r/DestructiveReaders

This is the first chapter of what will hopefully become a short speculative fiction novel that I’ve started. It’s set in a 20th century death cult that follow a leader who is a former Soviet Cosmonaut and is written from the perspective of a man who grew up in the cult, remembering his childhood.

Any and all of your impressions would be hugely appreciated.

How is the prose in general? Are the characters being established effectively? How is the dialogue? Would you keep reading? etc!

It is on the longer side I am aware, so I really appreciate anyone who takes the time on a Sunday to read! Thanks

Link: Bravest Leonov - Chapter 1

For mods:

Crit 1: 2934

Crit 2: 1000

Before the regularly scheduled programming: we've had some reports of people getting unsolicited emails with critiques instead of reddit comments. When you share a Google doc, anyone can get your email by looking at the Shared page in their account. That's why we recommend using an account that's not linked to you irl so you don't get doxed. I suspect most of the email people are using AI for whatever critique they sent you and trying to get you to pay for some kind of service. The mods over at r/betareaders tell me they get a lot of people from Brazil doing this. Ours are Italian. I can't really do anything to stop people from emailing you. I can ban people who are interacting on Reddit, but that doesn't stop them from seeing your content. Best bet is to ignore them, just like any other scammer, if they email you.

I don't care about rainbows. Someone tell me why there are so many stories about frogs this week. Or maybe the better question is this: why are there not more stories about frogs? So, I'm up for another writing weekly.

This past week, I've left a few comments for people saying I think there's a lack of specificity that kills immersion. I'm now wondering what would happen if I gave a vague outline of a story and asked all you writers here to fill in details. I suspect that I'd get a bunch of very different versions of the same story. Let's try!

Non-specific story:

One day, a boy walked out to a pond where he found a frog hopping around. He was excited to find a new friend, so he scooped the frog into a bucket and carried him home. His mother didn't like frogs very much. The boy snuck the frog up to his room and hid it in the closet where he was keeping a fish tank.

That's the outline. I'd like to see what kind of character you all can bring to my very flat short piece.

As always, you do not have to critique to submit to the weekly. If someone is open to critique of something they post, they can indicate that in their comment (and you're welcome to declare you only want people to say nice things!). Respect the requests.

If there's anything else anyone wants to discuss (like what's so interesting about frogs), go ahead and comment that too.

CHAPTER ONE 

Somewhere in the deep Florida Everglades sat a man, an old man. He was frail, pale, all bones. He sat on his couch, pondering, the TV blazed on, reciting something on the news. The old man did not pay attention, his eyes glazing off into the distance, daydreaming. The house was decrepit. Old. Broken down. Black mold spread throughout the walls like a vine slithering through the cracks. Pots and pans were in the kitchen, all dry, and mildew spread everywhere. The air was filled with dust. The old man rose from his couch, bones cracking. He moaned, a quick, sharp pain filled his back. He straightened it and took a large breath. 

He crawled over to the dingy kitchen. Opened the freezer. Inside, a piece of meat, an inch thick and an inch deep. He took a knife and sliced a small paper-thin slice of this meat. He closed the plastic container, patted it, and placed the meat back in the freezer. It was something precious to him. He reached for the cupboard, saw a can of beans, and pulled it out. A pan sat on the stove, and the old man took a hard, rough cloth. Wiped the grease off the pan. Dumped the beans into the pan. He turned on his stove. He watched as the beans started to sizzle, and then he placed the small sliver of meat on top and mixed the beans.

He started to pant; he needed to sit down. He quickly found two bowls, brown and grungy. He sat down and placed the bowls across from each other. He poured some of the food into the first bowl and then his own. He stared at the empty chair for a moment. Then looked at his own bowl, and he ate, his rotten teeth exposed. He took in a bite, his eyes closed. He took in a large breath, then another, then proceeded to wolf down the plate. Like a feral animal, he then saw the other bowl in front of him and wolfed down that bowl as well, seldom chewing, not that he had many teeth left to chew with. 

He set the bowls down. He looked at his fingers, his nails all brown and almost weathered down, but he saw one finger, his pinky finger. The only thing in his body that had any life left, it was pink, pearly white, and perfect. He smiled as he looked at his pinky, gazing at it for a long moment. 

