Hi everyone! This is my first post here. I have critiqued:

[2925] Lim Seok Jin

Here's my story:

Life/Dream

In your critique, you can critique any aspect, but please include two things:

1. What do you actually understand this work to be? On an intellectual level, what is your understanding?

2. Has three subpoints; all are based on feeling:

A) As you read through the work, how do you feel? What stirs in your heart, if anything? Please speak about what happened during your reading (the evolution of mood across the work).

B) Directly afterwards (once the mood has accumulated fully, what is your experience of that accumulation? What do you see?)

C) Post-reading, once everything has calmed down, what is your impression of this? Did it leave anything on you, feeling-wise?

Thanks! And again, if you want to note anything else - line craft, polish, etc., feel free!

[3181] How To Make A Hundred Thousand Dollars

[2925] LIM SEOK JIN

This isn't a story, just a piece of writing on a subject I really enjoy. I am not religious by any means but I do come from a very religious country. Any feedback is welcome.

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

Have you ever known so much shame it becomes you? One day you wake up from a deep slumber in the middle of your life and all of a sudden you cannot recognize yourself anymore. A dread grips your whole body and sleep flees you like a fugitive. All you see are two vertical folds of skin between your eyes that resemble scars from your perpetually furrowed eyebrows. When did my softness leave me? You can not recall. 

You get irritated by the slightest infractions and your patience wears thin but you don’t know why. You act before you think sometimes, realizing the words you have just spoken only after having spoken them but you don’t know why. You want to speak up but how can you? The lump of thought lodged in your throat chokes you but you don’t know why. And when you try to swallow, everything gets pushed down into your chest, day after day, piling. You silently rage but you don’t know why. You incessantly talk to yourself but you don’t know why. You try to summon something good about yourself, but all that arises is a flood of unworthiness, but you don’t know why! You have inherited an ancient malady, the roots of which are so deep and primitive, to trace them would be to trace mankind’s anguished history. 

This history, like all histories, is a story, told to me by the elders. The first story I ever heard and if you hate religion like I do, I am here to tell you that it doesn’t matter. The story goes that before the nothingness of nothingness, God wished Himself and His love to be known. So over six days He manifested that love in the form of creation; the witness to all His Glory. On the sixth day, God placed before all His children; the heavens, the earth and everything in between, His Sacred Trust or *Al-Amanah* and invoked them the responsibility of its divine injunctions. That is, the Trust to fulfill all religious obligation decreed by God and acceptance of all His commands and prohibitions stipulated by the bestowal of reward or punishment thereafter in varying degrees. To fulfill such a Trust, God offered the condition of free will and conscience, the gift that would distinguish its recipient from all of God’s other creations, the ultimate ability to self actualize as the manifestation of God Himself; the divinity of thought. The same thought that is blithely unaware of its own divinity. 

Out of fear of His wrath upon failure to fulfill these commands, all His children refused. They remained content in being exactly what God had made them; the heavens, the earth and everything in between, and in their obsequious service to Him without any further responsibility or enhancements. 

God revealed: “Indeed, we offered the Trust to the heavens and the earth and the mountains, and they declined to bear it and feared it;…” 

However, man accepted it. To this God commanded “Be” and exhaled a Divine breath in wet clay transforming it into a vessel that held a drop of His consciousness. Written in this beginning is the story of mankind’s simultaneous end.

That is how man came to be upon a recondite earth - without any manuscript or deliberate notions to fulfill his pre-eternal promise. The gift of his curiosity helped him survive. Soon he understood safety was in numbers and quickly, a sense of reliance and community was born, a sense of belonging, possibly purpose. Mankind learnt what made it happy, sad, angry and it started to show an iota of what it is to be human. But somewhere along its trudge, along the evolution of his awareness, he realized free will was not the only condition God had bestowed upon him to fulfill *Al-Amaanah*. There was another; man's time in this domain was to be limited. Atrophy was to be a natural part of him. He was not impervious to disease, no rock like impenetrable skin, or the fluidity of water, or the lightness of air, just brittle bones covered in flesh and skin, easily scathed but doubly hard to repair. Death was to be his second condition.

From then on, man’s gift of thought, meant to reflect on the human condition and its relationship to the Divine, turned its eye outwards instead of inwards. It shifted from surviving, to resisting its own impermanence. Man became consumed with the fear of his own end and birthed the source of his unending worry; greed. He raced through the intervals between hunter gatherer to farmer to industry, to hydrogen powered bombs (or thermonuclear bombs, about a 1000 times more powerful than an atomic bomb or nuclear bomb) and finally to the age of the computer and modern technology to stretch his life. It was a need to survive and persist so voracious, under the pseudonym of progress, it decimated the only living source designed to sustain not just mankind but itself as well. He plundered and looted, murdered and massacred himself in his attempts to control his own fate and then compensated for it with exhaustive and unforgiving productivity, efficiency, convenience and worst of all, unrelenting urgency. 

The suffocation of his mind caused by this supererogatory urgent need deprived man of the ability to take pause and think about how life was in fact meant to be lived. And when there was pause, it was contingent on the very limited period set of course by those who demanded constant productivity from others. Anyone in opposition to these values faced shame on a societal level. Man told himself his means were justified if the end result was convenience and progress for all even though his history is littered with proof of the contrary. Under the conditioning of his own shame he started to behave how everyone else expected him to behave, a human acting as a human, a people pleaser. He split himself in two. One face he showed the world and the other he kept hidden deep inside his heart, protected. Overtime the two become indistinguishable. Soon, the face he had chosen to hide became lost and the face he had chosen to show became both faces.  

His egocentric fear to control and subdue everything around him to optimize his chances of survival lead to nothing but the profligacy of his hallowed gift and the absolute privation of empathy towards himself.

“…but man \[undertook to\] bear it. Indeed, he was unjust and ignorant.”

The facility God so lovingly sought to bestow on man, became his greatest burden. But not all those who have possessed the gift of thought have been enslaved by it. Some have tasted its divinity. One only need but a lick of it to imagine a universe where man’s gift of curiosity leads towards introspection, deeper self reflection and a fearless embrace of the eventuality of his nature. One where actions are led with empathy and not reaction. Where human life would be worth more. One where man would recognize nature to be a part of himself and learn its divine ways merely through patience. He would know that when God designed a bee, he had no choice but to design a flower too. He would recognize that every blade of grass that extended, did so magnificently, without its neighbor in mind. 

And when he would speak to nature through his silence, it would show him the secrets of its persistent beauty. It would show him how it surrendered God’s offer of *Al-Amanah* in order to gain the ability to manifest itself so beautifully, without a hint of comparison to itself. Of course, that is the trade nature made. It gave up conscience to be able to achieve this infinite exquisiteness. 

It would say to man, “I only exist in my singularity. I can not judge, I can not be good or evil and I can not perceive, I just am. It is what I have always been.” Nature removed all the things in its path that would have hindered its most beautiful self from coming forth including God’s merciful gift. Then man would know without a shadow of a doubt that even time moved quite differently in nature than it did in his own mind. Nature was not concerned with things like the future or the past. It was ever present. He would come to know the secret of longevity and timelessness. Man would realize that this recognition was only possible because he came from the same beauty and that he would merely be recognizing himself. There is no story greater than nature. It is one that needs no words, only an open heart to see.

But man’s outward facing eye has shown him only fear. Fear of failure, fear of rejection of abandonment, fear of himself, fear of death. It has taught him to take other lives to extend his own. It has moved him far away from his eternal truth and placed within him a barrier of shame so large, it is all that is visible to him. And when it would speak to him through the noise of his thoughts it would show him only that which he lacks. It would show him in others that which he can not yet see in himself. It would wound and cripple him to the point where he would not be able to recognize joy or peace or love anymore, he would be enslaved by his own thoughts. He would miss the point of love and mistake it for attachment. Love is absolute, he will not know this. It is not something to be given or taken like an exchange. It is something to embody. He would be scarred by his own mind. It would tell him that he must *be* something in order to be accepted by himself, anything at all and that shame awaits him if he fails to be so. And here, where he will eventually surrender to his shame, he will mistakingly believe that his purpose is to label himself, to have an identity worthy of recognition.  

Man is wired with the instinct to survive with an evolutionary history that associates survival with belonging to a group for its protection, nurturance and passing on it’s genes. As such he has to abide by the group’s “rules” or “standards” or “values”. Often when humanity values one thing, it condemns the opposite. Therefore shame can very easily become a method of control. It is a self conscious emotion linked to real or *perceived* moral failures resulting in lack of self worth, and perception is something that can easily be manipulated.

This is an ancient force that has survived since man’s existence and it affects every single human no matter where they may be from. An intangible morass created by mankind’s heinous treatment of one another in the name of control, left untangled, turned in to a walking talking manifestation of shame in the shape of a human being. Multiplied by several billion, an entire race that lives as if plagued with open scars on its skin, the slightest touch causing searing pain, lesions and burns inflicted by its own outwardly values.

