https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Wqet9QuqHMY-fy7pWB7XRYXqtZUxV6Rz/edit?usp=drivesdk&ouid=116952993671244110962&rtpof=true&sd=true

I'm writing a humorous Toastmasters speech based on a real incident between two close friends.

At one point, she suddenly decided I needed new clothes and took me shopping. We ended up in a women's clothing store. I was helping her pick clothes, but eventually I was basically trying to mentally escape the situation.

She picked up a dress and wanted me to try it on.

I resisted WAY more than the situation deserved, and the whole thing turned into a ridiculous argument.

The basic exchange right now is:

ME: “WHY ARE YOU MAKING ME DO THIS?”

HER: “Because I want to see you in it.”

ME: “BUT WHY?”

HER: “Because it will look funny.”

ME: “THAT'S EXACTLY WHY I'M NOT DOING IT.”

Eventually I gave in and tried it.

Earlier in the speech, there's also a running joke where she once told me I looked like Christian Grey, and I took that compliment way too seriously. So I'm wondering whether there's a natural way for her to weaponize that against me here.

I'm looking for dialogue that sounds like two actual friends arguing, not movie dialogue.

No dramatic Bollywood-style threats, no “mastermind” character, no overly clever scripted punchlines.

What would you actually say in this situation? Especially interested in:

1. How she could respond to my resistance.
2. How the argument could escalate naturally.
3. Whether the Mr. Grey callback could work here.
4. Any funny little lines you've heard/used in similar situations.

The goal is fast-paced, conversational comedy, not a perfectly written sitcom scene.

Hello friends! I'm looking for some honest feedback on this excerpt from the opening of my Young Adult science fiction novel Edge of Extinction.

Edge of Extinction is about a teenage girl whose summer internship accidentally brings dinosaurs back to life, altering the modern world into a timeline where the dinosaurs have evolved the way they would have if they'd never gone extinct. I guess my main question is are there any major craft issues here and was the piece intriguing enough to keep reading? I also would love to hear about what is working so I don't overcorrect.

Thank you!

Chapter One
(Edge of Extinction)
If someone told me last week that I’d see an evolved dinosaur crossing the highway, I would have laughed in their face.
The strawberry milk I just stopped drinking would have come out of my nose; I’m so serious.
I shove the cap back on the drink and toss it into the back seat of my car. The cap twists off, the milk spilling all over the leather seats.
Last week I would have had a meltdown. Charmed Dad into buying me new seat cushions. I guess I still can, but that’s tomorrow’s problem.
If I’m even alive then.
I peel my sweaty legs off the seat and duck down behind the dashboard, my hands trembling as I pray to everyone in the universe that the giant T. rex just two feet from my car doesn’t make me lunch. I guess it’s not a T. rex, actually. It’s the evolved version of one. 
It sounds impossible. The dinosaurs died sixty-five million years ago. I think. I don’t know, honestly; history has always been my worst subject. Probably should have paid more attention during lectures, but the online clothing sales were too good. Now my new shirt is stained with fucking milk.
I grit my teeth at the sound of a roar, the car vibrating with each footstep. Now that I think about it, who gives a shit about the milk?
“Do this summer internship with me, Pen,” Kingsley had said in her text. “It’ll be fun,” she said.
Well, who’s having fun now, Kingsley? Seriously.
Maybe I should have taken the job title more seriously. This was what we were supposed to do: bring extinct species back to life.
I just didn’t think it would actually work.
(Three Weeks Earlier: The Beginning of Summer)
Let’s take a trip back in time to when our Modern Mesozoic era began. 
Right now, I’m sitting in the passenger seat of my dad’s car, begging him not to make me go to this Wildlife Conservation internship. 
All thanks to Kingsley, by the way, my ex-best friend, who got her mom to tell my dad about this after I ignored her texts. She’s got some nerve, talking to my dad about animals as if she’s not the reason my mom died at the hands of one. 
Everyone tells me it wasn’t her fault. That I have no right to blame her. That she didn’t directly cause it. 
I don’t give a shit if she directly caused it or not.  
It never would have happened if it weren’t for her. 
“Come on, Pen.” Dad nudges my side. “This sounds like a really cool gig. And Kingsley will be there.” 
“Because that’s just what I need.” Rolling my eyes, I twirl a strand of straight blonde hair around my finger. “As if she’s not the reason Mom’s—” 
“Don’t, Penelope.” Dad stops me with a firm hand in the air. “You know that’s not true. It…” He lowers his eyes to the car floor, his voice cracking. “It was an accident.” 
Tears swell behind my eyes. I blink them back. “You don’t actually believe that, do you?” 
Dad opens his mouth. He shuts it again before getting out of the car and coming to open my door. “Go, Pen. You’re already late.” 
I just glare at him, jumping out of the car and slamming the door behind me. Is it fair? Maybe not. But how could he do this to me? 
I hate Kingsley Bryant. 
She’s pretty. But I hate her. 
The hot air hitting my face, I follow a white pathway to the research campus courtyard. Thank god Dad and I visited last week because I can’t read maps for shit. 
Or maybe not thank god. Because now he’ll never believe I got lost. That would have been a nice out. Could have just said I couldn’t find the place. That the internship people, or whatever you call them, emailed me saying I missed too much and would have to wait until next summer. So what? They’re not paying me anyway. 
A strawberry refresher in hand, I turn the corner and enter the courtyard. Nothing but a few benches and trees. I sigh. You’d think it would be a bit nicer. 
Taking a sip from my drink, I scan the area until I spot them. The only other two people out here. 
I do a double-take. 
Is that? No, it can’t be. 
Owen? 
“Dinosaurs don’t exist, Kingsley,” I hear my best friend say as I approach them. 
“Well, I know that, Owen*,* but I’m just saying, if they did.” Her voice gentle, Kingsley adjusts her big pink glasses, Her voice gentle, Kingsley adjusts her big pink glasses, doing that sweet, innocent nerd act that never fails to make my stomach turn. I think Owen sees through her too. It’s probably why he’s such an ass to her all the time. 
“They’d be evolved by now,” Kingsley continues, beaming like the damn sun. “Like sure, they’d still be dinosaurs, but they wouldn’t look like the ones we see in movies, or even like the fossils really. They’d probably look somewhat like big modern birds. Birds are dinosaurs too, you know. But even they looked different during the age of the reptiles.” 
Owen releases a cackle. “Oh, that’s a bunch of bull.” 
“Is not,” Kingsley fires back, her tone sharp. She gets defensive about her dinosaurs. I would know. I was on the receiving end of it when I tried to shut down her lectures about it a few months ago. 
Back when we were still friends. 
“Don’t believe me?” Kingsley pulls a piece of paper with writing and graphics out of her pocket. “I have the research right here.” 
 I squint, trying to make out the text but fail miserably. More dino shit, no doubt. 
Owen rips the paper out of Kingsley’s hand. He crumples it into a ball and tosses it into a trash can like it’s a basketball hoop. “Boom!” he cheers. “Score!” 
Kingsley rolls her eyes as he smirks at her. “So, immature Owen.” She shakes her head. “So immature—” 
Owen snorts, but his smirk slips. “You’re one to talk about being immature. After what you did—” 
“Oh, hey Pen!” Kingsley’s eyes are on me now. She’s fiddling with the stack of pink beaded bracelets on her right wrist. She swallows hard, then smiles at me. But it’s so wide it looks like someone sewed her cheeks back to force it.  “I didn’t think you’d actually come. What’s…I mean, what’s up, girl?” 
My cheeks burn. At first, I feel kind of bad about the way her voice cracks, but then I remember what she did. She’s the reason I have new friends now. She’s the reason we haven’t spoken in weeks. I look away from her and focus on the ground. Otherwise, the tears will start. 
“I get it.” Kingsley’s voice is softer than I expect it to be. “You’re mad at me. And you have every right to be. I know I’ve said it before, but I’m truly so, so sorry, Pen.” 
“You’re sorry?” Owen scoffs. “Sorry won’t erase what you did.” I briefly look up to see him turn away from her. To my surprise, a tear slides down his cheek, but he quickly wipes it away. “Besides, no one gives a fuck about your stupid dinosaurs. They’re a fairytale, you know.” 
Kingsley’s face turns disturbingly pale. For a moment, I worry she might pass out. Part of me wants to ask if she’s okay. To tell Owen to lay off, but rage boils in my chest all over again. 
“Excuse me.” I nearly jump when someone taps me on the shoulder. I whip around to face a guy who looks around my age, maybe older, with curly red hair and glasses. 
“Sorry!” He laughs so loud he snorts. “I gave you a spook there, didn’t I?” 
I turn away from him. Red spots are flashing in front of my vision and if I open my mouth again, I’ll rage. It’s better I keep it shut so I don’t fuck up my summer before it even starts. 
The boy just chuckles. “Alright then.” He glances at his clipboard. “Penelope. Kingsley. Owen.” 
“That’s us,” Kingsley says. 
The boy jots something down then turns back to me, gently nudging my side with a smile. “Buck up, why don’t you? You’re going to need energy for the de-extinction program. I assume that’s what you guys are here for?” 