He got up from the dining room chair, bones cracking as he struggled to lift his old frail body up. He looked over to his side, a drawer, inside the drawer, papers, pens, dirt, dust, a lifetime of knick-knacks. He found his half-crushed pack of cigarettes. Scrounged around for a lighter. He lit his cigarette and took in a large drag. He walked to his door and onto his porch. 

Outside he looked at the deep auburn sunset. The kind of sunset that only exists in Key West.  He heard the cicadas buzzing. The hot, sizzling summer started to come down to a nice, comfortable cool. He took in another large puff of his cigarette. Blew it out. He sat on a small dining chair, almost broken, on his porch, he closed his eyes, took in the cool night sounds, a breeze was starting to form.

But with the wind, something else blew along with it. A thick and sweet smell. Something the old man recognized from his past. The strong, sweet smell of innocence, longing, and desire. Something the old man had not smelled in decades.  

He opened his eyes. His pupils dilated. He noticed a scene rare for these parts, youth. A bunch of college jocks were yelling on the street.  Probably drunk. His eyes widened. He focused on the noise. The men laughed boisterously. He started to notice a warm sensation run through his body. An intense emotion, not rage, not lust, something more. A feeling that the old frail could not explain, it was simply energizing to his core. But it started to increase as the jocks’ voices started to perk back up. The laughing piercing the night sky and the cicadas, the old man was enjoying.

He then saw them. Four of them. Handsome. Young. Youthful. Their smooth, hard bodies barely hidden in the crop tops they were wearing, confidently. Full, flowy hair, all of them. The old man’s stomach started to turn. He looked at his arms, old, saggy, no definition. He then turned down to look at his belly, hard with years of drink and abuse. His bones, old and brittle, the pain, running through each joint. He looked at the youthful group of jocks again. One in particular caught his eye. 

He was the quietest of them all. More introspective. Beautiful in his own way. A youthful, boyish appearance, curly hair running down his sides. Perfect. His arms, noticeably strong and muscular, but with a more natural cadence to them. His biceps moving up with his arm as he was articulating himself, curling up into a perfect ball. The man stared with a deep, intense gaze. The warm feeling in his body started to dissipate, and he started to feel a sense of calm. His stomach was now turning, pulling the old man directly towards that young jock. Like a powerful magnet pulling the old man to the group. 

Then all of a sudden, the man got up. His bones cracked, but he didn’t care. He rushed back into his house. Put on his old worn-down coat. Inside its pocket was a rusty handgun. The man looked at the gun. His heart was pounding, fast, up through his neck. His body had a rush, an intensity, almost making him dizzy. He rushed out.  

Critique 1 (2100)

The protagonist’s best friend and his older sister are running through the building being shot at by the villain’s security guard when suddenly he runs out of bullets, the older sister starts mocking him but the guard reveals he’s the one who stole their bulletproof spray, a point from earlier in the book, and he’s wearing it right now, so even if they had guns it wouldn’t matter. He shakes their hands in mock friendliness and introduces himself John Ryan (not the name I’m using) Older sister asks why it says John W. on his nametag and not John R, to which the henchman explains that his actual last name is Williams but he goes by his first and middle name. Protagonist’s best friend complains they should turn the AC on in this building and the henchman replies that if he really wants to see what it’s like to be hot, he should come down to his place in Carson, Arizona. The henchman says they’re good kids and should just leave, and points to them to exit.

They’re surprised he’s just gonna let them go, but then PBF and older sister open the door, find themselves in a room full of guards, and realize it’s a trap. The secodary villain is there, and he points a gun at OS, while a group of minions with guns, including the henchman, surround PBF. During OS and the secondary villain’s back and forth, SV mentions a row, where OS, who’s kind of a math geek, corrects him and says “Column” and then explains the difference between columns and rows. It turns out that she actually said “Call him” and, while SV was distracted by the back and forth, PBF called the MC, and told him to abandon the tertiary villain, who MC had in his house as a hostage, and come help them instead. As he’s about to give the address, OS grabs the phone from PBF, and tells him to stay with TV and if they don’t call him back in an hour, to kill him. Once SV hears he pistol-whips OS and grabs the phone out of her hands, while MC replies that he can’t, because he already abandoned him, like PBF told him to, and started heading out and that he’s probably escaped by now. SV slams the ground on the phone, destroying it, and points the gun at OS’s bloodied face while she’s on the ground, while PBF is being surrounded by men with machine guns.