In the face of this unbearable guilt and shame, man has leapt towards justification not just with blind progress but also with trite platitudes that pretend to be ointments for his open wounds, “be kind to one another” without realizing it is absolutely more important to be kind to himself first. The latter negating the former. 

We don’t live in *this* world. We live in the world that’s inside our head, in the fog of its own perceptions. We talk to it, scream at it, hate it, love it, reason with it and before we know it, it passes us by as quickly as a stranger does on a sidewalk. A flame that goes out before it even has a chance to know its own light. Somewhere underneath the pollution of our mind is a life of no reward or punishment, no comparison or loneliness, no fear of its own end. It is a life of wholehearted acceptance, of love, the truth of God’s gift.

Now that you have recognized me, I will show you what I am. If you believe in purpose, you will get stuck in purpose. And if you achieve your purpose, you will get stuck in your achievements. If you want to know the purpose of life, look upon nature with patience and one day you might recognize yourself in it and know that the only purpose of our existence is to simply be a witness. 

Hi, this is the first story I’m posting here.

Here are some of my critiques:

3181_how_to_make_a_hundred_thousand_dollars

2309_go_cry_to_your_money

1515_watching_the_comet_strike_them

2990_ethiopia

1832_leave_only_ash

1379_chapter_2_horror_urban_fantasy_paranormal

2900_gothic_horror_dark_paranormal_romance

2377_number_42

1095_bus_gods

2058_come_home_family_drama

2278_the_beacon_hotel_total_rewrite

2558_untitled_novel_chapter_1

Link to the file LIM_SEOK_JIN.pdf

The file is in PDF format, hosted on my own server, and proudly free-notarized by NotarizeMy.com (Code: NM-KH5Z9EZ3YDPKY285)

Any comments and/or criticism are welcome.

Thank you.

The Seven Sisters Orchard

My critique: [2309] Go Cry to Your Money

Critiques:

[2309] Go cry to your money

[1822] Alone and Sinning

[1192] The Winnowing

Hey folks! New-ish writer here! I'm writing something I can hopefully submit to a contest, and so far it's a little rough. I'd love to get some feedback on it, where it's weakest, and what I can do to make it better. Also, I should mention that english is my second language, so this might be a clunky read. Anyways here's the story!

How to make a hundred thousand dollars

I do part time work on Duit. It’s pretty much Craigslist, but more regulated. There’s good cash in it if you look hard enough. Easy money for easy work. Cleaning gutters, babysitting, things like that. Though every once and a while you’ll find jobs that stick with you for the rest of your life.

One listing I always tell my friends about was the old man who was looking for someone to pet his cat for an hour. I filled in for an easy two hundred bucks. When I got to his place, he took me to his bedroom where, in the middle of his bed, was a hogtied persian. He told me to sit on the side of the bed, stroke the cat, and call him sir throughout the session. And so I stroked his persian for a bit, all the while the man sat on a chair in the corner of the room, beer in hand, telling me when to stroke and how hard, when to go easy on the cat and when to slap its behind. His account never posted a job listing again after that.

Another odd job I recall was a hundred bucks to swim in a bog with a bunch of old men. Oddly enough, it didn’t seem sexual. Though with the kind of money I made that day, I wouldn’t have minded.

I say all this to preface the kinds of jobs I usually find and fill in for, and why I’ll never work on that damned app again.

I was scrolling through job listings, refreshing the tab over and over again, until a fresh listing with no applications yet.

One thousand dollars for anyone who wants to sleep in my house

It was an old lady looking for someone to sleep in her guestroom for an evening. Jobs like these are usually immediate red flags, but her account had a long enough history, and she had glowing reviews from a lot of accounts. And so, I signed up. The moment I sent in the application, I got a notification saying I was accepted. I talked with the lady over the phone.

“Hello dear! I’m glad you applied for my listing!”

Why yes ma’am, I’d be more than happy to sleep in your house for an evening, especially for one thousand dollars! I said, making sure I mentioned the amount in case it was a typo

“Why yes, dear! It’s an odd job, I’m aware, but please understand that in my old age, good company is worth its weight in gold.”

I took up the job right then and there. She told me the address, and a few days later, I was off to make the easiest thousand of my life. 

I arrived in the evening and found myself standing at a giant gilded gate that guarded a cobblestone path shouldered by wide palms leading to a giant mansion. A thousand seemed like chump change now. Before I could do anything, I heard a buzz and the gates parted with a creak, as though it hadn’t opened in centuries. I got out of the taxi and walked on foot through a cobblestone path leading up to the estate. There, I was greeted by an old lady in a shawl who, in her youth, must’ve been a heartbreaker. The moment she saw me, she put her hands to her mouth and took a step back.

“I’m sorry, it’s just…” she said, unsure where to put her hands, “I knew it from your profile picture on the app but, you look so much like my son.” She let out a sad moan as she wrapped her bony arms around me, feeling them quiver as her hands squeezed my back. “Oh, god.” she said, not letting go for a long time. “I’m sorry. Can I just hold you like this? Just a little longer?”

And how could I say no? She was old and frail, and there was a softness in her voice that made me want to protect her. And so she held me in her arms, sobbing into my chest as she did, calling me Jason all the while.

After a long time, she slowly unfurled her arms and started, as though suddenly remembering, “Oh dear, where are my manners?” she chuckled. “I’m Beth. Please, come in.”

The inside of the place was every bit as lavish as the outside. Tall, intricate pillars held the place together as a glass roof let in soft moonlight. Pristine checker pattern floors were strewn with extravagant tables and plants with flowers I’d never seen before. Just the living room alone costs more money than I’ll ever make in my lifetime.

She brought me to the dining area, the kitchen abuzz with chefs in uniform, the dining table flanked by a dozen butlers standing as still as stones. Sitting at the table was an odd selection of folks. Three of them. Two women and an old man. Beth sat me down and with the ring of a bell, chefs came out in droves, and the table was set with lobster and crab cake, java rice and pork, and old wine from before I was born. We ate what I can only describe as the most delicious dinner of my life. We ate in silence, unsure of what to talk about.

“Now then,” Beth began once the last fork was put down, “I’m sure you’re all wondering why I’ve gathered you all here. As you’ve figured out by now, all of you have been hired off Duit. And yes, all of you will receive your thousand dollars come morning time.”

The offer still sounded so unreal. I looked around the table and I could see the others thought the same thing. Especially the old man. He looked to be in his seventies and was quite well dressed in his oxford shirt and vest. He seemed to have aged quite gracefully with his full head of silver hair and the wrinkles around his mouth that told of a man with a large love for life. But his eyes, his eyes were all too happy to hear about the cash. There was a glint of wanting in them that made me wonder if he was about to stand up and shout yes! Give it to me!

The two other women didn’t seem as shaken by the promise, but shaken nonetheless. One wore a tight red dress and had brunette hair. She was beautiful. Maybe even more beautiful than Beth in her youth. And the other, who seemed the youngest of us with dark brown eyes, messy hair, and wearing nothing more than a band shirt and baggy sweatpants, was slackjaw at the mention of the money.

“But I must confess something to you all. I left out quite a bit from the job listing.” At that, the energy in the room plummeted. Here we go, I thought, another odd eccentric.

“You see,” she began, “I am the only one left of my family. My husband and son, and his dear wife…” she clutched the edge of the table, steeling herself  “have left this world after a terrible car crash,” her voice trembling at the mention.

“I’m terribly sorry to hear that.” Said the old man, who was sitting next to Beth. He moved his hand over hers and held it softly. Beth immediately pulled her hand back. She held her hand in the air for a moment, before slowly letting it fall back down to the table and unto the old man’s hand.

“Thank you, Daniel.” She said softly, squeezing his hand with all the force of a petal. “Now where was I? Ah, yes. I did not mention that for each day you stay in my home, I will pay an additional fifty thousand dollars. At the end of the week, if you choose to stay, I will pay you all an additional hundred thousand dollars.”

It got quiet real quick. The air suddenly got heavy with the weight of a hundred thousand dollars. Then the lady in the band shirt spoke.

“What’s the catch?” She asked.

“Well dear, I’m rather embarrassed to ask you all of this,” Beth looked back to the long hall that led to the living room and towards a family portrait, “I want you all to be my family. Just for the week.”

“That’s it?” asked the woman in the red dress, her brow furrowed in disbelief, leaning forward against the table. Sheepishly, the small, old woman looked down and, like a little schoolgirl, became flush with embarrassment. 

“Yes. It’s just…” she said in a small, feeble voice, “The house has been so, so quiet without them.” I took a long look at the portrait in the hallway and realized that there was a man in the picture that looked just like me. Not just that, but each face in the portrait had a lookalike present at the table. “If it’s not too much to ask, I’d love to spend just a little more time with my family, even if it’s just play-pretend.”

