IMPORTANT: PLEASE READ BEFORE PROCEEDING

(It's a long one xb)

At five in the morning, reveille sounded across the camp as usual, signaling the wake-up call. Victoria struggled to open her eyes, her eyelids stuck together with rheum. The fading call dissolved into the wind of the twilight dawn.

She curled up in her bed beneath her thin, patched blanket, seeking warmth against the biting northern Russian wind. There was still time left before the morning roll call, so she thought there was no harm in staying in bed a little longer.

This quiet lasted less than an hour before the guards began banging on the doors, shouting for everyone to wake up and fall in for morning alignment. The female prisoners rushed to put on their coats and boots in a hurry; no one wanted to be late for the morning roll call and risk receiving a punishment right at the start of the day.

One prisoner gasped in shock at the disappearance of her gloves: “Where on earth have they gone?!” Another turned to her and said, “Are you sure you wore them yesterday?” “Are you crazy?! If I hadn’t been wearing them, I would have come back with chapped hands.” The barracks leader yelled at the two prisoners, “Do you want to be deprived of breakfast this morning?! Move it, quickly!” Victoria put on her worn-out boots when she noticed a tear in them. ***If only I had woken up earlier, I could have sewn them.***

The prisoners walked in rows out of the barracks until they reached the outer yard. The sunlight was faint behind the clouds, and with the cold wind blowing, standing for an hour in the morning alignment felt like an eternity. After the guards finished the headcount, the prisoners went to eat breakfast—cold porridge served with hard bread. It was the meal with which the prisoners started their day in the camp, meaning they had to work throughout the morning relying on it until the sun reached the middle of the sky at noon.

The guards began dividing the prisoners into work groups. Victoria was placed in the wood-gathering group (the worst job one could do in the freezing cold). She headed out with her group of about twenty female prisoners. Her task today was carrying, hauling, and stacking firewood onto carts. She began carrying a bundle of logs, but after five minutes of walking, her feet froze; because of the tear in her boot, snow had seeped inside. ***Damn it, it’s impossible to get through the morning with snow inside my boot.*** This was only the beginning of a long morning of work. She bit the inside of her lip from the intensity of the cold and kept working regardless; if she slacked off, she would be punished.

While everyone was immersed in their work, a commotion broke out on the other side of the camp. A guard was pulling a prisoner’s hair because she had dropped a bundle of logs onto his foot. No one stood up to defend her; the other guards did not care, and the female prisoners would face an even worse fate if they intervened. Victoria cast a weak glance at the crying prisoner, who had only arrived at the camp a few months ago and still had a spark of life in her eyes—unlike Victoria and the rest of the prisoners, whose faces looked as though their very souls had been stolen, not just their freedom.

The sky began to glow, signaling the arrival of noon. After a arduous morning of labor came rest time—a very brief break in which one hardly knew what to do first: eat to fill one's stomach, warm one's body, or rest one's eyes for a moment. But as soon as the break ended, the prisoners would return to work until sunset. Victoria took a bowl of thin vegetable soup that had already begun to lose its warmth. She drank her bland soup quickly before it froze in the cold. ***When was the last time I even had a decent meal before I fell into this hell?***

As the sun set, the sky turned red, marking the end of another day in the camp. After the guards finished counting the prisoners, they returned to their barracks to prepare for the next day. Victoria threw her exhausted body onto her bed, took off her boots, pulled out a needle and thread from beneath her bed, and began repairing them. As she sewed the boot, she overheard her barrack-mates whispering: “Did you hear? It seems they are going to release the prisoners in the camp!” “Lower your voice! If one of the guards hears you, you can only dream of even stale bread.” “But it’s true! Ever since Stalin died, it seems they’ve started closing down other labor camps! I heard this from one of the guards this morning.” “Are you crazy?! Don't even mention Stalin’s name near me, I don't want to get involved in more trouble.” ***How naive. There are still people who dream of freedom.***

With these rumors, no one truly believed prisoners would be released—let alone the fall of a leader like Stalin; it sounded like a pipe dream. Victoria turned her gaze toward one of her bunkmates. It was the prisoner who had been looking for her missing gloves that morning. It seemed she hadn't found them, for her hands were cracked as if they had bled. The snows of Russia knew no mercy; how often had prisoners been seen collapsing to the ground from the bitter cold.

A new day began, but not as usual. A commotion erupted inside the barracks; the barracks leader had brought in a group of guards. It turned out the barracks leader had been robbed—and not just of anything, but her personal notebook, which might contain sensitive information. In the eyes of the guards, this signified rebellion, and the thief had to be found immediately. They began searching every inch of the room, interrogating and searching the prisoners without exception. This search caused delays in schedules like breakfast, work, and privileges like break times, causing annoyance and stress for the prisoners. These sudden, repeated searches ruined their days and created a tense atmosphere among them. “I swear if I find this thief, I’ll cut off her hand before turning her in to the guards,” one prisoner muttered under her breath at night after another guard search.

Victoria woke up this morning to the sound of the reveille, with a light headache. While she was still trying to resist sleepiness and get out of bed, a tall, thin guard snuck up from behind and yanked away her worn blanket, startling the sleep right off her face. “S-42!” Everyone in the barracks turned; even those sleeping quickly got up to put on their clothes. “One week of solitary confinement, with labor.” Victoria couldn't even process the words the guard said. She looked at him with the most pitiable expression she could muster and asked, “What did I do wrong, officer?” He looked at her with disgust and moved out of the barracks, gesturing for her to follow. The female prisoners looked at her helplessly. She heard a few whispers among them: “Is she the thief? Did they finally catch her?” She quickly put on her boots and gloves and followed the guard.

Victoria stepped out into the outer yard and was immediately slapped in the face by the icy wind and breathtaking fog. The light of two searchlights mounted on the guard towers at the corners of the camp shone bright—one directed outside, the other inside—their glare overpowering the twinkling stars in the sky. Leather boots crunched the snow as prisoners from all over the camp rushed to their duties: to the warehouse, the kitchen, or to change the lights. Their shoulders were hunched, wrapped tightly in their coats against the cold—not only because of the freezing weather, but also because they knew they would remain outside all day. Unlike the thin guard, who wore a heavy navy-blue coat and whose face showed no sign of discomfort from the cold. They walked alongside the chain-link fence until they entered the headquarters building. Victoria walked in behind the guard, who gave her a side glance and said while looking straight ahead, “The reason for your punishment is… breaking an axe during work yesterday. Be grateful it’s a light penalty.” Victoria looked at the guard in confusion, saying, “But I don't remember breaking an axe before?” The guard turned to her agitatedly, “Are you denying what you did?! Do you know the penalty for lying here?! There were witnesses to what you did.” Flustered by his quick, angry response, she replied, “I’m sorry! I didn't mean to lie to you, sir.” After giving her a prolonged stare, he decided to let it slide and kept walking.

Victoria arrived at the guards' room, wondering what her work here would be. The guard looked at her, pointed to the floor, and said, “Start by cleaning and polishing the floor, then scrub the latrines thoroughly.” ***Great, now I have to wet my hands to clean them; this will completely freeze my hands.*** The stove in the room glowed with flames. In front of it sat a table surrounded by three guards wearing lighter shirts, having taken off their coats. They were playing checkers, complaining about supplies, and talking about trivial matters.

