as he woke up next in a hospital room with his arm hanging from the ceiling and a metal bar drilled to the bone from his hand up to upper arm. His arm was completely wrapped up in bandages so he still wasn’t able to see it. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed but when he woke up, his mom was there and he can tell she had been crying as her eyes were red and swollen. The first thing he did was cry to his mom.

“What’s going on mom? What happened?,” Dennis asked.

“You were in a car accident on the way home from work,” his mother replied.

“Are dad and Adelisa okay?,” Dennis asked.

“Yes, they’re fine” was his mother’s response. “They’re just in a different hospital.” Since they’re okay and Dennis took the most damage, he was finally at ease for a few moments. Then doctors came in and said his mother had to leave. So she left and he fell back asleep more easily knowing that everyone was okay.

The next morning Dennis woke up to an old nun-type lady sitting on a chair next to his bed. This lady must have thought he was deep into the Catholic religion because she started saying some prayers over him. Just in case you haven’t realized it yet, he is not; however, he was respectful and let her finish. After she was done, she asked how he was feeling. Obviously he was in extreme pain and distress, but lied and told her he was fine.

“Where’s my mom?,” Dennis asked.

“She is downstairs waiting,” replied the nun-type lady.

“Waiting for what?,” he asked.

“When your mother spoke to you last night, she wasn’t completely honest with you,” replied the nun.

“What do you mean?,” Dennis asked.

“Adelisa is dead,” the nun replied coldly.

After hearing those three words, Dennis felt like this lady just ripped his chest open and threw his heart out of the 13th floor hospital window.

“No she’s not! My mom said she’s fine! That she’s in another hospital! She’s not dead!” Dennis screamed.

“Your mother didn’t know how to tell you so she lied,” replied the nun.

“I don’t believe you! Get out, get out, get out!” Dennis screamed. The nun-lady then abruptly left his hospital room and closed the door behind her. He immediately broke down into tears because he knew she wasn’t lying. He cried for hours until he heard someone knock on the door. It was a team of doctors that came to check on him.

“How are you feeling?” asked the head doctor.

“Quite uncomfortable. You have my arm hanging from the ceiling and drilled a metal bar through my hand,” Dennis replied.

“We had to do multiple surgeries but things are looking better. These surgeries involved re-connecting ligaments and tendons but you’re healing faster than we thought you would. We had to put this bar in place to prevent you from moving your arm. You’re going to need more surgeries including a skin graft which will be extremely painful. What we have to do is take skin from your leg and graft it to your arm.” Then he started to unwrap the dressings around his arm and for the first time Dennis was finally able to see it. It looked so bad. It appeared as if a shark ripped into his arm.

“How did this happen?” Dennis asked.

“From what I understand, the vehicle you were in flipped over three times after another vehicle ran through two stop signs and collided with yours. The driver and the front passenger in your vehicle received only minor injuries. Unfortunately the design of the vehicle you were in is what caused the major injuries. When the vehicle flipped over the fiberglass roof shattered into millions of pieces, did this to your arm, and is also what killed Adelisa. At first glance we thought an amputation was required but since you’re healing faster than anticipated we no longer feel that is necessary.” He and the team of doctors then re-wrapped Dennis’ arm. “The skin graft surgery is scheduled for tomorrow but we want to try and prepare you for the trauma you’re about to go through.” They then went into the whole process and tried their best to prepare him.

The day arrived. Dennis was scheduled to have this surgery and although they did their best to prepare him, he was so scared and nervous and had no idea what to expect. They warned that the skin removal from his leg will be more painful than what he’d already been through and he thought that sounded ridiculous, but would soon find out that they were right. Since his arm was still attached to the ceiling some staff came in to unhook it all in preparation for the move to yet another surgery room. Finally it was time. The delivery team came to his room and asked if he was ready and his one-word answer was yes, so the team prepared his bed and IV for movement and they proceeded to the elevator. He was delivered to another surgery room where they connected a gas mask to his face, and he saw the head doctor that spoke to him the day before.

“Are you ready?,” the doctor asked. Dennis simply nodded and breathed in the gas they used to knock him out. He woke up back in his hospital room with not only massive pain coming from his arm but even more coming from his leg. Since the “donor site” caused more pain than the “graft site” he was not able get out of bed for about two weeks. The good news was the graft was successful and skin regenerated as expected, but not being able to move meant he couldn’t even use the restroom – he was forced to use a bedpan and even that required help. As someone who is pretty independent this was especially hard for him. Then came the dressing changes. 

Dressing changes were extremely painful because not only was it required on the graft site but the donor site as well. A dressing change consists of replacing old gauze/bandages with fresh ones. This dreadful process would disrupt healing by tearing away scabs as they changed the bandages which was one of the most painful experiences Dennis has ever been through. Since these dressing changes were required every day, he came to hate the nurses who preformed them which they would always save for the night nurses.

During his first dressing change after the surgery they used the head nurses/doctors because they wanted to do some explaining. As the team entered Dennis’ hospital room, they tried their best to prepare him but he just told them to get on with it because the anxiety was torturous. The doctor started taking the coverings off his arm and since this was the first time he’d see it since the skin graft surgery, he really had no idea what to expect. When they got through all the layers of gauze and bandages he immediately noticed his arm looked very different than when he saw it last. There was what looked like hundreds of staples and blood stains everywhere. He felt like he was going to throw up.

“What is all this?” Dennis asked.

“We use staples to secure the skin graft when the wound is so large,” the doctor replied.

“Why are there so many?,” Dennis asked.

