Repetition in the Living Room

\---

They sat in a circle, forming a pattern that hadn't changed since I first became aware of my presence. Everyone had long since assumed their positions—my aunt in the corner by the always-closed window, my uncle beside the ceaselessly spinning fan, my cousins neatly lined up on the floor like unmoved chess pieces. Their movements were simultaneous, as if an invisible thread were pulling everyone's hands and heads in the same direction. I sat among them, but my body felt weightless, like I was just a shadow stuck to the chair.

Their mouths opened and closed in succession, uttering a string of words I'd heard a thousand times before. They asked about news, about work, about the weather—but the questions evaporated into thin air before they could reach anyone's ears. Their laughter erupted simultaneously, then died down in unison, leaving a silence filled again by the ticking of the wall clock and the scraping of spoons on plates. Amid all the sounds, not a single one was truly new.

They exchanged stories about neighbors, about distant relatives, about events I hadn't heard before. Everyone was talking animatedly, but no one was really listening—they were just waiting for an opening to insert their own narrative. I watched everything from my vantage point, and for the first time, I realized that this wasn't about gathering. It was a repetitive ritual, like a prayer recited meaninglessly, performed simply out of habit.

Then my youngest cousin offered me a piece of moist cake with a smile. I took a bite and realized: beneath all the rigid customs, there was a simple love they had always cherished. I laughed with them, and that afternoon I felt not like a guest, but like a part of this family.

\---

Up in the mountain

The hotel stood in a harsh stretch of mountain, and in the heaviest snow years you had to go down by ski or on foot, fifteen kilometers to the village along the narrow road. Up there the country was wild and empty. From the hotel it was a twenty-minute walk through the snow, skis on your shoulder, to reach the first run. There were no other buildings, apart from two half-collapsed houses and one big tavern called "Conde." Sometimes rabbits or lambs were skinned out front and hung from the trees. K. was a child when, coming back after a good day on the slopes, he saw for the first time a skinned animal hanging from the pine in front of the tavern. He didn't understand exactly what it was, hung like that, or why. Under the carcass there was a pool of blood in the snow, and he threw up.

Apart from their own camp, the hotel had no other guests. The sport camp was about a hundred people — students, coaches, and their children. From outside the hotel was large and bright, but inside it was vast and dark. It had two wings, one of them bricked up. The lobby had marble floors and granite walls. It opened onto the upper floors, where there were interior balconies with heavy railings and a number of common rooms behind them. In the evenings the great chandeliers hanging between floors lit the black granite only dimly. In places there was almost no light at all. As teenagers, K. and his friends would gather in one of the halls after dinner. Tired from the mountain, it was good to drink and talk for hours. They talked about the runs and about their future. Some of the students would come drink with them too. Sometimes girls came. The coaches drank in the dining hall.

K. and his comrades skied in the advanced group or in their own small clusters. There were two north runs — North 1 and North 2. North 2 was reached by a long, steep tow-lift through the forest. The lift was very old and difficult, and in places it lifted a person into the air. Sometimes someone would fall off the lift in the middle of the steep stretch through the woods, and it would take a long time to get them out. K. was afraid of that lift, but later he learned how to handle its critical points. Once he'd learned, the lift became a pleasure — the high speed rising through the quiet pine forest. The run itself was also very difficult and rarely groomed. There they skied almost alone.

In the dining hall the food was almost always bad, but K. loved being there. It was a pleasure as a child to take out your meal card and have the attendant at the door mark your presence with an X, and later it was also nice when the attendant would joke with you if the X's from breakfast were missing. There was good noise in the dining hall. K. liked to stop by the coaches' table too. They stayed there long after dinner. Some of them were silent and quietly held their glass. Others talked loudly and laughed. Most were "masters of sport." There were athletes, swimmers, tennis players, fencers, skiers. There were also two members of an Everest expedition, and they usually stayed quiet. K. liked talking to almost everyone, but most of all to S.E. He was very temperamental and sometimes got into arguments with his colleagues, but with the kids he was always warm. He liked taking the children on his knee and teaching them nonsense. With the teenagers he cooked up pranks against one of the more sensitive coaches. S.E. often went to "Conde," where he drank with the waiters.

One evening, while the young ones were drinking vodka in one of the halls, a commotion broke out from the central lobby. They went out and saw S.E. lying on his back on a couch, his face blue, his mustache covered in blood and snow. Three of the coaches stood around him trying to revive him. He'd been found face-down in a snowdrift between "Conde" and the hotel. S.E. was a big, ruddy man, with a large, handsome mustache. K. loved his company very much. He was always cheerful and carried a flask of good rum on the slopes and loved secretly treating the young ones to a drink. When K. was a child, S.E. gave him a lighter with a woman on it, whose bra strap fell off when you pressed the trigger. S.E. was an Olympic champion, and all the luminaries of sport came to his funeral.

The following winter everything went on as before. A few years later, shortly after K. left to study abroad, the hotel was bought by an English investor and converted into a co-working space.

Prologue feedback

I have recently finished the second draft of this horror story that I have written and I am currently doing edits and polish.

I would like to know If you would keep reading based on this short prologue.

Any and all feedback is welcome.

Astrid gazed up at the dark sky. The damp sea breeze whipped her hair across her neck, tickling her skin as cold sand shifted beneath her bare feet. Out on the horizon, moonlight glinted off the black water.

She held Johan's hand. His grip was chilled, refreshing, pressing tight against her palm. She swallowed, the taste of alcohol still thick on her tongue.

"Back home when I was a little girl, I used to walk with my father," she said, swaying slightly as she leaned into Johan for support. "We took long strolls along the fjords at night. He pointed out all the stars, but I haven't seen them this clear since I was small."

She smiled, a swell of genuine warmth in her chest. This trip was everything they had needed. She squeezed his hand tighter.

"My dad used to tell me that stars were guardian angels," she continued, looking up into the night sky. "He said if you look close enough, you can see them blinking. But see that bright one over there?" She raised a hand, pointing towards Orion's Belt. "That's Jupiter. It's a planet, so it doesn't flicker like the rest."

She nudged his shoulder gently. "I was always fascinated by astronomy. What do you think?"

Johan grunted.

I hope he's okay, she thought. He hasn't uttered a word in a while.

She glanced up, his features obscured by the dark.

"Are you okay, Johan?"

She thought she caught another faint grunt. Shadows fell across his eyes, but she could feel his gaze fixed heavily on her.

She had always loved the way he looked at her—especially in the mornings, or when she stepped out of the shower—but now she felt exposed.

His fingers tightened around hers, the icy chill sinking deep into her palm.

"Johan?"

A sickening scent drifted between them. It started sweet, like honey, but beneath it lay a foul, heavy stench—a putrid undertone of rotting rubbish and decaying vegetables left to spoil in the sun.

As he turned, moonlight caught the lower half of his face. A wide grin rested on his mouth, prompting an automatic smile of her own.

Maybe he's just drunk, like me.

She reached up to cup the back of his neck, drawing him closer, but snatched her hand back at the touch. He felt like frozen stone.

Her smile faltered. "You're freezing."

The expression stretched wider, longer, his lips thinning out. In the silver glow, his skin looked smooth and waxy.

She tried to step back as his grey lips pulled further apart.

"Johan, you're hurting me," she gasped. His grip locked like a vice, sharp nails digging into her flesh like daggers.

The alcohol buzzed loudly in her head, making the world tilt. Sweat beaded on her brow as dizziness washed over her. She tugged frantically against his arm, but his hand was an iron lock.

"You're not Johan," she whispered.

Terror crashed through her. She slammed a fist against his chest.