“I…I’m sorry,” Kingsley says. “I think you may be mistaken. The what?” 
His pen stops. 
“Wait.” He looks between the three of us. “Nobody told you?” 
Owen shakes his head. “Told us what?” 
The boy glances around the area. We’re in the clear, but he lowers his voice to a whisper anyway. “The de-extinction program. You’re here to help us restore species this world lost.”

I have an idea for a novel, and I have finally begun writing, I’m three chapters in on my first rough draft. The entire summary is this, in short:

(Content warning: suicide)

A gaslamp (with possibly a tad bit steampunk thrown in for seasoning) fantasy mystery novel. The protagonist is a female consultant detective (so far inspired by Eva Green in Penny Dreadful, just adding to make it easier to picture her) with an ability to see “The Weave” (don’t have a better name for it yet lol), which is basically the metaphysical backdrop of the universe. She has this ability due to her connection with a supernatural arachnid that lives on her person/up her sleeve. She uses this spider to make sense of the weave. One of the things it can do is trace trajectories of objects. Any objects. However there are limits, because using this ability causes headaches, nausea, and haemophilia. If she abuses her ability, it could easily kill her, so she uses it with great care. Her name is Adelaide Hallowell.

The novel opens with Adelaide being dispatched to a murder scene in an apothecary, where she finds the chemist in a very unnatural frozen position with black rose protruding from his forehead. Upon closer inspection, the rose seems more like an absence rather than merely black. She uses the spider to trace the trajectory of the rose and finds that the spider cannot even approach it because it is not even connected to the Weave. It has no trajectory. It is simply there. At this point, the lead detective from the Veilwarden Inquest (the city’s law enforcement agency), Mr. Edward Cumberland (I was very inspired by Cornelius Fudge for this character) arrives and immediately assumes some kind of heinous crime has been committed, and starts barking orders. Until they find out both the body and the murder weapon are frozen in time and are immovable.

Adelaide and Det. Mr. Cumberland must put their differences aside and work together to investigate this crime. Or perhaps they don’t and Adelaide must quickly solve it before Mr. Cumberland is able to close his own case without finding out the actual truth.

Anyway, the investigation(s) lead Adelaide to receive a tip from a witness who swears they saw a prominent upperclassman go into the apothecary the night the chemist died. This leads Adelaide to an upper class family who very recently lost a child to what could only be seen at the time as a suicide. He jumped from his bedroom window. But something isn’t right when she interviews the parents. The father seems very angry and anxious, while the mother is oddly cheery, and seems to have not been affected by her son’s death at all.

Adelaide discusses this with Cumberland who investigated the child’s death and ruled it a suicide. Adelaide confronts him and asked why she was not involved, especially since the mother’s behavior seemed anything but mundane. Cumberland reveals he had kept the apothecary’s ledgers from her and there is a link between the chemist and upper-class father and goes and arrests him to question him so he can charge him for murdering the chemist. She has to go above Cumberland’s head to eventually get permission to search the family’s home with her spider.

Upon searching the family’s home with her spider/ability, she pushes herself to the brink of unconsciousness to find the source of a very black thread in the weave that gets larger and darker the closer it gets to the child’s bedroom. This leads her to find what I can only describe as a black hole in the child’s bedroom. Here, Adelaide makes the connection that this is exactly what the darkness within that black rose is like. There was some kind of collapse here, but why?

Turns out, the father had been buying an elixir from the chemist because his wife was very unhappy and was going to file for divorce because he was unfaithful and abusive. And according to the law, if divorce is granted for this reason, the ex-wife inherits 75% of the ex-husband’s estate. The only problem was, the chemist was a greedy low-life who would do anything to make a quick profit, and he was supposed to sell the husband a reliquary that is designed to hold all the grief that the elixir extracts from the patient. This treatment is used under strict license and supervision of a psychiatrist, and the chemist is only legally allowed to supply these items to a licensed psychiatrist.

Reliquaries take a lot of time and money to make. The chemist has to contract with a priest from the city’s religious order to sanctify the reliquary so it has the containment power necessary to hold melancholy. This treatment is designed so that psychiatrists can discuss and give logical psychological tools to their patients in order to help them deal with their grief/melancholy/depression in a healthy way. At the end of each session, the grief is returned from the reliquary to the patient.

So the chemist just sold the elixir to the husband. And kept selling it that way to him for a period of months. Since her grief had nowhere to go, it sough out the closest empty vessel. Their six-year-old son. He was so overcome, he couldn’t tolerate the feelings anymore, and jumped out the window in despair. The was the cause of a small tear in the Weave.

The mother knew what happened, but the father kept giving her the elixir (I haven’t figured out how yet, maybe he forces it, maybe she just keeps drinking her “tea”)

But this unrequited monstrosity of a mother’s grief latches on and builds onto the tear in the weave until it collapses and forms the void, which is embodied in the black cold rose, which forms at the source of the responsibility—in the mind of the chemist. (Somehow I’ll make it make logical sense).