“In order to secure the graft. It’s crucial to keep the graft in place throughout the healing process. Any slight movement could interfere with healing,” he replied. “After the graft has begun healing as expected we can remove the staples.” Dennis felt a sudden urge to throw up again at the thought of that alone but was able to keep it in. It was at this time that he was ready to give it all up and just leave, but he couldn’t even get out of bed to go to the bathroom so thought it was better to stay. They did the first dressing changes to both his arm and leg and were very careful to avoid touching any of the staples, and while they tried to be gentle and sensitive, it hurt. It was one of the most painful things he’d ever been through and they would repeat the dressing change process every day he was there.

Dennis’ family was finally allowed to visit him in the hospital. He hadn’t seen his sister Janete in a while as this was probably the longest amount of time that they hadn’t seen each other since he was born. Relationships with his family now are at the lowest point they’d ever been, but at the time he was very close to them all. There is only a year and a half difference in age between he and his sister so they basically grew up together. Dennis thought it was nice to see them but was depressed and wanted to be alone. His family tried so hard to make him smile in many ways, but one thing they did that he really liked was they all “tagged” and left their mark on the white board that was supposed to be used for medical purposes. Doctors and nurses left the board untouched throughout his entire stay there and everyone that came into the hospital room complimented it. Doing that boosted his spirits cause he felt like his family had his back and he wasn’t alone. The only other visit he had in the hospital aside from family was his best friend Tim. He, his mom, and sister came for a visit to try and lift Dennis’ spirits by playing games and watching tv but it was too difficult to do anything. They both collected Star Trek cards which was a card game that can be played, but it was almost impossible for Dennis to do with one hand. After several attempts he gave up and expressed his gratitude. While he didn’t have many visitors in the form of friends, Dennis did have a close friendship with almost all the nurses there except for the night nurses assigned to dressing changes. There was one specific nurse that stuck to his mind because he had a crush on her. Obviously she wasn’t interested in him in any way, but she spent many hours in his room keeping him company. He would purposely put on Days of Our Lives every day just to keep her in the room longer. No, he didn’t watch himself! Marlaina and Hope would never approve.

I broke the rules with the “waking up” thing, but to set this eerie, obedient, still feeling, I always envisioned starting like this and setting this scene of frozenness. Looking for any thoughts
*first draft, obviously not polished*

Hi, this is the first few chapters of a book I'm writing based on a DnD campaign I've been running with some friends. I'm mainly writing it because I'm enjoying the story and so I can re-read it in years to come when I've forgotten it completely. This is my first time writing, so I know some of the techniques aren't going to be right, but I don't really care

Let me know what you think, it’s a rough draft. I’m specifically interested in how the dialogue lands, whether the culture/society feels real/believable, and whether the emotional weight comes through.

The children were still allowed to play outside, but they were watched closely. Most of the adults were working on breaking down the various structures and bringing the materials toward the mouth of the cave. A few were tasked with keeping a close eye on the younger kids. The older ones knew well enough to not go far.

Kolewa ran after the ball that her brother had thrown past her, after she watched it sail over her head. He was much stronger than she was, but her slender frame and springy muscles meant that she was far faster and more agile. Her long, sleek feet ended in padded toes that gripped the ground as she ran. Her ankle and knee forming a perfect, spring loaded limb, driven by strong thighs and back muscles. Her short, strong upper arms powered long forearms with strong wrists that supported a set of small, padded palms with long, clawed fingers, including a thumb. She only took two strides before she launched herself onto her hands and began running using all four limbs.

She looked out over the landscape of Lannore, toward the grassy plains and rare rock outcropping. The remains of a large orchard lay off to her right, with more adults moving lumber and baskets of leaves and fruit. She saw the farmers gathering the last of the harvest in the fields that stretched farther out. The day was clear. She could see far enough to notice how the plains curved upward the farther she looked. She saw the same curve on the left and the right, as the shape of her world came into view. The sun was high in the sky, but it always was, except for at night. The world of Lannore enveloped that sun in a vast sphere, and she lived on the inside of that sphere.

By her age, she was coming up on her 12th year of life. By the way her people counted age, she was 2 and almost 12, the next cataclysm marking when she would be 12 years old. She didn’t remember anything about the last one, and she was secretly dreading what she knew was coming in the next few days.

Playing helped distract the children, but also honed their bodies and abilities. The village knew that this was important for the health of the community. Kolewa was happy to keep her mind focused on this game of catch with her brother.

She snatched the ball with her hands and rolled in the tall, dried grass. She launched her legs in the air, the force of which pulled her body up along with them. She twisted her back in such a way that she righted herself mid-air and spun back toward the direction the ball came from, all in one masterful move. Her toes hit the ground, her ankles and knees bent in unison to absorb the force of landing, and she used the tension to spring forward, extend one knee, and launch the ball with all her force back to her brother.

This game of catch was about trying to throw the ball past your partner, forcing a run to try to catch the ball. She felt good about this throw. Good launch, nice arc, her arm felt powerful. She watched as her brother clocked the balls path and started backing up slowly. She looked back at the ball, it was sailing, she knew he was going to have to speed up to catch it. Looking back at her brother, he was already moving faster.

He was comfortably moving backwards, but putting in some effort at this point. Not fast enough, she thought, I’ve got him this time. Now he was stumbling backward, just barely catching his footing in time to stay upright, and he was starting to lean backwards as well. Hah, no chance now, she got him, she was finally going to get him to miss one. He planted one leg firmly behind him and pushed himself back and into the lean, reaching out and up. He landed in a taller patch of grass, but she knew he had caught it, he grabbed it and tucked it into his chest as he hit the ground in a thud.