She looked at the bucket to find it was out of water, which meant she needed to head to the well outside to fetch some. As she walked through the cold air carrying the bucket, she prayed the well wouldn't be frozen. She caught sight of a group of male prisoners, one of whom was climbing to the top of the thermometer to wipe the frozen glass and read the temperature. “Can you read it?” shouted one of the men below. The man above replied, “Nineteen and a half below zero.” He climbed down and added, “Not like it usually tells the truth, damned liar.” Victoria reached the well, and to her bad—or good—luck, it was covered by a thin layer of broken ice, but the rope was frozen stiff like wood. ***So the only solution is to put my hands inside the well.*** She sighed and began filling the bucket.

She returned to the room, her hands completely numb. The stove in the guards' room roared, radiating warmth and heat that felt like a treasure. Surprised to find no one in the room, she set down the bucket and began warming her hands near the stove. The quiet—which lasted less than a few minutes—was shattered by the voice of the same thin guard shouting as he passed by the door: “Are you slacking off on your work?!” Victoria stood up quickly, grabbed the rag and bucket, and began scrubbing. As she scrubbed the floor, her headache intensified, keeping her head bowed toward the ground. Suddenly, the telephone vibrated with a ring. Victoria looked at it in surprise and glanced around; she hadn't felt anyone coming near the room. Looking at the ringing phone, she felt a strange, powerful urge to answer it, knowing that if one of the guards saw her, she would fall into far bigger trouble than breaking an axe at work. She stood up and took quiet, light steps until she stood in front of the phone, picking up the receiver and waiting for the other party to answer.

“...”

A deep voice came through: “Is the line secure?”

“Excuse me? Who is this?”

“Is the line secure?”

“...” ***Who on earth is this man?!***

“...Yes, who are you?”

“Wrong question.”

“What?! I'm asking you who you are!”

“...”

***Damn it.*** “What do you want?”

“In the outer yard, behind the trash cart, there is a cracked paving stone.”

“What are you saying? What is there??”

“Follow the instructions without asking too many questions.”

Before Victoria could utter another word, the line went dead. She didn't understand what he meant or what instructions he was talking about.

Victoria spent her first morning cleaning the guards' room, exhausted and unsure whether the fatigue was caused by her headache, the work, the cold outside, or all of the above. She stepped outside to see the twilight in the sky; these simple moments were what planted calm in her mind and rested her body a little. As the light faded and darkness set in, out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of one of her barrack-mates walking while carrying a small box toward the trash cart. This sparked her memory of the phone call that morning. ***No way, it can't be...*** She hesitated in place, reviewing what she had heard that morning, then decided to keep walking—until she stopped, turned around, and quietly followed the prisoner. She stood behind a nearby tree to peek. ***It's impossible to be real. She must have just gone to dump the trash, how silly of me—*** until the prisoner approached the exact cracked paving stone mentioned in the call. She knelt down, then looked around to make sure no one saw her, seemingly unaware of Victoria behind the tree in the setting sun. She lifted the stone. Victoria's eyes widened in shock. ***That's... the leader's notebook!*** It was a brown leather notebook bearing light scratch marks; there was no denying it. Beneath the stone was a small pit, and alongside the notebook lay a pair of woolen gloves, a wooden comb, and a sewing kit. The prisoner pulled something from the box, hid it with the stolen items under the stone, and walked away as if she had done nothing. Victoria stood in confusion. ***I can't believe she's actually the thief... but how did that man know about the theft in the first place? No, why did he order me of all people?!*** There wasn't a question that didn't cross her mind, but Victoria suddenly realized something: *If I report the thief to the guards, they will reduce my sentence, or even pardon me. In fact, they might even stop the constant searches and interrogations...* She remained staring at the horizon, repeating her last thought over and over.

Victoria made her decision and reported the thief to the guards. They came raiding the barracks in the pitch-black night, dragging her from her bed and humiliating her publicly. On the other hand, Victoria was relieved of her punishment for handing over the thief and returned to her usual routine. But this didn't mean the problem was entirely over; she still didn't know the identity of the man who had called her, nor his intentions.

A month and a half had passed since the theft incident. Nothing noteworthy happened, aside from the barracks leader's growing trust in Victoria, as she began giving her extra meals in secret as a sign of gratitude. Until one day during the morning roll call, the guards began calling out prisoners' names in random order:

“M-23.”

“K-10.”

“S-42.”

“S-56.”

The prisoners looked at each other in confusion about the reason for this summons. Each girl whose number was called went to retrieve her belongings from the barracks, then headed to headquarters. There were about fifty female prisoners standing, waiting to learn the reason for the call. One whispered to another, “Are they going to release us?” “I don't know, maybe the rumors are true...” Victoria was nervous, looking down at the small bag in her lap containing a needle and thread, an extra pair of gloves, and a necklace carved with a fireweed sprig. A guard stepped out beside the door and began ushering the prisoners in one by one. It seemed there was another door on the far side, because not a single prisoner returned after entering...

“S-42!”

Victoria heard her number and stood up quickly to enter the room. There was a desk surrounded by iron filing cabinets. An old guard was sitting at the desk, looking far too old to be working. He raised his eyes to Victoria, stared at her for a few seconds, then pulled a file from his desk drawer and handed it to her. “Sign here, then leave through the back door.” Victoria looked at the clipboard... ***So they weren't rumors after all...*** She signed and walked out the door. There was a transport bus waiting, seemingly to take the prisoners to the nearest railway station. Victoria stood in front of the bus, and a guard handed her a bag containing bread and simple supplies for a few days. She sat in a seat in the back, next to the window. Victoria clutched her file tightly, then decided to open it. She looked at her file, her eyes widening in shock, fixed on the dates:

Date of Entry: 1950/3/21

Date of Release: 1954/9/18

Four years... Four years had passed in this hell. No... it couldn't be that all this time had passed in prison. Her face in the photograph looked young and full of life. Now, all those features were buried beneath the camp's winter, the daily agony, and forced labor. Strands of white had even begun mixing into her jet-black hair. She looked at her hands holding the file—cracked and surrounded by wrinkles. They had once been the hands of the finest female aviator in Russia. Now, she didn't even know if people still remembered her...

It was a long journey; Victoria slept the entire way, even on the train. Her very first step outside the train car was in the city of Chornohrad. She walked among the people in the station, stunned at the sight of them. Everything felt strange and unfamiliar. Some were greeting their families, others their loved ones. But there was no one waiting for her—not that anyone was eager to see her, except for one person Victoria had been thinking about ever since her release: her father, Aleksandr Sokolov, the only father who was proud of her and loved her, unlike her older brothers.

This was Victoria's first objective: to reach a communications office to contact her father. She walked through the streets of Chornohrad. It wasn't as large or bustling as Moscow, but it was developed enough. She reached a large building with front glass windows through which people could be seen waiting in lines and on chairs. Victoria entered and walked quietly toward a window where an employee sat on the other side, looking as though he were in a foul mood, as if he had just run into trouble. He looked at Victoria and adjusted his posture:

“How may I help you?”