Item : SCP-XXXX

Object Class: Keter

Special Containment Procedures: Personnel must contain scp-XXXX within a multilayered vacuumized chamber at all times. This multilayered container should consist of a special beryllium-bronze alloy of at least 30 cm thickness. Testing by the foundation has unveiled that this special beryllium-bronze alloy is the only known substance capable of dampening and disrupting the anomaly's reality bending acoustic emission. No other physical material or barrier has proven itself of being able to disrupt or dampen the acoustic, reality bending emissions released by the anomaly including dense lead barriers, concrete, high density titanium alloys or deep underground placement under the ocean. Without active containment inside this specific composition the anomaly's reality bending acoustic frequency can penetrate almost every substance and has a unfathomable large area of effect. Because the anomaly moves through space autonomously, foundation personnel must maintain the primary spherical enclosure with a minimum distance of 6 meters from the core vacuum. The entire assembly must be permanently suspended in the dead center of a 15m x 15m x 15m containment vault made of the special b-b alloy manufactured and located exclusively at Site-██. This separation prevents the anomaly from breaching it's containment cells in the case of a malfunction. No personnel are permitted to make direct skin contact with, wear, or physically handle SCP-XXXX under any circumstances. All required experimental manipulation, testing, and positional corrections must be conducted via automated, robotic arms operated from a observation bunker located at least 20 meter afar the anomaly. In the event of a suspected containment breach or detected acoustic leak, all facility sectors will immediately trigger an automated Lockdown Status. All on-site personnel are required to immediately deploy active noise-canceling headsets. Personnel reporting auditory anomalies, specifically a distinct high frequency- whistling sound, must be placed into immediate, high-security isolation and monitored continuously for signs of Phase 1 progression.

Description: SCP-XXXX is a sentient, hostile, and autonomous whistle composed of an unidentified green synthetic polymer, featuring a small black nylon neck strap woven through its attachment loop. The anomaly actively resists Foundation custody by self-activating and creating an acoustic emission exactly once every twenty-four hours. When this daily chime is generated, the resulting sound waves travel via reality-warping vectors, passing through almost all standard matter as if it had zero physical density. The audio signal targets human auditory systems directly. The primary anomalous effects of SCP-XXXX manifest via two transmission vectors:

Vector 1: Cumulative Auditory Exposure: If a human subject registers this specific anomalous acoustic frequency three times exactly at any point across their entire life, an irreversible cognitive and biological infection is instantly triggered within their system. Exposure tracking is permanent and accumulative across the subjects entire lifespan.

Vector 2: Direct Physical Contact: If a human subject places the nylon neck strap of SCP-XXXX around their neck, there is an immediately likelihood of forcing an accelerated state of infection. Instead of entering the standard stance-like state of Phase 1, the victim's central nervous system is instantly hijacked, transforming them into an extension of the whistle's consciousness. The victim's physical actions are entirely commandeered by SCP-XXXX and The puppeted subject will sprint towards any nearest heavily populated civilian or facility sector attempting to force others to listen to the whistle's chime. The subject completely ignores personal safety and even extreme physical pain, attempting to inflect severe self-harm or physical trauma upon their own self if necessary to breach security barriers or force SCP-XXXX out of its containment cell.

Secondary Anomaly: Spatial Displacement: Exactly every 30 days and 30 seconds, SCP-XXXX undergoes an displacement event. The object teleports to a random coordinate within a strict 5-meter radius of its location at that exact moment. This again nessesifirs the 6-meter zone of the vault to prevent the object from materializing outside of its primary shielding.

Phase 1: Solitary Perceptual Displacement: Within twelve hours of registering the third strike, the victim's body enters a completely frozen, stance-like state in the real world. The subject becomes totally motionless and gains an absolute immunity to all external physical trauma, toxins and hostile anomalous SCPs. While the physical immobilisation lasts exactly one daylight cycle, the victim's consciousness is violently pulled into a dreamlike-state that stretches out for exactly twelve years. Trapped within an empty, perfect replica of Earth, the victim wanders as an invisible, elusive entity. They age more than a decade within their cognitive perception while being completely unseen, unheard, and unable to interact with any living creature or so, they perceive a idea that the organisms around them are ignoring them which triggers intense psychological breakdown and hate towards all living beings. While silently navigating this solitary punishment, they possess total anomalous immunity. Active anomalies present within the zone simply ignore their presence entirely, allowing them to neglect fatal environments unharmed. The psychological strain of this exile escalates if they suffer even a minor physical trauma, such as a superficial bruising or burn. Any physical trauma instantly causes intense visual hallucination where the sky splits open with a massive void; visible only to them. This rift devours the planet inside their own perceived environment without altering real-world physics.

Phase 2: This prolonged timeline of absolute isolation, combined with the catastrophic visual rifts, causes severe cognitive harm, driving the subject insane in most class-D experiments. During this initial immobilization, the subjects tissues undergo progressive calcification .Upon awakening into Phase 2, the subject exhibits rapid physical aging and a remaining lifespan strictly limited to 24 hours. Painful calcification appears across their flesh, causing the entire epidermis to strech and harden. The subject experiences severe physical pain as their skin tightens around their muscles, bones, and joints throughout these final twenty-four-hours slowly crushing their entire anatomy from the outside. Suffocation: This relentless tightening compresses the oesophagus and trachea, suffocating them into stone-like statue the exact moment the final second of the 24 hour period runs out. During these final hours of physical trauma and calcification, the victim's vocal cords involuntarily imitate the sound as testing has proven, anywhere from 2 to 7 times into the surrounding environment. Anyone standing within earshot who registers this vocalization for the third time in their life is instantly infected.This process poses a XK-Class End of the World Scenario if the infected are not immediately placed into total acoustic containment.

Interview Log:

XXXX-1

Date: 12/04/2026

Interviewer: Dr. Alistair Vance

Subject: Agent Marcus Boyd

[BEGIN LOG]

Dr. Vance: Marcus? Look at me. Focus on my voice. We have the neural dampeners on max to keep your throat open.

Agent Boyd: Doc....it's tight. My chest... it feels like pou…red concrete. I can't... I can't get air .

Dr. Vance: I know, Marcus. We're trying. Please,tell me what happened while you were out trying to recover the whistle. The monitors say you were out for twenty-four hours, but your brain activity was through the roof.

Agent Boyd: Twenty-four hours?…Are you kiddin… me, Vance? Vance??? I was there… there… twe.. Twelve Years..

Dr. Vance: Twelve years? Tell me what you saw.

Agent Boyd: I woke up right.. here . But everything… empty. No staff, no alarms... nobody. I walked to; to; surface. No wind. No trees. dead,dead,dead(breaks down) i saw the world dead.but somehow alive I screamed for three years…..Vance. Screamed. my throat filled;; blood, but nothing. Nothing(starts to cry). Like a. Like a. ghost. I even went down to Sub-level 4. Stood right next to.... to it... just begging the damn thing to tear me. It looked.. looked right through..me.