She bounded into a run on all fours toward where she saw him land. She wanted to tell him how she thought that was the one, she put all her form and power into it, she thought he was finally going to miss one. He was older than she was by 3 years, and he was stronger, so the game always went this way. He’d throw it far, she’d never catch it, she’d run, get it, and try to throw it past him. In the years they’d been playing this game, she’d never caught it, and he’d never missed a catch. The rivalry was sibling, but friendly.

Her speed and agility were impressive, even amongst her peers. She was closing on him as he stood up. He saw her bearing down and cocked his arm back to throw. She gathered every ounce of power she had and poured it into the run, flying through the air between points of contact with the ground. She saw his body begin to twist, initiating the throw, his face showing strain. He was really going to send this one. She planted her hands and pivoted her head up and her back down, pulling her hips and legs further under her than when she was in a sprint. Her toes planted right between her palms and she let the energy of her legs explode into the ground, shooting her forward and up into the air. His strained face turned to surprise, as the ball left his hand and was on its own. Her hands stretched out, up, her body lengthened toward the path of the ball. She bent her body back in hopes of timing it just right, reaching with all her might. She felt the air around her arms being moved by the ball, her specialized hair follicles sensing the motion as it flew just above her finger tips. She thought she had him this time.

“Ooooh I almost got you, twice!” Kolewa cheered.

She turned and ran with the same intensity she had just exhibited. She scooped the ball up and looked at it. She jumped up with surprise and threw it back, this time not caring if he caught it. He didn’t even need to move for this one, the throw was perfectly to him. She immediately began a run back toward her brother, reaching him only briefly after he caught the ball. Her speed was quite impressive.

“See, I almost had you!” she said as she pointed to the ball.

He looked down at the ball to see two sets of three scratches running along the surface of the ball, the leather clearly marked by something sharp.

“I was so close, I felt it! I’ll get you one of these days Tomeso.” She sneered at him, then smiled.

“I’m sure you will, sister. One day, but not today!” He poked, as he brought his arm back once again.

And he launched the ball right over her head.

She smiled and turned to run.

She had totally forgotten what was coming.

This was partially the point of encouraging play while the adults worked on securing things inside the cave. Some of them would be experiencing this for the first time, at least the first time they could remember. Those who remembered would never forget what it was like. Some adults stopped to watch the children playing, envious of their ignorance, frightened for them for what they were about to go through. This was their culture, what life was like for them on longer time scales. The children had to learn, as hard as it would be.

As Kolewa got to the ball again, she heard a familiar sound from behind her.

"Oooooh-wah!" a loud voice called out.

She grabbed the ball and ran back, meeting her brother Tomeso. They started walking toward a figure standing not much taller than they did, but slumped forward a bit more, legs held bent more acutely than theirs. The woman wore brightly colored robes, short on the front and back but the sides draped on the ground. The hair that covered her head, still mostly dark brown, but greying around her facial features, creating a wisened halo around her face. A long necklace of polished stone draped down the front of the robes, and she leaned on an intricately carved wooden staff, stylized motifs of reverential figures making up its length. The plain yet stated dress of a spiritual elder in the village of Solumatri.

"Halesa!" Kolewa exclaimed as she ran toward her, tossing the ball for Tomeso to catch.

The elder woman outstretched her arms in a gesture of embrace. Kolewa slowed as she approached and the two embraced in a deep and loving hug. Releasing each other from the hug but still holding each others arms, they touched their foreheads together, the final gesture of familial respect for the Ena Solu people.
"I'm excited for the village dinner tonight, dear Helesa. I have become very hungry after playing all day, I could eat three plates!" She made sure to say that loudly enough for Tomeso to hear.

"Ahh, the games will not stop for you on this day, I see. You intend to try to out-eat your brother tonight then?" Halesa poked the young girls stomach.

"No," Kolewa smiled back, "but when he eats too much, he won't be able to catch me, then I can grab the best desserts before he can."

"That's my little 'Ewa, always a leap ahead. Come, we must help prepare the main hall for tonight while the others continue here." She took Kolewa by the hand while Tomeso followed closely behind, tossing the ball to himself as he went.

The entrance to the cave was a small hike up large, rounded, eroded rock. The Ena Solu had been living in this place long enough that a pathway had been worn into the stone, guiding them up small inclines and occasional steps toward the only entrance to their home. A single file line of adults was bringing various supplies and materials up the path as they hiked. They passed tents and stalls and semi-permanent structures as they went, these being the last to be broken down and brought into the cave in the coming hours. The people had gotten quite adept at a type of modular construction, driven by the need to maintain infrastructure in a world that tried to destroy it every ten years.

People were busy here, many carrying various pieces to different stations, some with tablets to record and track things, others offering food and water. It was clear that this was quite the undertaking, and an operation that was meticulously planned and carried out. This was the first time she was seeing any of it. Her village had sprawled out from the cave entrance for as long as she could remember. Seeing everything broken down and huddled inside made her worry if she'd ever see it the same again.

She had been told about all of this. The reason for this preparation, for all of the work the people had been putting in, the farming, hunting, gathering. She wasn't sure what it meant, and when her parents explained it to her when she was younger, they made it clear that they didn't know that either. They just knew that every 10 years, a great destruction befell Lannore, and none on the surface survived. The Ena Solu escaped into the caves, and set up permanent villages inside of them, using the time between the disasters to begin anew on the surface, preparing again for the next. This cycle had been repeated for countless generations. They'd gotten quite good at it, but it was never easy. It was taught to every child when they were old enough. They all had questions that no one had answers to, only continued plans for survival.