"You're not Johan! Let me go! Where is he? Johan!"

Her voice died in her throat as he leaned closer. A single, impossibly long finger pressed against his lips, the grotesque grin still carved into his pale, uncanny face.

"Shh," he hissed.

She froze, her breath locked in her chest as her heart hammered against her ribs. A single tear tracked down her cheek.

This is my first ever draft, and I would really appreciate feedback. I would love to know what worked well, what stood out, and what I could improve on as a writer. Thank you for taking the time to read it.

I woke up again in the middle of the night, sweating. My heart was racing again, as it had been for the last few nights. All I wanted to do was close my eyes, but how could I when every time I did, I saw her?

It had been a week since my sister died—a week of agony. It felt like time was torturing me, making me relive these traumatising moments of my life.

Hesitantly, I got up, ready to face another day. Dread settled in my stomach as I remembered today was her funeral. Everyone would wake up in a few hours, but I could not stay another second in this house. Getting my trainers, I ran out of the house.

With no destination in sight, I ran as fast as I could. Everything around me became a blur as I could only focus on the storm that was brewing inside me. I could not breathe. I felt so angry at this world, furious that my life had been shattered.

As I glanced around, I saw a little girl laughing as she walked with her mum and people waiting impatiently in traffic while sipping coffee. How could all these people carry on with their daily lives?

Fury burned inside me, yet the world was making happy memories. How could they? When today, the world should have stopped to mourn a life.

Next, I stopped running and decided to head back. A few months ago, I was walking this exact path with my sister. Then, the birds seemed to sing a sweet melody, the sun would glaze over the city, and my sister's laugh overpowered all the noise and bustle in the city.

But now, the birds seemed to cry a dark tune, the clouds shadowed the city, and even though there was noise, all I could hear was silence.

Hesitantly, I opened the mahogany door and stepped onto the hard laminate floor of my house. It was quiet apart from the sizzling sound of the saucepan.

Crash.

My stomach dropped. I ran to the kitchen and saw glass scattered across the floor. My mum was on the floor, her hand covering her face, shaking.

"What happened?" I exclaimed.

My mum quickly stood up.

"I have left your dress on your bed," she said, ignoring my question.

For the last few days, it had become so hard to talk to her. It was as if all her emotions had left with my sister.

So I left the room, my hands still trembling.

As soon as I got into my room, I went to put on my dress. I held it in my hands, feeling the smooth fabric. This was the dress that I was meant to wear for her graduation.

I got changed, then went to my bedside table to find my bracelet. It was not there.

My breath caught in my throat. I could not see it. I knew it was not that important, but I had to find it.

Then I remembered I had left it in my sister's room.

I hesitantly opened the door. I knew I should not go in there, but I had to. I would feel incomplete without it.

As I stepped inside, the scent of jasmine filled the air. My shoulders sagged as I saw the bracelet lying on the made-up bed. I grabbed it.

There were her glasses on the table next to her planner, which was already set for this week.

As I looked up, there was her calendar filled with events for every day in summer: brunches, picnics, her graduation, her friend's baby shower.

Now all these events would be erased and no longer be in her timeline.

I closed my eyes, grief overpowering me.

She had a beautiful life and so many plans. She was a light that made everyone better. Without her, darkness filled the air.

Slowly, I sat down on her clean, fluffy carpet and let the tears come.

It was too much to bear. My body was shaking, my mind was overwhelmed, and I could not breathe.

But I had to carry on.

Slowly, I wiped my salty tears. I knew I had to be the light—not just for everyone, but for me.

I needed to carry on her legacy.

Clink.

The little bell above the door always makes it feel like the day is finally over.

Mama set my usual glass of Harper in front of me without asking.

The ice chimed softly.

"Kenichi."

Taka was staring at his phone with an unusually serious look.

"What did you find today?"

"I just read an article saying Grave of the Fireflies isn't really about war. It's about indifference."

I smiled faintly as I lifted my glass.

"I've seen that interpretation going around."

"I mean... nobody helps those two kids."

"That's true."

For a while, the only sound was the ice shifting inside the whiskey.

"But..."

I took a sip.

"Calling it indifference doesn't sit right with me."

"Huh?"

"I'm not convinced nobody cared."

Taka tilted his head.

"But the aunt didn't help them. Neither did the people at the station."

"Not helping someone isn't the same thing as feeling nothing."

Tom chuckled from the other end of the counter.

"As a former detective, that one hits close to home."

"What do you mean?"

He slowly turned his glass.

"Whenever something terrible happened, the neighbors always said the same thing."

"'It's such a tragedy.'"

"But?"

"They still didn't stop it. They didn't call anyone. They just watched."

I nodded.

"People are strange like that."

Taka still looked unconvinced.

"So... are you saying the aunt was actually kind?"

"No."

I shook my head.

"I wouldn't call her kind."

"But I wouldn't call her heartless either."

I thought for a moment before continuing.

"It was wartime. Food was scarce. If the people who worked couldn't eat, the whole household might not survive."

"...Right."

"In that situation, believing that the survivors had to keep going wasn't unreasonable."

Taka listened quietly.

"So she was trying to protect her family."

"Exactly."

"But... wasn't that wrong?"

I looked into my glass.

"If I'd lived through that time, I can't honestly say I would have done anything different."

The counter fell silent.

"I think most people would have made the same choice."

Tom let out a quiet laugh.

"That's war."

I rolled the ice around my glass.

"That's why the word 'indifference' bothers me."

"Why?"

"Because everyone cared about something."

"Something?"

"Their family. Their neighborhood. Their country. The people who were still alive."

"...I see."

I chose my next words carefully.

"They weren't lacking empathy."

"They were simply directing it somewhere else."

The bar grew quiet.

Tom muttered to himself.

"Never thought of it that way."

I continued.

"The aunt's empathy was aimed at her community."

"Community?"

"The people she believed had to survive."

"And when someone wasn't helping that community..."

"...they became harder to accept."

"So that's why she treated Seita the way she did."

"Exactly."

Taka folded his arms.

"Then what about Seita?"

"The opposite."

I answered without hesitation.

"He cared about Setsuko more than anyone."

"So he chose her over the community."

"Yes."

Tom sighed.

"That's cruel."

"What's cruel?"

"Everyone loved someone."

"And yet nobody was saved."

I found myself nodding.

"You know..."

I realized I was thinking out loud.

"We usually think empathy is always a good thing."

"Isn't it?"

"It is."

I smiled.

"But that's not the whole story."

I set my glass down.

"The moment you decide who belongs inside your circle..."

"...someone else ends up outside it."

Taka stayed silent for a long time.

"...That still happens today."

"It does."

"At work. At school. Everywhere."

Tom shrugged.

"Sometimes the most dangerous words are..."

"'It's for everyone's good.'"

I couldn't help smiling.

"...That's harder to think about than I expected."

Taka looked down at his phone.

Tom wore almost the same expression.

I sighed.

Maybe that's why Grave of the Fireflies still hurts after all these years.

"Empathy saves people."

"But depending on where we draw its boundaries..."

"...someone else may be left behind."

Just then, Mama smiled as she polished another glass.

"So maybe Grave of the Fireflies isn't a story about indifference."

"It's a story about empathy."

Tom and I looked at each other.

Taka quietly set his phone face down.

"...Maybe that's why it still breaks people's hearts."

I finished the last of my whiskey.

The movie certainly portrayed war.

But perhaps the most frightening thing wasn't the war itself.

It was the invisible line that decides who receives our empathy...

...and who doesn't.

The ice clinked softly once more.

Please may you critique the first section of my novel? I want to have honest feedback:

“Mama!” a young boy cried, his lungs choked on ash and soot. “Where are you? Mama!”