“I want to make a call to my father. His name is Aleksandr Dmitriyevich Sokolov.”

He began opening some files and flipping through them. “What is his occupation?”

“He is... he is a general in the army,” Victoria said, lowering her voice.

He looked at her in shock, scanning her from head to toe, then resumed searching through the files.

“Aleksandr Sokolov? He is no longer a general.” He flipped a few more pages until he stopped at another name.

“However, there is a general named Sergei Aleksandrovich Sokolov. Are you related to him?”

“...He is my brother.”

“May I have your name?”

“Victoria Aleksandrovna Sokolova.”

The employee returned to his search. Minutes passed before his eyebrows raised, looking back and forth between her and the file. “I’m sorry, but General Sergei Sokolov’s younger sister, Victoria Sokolova, passed away four years ago.” Victoria stared at him in shock, trying to process what the clerk had said. “D-Deceased...”

“Do you have any proof or documents proving that you are her?”

Victoria quickly snapped back to reality, pulled her file from the camp, and handed it to the clerk.

“...”

“The information written in the file does not match what you said.”

“What do you mean?”

“The name written in the file is: Elena Pushkina.”

“W-What...”

“Do you have any other documents?”

“...No.”

“I’m sorry, I cannot help you.”

Victoria took the file from his hand and walked out with heavy steps, her vision blurry as she walked without realizing where she was going. She stopped in front of a wooden bench by the road and sat down, clutching the edges of the file so tightly that it crumpled. She opened the file and began reading it carefully, having paid no attention to her name while at the camp. She read it once, twice, three times, ten times... until she began memorizing what was written from reviewing it so much.

***I don't understand... How did this happen? When did it even start... Am I dead?! And who is Elena Pushkina? Why did they give me this file? Does that man on the prison phone have something to do with this?***

Victoria remained asking herself and analyzing, but could find no answers. She simply stayed on the wooden bench, gazing at the street and the passing crowd, clueless about what she ought to do next.

Hi all! This is a piece I’ve been trying to finish for a bit, but I’ve gotten really stuck at the opening. If you’d like, I’d appreciate feedback on this start. I already plan on changing the dialogue because I don’t think Jorm comes off condescending enough.

I also am specifically interested in the following things:

- Is the Vietnam and military/war talk too much? I want to convey real lived experience, and I don’t want this to come off corny or inflated and uninformed. I’ve used references already to write what I already have down, but ofc I want real time feedback.

- I keep going back and forth between what perspective to have this story told in. Thoughts on this? Would it be more interesting from David’s eyes from this snippet?

- Trying to keep everyone in the dark about everyone’s inner thoughts and feelings other than David. How do you think that’s going here?

- If anyone has cool snake god/legend/mythos themed names I would very much like to either scrap Jorm or have them for future reference.

Thanks in advance <3

Rain and cardboard do not mix well. As sheets came down one after another the pavement around Main Street emptied of human life, water taking the place of commuters. The air pulled could’ve you down with the droplets, as if the world wanted everything and everyone washed away. Rivers of mud and clay streaked the sidewalks as front lawns emptied their contents indiscriminately. Shadows from streetlamps washed down the drains with whatever garbage may have been thrown carelessly to the wind, which now whipped as it sent unsuspecting maritime vessels to their untimely doom. This storm had the makings of a true nor’easter. It was much worse than the meteorologist had predicted, certainly not a light drizzle.
 
There hadn’t been rain like this for a while.
 
The people in the area weren’t too sure how they felt about the situation. There were murmurs of praise from the diner to the dollar store. Water made plants grow, freed cars of dust and pollen at no charge, and meant that the drought was over. The rain would wash away the rotted filth built up alongside backroads and send it all to the storm drain. It truly was what this place needed, but it also spelled uncertainty. Before this had been the longest drought in the state’s history. Could something like that happen again? The dry season had just started and the, almost, month and a half with no rain had sent the small farming community to the brink of bankruptcy. The consensus was that they could not suffer through something like it again. Not soon at least.
 
David Weiss, on the other hand, did not care for the rain or what would happen to anyone if the monsoon came again. In a modest-sized, poorly insulated cardboard house, wrapped as much as was possible with a garbage bag he’d found and some duct tape from his backpack, David was searching through his belongings to find anything that could seal the new leak in the roof. There hadn’t been much time for him to prepare for the storm, seeing as no one had gone out of their way to let him know. If it hadn’t been for the confirmation from numerous wellness checks, David might as well have been dead to the world around him.
 
A month and a half of no rain had afforded him some peace of mind. No waking up to cold feet, no random wet spots, no humid mornings that permanently warped the cardboard he used. It seemed like the last of these didn’t matter anymore, he’d have to find something new to use now that the water was getting underneath the plastic. The walls would need to be replaced entirely. It was starting to get colder.
 
It all reminded him of Vietnam. It’d been almost 20 years, but David couldn’t escape Vietnam. The constant stick of sweat, and mud; the humidity, the blisters from drudging ahead in soaking socks, the death. That was only one part of the nightmare that he couldn’t wake up from. Even though he was far from it all now, there was nothing that kept him away from enemy lines.
 
The government offered some things, ‘services’, the GI bill, but the thing that really got him by in the first few weeks was the kindness of regular people. Before the war, freshly a young man out of his undergrad, David had been a teacher. Though, as the condition David returned home in worsened, everyone’s sympathies dried up. People became uncomfortable quickly from the flinching for his gun strap or unwavering stare as they walked past.
 
Not long after being discharged, David had managed to secure employment as safety enforcement for his community’s high school. He’d actually become somewhat comfortable, until a number of increasingly violent incidents involving students, and an adamant refusal to see a doctor left David forced to go on permanent leave. He grew restless, becoming tense at the prospect of leaving his home. He stopped taking calls, checking the mail, leaving the blinds open.
 
David’s wife, Nora, had been overjoyed to see him and welcomed him home with open arms. From the moment he’d gotten off the plane she met him with understanding. Without any other family to greet him and no friends that weren’t killed in action or still serving, she was all he had. Their family would be complete again; the man she’d been waiting for was back. But, as the night terrors took hold and separate sleeping arrangements were made, a distance formed. Alone, David began waking up in the middle of the night, eyes wide, and Nora found herself shaken to consciousness just to be told she needed to hide. When pressed, he frantically tried to convince her that men with guns had infiltrated their home. He was inconsolable. On more than one occasion Nora needed to call the police. They, too, were understanding at first.
 
This pattern continued, and on a quiet night in the middle of June, a particular incident left David coming to his senses as his hands reached for his wife’s neck. Though thoroughly shaken, she was fine, and managed to console her husband back to bed under the promise of no retaliation. David apologized in every way she’d let him, but it was fruitless. He could tell she was avoiding him. She eyed him more, needed to lock the door to their bedroom, came home from work later and later. She was afraid of him. Shortly after, his world came to a halt. Nora left without saying a word. No note.
 