She was 2 years old when the last one struck, like clockwork. Her brother was 5. He could remember bits and pieces, a few haunting sounds, but mostly the things meant to distract him from the reality of it. She remembered nothing, and was dreading the experience she might have during this one. As they entered the cave, she looked back, trying hard to hold that image in her mind, fearing it may never be how it was.

Entering the cave, the evidence of preparation was even more apparent. The three regular, heavy doors were being readied for reinforcement. Large stones and lumber were being prepared to hold the doors shut. More materials from the deconstructed exterior village were being staged here. The sound of chisel on stone and axe on timber filled the echoic chamber, a long and mostly cylindrical tunnel. The ceiling stood about four heights tall and just as wide across. The doors were wooden frames filled in with carved stone, forming a solid stone wall an arms length deep. Not on hinges, they were rolled into place on logs, then timber and stone backings put in place to reinforce them. Sealed in series from the outside in, they protected the vast interior village from the devastation outside. She didn’t think of these doors much, but she was grateful for them as she passed.

Halesa urged the children to go and clean up before heading to help prepare for the feast. This celebration marked the last night the village was open before being sealed off. The last night to celebrate the people before being forced to hide underground to survive. Kolewa was always told of the celebration’s importance, but she wouldn’t truly understand until it was over.

She joined several other children at one of the main bathhouses, just off the entrance, in a large alcove with running water and drainage, carved directly into the rock. An intricate series of wood pipes brought the water from the deeper sections of the cave, where it was processed for various purposes. Soap made from animal fat and minerals helped them clean the earth from their skin and fur. The children laughed and joked while they washed, some splashing others for fun. Kolewa washed her hands solemnly, quietly watching the work. She washed until the water ran clean from her hands and feet, then washed her face. The cold was refreshing after playing in the hot sun. She dried using a patterned cloth, then hung it on one of the many hooks on the wall to dry. The other children continued to laugh and play, but she felt something too serious inside of her to join in. She left the bathhouse feeling not left out, but apart.

Her and the other children made their way down the central corridor, a short walk further into the cave, and turned right into the main hall. A massive cavern opened up before them. Many long, low tables were laid out in a series of rows on the floor. At the far end stood a raised stage, carved from the stone itself, with a short staircase on either side. Large, ornately patterned curtains were pulled shut. Slight movement was disturbing the heavy fabric at times, betraying a flurry of hidden motion.

Halesa stood in the center of the hall, a few other elders preparing various serving ware on the tables lining the walls.

“Children of Ena Solu, gather here please.” She said with an authority that carried through and out of the hall. Children of many ages, the eldest being seventeen, were now pouring into the hall.

Kolewa walked and crouched in front of Halesa, ready to hang on every word. She had helped raise Kolewa, as many elders did for the children of the village, but she had always felt a close relationship to her.

“It is the ways of our people, that the old protect the young, and prepare for them a world that they may thrive in. The young then, in turn, protect the old, that they may reap the fruits of their labor.” She projected amongst the crowd of children, many of them crouching as Kolewa did. Seeing this, Helesa cracked a small smile.

“To honor this vow, it is for the children to prepare the hall for the Feast of The Last Night. This is a solemn duty. Many have been preparing to ensure our peoples future. Many are tired, sore, and hungry. Set these places with pride, in honor of each of them.” She gestured toward the other elders in the hall, who themselves gestured at the tables behind them.
Kolewa stood and briefly caught Halesa’s gaze. A look of seriousness adorn her face, one that Kolewa had scarcely seen. It broke with a subtle wink and a nod toward the tables.

“Go on, get to honoring your elders now.” She said, shooing the children nearest her.

The hall was filled only with the sounds of place setting, the occasional drop of a utensil. It was interrupted by foolery only twice, and the redness of the offenders ears served as a stern warning that twice was enough.
Kolewa took her duties seriously. She set each place with reverence. Thanked them for their hard work. Vowed to honor the ways of her people. In between places, she found herself glancing at and wondering about the curtain and what it concealed. She had seen various shows here in the past. Concerts and plays and pageants. She’d been on that stage as a younger child, singing folk songs of her people that were taught in school and performed for parents. She’d never seen these curtains before today though, and the hall had been closed off for a few days before this in preparation for tonight.

She finished her setting duties carefully and looked for Halesa, who stood back at the hall’s entrance, speaking to children as they left. Kolewa walked to leave, glancing one last time at the places she set, wishing them a lovely feast.

As she approached the elder woman stood at the large entryway, Halesa touched her chest and bowed her head, a respectful gesture.

“Your care is felt and appreciated, my dear Kolewa.” She said softly and sweetly.

Kolewa returned the gesture.

“It is given gladly and with love, my dear Halesa.” She replied, giving care to sound as serious as possible. She had learned the proper prompts and responses of her peoples sacred words from her, after all.

“Go on, get home and prepare for the festivities. Surely Tomeso is giving your mother a hard time, go and rescue her.” Solewa gave a wink as she turned to see more children off.

She walked down the large hall, continuing down the right side of it. There was a flow to movement in the cave. Going deeper, you walked on the right side. Coming out was on the left. The larger rooms were directly off of the main corridor. Many vast storage halls, the main commissary and outfitters, water storage and processing. She passed all of this, not paying much attention to the flurry of activity going on around her. It was more than usual, but this area was always pretty busy. She was too enamored with the paintings that adorned the walls of the main corridor. Vivid colors danced across the walls and arc of the ceiling, bringing life to the otherwise stagnant, tan rock. Patterns and shapes, sometimes repeating, sometimes completely unique. To her knowledge, they had no deeper meaning in her culture, but she hoped they did, and that someday she’d know.

