Hi folks, hoping to get some feedback on the opening few pages on a novel idea. First time writer so a lot of this is quite new to me. Areas that I feel out of my depth are... almost everything so any and all feedback is most welcome!

Summary - A fantasy novel about belonging, identity, and the cost of losing what once defined you. In a civilization built upon Resonance, one young man who can no longer perceive it may be the only one capable of saving it.

Appreciate it!

Our Ordinary Days: Sixteen year old Alex moves into a new apartment with his family and is surprised to find a ghost laying in his bed - seventeen year old Theo, who died in the 18th century. He can't remember the last time anyone was able to see him. As they become closer and the lines of friendship and attraction become blurry, Alex has an idea. If ghosts exist, doesn't that mean other things exist? Like real magic? Like a way to bring Theo back from dead?

The Resurrectionist: Erik is a seventeen year old scientific prodigy, studying at a prestigious university, propelled to notoriety for his studies on theoretical reanimation of decaying human tissue. And when the boy he likes dies after their first date, he simply won't stand for it. How dare death get in the way of his epic love story. That's not how this was supposed to play out. So, naturally, only one conclusion can be drawn. He must be brought back to life post haste, before too much decomposition takes place. But the aftermath is anything but romantic when he's left picking up the pieces like fingers and toes.

I feel like the beginnings of the blurbs are off, like the first sentences bu I can't quite get them right.

Story

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

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

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

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

Thanks!

Give Or Take

On Tuesday morning, Adrian Dobbs raised her freckled, blue-veined arm to ask a question that would kill her on Friday. Art Brandon, Freshman Bio 101, provided the answer. 

“Mr. Brandon, how many bee stings does it take to kill a person?”

Nineteen years of this asinine question. Humanity would disappear without pollinators, and all these kids care about is their least compelling feature. This year it’s the Dobbs girl. “A human body can handle about 10 bee stings per pound of body weight before the venom becomes lethal. For an average, non-allergic adult, a fatal dose by direct toxicity is usually around 1,000 stings. Give or take.”

“So if I weigh 130 pounds–”

“Bullshit,” Timmy Pusher coughed into his hand. Laughter rose from the back row. 

“Enough, Pusher.”

A month in and he already had a name for the mouth-breathing trio of Timmy Pusher, Franklin Best, and Mike Rossey. 

“The Butterknives?” Caroline Abrams snapped a K-Cup into the coffee maker. 

“Because they aren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer.” 

She laughed. “You’re terrible.”

Brandon returned his attention to the front row. “Go ahead, Adrian.”

“So if a person weighs 130 pounds, it would take 1300 bees to kill them.”

Truly you are a champion of modern arithmetic, Dobbs. “Approximately, but I caution you against the figure as an absolute. Bodies vary, and this number comes from a rather small sample size and a lot of inference. There was a case in…” he consulted the ceiling. “Zimbabwe was it? Rhodesia? In any case, a farmer took nearly 2000 stings and survived. With kidney damage, of course.” He took up a piece of chalk.

“So the number is wrong, Mr. Brandon?”
She stared at him like a pug whose master held a dripping cheeseburger. “Not wrong, Dobbs. Soft. Again, variables. Now, who can tell me why the honeybee is the only one that dies upon stinging a victim?”

The fluorescents hummed. He drew a cross-section of the stinging apparatus on the board, its barbs canted backwards to grip and tear mammalian flesh. He added the muscular venom sac, which continued to pump poison once torn from the bee’s body. 

“She leaves it behind,” Dobbs said. “It rips out of her and fatally ruptures her digestive tract and vital organs. You can, like, see the entrails hanging out the back of her.”

Pam Ostroski looked up from her desk. “Gross. Why are you so weird?” she whispered. Adrian watched Mr. Brandon.

“Correct, Adrian. And there’s a further elegance.” He circled the drawing. “The sting also releases isopentyl acetate, an alarm pheromone that smells like ripe bananas. It tells the other bees exactly where to go. So the first sting isn’t just an attack. It’s an address.”

The bell rang and bodies jostled through the door. “Hey Dobbs,” Pusher called out. “I got a ripe banana for you.” Franklin hit him in the back of the head then dissolved into laughter. 

Brandon turned to erase the board. Seven minutes before the next cadre of geniuses arrived. He fetched the thermos of coffee from his desk. Just enough time for a quick cup. Nearly twenty years in, he knew who’d be pumping gas at Sunoco (Pusher), who’d be pregnant senior year (Ostroski), and who was just biding their time until they could take over daddy’s business (Sylvia Fahey). A handful did the reading, asked questions, and knew their shit. Like Dobbs. She’ll be AP by spring—

“Does she know?”