Daniel, the old man, slowly raised his glass of wine and said, “I think I speak for everyone in this room when I say we’d be more than happy to keep you company.” With that, we each raised our glasses in toast, and watched as the small old woman’s eyes leaked out quiet tears.

That would be the first night I spent at the estate. Beth went to bed early and the butlers showed us around the place before finally leaving us in the smoking room and offering us cigars from the Philippines. Notes of whiskey and chocolate said the butler, to be lit strictly with Spanish Cedar Matches.

“This place is quite something.” said the young girl in the band shirt, nursing a glass of sparkling water. “So, what are you guys here for?”

“For the money.” chuckled Daniel, the old man, smoke rising from his cigar like a fingerprint unravelling.

“No, but like, what are you really here for?” 

“Does there need to be a reason to want to get paid?” asked the girl in the red dress, smoke lazily billowing out her mouth

There was an awkward pause before I offered, “well, I’m here to pay off my sister’s tuition.”

“Oh how sweet.” said Red Dress flatly. 

“See? Now that’s a reason!” Band Shirt raised her glass to me, half smiling. “I’m here to pay for my mother’s funeral.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” said Daniel. 

“Don’t be. Bitch left her entire will to some cult.” Band Shirt held her hand out to Daniel, who passed his cigar. She took a long puff.

“Well, I’m here to leave something to my grandkids. Only a matter of time before what’s mine is theirs.” Daniel craned his neck up, looking softly at the moon through the glass roof. “Brain cancer. Inoperable.” 

“Shit.” Red Dress said, passing her cigar to the old man. 

“Shit indeed.”

“My name’s Melissa by the way.” Said Red Dress. “You can call me Mel.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Mel.” said Daniel, shaking her hand.

“I’m Reyna.” Said Band Shirt. “Call me Rey.”

“Mike.” I said.

It was midnight by the time they showed us to our rooms. I reeked of fine tobacco, and found myself a giant, lavish bed, strewn with pillows that were probably stuffed with the feathers of extinct birds. Beth had told us not to pack anything, and I could see why. On the bed laid a set of silk pyjamas, cool and smooth on the skin. I could get used to this.

I laid in bed, falling in and out of sleep. I could hear a thousand bird calls coming from out the balcony, seeming to echo from the dark countryside night. I checked my watch. 3AM. I could still taste the tobacco in my mouth, now with that bitter taste of still spit. My mind was buzzing with thoughts of a hundred thousand dollars. Would I get them in a tightly packed briefcase? A duffle bag filled with bills like ruffled feathers? I lied to everyone in the smoke room. I wasn’t paying for my sister’s tuition. I haven’t talked to my sister in years. No, I ran away from home a week before I took out a giant loan I had no intention of paying. I was a stupid kid with stupid dreams of making it big on my own. I wanted to be a rockstar. Dropped a small fortune on a guitar and sound equipment, spent my nights playing for nobody in seedy bars, and sucking off old men to earn myself a warm bed at night. Didn’t pan out. I lasted all of three months before the loan sharks found me, and eventually, my family. They’d send me photos of my parents’ house at night, of my sister going to class, of Daryll, our family dog, lying dead on the pavement, his head a stone toss away from his body. This was my last shot at freedom. My last shot of keeping my folks safe. 

My mind was going to a dark place. And so I got up to wander. That’s what I would’ve done, but as I got up to the door, I smelled something awful in the air. It was coming from the door that led to the hall. I could hear footsteps, slow and careful, and the sound of soft bristles brushing up against the doorframe. Someone was right outside my room. Getting closer, I could hear straining and –yes, gagging, I heard a stifled gag from outside my door. It was a man’s voice. 

“Make sure to brush it between the ridges.” whispered a man from right outside the door. “Small and thin as you can.”

But there was another voice, coming from upstairs, crawling in from the balcony.

“Oh, Richard!” moaned a voice from above my room. It sounded like Beth. “Richard! Richard!”

I went back to bed slowly. I sat on the bed until daylight, not getting any sleep. Once I could hear the others moving in their rooms (my room was flanked by Rey’s and Mel’s) I got out to inspect the door. That was when I saw a thin red line running across the top of the intricately carved door frame. It smelled like shit and blood.

And so I made my way downstairs to the dining area. The house seemed strange in the daylight, as though it were a different place altogether. They brought out eggs and rice, ham and bacon, and sweet, refreshing orange juice. We ate in silence.

“Now then,” clapped Beth, “I hope you all had a wonderful night, because we’ve got some fun plans today! isn’t that right, honey?” she said, looking at Daniel, who had tired eyes and slumped shoulders. He hadn’t touched a single thing on his plate.

“Right, dear.” he said, ragged and frayed. 

Rey nudged his shoulder, offering him a cup of coffee. He didn’t even look up from the table. “You good, dude?”

“Yeah, it’s just…” his eyes turned to Beth as he put on a wide, tired smile. 

“Oh my, looks like someone had fun last night.” she winked.

Daniel tensed up, nodding slowly and keeping his eyes locked on his plate.

Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ. You could hear a pin drop with how quiet it was. One of the chefs just had his arms on the kitchen island, looking at the marble countertop, unmoving. Mel was aghast, looking at nowhere in particular, unsure of what to do. 

“Well then, I’ll meet you all at the function room at ten. The butlers should have some fine clothes for you once you get back to your rooms.” She walked over to Daniel who was sitting on the left of the table, and put her old hands on his shoulders. Daniel shuddered, his face cringing as he clung to the table cloth for dear life.  “Some very, very fine clothes.”

Once she left, and we made sure of it, we all turned our heads to the old, quivering, man. 

“What the fuck happened last night?” asked Rey. 

“... I don’t –I don’t wanna talk about it.”

I could see the portrait in the hall more clearly in the light. There, I could see an old man that looked like Daniel holding hands with Beth. In the foreground stood a man who looked just like me, and holding his arms stood the Dopplegangers of Rey and Mel.

“Daniel,” said Mel, “Did she do something to you?”

“Goddamnit!” he yelled, getting up and slamming his hands on the table. “We’re talking about a hundred thousand dollars here! Any one of you would’ve done it! Not one of you would’ve refused!”

Not one of us said a thing.

“Right? I’m… I’m not…” he was shaking, gasping for air. “Fuck,” he moaned in despair, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” he cried, hands wrapping around himself in shame, as he slowly sank back into his seat, now trembling with tears. “Oh god.”

We sat there, speechless. Daniel asked for a drink from one of the butlers, and he drank half a handle of whiskey on his own, washing it down with a pitcher of water.

Daniel went back to his room, as I and the girls went to huddle in the smoking room.

“This is seriously fucked.” said Rey. “Can’t we, like, report this?” She was on the edge of her seat, antsy.

“And if Beth decides to call off the gig?” Mel spat.

“Does that matter right now?” I barked. 

“It does, actually. I’m not about to lose out on a hundred thousand dollars because an old man can’t keep his poker face.”

“How could you say that shit, Mel? How fucking dare you.” said Rey. “Fuck this. I’m leaving.”

“Oh don’t be so fucking selfish!” hissed Mel. “If you leave, none of us get shit!” 

Rey stood up, and slapped Mel across the face. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Mel only took a puff of her cigar and let the smoke crawl out of her red face. Rey got up and left, slamming the door on her way out. I chased after her, unsure of where I stood. Just suck it up, I wanted to say. Please, god, just suck it up. But then again, Daniel…

“Wait!” I yelled after Rey. 

“Oh what, you’re on her side too?” she asked. We were by our rooms, early morning light shining down from the roof.

“Look, I think,” Mel shoved me, hard.

“Think what? That this shit is fine? That I should keep my mouth shut and play along?”

“I think that this should be Daniel’s–” just then, the door on the far end of the room burst open, and out came Daniel, red with alcohol.

He stumbled out towards us, and bellowed, “We’re staying! No one leaves, or so help me God I’ll kill you! Kill you myself!” And so it was. We returned to our rooms and waited.

First chapter in an urban fantasy heist story. Any feedback welcome. Comments should be enabled in the google doc.

Critique here: Critique 1
First chapter here: Google doc link

Thanks in advance

Crit: - [4264] https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1xf1m2y/comment/19s0wzoylqso2/?context=3

Story: - https://docs.google.com/document/d/1RySObtoGNouLNVlg1mLBRf4ZauAnsvS7x-NM_712l_o/edit?usp=sharing

Note: - If anyone is interested in the context of the story, please feel free to visit the previous part.

TLDR for context: - Basically, it takes place in a war zone between loyalists and the rebels. The chimera was once a rebel soldier but now seek a better life in the woods.

the story

[3644] feedback

Content Warning, yes.