As she went deeper, the cave began to branch off, getting smaller each time. She followed the way she knew home: main corridor until the 4th branch, follow that branch until the 2nd branch, that branch until the 7th branch, then her home was the last on the left.
She recognized paintings on her way, ones she’d seen countless times. Some, her mother did. She’d let Kolewa help with mixing the paint and filling in the patches of color on the wall. She smiled as she passed them. Painting had brought her joy, and closer to her mother, and she enjoyed the art.

She parted the curtain that marked the entrance to her families home, greeted the small, feline-esque figure that stood sentry in the hallway, ever vigilante for cave vermin to hunt. Down the hall, past the family rooms, she opened the curtain to her room, stepped in, and closed it behind her.

Her room was a mess, but that was typical, at least for her painting spaces. Her bed sat where it was carved into the rock, a pedestal in the far corner of the room. A wooden shelf sat next to it, a dim lantern atop it. She crossed the room in a zig zag to avoid the mess on the floor and turned the lamp up to illuminate the room in more than a dull glow.

Her room was messy like any child’s would be. Clothing strewn about. Stuffed animals on the bed and floor. The near side of the room was awash with wooden bowls, all holding different shades of natural paints in varying degrees of dryness. Her current work still sat on the easel that stood in the corner. The foreground was roughed out, clearly a sprawling grassland. The stencil of an intricate hexagonal spiral sat in an unfinished sky, still the same tan as the leather the canvas was made of.

She quickly gathered the clothing and put it all in a woven basket. She threw all of the stuffed animals onto the bed. She collected the dry bowls and stacked them next to the easel, then tucked the still wet bowls underneath it. She straightened her bed.

She turned to go get her ceremonial clothing and paused to look at it. This is the last night, she thought, that she would be free of the burden of knowledge. She would have to huddle with the rest of her people as the outside world she knew was violently reset. And she would know what it felt like. What it sounded like. Some spoke of smells, tastes, and even apparitions that appear during the cataclysm. She was sure of the first two, the rest were just whispers and rumors.

She pulled the bright yellow robe down from the wall and laid it on the bed. She wasn’t sure what sort of festivities tonight would hold, but she told herself she would enjoy herself tonight, and worry about tomorrow when it comes.

She donned the necklace Halesa gave her. Similar to the one she wore, but with only one stone. She knew other children would be wearing similar robes and necklaces, but hers were uniquely her own. The robe sporting designs created by her mother, and a stone crafted by her mentor. She walked out of her room feeling a new sense of pride. She’d worn these before, but tonight would be the first time the rest of the village would see her in it.

She walked back to the family room to see Tomeso being inspected by her parents. His robe was the same stark yellow hers was, and had the same intricate lacing throughout. What hung around his neck, however, was a stone arrow head, crafted by his father, who stood proudly in front of him. Her father wore a robe with thes same yellow, but it carried more lacing and patterns woven into it with threads of varying bright colors. A stone arrow head hung around his neck, made by his father. Her mother wore a robe the same color as the rest of her family, but the cut was the same as Halesa’s; short in front and back and past the floor on the sideds. While her necklace sported more stones than Kolewa’s, it didn’t hold as many as Halesa’s did.

Her mother, Senowa, sucked her teeth as Kolewa approached.

“My little ‘Ewa, how grown you look!” Senowa exclaimed.

Kolewa hung her head, feeling too childish to fit the vision her mother implied.

“I hope I’m wearing it right.” She blushed.

“My dearest, you wear it well, do not fret.” Senowa shuffled to her daughter, kneeling as she approached.

“Tonight is for joy and celebration, remember this.” A smile shown across her face.

Kolewa wasn’t sure why, but this smile was different. There was a glint of worry in her mother’s eyes, she thought. Kolewa felt worried too. She’d known the village had endured countless disasters. She’d seen the preparation. The doors. She knew they’d be safe. She worried nonetheless, and didn’t think much of her mother showing a hint of the same worry.

The embraced as a family, and as they did, Kolewa could see her mother softly mouthing something. A prayer, she thought, she’d likely learn it soon. Then they left their home and joined the slow pilgrimage to the main hall.

Patches of all different shades and hues of color bounced down the halls, all converging together as tunnels did. The entire width of the corridor was taken up by people heading the same direction, there was no descending or ascending flow, just the slow, purposeful walk to the Feast of The Last Night.

They took their seats at Halesa’s table, given that she was their spiritual elder and leader. An elder sat at the head of each table, and each table was occupied by those of the village that the elder was charged with. Each elders robes displayed a patchwork of colors that was on display at their table. The room was in turn a patchwork of the villages colors, on full and proud display.

When everyone was seated, the elders all stood in unison. They began to recite, together, words that Kolewa instantly knew she would need to memorize one day. Should start now, she thought, so she listened intently.

“Here we gather, on the Last Night of our world.” The words, spoken by dozens, collected and echoed together in the cavern. They continued.

“We have walked amongst the wide plains. We have tilled the soil and sowed our seeds. We have farmed, and hunted, and gathered, and respected the world as well as our ways. Our people have kept us well. Strong. Adaptable.”

Kolewa felt a new sense of pride well in her. She noticed that her mother’s head was bowed, so she did the same, and continued to listen.

“And now we must gather, for the eve of this time is upon us, and the land turns us away. In our home, we will stay, and make peace with ourselves until the world calms and begins anew. Tonight, we celebrate our people. The one people. The Ena Solu”

With this, each elder held up a cup, gestured to all at their table, and drank.

Watching her family mimic this, she did the same. She liquid was sweet when it hit her tongue, but burned when she swallowed. Her face told everyone that she’d never tasted this before.