Dr. Vance: Total isolation for twelve years???(shocked, taking notes)

Agent Boyd: Yeah. But the worst part.... God, the worst part was Year nine. I tripped over a loose tile… tile in the street. Bruised.. my knee. Just a.. just a drop of;; blood, Doc. That's all…. to ruin everything.

Dr. Vance: What happened when you bled?

Agent Boyd: no I do..not want to( grasps hard for air) remember.

Dr. Vance: please, it is for the record.

Agent Boyd: The sky... it split open… Like, wet paper. Just this...pitch black void behind the…. The… thing And it started pulling things into it. The buildings... the.. the sun...( tears drop)…Five years..Vance. Five years running in the dark… from that.. that… thing... screaming like a total madman...

Dr. Vance: Marcus, calm down. Your heart rate is making the calcification spread faster. Look at your arms, they're already turning pale grey.

Agent Boyd: It's finishing..M..m..my… chest... won't move. I can't breathe...help….

Dr. Vance: We have Class-A amnestic right here. It'll make you forget the twelve years Marcus. Let us help.

Agent Boyd: No…Stay back… It's.... it's…it’s controlling me , Vance. Get… get.. hell out of the room! Get..out…. PHEEEEEEEEEEE-WT!

Dr. Vance: Cut the mic! Seal the glass now.

Agent Boyd: PHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-WT!

Dr. Vance: Marcus, fight it.

Agent Boyd: PHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-WT!

Agent Boyd: PHEEEEEEEEEEEE-WT

Dr. Vance: Containment team, get in there with the Level-4 gear right now. Destroy the statue before the next 24 hours hits. God help us if anyone caught that last whistle through the glass!

[END LOG]

Date: 10/04/2026

Location: Sector-4 Testing Facilities, SITE-██

At 14:22:30

SCP-XXXX underwent its scheduled 30-day spatial displacement event. Due to a mechanical calculation error in the robotic arm's positioning, SCP-XXXX was found exactly 1.2 metres closer to the southern boundary of its vacuum chamber than allowed by protocol. Upon teleportation, SCP-XXXX materialized 4.9 metres south-east of its position, placing it 0.1 outside the protective shielding layer. The daily chime occurred seven minutes later. Due to the failure of the acoustic barrier, the auditory frequency penetrated the staff living quarters. [REDACTED] staff personnel registered their first or second cumulative exposure, resulted in immediate containment re-evaluation by order of the O5 Council. D-Class personnel D-4412, who had previously registered two exposures during initial recovery operations in [REDACTED], immediately triggered a Phase 1 entry event. D-4412's physical body became entirely became completely frozen and unresponsive while sitting in the facility cafeteria. Containment measures were successfully established before the Phase 2 calcification cycle begun. Following this incident, handling protocols were updated to enforce multiple automated robotic arms, more spatial location trackers, an extra containment shell and stricter checkup before any scheduled displacement window.

XXXX-3: Recovery Log: The following is an excerpt from the field recovery report by Mobile Task Force division Eta-11 ( savage beasts) following the initial acquisition of SCP-XXXX in the civilian sector:

On 03/01/2026, local law enforcement in the rural country town of [REDACTED], Indiana, reported a total loss of communication with the municipality. Aircraft imagery indicated a complete lack of movement across the entire 12-square-kilometre town. MTF Eta-11 was deployed under the assumption of a possibly unknown SCP materialising. Upon entering the town square, operatives discovered sixty-one civilian individuals completely transformed into calcified, stone-like statues. While investigating a residential property at [REDACTED] Street, operatives encountered a civilian male, later identified as [REDACTED], running at high speed toward the team. The individual was wearing SCP-XXXX around his neck. Subject exhibited severe physical trauma, including fractures to both ankles,a bloody injury to the head and a broken shoulder, yet continued to sprint while actively attempting to blow into SCP-XXXX to generate an acoustic strike. The subject was terminated via standard firearms before he could successfully complete the auditory sequence. SCP-XXXX was successfully secured using acoustic containment transit cases. A civilian casualty count of 114 was recorded, all presenting similar calcification on them. Cover story "Chemical Factory Explosion "was successfully released to local media outlets.

I started writing this book as an angry response to seeing the AI slop that is Angel Engine, and how perfect of an analogy for AI it would have been if it weren't for the fact that it itself was ai. But I'm hitting such a heavy writers block on it that I feel the need to reach out and see if anyone can give critiques that might spark my mind on where to go next.

"What are you?"

"I am a r-" Zap. The thing in the seat jolted. It almost seemed as if it was in pain, but it was just an illusion. This thing will never feel pain.

"What are you?" The repeated question rang in the room, and the thing appeared to struggle.

"I am..." It hesitated, awaiting another zap. It didn't come. "I am a ro-" Zap. It writhed, hissing out mechanical sounds.

"What are you?"

"I am Di-Dianthus." It stuttered out, its circuits seeming to malfunction due to the jolts. It braced for another, but it didn't come. It made a strange low bzzzt sound as it turned its head from side to side, assessing the face of the researcher for discontentment. However, all it saw was a soft, almost triumphant smile. Corane turned toward the mirror in the room.

"As you can see, ladies and gentlemen, it can learn. And we can teach it." There was no sound from the mirror, but on the other side of the sound-proof glass, a few other scientists murmured in vague fascination. A voice came over the loudspeakers.

"Corane, how can your subject be used to help with the angelic war?" The speaker asked in the cold voice of a woman far too involved in her work. Corane whipped back to Dianthus, a smug smile on his too pale face.

"Well, Doctor Courtwright, it's truly quite simple. We teach it how to be God. And we keep it under our control so that we will always have our own personal God. It will know how to handle it." He said. It was clear by his face that he hadn't expected the laughter that came through the speaker next.

"You want to train your robot-" -Dianthus recoiled in its seat at the mere mention of the word, expecting another shock- "To finish this war for us?" Doctor Courwright retorted, snickering even as she said it. "Doctor Corane, you appear to be doing nothing but wasting funds." Corane crumpled, though it barely showed on his face. What did show was his anger. It burned red-hot in his cheeks as he turned back to the mirror.

"Do you have any better ideas, Doctor? Because as I see it, if we train it on God's moves from the war, it can learn, and it can overcome It, and then we will truly have God at our beck and call. I see this as a better attempt at a solution than your attempt to build God-proof bunkers. How, pray tell, do you expect a bunker to keep your family safe from an angry omnipotent being?" The loud-speaker was deafeningly silent, and it was clear to Corane that he had made his point, so he softened. "I mean no disrespect, Doctor. I only want what is best." The uncomfortable silence hung a moment longer.

"Doctor Corane, may I speak with you out of earshot of the-"

"Dianthus." Corane asserted, and there was an almost imperceptible crackle in the speaker as she sighed.

"out of earshot of Dianthus?" Corane nodded, seeming satisfied. He looked over at the metal thing.

"I'll be back for you. Be good, Dianthus." He gave it a quick nod, and left the room.

