Fragments

Excerpts from my work. No schedule, no noise. Just words.

[chosennone1]

What some readers claim they want vs what they actually want, from a writer's angle

A little observation from someone who started writing to fill a gap I personally felt as a reader.

Somewhere between fantasy or paranormal stories that rely on the aesthetic of emotion, and serious psychological character drama that, when set in the real world, often feels too constrained.

I always wondered why not use fantasy and paranormal as a lens to speak emotional truth.

And don’t even get me started on massively popular projects readers call “deep” or “trauma heavy” when, if you look closer, they are only using the aesthetic of trauma.

I’ve heard readers say over and over again that they want dark fantasy, real trauma, depth, morally complicated characters.

They want stories that hurt in a good way, stories that go for the throat, stories that deal with real emotion.

Except, and this I learned through experience, a very large portion of them actually want the safe, sanitized version.

They want trauma with sparkles.

They want darkness that is declarative, not felt.

They want pain that is metaphorical, not visceral, pain that looks pretty in an edit.

They want danger that never asks anything of them emotionally.

The moment you take the glitter away, the moment the trauma is not embellished but simply true, the moment the fear is not symbolic but something a real person could feel in their bones, they flinch.

They say it is too much, too real.

They back out, disappear. Poof. Gone back to glitter.

Because many people don't actually want dark stories, they want the aesthetic of darkness.

They want to feel edgy, not vulnerable.

They want wounds that heal instantly, not consequences that linger.

And from a writer’s perspective, you feel that difference immediately.

You can see exactly who is here for shiny metaphors and who is here for the raw, uncomfortable human emotional truth underneath.

The readers who stay are the ones who can handle a story that doesn't lie.

A story that refuses to soften and sugarcoat itself just to be easier to swallow.

Those readers are worth writing for.

The others were never really looking for the kind of story they claimed to want in the first place.

[avonleaastra1]

What do you do when your blood makes you prey and your heart makes you a target? A dark YA werewolf romance where wolves aren't fluffy and h

🌕 Dead End & Everything

an excerpt from my WIP:

✦••┈┈ 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙𝙠𝙞𝙣 : 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙡𝙙𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙤𝙨 ┈┈••✦

His pupils were still blown wide, swallowing nearly all the amber. Only the thinnest rim of gold clung to the edges, like the sun during an eclipse. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked in sharp, irregular spasms.

His eyes weren't on my face. They were fixed on my hand, on the scraped skin and the thin line of drying blood.

Instinctively, I moved to cover it.

I knew I'd made a mistake the moment my other hand touched my sleeve.

A visible shudder ran through him, sharp and involuntary, like I'd yanked on some invisible rope wrapped around his torso.

"Don't do that," he said, voice low and ragged. It wasn't a threat, but a plea and a warning in one. "Leave it."

I slowly lowered my hand, exposing the cut again.

His breath hitched. He took half a step forward, the smallest of movements, yet the entire corridor seemed to compress around us.

"Ethan," I whispered, my pulse hammering, "what is happening to you?"

He shut his eyes. That frightened me more than anything else, because it looked like surrender. Like holding them open required effort he no longer had.

His voice scraped out, raw. "Stop it. Fear. Just… stop."

I shivered. It wasn't comfort. It was a warning.

"I… I can't help it. You're scaring me!" My voice came out higher than I expected.

The muscle in his jaw trembled. For a second he looked like he was going to be sick. "I know. Just… ride it out."

I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or himself.

.......

I stayed perfectly still. I knew I shouldn't look at him, and yet... I couldn't look away.

Minutes passed, stretching into eternity.

His breathing slowly evened out. His shoulders eased, just a fraction. When he opened his eyes, the amber ring was thicker. His pupils, still huge, were no longer devouring everything.

He leaned back from me slowly, inch by inch.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. For the first time, it sounded like actual Ethan, not whatever it was he'd been holding back. He diverted his gaze, looking genuinely stricken for a moment. "I know I scare you. I don't mean to. I didn't choose this." He took in a labored breath. "If it's any consolation, this is so much worse for me."

"What are you talking about?" I exclaimed, then, when his eyes snapped back to me, I lowered my voice. "Ethan…" I whispered. "What the hell just happened?"

He swallowed hard and shook his head. "It's my fault. I underestimated them. Let it build up." His jaw tightened. When his gaze lifted to mine, something in it pinned me in place. "It won't happen again."

"That's not an answer," I said. "Why did it happen at all?"

A sad, pained smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Because of you."

He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. It didn't land as a surprise, but it left me desperate to understand why. Why me?

"Me," I repeated. "What about me?"

He blinked, slow and deliberate.

