Spock wrote:

I wrote thing, 'lil novella. Been a hectic year. Please feel free to critique. https://www.inkitt.com/JamesBoylan

Raiziel wrote:

What about you, tiger.  Up to much?

Roujin wrote:

Tigro, what if you wrote a book something that was the kind you would like to read yourself?

tigerswiftly wrote:

Oof, knocked out 3400 odd words on a short story today. Will be relatively rough but I've given it an initial sweep. Once I've tidied it up some more I'll post here for feedback if anyone has the time! This is the start...

Spoiler:

Stories are told about my daughter and the day she vanished into the ocean. On my trips to the mainland I hear them; tales of the epochal storm she called down on our island and the lightning that came, fierce enough to split the ocean in two and burn the sky black for a month and a day. These stories don’t mention the details of her disappearance; not the curses she screamed until her throat ran red, nor the torrent of starlight that burst from her pores as she became one with the white foam of the sea. If she is still out there, in whole or in part, I hope I find her and can tell her it is ok. That it was never her fault and that I should have been kinder, and wiser, and, perhaps, less hopeful. If she is still alive, I want to apologise. It should never have been her. I simply chose the wrong daughter. I lean over the railing of the lighthouse, shielding my eyes from the ferocious blue of the sky, and watch the summer gulls dance above the surf as the tide rolls in. The ice in my glass rattles as I shakily raise it to my lips and sip the whisky; I roll it around my mouth and savour the smokey taste. Jagged rocks reach out of the water below like wild claws, desperately searching for purchase. Each evening I return here and weakly climb the spiralling steps, my bones brittle, legs ironcast. Then I wait. Each evening, my heart brims with hope once more. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss my daughters both. In the distance, cutting through the crystal water, is a pearl-white schooner. White as the swans of the lake at the centre of our island. Yet it’s even more graceful, carving a wide arc around the island at impressive speed. I narrow my eyes; there are several figures on the boat. They come no closer than a hundred metres from the shore before the schooner turns and heads back in the direction of the mainland. I watch until it vanishes into the horizon, then turn my attention back to the gulls. Boats come most days, though none ever make landfall. Icante is a dead island now; a curio for those brave enough to still set sail in these waters. Nobody else is left but me. Not that anyone knows that for sure. Nobody but my children. * I taught the twins to sing to the wind when they were six and to the rain when they were ten. Only simple songs, melodies their childish minds could remember and repeat. It was a few days after their tenth birthday when we stood at the top of the lighthouse, Isla, Caitlin and I, and sang to the sky together. The clouds bulked, grew bulbous and dark, then burst over the town and drenched the townsfolk. We cried with laughter and the children rolled around my feet like drunks, cackling and whooping; I had always enjoyed a joke, and they did to.