OS tells him it might not be the best idea to kill her, SV asks why to which she replies that his minion is a fraud. She lies and says the henchman is with her, and says his full government name, John Ryan Williams, and that he’s from Carson City, Arizona. While still keeping the gun pointed at OS, SV turns to the henchman and asks how she knows his full government name and where he’s from. OS explains that he’s there for espionage, which is why his gun has no bullets. SV lowers his gun, goes to the henchman, and tells him to shoot OS right now. When the henchman stammers and stalls and tries to explain everything, SV shoots him, but since the henchman is wearing bulletproof spray, it ricochets off his body, killing SV. While the rest of the minions are distracted and in shock, PBF and OS make their escape.

[334] [228] [900]

THE GREEN FACE of Tipper's job console screwed up whenever the elevated train lurched past his suite. It flickered and glitched on his forearm. He stubbed out his cigarette and slapped the little screen to get it to scroll.
  It did.   A gorilla lit up on the list, real close, getting closer, having shot a waitress eighteen hours ago, but the hulking man weighed 260 pounds and Tipper was only waking up. Hadn't even downed his espresso. On the other hand, a drifter closer to Tipper's size slept soundly in an alcove across the street, dreaming like his crimes were forgotten—an easy fifty chips, but Tipper didn't have the heart to tell him otherwise, so he thumbed the job into the trash.
  Of course there was always the man down the hall who'd cut up a vagrant from Korea town. That job never disappeared. It would have, ages ago, if only the man hadn't held the door open when Tipper misplaced his laundry card. Now it felt downright unneighbourly to run him down.
  Otherwise, the console hardly listed anything worse than parking violators for a distance of two miles, and refreshing the grubby window wasn't helping. 
  So he showered. Shaved. The hulking meat tank now approaching the ground floor wasn't going anywhere; according to the console, it wasn't so much he killed a waitress, but that he'd bet his organs on a pair of jacks with the makings of a flush on the table.
  Tipper dried off and dressed and extended his striking stick, doused it with bleach that made old black blood hiss and peel, rinsed the redness into the sink, and snapped it short again.
  He pulled on his gloves, locked his suite and waited for the elevator.
  And wouldn't you know it, his friendly neighbour arrived with it, having dragged another drunken stripper off the street. The man gave Tipper a nod and steered her out of the lift and down the hallway.
  Tipper checked the console. The 260 pound man downstairs was also armed, it turned out, according to the listing, with something sharp. A gorilla with a stabbing weapon.   He sighed. Held the elevator door until it lurched and whined. Felt the weight of the stick in his hand. Watched his neighbour disappear the lady into his apartment. Groaned and scrolled and clicked the console to officially accept the job.
At the man's door Tipper waited for the first muffled sound, then knocked.
  The eye hole went dark. The door opened with enthusiasm. The man grinned.
  Tipper extended the stick and lit up the man's jaw. He fell back and Tipper followed him into the suite and closed the door. When he tried to lift his head off the carpet, Tipper clubbed the top of his head, then again for good measure.
  "How did you know," the woman was saying, "that I was in danger?" She tucked her legs up onto the bed.
  "Well," Tipper said, towering over his kill, thumbing the console again, aiming its bleary camera to confirm his task's completion.
  He shook a splash of blood off his weapon, retracted the club, thumbed a payment alert off the device, and scrolled back to the job board.
  To a brand new job—distance zero—and Tipper held his breath. Thought for a moment he'd made the wrong move. Clubbed the wrong man. Gotten himself auto-listed. 
  100 coins, it said.
100 pounds, too.
  Relief. Tipper lifted his gaze. The woman scooted back a bit. "What is it?"
  "Well, shit," he said, and extended the club again.

To the tune of Cafune - Tek It!

...

#Month 72 of tech revolution

If we as humans can tell someone used AI to "assist" their writing or critique, it's because something other than "just the grammar" is changing. This isn't just the formatting, this isn't because it leaves 'small artifacts'.