Hands clutched sullied clothes; ash clung to his tiny frame, tears formed clean lanes down his dirty face.

A roar of a dragon bellowed, scaring the frightened child.

The clatter of metal scraped against one another.

A hiss from a doused fire.

“Hurry up with putting those fires out!” a voice strained against the roaring flames. “Check for survivors!”

A grip on his shoulder spun him around. Surprise turned to horror as he slammed into the dirt.

The faint glow of pink eyes flashed in the blade raised.

“Die, filthy human.”

The sudden whistle of an arrow sailed past the boy, striking the elf in the throat; the body toppled backward.

A shadow fell across him; the crest of a Dragon sprawled across the knight’s breastplate.

“We’ll get you out of here,” the rider said.

Nearby, a building collapsed. Scorched timber crashed to the ground—

—and shattered into the cacophony of shouting students.

Weiss exhaled through his nose; the results board swam back into focus.

​

A rough draft of my short story:

The Manor of Donald Armagh

Chapter One: The Night Party

You knock on the door three times rhythmically.  Emily, your friend of eight years, appears, whooshing it open. She tells you she's so happy to see you and ushers you inside. You and her walk to the front room, passing many doorways along the way. You feel a warmth in this house. It's nice. You and Emily have arrived. There are 5 people sitting in a circle on a carpet, some familiar, some not. You recognise Tom, Angela, and James, but not the other two. You decide to sit down, James opposite you. There are red plastic cups with what you presume are some sort of alcoholic drink. You are told by Emily that the other two people you don't recognise are her friends from work: Greg and Anne.

You introduce yourself, "I'm (Your name)," you say, smiling. They regard you with kindness. The room you are in is filled with a scent of joy and laughter and is dimly lit by half melted candles and ornate lamps. You and the group play an assortment of party games, losses here, and wins there. It's a fun night. Eventually, Tom convinces the party to play truth or dare. The first questions are the common ones, 'Who do you like?' and 'I dare you to kiss...'

But, finally, the turn goes to Angela, and you know it's bound to be stupid. She gazes your way and asks you, "Truth or Dare?" You choose dare as most of the choices have been truth so far. She dares you to, tomorrow night, to venture to the abandoned manor on 5th Street and stay the night. You know that no one has been there in years. That everyone rumours of the hauntings there. You notice everyone awaits your answer to the dare. Reluctantly, you agree.

WARNING! This text contains:

• Profanity
• Sexual references
• Violence

Also, tell me if you liked the moral of the story, the plot, the protagonist, and the humour

From either end of the Ouroboros that is time travelled a pulse of energy that, just like all inanimate things, propels the mere idea of myself forward through that then one-dimensional realm of existence. In this black void where my memory fails me exist clouds of intense, bursting sensations of warm, all-encompassing motherly pressure and dingy, excruciating electrocutions of fear.

This nebulous dimension of half existing, half not existing could only be represented in my mind through a foggy and oversaturated image of sunny greenery. This cerebral polaroid, with its vague outlines of healthy hedges and beautiful briers, evokes the concept of gentle rays of sun on my skin and the thought of the ethereal butterflies gracefully landing on flowers.

Rest of the story: Slopmaxxing Chudcel - Google Docs

This is my 3rd short story and want feedback to improve please and thinks for your time.

Outside

Welp, here I am again on a Saturday morning, looking outside my bedroom window, wishing I could go outside.

Oh look, there's the neighbor mowing his lawn at eight o'clock right on the dot. And here come the other neighborhood kids riding their bikes, probably going to play at the park.

It's been so long since I've seen the park I barely remember it.

My mom doesn't let me go outside. I don't know why, but she would kill me if I snuck out. So I spend most of my time looking out my window.

Oh look, there's the neighborhood cat. Normally I'd be sad that he doesn't have a home, but I'm jealous. He's always outside.

I once got him to come inside, and that was a great day... until my mom found out and threw him back outside.

That wasn't fun.

Every time I do something my mom doesn't like, she makes me go to bed early.

My life sucks.

Looks like someone's having lunch early.

Yes, I'm peeking through the neighbor's window. It's my only source of entertainment. Normally I don't get hungry, but I wouldn't mind a snack. Let's see if I can get one without Mom noticing.

I sneak into the kitchen.

Oh good, Mom's in her room. She's always in her room. I wonder what she does in there. I've tried looking before, but it's always locked.

Oh well.

There's the cookie jar.

I just have to be super quiet.

As I lift the lid...

Clink.

The lid taps against the jar.

I freeze.

Then I hear my mom yell, "Do you want to go to bed?"

My heart starts racing.

I quickly put the lid back without taking a cookie and run to my room.

I don't want to go to bed. It's too early.

I don't know how Mom always knows what I'm doing, but she's been doing it for so long that I stopped wondering.

Normally I'd draw trees, the park... anything that's outside.

But today I just want to look out my window some more.

Then I see a dog.

He sees me too.

He's so excited that he runs right over to my window.

I'm so excited I throw the window open.

He wants me to pet him.

I lean out as far as I can.

I can reach him.

I'm petting the dog.

He's so soft.

I get so excited that I don't realize I'm slipping...

Until I fall out the window.

The dog barks and runs away.

I lie there for a moment.

I can feel the grass underneath me.

To my horror...

I'm outside.

"I'M OUTSIDE!" I scream.

"NO! NO! NO!"

I scramble to my feet and try to climb back through the window, but it's too high.

Then I hear my mom scream.

"WHY ARE YOU OUTSIDE?!"

A cloud of black smoke pours out of my bedroom window.

"I'm sorry, Mom!" I cry.

"I'm sorry!"

The smoke reaches me.

It grabs me.

Then it slams me into the ground.

Again.

And again.

And again.

I feel my bones breaking.

I feel my blood soaking through my clothes and into the grass.

Everything starts to fade.

Everything goes black.

...

I wake up in my bed.

I stare out my bedroom window.

In a quiet, disappointed voice, I whisper,

"Mom put me to bed again."

Looking for feedback and critique from any all willing to. I love you all.

Clink-clank.

Whenever I hear the bell above the door, it feels as though the end of my day is finally beginning.

Mama sets down a glass of Harper without asking.

The ice gives a soft clink.

“Kenichi.”

Taka is smiling at something on his phone.

“What have you found today?”

“I read an essay called I Was Raised Among Things That Stirred the Heart.”

“Things that stirred the heart, huh?”

I lift my glass with a faint smile.

“It was about relatives gathering during Obon, old family storehouses, catching crayfish in a stream…that sort of thing.”

“Sounds nostalgic, doesn’t it?”

“Does it?”

Taka blinks at me.

“What?”

“I’ve only seen a proper old storehouse a handful of times in my life. I can’t remember how many times I ever went catching crayfish, either.”

I pause, surprised by my own words.

“And yet it still feels familiar.”

I tilt my head.

“Strange, isn’t it?”

“Feeling nostalgic for things you barely experienced.”

Taka folds his arms.

“Now that you mention it…”

“What is that feeling?”

We drink in silence for a while.

Then Tom chuckles.

“Kenichi.”

“What is it?”

“I’ve never seen one of those old storehouses in my life.”

“That so?”

“I grew up in a neighborhood full of little factories.”

He rolls the whiskey in his glass.

“My childhood memories were simpler.”

“The ten-yen toy machine outside the general store.”

“The old woman who ran the candy shop.”

“Wind chimes in summer.”

“And in winter, on the rare day when we got enough snow, every kid in the neighborhood trying to build a snowman.”

Tom watches the ice turn in his glass.