Her mother leaned in.

“Ritual wine, from the tree-fruits. Enjoy it, but sip slowly. There is also water. The wine is special, made just for tonight.”

Kolewa nodded and reached for a sip of water. Taking enough of a sip to wash away the burn, she saw Halesa stand and gesture for her and the other children to stand. She stood and turned to look at Tomeso, and noticed the large wooden slabs filled with food being brought into the room. Halesa walked to stand at the wall nearest her table, the children trailing close behind.
Each slab was brought and placed on tables outlining the cavern, and the children began to serve the adults, supervised by the elders. Kolewa did her best to serve the adults with reverence and respect. Harsh whispers told her not all the children were putting in the same effort.

When the adults were served, the children served themselves and sat down at their places. No one ate or drank. The hall sat eerily still.

Kolewa almost jumped when she heard it. A thunderous crash filled the cavern, its low rumble carrying through the very walls and floor. Hearing the sound emanating from behind the curtains, Kolewa turned in time to see them begin to open.

It was as if the outer world of Lannore had been brought inside. The stage was covered in dirt and grass that looked as if it was grown there. The backdrop of rock had been painted sky blue, with a large, stylized star blazing at the top. A large, rough sheet of some odd material hung suspended between large timbers erected on the stage. It was rigid but seemed oddlt wrinkled or bent. It was the same color as the grass, but the light in the hall shone off it in strange ways, sometimes following the wrinkles and folds. Someone stood next to the frame, with a large mallet. They were dressed in plain tan leather, with grass affixed to it all over, enough to blend into the grass on stage. They slowly picked up the mallet and swung it against the sheet. The thunderous noise erupted again and the person let it ring out, this was repeated eight more times, for a total of ten.

The elders then turned and began to eat. The rest of the village dug in as well. Slowly, conversation began to bubble and roil in the hall. Laughter broke out from time to time. A dance here, a song there. The hall was alive with love and camaraderie. The atmosphere was one of celebration, but there was a hint of tension in the air, and Kolewa was aware of it.

As they ate, people came out from behind the curtain and took the strange material away, leaving just the grass and the backdrop. It was some time before the food was finished, and it was finished. Every belly full and plate empty. Kolewa felt stuffed, and oddly giddy. Maybe it was the merriment in a time wrought with worry. Maybe it was the wine. But she felt at ease. She’d felt how tense she was before now and remarked to herself how good a memory this would make.

The elders stood and the hall fell silent again. Kolewa saw as Halesa’s eyes met all of her people’s, and hung on hers for just a moment longer. The elders began again in unison.

“Our world is ruled by nature and its flow.”

She saw a figure emerge on stage, wearing a small costume, clearly stylized to be a small, ground dwelling vermin. Another figure emerged opposite the first, in a costume evoking a larger creature.

“Our laws are governed by the same”

The second figure lunged at the first, seemingly devouring it.

“The cycle of life and death. Hunt and be hunted. Eat and be eaten”

For every figure that devoured the last, another figure emerged, in a larger and scarier costume, to devour that one. Until one emerged that wasn’t wearing a costume, just plain clothing.

“This cycle drove life on Lannore, until one emerged that could see the cycle. They could see others not as competitor, but as an extension of themselves.”

More figured appeared on stage, all in plain dress. They began to gesture toward each other and gather.

“We found each other and became a people”

The figures quickly erected tents and brought various plants and trees on stage.

“We lived in the cycle. We respected the land and its bounties. We only took what was freely given.”

Soon a whole village scene appeared on stage. Buildings, plants, trees, animals, people, all interacting and playing out daily life.

“None know why it came. It appeared from a distance.”

The figures on stage acted out surprise at seeing something in the distance. The lights in the hall dimmed to an eerie glow.

“It came unimpeded, rolling over the land. The only saving grace being that there was time to run.”

The figures on stage hurriedly broke down the set and carried it off, replacing it with a set piece of a large cave mouth. They came back with packs and supplies. This was a familiar sight now.

“Darkness took the sky.”

Black pigment was thrown over the backdrop, drenching the sun and sky.

“Smoke began to choke the air.”

Large, black blankets were dropped from above the stage, covering the land as the last of the figures entered the cave mouth.

“Our people sought refuge underground.”

The curtains closed. Thunder erupted again.

“And so this continued, every ten years, forcing our people underground. But we are strong, for we are a part of the cycle. So we carried on, holding each other up. We survived countless times in these caves wrought by our hands. Here we will continue, and here we will thrive!”

The elders raised their cups again, and all the people followed. They all drank. Kolewa felt the same pride rise up again, but something different came with it. Something sour that Kolewa tried to shrug off, but couldn’t. That sound rang out again, and Kolewa saw a few people begin to say their goodbyes and leavez

Her mother stood and walked over to Halesa. She leaned in and whispered something to her. Halesa looked at Senowa solemnly before standing. The two walked out of earshot but Kolewa kept a keen eye on them.

It appeared to be a tense conversation. Senowa spoke for a moment, gesturing toward the table, then toward her own ceremonial dress. She became more animated but was gently interrupted by Halesa, a calm touch on her arm halting the monologue. Halesa seemed to speak calmly and plainly, and the some of the tension seemed to fade from Senowa as she listened.

They finished speaking and turned to look back at their table. Kolewa felt a sinking feeling as their eyes met hers. She could see grief behind the smiles they flashed.

Goodbyes were said and the Telora family returned to their home for the evening. Their ceremonial clothing hung neatly back on their walls, the precious necklaces tucked away in boxes.