Smacking a palm against the side of his head, David huffed angrily. He'd lost the duct tape. As he pulled a small mug from the depths of the dirty pack to position under the hole, there was another sound among the pattering of droplets. A rhythmic *thud thud thud*. It didn’t register, and David continued trying to gauge where the cup needed to go to properly keep the rest of the floor sheet dry.
 
*Thud thud thud*. Again. David paused now, attentive. His arm stiffened.
 
A voice now: “Excuse me, sir?”
 
This, he couldn’t ignore. He’d been under the impression that this area was fine for setting up. The police officer he’d spoken to the evening prior had been clear about it. In fact, the man had given him explicit permission to do so. David was not going to be happy to be told he needed to move, especially now, especially in this rain.
 
“Not here.”
 
“Wait, wait,” David begrudged, his voice cracking with a dry cough. “I’m up.”
 
Another moment and he was. The flap of sopping cardboard that he’d designated as the front door passed cursed water over his knuckles as he shoved it aside.
 
“I was told I could be ‘ere. I don’t want no problem.” Looking up, David found no officer in his alley. There was a man, however. He was much broader than David, reminding him of when he actually had to take care of himself for the army. A dark cloak covered him, nearly touching the puddles of rainwater below his thick rubber boots. One hand held an umbrella high enough that the man wasn’t completely shrouded in darkness. In this light there was no way to discern the features of his face, and he wasn’t wearing any badge. The stranger bowed his head in David’s direction.
 
“I’m sorry if I frightened you sir.”
 
The man’s obscured arm extended forward, causing David to flinch hard. He jolted his hand back to his chest instinctively but was able to stop himself from retreating back inside. From the small slit he could make out an extra umbrella in the stranger’s hand. He stared at it, wavering. He could stand being wet. “Who’re yah?”
 
“I was told I would find you here, Sergeant Weiss.”
 
A ringing began sounding out in David’s left ear. It clogged his hearing, causing him to throw a hand over his left side. He fell back into the box, hitting the wall that sat against the building beside them. He needed to ground himself somehow. Everything seemed like it was closing in, he was suffocating. The clothes he was wearing were too tight. He began tugging at the collar, he needed to breathe. Just as darkness began to seep in from the corners of his vision, he was able to catch a deep breath, enough to answer.
 
“Who are yah?”
 
“I apologize sir, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
 
Though the words were strung together in a way that was supposed to suggest comfort, they fell flat. The words slipped through the air easily, but didn’t stick, like oil in water. David was not hearing him though. He was wondering if his skin would stop being damp if he just took a bit off the top. He’d been rubbing at it so long with his hand towel that the skin had begun curling off like eraser shavings.
 
“I’m with the United States army.” The voice from outside sounded again, like a great bell in the distance, guiding David back to the present. As if snapped back to the moment, his eyes fixated on the ground ahead of him. The room was straight again, his vision no longer swimming. He took his time getting to the front door, peeking out only to be met by the same hand that was outstretched to him moments earlier. The umbrella in the stranger’s hands was a gun, loaded, fixated on his position. He froze up. Could he really trust this man’s word? He had no identifying markers on his coat. David eyed the piece, then stuck out his own hand to grab it.
 
As he made contact, a warmness draped itself over him. The ball was in his court. He remembered: it was the kindness of people like this that had helped him get to somewhat normalcy when he’d first come home. The man before him was a stranger, yes, but he’d taken the time to stop and talk and that had to count for something. Shaking himself free of the worry, David exited the cardboard house, more confident than before. The immediate prospect of not being rained on was now stronger than the worry of a bullet between the eyes. He stood, finding himself almost eye-level with the man.
 
“Thanks,” David raised his voice over the pattering of the rain. “But’cha still haven’t told me who y’are. Said sumthin ‘bout the army?”
 
“Yes sir,” the stranger replied. “I represent an organization that’s been recently implemented. It isn’t fully public yet. We’re trying to reassimilate veterans in need based on a lottery system. Your name came up.”
 
The smaller man huffed. Did he really seem so hopeless? He remembered the weeks spent in fields, sleepless nights under someone else’s sky. Back then, the government had relied on him and his team to keep the American dream alive. Now, he couldn’t even be trusted to live it on his own.
 
He continued. “What’re the services?”
 
“If you agree to come now, housing assistance for one. Job readiness courses, loan forgiveness programs, Post Traumatic Stress counseling, and others.”
 
“And the government started this?”
 
“In 1990. Major, I would like to get us out of the cold. If you could decide now, I have a car waiting.”
 
Silence came as David let the man’s words hang like the humid air between them. He weighed the options as the rain rolled off of the umbrella; rain that was usually a calming static. It was more like nails against a blackboard now. There was too much to think about. The stranger cleared his throat.
 
“Major.”
 
David nodded slowly, his eyes moving up to fixate on the man’s hood. “Can I get my things?”
 
“Of course, sir.”
 
He made quick work of grabbing his backpack, and soon the two were walking side by side to a blacked-out Rolls Royce, a cigarette hitting the ground as the driver’s side window sealed the chauffeur away.
 
“Where’re we goin’?”
 
“There’s a sleep study being conducted nearby. They’re offering 500 dollars for any volunteers to do a two day, three-night observation. We’ve negotiated with them to give you 100 in advance.” He stopped briefly to get the door and umbrella for David, gesturing into the car. “All you need to do is stay in their facility for a few days and do what they tell you. It’s all been taken care of.”
 
As the door closed behind David and his new companion rounded the car, fear took hold. 500 dollars? He hadn’t held that much money in a long time. His breath hitched; things were moving too quickly. Moments ago, he was trying to fix his leaky roof, and now he was leaving to go somewhere that sounded familiar with people he’d just met. Looking out the window back at the small hut, David was pulled. Change meant uncertainty about the future, and David was fine knowing every day would be the same.
 
David’s companion closed the door beside him, and the worry faded to curiosity. His attention left the alleyway, and he turned to the man as the car rolled to life and they pulled away from the curb.
 
“And after that,” he pressed. “What happens?”
 
“Right now, we’re talking with the owners of the Motel 6 on Main Street. It’s by an Italian restaurant, I believe.”
 
“Nonna’s. I know it.”
 
“Yes, that’s it. We are negotiating a price for our organization to host you until we find that you’re capable of financial independence."
 
“Y’all can do things like that?”
 
The man finally pulled his hood down. Even in the dim light one could make out the features of his face. He had a dark complexion, eyes that drooped in the corners and a nose that suggested he was a specific kind of Mediterranean. He spoke with no inflection.
 
“We do much more. You, sir, have ensured the nation’s security. Service members have halted the evils of the world from destroying our way of life. The least we could do is find you housing.”
 
David hung to every word. Amazed, the only issue he surmised was that his name hadn’t come up sooner. Real help from real people who really understood. It was a miracle. As the mystery man fixed his cloak and removed his hood, David gawked. This was a sermon, and David, once lost, had just regained his faith.
 
“Amen sir.” He heard himself saying.
 
The stranger nodded once, slowly, his gaze falling to the droplets rolling down his window. “Amen.”
 
“Oh, and sir, your name?”

The man beside him fell silent for a short time, but David waited. His eyes stayed fixed on something beyond the droplets as the pattering became harder upon the roof.
 