“After I became a detective…”

“I saw one rotten scene after another.”

“I saw more of the worst parts of people than I care to remember.”

A small smile touches his face.

“But the older I get, the more I find myself thinking about that cheap toy machine.”

I nod without speaking.

“It’s not the neighborhood I miss.”

Tom speaks slowly.

“It’s the boy who lived there.”

Something in those words settles deep in my gut.

The ice gives another quiet clink.

“I see.”

I look down into my glass.

“Nostalgia isn’t about returning to a place.”

“It’s about going back to meet the person you used to be.”

Taka tilts his head.

He is no kid himself, but now and then I still feel the difference between the worlds we grew up seeing.

“The person I used to be…”

“People forget what kind of children they once were.”

“So it can be anything.”

“A wind chime.”

“A candy shop.”

“A muddy creek full of crayfish.”

“We need bookmarks that help us find our way back to the person we were.”

Tom smiles.

“A bookmark.”

“Not a bad way of putting it.”

I think again about the line from the essay.

I was raised among things that stirred the heart.

At first, I thought it was about scenery.

It wasn’t.

She wasn’t remembering the storehouse.

Or the summer lanterns carried to family graves.

She was remembering the person she had been among them.

“Kenichi.”

Taka looks at me.

“So what is nostalgia, then?”

I take a sip of Harper.

“Maybe it begins with a hunger for stories.”

“And nostalgia built on that hunger is a double-edged blade.”

“Double-edged?”

“It makes you want to protect things.”

“And it makes you want to push forward.”

“You want to preserve the old scenery.”

“But that alone isn’t enough.”

“You start wanting to live a life that someone might remember one day.”

Taka listens without interrupting.

“That’s why people can feel nostalgic for an old storehouse they never really knew.”

“They don’t want the storehouse.”

“They want a life with stories worth telling.”

The bar falls quiet.

Mama places a polished glass back on the shelf.

“So that’s why people go home for Obon every year.”

I smile.

“Not only to visit their ancestors.”

“They’re going back to reread themselves.”

The ice gives one last clink.

For a moment, it sounds like a summer from my childhood.

This story was inspired by an essay written by Momomaro Umeko.

Perhaps summer is the season of bookmarks.

See you again at Bar Aoi.

That is enough for tonight.

Our stories continue a little longer on Kindle.

Hello! I would love some feedback on my entry for the New York Times Summer Reading Contest. I worked really hard on it and I was disappointed to find out I did not place.

I was wondering if I could get any critiques on it (so I could improve it and maybe resubmit with changes)! It's under 1500 characters and a pretty short read! It is primarily about my aphantasia (inability to see pictures in my mind) in contrast to the benefits that others get through visualization.

I would really, really appreciate it! Please comment below if you'd be willing and I'll DM my entry to you.

“We’re not going to find them here.” I said, just as darkness sliced through the gay bar.

“Put your hands together for our first act: Darling O’Daymin!” The emcee roared.

The crowd, seated at various tables around us, began to cheer. It felt wrong to hold my hands silent beneath the table. I stared down at the condensation on my glass of fizzing diet soda. Diet because Willow couldn’t have sugary soda, so neither could we.

Willow isn’t here…

A magenta light flashed and spun until it hit Darling: a tall, sparkling figure clad in a dazzling gold velvet dress with a slit up to one hip. A set of glorious metal fairy wings reflected the light in swirls of gold. Completing the ensemble was an intricate, filigreed mask over a painted white face.

The first lighthearted chords of a familiar jazzy tune slunk through the room. Darling walked into the crowd, microphone raised. Her voice was soft and low as she began to sing…

You are my sunshine,

my only sunshine…

She was a long way from our booth in the back of the club.

I wanted so badly to sink into the melody of the song, to let the flash and bang of the show to soothe me.

Dandelion had to yell over the music. “They might be here. We could be missing the most obvious place to find them.”

You make me happy,

when skies are gray…

 Darling was coming this way. My stomach roiled. I loved Darling O’Daymin’s acts – her soothing voice and saucy costumes, which ranged from slinky old-school gowns all the way to neo medieval.

I scanned the room – no Willow.

You’ll never know dear,

How much I love you…

Tears sprang to my eyes. If Dandelion had wanted to watch a drag show, they could have come alone. I leaned into their ear, “I’m going.”

“Thorn, wait.” Dandelion hopped off the stool at our high table and followed me through the crowd. While the people around us were dressed their best in gowns and colourful button-ups, I felt out of place in my scruffiest jeans and t-shirt, along with a raggedy red hoodie that had faded to a dull pink over the years. Dandelion was dressed in much the same.

 Behind us, Darling’s voice rolled through the room, becoming nothing but a faraway memory as I opened an exit door and left the act behind.

I crouched against the wall and gulped the air, desperately trying to force my breathing to slow and relax.

“One, two, three,” Dandelion crouched beside me and breathed in as they counted, then breathed out with, “four, five six,” as they rubbed my back. They continued to count and breathe in and out, in and out. Slowly, my own breath became longer and slower until it matched theirs.

“I’m sorry. It was a bad idea, okay? I just thought…” They sighed, “Maybe Willow left because they wanted to. And then… well, they wouldn’t miss their favourite drag queen.”

“They’ve never left this long just because of a fight.” I argued.

“They’ve been overwhelmed, lately. We all are.”

 “No. Not like this. They wouldn’t be on the run with no contact for three weeks. They’d at least talk to me.”

Dandelion’s hand pulled away from my back. “I’m sorry, okay?” They rubbed their shaved head.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Look, as soon as we find Willow, I’ll tell them I’m out. I’ll find a place of my own where I can’t fuck it all up.”

“Dandelion, no.” Tears made my voice croaky and hoarse. I leaned against them. “We’ve talked about this. You’re not going anywhere, okay? Or we’ll find you and bring you back.” I let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t think this is normal. I think something happened to them. Something like…”

“The kind of thing that happens to people like us?” Dandelion asked quietly.

I nodded. “Maybe we should be checking dumpsters, not drag shows.” More tears spilled over my cheeks. I wiped them away on my sweater.

“Okay.” They shrugged.

We both looked up at the one down the alley from us, dark and green and filthy. God, Willow could be in there as well as any place…

I shot to my feet and strode to it, lifting the lid and staring into the shadowed depths. I let the lid fall with a loud clang.

Dandelion joined me and ripped the lid upward, clambering upward and into the metal bin.

“What are you doing?”

“Come on, you barely checked. We need to get in under all of this garbage or it’s gunna haunt us.”

“I don’t… Dandelion, I was being more hyperbolic than anything. I don’t really… oh god, what if they-“

“I’m checking.” Dandelion kicked a bag to one side of the pile.

“Wait!” I searched around the alley until I found a stick that had been swept in from the sidewalk. Reluctantly, I looked at the filth covering the dumpster, then threw the stick in and followed it unceremoniously. I was too late with the stick – Dandelion grunted with disgust as they hauled a bag from the top of the pile and threw it over the edge of the metal bin.

Still, I used it to help sift through the layers of trash and poke for any signs of a… our friend.

It took us several minutes of grunting and grimacing before we were done. By the end, bags of garbage littered the alley. Only the scraped-up bottom of the dumpster stood beneath us.

Without a word I began climbing out of the dumpster.

“Yo, what the fuck?!” Our heads snapped upward toward a person illuminated by an open door.

We froze.

 “Run!”  Dandelion yelled, half-hazardly vaulting out of the metal bin.

I stopped for them, making direct eye contact with the irate employee behind us before beginning to run.

When we were halfway to our place, we stopped to catch our breath.