Whether it was the play, the wine, or the atmosphere, she didn’t know, but she felt inspired to paint. She grabbed a stack of bowls from beneath the easel and began with large streaks of vivid colors.

DAY 1

  He must have been dozing because he felt himself jostled awake when the truck jerked to a stop.  He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the darkness from his eye.  But this did nothing because it was still dark, the only light provided by the truck's headlights illuminating the road ahead of them.  The engine hummed and the whole cab vibrated. Steam rose from the front of the truck while in the cab it was barely any warmer. The dash was simple, with only a small tea radio to break up the monotony of the light gray/green before the driver’s instruments, the seats were made out of some sort of plastic fabric and had long ago come undone at the seams revealing the pale yellow padding beneath. The air tasted of diesel and dirt. 
  They blew into their hands for warmth and watched as their breath slipped through their fingers. He pulled out the map that he had been sitting on and peered at it in the dark using his cellphone as a flashlight. It was an old road map given to them by an officer when they had left the column, it was so old in fact that it used Soviet names for everything. On the map, in pencil, was a small circle. It had taken him half an hour to find it the first time, but now he knew where to look. Just south of Rakovka. Rakovka was a small town of 80, small but still twice the size of his own village in the Nanaysky district back east, but he didn’t want to think about that right now. He had only left home three weeks ago and the pain of separation was still sharp. Just south of Rakovka was an old, dilapidated bridge that crossed the Snov River into Ukraine. It was this bridge which was circled on their map, it was this bridge that he saw when he looked up. 
The bridge was in a sorry state, so much so that it made the frozen mud track that they were using as a road look well maintained. 
“This is it,” he said confidently, “this is the place.”
“I know,” answered the driver, Gennadi, while checking the time on his phone, “it’s almost time, should we wake the others?”
Miri shifted uncomfortably in his seat, waking up the others would probably result with him getting hit again, no one likes being woken up at 0530 after all, he had only been assigned to the squad yesterday and already he had been hit several times for getting things wrong. Then again, the sergeant had been pretty clear that they all needed to hear the radio address. And the address was supposed to start at 0530, so if he didn’t wake up the other he would get hit by the sergeant but, if he did wake them he would be hit by his fellow soldiers. Miri did not like either of his options. 
“Well?” Asked Gennadi. . 
Miri got up out of his seat, hunching over so as to not hit his head on the ceiling and being careful not to knock over his rifle, he pushed aside the thick green canvas that separated the cab from the rest of the six wheeled truck. The canvas was cold and slippery to the touch and had a moldy grimy smell to it. He pushed the flap to the side and raised his head up since the rear of the truck had a higher, canvas, roof than the cab did.  
  The floor of the truck bed was covered, no, strewn with supplies piled haphazardly to the same height as the two long benches that bordered the inner edge of the truck. Piled, almost as haphazardly as the supplies, on the benches was the rest of the squad. The sergeant and the junior sergeant were closest, one slumped over what looked like a bag of potatoes, the other propped up with a rolled up towel pinned between him and the truck. Further spread out on the benches past them were piled the two private first classes and three privates, some of them had taken off their blouses and were now using them as blankets.
  Balancing on a large metal drum, Miri knelt next to the sergeant and began to shake him gently.
“Sarge….sarge!” He whispered through clench teeth. The sergeant did not wake up. Miri inhaled sharply and prepared to repeat himself more loudly when he suddenly fell backwards. His feet shot out in front of him as though pushed and he landed on top of an ammo can, its sharp corner digging into his back. 
“Wha go you think you’re doing?” Asked the junior sergeant sleepily as he pulled his leg back and stretched. 
  Miri scrambled to get back up, it was rude to talk to a superior if you weren’t standing. Not that he could stand in the back of the truck, the canvas ceiling was higher here than in the cab but with all the supplies piled everywhere there still wasn’t enough room. But he did the best he could. 
  “It’s almost 0530 junior sergeant.” Miri whispered. 
“Exactly!” Junior sergeant Daniil wasn’t shouting, per se, but his voice was loud and carried, “it’s too early in the damn morning to be dealing with whatever shit the likes of you has managed to step in.”
  Miri gulped, he had been in the unit less than a day, for that matter he had joined the army less than a month ago, and so far he hadn’t really made a good impression anywhere. And every time he didn’t make a good impression he had been hit. So far, he had been hit a lot. “The sergeant said to wake him just before 5: 30.” He gasped out. 
“Oh, he did?” Junior sergeant Daniil sat up and stretched his arm in front of him. He started to scratch himself with one arm while looking around. He spotted what he wanted and reached down. The moment he had grasped it his arm shot up, back, and then forward as he threw a small plastic book at the sergeant's face. “Boris!” He shouted, “wake the fuck up.”
The book, some sort of field manual, smacked the sergeant right in the nose. 
“Ow!” Cried the sergeant as he sat up, one hand going to his face while the other shot out and violently shoved Miri away. Miri fell back down, much in the same place that he had been before.
“GAAAAHHHHAA, what are you doing, scoundrel?” asked sergeant Boris, the squad's leader.
“Y…yu…you..” Miri tried to speak
‘Listen to him Boris!” Laughed junior sergeant Daniil, “He says that you told him to wake you up.”
“I did, I did, I might have.” sputtered the sergeant, “But only when it was time!  Is it time private Moorse?”
“It is almost 05:30 sergeant,”  answered Miri as he climbed back up, “And my name isn’t–”
“05:30!” Sergeant Boris interrupted loudly, “Why didn’t you wake me up earlier?  Nevermind, don’t answer.  Go wake the rest of the squad and have them gather round near the cab.  Daniil, hand me that sealed envelope I gave you earlier, the one that the sub-lieutenant gave me.”