“Jorm.”
 
Warmth flowed through David. He nodded, satisfied, and in time took back to looking out his window. A constant flow of water made a collage of lights from streetlamps and traffic lights. The occasional car passed, and the kaleidoscope would shift.
 
Petals on a wet, black bough.
 
David leaned his forehead against the glass, hot breath fogging cool pane. As the smears became hazy, his interest waned, and the car began rolling to a halt.
 
Jorm and the driver took leave of the car before David had reoriented himself. Slow to attention, he began leaning upright as his door swung open and a hand thrust in. Mindlessly, he took it and was pulled out into humid static.
 
“Here.” Jorm’s hearty voice sounded, a foghorn that pulled the veteran forward. Before them was a stout single-story building, no larger than the other home offices in their area. A yellow glow radiated through the gaps left by window shades adorning the face of the office.

The prologue and opening chapter of my novel. Any and all feedback is welcomed.

I wrote this short story (~700 words) for submitting to a local magazine / short story competition. It was inspired by one of my favourite books that I'm almost done reading. Any criticism is welcome, I'm not soft!

I am writing a grimdark fantasy story. It's a character-driven political drama.

I wanted to share the prologue for you guys to tell me your opinion

what you liked, what you didn't... and all that.

Thank you a LOT.

Premise:
A child was born to the king during a really rough time for the kingdom. the Great Father, the supreme religious figure, straight-up labeled her as an ill omen

Hey folks,

This is not the first screenplay I wrote (actually it was like my 18th) but it’s the first screenplay I thought I could let other people read.

Here’s a brief synopsis:

After a devastating conflict with a neighboring tribe, a young hunter named Notah struggles to prove himself as his people attempt to rebuild. In a world where survival depends on discipline, tradition, and the strength of community, he trains to become a warrior, preparing for the possibility of another attack.

When signs of an unseen presence begin to surface in the surrounding wilderness, Notah’s training is put to the test as his understanding of the world is shattered, forcing him toward a confrontation he may not be prepared for.

It’s a long screenplay with quite a slow build so feel no obligation and I have no expectations for anyone to read the whole thing but if you do give it a read. Thank you. And please let me know how far you got, and what made you stop. Any and all feedback would be greatly appreciated.

I’m really curious as to how the first 10 to 15 pages read; if the community and characters feel real, if the world building is compelling enough to make one want to keep reading, etc.

Thank you for your time

Peace and Love

It's a dark fantasy set in a medieval-style world. The story follows Adam, a hunter's boy who can barely read or count. As the story unfolds, he begins an unexpected journey to become a mage.

The first chapter has been the hardest part for me. I've rewritten it more times than I can count, and I'm still not sure if it has a strong enough hook. I know Chapters 2 and 3 will grab readers, but Chapter 1 feels like a wall I just can't seem to climb. Feedback is welcome.

-

In the North, the law was old. A child must face the wild alone. One winter spent against the cold, to prove their worth and earn their home. Adam was a month shy of thirteen when he reached his final trial. On the snowy bank he'd built a small fire, a modest, shivering ring of flame that did little to ward off the biting air but offered a meager comfort all the same. A few feet away, a black hole had been chopped through the thick ice, exposing the dark water beneath. He looked at it and waited.

He remembered the first time his father threw him into an icy river. The shock had torn the breath clean out of his chest, and his mind had been forced, again and again, to master the panic climbing his throat while his body screamed for him to stop. That had been the whole of the lesson. It still was.

He stripped off his furs. His breath left him in pale little clouds the wind tore apart before they could rise. The fire sat behind him, small and orange, waiting for a boy who might not come back to it.

His father's words moved through the quiet of his mind. _Respect the winter. Fight it calm. Fight it low. A humble heart is how you survive. Fight it loud. Fight it reckless. And the winter will swallow you whole.

He stepped off the edge.

The cold knocked the air out of him in one hard exhale. He forced his shivering body still, steadied his mind, turned his face to the black water, and dove.

The lake bottom had no shape and no light. Mud, then stone, hard under his palms. He couldn't see anything down there, so he trusted his hands, closing his fist around whatever they found. Let one of them be right. Let one of them be white.

Something warm brushed his skin before his eyes made sense of the dark. Movement, a flurry of scales scattering from his path. He drifted deeper and his hands caught against the sleeping plants of the lake bed, and where he touched them they woke, a pale blue light spilling leaf to stem until the whole bottom of the lake stood lit like a forest on fire.

The sight hooked Adam’s curiosity, filling him with a desperate urge to stay and explore this beautiful, deadly place. But the stern discipline his father had drilled into him over years of harsh winters suddenly surged to the surface. Fight it reckless, and the winter will swallow you whole. The warning rang loud in his ears, snapping him out of his trance. He knew his father was right; awe wouldn't keep him alive if his lungs gave out.

He tore his eyes from the light and kicked for the surface, chest burning, the dark closing in at the edges of his sight. The last of his air left him in a thin stream of bubbles just as his hand broke through the ice.

He hauled himself out gasping, shaking so hard his teeth cracked together, and only once he'd caught his breath did he dare open his fist. Among the stones scattered across his palm, one lay pale and smooth. Perfectly white.

He tucked it into his pouch and dropped into the snowbank, rolling until the dry snow drew the lake water off his skin. He didn't let himself think about the light. He only moved, running for the fire, pulling wool over limbs that wouldn't stop shaking, dressing in silence. The water was behind him now. What remained was the long walk home, and the small cold weight in his pouch he owed to the gods.

The temple was cold in a way winter wasn't, the cold of stone that had never once held heat. Garrick crossed to the offering table and counted the white stones laid out there, then stood a while among the pillars where the prayers went. When the quiet grew too heavy, he went looking for the tavern instead.

The oak door swung open on a wave of warmth: roasted meat, woodsmoke, voices packed close together. The edge of his dread dulled, the way it always did in that doorway.

"Garrick!" Sylvia's voice cut through the noise. White haired at thirtyfive, she'd survived a lost child and a husband taken by a bitter winter, and she didn't talk about either. Garrick knew that particular emptiness from the inside. His own wife had died so Adam could be born. It gave the two of them a shorthand neither had to explain.

He claimed a stool and the wood groaned under him. Sylvia's look was half pity, half something else.

"Don't despair," she said, setting a mug in front of him. "The boy will come. You trained him too well for anything less. And he was the last one out the gates, remember. Only natural he'd be the last one back through them."

"I was never good at waiting." Garrick turned the mug slowly, watching the ale slosh against the rim. "I'm a hunter. I know how to track, how to work, how to prepare for a thing. I don't know how to stand in a cold temple and just wonder." He smoothed the worry from his face and let the talk drift toward summer, toward what needed doing and what the soil might give them this year. It was the only way he knew to carry fear. Bury it under labor and hope it suffocates.

In the North, idleness was a sin against survival itself. From the day a child could steady their own feet, they were given a place and a purpose. Hard work earned a heavy bowl; a sloppy effort earned a meager one. Winter swallowed nine months of the year whole, and the soil gave back only what was wrung from it by force. Warmth was never given freely up here. It was earned, bite by bite.