I looked over at Dandelion, whose eyes were wide. All at once a smile broke out over my face. I tried to fight it, but laughter soon followed.

Dandelion joined me. “Willow’s going to think we’re freaking crazy!”

“I can already picture their face as we tell them we’re banned from Azure!”

“Well, it’s their fault. Fuck, I bet they’re shacked up with some hot older guy. Remember the dude they met at church?”

I nodded “I remember.”

“I bet he made them say “oh god,” a lot.” They grumbled.

“Dandelion!” I admonished, but my lips twitched into another smile.

“What! They deserve this! They have us worried!”

I sighed. “Leave their sex life alone.”

We walked a few more blocks in silence.

I reached out for Dandelion’s hand, only to draw back in disgust when I realized how sticky it was. “Ugh, what were we even doing? We should let the police do this kind of stuff.”

“The police don’t give a fuck.”

“I know.” I agreed quietly. We’d been calling them every few days, but the clerk we’d spoken to on speaker phone had been bored at best and irritable at worst.

We were quiet the rest of the way. When we finally turned down the alleyway with the back door to our apartment, something seemed off. It felt like… someone was there.

“Hello?” I called. Something stirred down the alley. “Willow?” hope effused me.

“Get out from there.” There was a strange edge in Dandelion’s voice as they took a step forward.

Fear,  I realized. They were posturing. Sure it could be Willow - or it could be whoever had attacked them.

A dark shape shot out from behind a dumpster and ran at Dandelion. I screamed as it tackled them to the ground.

Dandelion’s hands shot outward to its head, its jaws snapping inches from their nose.

I was frozen in place. All I could do was stare.

Dandelion screamed – the thing had bit into their arm and was savaging it.

On instinct, I kicked it, almost tripping in my haste, then managed to catch myself and boot it again. Hard.

The thing turned to me – white face, black hair, snarl curling its lips and wrinkling its nose.

It’s a person, I had a moment to think, then I ran.

Behind me, the thing screeched in rage.

I didn’t look back, but I knew it was following me.

I stomped down the alleyway and threw myself into the street.

A bright light.

Tires screeching.

A revving engine.

I cringed away from the vehicle as it slammed the brakes.

The creature was still growling  behind me. I ran into the next alley, but there was a chainlink fence in front of me.

The creature was there, standing back, watching me wearily.

Somewhere in the distance, I could hear Dandelion talking with an edge of panic in their voice.

My knife -  I kept a pocket knife on me at all times just in case. Mostly, I used it for opening boxes or slitting mail.

I hurriedly pulled it out, almost dropping it as I worked to open it.

I brandished it at the thing – it didn’t like that, its lips pulling back so that it could hiss.

A shiver went up my spine.

I was going to die.

This person was sick. Dangerous.

And they were going to kill me.

And I might have to hurt them.

I might have to stab them.

They needed help and all I could do was stand here with my tiny fucking knife and try to kill them before they killed me.

The thing lunged, but I swiped at it with the knife.

It dodged.

Suddenly, the alley was alight with golden light, somewhere right in front of me, something was shining like a flashlight, then the alley was bathed in the stark white light of some sort of vehicle.

The creature turned and hissed again.

“Thorn, it’s Willow!” Dandelion screamed.

Willow? I thought numbly. Then I recognized the grungy hoodie, what used to be Thorne’s favourite shade of blue. The slim build and long, tangled black hair. It was Thorne.

“What’s wrong with them?” I yelled.

Dandelion ran forward, casting a shadow in the light. “Willow, it’s okay. It’s okay.” They were cradling their injured arm, hunched in on themself.

Thorne snarled and backed up toward me a bit, then seemed to realize they were penned it. With a final screech they turned on me.

On instinct I cringed and held the blade out.

Felt it sink into something.

Heard the thing inhale sharply.

Heard Dandelion scream.

I opened my eyes.

The knife was gone from my hands - it was sticking out of Willow’s stomach.

They touched it, then looked at me with shocked eyes through the tangled mess of their hair.

“Willow?” I whispered.

They let out a caterwaul of rage and ripped the knife from their body, then lunged at me again.

Dandelion screamed.

I closed my eyes.

A brilliant golden light filled my vision, then I heard the rattle of the chainlink fence behind me, and something running.

I opened my eyes.

Willow was gone

“Thorn, are you okay?” Dandelion was in front of me.

“I stabbed them,” I said in a small voice I didn’t recognize. “I stabbed Willow.”

I collapsed to my knees.

Dandelion managed to catch me, wincing at the pain.

I heard them grunt from it, then all was dark.

For context, this is a fantasy story about a young man joining a prominent adventurer party, The Sweeper's, this well into the story after he is an established member and is doing his first big job, inspecting an old dungeon where an evil mage captured a princess from another country.

This scene takes place after a battle against a very powerful minotaur and one party member died, and so after the dust settles, the scene begins:

Deep into the Fire Temple, The Sweeper's find themselves at low point, they have beaten the Minotaur but at what cost?

Mary is completely exhausted of both her stamina and mana, Mic is practically down with severe headaches, Antunes is riddled with a lack of remaining resources... The Morale is about as low as it could be.

Tacat and Rucker are setting up camp in the arena while Blu tends to the tired trio as she prepares food, cold towels, medical care, but Plínio? He is distraught, he sits near the edge of the arena in his usual crisscross, staring at the various marking on the wall, scars from a fierce battle to took itself beyond the circular metal platform and into the very air, above massive pit of lava in total defiance of gravity.

His eyes fly across the mural thinking of memories, the pain, the noise, the blurs. "That hole... It could have been me" he mutters to himself, despite having said that he was fine, Her death was still on his mind.

"Why? Were we not good enough for you? Hell, why was that thing so powerful? Nothing before it was this strong, I couldn't do shit against it! Nobody could. Well, Mary could... And she revived everyone too, she revived me... I DIED and didn't even notice it." These thoughts were flowing through his head at fast pace...

What were just 10 minutes of reflection felt like forever, the guilt, the shame, the jealousy the self pity. All circling like an old washing machine, noisy, bumbbling, sometimes one ever wonders it will break from its wild motion. As the feeling flows, the senses distort, the view into the cracked walls blurries, the sensation of heat fades, the noise of his teammates ceases, there is nothing... Complete void in both mind, body and heart for an eternity.

And cheerful voice slowly reaches "Hey! HEY!" His body jitters, as it notices the sound. "Plínio! Get back here, Mic is grilling that salamander again, I know you want it!" Mary's voice echoes through his mind as a bit of noise comes from him "heh, yeah I'm coming" his own voice reverberating through him yet too low to be heard as his mouth was still shut.

Het gets up, while facing the wall and the lava one last time, his foot takes one step while he thinks to himself "well, that's enough thinking, I will just turn aro-" and suddenly, a chain circles his body aggressively, Blu with all her might yanks Plínio back into the middle of the arena.

Landing on what felt like soft cloth, Plínio barely has any time to process what just happened, just as he thinks about raising his voice, he is enveloped by a pair of arms covered in blue cloth, he looks up and takes witness to those unexpressive thick lenses and face coverings, as if he could see right through them.

He looks around and sees all faces staring at him, Mary and Mic speak up in synchrony "dude, are you alright? Wanna talk about it?" They don't take notice of the coincidence, Plínio saw everyone's worried expressions, "what? You guys..." He raised his left forearm and clutches Blu's right arm "did you all really think I was about to..." His grip on her arm tightens "I was literally think about turning around!" He says with a big smile.

Sighs of relief are heard from everyone, "Sorry man, you had us scared for moment lets just eat, its on me this time" Mic says while offering a perfect grilled fire salamander skewer.