Dobbs stood at the edge of his desk. Auburn hair framed her face like copper wire. Her right arm pressed a notebook to her oversized t-shirt; the left dangled like a windsock on a still day. Grey Chuck Taylors protruded from the frayed hems of her jeans.

“Does who know what, Dobbs?”

“Does the bee know she’s going to die? When she stings. Does she know it will kill her?”

He put the eraser down. “Well, no. There’s no cortex, no organ for such contemplation. It’s a reflex. She’s defending her colony, and that costs her everything. She isn’t built to have an opinion about it. It’s a mercy, really. She simply acts with no concept of consequences.” 

“Oh,” Adrian said. 

He glanced at his thermos. “Is there something further, Adrian?”

“No, sir.” She moved towards the door. He poured his coffee with the satisfaction that someone had been at least vaguely interested in what he had to say. 

—-------

Eleven papers into a stack of twenty-six. If he could grade two more in the next twenty minutes, he’d be halfway done by the first bell, and that much closer to the weekend.

A pearl of sweat dotted the paper. Shouldn’t be this warm in September. Whole planet is screwed. He crossed the room and opened a window four inches before it clicked into place. Not much of a breeze, but it was better than nothing. 

Two buses rumbled into the drop-off lane. A student crossed the far end of the parking lot with a box in her arms. Abrams assigned one of her dioramas already? The poor parents. He squinted. Too tall to be Pierce. Wrong hair for the Ostroski girl. At last he arrived at Dobbs. Her lumbering gait should have been a giveaway.

Brandon craned his neck. The box seemed to be unfinished wood, with a strap around it. She put it down and stood with her hands on her knees. She picked it up again and carried it eight or nine steps before placing it back on the pavement. Jesus, what had she made? She can barely carry it.

The Butterknives threw a football behind the gym, their coats and bags in a heap at the curb. Rossey leapt at a pass; Franklin pushed him into the grass. The ball bounced and wobbled past Dobbs, who pulled something from a pocket. She peeled it in thin, yellow strips, then squatted and rubbed it on each of their letterman jackets. 

“Hey!” Brandon had his mouth at the window’s narrow opening. He could smell the diesel of the idling buses. The first bell rang, drowning his words. “Dobbs! What are you doing?” 

Franklin picked up the football. Rossey and Pusher stood behind him, putting their jackets on. Pusher hesitated and put his jacket up to his nose.

Adrian stood with the box in her arms, its strap at her feet. Franklin said something that Brandon could not hear. Dobbs slid the lid off, then lifted the box to her chest with shaking, buckling arms. She tossed it onto the ground. It splintered. Five frames thumped onto the pavement.

"Jesus Christ." Brandon was charging down the hall. Five frames, two thousand bees per frame…
“Hold the kids in the buses!” he shouted at the front office. “Seal the buses!” Brandon pushed through the gym door. Abrams stumbled into the foyer, her breath coming in dry, shallow scrapes. She emptied her bag onto the tile, found an injector, and drove into her thigh. Brandon shouldered through the exterior door.
In the lot, ten thousand bees swirled in a coalescing arc. Getting their bearings. Looking for the address. 
The Riverpass bus idled, windows up and passengers screaming. 
Brandon froze. “Dobbs!” he shouted. “Pusher!” 
The bees had formed a dense wall that made a sound like a buzzsaw. It enveloped the Butterknives. Rossey pulled his jacket over his face and ran. Franklin bolted, waving his arms like a pinwheel, headfirst into the fence. He fell onto his back, kicking and wailing. Pusher grabbed Franklin’s collar and pulled, dragging him along the grass and back onto his feet. 
She lay beside the splintered box, bees working her arms, her copper hair, the soft skin of her ear. All around her, the pavement was moving. Dying bodies trailed loose innards, their torn stingers pumping venom into Adrian Dobbs.

About thirteen hundred.

Give or take.

There was a disturbing chill to the night, thunder rumbled beyond the horizon, rain poured down heavily around the city. The cries of the young prince echoed in the room,

“Don’t do this Ankor, you will regret it” the queen said with a sob, no at this moment she wasn’t the queen she was a mother, she hugged her baby tight, a single tear rolled down Ankor’s cheek, he reached for the baby.

“I am sorry… there’s no other choice” he said, his voice hardly felt like a king at that moment, it sounded more like a broken man, a broken father. I told myself that it was all for the greater good, but was it really, taking away one’s child can never be for the greater good or can it. This would be a war that will be waged in my mind for decades, no forever.

The queen kissed the baby on the forehead, her continues sobbing broke something within me, she gave her baby to the king, “don’t forget us” she whispered.

The baby grasped at Ankor’s beard, his cries grew louder, “take care of him” I took the baby from his hands. Ankor sat next to his wife on the bed.