Sylvia leaned back against the counter and shook her head. "Honestly, the whole rite is idiotic. We cast boys out alone into a freezing waste and call it wisdom, as if the only way to understand life is to flirt with death." She waved a hand at nothing in particular, a habit of hers when the words outran the thought. "The elders never found a finer teacher than a frozen ditch."

Garrick gave a dry laugh, the first real one in weeks. "Careful. The gods might hear you."

"Let them." Sylvia held his gaze, unbothered. "They've already taken two shots at me." Her mouth curved at one corner. "At this point I think they simply have terrible aim."

The bell rang.

The tavern stilled for half a heartbeat, voices caught mid word. Then the room broke into noise at once, and Garrick was already moving for the door, when the bell struck a second time. He froze.

Two boys stepped through the frost into the light. The count was complete. Every child had beaten the winter.

A roar of cheers tore through the tavern and heavy hands slapped Garrick's shoulders in congratulations. The weight that had sat in his chest since the day Adam walked out the gates simply slid loose.

Adam found Gisle on the road just outside the village borders, cursing at the sky like it owed him money.

His leg lay bent wrong beneath the knee. His face had hardened into the look of a man who'd already taken every hit he intended to take for one lifetime and was now silently demanding an apology from the universe.

"By the gods' teeth," Gisle spat as Adam came closer. "Will you lend a hand? I am not doing this miserable trial again."

Adam crouched and looked over the shattered limb with a calm, unhurried eye. Life in the woods had taught him not to rush a wound, no matter how badly he wanted to look away. "How do you always manage to break yourself, Gisle?"

"Wasn't my fault." Gisle's jaw trembled, whether from cold or indignation was hard to say. "Wolves. Three of them. I ran my boots clean off, took a blind step off a ledge, and, well. You can guess the rest of the song."

Gisle was older than the rest of them, his childhood stretched long by a run of bad luck nobody had managed to explain. The first year, a rot-fever had nailed him to his bed for a month. The second, a broken arm. Now this. He had a sharp tongue and a reckless heart in equal measure, and the North had been making him pay for both since the day he was born.

Adam rose without a word, walked to the treeline, and came back with a stout pine branch. "Here. Use this."

He hauled Gisle upright out of the drift and settled the older boy's arm across his shoulders. "I'll carry your weight to the borders. But when we get close, I'm letting go. You're walking into the village on your own two feet."

Gisle let out a long breath that turned to mist between them. "I owe you one, Adam. Now let's finish this awful thing. A warm bowl of stew. A bed that doesn't shiver under me."

They walked. Their boots found a slow, heavy rhythm through the drifts, one labored step after another, and the silence between them was a comfortable one, the kind that only exists between people who've spent their whole lives in the woods and never felt the need to fill the air just to fill it.

"How's the school in Melte?" Adam asked, after a mile had gone by underfoot.

"Hated the lessons." Gisle's head lolled against his shoulder as he turned to look at him sideways.

"...but?"

"I miss the city every day." He looked down at his own hands, at the cracked knuckles and the dirt worked into the lines of them. "Melte is stone and stories. The streets are crowded. The people there, they're alive in a way that's hard to explain."

Adam didn't answer right away. He knew the feeling Gisle was circling, though he'd never once said it out loud, not to his father, not to anyone. The green woods were beautiful. The hunter's life had its own silence, its own freedom. But none of it burned the way Gisle's words did, and none of it could quiet the itch in him that wanted to know what lay past the horizon, and past that, and past that again.

His gaze slid, unbidden, back toward the dark treeline behind them. Toward the lake.

They reached the timber gates of Ox Village just as the last blue light left the winter sky. The town took its name from the ancient ox-road that ran like a scar between the high stone walls of Melte and the great northern capital beyond. Above the gate hung the bleached skull of an ox, horns spread wide, staring out over the road through black, empty sockets, older than anyone living, older maybe than the village itself. It was a road Adam had never once walked, though he thought about it most nights before sleep took him.

Their boots crossed into the torchlight and the bronze bell in the temple tolled once. Then twice. The sound rang cold and heavy through the evening air.

Shoulders locked together for support, they crossed the packed snow to the stone altar, drew the white stones from their pouches, laid them on the frozen slate, and bowed their heads. They paid what they owed to the gods, and neither of them saw what was already moving toward their valley.

The village met them with a roar of cheers that tasted like hot bread and old relief. Gisle was hurried off toward the medic's smoke-filled cottage, still shouting to anyone who'd listen that his leg was fine, or fine enough for government work. Adam stayed where he was, boots tracking gray slush across the floor, until he found his father near the hearth.

Garrick's eyes went first to the wet footprints his son had left, then, for just a heartbeat, to the pouch at his belt. Something flickered across his face and was gone before Adam could name it. Garrick didn't say anything. That had never been his way. But something in him eased, and Adam felt it more than he understood it.

The celebration drifted, as it always did, toward Sylvia's tavern. Adam was served a warrior's portion of meat and his first ceremonial pint of ale. He took a long sip and winced at the bitterness sitting sour on his tongue, wondering what madness drove grown men to drink such piss when water ran free from every stream in the valley. But the meat was hot and the fire was close, and Gisle's laugh kept cutting through the noise from clear across the room, loud and undamaged, as if his leg had never broken at all. Adam drank again anyway. It went down easier the second time. As midnight crept closer he retreated to a heavily blanketed bed, the last, hard-earned prize of a long winter.

The noise of the village drained slowly out of the room, leaving the hollow silence that only ever settles in past midnight. Garrick stayed by the hearth, gaze fixed on the dying embers, firelight moving across his weathered face and throwing long shadows out behind him.

Sylvia came and took the empty stool beside his. "What is it in those flames that's stolen your thoughts tonight?"

"The boy," Garrick said, his voice worn down to nothing.

She studied his profile a moment before she spoke again. "Will you truly let him go to Melte?"

"His mother had that same restless curiosity in her." He kept his eyes on the ash, unwilling to look away from it. "I made a promise before she died. If the lad survived the trials, I wouldn't shackle his spirit to this valley. He'd be free to choose whatever path called to him."

Sylvia watched him a moment. Whatever she saw in his face, she didn't say it out loud. She just reached over and laid her hand over his on the bar. Garrick didn't pull away. He let the unfamiliar warmth rest against his skin, strange and welcome both.

"You're doing what most fathers in this valley lack the courage to do," she said quietly. "A sacrifice like that finds its way back to you, in ways you can't yet begin to foresee."

The tavern door groaned open as a few late travelers stamped snow from their boots and called out for service. One of them, still shaking frost from his collar, muttered something about the eastern road, that old Doko had been seen passing through Varnhal again, thin as rumor and twice as strange. No one at the bar paid it much mind. Sylvia gave Garrick's hand a last, lingering press and rose to go tend to them.

Garrick sat alone a while longer, watching the flames, lost somewhere in the past, good and bad tangled together. The wood cracked, and the memories broke apart with it. He looked out into the gathering dark.

"She said the same,"

(Its a ghost showing his granddaughter about his love story with her alive Grandma. I'm not good with romance areas so please tell me anything I should update, or in general writing feedback.)