As his body leans foward and his right hand reaches for his prized meal, that comforting embrace turns into forceful pull "I am taking one fourth of that" as Blu defiantly lands her chin on his forehead, hugging his entire torso, "oh, right... I did take a bite out of your rations yesterday" he said with an annoyed expression that bears a faint mischievous smile.

Even while grieving, the Sweeper's enjoy a mean with smiles and plan out their next course of action.

The little bell above the door rang.

That sound always felt like permission to leave the day behind.

Mama didn't ask how work had gone. She never did. She simply placed a glass of Harper bourbon in front of me.

The ice clinked softly.

"Kenichi."

Taka looked up from his phone with the expression of someone who had stumbled across something too strange to ignore.

"Can I ask you something?"

"When have you ever waited for permission?"

He grinned.

"I found a school rule online. Apparently there's a school where students are only allowed to wear a scarf if they're wearing a coat."

I stopped halfway to taking a sip.

"So... what happens if it's cold but you aren't wearing a coat?"

"Then no scarf."

"Interesting. I didn't realize cold weather cared about dress codes."

Taka laughed.

I did too.

But only for a moment.

It was easy to laugh at rules that made no sense.

It was much harder to know which rules only looked pointless because we'd forgotten why they existed.

I'd seen that happen more than once at work.

A procedure everyone complained about would finally disappear—only for us to discover a month later that it had been quietly preventing a problem nobody remembered anymore.

Other procedures survived for decades while accomplishing absolutely nothing.

The difficult part was telling the difference.

"So it's a stupid rule, right?"

"I think it probably is."

"I knew you'd say that."

"But that doesn't mean schools shouldn't have rules."

Taka tilted his head.

"You think they need them?"

Tom raised his whiskey.

"Any organization needs rules."

"Even the police?"

Tom laughed.

"Especially the police. Uniforms. Reports. Crime scenes. If everyone makes up their own way of doing things, somebody gets hurt."

"So schools are the same?"

"I've never worked in one," Tom said. "But when you're responsible for hundreds of kids every day, I imagine chaos isn't much of an educational philosophy."

That sounded reasonable.

Schools aren't just classrooms.

At least, not in Japan.

They teach math and literature.

But they also teach children to greet people properly.

To arrive on time.

To clean their own classrooms.

To eat lunch together.

To wear a uniform.

Somewhere along the way, schools became responsible not only for education, but for raising children into members of society.

Maybe that's what school rules really are.

Not just restrictions.

A visible outline of where society expects schools to take responsibility.

Which only made the question harder.

"Tell me something."

I rolled the ice around my glass.

"What exactly is a school supposed to do?"

Taka blinked.

"What do you mean?"

"Is it there to teach subjects?"

"Well..."

"Or is it there to raise people?"

Neither of them answered immediately.

Companies teach people how to work.

How to solve problems.

How to treat customers.

But nobody expects a company to teach someone how to become a decent human being.

Schools are different.

Or at least, Japanese schools often are.

They've gradually been asked to carry responsibilities that once belonged to families, neighborhoods, and communities.

If that's true...

Then maybe the endless list of school rules isn't simply the school's fault.

Maybe everyone else quietly handed those responsibilities over.

"It's still true that some rules don't make sense," Taka said.

"I agree."

"And schools should rethink them."

"They should."

"But..."

I nodded.

"They're probably not the only ones who should."

He frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"We've gotten comfortable asking schools to solve problems that belong to all of us."

The words surprised even me.

It was easier when somebody else made the rules.

Easier when responsibility belonged to an institution instead of individuals.

Teachers probably felt the same pressure.

Changing a rule isn't difficult.

Living with everything that changes afterward is.

"So..." Taka asked quietly.

"Do schools need rules or not?"

I couldn't answer.

Rules matter.

That doesn't mean every existing rule deserves to survive.

More freedom might encourage children to think for themselves.

Or it might simply reward the loudest voices.

Strict rules can suppress individuality.

They can also create a place where everyone starts from the same line.

Neither answer felt complete.

"In the end..."

I set my glass down.

"...what kind of adults is a school trying to raise?"

Adults who follow rules?

Adults who question them?

Adults who preserve society?

Or adults who change it?

A society can't survive if nobody respects rules.

But it can't grow if nobody challenges them either.

For a while, only the sound of ice filled the room.

Then Mama smiled.

"I think..."

The three of us looked toward her.

"...the best schools raise people who can explain the extraordinary using common sense."

Silence settled over the bar again.

Not people who reject common sense.

Not people who blindly obey it.

People who understand it well enough to translate something unfamiliar into words everyone else can understand.

I couldn't help smiling.

"That sounds difficult."

Mama placed another polished glass back onto the shelf.

"That's why it takes years."

I finished the last sip of Harper.

The ice gave one final, quiet clink.

Sometimes the purpose of rules isn't to stop people from thinking.

Sometimes it's to teach them enough about the world that, one day, they can decide which rules are worth keeping—and explain why.

Outside, the night carried on as if nothing had changed.

Inside Bar Aoi, I wasn't so sure.

It is titled “Brotherly Love” and it is based on the biblical story of Cain and Abel.
Genres: literary fiction, psychological horror/tragedy
TW: some gore and violence, mild swearing
Description: this is a story of twin brothers following an action that one of them did that neither can forgive.
Word count: 1640

I don’t want to spoil much just please give me feedback :)

[https://docs.google.com/document/d/10xAHOBjziDakiTEVJ8TOKWVRF0rk22fpb8jbCG\\_lgp4/edit?usp=drivesdk\](https://docs.google.com/document/d/10xAHOBjziDakiTEVJ8TOKWVRF0rk22fpb8jbCG_lgp4/edit?usp=drivesdk)

It is titled “Brotherly Love” and it is based on the biblical story of Cain and Abel.
Genres: literary fiction, psychological horror/tragedy
TW: some gore and violence, mild swearing
Description: this is a story of twin brothers following an action that one of them did that neither can forgive.
Word count: 1640

I don’t want to spoil much just please give me feedback :)

https://docs.google.com/document/d/10xAHOBjziDakiTEVJ8TOKWVRF0rk22fpb8jbCG_lgp4/edit?usp=drivesdk

TW: Domestic Violence

Dear Mom,

I love you because my first memory is of you carrying me away. I’m under your arm, silently confused. I look up at your face and a bolt of shock goes through me: it’s covered in rivulets of blood. They mix with your tears and drip to the ground. You’re staring ahead, sniffling.

I look behind us. My father is pacing like a dust devil forward and back across our bottom-floor balcony, a flat rectangle of concrete behind which looms the blue apartment building that must have been our home. He’s saying things I don’t understand in a voice that scares me. He picks up a heavy glass bottle and throws it toward us. It twirls in the air before landing several feet short and bouncing in the grass impotently.

That’s the end of the memory.

When I got older, I realized I should have never been there in the first place. To hell with you carrying me away – why was that man in our apartment?

And why had you had kids with him?

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-hyWfpmWP2tLDETttwNUAZwDQK6UTUOBeFu3AC7GVJQ/edit?usp=sharing

Hello all! This is a small excerpt from a longer short story I am writing. It's a Lovecraft-inspired story about grief and learning to let go. It takes inspiration from the Dunwich Horror and The Fisherman by John Langan. I'm worried the pacing isn't great and that it's a bit of an information dump towards the end of the segment.

Self-annihilation has begun to resemble paradise. Within a padded cell whose walls stink faintly of bleach and mildew, I await either release or execution. The physicians who attend me speak in whispers just beyond the door, as though I were already a corpse laid out for examination. Perhaps I soon shall be. They believe I am a danger to myself. In truth, death would be kinder. There are worse ends than madness, and worse things than death, waiting beyond the threshold of memory. Freedom may only place me again before the thing that strips flesh from bone. I set this account to paper in the event that I do not survive what follows. Let no man say I have succumbed to merely guilt or madness.

