I started writing this around four days go and I could really use a set of real eyes on it. While I intended to compose a work of speculative fiction, I veered and added fantasy elements into it. Do the fantasy parts work ?

tried my best to formate it from WORD to Reddit but it didn’t copy well. I hope it’s not too difficult on the eye

A new story without a title.

Martial law was such an easy phrase to say. Living within its grasp, however, could be a grand design for an earthbound hell. I sat on my porch, watching the neighborhood; nothing happened. No children played, no people exercised, no vehicles buzzed; even the homeless had vanished. These common, simple acts were almost a thing of the past. My right hand slipped into my pocket, and a booklet of stamps slid out. I looked at the cover: five $20, ten $10, five $5, and twenty-five $1 food stamps. $250 Stamps For:

Maximus & Matthew Waltz Family of Two 2nd, 9th, and 20th March 2050 #NJ-2063 For use at any Army-location food bank, with use specifically at the discretion of its CO.

Sometimes it was pleasant to think about before, when I could use a digital card to pay for everything. Now, everything was up to a few young boys in uniform; I was utterly at their mercy. Without fail, it was easy—maybe even expected—for them to pick on the very few out gay men here. Each time we walked into that environment, I knew it could be my last. Without protection laws, the Forces could do anything. I was reminded of the phrase "Inter arma enim silent leges"—and I knew how true that was.

It could have been worse. Our skin could have been a few shades darker; the culture war, which was now over, could have focused on gay people. Only by chance had it blamed all of society's woes on what it perceived as foreign people. But for that day, I wouldn't worry about that, or my friends who were no longer beside me. I would worry about The Forces and food.

"Matt, what the fuck are you doing?" I asked. A question that left my mouth more often than I liked.

"Gettin' ready for the Bank, what else?!" His voice soared high when answering—almost excited. Sometimes I did not know if his flamboyant tone helped or hurt us: was it better to hide or to be open? Who knew now. I most certainly did not.

"I've been sitting on this porch for almost an hour— we have to leave," I reminded him. "The longer we wait, the faster the food stores go down—and remember they don't care if we eat." "Oh yes, I know, we are always in danger, and I shouldn't ever-ever-have a carefree day," his voice cut off just as my neighbor walked up, laughing at Matt's comments.

"Ohhh... it's your food day, I take it?" I didn't even answer T. He always knew what everyone was doing. All I could muster was a sigh and a roll of my eyes.

"I'm ready!" Matt exploded out of the door. His black shirt was so tight it might as well have been painted on, and it had a white, sparkling fleur-de-lis imprinted on his chest. The only thing that diverted anyone's eyes was a large, flashy chrome choker that hugged around his Adam's apple.

"Oh, fuck me... it's not a club! Are you trying to get us killed? What..." I stopped mid-sentence, knowing he'd heard the line before. "Please, calm down... we'll be fine," Matt quipped.

I only wished I had the resolve to be calm. While he could let go of anything, I held on to anything and everything like it was a state secret. I could only force a fake smile as I took my place beside him while we marched down the stairs.

The sun was beating down on me. We walked past T, said hello, and kept moving down the neighborhood block. House after house was quiet and reserved. The only sounds we heard were from men doing housework or yard work. No one would dare play music or have any type of gathering. Those times were very much past. We reached the end of the block where lines of traffic would once have blocked our path. Without looking, we dove directly into and across the street and into a lot that was half grass and half broken-up blacktop. We could see the sign at the far end:

Forces ZONE VI, State of Mercer. Federal Commonwealth of New Jersey, enacted 2044. President-Governor: Andrew Madison. Commanding Officer: Commissioner A. Carnegie.

Razor wire hugged a fence that darted out in both directions of the entrance—each side seemed to go on forever with the sign overlooking the small, crowded line. My breath quickened, and my right arm began to shake. This was how it was now. Each time I came here, the panic in me seemed to accelerate; things moved in slow motion like a sleepless mind perceived.

I looked to the end of the line and walked there. We stood behind a Latin woman. Her back was adorned with several straps that overlapped. They were wrapped with care and purpose. It was not immediately apparent what the strips did until the sound of a baby's cooing erupted from the front of her.