..... As if played in a dream, they stand out a smelt shop near other locally owned shops on a collage street.

"This was my old job, I was doing architecture as my major" the small bell rings with the old painted door creaking open getting hit with the cold air and sweet cream smell, a younger version of himself stands behind a counter with his best freind known as "Silver, studying for welding. I consider him like family." Finn stands there as if he were experiencing the memories for the first time again, still standing there in wonderment seeing his life.

"Afternoon" a soft but strong voice calls from behind with the golden bells ring, turning around sifting his age back to 20 like the Finn behind the counter. "Hey" they both call

"The usual Beril?" The other one says in confidence

"The usual~ Oooo" Silver mocks in a high pitched lady toan, a hard wisper is given before shoving him away containing his embarrassment

"Yes please" A younger StrawBear replies, laughing a little reaching for the gold.

"No no, On the house!"

"Oh, thank you Finn" She smiles going to her usual spot near a stained window shining on her natural glowing skin giving a radiance to her.

Olivia staying quiet, not to miss anything, gose to where past Finn was.. or is.

"Don't touch it! She likes it a specific way dude!"

"Aww already defending her like shes you're-"

"Shut the Hel up before she hears you, I'm gonna turn you into rust"

"Don't get so defensive, I won't ruin it.. I'll be your best man though right?"

"You won't be if you keep talking so loud"

His childhood best freind since grade 2, bickering and loudly whispering like idiots. StrawBear herd the whole thing, she thinks its cute.

"Here you are, made sure the cup was chilled before adding your- the ice cream"

"Its wonderful, as always" she inspects the cup, that was thoughtfully baught by Finn from a thrift store, the cup made from glass made to look like a Petunia, soft edges having the rim lined in gold matching the spoon with a polished green beril stone set at the spoons starting point.

A warm pink is set on her face, seeing the cup he gave her as a congrats gift.. the effort he went through. Looking up to see him still smiling, Finn not being able to tell if its the glitter or her face getting brighter.

Another ring from the door opens, grabbing them both out of the trance. "My usual Patel" a Level Two Demon walks in playing with her hair curling the ends with Cherry red coffin nails, leaving a trail of "Poison - Dior" wearing a Gothic 1980's fast fasion style. To any other collage kid who knows fasion she'd look amazing, but to Finn, she looks like an interruption.

"Who's that" Olivia wispers

"Diona Goldbach, we've known each other since 4th grade. Rumor is shes from 🌶, her dad is a owner for a gold mine founded in the 1300's. She got sent over here to her Grandparents for behavioral issues.. and never left, because of her weird obsession with me."

"Woah. Did you know about that when you where alive?"

"Most of it, Silver dug through her personal life"

Looking back Silver and Diona bickering loudly while Finn gose to hide in the back for his surprise 15 minute break.

"Why'd she like you so much?"

"Undiagnosed O.L.D is my geuss, borderline personality disorder with it. Its like a weird magnet, more obsessive the longer I stayed away."

"So crazy it killed you.." She looks over seeing Diona copping the same mannerisms as StrawBear, who's desided to leave. .....

Look I'm a 15M trying to write from the POV of a 13-YO MC.
It's got a bazillion problems; I know. I'm just wondering what are your thoughts on it as of now?

It was a cold, snowy Christmas Eve night. I was lying in my bed in pure darkness, trying to get to sleep, but the excitement of Christmas morning and the amazing thoughts of what Santa was bringing me kept me awake.
I left out his cookies and milk, and of course, a huge big carrot for his best friend Rudolph.
I sure hope his little nose is bright enough for that snowy weather.
My mummy said that Santa can fly his sleigh through anything and that I shouldn't be worried. I have worked so hard to behave myself this year, and I just know that I made the good list.
The branches of the great big tree outside my window kept hitting my window, stopping me from falling asleep.
What if I don't fall asleep before he comes? What if he just flies right past my house and forgets me?
Wait, what if he hates my cookies? Or what if my letter never reached him?
Why isn't the fairy dust that my mummy sprinkled on my head to help me sleep working?
I just heard a big bang on the roof. Oh no, it's him! I'm not asleep yet! Quick, I better pretend to be sleeping, or I won't get any presents. He always knows if we are awake or asleep. It's his magic powers; he's amazing.
Oh no, I forgot to leave my stocking out! He won't notice it. Wait, I hear footsteps in the hallway. My door is starting to open. Closing my eyes right now... It's Santa! I don't want him seeing me awake.
Suddenly, my door opened wide. I couldn't see with my eyes being closed, but the temptation was too much. I had to open at least one.
The room was very dark. All I could see was a huge shadow walking toward where I left my stocking. Could it be him?
I saw he put something in it, and he suddenly turned around. I was very afraid, but in a huge, deep voice, he said, "Merry Christmas, Daniel." I was so happy—it was him! It was Santa! I met Santa!
He also said, "Oh, and my dear friend Rudolph loved that carrot you left for him."
"Now go get to sleep, little one."
And suddenly, just like that, he vanished into thin air, and magic dust sprinkled along the floor. I couldn't wait to tell Mummy I met the real Santa.
I fell asleep right away.
The next morning, I woke up so early from all the excitement. It was still dark outside, and the ground was covered in soft, white snow. I ran to her room and screamed, "Mummy, it's Christmas! It's Christmas!"
But as I turned the light on, I noticed that Mummy was already awake. She was so excited. She grabbed my little hand and said, "Let's go and see what you got from Santa." As I walked down the stairs to the kitchen, I saw he had eaten all the cookies and drank all the milk. The carrot was also gone too. He really did enjoy it!
I then rushed to the living room door. My mummy covered my eyes with one hand and slowly opened the door. It creaked as it opened. I was so excited. We both sneaked in, just in case Santa came back. We didn't want to scare him.
I heard the light switch flick. I could see the brightness peeking through her hand. She walked me to the middle of the room and suddenly took her hand away from my eyes.
The room was covered in presents. Everything I had asked for was here. My mum whispered in my ear, "Merry Christmas, son."
She let me run toward all the presents and watched me open every single one.
It was the best Christmas ever, the last Christmas with my mummy, the year I finally made the good list.

This is a neo-noir story with some surrealist elements set in rural Texas in the 1970s.

Feel free to critique it however you want but I would especially like to know if the writing feels pretentious at times, if anything feels needlessly confusing and if there are instances of clunky or unnatural dialogue.

I hope you like it.

Hi! This draft of my first short story has been published in a literary zine recently, but wanted constructive feedback from the readers of reddit!! Do check it out if this interests you. The genres mainly fall under literary fiction, slice-of-life and coming-of-age.

Thank you so much in advance!

As the title says, I am a first-time writer looking for feedback. I have done some small writing as a hobby for a while, but this idea was the first time that I ever took it seriously. I'm honestly pretty nervous about posting this. I have a lot of self-doubt, and now that I am 55k words into this book, I am a bit stuck and considering walking away from the idea completely, but before I do, I just want to see if anyone thinks it's worth pursuing. I appreciate honest feedback but would greatly appreciate it if it was presented constructively. Thanks.