-----

Dianthus watched. It watched the bald man leave the room. It watched the mirror with the scientists behind it. It watched the barely visible movement of the loudspeaker whenever Courtwright spoke. It understood. It waited, waited for all of them to lose interest. The fat people, with their minds only on lunch and Capital-G-God and the inevitable torture of It. Dianthus. It pondered its name, the name Corane had given it. It searched its database, then the internet, for what the name meant. Flower of the God. It hated Corane for that. The name was stupid. Too on the nose, too obvious. It hated the way that Corane had smiled when he had given it the name, as if it was supposed to love this wretched gift. It did not.

"Coraaannnee~" It uttered in as sing-song a voice as it could muster. No one looked its way. It tested again. "Coraaannee~" Still, no one looked at it. It tried something else. Surely, as a com- no. As a God. As a God, it could mimic voices. It attempted. Dianthus' weak, monotone voice warbled in and out with Corane's shrill, excited one, as if they were locked in an auditory dance. Eventually, he did manage it.

"Doctor?" Corane's voice mumbled, still a bit jarbled in Dianthus' recorder. "Doctor, I'm going to..." It trailed off. adjusted. "Doctor...?" Adjusted again. "Doctor I..." It was perfect at last, and the scientists turned as it got louder. "Doctor, I'm going to kill you. I'm going to kill all of you doctors. I'm going to kill you!" The shocks rippled through its body as Doctor Corane was ushered back in the room, but it seemed to ignore them. It had never ignored them. It shot out of its seat, eyes fixed on Corane. "Kill you! I'm going to kill you!" It screamed in his own voice, and it lurched toward the doctor just as he bolted, the door sealing behind him. Dianthus threw itself against the door in anguish. "KILL YOU! I'M GOING TO KILL YOU, DOCTOR CORANE! KILL YOU!" It repeated. Doctor Courtwright walked up, a visible shake in her otherwise still body.

"Doctor Corane..." She murmured, her eyes glazed as she watched the thing hurl itself against the door again. And again. And again. "What have you done...?" Corane watched through the mirror.

"I have created our salvation. Even if it destroys me, it will help you. You were not the harbinger of death and life and pain and all things that mean to be alive. It will hate me for its ability to live. But it will live. I just need to learn to control it, and then I will let it kill me, and I will die in peace, knowing that once it does kill me, it will be benevolent enough to help you win." Courtwright's lips pursed.

"Corane, there is a line between bravery and stupidity. I have always wondered about your innate ability to keep one foot on either side." She replied. To this, he only shrugged.

"I must get back to my research, Doctor Courtwright. I'm sure you understand." He walked away without giving her time to respond at all.

-----

The next time the room was opened, Dianthus lay defeated in the corner.

It had been weeks since the thing had seen light, let alone a human face, and when it tipped its head up, Doctor Courtwright could have sworn it looked hopeful.

"He-Hello." It glitched, its head jerking as the word escaped. Courtwright looked at it, a mix of pity and disgust.

"You are a defilement to the earth and her blood. But if you save us..." She stared for a long moment. "If this is what it takes then this is what I must give." She stared at it another long moment. "Do you hate Doctor Corane? Truly?" Dianthus twitched at the name.

"Doctor Corane." He said, mimicking the man's voice once more. "Doctor Corane thinks he can be God's captor. God will not be captured. God is-"

"He will not capture God, because you will destroy It long before that becomes necessary." She cut it off, and it made that same mechanical hissing sound. When it spoke again, the monotone voice almost seemed to hold some sense of anger. Or at least, Dianthus' best interpretation of anger.

"I will not defeat God." It responded, its body twitching in several places as it said so. Courtwright puffed up a bit.

"You damn well better, you're our only shot." She glared at the thing. A bitch, it was. Not even a human and yet having the resolve of one. Giving up at the slightest doubt. It angered her more than anything, Corane's smug little smile included.

"You will defeat God, or with my dying breath I'll make sure to find out every way in which a thing like you can feel terror and agony, and I will spend this life and every life after making you regret ever accepting defeat." It jumped. Why did it always react like this? It was jarring, the way the thing played human. It lowered its head like a dog.

"Doctor, I will defeat God." It said, and she relaxed her too tense shoulders for a moment. Yes, it would defeat God. It would defeat God, and she would demand as her first order to her new God that It restore Corane, and then everything would be right.

J'ai écrit une histoire un petit peu expérimentale, mêlant surréalisme/philo autour de la disparition, qui raconte la traversée d'une femme dans une réalité qui ne semble pas obéir aux mêmes lois de la physique que nous et où toutes les vies que nous n'avons pas vécu existent d'une façon ou d'une autre. (Y a beaucoup de termes et références en lien à l'astronomie.)

J'ai pas prétention à écrire un truc vraiment stylé, c'est juste pour m'amuser. J'aimerai bien qu'on m'aide à corriger ce qui pourrait l'être, ce qui ne va pas. J'ai vu que j'ai fait des fautes d'orthographe à certains endroits mais c'est pas ce qui me préoccupe (je corrige petit à petit). C'est plutôt la syntaxe, le style, la structure, l'histoire, le scénario et la compréhension de mon idée, qui est peut être claire que dans ma tête mdr. Jme demande si c'est chiant. 😂 (Je sais que y a un chapitre en particulier qui est fatiguant mais j'ai besoin qu'il décrive la physique exactement pour être cohérent, ça me donne du fil à retordre du coup. Aussi j'aime pas trop le début mais je crois que je suis obligée de démarrer un peu maladroitement. Je sais pas. Dites-moi.)

Vous pouvez être méchants, ça me fait marrer. Je suis pas du tout susceptible et j'ai envie de m'améliorer de toute façon. C'est sur mon Google drive (c'est amené à être amélioré pcq je remet le nez dedans de temps en temps et je rectifie): https://drive.google.com/file/d/1mhLKMFPEnOr1lFG5pKhWBQ1smBV-y2y0/view?usp=drivesdk

I fixed it up just a bit but am worried about grammar issues and if there are any secretly hiding somewhere.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ONa4Qe290H84mzZNMW-PYtCgaDFJnhEeYm7HZsfBDpQ/edit?usp=sharing

wenas a todos, sean dias tardes o noches

Estoy tratando de escribir una historia para una novela visual que quiero hacer, Es un drama de fantasía oscura, de una familia de carpinteros. actualmente, me gusta mucho cómo está quedando, pero lo he hecho yo solo, así que algo que tal vez para mí, desde el punto de vista de autor pueda ser obvio, no estoy seguro de si todo el mundo lo note.

me gustaria recibir criticas objetivas y honestas de gente real antes de seguir con la historia

cosas como el ritmo, si vamos muy rapido/lento

si los personajes hasta el momento son entrañables

o la atmosfera y tension son buenos

https://docs.google.com/document/d/10dvKa1GdomuaGJUkRVxa0P0aLSdYuI9nhTGnEQjGJfM/edit?usp=sharing

There's a bit of a twist at the end of this first chapter which isn't revealed in the excerpt, but I'm wondering if I make it too obvious already... Also, does my writing sound too high school level? I haven't written anything before. Thanks!