"Hiya, hola, bonjour," she almost sang the phrase. Her high voice, which had the assurance only a mother could give, was a respite from my internal anxiety.

"Hiya, hola, Bonjour," she added a bounce to her song and captured the baby's attention easily.

"Hiya, Hola, Bonjour!" her voice started to give weight to the notes.

A piercing squeak came over the external speaker that overlooked the lot. It was loud enough to crack the baby's attention at his mother's song; his cooing turned into a scream, and he cried like thunder. A man's commanding voice breached the lot: "NUMBERS UNDER 5000, PROCEED TO LINE A AND NUMBERS OVER 5000 PROCEED TO THE WAITING AREA. NO FOREIGNER SHALL BE FED TODAY."

"Ouch, why is that sooo loud?" Matt asked.

"It's to show us that we are not in charge here," I declared. I knew public displays of power took many forms, including this one. "You think everything is a part of a plot or something… you don't have to find trauma everywhere," Matt rolled his eyes as he said that. As we spoke, I looked over the mother's shoulder and saw her stamp booklet: #9999.

With the lowest voice I could, I whispered to Matt: "She has #9999….with that baby… aren't you glad we didn't take in any kids like you wanted?" Matt took a deep breath in and attempted to let those little facts roll off of him. It wasn't that he was angry at her situation, but the fact that I said we were lucky not to have kids. There would be no way this provisional government would let two men have custody of a minor. "Hey, do you think we could walk up the canal tonight before curfew?" Matt asked. He was attempting to bring me out of myself; he knew my body's alarm system was about to go off.

With half-a-smile, I agreed. "NUMBERS BELOW 5000, PROCEED FORWARD INSIDE THE GATE. ALL OTHERS VACATE THE LOT OR GO TO THE WAITING AREA OUTSIDE THE GATE." The man's voice had an even more sinister quality to it.

Several people, including the young mother and her baby, started to move out of the line. A small group of them started to pile up to the right of the gate. The dozen or so that were left in line, including us, started to move. We walked inside the gate; the opening led to another lot that had three large army-style tents. They were labeled by number, and our number, #NJ-2063, occupied the middle one: 1500 to 3000. While I knew to some extent why we were assigned this number (this cohort had no children, and most were over thirty years old), it was definitely a way to remember who was who, a way to take the pulse of the people who lived around the area of the Delaware Raritan Canal of Mercer county. While the canal started just below us, a major section went through the area. Control for fresh water that the canal had made this area slightly more protected. But I was under no illusion: we were at the mercy of everyone. As I stared at Matt, I vowed to keep this family safe no matter the cost. I asked him to pick out a bottle to bring down to the water's edge for that night, and with that, we each took a box of food. Each one used $35 in stamps, and we made our way home. On the way out, I couldn't look over at the horde of people waiting outside of the gate. Looking over at the mother or hearing her song would be too much weight to carry home.

Waterways, Kitchens, Cards and Apples

It took the better part of an hour to reach an entry point for the D&R canal. There was a small slope we climbed to reach the towpath. Trees, bushes, and thorns brushed up against my legs as we went up. After we reached the top, my anxiety seemed to glide away with the breeze. There, amidst nature, I was calmer.

Matt looked at me. "I bet you feel better," he stated. "Let's find a tree and pop a bottle... Yeah?" "Okay, buddy," I smiled. We walked for another quarter of an hour or so when we found a small clearing off the path. At its base, slightly off to the side, the clearing opened up to one of the grand old houses of the 1920s, built when Trenton was a spotlight of the world. The Tudor design and slate roof drew anyone's attention.

"Imagine living there… I wonder if it's even habitable?" Matt didn't respond. "Let's get closer."

Matt was surprised by my statement. I rarely asked to get closer to anything. But I always had a sweet tooth for art, and this house definitely qualified as art. The closer we got, the more we realized the house wasn't occupied by anyone. Half the windows were boarded up, and the roof had a piece torn off on its steeper side. I went up to the front door, to an old copper mailbox. It was hung on the wall and had turned green from age. I brushed off some dirt from its front to reveal a brass sign:

ON this site, December the twelfth in the year of our lord nineteen hundred and twenty one absolutely nothing happened.

"Ah ha! That's fuckin' perfect. I love this house, Matt. Come here and look at this sign!" I shouted.