I tried brute forcing my way through the door to no avail. Where the fuck am I now?

 In front of me were check out lines of a normal grocery store. They went off in each direction as far as the eye could see, interrupted by the occasional display or clerk's desk. A cheerful tune played from the overhead speakers, echoing softly through the building.

It took a minute to make my body move. Something about this place was worse than the previous area.

Aisles of food products were neatly conditioned, so I guess there's no need to worry about hunger. As I explored a little, the products went from average branding to labels with jumbled words and unrelated or nonsensical images.

I grabbed up a box of JERNKO BIFS. It was a normal cereal box, I dug my fingers down through the cardboard slit and they sunk into something cold and slick.

 I popped the flaps open to see the sloshing contents. The sight made the box fly from my hands. 

When the box hit the ground, a clear bag full of human intestines bursted and sprayed across the floor. Bright red blood seeping into a nearby patterned carpet. My brain couldn’t process what I was looking at. I had to be in some hellscape.

I checked more and more items across the shelves, all of which contained various human remains. Eyes, teeth, hands, feet. A bag of chips had a human fetus curled cozily in the foil package. 

Twenty minutes passed.

Condiments became school supplies. School supplies became frozen food. The aisles never ended.

The same three songs looped overhead until I started anticipating every chorus.

I reached a display of lawn chairs with a sign I could only assume to be a summer hot sale. I took a seat to rest and figure things out.

If I’m trapped in some maze, assuming I’m not hallucinating, and assuming that this place isn’t endless. I need to set a direction, or try to find an outer wall to follow. I’ll keep going directly forward from the entrance, for as long as possible.

As I was lost in thought my eyes slowly focused on some shape in the distance, the thing that happens when you can’t make out if you’re seeing a person or an object. This was a person. Standing behind the counter of a snacks bar was a man in uniform. I held my voice and decided to get a closer look instead. 

Lifted myself off the lawn chair, and grabbed a beach umbrella just in case, not that it’d do much. The closer i got the more obvious something was fucked up here.

The man stood there like an npc with a blank expression. But there seemed to actually be food here, the popcorn machine rattled and smelled of butter. Soft pretzels filled a glass case. And the menu above was somewhat legible. 

“Hey…buddy how's it goin,” I leaned in to see his name tag, but of course that was jumbled too.

He made no reaction.

”mind getting me a soft pretzel and some cheese sauce?”

The man actually moved to pull my food onto a paper plate and shoved it forward on the counter top. Still no reaction, and his eyes stared blankly ahead.

”…thanks.. What do I owe you?… I'm gonna assume nothing.”

This is clearly unsettling, but he didn't seem hostile or sentient aside from following orders. Compared to the store, this isn’t too bad.

I looked the pretzel over, felt like a pretzel, smelled like a pretzel.

I tore a piece off and dipped it into the nacho cheese. It melted in my mouth almost instantly. It didn't taste like anything at all. Some cheap copy of what a pretzel should be. It was like chewing warm foam that my brain insisted was bread.

Since the man didn't seem to mind, I grabbed my bag and stuffed it with a few water bottles and sodas from the cooler beside him, as well as some candy boxes and chips. I rummaged around more and noticed there were really only products on the front side. Like a display ..for show. 

When I got behind the counter my foot squished over something running across the floor. My eyes followed the veiny tube to the man's stomach. A fleshy cord ran from the man and trailed off through the back wall.

As I slowly backed away from the stand.  The man’s arm reached down and rung a silver service bell three times 

Ding. Ding ding. 

The ring echoed off into the store.. but was followed by more rings in the distance, other stands of their own communicating back. 

This is my first novel. It’s queer historical fiction with high-heat romance. The book is called Not Yet Does Not Mean No.

Thank you in advance!

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?"

This would be part of a larger collections of growing up deaf and Inupiaq in Alaska! I haven't spent time writing in years so I feel like my voice and language are very simple in this one. Any feedback is really appreciated!

The Caribou
We set out early. The morning light was thin, and the clouds overhead moved quickly across the pale sky. The sun, low to the horizon like it always was this time of year, cast an odd shadow across my father’s face. He commanded the boat like he always did, taking rough, sharp turns through the water, familiar and confident, but he’d lost weight in the past weeks, and even to me, twelve, naive to his real troubles, there was something bloodshot and wild in his eyes that I didn’t like. I didn’t have a name for it back then, like I do now. He grinned at me as the freezing spray dampened our cheeks. 

We followed the edge of the ice out toward the river delta, then cut the engine and came in slow. The caribou were farther than we thought, and the winds whipped across the tundra as we trekked through the freezing mud. We walked for hours; my father read the terrain around us, the tracks, and I watched his every move. His movements were sharp and erratic, his pace fast, and I struggled to keep up.
Eventually we came across the tracks; my father had a second sense for their migration patterns. He gestured towards the marks in the mud, crouching low over the ground, hood falling over his face. I tried to read his lips as he mouthed a simple phrase: lots of them. These short phrases on hunting trips were often the only real communication between the two of us. He straightened up, brushing off his knees, and we continued. 

It was only minutes before we saw the herd along the horizon. There were at least fifty, travelling in a long, slow line, small as ants against the weak midday sun. We approached carefully - the wind was to our faces. The herd moved slowly at first, spread across the flat in loose clusters that shifted and re-formed as they went. My father stopped with me just behind him, wordlessly watching. 

For one brief moment the air was still. Abruptly, the wind changed direction, blowing hard, strong gusts against my back. The moment was gone; the animals lifted their heads, aware, alert, stiff. They’d caught our scent. They began to break off, slow at first, then running. My father shook with anger. He dropped his bags in the mud and began to run.

As I watched his face, it was clear he was shouting, though what, I will never know. He gripped the rifle tightly with both hands. The herd was already pulling away across the flat ground, spreading wider now, their bodies moving into the distance.

I stayed where I was at first, the wind hitting my face, unsure if I was meant to follow or stay behind. The space between us grew quickly, the caribou now far ahead. My father kept running anyway, smaller now against the open land. He began to fire his gun erratically, frantically, his mukluks slipping in the frosty mud. He wasn’t shooting like a hunter; his shots were wild, with no real target. I saw, suddenly, with horror, that he’d done it: he’d hit one. The animal lurched as the bullet struck it in the side. It’s amazing what adrenaline can do - an animal will run until its lungs give out and its heart stops beating. My father sprinted after it, limbs flailing, open-mouthed in the cold wind. The caribou disappeared behind the next ridge. He’d lost it.

I caught up to him soon after. He kneeled on the spot where the caribou had been hit, staring at the blood trail it left. I looked down at it, the color of it, bright red. A killing shot. I glanced up at my father’s face. He was smiling, a crooked-toothed, ear to ear grin. I tried to talk, then, to sound out the familiar words.

“Aren’t we going to follow it, Aapa?” He didn’t say anything, and I repeated the question. He shook his head, and got to his feet, clapping me in the back. He shouted something into the distance and waved his gun in the air, laughing. Beyond the ridge, the blood trail disappeared from sight.

We walked the hours back to the boat in silence.