This is because most publicly available tools are giving you the same results in a formatted way that it gives to fully everyone else it gives their tools a try. Maybe it occasionally changes words, maybe it changes phrases and orders of syntax, and maybe it changes grammar. Is this utility a worthy trade off for writers? We argue no.

As of MAY 2026:

Just know, we have been very consistently banishing people for their use of A.I, any and all.

Believe it or not, I'm a huge AI apologist. I tried for nearly a full year to resist changing our policies. I tried to not eventually need a hard rule. I tried to be patient to see if the technology was workable.

It isn't.

A.I might occasionally elude our detection, or be so covert as to just pass as a normal editors job (for submitted writing). But just because we didn't notice it here THIS time, or with such small sample size, doesn't mean someone else (especially editors these days) won't notice it if you're dummy enough to try to publish with an AI EDITOR...

But for critiques especially it becomes flagrantly obvious quickly that someone did a rush AI job. If we can tell AI WROTE CRITIQUES, imagine what Ai is introducing into your writing if you're foolish enough to "just let it check grammar".

Clearly, it's not doing a good enough job. Where it holds utility, it is obviously not (affordably) and consistently servicing to do the job without detection. And this means that detection is possible. Yes, we've had several false positives recently, but this is easily dismissed when we adjust our enforcement window. It used to be we would barely ever get an AI user, but now it's much more common and readily known about as the future continues to adapt. We often check in with silent mod taps just to confirm human posting. One common line we hear these days is "used it for translation". Like hello? It's obviously not capable of doing this in a way that passes as human writing.... So just don't.

Obviously, the cheats, laziest fools, and folks who don't know any better aren't here reading our warnings. They're probably littering plastic into a river.

With this all said, please report SUSPECTED AI directly by mod mail, or by using the report flag on posts themselves, preferably with "custom" reply and typing why you think it's Ai.

Honesty? Some low tiers might occasionally sneak past our HUMAN FILTERS, but just know that they are ultimately hurting themselves.

Ai, as I said in my last redux, cannot replace a humans intuition. Be weary of false critiques that are generic, or obfuscate their generalities by quoting text that was copied into it. It might seem at first blush to be a compliment or heckle against YOUR writing when you receive a critique—but is this actually SOME PERSON who read it? Or is it just a person putting your work into A.I

Ai isn't capable of giving actual feedback: it cannot generalize, or specify. This means it can and only can output generic responses to specific elements. It cannot tell you why blue was wrong, or how the color makes it feel. It can only quote other people talking about blue, and then attempt to pretend that it understood that you painted and used blue. It doesn't understand the need for more red and yellow. It just has a random seed generating complex for yellow, and a weighted algorithm scanning for red. It does not understand the nuance of green, or the shades of gray. It can describe them well, but it can only give you binary feedback on black and white elements. It isn't actually reading or comprehending.

remember, everything you post publicly is subject to be copied and stolen. Mods can't enforce this, so just assume we don't care and think it's funny. I hope someone AI is deep trained on RDR Content and continues to improve. Maybe someday the editing will be worth using, and it can help assist our creative workshops, and even publications.

Until then, just use the report button and be glad it hasn't gone full skynet yet...

My first time posting something I wrote. It’s unformatted because I don’t know how to do it right. Or what’s the best way for more impact. Thank you for reading and commenting- Rhain

- My thinks aren’t thoughting. They are all over the place. It’s like, I’m in this huge ball pit under a dome (in a globe?) and there’s so many balls everywhere; I can’t see where it ends but I know it goes deep. An oceanic hollow. And here I am, stuck in the middle trying to stay afloat. The balls are all different sizes, different colors, different textures, different weights. They’re not just below me, trying to pull me in, but whirling all around me, trying to knock me down. Some float (we all float down here) or glide past me but others charge and whizz. Each one determined to follow its own random path, with no destination, but each with resolute determination. Can’t dodge them all. Trust me, I’ve tried.