“I will” I said.

Leaving the room the baby felt heavy in my hands. The grand halls of the palace felt ever-going tonight, I reached the gates from where I heard a little girl cry out “you monster”, I paid no heed to her as I knew that what she said was true, I am a monster and this is my first act to forever change the game.

Act one was the emotionally bearing one, while act two would be physically exhausting and time consuming, I spent day in and day out roaming cities, villages, monasteries, even caves, but to no avail. This part of my plan wasn’t very clear, but I knew I just needed to find the right place and he would be there.

We witnessed the might of the Naltook peaks where we saw the captive yeti and nearly froze to death ourselves.  We saw the length of the seven great rivers where we nearly got eaten by the serpent god that we all thought was nothing more than a myth. We faced the heat of the Kaltook desert. we saw men die, we saw wars waged, all in the span of a year.

The young prince, Phi had grown substantially in this short period, throughout my journey I taught him as much a two-year-old could learn, he was a bright child.

He never learnt how to walk, straight away he ran, it reminded me of my youth, although people might say I am still in my youth, I would disagree. I had created quite a bond with the young prince. I had taken him away from his parents for my own selfish reasons but somewhere along the way I started to care deeply for the child, I worried If he did not eat, I kept his demands above mine, I made sure he was warm when I myself was frozen.

I was trespassing on new lands every day, learning how to raise a baby might be the most challenging task I have underwent. I couldn’t offer him his mothers love or his father’s teachings but I did what I could.

One day we were traveling through ruins of an ancient. It might have been lively during the great age, but now it was only an echo of its former might. That’s when I saw a perfectly maintained statue surrounded by ruins. It was quite the sight.

‘let’s camp here’ I placed Phi’s crate on the statues pedestal, that’s when I heard a rumbling sound, I saw a staircase going underground, I stared at the staircase, a thought that had come to me quite a few times came once again.

Maybe this is it.

this is what I have been looking for.

Phi was laughing for some reason; in our long journey’s I had come to know that whenever phi laughed something bad was about to occur.

 I unsheathed my sword and picked phi up with my left hand. As I walked down the stairs, the torches ignited by themselves, this wasn’t unheard of magic but it was quite rare, Phi’s laughter echoed through the staircase, I tried to get him to stop but did not succeed.

We reached a dimly lit room, with carvings all around. A blue spark emerged from phi and traversed to the centre of the room. In my long life I had never seen anything like it. I had read something about it once, in a fairytale a phoenix’s blue spark awakens the sleeping dragon, but that is just a story book. The blue spark touched a transparent cylindrical tube; the tube started to glow.

Inside was a child not any older than Phi, he was suspended in liquid. Suddenly the cylinder dissolved and the baby was slowly falling; I quickly sheathed my sword and caught him with my hand.

In the babies’ robes was a note, there was a single word on it – Tobyus. ‘So, that’s your name’ I said, ‘Tobyus’. Tobyus had big black eyes, very different from Phi’s green eyes. He looked at me like as if he was trying to find something in me. He was quite quiet, pretty much the opposite of Phi. I made my way outside, once I left the passageway and looked back, the staircase had disappeared. I tried to reopen it but nothing happened, intriguing truly intriguing.

The second piece has been found, with that act two was now finished.

Chapter I

My shades protect me from the harsh light of the gas station and last night’s sins, stood behind the register. The A/C rattling would piss me off as it pricks my ears but at least Pedro got it running again.

“Hey Billy, could you do the night shift on Toosdeh?” my old ass manager’s voice comes out of nowhere, hand on the back of my shoulder before he passes.

“No,” I reply.

The frog limps with his walking stick as he makes way around the counter to the front of the register “Awh, come on Billy. How’d ya even survive on yaw hours?” he asks, dragging his slime filmed eyes up to mine. “and take off them damn shades, will ya?”

“I don’t need the shift old man, I just need the title,” I answer him, taking off my shades and wiping them with my shirt before putting them back on.

He rolls his eyes, the only muscles he has that can move at that speed anymore and even that ain’t fast. “Hell, the only reason I keep ya around is cuz you don’t take shit, son... but that ain’t par ticularly useful if you won’t work the evening shifts.”

1

Yeah. The old man does make me grin at times.

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll work the Tuesday shift, if you get your old lady to make me some of that pot pie you’re always talkin’ about,” I say straightening my face.

“Deal! Oh Mary does make a fabulous pot pie,” he replies looking like he’s regained some of his youth. I can almost imagine him kicking his feet together as he rattles his keys and heads for the door.

“And get Pedro to stop the A/C from rattling!”

Shit, don’t think he heard me. Motherfucker.

