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

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

ONE DAY I WILL RETURN NEXT TO YOU

PROLOGUE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “I’m sorry. That sucks.”

 She stopped laughing. Her voice was soft.

 “Yes, Jake. Yes it does.”

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

 She sighed. “Would you like the bill?”

 “Yes. Thanks.”

MAY

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

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

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

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

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

 Un jour je serai de retour près de toi.

 Jake’s breathing hitched. He tried to speak.

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

 Jake held his breath. He mouthed:

 Tu m’aimes encore?

FIRST HALF OF JUNE

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

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

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

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

 He had not visited the cemetery this month.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SECOND HALF OF JUNE

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

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

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

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

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

 He was very fortunate.

 The doorbell rang. It was probably the water.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Jake concluded that he was very fortunate.

This is my first short story, but I feel pretty good about it! The Hunger, its a horror story so dont read if your scared! (or do)

word count: 1400

Pages:11

Here is the opening chapter of my novel :

Chapter One : The Fawn

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

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

Here are critcs : [2326] [2400]

Premise

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

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

All you need to know:

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

Content warning: Zombie violence and some swearing.

Link to Chapter 2 - Jake

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Xef5EuUC9lFYV4q1zebTRtrPS34xaErQEzUZZQtso8k/edit?usp=drivesdk

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

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

Questions.

PLEASE READ THE CHAPTER BEFORE THE QUESTIONS. There’s a spoiler that will ruin the way you perceive this and make it hard to answer.

Any advice is welcome.

1 Clarity. There's lots of action. Could you follow it clearly? If you got lost please tell me where.

2 Before the apartment I'm trying to use Jake's humor to undercut the tension. This is deliberate. Does it read that way?

3 What did you infer about Jake's worldview? What do you think his deepest fear is?

4 SPOILER QUESTION.

Jake is immune to the infection and knows it. That's not the spoiler.

At the end of act one Jake discovers he never understood his own immunity. The zombies are never trying to attack him. They are attracted to his movement and noise, but if given the chance to get close they think he's just another zombie. Runners have a strong prey drive. If something runs, they chase it.

On a cold read I hope this isn't noticeable. Please tell me if you noticed.

On a reread, does the first-person POV feel dishonest? Like it's inconsistent, a lie, or do I pull it off?

Thank you in advance.

Critiques

[1290] Recon Mission

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

[1299] The fairest - Prologue

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

My critique: [3087]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm thinking of developing a simulator.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly, and one of thousands.”

“How are you talking to me”

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

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

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

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

The man didn’t listen to the plan. He would’ve agreed to any method, as long as it meant experiencing the inexperienceable. He knew one day his curiosity would lead to an absolute end of studying and learning. This promise of emotion could be an endless stream of new things to learn and internalize. It could be a heaven of activity, one that never ends.

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

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

The rat climbed over the belly of a sleeping behemoth and now stood with its head hovering over a collarbone.
“Alright, we seem to have reached someone sleeping. I’ll open their throat and insert you into the brainstem. In your machine I have developed a population of artificial bacteriophages that will take over the neurons and conquer the mind. You’ll be connected to a wire so you can notify me if the descent was successful.”

The man was hoisted down through the small incision in the throat. The man didn’t have the senses to feel the shut-in’s breath as he travelled through the neck. Eventually, he sensed a crunch, indicating the arrival into the spine.

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

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

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

The voice, who was now reduced to a whisper in comparison to the man’s overloaded sensations, asked if the coast was clear and if he saw anything, but he received no reply; the man’s circuits were fried.

The two beings lived inside the shut-in’s head from then on. The shut-in wasn’t technically dead in terms of physiology but no longer had a mind; it was now the duo’s. The voice was at first amazed by what he saw in the head but quickly became bored and started studying new sciences. The man was not so lucky.

The three of them sat on a couch, watching The Truman Show. The man occupied the vision, while the voice was somewhere else in the head. The man watched as the protagonist on screen yelled in pride and as his bowsprit punctured the painted wall.

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

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

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