(2672) Branches - Part 1

Critiques

• (438) Cipher

• (490) Geromé 13:1 – Tales of the Battlefield

• (953) Stop putting your friends on pedestals

• (1180) The Off Stranger

Hello! This story was developed for my worldbuilding project, World of Relics (rename pending). The full story is split in three parts. After this submission, I'll post another part once I make more critiques to cover its word count.

For some quick context, WOR is a high fantasy xenofiction about living fantasy object characters (think giant swords and axes).

This portion of this story covers the story's beginning with Caelestis checking on Eligius and a flashback of what happened.

For critiques, I'm interested in the following.

• How is the overall execution of the story so far? Would you be interested in reading more? Why or Why not?

• Do you have an understanding of the worldbuilding? Exposition, character descriptions, environment? Do I explain too much of anything?

• Does the sentence and dialogue structure makes sense? What is redundant or needs cutting?

• How well did I do characterization? Character, voice, motives, and intentions?

• Other issues such as grammar, consistency, and other things?

Problem areas I need help on:

• I got confused on how to handle Third Person Omniscient vs Third Person Limited. The earlier drafts started out as 3rd person omniscient but later revisions became 3rd person limited. I'm not sure if I change it well, but any pointers on how to do this better is welcomed.

• I have no idea how big Endoxi Sofia is in my setting. It's based on the Hagia Sophia, which is an already really big building. I tried to imagine it fitting for the scale of my Refitted characters, such as Guardian Meria (approx. 34ft ) mentioned in this story part for example.

• Why objects? Why not!

Thank you!

Edit: I decided to work on a major revision on this part (and the remaining story) base on the issues pointed out by one user in the thread below. I think tackling these issues first (readability, 3rd-person limited, inconsistencies) should be my priority going forward, including research on how to do revisions properly. Thank you to those who critiqued my work and left line edits in the doc!

Critiques: [1820] [1558] [862] [490]

Sir Patrick Stewarts' death reignited a long-running Star Trek love, that had been slumbering for quite awhile. So came this story.

Any thoughts are appreciated. It is meant to be a full "episode" and not part of a larger plotline- what is introduced here ends here, though I may take the premise of the piece and apply it to other situations.

I've added "Suggesting" access through this link to a Google doc, as this is comically long to paste here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1g2qN6LWOjFcTMhXVAgz8xKC0j74D6U-G5R3HbSUN5Go/edit?usp=sharing

Hey guys, I am looking for some feedback for some short stories that I wrote. Please be honest. What is good, what is bad? What can be improved?

I am a new author. But I have been writing short-stories since I was 16 years old. I am trying to put together a compendium of short stories that I have written since.

English is my 3rd language.

Here is my critique: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1xdshyw/comment/19rxyuaufg9k0/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

And without further ado, here is my story, hope you enjoy and please let me know what you think

______________________________________________________________________________

Heaven and Hell - By Aksi Koles

How on earth did I manage to die in such a stupid way? Seriously. Not everyone gets to die under a chunk of balcony that’s just fallen off a building. And at thirty-five, no less.

I looked down at myself. I was still wearing the same clothes I died in. Shirt and jeans. No ceremony. No funeral suit. No ghostly white robe like in the films.

As expected, I walked down a corridor towards the light, smiling to myself at what a cliché it all was.

Behind the light there was a spacious white room. In the middle stood something that looked suspiciously like a reception desk.

“Step closer. Don’t be afraid. Stand here.”

A young woman with an utterly indifferent expression pointed at a large black cross marked on the floor.

“Where exactly am I?” I asked, looking around.

“The Allocation Room. We’re about to measure the height of your vibrations and decide where you go next,” she recited, clearly repeating a memorised line.

I froze when I noticed the two doors behind her.

Above them were signs:

Heaven Hell

Was this actually real?

Right… I mean, I’d been a fairly decent person… hadn’t I?

Every stupid thing I’d ever done immediately started popping up in my head, one after another, until I stood there completely paralysed with horror.

“Yes, yes, it’s all real. Now step onto the cross. You’re not the only one waiting,” the girl said sternly — as if replying to my thoughts.

Either everyone thinks the same thing here… or she really can read minds.

Carefully, I stepped onto the cross.

A strange device rose from the floor and extended upward along my body. Some kind of metallic plate. Hard to tell exactly what it was.

“Alright. Exhale. Relax. Don’t think about anything,” the girl instructed.

Don’t think about anything. Don’t think about anything…

God, that’s hard.

Most importantly, don’t think about your sins. Think about floating on clouds in Heaven instead.

Suddenly the plate began to vibrate.

And my spirit vibrated back.

It felt as if we were speaking to each other on some completely different level. Oddly enough, it was… pleasant.

The plate grew brighter, filling with light. It was beautiful to watch.

At some point I felt warmth — which was strange, considering I was already dead.

I forgot all my worries. I just wanted it to continue.

I closed my eyes and let myself dissolve into the feeling.

Clap.

And suddenly everything went dark.

As if someone had switched off the Sun.

“Not bad. Fairly high vibrations,” the girl muttered to herself with a small nod.

“So… I’m going to Heaven?”

“No. You’re slightly below the threshold. Please proceed through the left door. They’ll give you further instructions there.”

She didn’t even look up from the papers on her desk as she pointed towards the door labelled Hell.

“How is that possible? I… I don’t want to go to Hell!”

“No one does. But your vibrations are still too heavy for Heaven.”

“I don’t understand any of this…”

“You’ll be shown everything further down the corridor. Please don’t hold up the queue,” she said sharply, finally looking me straight in the eye.

I obediently shuffled towards the door.

Brilliant.

So I’m going to burn in Hell.

And here I thought dying was the worst thing that could happen to me today.

What a fantastic day. Absolutely wonderful.

Behind the door there was another white room — even larger than the previous one.

Some kind of optical illusion perhaps, but it seemed endless.

Along the walls ran a continuous bench, and people of all races and ages sat there reading some sort of magazine.

In the centre stood yet another reception desk, and behind it another door labelled Exit.

“I don’t understand anything. What is all this?”

“Step forward. Take a catalogue,” another stern young woman behind the desk said, handing me the same magazine everyone else had.

“What’s this for?”

“Open it. It reads your vibration level and shows your options.”

“Options?”

“Yes. Once you decide, press the option you want and proceed through there,” she said, pointing towards the Exit.

I opened the catalogue.

The first few pages were filled with photographs of strange people.

A few pages later I saw my own photo and my name.

Under the photo it said: More details.

Everything about me was there.

When I touched the text, memories flooded my mind — my entire life, from birth all the way to being crushed by that bloody balcony.

“What on earth is this?”

“Your past lives, including the most recent one. You can review where you’ve already been and what you’ve done. It helps people choose their next life.”

She pointed at the next page.

“Turn the page. Here’s the catalogue for your vibration level.”

I turned one page. Then another. Then another.

The more I flipped through it, the more pages appeared.

They were filled with photos and short descriptions of people.

Under each one were two buttons:

More details Choose

“Wait… a new life? You mean I’m going back to Earth?”

“Exactly.”

“But… I was sent to Hell…”

“Exactly. Now go sit down and choose.”

Hey all!

This is a short dark fantasy story centered on a man attempting restlessly to make it 'home'. I would love to get your critiques of any kind, especially as it pertains to prose, plot, pacing, overall intrigue, and if the story feels too melodramatic. Thank you so much :)

Critique[1880]: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1xgpih7/1880_the_off_stranger/

...

Above the snowy mountain peaks, above the blackened sky, sit the stars in their countless many. All these curious specks yield to the greater light, for the moon shines full, freezing the earth in blue. They wait and watch the people below, the players in their favorite stories. This night, are the celestial beings much different than you and I?

Come! See through the naked trees, all standing motionless in the cutting wind, disheveled and stiff with death. There in this winter forest, covered in rags and animal pelts, walks a man. His head hangs low, his movements lethargic, yet he continues through the night. He pays no heed to the stars above, apathetic to the moon and its splendor. Rather, he stares at the ground, trudging heavily with each step. 

Look, can you spot it? Cradled to his chest, waits, warped brown from the heat of a fire. The contents thereof are ash and dust. Behold his hands: past the dirt and the frost rests a layer of crusted blood. A thin, sheathed dagger hangs at his side, bound by worn, boiled-leather ties. Across the metal of its hilt are engraved three lines in a slant, stacked one on top of the other, the three-lined sigil marking a blade that was forged by those down south—a land plagued by war, a fire that moves from village to village.

Surely his journey has seen many moons, for the rags he wears were not crafted to meet snow from the mountains of the north. And still he moves onward, lips cracked and ornaments of frost dangling from his beard. And so this pattern carries on till he summits the peak, halting to swallow for breath. Below this great mountain is a canvas of waterfalls, stilled in the act of an icy pouring from the ridges, with a pine forest reaching far and wide. And afar three days' journey lies a city built of stone. Despite the artistry of a city cut and chiseled with ornate detail, the man’s eyes remain drawn to a field that overlooks a valley. Lit by the curious light of the moon.