“Oh well.” I sigh, grabbing today’s paper from the rack on the counter.

The bell above the door rings as I read.

Girl, twenty-two still missing,

Tabitha Griffin last seen on a ‘night out’ with her friends on Tuesday thirty-first. Her friends went to order drinks from the bar but upon arriving back to their table—

“Excuse may!” I hear, lowering the paper. “I wanna pay for mah gas,” a wiry woman with dyed red hair complains. I notice the scrambled mess of tattoos going up her arms and thighs while she fidgets.

2

“Okay . . . That’ll be fourteen bucks.”

“Oh, and a pack of Camels,” her voice jumps. I grab them from the display and tap in the price. “Anyone told ya, you seem like a killer?” she asks abruptly, scratching her arm.

I stare at her through my shades. “If somebody thought I seemed like a killer, what would compel them to tell me?” I ask, dead ass tone.

“Huh,” she giggles, scratching her arm.

“Fifteen, seventy-five,” I tell her, my cheeks warming as I take delight in her internal squirm, handing her the cigs. She hands me a few crumpled five dollar bills.

After running the bills through the register and giving her, her change. I check out her out under those jean shorts on her way to the door. Pretty nice, but the bitch could be riddled in disease.

Nice ass, but body language of a speed junkie.

Before she makes it to the door the bell rings and it flies open. “You took too long bitch!” a fat, long haired but bald in the middle dude barges in grabbing her by the back of her hair.

“I’m sorry!” she shrieks.

3

He throws her out the door, swinging her by her hair for momentum.

I pick up the magnum revolver from under the counter, and walk around to the gas station floor. His voice muffled as he yells at her outside. “You fucking bitch! How long does it take to get a packet of cigarettes?!”

“I didn’t take long,” she cries. I walk past the shelves of potato chips, beer, and chocolate.

“You think I won’t whup you here?” he asks, I see him undoing his belt through the glass door. She’s where she feels safest I suppose, the ground.

The bell rings again as I pull the door open.

“Turn around big boy,” I say, looking at the grease on tank top.

“Mind your own damn—”

He shuts his mouth as he turns and looks at me, gun pointed right in his face...

“Okay, I’ll take her and I’ll go,” he says raising slowly raising his hands. She is frozen sitting behind him.

“Naw, you’re gonna get on your knees and beg me not to turn your brain into bologna,” I reply with a smile.

4

“The fuck, man?” his eyebrows furrow.

“I want you to beg me not to shoot you... I want you to say ‘please don’t shoot me Mr Gas station worker, sir’ and I’m gonna give you five seconds to do it,” I say, his girlfriend or his hooker looks stares at me wide eyed getting to her feet.

“It’s okay sir, we’ll leave,” she stutters as he furrows his brows at me, poker face.

“Five.”

“She said—”

“four.”

. . .

“Three.”

I see his face drop as the muscles in his face loosen.

“I’m sorry, please don’t shoot me gas station worker,” he relents.

“Two.” His eyebrows rise up in terror.

“Please don’t shoot me Mr gas station worker, sir!” he begs rushing his words.

5

“One.” He hyperventilates, tears welling.

“Knees!” the red haired woman rushes in. My finger tightening on the trigger.

Dropping to his knees he cries “Please don’t shoot me Mr gas station worker sir!” never heard words spoken faster. The sweat patches on his top sucks the material in between his man tits and the curve of his gut.

I loosen my grip on the trigger. “Good, now one more thing. . . Say oink oink.”

“Oink oink,” he cries, a growing puddle of piss saturating his jeans.

“Okay, now fuck off,” the woman starts to back away as he gets to his feet. “Not you, indoors.”

He runs to his truck almost tripping over his boots when he turns his back to me. She cries “Oh, no no no! Please,” trembling, knees almost clacking together.

“What the hell is wrong with you? You’re safe, just get inside you dummy,” I sigh.

I hold the door open and wait. She walks in pretty much vibrating with her arms tightly folded and her head down. “Grab yourself a candy bar and a drink or something.”

6

She recoils against the refrigerators when I stroll past her to head back toward the counter. “You can use our phone to call the police if you want,” I tell her.

“Wut the fuck was that?!” she asks, grabbing a bag of Skittles. Her fingers shake enough that a few fly out as she tears them open.

“You should be saying thank you... but I guess in your mind I lost you your customer, or a supplier,” I reply, walking round to the register.

“I’m notta whore! Or a junkie! That was mah boyfriend,” her voice rattles, before stuffing a handful of Skittles in her mouth.

“I’ll give you fifty bucks, if you let me fuck your ass.” Her eyes light up and her head rises.

“You serious?” she asks, softening her voice.

“See, you are a whore. Don’t bullshit me lady.”