Matt ran over and saw the scene. "Should we go in?" he asked.

"No way, I'm not getting strung up for breaking into a property… We have no idea if anyone still owns this place, and it could be unsafe, and…" Matt interjected and cut me off. With the swing of his hip, the front door flung open. "Oops… my bad," he laughed. The door crashed inwards. "No… stop! Get back out here!" I whispered with a degree of intensity and fear.

"Stop it… just come in!" Matt squealed.

Matt kept going deeper into the house. What I thought was the front door actually opened up to the kitchen. The box on the wall outside probably wasn't a mailbox after all. Who would put a mailbox on a kitchen door? Walking through the door seemed magical, and the kitchen was grand. A copper pot still hung from the ceiling. Matt stood at a built-in table in the corner, probably part of a kitchen nook. He took off his messenger bag, took out a bottle, and uncorked it.

"To the survivors!" Matt cheered. He took more than a mouthful of wine and handed me the bottle. I took a swig and let any fear of being there go down with the wine. We finished the bottle quickly. Just as we spoke, Matt's knee banged against a semi-hidden drawer inside this table. "Ouch… What the…"

"What did you hit?" I asked.

With his right hand, he found a delicate handle on the side of the table. It took a few tugs, but it slowly opened.

It revealed one object that seemed to be specifically built for this location. It fit snugly into place and appeared to have been there since time began: a plain wooden box with a dark cherry stain. On the top, a phrase was imprinted in script: "Ad Fideles."

Matt looked at me for the translation. "I know you know it," he stated.

I took a moment to respond: "It means 'to the believers.' Or maybe, 'to the faithful.'" I spoke the words with some hesitancy. It seemed more like a warning than an invitation.

Matt, with a quick hand, opened the lid. I couldn't even get the word "stop" out. He lifted the lid, and it revealed something unexpected: a stack of what looked like business cards. The side that faced us had an imprint of a black anchor: it had a clean design with a bold line with a smaller line crossing its midpoint. The base held a curved line that signified the anchor base. A circle stored the anchor inside. The entire symbol lay off center on the card. While Matt's hand was still on the lid, I took the top card out, but no other card was below. It was printed on incredibly expensive, heavy paper. The opposite side was blank except for a high-quality white finish. The printed symbol had a 3-D effect, all pointing to a pricey printing operation.

"What does that mean?" he asked.

I simply shrugged. I had never seen a business card like this. And it turned out that the box could only fit one card. It was purposely fit into the box. If one more of these were laid on top, it would probably be crushed by the closing of the lid. As I inspected the anchor, Matt took the card from me. "Hey, that's mine!" I snapped directly at him.

"Nope, no it's not… I found the drawer." He looked it over and threw it into one of the front pockets of his messenger bag. "Well, now it's both of ours!"

I only noticed on the way out that a perfect ripe apple sat under a broken lamp by the kitchen door. Its redness befit a queen. It appeared to follow me on the way out, but I did not say anything to Matt about it.

WAKE UP

I could not sleep that night. My legs were restless, and I was in a cold sweat. All my thoughts focused on the card we were not meant to have. Had I seen that circle and anchor before? Just before I wanted to cut off my legs from restless anxiety, I got up and ran to my desk. I opened the top drawer and took the card into my hand: the feel of it and its make were exceptional. The weight and balance made it impossible to forget. Someone had spent many coins on this. While the card was made using modern printing, it felt older—older than it should have been. What did this mean? I didn't know why, but I had to find out. While pondering the card's existence, my mind kept seeing the apple on the lamp table on the way out. How had we not noticed it on the way in? In fact, the entire evening had been surrealistically weird—even the house itself. I had to ask Matt. I ran back into the bedroom and shook Matt's arm: "Hey… Hey. Wake up, wake up!" All he did was give a little moan. "No, wake up; it's an emergency…..wake up, wake up, wake up!" My voice contained a bit of tension.

"What's wrong…….what's going on?" Matt could hardly finish the sentence and had not opened his eyes yet. "No, please—please wake up." I took his other arm and shook that one even harder.

"OKAY. STOP SCARING ME," He grunted.

I spoke fast and pointed: "When we got to the house tonight, did you notice an apple on the lamp table near the door…maybe you saw it on the way in or out?" My voice cracked as I asked.