-Each time, it’s different. Each round, with its own set of bylaws. Rules I can’t control or argue with. Is it odd that, I, at times, am forced to play and that I don’t even know what the rules are; what is the end-goal? Aren’t directives supposed to directed? Field goal with no field post. Goal kicked with no net. Runs without a home plate. Drip. I think, at some point, I used to be able to ask what the regulations and infractions were, get a rulebook, but all I get now, is silence. …Wait… was that a cackle? Drip. My punishment for not following the rules, or not winning, or rather, at least being the not not-loser, used to be fair and regulated. Slap on the wrist, smack in the face, punch to the guts, stab in the back - you know, honorable. Morality maintained and monitored. Drip. However, now, there seems to be no limits. When did that happen? Am I the lost lostest losering loser now? Unknowingly, my soul has crossed the threshold of the sane. The game masters have been silenced. The referees have dissolved. The chair umpires have fallen. Arbitration has been nullified and the limits of humanity have slowly dissipated. Drip, drip. Chinese water torture. Drip, drip. Rack him. Turn the wheel. Roast this bull, he is too brazen. Drip, drip. Push him, poke him, prod him, punish him. Make him pay. Drip, drip. Hold him down. Drip. Rape him. Drip. Cover him. Drip. Drown him. Drip. No! Holes! Barred! Drip, drip, drip.

-Each time, though, it starts the same. At the scratch-line: on-your-mark, get set, bang. On the springboard: pit ball abyss, whistle, dive. These balls are overwhelming on a good day. The air is lighter. Do I hear birds chirping? Wait…did one of them just cackle? Drip. The fog is thinner these days; the visibility index reads “Not Fatal, Probably”. Advective waves creep and rolls in, moving the balls like wisps, leaving tendrils to trace. Tresses slowly swirls and wraps around you, as you follow the balls that glow so enticingly. Which tantalizing ball will Cupid target to trance you next? Which one will get you first? Too late! Because the tendril snake that’s coiled around your neck now is already starting to constrict. The energy crackling and creeping into that ball of light that you followed, is bubbling to strike. The slow slither of suffocation or burning blast of ball lightning? And you thought this was a good day. Tricked again. “Wait… what is it? It’s so…pretty… I, I’m feeling happy, which is a big deal… for me…I want to touch it…ohh.. hey come back, come on back here, I’m gonna getchya, I’m gonna get you!…I’m gonna getchya, I’m gonna swim with you…I’m gonna get ya, I’m gonna be your best friend!…drip… good feelings gone.” *silent thunder* drip… Other days, the balls are bees in a disturbed beehive, stingers out, swarm ready. Wait, do they have hive mind? Are they a corrupted, coalesced collective conscious? If they were, would that mean that I have a normal sane mind, right? Drip, drip. Not mine, never my mind, never mind. Then, on worst days- No!!! You can’t say worst, they can always make it more “delightful” for you next time, silly you. Ok, Ok. Sorry. Please don’t do that. So, on worser, but not the worst, days, there would be so many of them in play. I want a flag thrown?!! Too many men penalty, right? It exists right? …Referee? …Dissolved, silly you, don’t you remember? Drip. Mama said Knock you out. Eye of the Tiger… We will, we will, rock you. Anthems, not for me, fight songs for them - against me. Too many come to play on the worser days. Global warming is real; the flood gates open, polar caps melt, ocean levels rise. Is it going to be waterspout wars or tsunami survival today? Either way, any day, every day, I must play. I have to kneel and race I have to hurdle and jump. Hobson, take the wheel! The die is cast and the ball pit is buzzing. Drip, drip. What type of day, what game mode, what evil lurks within, what is it this time? Lawful good or chaotic evil? Doesn’t matter, oscillation is canon now and I’m riding the pendulum, first class. Battle time. Know thy self, know thy enemy. But…I have no idea who the hell I am anymore, just that my enemy has to be them…maybe. And Them knows them and me so I’m fucked; thanks, so much, Sunny Z! I!… Drip. You can make it, just think, silly you. OK, so what’s the plan? I have to strategize. I have to make it through. I have to run different plays. I have to win this time. Top-spin, flat, or slice? Lob or drop? ..or drip…Let’s play balls verses balls. Fastball, curveball, knuckleball, or screwball? Which one? Hold up. Am I pitcher, batter, AND catcher?! Drip. Or is it thinks against thinks today? Queens Gambit or Kings Indian Attack? Choices, choices. What?! Check-mated - the move RIGHT after my opening one… how? What’s the point of having choices if they can’t be choiced. Bring me a players handbook, silly you. This isn’t helping me though, nothing is being fixed for me. But, every match is fixed just for you silly! Drip… and cackle…

-Sometimes, all I can do is hold on to a big soft one, curl up, and cling to it while reflecting my mistakes, downfalls, and guilt. I let it simmer and then, in a guise of comfort, it confronts. So similar, while I’m so distraught, they look the same. They trick me again. It’s too late. I am too far gone. Tears start to accumulate, then, endlessly, they seep into it, until weight of it all takes me down, pushing me further in. Why am I holding on to it tighter? It just takes me deeper, pulling me under. I. Can’t. Breathe. …Drip. Drip.