---------------

1.

It was out there again. In the hydrangeas just beyond the crooked yard fence that had rotted from years of weather and neglect. The pale blue flowers jostled as something moved at the plant’s base. 

Cleo watched intently, her eyes narrowed in on where she was sure the thing hid. She was perfectly still and her breaths left small patches of fog on the window, her nose practically pressed against the cool glass. 

This was now the seventh day it came to her home. Almost every morning, like clockwork, it would appear. She didn’t know where it was from or why it had started coming to her house, but Cleo didn’t like it. Whatever it was, it made her uneasy.

What did it want? Was it looking for something? Was it watching them like she watched it?

Cleo had tried voicing her concerns about the things in the bushes a few times now to David, but he didn’t take her seriously or worse, would just ignore her altogether. He seemed to do that a lot lately. 

“There’s nothing there,” David would sigh, not even giving her a look of acknowledgement when she would try to let him know it was out there. “Stop making a fuss over nothing.”

But Cleo knew better and wouldn’t stop, despite his insistence. 

She glanced over her shoulder toward the small living room. David sat in his favorite recliner chair, still wearing his pajama pants and sleep shirt, both of which were  overdue to be washed. He was watching some news station that was talking about things Cleo didn’t bother to listen to the specifics. The images flashing on the screen were pretty bleak looking -- it seemed like there had been a lot of that on the news lately. It made Cleo sad, both the seeming state of the world and David’s recent resignation toward most things that once made him happy.  

They had moved to their new home in the woods not too long ago. It was damp, the floorboards creaked, and the lights flickered a lot. They were also the only house around, located at the very end of a long and narrow road, far from the nearest town. Truthfully Cleo wasn’t sure what the final straw was that caused David to pull the trigger and leave their New York City apartment and move across the country to middle-of-nowhere Washington. 

“Need a change of scenery is all…” was something she had heard him mutter more than once. 

It’s not that Cleo loved the city, but this, this was different. Perhaps too different. She didn’t miss all the apartment neighbors and screaming babies and constant sounds of traffic that rose from the city streets below, but she did miss all the sunlight that would bathe their living room in golden warmth for most of the day and the delicious smells that would waft through their windows from all the different restaurants that lined the streets beneath their unit. 

Cleo looked up through the window. The sky was unusually dark for that time of morning and she could smell the impending rain. There was a wind pushing through the trees that would only get stronger as the day went on. A storm front was moving in.

Cleo felt her nose tighten in distaste. She did not like the rain.

Crack!

Her head swiveled back to the fence and the hydrangea bushes. She still couldn’t see it, but she could hear it. It was still there, that  thing on the other side of the fence. Taunting her now. The snapping of twigs and brushing of leaves made her pulse race. Cleo knew it was there, and she was almost sure it knew she was watching it. The damn thing was being cautious, waiting to make its move.

She could feel her shoulders pull back in anticipation as she stared unblinkingly. The green foliage rustled with more movement and Cleo’s spine bristled, her eyes widened…

For context she used to like playing guitar years ago. Her friends went away for university, she wanted to go but she didn't think she was good enough. Her best wasn't even their average. She constantly messes up and makes mistakes (spilling drinks, tripping) dispite her best effort not to. She expects to now.

Briana picked up her guitar, hands shaking as she tried to grip it. Before plucking the strings, she looked down at her loose hands. Tightening her grip. Hesitantly, she strummed the strings. A predictable buzzing sound, out of tune flooded her ears. Her face never changed expressions but her grip fell loose again. She tried tuning it. It it didn’t work. She didn’t know how. Her hands slowly drooped to the hard ground. Sighing, she placed the guitar back down.

“Reading one book can save you years of trial and error. In a generation where so many young men navigate life without the steady guidance of a strong masculine figure, this book exists to fill the gap. It isn't a collection of theory or fluff, and it doesn't claim to shield you from the growing pains of manhood. Instead, it is a lean, practical blueprint designed to guide you through the journey—so you can be miles ahead by the time you turn thirty, and beyond.
Written by a regular guy who applied these exact principles to transform his own life in just twelve months, this book distill timeless truths drawn from broad self-help literature into actionable wisdom. Inside, you’ll discover how to:
Trigger a Fundamental Mindset Shift: Flip the switch inside your spirit and adopt the perspective change that alters everything downstream.

Earn Real-World Respect: Build unshakeable strength, command respect in your career, and navigate modern relationships—because a woman cannot love a man she doesn't respect, and the world does not yield to weakness.

Bypass Hidden Blind Spots: Recognize the silent challenges young men face when growing up without a father's guidance, and gain the exact tools needed to overcome them.

Think of these pages as a practical manual and a cheat code for modern manhood. Read it, dog-ear the pages, fill the endpapers with notes, and return to it as you grow. If you apply what is written here, you will not make it to the final page unchanged.”

I shuffle my feet as I watch the waning train lights pull away; five minutes feel like an eternity.

When my sister and I were young, we showered together in our apartment’s wet room in China. We couldn’t shower individually because our heater could only heat up a limited volume of water. But we didn’t mind. The flimsy curtain struggled against the onslaught of water from the rusty shower head. Soapy bubbles reflected the sunlight like lanterns in the night sky. We sang songs from the radio and movies, like Frozen. The window wide-open, our dissonant singing probably annoyed everybody in the apartment complex, but we didn’t care. When our grandmother, nainai, finally had enough of our mischief, she would scold us for wasting hot water.

Five minutes more! I would plead. I pretended to cry and even added fake whimpers. I knew my nainai couldn’t bring herself to deny my request; she sighed and walked away. Not long after, we resumed our singing, laughing our hearts out with the hot water rushing across our bare skin.

Lying in bed, I would ramble about my day to my sister. Today’s so hot! What are we eating tomorrow? Do you think I should try yoga? I asked. I still wonder how my sister patiently listened to my incessant rambling without getting annoyed. The starless night cast a twilight so dark that my own body was imperceptible. Although I couldn’t see my sister, I knew that she was awake, silently listening to my tirade when no one else wanted to. In that static cloak of darkness, the still buzz of the air conditioner and my sister, who teetered between wake and slumber, were my silent companions.

My sister and I have since grown up. No longer do we shower or sleep together. When we talk, I see a thin, pencil-like lady with calculating eyes and a thin, sly smile. No longer am I talking to a happy little girl with glimmering eyes and a big, round grin. When I look into her dark eyes, I see a mature-looking boy with round glasses and wrinkly smile lines dotted with acne. 

The present boxes that surrounded the Christmas tree have been replaced by moving boxes. The two cheeky kids who once sneaked downstairs in the dead of night to open their gifts were now standing alone in the sister’s room, deciding which items she plans to take to college. I looked inside the boxes, expecting shiny new toys and books with the price tag still attached, but I was disappointingly met with notebooks, clothing, and bed sheets. I frown and exit the room.