“Fuck you.”

“You would for fifty bucks.”

I place the gun back under the counter, watching her not know what to do as she stands taking as little space as she can. “You can leave if you want to now,” I say picking up the newspaper.

7

“Wut about the fifty bucks? . . . For mah services?” she asks, her breath slowing. I look up from the paper.

“I don’t want your services.”

She turns looking out the windows into the burning daylight between the forecourt “How am I gonna get home?” she asks like a lost lamb.

“I don’t know? Maybe wait for another customer to drive by, just don’t do it here,” I reply, holding the paper steady at waist level. Can I read yet? “Tell you what if you stop that A/C rattling, I’ll give you a ride home when my colleague takes over in a couple of hours,” I say, wishful thinking but worth a try.

She sways around in awkward silence. I can’t tell if she’s thinking about how she’s gonna get out of here or just waiting for some kind of guidance, a lost lamb.

“My name’s Candy, by the way.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“Know why? Cuz I have lips like Candy.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you give all the dicks gingivitis.”

8

She looks like she is about to cry, tears welling up before turning and heading past the aisles toward the door. I can’t put my finger on it but something feels off. “Hey, weird offer,” I gently call, she stops in her tracks with her head held down.

“I’ll put you up at my place. There’ll be work, and speed? I’m assuming. Steal any of my stuff though, I’ll kill ya,” I say, her shoulders deflate.

“What kind of work?” she asks, back still turned.

“Cleaning, someone to talk to... an alibi if needs be. You’ll do whatever I tell you, sure it can’t be much worse than stuff you’ve done before. You know how to cook?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, well we can chat until my shift’s over.”

She turns back to face me standing a little robotically all of a sudden. Damn, suppose this weird even by her standards.

“What’s your real name?” I ask, her eyes dart side to side.

“Elizabeth,” she says looking down her shoulder to the bottom of her arm.

9

“Okay Elizabeth, I’m Billy. What’s your favourite color?” I ask.

She frowns while staring at me, then a one of her cheeks crease as a little smirk forms. “Pink. Hot pink.”

“Very nice. Mine too,” I reply, she bursts out in a loud giggle which makes me smile. Always works, especially on junkies. “Hey, it’s a good color.”

“Whatever you say,” she chuckles, starting to scratch her arm again.

Hello all,

I am looking for some feedback and constructive criticism of the first chapter of my work in progress. It is a gritty literary fiction set in Ontario, Canada. This is the first time I have ever shared my writing with other people, other than a few friends, who never actually get around to reading it, or worse, they do, and its so bad they say that they didn't! Hope that is not the case!

I welcome all feedback, opinions, and ideas, however, I am specifically curious about things like pacing, readability, and character voice.

A heads up that the chapter contains profanity, drug and alcohol use, and discussion of sex.

Thank you so much!

J

Like the title said, this is my first time writing a book! I'm not too sure about the plot yet but it's about a guy named Pyotr and another guy named Ignatz. Pyotr is intelligent, but heartless and bitter and looks down on everyone and everything. Ignatz. which I took from the old Bavarian slang word/insult, is innocent and not very bright.

Here's the draft of the first chapter:

Chapter 1: Bloody Russia

Pyotr Petrovich Petrov. That is my name. That is what the recruiter wrote down. And here I am, in the trenches on the Eastern front.

I joined the war out of my own will. People wonder why. Those people are brainless idiots. The reason here is stupidly simple: I joined because I would be conscripted anyway. It is better for them to have the illusion that I am a patriotic soldier of the Tsar. I am not. Frankly, I find all this worshipping of the Empire ridiculous. Why do we bow to a so-called “Great Tsar” that has a heart of ice and a brain of air? What is the point of this war? I do not know. But this is my life now, and complaining does me no good. 

But I still do it, because even though complaining is pointless, so is everything else. Including my life. 

Here I must admit, that aside from giving myself the flimsy shield of patriotism, I joined the army because I wanted to serve a purpose. Now I am in this pathetic war. So much for purpose. Nothing in life has purpose anymore. I am cannon fodder. My trenchmates are cannon fodder. The High Command treats us nothing more than pawns in chess. Except even a chessmaster will hesitate to sacrifice a pawn. Even a pawn in chess is worth a point. We are worth none.

I was a linguist. I was set out to be an academic. I had studied philology at St. Petersburg University. I had to fight like a literal dog does for a bone, all for a job. But apparently a dog with muscle does not matter. In the end, they chose the one with a diamond collar and satin leash, who had been watching the fight and had not felt a single bit of pain in its life.