-Then again, sometimes, it’s a rerun round. Mind-melding Groundhog Day. Take two. Take four. Take seven, any luck? Take eight, nine. Oh no, thirteen! Sisyphus, teach me how you are doing this dammit. Take 17, 39, 43. Take 666? Replays of pasts. The coulda, woulda, shoulda’s. Scenes of unachieved dreams. Dialogues to myself of unfulfilled aspirations. Monologues of shameful excuses for the unconquerable lofty visions of my naivety. Foreshadowing of my, now and forever, unattainable holy grail of happiness, my fulfillment of expectations and my completeness of achievement. Touchdown has been intercepted, home-run has been caught, championship-point has been lost. Drip, drip. You ARE the loserest. You ARE the weakest link, good bye. Cut! Next take. Quiet please. Stand by. …drip… *snap* Action!

-Sometimes, I am brave. I stand tall and let them come. I fight back. Gloves on. Get in the ring. Let them swing. Feint. Hook. Cross. Uppercut. Crush the ones I need to. Scuffle. Trample. Then, when against the ropes, I can even play mean and dirty. No rules, right, even for me? Jab below the belt! Hah! …Drip… Eventually, exhaustingly, energy expires. Them: relentless. Me: tired. Them: infinity. Me: myself, and I. Them: the sun. Me: Icarus. Them: hacked infinite ammo mod. Me: hacked. Them: evolvingly free. Me: stuck in cycle; The Neverending Story is me. Them: pi. Me: hamster. Or…am I the wheel? I swear, there is something cackling. No more. Please. How do I resign? Where is the white flag? Where’s the plank, Captain Hook? I hear Tick-Tock! … or was that Drip-Drop..? There is a point of giving up but you can’t. You have see how much more you can take. You can’t just give in, can you? In desolate despair, I can’t just… I have to just…And then I just… stand there. I let them come. No bob and sway, just there, I stand- utter dismay. That thunder grumbles and roars, even when doesn’t make a sound. Easy target here and now. The sharp ones sting and stab. Thorns around ocean mines, and blades on shurikens. Some stick and I have to, painstakingly, yank them out. Blood and cuts, but, no one sees. Some are bludgeoning, slamming into me, blunt and hard. Caught or not, medicines balls impacting, rippling my psyche into echoes. Cries and screams, but, no one hears. But me. I sometimes see myself, I sometimes hear me. But only If I’m paying attention, only if I’m looking out for it. Sometimes, subconsciously, I don’t want to-it hurts. I’m pathetic. See no evil, hear no evil, speak … to who? No one is truly listening anyway. Drip, drip. Some of them are big, unavoidable, utter destruction, their goal. Jupiters and Saturns of the sky. Bullies on the playground. Offensive linemen on the playing field. Some are small, even minuscule. Grains of sand performing their dance of abrasion, trying to form their ventifact of me. Shredding me to see how much I can harden - to see what parts of me they can leave behind, and what parts of me they can strip away. The pebble sized ones, are most dangerous. Faster and harder than the others. Bolting about with so much packed into them. Bullets. Cores of anxious lead covered by titanium regret. Armored with desperation failure, and guilt. Full. Metal. Jacket. When they hit, they cripple. Maim. Rendering their target obsolete right when it’s at its weakest. Why do they not aim better? Just snipe between the eyes. Get it over with. But that would be easy for you silly, and you don’t deserve easy. They want you depleted. Bone-weary. Dog-tired. Bird to the cats. Seal to the orcas. Antelope to the lions. Drip. It’s just prey-play, silly you. Yes, it’s me to the them.