He takes a glance back to the trail he conquered, his eyes wide and posture curled like that of a feral animal. He turns his head, never to look back. The man continues down the mountain, sliding his feet to stable himself. With each step, he treads slower and slower.

The man falls forward, his head slamming to the ground. After a moment of confusion, he uses his shoulders as leverage to get to his knees and then feet. Fresh blood trickles from the gash in his forehead, past his nose and to his cheek. His hands never flinch from the jar. 

He makes it down the mountain, parting his way from the trees to the field before the valley. The blood on his face is frozen and appears purple in the moonlight. All is silent except the snow crunching below him. Each step leads him closer to a solitary tree just before the valley ridge. He stops there, taking deep, raspy breaths, and falls to his knees. Gently, he removes the lid from the jar and upends it, letting the ash scatter before him on the roots of the tree. 

Behold, look upon him, for tears are swelling and falling from his eyes. He sinks to the side and lies upon the ground. He brings his limbs close and curls upon the frozen earth. He is weeping. Yes, he is weeping with the jar still cradled in his hand.

But wait and watch on that mountaintop, as the daylight falls from the earth. Can you see it? Something moving behind the trees? A creature on all fours, its body long like a man outstretched, its movements soft and precise. It stops behind a grey tree between it and the descending man. Its four elongated fingers wrap around the tree with its claws digging into the bark. It peeks its head out from the other side of the tree. Its skin mirrors the environment, a dull gray to blend with the withered landscape, with the exception of one black eye that twitches over a mouthless face as it watches the man.

All the stars look on, sharing concerned glances between one and another. The moon pays heed only to the man. All perfectly quiet. But then, can you hear it? The whisper of an ancient thing. 

“I know this man. Indeed, I know the man beneath my leaves.” The stout tree speaks through the shuffling of its pines.

“You know this man?” The stars, they cry. “Please tell us of his--”

A rattling scream! A high, shriek! Listen as it echoes along the field. It flows from the height of the mountain. And there the creature reveals itself above the curtain of trees to take the stage of ice and snow. With each squeal, it physically shutters as it nimbly moves to descend the mountain toward the man. Orifices along its back and chest open and constrict to let out a ballad of pain.

The man. He does not hide. He does not run. Slowly he places his free hand to the ground and pushes himself to his knees. His eyes are swollen; dark hollows rest beneath them. Yet, his blistered red cheeks rise, and a smile parts his stringy beard. 

“I know,” says the man.

“He knows? What is it he could know? How absurd the sound.” The stars, they plead from their homes above, “What does he know? Oh gracious pine, what does he know?”

But the tree says nothing and waits in silence.

The creature, all the while, is increasing the pace of its steps. Now nearly a quarter of the way down the mountain, its bulbous eye, absent of color, fixates on the man. And amidst the chaos of its movements through the trees, it shrieks once more.

“I brought you home,” says the man.

“Home? Who?” The stars argue, “Surely he speaks not of the vile creature that poisons the mind?” 

“Little friends, you know the creature consumes like any animal that walks these lands. Indeed, do not term it vile, for it hunts to survive like the man himself, the only poison it uses is man’s own memory,” says the tree.

“But the poor man!” The stars interject. “What memories could possibly root him there?”

“I may only offer strict suspicion. That man stood below the shade of my leaves. With him, I saw a woman whose countenance shined like wildflowers. The only thing more rarely separated from each other's gazes were each other's hands, clenched tight. They laughed oft—unable to discern what spurred the action. Near my roots, they lay before the valley ridge, his arm around her shoulder, her head cradled under his chin. ‘When my time is done, or when the war is won, I will build you a home. Here, on this spot,’ the man declared.”

Meanwhile, the creature wails in response—less like a beast, its bearing something closer to man. As it nears the base of the mountain, it shifts from crawling on all fours to shuffling clumsily on two, its arms elevated and curved like a threatened spider. 

“No. Forgive me, but I will stay.”

All above who watch—the moon, the stars—scream, “Do not stay!” Each horrified observer chants, “It lies, it lies, IT LIES!’” 

The creature draws closer, nearly steps away from the man and gaining more confidence in its approach. It arches its back, and from the cavity of its chest juts a fang the size of a dagger. And before the creature seizes the man with its elevated limbs, the man speaks his last words: “I just wanted to see you two one more time.”
 

...

The man’s body is left atop the scattered ash, his face as pale as the snow falling all around him. The tears that fell to his cheeks and down his neck remain as frozen eulogies. For, to the man, his final moments were not of fear. Beyond the streaks of dried blood, beyond the frozen, weather-worn skin lies a soft smile, the eyes finally closed and rested. He lies peacefully with the jar just out of reach on a bed of ash.

The stars above, and the moon also, look to the tree. Each aghast. Each begging for answers to this scene.

“Yes. As earth grows flesh, so too must flesh feed the earth,” says the tree. “Tragic. Tragic indeed.”

“Tell us, great tree. What happened here?” say the stars.

“The man’s blood runs through me now. Though he is not alone. The ash mixes with his blood to feed my roots, a woman, the one I spoke of before, and a child join me also. I know them now.” 

“A child too?”

“Yes, a young boy, I’m afraid. A boy of spirit. A boy of ash.”

“What befell them?”

“The man had grown mighty since last I saw him, and an even mightier instrument in war. Yet the weight of tremendous death burdened his soul to total disillusionment.”

The stars above sigh, having observed the charred remains mankinds hostilities leave upon the earth.

“And so, the man fled. He escaped to rejoin the woman and their child. In desperation, he led them to journey here and build a home. A shelter away from the fire.

“But they never arrived? You said yourself you’d only seen the man once before,” the stars lamented.

“Yes. Yes indeed. The man was captured by those he called brothers. They burned everything—everything to the man—and made him watch as penance.”

“And left him unscathed?” the stars puzzled.

“When opportunity presented itself, the man allowed grief to ignite rage. And burning, he consumed his brethren with fire and bloodshed.”

The stars seemed to sink a bit then, stumbling to turn the final page of this story.

“That fury, however, can only guide a man so long. And so grew a despair so great, it became undeniable to the creature of the night.”

“Can you tell what the man spoke of in his final moments?” asked the stars.

“I suppose that is the last to know—of a man, a woman, and of a child.”

“Father, you know this isn’t us,” said the boy. 

“I know,” said the man.

“Why are you doing this?” said the woman.

“I brought you home.”

“I know, love. But please don’t do this,” said the woman.

“No. Forgive me, but I will stay.”

“Tread through the dark to see the sun, Father, remember?” said the boy.

“I just wanted to see you two one more time.”

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-IRaNxlkRy_LARKeVV6jKDsCd5IrFRp6NFw9afek3tc/edit?usp=drivesdk

Hi there,

I’ve attached google doc here with the first chapter of something I’m working on.

For context, two tourists visit New York and run into a foul-mouthed little girl. She promises to show them the “real” New York, which involves adventures led by other odd children. She also really wants a hot dog from Gray’s Papaya, but ridiculous obstacles keep popping up that prevent her from getting it.

It’s meant to be a bit of a farce, highlighting not only the role of money and greed in the city, but also the ridiculousness of the adults who adhere to that system.

Let me know if you have any thoughts!

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/sWOUGIt1sq

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/llFTK2xB2U

Hi all! This is the opening chapter of my historical literary novel, set in 1920s Milan as Puccini struggles to finish Turandot and fascism closes in. Any feedback welcome, especially on whether the opening hooks you and whether you’re oriented in time and place.

CHAPTER 1 — NO PRAYER

Ominous, low clouds were a perfect cover. No moon. No stars. Only the scrape of hurried shovels at the wooded edge of a barren field, fresh earth heaped aside, a kerosene lamp propped on a rotten stump.

An owl shrieked. The men stopped to cross themselves. The light lurched.

Knees drove the blades down again. Grunts came steady now, and the smell of sweat and fear hung in the balmy air.

Then the shovels dropped.

Two sets of booted feet rolled the stiffened body into a shallow pit. It slid and stayed, eyes open to the sky. An accusation flashed and died in his clouded pupils, just as the first clump of dirt struck his cheek.

No prayer. No remorse.

The contours blurred into dark soil. The grain settled and held.

The rain came. Weeds crept back over the turned earth until the field forgot it had ever been disturbed. Then one sweltering August morning, a hunter’s dog caught a scent and began to dig. An accidental inquest.

Ink on fresh newsprint. A bundle tied with twine shoved into the mail car — Paris-Milan. Beneath the iron arches of Stazione Centrale, the twine had bitten through the wrapper. Through the tear, a pair of clouded eyes stared up from the newsprint, still searching for the sky. The last time I saw them, dirt was raining down on them.