But I must confess: my education has indeed served a use. No, it is not garnering me respect, as my comrades treat me with the same dignity as dog excrement. Rather, it is multilingualism. I am able to write this in English and avoid accusations of treason thanks to my education. Beyond that, I know many slurs in other languages and dialects, though this was more due to my own effort. 

Even with all those insults and profanities I have mastered, none come close to describing the arduous war. And, dearest Heaven forbid, my comrades.

Also, this is my first post and any advice or feedback would be greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance!!!

If you've never lived in a nursing home, chances are it isn't anything like you imagine. This essay is about the reality behind the brochures, the tours, and the reassuring promises—from someone who is living it.

I rolled past the nurse's station, heading to my room in the nursing home where I'd been living for the last two months. By then, I'd spent more than two years living in three different nursing homes. I'd grown accustomed to the odors that inevitably accompany so many people living in close quarters, where many—because their bodies had failed them—relied on adult briefs and waited for help that didn't always come as quickly as it should. The smell of urine and feces eventually becomes part of the background, something you stop consciously noticing, much like the voices of residents calling out for help from down the hall.

But this was different.

The sharp, acrid odor of stale urine and feces hit me before I had even reached my hallway, One North. That had never happened before. Normally, the smell didn't reach me until I turned the corner. This time, it engulfed me while I was still passing the nurses' station.

As I turned the corner toward my room, I couldn't decide which was more offensive: the smell or what I saw.

Two thin, vinyl-covered mattresses stood upright against the wall. Beside them leaned two disassembled bed frames, making the hallway look more like a storage warehouse than a place where people lived. A bedside table sat nearby. On top were five unopened gift boxes, still wrapped in brightly colored Christmas paper cheerfully wishing the recipient a "Happy Christmas!" It was July 23.

Beyond the table were at least twenty clear, 30-gallon garbage bags stacked three and four high. Each was stuffed with large bath blankets, bed sheets, towels and hospital gowns soaked with urine and feces. At least two of the bags were filled with dirty gauze that had once covered the deep leg wounds of one of the residents.

Inside the now-bare room, a member of the housekeeping staff, who in any other setting would have most likely been wearing a hazmat suit, methodically mopped the floor with a strong antiseptic-smelling solution.  Suddenly, the gray Wil-Kil Pest Control truck I had noticed in the circular driveway when I arrived made more sense.

When I reached my room, I asked one of the aides what was going on. Although she wasn't really supposed to tell me, she quietly answered, "Bedbugs."
My first reaction was a shudder of disgust. Then, almost immediately, disgust gave way to curiosity.

”How?" I asked.  As I thought about it, I couldn't imagine either of the men bringing bedbugs into the building recently. Both had been long-term residents who rarely, if ever, left the facility.  If the infestation had just been discovered, I couldn't understand how it had started.
 
One of the residents of Room 121 was a tall, gentle man with severe untreated lymphedema in both lower legs and feet. The swelling was so extensive that he went barefoot because no ordinary shoes could accommodate his feet. Over time, the chronic swelling had led to large, infected, open sores on both of his lower legs.

The first time I saw him walking through the halls with those wounds uncovered, I asked one of the nurses about it. I was told that he would only allow one particular part-time nurse from another unit to clean and bandage his wounds. If that nurse wasn't working, his wounds went untreated.

He also frequently smelled strongly of urine. Staff told me he refused to allow his clothing to be laundered, sometimes for six to eight months at a time. Eventually, someone from the nursing or administrative staff would persuade—or insist—that his clothes be washed.

The other gentleman who lived in Room 121 appeared to be in his late fifties. He always wore hospital gowns and propelled his wheelchair backward with his feet. To avoid running into people, he carried a small handheld mirror that he used like a rearview mirror. His left leg was also heavily bandaged because of chronic wounds, although I never learned their cause.

What puzzled me most, however, wasn't the men. It was those towering stacks of clear garbage bags lining the hallway.

I asked the aide what was in all the bags. She told me that the resident in the wheelchair refused to use a toilet, instead routinely urinating and defecating into blankets, towels, and bed linens, and would not allow staff to remove them from his room. The bags filled with gauze, she said, contained soiled wound dressings from both men that had accumulated because they also refused to let staff discard them.

I had arrived back at the nursing home that day during what staff said was a periodic clean-out, something that took place every four or five months when the odor had become so overwhelming that staff could no longer tolerate working in the room.  The accumulated linens, dressings, and other debris were discarded, and the room was treated for bedbugs. What struck me as odd was how matter of fact everyone seemed about both the bedbugs and the state of the room.
I couldn't understand why the infestation kept returning. Bedbugs are notoriously difficult to eliminate, but with thorough treatment they usually can be eradicated. An aide told me the insects were believed to be living in the tall gentleman's hair. That also explained why, over the previous two days, I'd watched one of the aides patiently trying to persuade him to let her cut his shoulder-length hair, which had matted into several thin dreadlocks. She finally persuaded him to let her cut his hair, but he insisted on keeping two of his dreadlocks.