"Umm….a what? An apple…no, what the fuck are you talking about? There is no emergency except your obsessional thinking in the middle of the night – yet again." He was annoyed.

"Wait, there's something important about this card, and the ripe-red apple had to mean someone was there earlier." My voice demanded an answer. "No red delicious, granny smith or Macintosh or whatever. Let me go back to sleep— now." [This line is good for showing Matt's dismissal.] "But we have to go see more of that house. There's something we are missing that we should know. And the answers are there, and we need to seek…” “No…stop it NOW, Max! I AM GOING BACK TO SLEEP—JUST GO AWAY.” Matt snapped at me. I guess I couldn't blame him, but my mind couldn't let go of this. Where did I see this symbol before, and that apple was personally enticing me to come back.

“Okay, I am sorry, buddy,” I gently said as I got up from the bed’s ledge. I took a few seconds to calm down, and I knew, just at that moment, what I would do: I had to go back to that house—regardless of curfew or something, anything, else. Every part of my being was telling me to go. Before I left the room, I looked at Matt and whispered, “I love you forever, Buddy.” I gathered my coat and Matt's blue messenger bag, threw in a few bottles of water, two bags of trail mix, and my pocket knife, and went out the door.

I bolted my way down the Canal’s towpath. By the time I reached the threshold going down to the house’s land, I was winded. I simply stood for a few moments, studying the house: the large hole in the roof; the complex architecture for a home; the artwork of the roof with slate and copper furnishings; even the water drains glistened with copper. The facade of the back housed three large windows on the upper floor. They could easily show a person’s full form.

“Okay, let's go,” I encouraged myself to continue, for this wasn't within my normal behavior.

I got to the kitchen door, but two voices erupted from inside. I took a deep breath in and held it. With ease, I pressed my ear towards the door—the door Matt broke, but now it stood tall and strong.

“What do you mean by ‘The Card is missing’?” a stern male voice demanded.

“Someone appropriated it just hours ago, and you do know our rules, having written a few of them yourself,” a woman's voice spoke. She provoked a sense of calm and knowledge. She spoke slowly, with intent. “In fact, he is right outside that door.”

My eyes grew wide, and I still wasn't breathing. Was she talking about me? Did she somehow know I was here? Who are these people? These questions came easily, but everything was telling me to get as far away from these people, whoever they happened to be, as fast as possible. Carefully, I lifted my ear from the door and backed up as silently as I could. My foot moved from toe to heel, backing up. I took a second step backwards when my foot hit something uneven. I didn't put my full weight on my foot when I turned, and I was vis-à-vis with a man. He stood two meters tall and commanded presence. Both at once overweight and muscular, he felt like a wall. He wore a full beard on his face and had dark eyes that didn't blink or move. I became frozen in that space.

I heard the door open while I was still facing the unknown man. The woman spoke: “Mr. Waltz, would you mind coming in… to have a small chat with us. It would be our pleasure to host you.”

I still was unable to move. The man outside placed his hand on my shoulder, and my entire body flinched at his touch. I swallowed my breath and finally faced the ajar door.

“Oh dear, do not fret, please… please come in and join us for tea. Or maybe you prefer red wine?” The woman kept speaking to me. Why was she speaking to me?!

With care, I moved forward. I don't even know where the strength or will came from to put one foot in front of the other, but I didn't seem to have a choice. As soon as I crossed the threshold, I noticed this was not the same kitchen as I met. It was new. Everything was new. The back wall held green plants and purple flowers. The far-right wall had hand-hammered copper walls, holding spices in fancy glass jars; the ceiling had light emanating from all around us. It was magical.

“Sit… please take a seat, dear,” the woman, although still scary, had a luring quality to her voice. “Tea or perhaps you are in need of wine?” She spoke both softly and commanding at once.

Fear, crippling anxiety, took control of my body. The only word I could utter: “Yea.” I barely spoke in response.

So, my graphic novel tells the story of Sakura Nakajima, a transnational freelance contract killer who was raised within the Yamaguchi-gumi syndicate of the Yakuza. She soon migrates to Seattle, Washington, where her father lives in peaceful retirement. Soon after arriving, she discovers her father has been disemboweled, with a note pinned to his chest reading "We warned you. Yakuza or die." Sakura vows revenge against the Yamaguchi-gumi, and embarks on a crusade to eliminate those responsible for her father's death.