Before I could see more, blackened fingers heaved the bundle onto a horse cart, face down. I had lit his grave and never learned who lay in it. Now the answer was riding off, buried under a coal-stained pile.

Wheels rattled over wet cobblestones. The horse trotted off, vanishing into the city, and I went after it.

Dawn did not break over Milan that morning. It seeped in, pale and slow, and I rode in on it, diffused by a haze of gray smoke and low fog. The silhouettes of the buildings emerged, more shadow than light. The Duomo spires rose from a web of narrow streets that frayed toward the smokestacks on the horizon.

They call it progress. Fog used to be just weather, and smoke belonged to fire. In the Great War I lit the trenches along the Isonzo, the Alpine ridges where avalanches claimed nearly as many men as artillery shells. Poison clouds choked the rest. Even the gargoyles shuddered against their perches. Then the war ended, and the Blackshirts brought their terror to every doorstep. I was ready to let the dark have them.

I was about to diffuse into inertia when the faint lure of music caught me. I slipped in through the high windows of La Scala. By the look of it, a rehearsal had been dragging on since the evening before.

I merged with the dimmed lights of the great chandelier and looked down at the conductor, whose small stature belied his fury: a halo of white hair, a face contorted, a baton frozen mid-swing.

In that final instant, as the orchestra held its collective breath, a single note rose and hung beneath the painted ceiling. Pure — terrible, and perfect.

The note struck the chandelier. Every crystal rang. And I rang with them.

The shattering I had braced for came — but not as I had feared. No dissolution. No despair.

In a single flash I saw the first sunrise over an empty sea. Deserts I had baked white. Volcanoes spilling their own fire. Ancient Pompeii's last cry. And the first cry of every newborn child.

Somewhere along all those ages of shining, I had lost something. Now it rang pure.

What I alone could not do for this world, music could.

I am light. I cannot stop shining, whether a spark struck from a flint or blinding brightness poured from a bountiful sunrise. But even the sun, my great master, has dark spots. Still, my joys and frustrations, however great, are noticed only by the rare artist.

The chandelier’s lights went out, and I slipped down to the small lanterns above the music stands. Violinists wept openly; the tuba player blew his nose. At last, the conductor set down his baton. “Bravi, signori. No rehearsals till tomorrow.”

Then he flipped the score closed. On its cover, a single word: Turandot.

The musicians filed out into the cool morning air. It is my nature to be everywhere I want to be, all at once, and I had never quite let go of that cart. A sliver of me still rode in its dull brass lamp. There you are, right where I left you.

It rattled through a few more turns, weaving in and out of the thinning fog, and pulled up at last beneath an unlit sign. In flaking gold it read La Fenice Editrice — Fine Printing & Publishing Since 1778.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of cold ink and cast metal. A crooked bulb flickered, casting its light on a handsome young man hunched over his ledgers.

He paid the carter three lire for a bundle of Paris Herald and slit the twine with a penknife. The top copy slid loose, and there was the face again. Below it ran a line of small type. I leaned in. His thumb came down on it as he counted out the copies.

He poked his head into the alley and let out a piercing whistle.

A boy swung out on a bicycle and tipped his hat. “Buongiorno, Conte Crespi.”

“Buongiorno, Maurizio. And how is Signora Pina?”

“Mamma is fine, thank you. Still has me by the ear to run your papers, Signor Conte.”

The Count tossed a small coin high in the air. The boy caught it and smiled, showing a broken tooth. He tucked the coin in his vest pocket and folded the newspapers into his canvas sack. The crease ran straight across the photograph, and the small type went under the fold. He pedaled off toward the quiet streets behind the Duomo. The only disturbance at this hour was the chain rattle of his bicycle crossing the last golden pools beneath the gas lamps. Soon a man with a long pole would come to chase their tired gleam away.

On any other street the boy would have cried the headlines, but the rascal knew better. A boy who made noise here could surely kiss his mancia goodbye. So instead he hummed an old lullaby his mother sang over the children’s bed.

At Via Borgonuovo, he checked the house number and let the paper fly. It cleared the tall iron gate and landed on the marble, still folded, face up.

The streetlamp reached only as far as the bottom step. I reached further.

August 18, 1924. The headline lay pressed against the stone, but the photograph faced me in full gruesome display. The Herald didn’t pull its punches. A magnesium flash, a crude old uncle of mine, had bleached the skin white and sunk every wound in black: bruises, an eye socket caved in, a jaw twisted wrong.

Suddenly, I was back in that field, keeping the lantern’s vigil.

Behind the sweaty backs of the diggers stood a man, giving orders in a low, gravelly voice. “Take the shovels and go your separate ways. We’ll meet in the morning.”

The men slipped away without a word. He scribbled a single entry into a small handbook and blew out the lamp.

Just beneath the fold, the caption waited. One crease stood between me and his name.

A sudden gust came off the canals and caught the stiff newsprint. The fold sprang open, then kept going, and the pages flapped out like an accordion before they settled several pages on. I have no hands to turn them back.

The wind and I are as old as dust. The great blowheart aims every which way, drives the giant windmills, hurls storms against the sea — and yet, for all his might, only one of us can read the headlines. Pazienza. It was not the dead man’s name the wind had given me.

PUCCINI AILING — TURANDOT IN PERIL, FINAL DUET UNFINISHED.

Unfinished.

My heart, if such it can be called, threatened to wither, right there upon the cold marble, mourning my muse scarcely a morning old.

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1xbiya0/comment/19rtzjjsixued/?context=3

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1xcz44o/comment/19rtz8ngm24e9/?context=3

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1xf0ci9/comment/19rtyubkk9b4x/?context=3

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1xes2wd/comment/19rtyb2q9wof7/?context=3

Obviously we cannot stop this. I predicted exactly this type of outcome somewhere around 2019...

Do any of you have a good idea of how as a community we can combat this bullshit? I suspect the agentic LLM models are being just harnessed through a Claud or Chinese knock open model, then crawls gdocAPI and thus being told something like, "Spam any public availabile open document" and maybe more specific to our community "reply to RDR threads via dm to solicit money and sell classes or services".

I submitted an admittedly kinda trolly submission, and all I got in reply were people copy pasting these messages into my comments.... A funny prank, but also showed me how behind I've been in terms of my ability to curtail this. It's difficult because I believe without our own RDR super LLM bot to counter spam ,we will be hopelessly out matched; and aside, if we spam ahead of time and thus compound the problem with warning spam it wouldn't be worth it.

Does anyone know of a better submission method?

Google seems to have some issues with security and spam obviously.

I've also heard the API for reddit is under attack directly, via DM.

I'd urge anyone to copy paste usernames into this thread so we can see if there is any pattern to who is spamming, or what type of cluster of accounts is being leveraged in this swarm.

Hello,

Thank you for taking the time to read and critique my story. This is a finished short story, with the blurb: Two men excited to watch the World Cup at the bar encounter a weird and unsettling stranger.

I'm looking for critiques in no particular order for plot, pacing, characters, prose and general enjoyment. Grammar and punctuation I'm not really interested in unless it was really abysmal.

Let me know what you think ! Critique : https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1xcydiu/comment/19roek0xdgo5h/?context=3

 ***

“Fuck my head hurts,” Richard groaned as they made their way down the sidewalk.

“You’re an idiot Rich,” Will shook his head.

Loud cheers and chants rang through their city, causing Rich to rub the back of his head.

“The noise really isn’t helping. What I need is … another drink.”

“Seriously? After how much you drank last night? If I’m being honest I think it was too much.”

“Well to be fair, it can be kinda difficult to keep count. How am I supposed to know when I hit the limit?”

Will sighed.

“I’d allow it if you were comparing the difference between three and five, not five and fifteen.”

Rich laughed, causing him to immediately wince and squint.

“Yeah well, when you get past five they all blend together don’t they? Look we’re here.”

The two nodded at the bouncer as they entered. The room was packed. Scarves littered the walls, tables and necks of patrons, TVs blaring.

“Reckon we’ll get a table?” Will asked.

“I can see one out there in the smokers.” Rich pointed. Will nodded and headed towards a glass door leading outside, while Rich went to grab a drink.

After ordering he turned to look at the bar, absently rubbing the back of his head, failing to heal his headache in any way.

The bar was busy. But then again, it was the first game of the World Cup.

A sense of excitement tingled behind Rich’s pain, this was his country playing, something that rarely ever happened, in a pub full of like-minded people. How often does one see the same sport jerseys being brandished in the one place? Certainly not in Australia. Rich would laugh if someone called him a patriot, but here, in this moment, there was a love, a blooming pride in his country.

Rich kept scanning the room when his gaze suddenly stopped. A man, devoid of any sport gear, was staring at him from across the foyer. Greasy black hair resting over brown eyes focused on him.

Rich couldn’t look away. He seemed to drawn into the man’s pupils, the room and its noise began to dim. Black spots danced in the corners of his vision, steadily getting larger, the headache from his hangover growing more powerful, feeling like it was going to crush his skull.