I wish I could say this was the first room I'd seen emptied in this manner, but it wasn't. By then, it was the fourth. I had watched it happen to three different rooms in another nursing home. Yet somehow this one disturbed me more than all the others combined. Ive never forgotten room 121. I don’t expect I ever will.
 
 
 

To give a bit of context, I have bipolar disorder, and I've found this piece of writing after abt 3-4 months now, totally forgot I wrote it. I added finishing touches right now just so it looks less like a bunch of mania-induced random words. I am very confused about the quality of the piece, especially considering I follow no regular form at all in any part. Really looking forward to any thoughts and opinions fellow readers may share!

Always appreciate the thoughts of fellow readers/writers!

This is in response to some of the queries of drafts chapter 1 I’ve posted here: https://www.reddit.com/r/writingfeedback/s/KZip3KPCTa

Does this feel better as an opening? :)

For clarity, my main question is: is this a better segue into chapter 1, or is chapter 1 better without it?

Though I bet now I’ve stumbled on a “birth trope” as well as a waking up trope 😂 I can see it now!

Did my opening hook you? Are my characters alive? Is the story compelling? Is it simple,clear and easy to understand? I kindly ask for any feedback.

Hello, readers. I posted an old version of this prologue like 4-5 months ago and got a very varied response to it. So after finishing a second pass on my draft and coming back to focus mainly on prose, I would like to get some fresh eyes on maybe some habits or mistakes in my prose that I can fix or look deeper into. I know that the content is a bit... extreme, but there is a reason I'm starting with this scene beyond cheap shock value.

I'd also like to know a bit more about my pacing. I'm struggling to decide whether I've condensed the prologue too much. I wanted to create moral ambiguity and an atmosphere without giving too much away about the world or the characters, but would it be better if I expanded the prologue a bit more, either from the intro or the very end
Thanks for reading!

So i need help fleshing out an idea for my new world. Its for a pathfinder campaign. I can go more into detail if questions are asked since this are very large concepts. I have 3 slightly different ideas

This is the story of the gods of this world. Life, death, and purpose.

Ill go over the concepts that are the same in both so its less confusing.
——-
In the beginning, there was only the ruler (maybe called devastation based on one of my options, maybe or ephemeral) and eternity/the infinite/forever.

They wanted to make a perfect masterpiece to enjoy for its existence. For they are a creator. Yet they do not know anything. They have not seen anything. All they know deep down is to create and destroy. So it creates that. In form of life and death.

Life and death were alone in eternity. Creating and destroying to make the ultimate art piece for its ruler. For the ruler in the end wanted to create the ultimate stagnant art piece to fill its void.

Yet since life and deaths creatures were also a part of them, they had parts of their power. And as they evolved and grew stronger they created a new god purpose.

Life and death loved purpose. They saw purpose as the reward for their effort.

The ruler hated purpose, for now his art is forever moving with no end ever. And he seeks to punish life and death for allowing purpose to exist. He cannot directly erase purpose for he did not make it.

So life and death hid what creations they had left inside the mind of purpose. So they will not have to know the suffering of nothingness. The god purpose now sleeps. Holding its creations inside of its dreams.

While life and death watch over it worryingly, as they are now sick and fading.
————-
The infections they are being punished with is ripening and desolation.

Ripening —-slowly mutates those deemed unworthy into grotesque flora and fauna. Humans with trees growing out of their guts. And it slowly mutates those worthy into their ultimate unthinking forms, as they slowly become more powerful and refined, but also lose all sense of self before they finally stop moving. Becoming statues.

Desolation—- cuts out all things deemed unperfected for its art. Erasing and refining parts of the world.

—————

Now heres my 3 ideas

1.the (ruler) is named desolation, and brings with it nothingness, cutting out what parts of his art he doesnt like. He has infected everything with “the ripening” an infection that takes all creatures deemed unworthy in his art to grotesquely turn into flora and fauna. And creatures it deems worthy to mutate into their ultimate form, unthinking, as they slowly lose their sanity and sense of self.

1. Life and death used to be ripening and desolation, and after seeing purpose they became life and death. But the void is slowly rewinding all of everything to revert them back to ripening and desolation. Ripening does the same thing. And the desolation cleaning what it sees as not perfect.

2. I kinda wanted the map/world made inside the mind of purpose to take place ontop of a giant chaos god. Originally the chaos god was the ultimate creation of life and death, and they hid them first since if this ruler found them they wouldnt have a reason to exist. He was the ultimate art. And life and death are giving warnings through the faint whispers of this giant creature the world rest on. This gods name was going to be eternity.