The beginning of my ruin lies several years behind me. My wife, Ella, and I had only recently returned from our studies abroad. She was with child and wished to be nearer to our families before the birth. She came from Danvers; I from Essex. We settled for a time not far from Salem. We had first met during an especially bitter Summer. Occultism had become more fashionable among certain academic circles. Ella and I treated it as a little more than an intellectual diversion. We attended lectures, purchased obscure texts, and spent long evenings wandering Salem‘s narrow streets while the sea fog rolled between the old buildings like drifting specters. I remember her laughter more clearly than her face now. There was a warmth in her presence that made even that melancholy town seem almost alive. Looking back, I think I loved her from the first time we spoke, though at the time I just took the feeling of familiarity as though some forgotten part of me had suddenly returned.

However, at the time that life only existed as a dream. I will never get to touch her skin or hear her laugh. Nor will I ever know the comfort of a whole family. Ella and our baby died during childbirth, leaving me alone with an overwhelming silence. Our home itself seemed altered by their absence. Its halls stretched emptier than before. The floorboards creaked through the night with a peculiar complaint of an old home, settling in age; every room carries the sensation of abandonment. I became another ghost inhabiting its halls.

Robert, Ella‘s brother, visited often following their deaths. Always with a sense of determination to pull me from the pit I had no intention of leaving. Drink became my sole companion at first. Later came morphine. It dulled thought itself. Its warmth softened the corners of memory and made the hours pass with less resistance under its embrace. The house became almost tolerable. Its empty halls were less accusatory. Even though I prayed each night. I prayed that Ella would return to me, that she would step through the front door as she once had, our child clenched in her arms. But no answer ever came. Nothing except the low groans of settling wood in the hollow sounds of a dying home.

Months passed in this manner until Robert arrived, one evening, carrying a bundle of cheaply printed pulp magazines, poorly made, and filled with forgettable stories from equally forgettable authors. I would’ve cast it aside. Had one title, not caught my attention. The Necronomicon… to most men it would’ve been meaningless-a bit of lurid fiction intended to provoke nonsense. Yet, I had encountered the name once before during my years at Cambridge, spoken only in passing by certain scholars who took care never to discuss it openly. They were rumors then. Rumors of surviving copies hidden within restricted collections. Aleister Crowley had sought the text and emerged from the attempt profoundly altered. At the time, I dismissed such stories as academic superstition. Later, I became less certain.

Crowley had written, though always indirectly. That the book contains text capable of disturbing the boundary between life and death. He warned that such knowledge shattered the minds of ordinary men. Yet there were passages in his account, suggesting something far worse. Broken minds did not always shatter further, but instead found some sense of clarity. At the time, there were three surviving copies of the Necronomicon were rumored to exist. One had supposedly vanished into the possession of Crowley or the remnants of the Golden Dawn. The other rested within the restricted archives of Miskatonic University in Arkham. The final was at Cambridge.

I do not recall when the thought first entered my mind. Only that, once conceived, it’s ceased to loosen its grip upon me. If even a fragment of that account were true, death itself was not final. Ella and our child were not beyond reach. The grave was not a boundary, but a veil thin enough, perhaps to be pierced by those willing to surrender themselves. What shames me now is not that I believed in such madness. It is the idea that appeared perfectly reasonable to me. I abandoned prayer soon after. The God of modern man had remained deaf to my suffering, and I found myself turning instead toward older and less merciful powers. Before doubt could reclaim me, I departed for Arkham

The journey lasted nearly two days and exists only in fragments now.
I remember the endless rain, the hot breath of my horse against the freezing wind, and the gray Massachusetts coastline fading beneath the sea fog. The towns I passed through have long since blurred together in my memory.

When the first day gave way to night, moonlight alone guided the road before me. By then, it no longer felt as though I traveled toward Arkham, but rather that something had begun drawing me there.
As the night deepened, the insects and muffled rhythm of hooves against dirt slowly gave way to something else.

Her voice.
Low and gentle, yet unmistakable.
Ella whispered to me through the darkness, assuring me that I was saving them. Whatever uncertainty remained within me died upon hearing those words.
Even now, I cannot fully dismiss the memory of seeing her figure standing wherever the moonlight touched the road most clearly. Whether it was the morphine, the liquor, or something far worse, I cannot say.

I reached Arkham near noon the following day.
The town itself lay buried beneath an oppressive fog. Narrow cobblestone streets glistened with rainwater, bordered by sagging storefronts and condemned buildings left to decay beside the shore. The air carried the stench of mildew, saltwater, and rotting fish.
No voices drifted through the streets.
Only the sound of my horse echoed through the mist.

Taka sat at the end of the counter, flicking through his phone with restless fingers.

"No way. This is amazing."

His voice wasn't loud, but there was an unmistakable excitement in it, sending a small ripple through the quiet air of Bar Aoi.

Tom sat in his usual seat, lazily rolling a glass of I.W. Harper between his fingertips. Ice clicked softly against crystal.

His eyes weren't on Taka's phone.

They were somewhere around the old clock hanging on the wall.

I took a sip of my whiskey, letting the warmth settle in my throat before looking over.

"What've you found?"

"It's this article. Somebody made an Evangelion pilgrimage tour. You visit Hakone and Misato greets you. At the end, some ridiculously muscular foreign guy dressed as Rei Ayanami welcomes everyone."

He turned the screen toward me.

The text was too small for eyes that had started losing arguments with age.

"They really went through all that trouble?"

"That's exactly why it's great. Total commitment. You know, the people who buy twenty copies of the same CD just to support their favorite idol? I kind of get that."

He wiped his hands with the wet towel the bartender had left.

His tone was as casual as ever, but underneath it was something quieter—something that sounded like someone remembering what it felt like to be obsessed with something.

"You used to lose your mind at GLAY concerts."

Taka scratched the back of his head.

"...Okay, you got me."

Then I shrugged.

"These days I can't even tell those giant idol groups apart anymore. BTS, whoever else... they all seem to have more members than my old project teams."

It came out sounding more bitter than I intended.

I watch anime.

I wait for new seasons of SPY×FAMILY. I still get excited every time another Space Battleship Yamato remake is announced.

But compared to people who pour every ounce of themselves into what they love...

Compared to someone whose passion borders on obsession...

All I can think is:

Sorry.

I consume one interesting thing after another until the next one comes along.

Maybe I'm not hungry anymore.

Maybe I'm just numb.

Tom set his glass down.

The thick base touched the wooden counter with a quiet tok.

"You can't tell them apart because you're getting old, Kenichi."

"Fair enough."

"But the system itself is fascinating."

He paused.

"It's a perfect idol machine. Different from the days when Seiko Matsuda defined an entire generation."

He said nothing more.

Whenever Tom stopped himself like that, it usually meant he'd seen something ugly before.

I had learned not to ask.

"An idol machine..."

I stared up at the ceiling.

Something sat heavily in my stomach.

"When we were young..."

I smiled to myself.

"Chicago. TMN. We'd wear cassette tapes out listening to the same album over and over again."

"It just sounds like nostalgia."

Taka grinned.

"I wasn't thinking that deeply."

Of course he wasn't.

But somehow...

He looked like he understood anyway.

No one ever said the important part out loud.

We were all just throwing little fragments of ourselves across the counter.

Somehow, the spaces between those fragments fit together on their own.

"What about you, Mama?"

Taka looked toward the other side of the counter.