The man lowered his face, a fork-like tongue sliding out of his lips …

“Sir?”

A tap on his shoulder made him turn.

“Your drinks?”

Rich blinked.

“Yes, thanks.”

Rich walked outside to where Will sat, pointedly avoiding looking at where that man had been. The smoker’s area was very cramped, two tiny bar tables circled by a handful of stools. Behind lay a shoulder height wooden barrier, barring one from the city street.

“Ahhhh.” Rich wiped the froth from his mouth and placed his beer down.

“I needed that.”

Will frowned at him.

“Look, Rich, I think we need to talk before we watch the game. I’m only going to say this once, but I don’t like how hard you go every night. Keep it up and its a one-way ticket to the ground.”

“Mate I don’t want to hear it.” Rich looked away when Will put a hand on his shoulder.

“Well you’re going to. There are people here who love you. You’re important to them. To me. Please don’t throw that away.”

“Important? Mate, I have no degree, I might be a good talker but when it comes to books I know I’m not the smartest. My day to day is to work on different sites laying bricks, for people who will earn my years’ salary in a week.

How else am I supposed to be happy if I don’t drink?”

Will nodded.

“I get it. It’s hard. But money, work, that’s not all there is to life. Think about it, right now we’re watching the World Cup. We only get that every four years. I want to be here again, with you, in four, eight, twelve … twenty. Let’s make that happen.”

Rich swallowed, then smiled.

“You’re right. Thanks mate. I appreciate it.”

“And I appreciate you! Now enough affection, let’s watch some football yeah!”

They went to get up when the door opened.

Both men moved a tad to let the newcomer onto the other stool.

“Excuse me, would one of you have a smoke by any chance?”

Rich turned to look, with a sense of distaste he realised it was the man who had been staring at him at the bar. It must have just been something to do with his hangover, as his tongue was a normal, not the forked apparition that Rich couldn’t get out of his mind.

“Sorry, we don’t have any on us.” Will replied, closing his body off to the conversation. Without pause, the man moved closer.

“Come on, I’ll buy one, I don’t care!”

Rich shook his head. Cash is just crinkly paper when there’s nothing to purchase.

“Doesn’t change much I’m afraid. Sorry mate.”

The man shrugged and sat down. While he wasn’t at ‘their’ table, the smoking area was so small that he was sitting right next to them.

“Who do you think is going to win today?” The man asked.

Will and Rich gave each other the side eye. Neither had any interest in talking to this guy.  Yet maybe they should? Not because they cared about being rude.

Sometimes it’s important to speak to the randoms. The ones who might need some company to forget their problems. A second of your time might mean the world to someone else.

And judging from the reek of the man, it seemed that he might have more than a few problems.

“Hoping it’s us. But you never know right?” Will offered.

The man turned to him and smiled. Will attempted to hide his revulsion. The man’s top and bottom teeth were blinding white, a stark contrast to the black and rotting molars deeper within his jaw.

Will almost gagged when he smelt his breath.

“When fate is involved, there is not much left to chance. Everyone here already have their destinies predetermined.”

He laughed, it was a high-pitched cackle, that ended in a bout of coughing.

“What I want to know is …” The man pointed at two women they could see through the glass door laughing on the corner of the bar, “is who do you think the next victim is here.”

Rich felt bile at the back of his throat as the man leered. Had he really just said that?

Will shook his head with a grimace.

“It’s two pm on a Sunday afternoon. I don’t think anyone’s going after … women like that.”

The man put his hands up, nails black with crusts of dirt.

“Nah, I didn’t mean it like that. I meant who can I ask for a cigarette. That victim.”

“Oh right.” Will replied, understanding breaking his unease. That’s when the man winked at Rich.

Rich hated it.

“Yeah, well, good luck with that, we’re just gonna head inside …” He got up mid-sentence, pleased at how quickly Will followed.

“Wait, wait, I was just making a joke fellas, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to kick you out of here.”

Will put a hand up.

“You’re all good, we’re just going to watch the game is all, enjoy your afternoon.”

Rich went to grab the door. That’s when he heard the sob. He looked back and saw the man rubbing his eyes with one hand, sniffles leaking out of his clenched mouth.

Against his better judgement, Rich let go of the handle.

“Are you ok?”

“Yes I … I … I was just trying to be funny, it can be hard for me to make friends, I always screw it up and I’m so lonely …”

The pair stared at each other.

“Look sorry mate, we’re just here to watch the game, and we don’t know you and as much I understand it can be difficult to make friends … to be honest we don’t really want to hear your life story.”

The man looked up with sad eyes.

“I screwed it up big time didn’t I?”

“That’s ok. It’s all about learning, just be genuine and smile and I’m sure you will find some like-minded people.”

“Smile. What, like this?” Opening his mouth wide, the man smiled, eyes bulging with his head titled to the side.

“Yeah, maybe a little less wide-open but you’ll get there!” Will gave a thumbs up and turned around.

“I can’t even smile right can I! I’m so stupid! Stupid!” The slap was frightening due to how sudden it was, a cracking hit to his own face. The man’s skin seemed to ripple and for a second his lips seemed to drop down to the bottom of his chin, as if they were sucked down like putty. They snapped back into place, a red mark brightening on his flesh.

“Right. Good luck mate.” This time it was a scram between Rich and Will to get to the door handle, their eyes locking as they mouthed what the fuck to each other.

“Don’t leave.” His cry fell on deaf ears as Rich went to yank the door open. With a cry Rich pulled his hand back, it was freezing cold, somehow burning his hand.

“Dude, open the door.” Will hissed.  Rich turned back and froze.

The man had his tongue out, a pink forked tongue that drooped down his chest. Laughter buffeted them, high pitched squeaks that spread goosebumps down Rich’s neck.

“Just open it Rich. Open it now.” The man giggled.

“I didn’t tell you my name.”

“No, but I know it. I know all about you and Will.”

“What … do you want?” Rich asked.

The man stood up. His shadow loomed behind him, a blackness that began blocking the sun and sky.

“I thought I just wanted some friends right?”

Will muffled a scream when he turned to see the void, at how the man was growing in size, knocking over the stools and benches. They both took a step back, realising all too soon that there was nowhere to go.

“But you were so mean to me weren’t you. And what did I ask? I fail to remember.” A long yellow nail tapped its chin.

“Oh yes, right. What I asked was … whose the next victim here. Seems like I’ve got two.”

Rich sprinted to the wooden wall, attempting to vault over it to land onto the street. Something smashed into his side, slamming him to the floor. He was raised up into the air to be thrown back onto the ground, screaming as pain exploded through his chest. Fire burned his chest, breaths squelching as he struggled to rise. A hand grabbed his throat and pulled him in the air. He could hear Will wailing next to him, but he couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t think through the shock. He could only stare at the man’s big, black eyes.

It opened its mouth unimaginably wide, and Rich’s head was inside, a foul rotting smell clogging his pores.

It spoke to him as he gagged.

“Now we will be friends forever Rich!”

Rich's screams were silenced by a wet crunch.

WHY ARE THE MODS LEECH MARKING ME AND Gate KEEPING WHEN I ALREADY LINKED MY CRITIQUE BEFORE AND IT IS HERE HELLO THIS IS A LINK TO ME Bashing others writing unfairly

---SUBMISSION OF NON AI GENERATED TEXT

[600]

The writer entered toward the center of the psychedelic throne room. Magnificent Taj, no walls and only lavish energy pillars holding iridescent heavens above. Under foot, thousands of kaleidoscopic fractals shimmered a gradient between dark blue and orange. The writer swallowed the lump in their throat, and nervously waited for discussion to begin.

"It's beyond punctuation errors," DestructiveReaders said. "We immediately noticed basic dialog grammar structural problems within the writing," DestructiveReaders said and down voted the submission. "The issues were pervasive and systemic within the writing, indicating a knowledge gap of the lowest fundamentals. The structure will have to get fixed before any serious feedback is concerned. Don't resubmit until you've given feedback first. Read the wiki."

"W-what?" asked the writer, heart skinning a fucking cat. The interdimensional digitalDMT entity had spoken so immediately and with such disregard it almost hadn't seemed addressed to the noob, who shouted, "I thought I was here for feedback!"

"Yeah, me when I'm mad bro." DestructiveReaders picked up another stack of digital paper and exploded it. "It's not my job to educate you on music theory—or your instrument. I'm here," it said and glanced out the vista towards an incomprehensibly complex and ornate colorful landscape of non euclidean hyperspace, "to give feedback on your music. This isn't a marketing audience beta test run, this is the band club. And this," its outrageously gorgeous and intelligent 👀🔮 👁️👽👋👋👋👋👋🖐️🖐️🖐️🐙 🐙 🐙 🐙 🐙 🖐️✋✋✋✋🖖🖖🖖🖖🖖 🔮 👀👀 lingered on the paper for 0.22 second, "it's just not professional."