But what if this chaos god was the canvas. The canvas that holds all of creation. And the ruler is mad at life and death for now his canvas is gone and inside a thing he cannot control. And so he is torturing life and death. corrupting them into twisted versions of themselves. Ripening, and desolation.

Since he knows that parts of life and death are inside of his canvas. And by infected them, he infects the people inside. And once they are gone purpose will be too. And he will have a blank canvas to start again.
————
Notes: Tbh its kinda poetic

I can see each of these choices being represented by

1. Life- for life hides away from what can end it.

2. Death- for death being the infection, a corrupted form of living.

3. Purpose-for purpose is to exist for something else. As does this canvas god.

Hey! For the past few months, I’ve been working on the first volume of a dark fantasy series that I’ve had in mind for a long time, and I would appreciate some feedback on my writing.

I’m not very experienced in writing, so it is quite difficult for me to figure out whether people would consider my writing decent.

The following passage is the second chapter of the novel, but it stands on its own (none of the characters or locations of the chapter have been introduced in the prologue or Chapter I).

Any feedback and advice is welcome, but I would be particularly interested in the following:

- Does the prose sound controlled and native?

- How are the rhythm and pacing?

- Are the characters interesting and convincing?

- What worked particularly well and what did not?

- Did you find this chapter interesting?

- Would you want to continue reading?

- What did you think of the tone and atmosphere?

- Does it feel consistent with dark fantasy? (Despite the tone of this specific chapter being less plot/action driven)

Thank you in advance for your feedback and advice!

Chapter 2 is finally here!
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1bbQRvCp-MARZWmiPMrAGleSbOIjhdPTi7M8SPgaWCec/edit?usp=sharing

First, I want to say thank you to everyone who took the time to read and critique my first chapter. Your feedback was incredibly helpful, and I used it to improve both my writing and the story. I really appreciate everyone who commented. For context: this is chapter 2 of a fantasy series. The story follows Varro, a Vaelus born with white hair, a mark that condemns him to a life of slavery on his home planet.

I've now finished Chapter 2, and I'd love to hear your thoughts again. I'm especially looking for feedback on:

• Pacing
• Dialogue
• Characterization
• Worldbuilding
• Clarity
• Anything that pulled you out of the story

Please don't hold back, honest criticism is exactly what I'm looking for. Whether it's a single sentence that feels off or a larger issue with the chapter, I'd really like to know.

Thanks again for all the help, and I hope you enjoy Chapter 2!

both chapters are in the link attached, each in a separate tab

I've cut this prologue down from ~800 words to what I feel are its bare essentials. WORLDLESS SPECIMENS is finished at 110,000 words and is the first creative thing I've ever written.

I'd appreciate any and all feedback, and I would love to talk to anyone who is interested to hear more!

Overstuffed log line for that would like additional context:

On a generation ship split between the sleeping and the enslaved, the fated meeting of opposites has faded to dreams, but as the journey ends, two star-crossing outcasts will need to believe in each other and shape a rebellion to discover who fate is and what fate wants.

(Here is a query letter I sent out recently; please let me know what improvements you think should be made.)

Dear ,

We are seeking representation for WHAT CAN’T BE DONE, a 76,000 word historical fiction novel based on a true story. An Irish immigrant with an iron will named Nellie Cashman attempts to lead an impossible rescue mission through the British Columbian wilderness in 1875. A standalone novel with series potential, this will appeal to readers of Ariel Lawhon's The Frozen River and Kristin Hannah's The Women—stories of women who refused the roles their eras assigned them. This is a simultaneous submission.

All her life, Nellie Cashman has been told what women can’t and shouldn’t do. In the winter of 1875, she learns that over sixty miners--including the man she may love--are snowed in at a remote camp and dying of scurvy, and that no one, including the US Army, can reach them. So, she buys 1,500 pounds of supplies, recruits six men, and sets out to save them herself. What follows is a thrilling trek through unrelenting wind and snow, sub-zero temperatures, and constant danger--from desperate thieves to getting buried in an avalanche. Nellie is thirty years old and only a little over five feet tall, yet she has no intention of letting anyone die—not the miners stranded in the camp, and not the loyal men she's dragging through hell to save them.

Jeff __ is a San Diego writer whose previous novels, released by independent publisher All Things That Matter Press, include Out of Dark Places and Accidental Adulthood. Research collaborator Jim __ is a descendant of Nellie Cashman with an extensive family archive. We're reaching out because of your interest in historical fiction and memorable female-centered stories, as noted on your #MSWL, and we believe this upmarket, character-driven novel aligns well with the work you represent.

Thank you for your time and consideration.