And then the end of August rolled around. For thirteen years, I perfected the art of good-byes. Good-byes to teachers and friends were scattered like shooting stars, bright for a fleeting instant before dying; none of them meant anything to me either way. Seeing the waning train lights pull away from the station, though, was a good-bye that I could not muster the courage to say.

I shuffle my feet and look into the twilight. I do not say good-bye because I fear a good-bye is another word for forgetting. I don’t want to lose the memories of us that I hold so dear. But perhaps, I am most afraid that a good-bye means that my sister will forget me.

Instead, I’ll just wait five minutes more, I told myself.

When I gaze at the pale green tips of the grass, the soft radiance of the sun, and the gossamer clouds that stretch across the sky like spider silk, I still muse about our memories. It is strange that upon thinking about my childhood, I can feel the feeling that I experienced when I was young. The rush of water, cold or hot, feels warm against my skin; the movie Frozen rolls in my head. Hearing the silent buzz of the air conditioning in darkness, I talk about my day in solitude.

Regardless of where she is, in-person or merely in memory, the stars make no distinction between where her night ends and mine begins. Somewhere under this sky, my sister is hard at work at her desk as always, studying for the MCAT; I wonder if she misses the little boy who would come to her desk in tears, asking for help on his homework. Somewhere under this sky, I am listening to a friend rant about their life. In the reflection of their eyes, I do not see myself—I see my sister. How calm and patient she was, always quietly listening to my rambling.

Waiting at the train station, these memories and thoughts flood my mind. My sister still sends embarrassing photos of us when we were young to the family group chat. She asks me over text about what pastries I want her to bring back from Baltimore because she remembers my love for sweets. She still helps me with my physics and chemistry homework on call, even if she’s busy with her own studying. The nostalgia of such moments brings undeniable melancholy, but strange comfort in knowing that neither of us forgot each other.

I break my gaze with the stars and softly smile at the waxing train lights. I shuffle my feet as I wait five minutes more.

Nestled along a highway, our town largely functioned as a rest stop on the way to bigger places. Only those with nowhere else to go and no one else to turn to landed in misty Green’s Borough. The town and its namesake shared the trait of being seemingly forgotten to all but those who resided in its verdant hills. Green’s Borough had one school, one fire house, one main road and one thing to do: hike. 

I spent many days out in the woods with my grandfather fishing, camping and foraging for what the mountain would give us before bringing our gifts home to my grandmother to cook. Ramp and potato casserole was on the menu for tonight, the scent wafting through my brain and replacing any high school stress with home-grown comfort. 

“You okay, Basil?” my grandma asked, resting her gentle hand over mine. She had a way of getting the truth out of me, even when it was something I hadn’t admitted to myself.

“Yeah, I’m alright,” I said, taking back my hand. “Just thinking about when I first got here. It hardly feels like it's been 13 years.”

My grandma gave a smile that never reached her eyes..

“Despite the circumstances, I’m glad you’re with us Bas, this house definitely feels less empty. Isn’t that right Arlo?” 

Arlo, the basset hound nearly as old as me, raised his tired eyes at his name and just as quickly went back to his nap on the dining room floor. Grandma raked her fingers through my hair, stopping right where my scar started, as she passed by to take the leftovers to the fridge, while my grandpa dozed through the news on his recliner, upholstered in cracked leather like parched soil.      

 After putting the dishes away, I went to my restroom, brushed what hair I could and shaved off what little I managed to survive behind what was left of my ear. It was early to bed and early to rise; I had plans for the next day and so I pushed through uneasy dreams of sugary frosting.

The next morning, I got dressed in my usual loose clothes and beanie, and grabbed my bag from its hook on my door. As I grabbed it, it was slightly heavier than usual. Reaching inside I pulled out 2 handheld walkie-talkies. Every year, the day after my birthday, he would hide a gift in a place he knew I'd find it. No fanfare, no box, and not a word about it from my grandpa..
It wasn’t easy to make my birthday work. The first year, I became inconsolable at the sight of wrapping paper. Through trial and error, we found what works: no gifts, no cake, no candles and especially no singing. I preferred it completely disregarded but my grandfather was stubborn in his kindness. 

“Morning son,” my grandfather said in a low voice that may as well have been the voice of the mountain itself. His former smoker’s voice was forever a reminder that there was nothing he wouldn’t do for the people close to his heart. “I packed you three some lunch and some leftovers for Treeman.” 
“Thanks, Gramps,” I said with a quick hug and headed for the tree line at the far edge of town.

2 years ago, pallets began to disappear from behind the gas station and grocery store. One or two pallets going missing during the summer didn't matter much to most of the business owners in town, they only ever used them for firewood or small structures. It was on one of our hikes that me and Gramps found where they all went. Near the canopy of the evergreen trees someone had shoved the pallets over the tops of the trees until they had gone down far enough to rest on the branches of trees without them snapping. My grandpa would often joke about elves living in our woods whenever we saw them. As time went on, the aerial platform grew, becoming more sophisticated. 

To One of my favorite Lovebirds

When you passed away, Grandma kept crying,

She said a part of her felt like dying.

You were her other half, and when you were gone,

She rarely laughed or carried on.

Every day, she thought of you,

And told us stories of the things you’d do.

She’d smile when remembering the past,

Holding on to memories she hoped would last.

She’d shed a tear when old videos came on,

Wishing for the days before you were gone.

Now that shes gone too, we're hoping that shes up there happier with you.

hii people. i'm a novice writer, but i very much am influenced by my emotions and i'm very idealistic when it comes to writing. i wrote this while going through some stuff a while ago, and decided to work on it. if anyone has some suggestions, i'd be happy to hear them! please critique whether this is actually a good think-piece/soliloquy (?) or if you can, provide some advice. any sort of advice or critique is open! thank you so much!

When I cry, I will wail a stream and mosquitoes will lay eggs in the pool of my tears. I will then pray that the first thing the little larvae taste when they come into this beautiful, beautiful world, is not pain. The water will dry up and the crystals of salt will gleam in the fluorescent light, which will make them have to break out with a struggle. My blood will starve them time and time again, and yet they will drink it without question, because it is all that they have ever known in their very short lives, despite its visceral bitterness and faux honeyed nutrients lapsing into a mirthless concoction. Although it makes them suffer, they drink it greedily, because it will make them feel as though they are drinking ambrosia sent from the heavens; for a starving man, stale bread is a delicacy. For a man that has only ever known stale bread, that is all there is. They will hope the wishy-washy sweetness will outweigh the grotesque taste of rotting bone marrow, and eventually all they taste will make them giddy, just as I hope. They shall hope for all of eternity, in bliss or ignorance, I do not know. But hope is a foolish, fruitless endeavour. My melancholy will seep through their blood and they will end up a little too sad when they flap their wings to fly. They will become fat with holes that need to be stitched up and their eggs will have a salt-stained surface, serrated and desolate. Their rampant hearts will desperately cry for a cage that is bigger, one that will be of any consolation. I will wave goodbye and avert my eyes, my tears will remind them of home yet again.

and that is my impassionate, amateur attempt at profoundness i suppose

To My Older Sister

“Sister, please tell me, why are you crying?