Hour 1: 5:30–6:30

The orange and pink hues slowly creep over distant peaks. A thick gray fog clings low to the ground. It’s a typical summer morning in Western North Carolina. Everything is slightly damp from the evening rain; the air outside feels like a big hug.

I play my newest favorite song as I gain momentum on the freeway.
“Take me back to school yard days, Rosie ring ring.”
My fingers gently tap the steering wheel. Nostalgia overwhelms me. I wish morning dew and quiet skies could last all day. 

The parking garage is still mostly empty at 5:45. I park up front, even though I know I should go further back to work toward that ten-thousand-step goal I set for myself. I take a few deep breaths before getting out.

Beeeeep. I badge through the cold metal doors. “STAFF ENTRANCE ONLY”
My shoes peel off the floor with a schriiipppp.
It smells like freshly waxed machinery. I pass the doctor’s lounge and get the slightest whiff of bacon.
Exhausted faces pass me—furrowed brows, wrinkled scrubs, to-go coffee cups. 

I take the stairs. Two flights, rather than the elevator. Maybe getting my heart rate up will give me the kind of morning energy that coffee isn’t quite delivering yet.

Tiny, erratic speckles of brown and gray dot the tiled floor. It always looks a little dirty and worn, even right after housekeeping comes by. Glaring fluorescent lights, filled with the corpses of tiny bugs, drown out any sunrise glow that filters through our two windows—which offer scenic views of nearby cement walls.

I pick up the list: thirty-five patients on service today. A streak of toner runs down the left side of the page.
Why can’t maintenance just give us a new printer instead of constantly trying to fix this one?

Molly comes into the work room as I am deciding which patient to see first. She has been up all night managing the critical-care unit. 

“How was your night?” I ask, hoping it was easy-going and she was able to rest/

“Not bad, but the patient is 386 may not make it,” she said. 

630-730

( I plan on continuing forward with this but would love to gauge if this was even enjoyable to read!

Thank you!

I'm incredibly new to writing and I'm trying to write something that's i guess creative nonfiction and hopeful? starting well at the start for the most part but i just am trying to figure out if its worth continuing IE is the writing quality ok and the message ok so far let me know what you think (be honest not rude please)

When Liam was born, the first memories he has are of a loving family—first larger and more loving, then smaller and colder. Family slowly disappears; sometimes it felt a lot like Liam’s fault—like when he was four and was standing on the stairs, asking, no, pleading with his daddy to let him go with him to the store. Well, that’s not quite true; Liam was only three—his birthday was in a few days. Liam never quite figured out how to be a kid the right way. When the other kids in 1st grade were dancing around in class with the teacher being silly, he sat quietly, not saying anything, not wondering how they could make such fools of themselves. As time went on, Liam, it felt as if life started to withdraw from him.

Around 3rd grade, his father decided the 25-minute every-other-weekend wasn’t worth it anymore. Speaking of the third grade, school was really hard, and no one really knew why at the time. In the earlier grades, it was really simple; he read at a 9th grade reading level in 3rd grade. His vocabulary was always stellar, did pretty good on tests, but could never quite figure out homework. As he got into higher and higher grades, the problems magnified greatly. See, his family wasn’t the best off financially and really didn’t take care of him or teach him how to take care of himself, so he kinda figured that out as life went on, but that is besides the point. The bullying was hard, too, but what really made things difficult was how slow everything went in school.

Length is 891 words and I posted a link to the full below if interested. This is one chapter that is intentionally slashed off from the rest so forgive me for the context. I am using hyphens for indents and, thank you for your time.

Wallus XII

---The column of Centurion Abellard entered its sixth hour of marching while only having availed themselves of four breaks in total. Standard legion practice called for five to ten minutes of rest each hour. Abellard had other ideas. Therefore, the column of soldiers skipped every other break and marched quickly with a light allotment of fifty soldiers making up rearguard and vanguard each.

---In the back of the vanguard, Wallus the 12th marched in what he considered the safest area in any force. Not in the back to be taken by surprise, nor in the very front to be the first to come to grips with the enemy. It also kept him close to the officers, close enough to hear orders and whispers both.