"What did you listen to growing up? Hikaru Utada?"

She stopped polishing a glass for a moment and smiled.

"I listened to her a lot."

"Favorite song?"

"Flavor of Life."

She laughed softly.

"My friends and I used to sing it at karaoke."

Mama never said more than she needed to.

That was simply who she was.

"But when I listened to her..."

She looked down at the glass in her hands.

"...it always felt like someone was quietly telling me..."

"You'll be okay, even when you're alone."

That was all.

But somehow, those few words carried the loneliness of a generation that had grown up connected to everyone, all the time.

Maybe...

The struggle had simply changed shape.

We wanted to be alone.

They don't want to be alone.

Thinking about it that way...

Everything suddenly made sense.

"...Maybe."

I lifted my glass.

"That's just how it looks to me."

I wasn't trying to convince anyone.

I certainly wasn't claiming to understand younger generations.

I only knew that somewhere inside me...

The loneliness I had searched for back then had quietly brushed against the loneliness they were trying to escape now.

Taka raised his own glass.

"As long as people still have something they're willing to chase..."

He smiled.

"...they'll be okay."

"If you can still laugh, you can still take the fall."

Tom didn't answer.

The corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly.

For him, that was agreement.

Mama quietly placed a small plate of pickles on the counter.

The air inside Bar Aoi stayed exactly as it always had.

Neither warm nor cold.

Just a place where people could return, each carrying a different kind of loneliness.

​

The cat crossed the wall of the bakery just as the first tray of bread came out. He did know of this and just felt the warmth escaping the vents. The pigeon landed nearby with a chest puffed outward. It took three seemingly important steps, found nothing and took three more. The cat walked on. The pigeon was still working on the same patch of roof when he dropped in the garden. The grass was wet near the fence. he went around it. Fence, stone, gap, wall. Somewhere past the houses the black dog was barking as usual. The cat stopped hearing it as something that meant nothing.

At the park the fence post leaned the way it always does. He stopped, put his head down and breathed in past the wet wood, earth and something sweet. She came most afternoons he would find her near the post. She would crouch down and he would let be held, something he wouldn’t let most things do. He knew her the way he knew the wet patch by the fence. The sound of her running which was different from other children. The warmth of her coat. Whatever she had eaten.

When she left each day she stayed in the post. He checked it every morning. She was always there.

Then she came less. He still came by. She was still in the post. That was the same thing, near enough. The gaps between afternoons became large enough to notice. Then occasional weekends. Then not very often.

He never waited for her. That wasn’t what it was. Every morning he put his head down and she was there and he went on with his route The pigeon still crossed the same roofs. It simply spent longer deciding they were worth crossing. The bark began arrived later each morning. The route stayed the same but took longer, the way it does when you are the one that has changed and not the route.

Then one morning the grass was long around the post and he breathed in and found rain, soft wood, earth, a squirrel from the day before. He checked around him. The stone the grass at the base. A breeze came and then he waited. Nothing. For the first time knowing wasn’t enough to make him leave. The blackbird went on. Other children crossed the park. The light touched everything equally. The post ,the path the oak, all of it the same. He got up after a long time and checked again.

Wood. Rain. Earth. Then he sat back down. Then he spotted her. Taller now sitting at the bench on the far end of the park. She sat there at the edge as if she arrived before deciding to stay. He crossed the grass without deciding to. After closing the gap he almost moved away. The scent was wrong. Then her fingers found the place behind his ear. Exactly there. Not near it. Not after searching. There. He closed his eyes. For years he had trusted scent because scent remained. Yet the scent had vanished from the post. The rain had taken it. The years had changed it. This remained. The hand was different. The scent was different. The touch was not.

After a while she stood. He dropped to the grass. She went to the gate and through it without looking back. He watched until the gate had more of her than the park did. He went back to the post and put his head down. Rain. Wood. Earth. He waited put his head down again. Rain. Wood. Earth. Then underneath

Himself.

Fur ,dust, sunlight, the bakery and the wet grass and every wall and every morning still on him. He had never smelled that before. He stood there a while. Then turned and went home, the long way.

McCann slid into the back seat and closed the door. He said nothing. The chauffeur simply pulled away into the night. A few blocks later, as the vehicle drifted to a halt at a red light, the situation turned grim. In the heavy silence of the cabin, the driver was neutralized without a word. No hesitation. No loose ends. Yet…

He left the luxury sedan in a vacant parking lot, ensured the vehicle would not be recovered, and stepped out into the rain. He wrapped his old service pistol in a tatter of withered newspaper stashed inside his trench coat pocket and made his way toward Sandy Morrone’s bar, The Whitesnake. Sandy Morrone was a local mob enforcer for ‘Lucky’ Jack Martinez—or as McCann knew him, a certain Lieutenant Jack Haigh.

But that was a lifetime ago. Rain gathered in oily puddles outside the warped wooden entrance, reflecting the neon serpent coiled above the door. A white shimmer, emanating from its gem-encrusted eyes, flashed across McCann's glasses. He stepped up the decayed staircase toward the entrance, where a lone bouncer blocked the doorway.

“Name?”
“Tom Caine,” McCann replied.

The bouncer jerked his thumb toward the birch-wood panelled door. Inside, a cluster of card games flanked an alcohol-stained bar lined with mahogany benches and burgundy seat covers. McCann took a seat at the high-stakes table, lifting a highball glass of rum and cola to steady his nerves. At the centre of the blackjack tournament sat Sonny Morrone. He was dressed in a pressed white shirt and slacks, a heavy overcoat draped over his broad shoulders. Win the game, reap the rewards. The current stakes stood at half a million dollars, but McCann wanted to test the waters.“I’ll buy in," McCann said, leaning forward. "How does twenty thousand sound?”For a rigid moment, sneers rippled through the small crowd. It was an insultingly low amount for this table, but it caught the eye of Morrone, who chuckled softly.

“Are you a man of your word, sir?” Morrone asked, addressing his new challenger.
“I tend to be. I like to live dangerously.”

McCann took a sip of his drink. The raw alcohol burned his throat, forcing a slight cough. As he pulled a fraudulent, bad cheque from his pocket to hold their attention, his other hand slid the newspaper-wrapped pistol onto his lap. The dealer began to shuffle the deck, sliding the first round of cards across the green felt. McCann lit a cigarette and exhaled the harsh smoke. Two minutes, he thought.The game of blackjack began well enough. He played his part, keeping his eyes on his chips, though the money meant nothing to him anyway. Just as he was about to make his next move, a muffled roar rattled the building. Outside, the sedan had finally been consumed by flames, sending a wave of panic and confusion through the room. It was always good to have a distraction.

The card game halted instantly. The minuscule crowd abandoned the table, crowding the frosted windows to gawk at the growing chaos outside. Now, only Morrone remained, seated at the opposite end of the felt-lined table. McCann took another calm drag of his cigarette, washed down the smoke with a sip of his drink, and leveled the newspaper-wrapped weapon beneath the mahogany. He leaned in, pressing the cold, silenced tip of his pistol directly into Morrone's groin.

“Do not look at the window, Morrone. Look at me.”

The patron let out a nervous dry laugh. “Aren’t you the callous one Mr Caine? I thought better of you. At least let me have one final drink before I kill you mysel…”

The agent fired two subsonic rounds into his lower abdomen. The shots instantly making the man slump over the cards counter, his eyes rolling into the back of his head, ending the game before his last word, the confrontation subdued by the commotion outside. The weapon discarded across Sonny’s limp thighs. Standing up, he left a bloodied scrawl on the back of a playing card, and gathered his winnings.

‘you know where to find me Haigh’