-Some days, it’s bearable. I catch a few and try to hold on. It’s easier for me to just rest, lay down and breathe. Like staying atop the water in a tranquil flow. Being ever so careful though, for this is the tipping point. Any wrong move, any wrong ball caught, any right ball let go of or any stray one resurfacing, could have me battling buoyancy in a game she’s the master of. She has a way of toying with you. Holding you up just enough that you have to rely on her, pulling you down little by little, just so, tugging at you, this way and that. She is the siren that plays with sailors at sea; she sings softly and lulls you in, stringing you along and drawing you to right where she wants you. Then… I catch a heavy one, or, too many of them at once, or, move slightly the wrong way, or … what did I do?! Motion stops and time freezes. The feeling of a silent thundercrack booms. Drip... Unfreeze. The fight begins! She has become the monster of the sea, a minion of the depths. She wants to take you home. It’s another match on the tournament bracket. Bobbing for apples and I’m the damned cursed fruit. Fight or flight? Drownproofing is not an option anymore - run? where? - no- flights, out - so, fight. Frantic, I send balls flying everywhere. Some slingshot back. New ones emerge on the court. Catching. Holding. Releasing. Hurting. Repeating. She grips whatever she can grab a hold of. You can feel her talons at your ankles, across your arms, around your throat. She pulls down - hard! Survive… just for another day, even a moment longer… but… no, give it your all, a second wind… but… but …wait!..drip… do I fight more? Why? She is so tempting. This life long tournament won’t end until she wins. The war will rage on. I’m so tired. Let her hold you. You’ve been yearning it. Needing it. The rest. Down there is bliss. It’s motionless there, buried deep. Zen. We all float down here. Is that not what you’ve been fighting for, above water, in an unending cycle of climbs, falls, recovery and despair? Finally, I see inner peace but it’s not up here, it’s down there. Let her caress you with streams of bliss and let her slowly glide you down instead of drowning in the turmoil and chaos you will anyway, someday. Let NOW be your salvation. Yet, I won’t succumb. You are so silly. Drip. I’m not though, right? I have to fight, right? I have to fight for the right to fight, right? Give me another go. Redo. Load the last save. Another chance. Mulligan. I have to go again and again. Drip. … Do you really though? But, there are other players outside of this globe. They are playing too, just from the out there. Tossing it around. Taking swings. Bump. Set. Spike! Playing catch. No, not catch…no not any more. Now they play hot potato. Potato potato potato potato. No one wants me, but they need me. They depend on me. Drip. Silly you, people-please much? Do I?! I have to prove to them. I have to make them happy. Repent for my shortcomings for them. Provide for their futures. Provide for all their now’s. Beg forgiveness for all their thens. The list of duties is long and heavy and I’m way overdue , but it’s all that I am left with. Library fines and I burnt all the books. Silly you! Titan this, titan that. Atlas can’t to shit for you, it’s your own damn shoulders that must carry this burden. I’m willing, but why are you so mean and angry anyway? And help me for once, how can I carry the very thing that they are trapped in? Drip. Quite the conundrum, isn’t it silly? Drip, drip. By the way, mean and angry because I’m stuck in here with you and you won’t let me free. Die already. Drip. Drip.

I finished a book yesterday. Well, two this week. I went to look at the reviews and was surprised by the rating being lower than I expected. I guess the author wandered into some controversy about her attempts at diversity being less than favorable to some of the other cultures she was depicting. I mean, I didn't think any of the cultures were depicted favorably but I guess that doesn't matter.

Anyway.

I clicked on the one star reviews because I was curious what it was I liked that other people hated. Long sentences. Info dumping. Telling rather than showing. And I didn't notice any of that! Those are comments I've made about other books I've read recently but not this one.

There's not really a formula or anything that says this writing is good and this writing is bad.

I guess I don't know. That's what I was thinking about this week.

Hi friends! I’ve attached the first 3 chapters of my speculative/sci-fi novel, THE SUN DOESN’T SPEAK. the work is 100% my own.

I’d love feedback on pacing, character execution, and just general feedback/impressions. Thanks all.

Here’s the link to the first three chapters of THE SUN DOESN’T SPEAK:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1a2zu20qDcK0TWnOA2BdmoHUa\_SSJoGycYVczUWwniac/edit?usp=drivesdk

Here’s the link to my peer critique: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/Q0KbvzfP5m

Thanks everyone!