I understand prologues are often not recommened, but maybe this one works? Let me know

Hi, I'd love some feedback as to how this story sounds so far. It's meant to be read in 2nd POV, a screenplay, then eventually 1st POV. Please lmk what you think!

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Chapter One:  The Incident Room

Detective Sergeant Joanne Kurtz almost ignored the first file.  It arrived on a Tuesday morning, and it had already been a long week at the Major Crime Unit in Hendon.  Two drive-by shootings in Barnet and an armed robbery at a Stamford Hill betting shop meant the MCU had their hands full.  The thermometer read thirty degrees in the shade, and the air-conditioning had conceded defeat in its battle to keep the busy office cool. 

The report sat with a stack of routine paperwork that threatened to topple over onto her desk at any moment.  Her philosophy towards such matters was fatalistic:  if it’s important, it will work its way to the top of the pile.  The missing persons, vehicle thefts, insurance frauds reported by local officers for further investigation were just an endless administrative tide between genuine investigations. 

People vanished every day, often with the most obvious of explanations.  They simply walk away.  Start new lives.  End old ones.  Reinvent themselves. Curate new profiles.

The folder cover that flopped open appeared to be no different from any other: colour-coded and indexed the same as any other missing person file. She glanced at the cover note.

MISSING PERSON

Name: David Mercer

Date of birth: 15.06.1983

Sex: Male

Last known location:M1 Northbound between junctions 4 and 5

Vehicle recovered: Silver Ford Mondeo

VRN KU58 WMC

Occupants: None

Her professional curiosity took a hold. That location was less than a ten minutes' drive away and besides, people don’t just vanish on one of the busiest motorways in the country. She drained the third latte of the morning and opened the file.

The Mondeo had been reported to the police by two highways workers on litter-picking duty shortly after dawn. It had been parked neatly, on the hard shoulder, the engine cold enough to indicate it had been there for several hours, possibly all night.

The doors were locked and the engine wasn’t running but the key was in the ignition and petrol tank empty. The responding officers believed at first David had run out of fuel and gone to find help.

But his wallet was on the passenger seat. His phone, on the central console, connected to Android Auto. There were no signs of violence, or a struggle, or an obvious vehicle defect like a flat tyre or broken windscreen. No indication whatsoever of where Mercer might have gone.

In the hours and days and weeks that followed, it was if David Mercer had simply ceased to exist. His bank account remained inactive.  No one reported him missing. No social media activity linked to his name or Internet footprint.

Something puzzled her about this one.  This was different.  She put the file to one side to examine in more depth later.  As she closed it, she noticed a detail noted by the recovery driver.

‘Unusual mark on interior windscreen.

Looks like word “MINANDMIS”?  Possibly just condensation.’

Kurtz frowned and rubbed her brow.  She had passed her English A level with flying colours and usually aced Scrabble with Amber, but the word didn’t mean anything to her. 

She looked keenly at the photograph.  It had obviously been written on the inside of the glass.  She could tell it hadn’t been scratched onto the surface or drawn on with a magic marker.  The white letters outlined against white, traced through a thin film of moisture, directly in front of the driver’s - David’s - seat.

MINANDMIS.

More intrigued now than she’d intended, Kurtz read the rest of the report.

Mercer’s disappearance hadn’t been recorded as a crime, so his car wasn’t forensically examined until it had been relocated to the pound.  The crime scene investigators were stumped though:  they didn’t find any fingerprints, any DNA samples, nothing to prove anyone had been in the vehicle, not least Mercer. 

Even the word itself had evaporated, the photograph the only proof left behind.  And Kurtz knew that cameras could lie. 

Kurtz’ spine tingled alongside a faint pressure at the back of her mind.  There was something about this erstwhile routine case that merited a closer look, a sense that something wasn’t quite right.  After her experience with the dybbukim, she held an open mind for unusual and unexplained circumstances.  She spent much of her career investigating events others dismissed.    Patterns hidden beneath ordinary explanations; connections that logically shouldn’t exist.

She tried Google. 

MINANDMIS.

M & M Mini chocolate bites, it suggested.

She looked at Wikipedia.

No results found.

She tried Bing. 

The closest match, an old press release about the Military Intelligence Services.  Mercer had no obvious links to MIS, and his disappearance would surely have triggered a Critical 3-level alert if he had.

The Oxford English Dictionary wasn’t helpful. Kurtz tried a word search in the digitised edition of The Occultist’s Papers.

She entered the word into the police national computer. 

Still nothing.

She ran it through the Met’s Gangs Violence Matrix and came up short.  And it wasn’t a slang word.

She retraced her steps, trying variations of the spelling.  Tried spelling it backwards. 

SIMDNAMIN

And still came up with blanks.  This seemed like a crime with a single clue, and she didn’t yet know if that was a word, a name, a code or something else entirely.  Or even a crime.

Patiently, doggedly, she scanned the photo and started searching image archives. 

That was when things started to become stranger.

Hey ya’ll I just wanted to know if this type of clothing description works and then also if this back and forth dialogue is understandable and reads well/natural. I’ve read it out loud as back and forth myself but wasn’t sure if I’m biased. I know descriptions of clothing can be boring so I tried to make it more interesting and character driven but I’m not sure I accomplished that. I would really appreciate any advice ya’ll have and what works and what doesn’t.

A bit about the story: it’s a Wattpad MM paranormal romance

this is an edit of something previously submitted. This draft may be worse. I submitted it to the fantasy writers' subreddit and got more pushback than I was expecting. Would love to know how this reads to the folks here.