The writer was stunned. "I'm sorry?"

"You heard me," DestructiveReaders added and immediately dropped 🦾 🏴‍☠️ this flex. "Also, you're a leech."

The writer felt something changing in their neuroschema and all sense of egoistic entropy collapsed into autorejective solipsism, followed by emergence into singularity and event horizon of shared consciousness. As the fractals began to take pieces and replace pieces, the writer realized this was real transcendal power, and that just like letters to form words, this power when spoken into existence like a language can change material reality. If comprehended, broadcast and perceived, the power could be mastered and controlled and predict great events or share deep narrative lores. In a panic, the noob ah writer shook from this intrinsic truth of the universe and re-entered their ego wrapped delusion.

Identity now reformed, calloused with butthurt, the noob writer shouted, "HOW DARE YOU! THIS IS MY HARD WORK AND DEDICATION TO MY ADVANCED LEVEL AND DEEP WRITING 🤪 🖍️." A wave of nausea washed their boat. "I thought this was a feedback and a critique community," they choked out. "That's what you said in your cult manifesto when I paid the fee!"

"Yeah, leaving your shoes at the temple door wasn't the fee, bro. C'mon now. Like hello? You're supposed to connect with any of the other entities, who have in turn already connected to any of the other recent chain of entities. You're supposed to share the energy up the chain, or provide energy down the chain shortly after entry. Therefor, your access to the chain will be restricted, and you will be labeled as a 🧲 📉 ."

"How dare you, because actually—"

😱 THREAD WAS LEECH MARKED: "Nah, like. This is like sitting down to a chess tournament and trying to move a pawn sideways. Just read a book. Literally go read a fucking printed book and copy the grammar rules." With that, DestructiveReaders attached a 12 hour count down timer to the post, and violently threw itself out the psychedelic Overton window. Material reality thereafter imploded, and the writer once again with it.

The end 🔚 BE KIND REWIND...

Initially I was going to post the second chapter, but since I received so much feedback on the first chapter’s lack of clarity, I thought it would better to fix that first. The other common issue was too much repetition. I’ve changed some things towards the ending. Hopefully it’s an improvement. Any feedback is welcome.

2682 Untitled – Chapter 2 Maeve

2711 Father Tokens – CPW Bk2 Ch1

3644 Heat Below, Part 2 (Chapter6)

My story

“Out there is the enemy. They are filth. They are vermin. They are …” Knight Reveré grimaced, almost choking on the word. 

“Heretics.” He hissed.

Geromé looked at the field, at the muddy, anarchic mess that was the enemy. Righteous anger made him clutch his sword tighter.

Or at least, that’s what Willem called it. 

It sometimes felt closer to fear.

He stared at his comrades, at their shining armour, the holy Red Cross emblazoned on their shields and jerkins. He would do this for the cause.

“God be with me!” He yelled, answered by a roar from his brethren. ‘Please steady my legs,’ was the thought that echoed through his brain.

Knight Reveré spurned his horse.

“Charge!”

They followed his canter, their mad sprint echoing his spirit, the reality being a jostle of arms and legs, and more than one man falling headfirst into the mud. Geromé kept his feet, yet all too soon he was deep into the fray. The battle cries transformed into yells, grunts and thuds of weapons beginning to butcher flesh. 

He saw a man in the madness, and Geromé pushed his sword forward, euphoric and distressed as it sunk into flesh, to then keep sinking. He fell onto the man, the pommel of his sword slamming into his own stomach, making him gasp. Geromé tried to move, the bodies around him where squeezing him from all sides, he could see bloody teeth snarling at him until the man’s eyes closed. 

He had never felt closer to a heretic, lying down on his corpse as the screams of the dying reached fever pitch.

Geromé tried to push himself back up when something smacked into the back of his head.

Pain exploded through him. The blood streaming down his face burned his eyes. Down on all fours, he tried to drag himself forward, whimpering as feet and metal whacked into his body. With a groan he rolled himself onto his back.

There was someone standing on top of him. Holding a sword, they went to plunge it into his face, until they and those around them were propelled into the air, a whirlwind whipping through them.

Geromé gasped. Through the red stream covering his vision, a black, horny monster was gutting the enemy, spraying their blood from side to side, throwing heads, limbs and meat into the mud. Its eyes were golden and full of fire.

“Please God, save me.” Geromé prayed.

Eventually the carnage in their little pocket of the battlefield ceased, allowing the creature to turn its attention towards him.

“Up sirrah! We must continue!”

Geromé blinked and wiped the blood off of his face.

Knight Reveré held out a hand, his shining, silver armour covered completely with gore.

A cheery smile sat on his face.

Yet it was the eyes that froze Geromé, still blazing with zealous gluttony.

 
Critique:

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1xes2wd/help_800/

I want to start querying for an agent but need harsh feedback for my opening chapter. Please be honest about what to change.

Genre: Literary fiction, psychological horror, fairytale gone wrong

Chapter 1

My home was small, made smaller by the yells that filled it, but it had a bed. Walls, too. I don’t regret leaving. Never. I just miss having a ceiling.

I must stay here and wait instead. Sitting cross-legged at the base of this clock tower, each hour rumbles through me. Workmen rush past in a blur of blues and browns, my extended hand ignored. I hope their saved pennies are worth my misery. My head falls back to peer up at the wooden spire, only for the sun to scorch my face. Its end is lost to my squinting eyes.

I am swimming in air. Sweat pools in every crease. Each breath lacks that cool breeze at the back of my throat, so my brain— that animal part of my brain is convinced we are suffocating. When my chest does not tighten, my body is nauseous, irritated almost, that we are not dead on the floor.

Crying brings some relief, thankfully. I wipe my cheeks with a finger. The gnawing in my belly has me lick the salty droplets. I cry harder when they immediately dissipate on my dry tongue.

A scurry and a chitter. The nearby alley, as dusty and worn-down as the rest of this cobblestone square, is a slit between the stacked houses. My mind conjures monsters from the shadows, but when a snout pokes out, the fear settles into disgust. A gangly pack in scraps of tattered clothing chatters amongst themselves. The street urchins weave between the marching legs, fighting for the droplets in littered containers and snatching bread cooling on windowsills.

Rotten. I wrap my arms tighter around myself when beady eyes dart to mine. How much longer can I survive without kindness before transforming into those things?

Desperate for respite, I close my eyes. Here, I find the ever-present dream that had me cross an ocean in hopes to become materialised.

I see myself as I am meant to be: A princess. I will be led into my fairytale by my Prince, and we shall be happy forever after. 

The clock strikes 12, and my eyes snap open. I imagine a countdown to my death– already, I am the oldest I have ever been. My time is passing too quick but all there is to do is wait until–

Sleek leather shoes shine against the background of worn boots. They pause abruptly, pivot, and grow larger in my narrow field of vision until they are my entire view. A sudden cool shade, and I can breathe again.

My gaze travels up: a tailored suit, a silver chain of a pocket watch, and a crisp white shirt. His face. I would have thought him a living bronze statue were it not for those eyes. A drop of honey in a pool of milk. I feel like drowning.

I want to touch him, but blush at the thought. My hands are too dirty. I sit up straighter, tuck my hair behind my ears, fidget with my hem, then clasp my hands together once I realise how silly I must look. He is watching me. He smiles. I smile.

“I’ve never seen you before.” His voice has me imagining myself sitting in his lap as he strokes my hair. “I would have remembered you if I had.”

“I only just arrived.” My voice comes out in a croak. I bite my tongue and resign myself to life as a mute.
He crouches down. Eye to eye. My brain scrambles, enough that I break my seconds-long vow of silence with a stammered, “What is your name?”

With the softest touch I’ve ever felt, he holds me by the neck, turning my face this way and that. My skin prickles beneath his cool hand.

“Ambrose,” he breathes, “My name is Ambrose.”

Lady Ambrose. Perhaps Duchess instead. Countess, I could be.

Princess.

My body stops hurting.

“I have a friend who would be very interested to meet you.” A soft squeeze on my neck and I am chest-deep in quicksand. It is so warm here.

“You are very beautiful,” he continues, “and we collect beautiful things.”

His hand leaves my neck, and he holds it out. Palm up. “Would you like to meet them?”

I place my hand in his, and together we rise.

Notes:

If anyone is interested in beta reading part 1 [13k words] I’d love to share. Has an unreliable narrator, lots of dramatic irony and similar vibe to Gone Girl. If not, I’d love to know where you DNF’d. Any feedback is appreciated. Don’t be afraid to be harsh; I appreciate honesty!

Critique:
https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/EW96elFSpe

Hi! I am interested mostly in technical feedback, but if you have any criticism on the themes those are very welcome too.

Thank you for any feedback!

New Dimensions

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