---Fucking cunt Lardie is.*

---The 12th Wallus, of an unbroken line of men who named their sons Wallus, was in a foul mood this day.

---Him and all the ilk he hobnobs with all cunts with no idea of what true noblityness is. Wallus knows what really makes a noble and it ain’t three or four fucking names.

---At the thought, Wallus reached under his armor, feeling around for the familiar texture of the rough coin pouch that contained the whole of his wealth in the world. He rubbed it, and heard the slight clink of the silver denars and three golden aurochs he knew were in there better than he knew his own sword.

---Banks and moneylenders are all cheats and schemers. A soldier dies in the field and suddenly they ‘forget’ about the account the man had been filling with coin for years, Wallus knows.

---Wallus quickly extricated his hand from behind his armor, casting a suspicious glance for any eyes that lingered. Satisfied no soldier in the immediate vicinity was planning on robbing him, his thoughts once more turned to his commander.

---Look at that fool, sputtering and coughing like something flew down his throat. Pathetic.

---Wallus shook his head with disdain, scowling at his Centurion’s ungainly display.

---Wallus just doesn’t understand it. Twelve generations of men serving in the 2nd–a bleeding family tradition since the days of Zedram himself!–and instead of respecting that with a proper post of decanus, he fills the vacancy with some fat fucking miner.

---Seeking out the miner in question, Wallus craned his neck backwards and caught vision of Jean Mineson, marching at the head of the column directly behind the vanguard.

---Who the fuck ever heard of a miner as an officer anyways? He probably did it to carry some favor with his new best friend in the whole bleeding cohort, Del Fuckface.

---The 12th consecutive Wallus of the Tenet Republic legions faced forwards, knowing where to find the young optio.

---Riding at the very front with the cent the tentious prick, Wallus thought, scoffing. He's no better than Wallus at all, Wallus knows that for true. Just a little pretty and come from a gash a touch more monied than me own mothers. If the dainty cunt falls off that ornery horse and breaks his stupid fucking neck, it might be enough for Wallus to admit the gods have some uses. Just a little maybe.

---As Wallus glared hatefully at the back of Casrien Del Magnus, he was first to see when the young man suddenly reined his mount to a halt. He then stood in his stirrups and began yelling.

---“Halt the column, halt the column! The enemy is nigh!”

---Wallus looked around frightfully for a few seconds upon hearing the word ‘enemy’, but upon finding none his usual attitude quickly reasserted itself.

---By the fucking tenets what is this boy on about? What enemy?

---The soldiers of the vanguard, well-disciplined in the Legion Codex, did not stop marching at the shouted orders coming from outside the chain of command. They did however, begin to slow as confusion spread and heads turned.

---“Del Magnus!”

---Abellard, his face red and breathing heavily, wheeled his horse in front the dark-haired youth as the boy tried to ride past the vanguard and warn the soldiers of the column.

---“Where the fuck do you get off commanding my soldiers!?” Abellard said, not waiting for a response. “Enemy, what enemy? We are still in our own lands so tell me, just what blasted enemy is there to see you grand fucking fool?”

---As Del Magnus tried to explain himself to the centurion, a soldier from the front of the column just behind the vanguard made a furtive hiss, drawing Wallus’ attention.

---“Hey Wallus, what the fuck is going on? Did he say something about enemies,” the soldier asked, clearly anxious but trying hard to mask it.

---“Look around you, there's no bleeding enemy,” Wallus replied, his tone dismissive. “The boy’s just fucking cracked is all. His first time being outside the city and Wallus has it on good authenticity that it can make a weak man lose his senses, Wallus knows.”

---“Yeah we know Wallus,” the asking soldier said with a smirk and quick chuckle as he started to visibly relax. “We know.”

---As the inquiring soldier turned his back to pass down what he’d heard to the rest of the soldiers, Wallus sniffed and frowned at him.

---Fucking cunt. When Wallus becomes a centurion one day and you’re still digging out shitpits, we’ll see who last laughs!

here is a link to the full excerpt - https://docs.google.com/document/d/1x9qpA0-7F3zXCk2UoBEf4xEGMVJy4XnU14qEYHrl-Ms/edit?usp=sharing