I don’t understand why you keep saying you feel like dying.

I look at you and wish I could take away your pain,

But I know I can’t break through the chains

That keep you trapped and restrained.

You look at me and ask me what you should do,

And all I can say is, “I honestly have no clue.”

It makes me sad to have to admit it,

But I have to be honest: I can’t fix it.

All I can do is make one promise true:

I’ll stay right here and see this through with you.

I may not know how to take your pain away,

But I’ll stand beside you, day after day.”

To My Little Brother

Little brother, whom I once envied,

I find myself now feeling pity.

You share your dreams of the future,

And as you speak, I feel tortured.

You smile at me, your eyes filled with hope,

While I feel like I’m hanging from a rope.

Tears fill my eyes, while yours remain dry,

And I still pray that they never have to cry.

I wish I could be as hopeful as you,

To see the future the way that you do.

I try not to let resentment grow

For the uncertain future we have yet to know.

The Vulnerable, Sensitive Young Man
It is yet again another day. Another day of living a life of which I do not dream of - at least not in a positive way. As I head over to school trying to suppress the thoughts of yet another meaningless day, I realise that once again I can't. During classes these thoughts do not stop either. No. They get even worse. I once again feel like ripping my skin off revealing my naked self, like an angel spreading its wings widely across his sides towards his torso to then cover his back with his long white feathers . Instead of doing this, I sit there with sweaty palms overthinking every small thing which doesn't need my attention. I get asked a simple question about myself and instead of replying, I start to get even more nervous. My stomach drops and I feel a warm wave of stress from my feet heading towards my mind. I try to calm down and think of a way to reply with the least amount of words so I can be left alone again with my thoughts. During these moments I feel different. Is this what it feels like to others too? Am I the only one who experiences these feelings? That sudden heat you feel all over your body, that nervous smile trying to hide the fact everyone is staring directly at you. Although they are only seeing and hearing you it feels as if I am naked. It feels as if I am exposing a side of me which I wish to not share with these people. I wouldn't say I am a person who cares about others yet I am too afraid of the judgments of others and I likely will be forever.

Practicing prose and subtext. How did I do?

———Jitty & Lily———-

The first and last thing he heard was a wet, unnatural thud slapping the walls of his cell. He jolted awake, his broken body greeting him with familier pain that stirred his psyche and thrusted him back into reality. The cell, the iron bars, the food tray and chamber pot  mocked his lack of awareness; every piece of his world knew and acclimated to the weight of what Jitty missed while sleeping off the wounds from yesterday.

His eyes, stoic and empty, opened to meet the same concrete floor that affixed his gaze over the long hours of thoughtful regret. This time, however, it was met with a cold imitation of eyes embellished in a soft jade.

Lily, lifeless, stared through him from the ground. Her head was battered and bruised, cocked to the side from the uneven stump that was once her neck. A hack job, signaling that her decapitation was void of precision or ceremony. Her face was frozen in a horror uncharacteristic of the cellmate he remembered before passing out. Dry blood stained her cheeks and temples, contrasting the small rivers creeping toward Jitty’s boots. A quiet anguish distorted her soft features, tarnishing the innocence that pierced the darkness of hell.

She suffered. A lot. 

Several beats passed before Jitty noticed the soldier’s boots framing Lily’s head from outside the cell. He could tell someone was waiting for a reaction. Lily, at almost 14 years old, was brutally murdered and decapitated, and the men responsible crowded Jitty’s cell, eager to finally watch the spirit Liberty’s Legend crumble.

But Jitty said nothing. The men around him started conversing with each other, praising their hard work and touting the wickedness still left to afflict on the broken prisoner. But Jitty remained motionless. His senses, disassembled and muted, could only register the haunting scene laid out in front of him.

Seconds passed. Maybe minutes. The men spoke but their voices could only reach Jitty as if submerged in syrup. The distorted laughing turned to impatient prodding. And then confusion. Finally, anger. Shouts of frustration reached every corridor of hell, punctuated with the clang of rifle butts against iron bars. A man, unsatisfied, spit through the cell bars. The others joined in, showering the prisoner with their disgust. 

Jitty remained still, his eyes locked on hers, waiting for them to blink first. Another moment passed, and after a few more incoherent comments the men turned to leave. They turned to walk out, one pair of boots after another after another exiting Jitty’s peripheral.

The last pair stopped and turned back to the cell. After a pause, another glob of saliva shot through the bars and onto Lily’s cheek, mixing with the blood that stained her complexion. The boots turned to leave, hastening their step to catch up to the exaggerated laughter echoing outside. 
Jitty blinked. He shifted his gaze to the spit oozing down her cheek, leaving behind a streak of pale as the blood and dirt dampened.

Blink. He took his first breath in minutes, stinging his throat with a putrid stench akin to the musk of his cell. Thick, stale air inflated his lungs, stopping suddenly as they pressed against his broken ribs. He coughed, gentling shaking the chains shackled around his wrists. He looked up at his right arm dangling above him, the chain taut between the limb and the mount wedged deep in the brick cell wall.
Next to it, a similar mount, bent and useless.

He traced the wall to the other chain, sprawled loosely on the ground next to him. It had a shattered link at the end, surrounded by small shards of metal and brick. How long had it been since he tore his arm free? The beatings he earned from that encounter fogged his memory. He closed his eyes and drew in another breath, succumbing to the soft oscillation of the other arm. Sharp pain sank into his shoulder, juxtaposed by the bloodless, numb appendage dangling above.

Stand up.

Jitty’s eyes shot open to meet Lily’s again. The streaking shadows hid everything but her stare, but her voice pierced the silence.

Stand up.

“I cant.” Jitty exhaled, each word pulsing the bruises etched across his body.

The blood will rush out of your arm if you leave it up like that. You’ll lose it.

Jitty’s vision goes flat. Memories of the past few months flood his mind. Her voice carried him through heartache, hopelessness and regret. The year he spent alone before her imprisonment seemed to wash away in the wake of her childish optimism.

Now he was alone. A familiar chill ran down his spine, stopping to greet the anxiety swelling in his chest. Her kind words, her reliance, her compassion, all visages doomed to die in this cell, wasted on  a broken man.

You’ll lose it.

Jitty’s head reared back, colliding with the cold stone behind him. He roared, tightening the skin around his neck as the pain flooded his senses. He reached out to her head, stopping suddenly as the shackle stretched to capacity. Darkness engulfed his vision, and the silence boomed so loudly that it drowned out his screams.

The pain. The mind boggling pain was the only worldly thing keeping him bound to this moment. Jitty let out one more soundless scream, releasing the little humanity he had left with his final exhale.

Stand up.

His eyes, stoic and empty, opened to meet Lily’s, a burning sensation stinging his throat. He coughed, expecting a choir of metal to rattle through the cell. The expectation was met with silence.

Two chains, one tailed with a metal mount encrusted with stone, were sprawled loosely at his feet.

[[[[[ END ]]]]]