"Everything."

✦••┈┈ 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙𝙠𝙞𝙣 : 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙡𝙙𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙤𝙨 ┈┈••✦

Read online free:

Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/story/405890153-bloodkin

Inkitt: https://www.inkitt.com/stories/1625354

[avonleaastra1]

Yeah. I just posted the chapter.

The one I've both dreaded and been excited about since I started this story. The dark, visceral turning point. The one that lays its cards on the table and says, "This is the story I'm telling. No punches pulled. No easy tropes."

It's terrifying, laying a piece of your soul bare in the void like this.

But it's also the heart of the story. And I remind myself it's for the ones brave enough to walk into the dark, trusting the dawn is worth it.

Anyway... Since this is a place for excerpts I guess I'll post some.

Excerpt from "The Fall"

Waking up felt like resurfacing after too long time spent underwater: light was too bright, sounds too loud. A dull ache throbbed across her skull; nausea settled in her stomach. Wooden bars and tight bindings held her arm still; the room smelled of salve. They told her, all of them: it's all right, you have only a concussion and a slight fracture, you should rest.

She said: he pushed me. The words were met with silence.

Naturally, behind polite facades, she understood they knew. Lioran acted as if he knew they knew... and still walked - and flew - free, in freshly ironed lliath and with the new ribbon adorning his waist. The only thing that whispered not all was right was the faintest twitching at the corner of his mouth that lasted exactly as long as it took Vareth to lay five hundred gold on the table. No one inquired about Lily. No one asked whether she survived by mercy or by luck. Worst of all: Eirran, her father, did not ask. He was there - bringing tea, fixing pillows, reading stories with happy endings, sitting until she fell asleep - but he never spoke of what had transpired. He never said: it was wrong. He never said: I'll give you justice. His gaze would stop just short of hers and slip away.

Her fingers found the knot on her wrist. Warm. Real. And now it burned like a lie.

And with that burn she realized - if she wanted vengeance she'd have to claim it herself.

[avonleaastra1]

Because I'm feeling reflexive tonight... I'm sharing one of my favorite poems by my favorite poet Dobriša Cesarić, translated to English to the best of my ability. The poem is called "The Return". Because something as beautiful as this deserves to be shared, even if translation fails to capture the full beauty of the original.

..........................

Who knows?

Ah, nobody knows anything.

How fragile knowledge is.

Perhaps, a sliver of truth has pierced me,

Perhaps it's only a dream.

A love could still happen, I think. Happen, I say.

But I do not know whether I should want it, or not.

In a sea of life, one which eternally simmers and evaporates,

Same drops meet, and are parted anew.

And once the desolate eternity passes through the starry road,

Perhaps the same old lips once more will join in a kiss.

Perhaps, you will show up one night,

All beautiful, in blue,

Not realizing that you've shed your light on my forgotten truths. And I,

who is writing, with my heart full of you, these foolish rhymes,

Oh, I won't know, the desire of my being, even your name.

By the evening lamps our eyes will meet like the eyes of strangers do,

Oblivious to the ancient chains that still bind us together.

And time flows.

Flows, like the Sun, in a circle,

Bringing back all that once was,

Both sorrow and joy.

And eyes will shine, hands will touch,

And hearts will rise,

And blind to the footprints of a life forgotten,

We shall follow.

Who knows?

Ah, nobody knows anything.

Perhaps a sliver of truth has pierced me,

Perhaps it's only a dream.

A love could still happen, I think. Happen, I say.

But I do not know whether I should want it, or not.

[avonleaastra1]

An excerpt from my WIP, Earthborn

Four days later, by accident, Mirna saw the feather.

She had entered Lily's room and found her asleep; a serene smile softened her face. The feather, too large and pearlescent to belong to a bird, trembled lightly as the night breeze passed over the soft down.

She said nothing to Lily, but her throat tightened. She knew what it was. A gift. And a trap.

“He gave her a feather, Jereh! A feather! And she sleeps with it.” Mirna hissed, tracing a three-point warding sign over her throat. In this palace, even the stone had ears.

Jereh filled the doorway and didn’t move. He had carried Lily through rain, taught her to swim. But it was Eirran’s feather that she now hid like a treasure.

“You know what this means,” Mirna whispered from the hall.

“It means she’s happy,” Jereh said, and the words scraped.

“It’s dangerous. The world punishes attachments like this - and he knows it.”

“Should we take it from her? Forbid it?”

Silence. The hem she’d mended last night pressed hard beneath her fist. Then Jereh shook his head.

“Mirna… you know it as well as I do. There are things our love can’t give her. That feather isn’t about him - it’s her learning to love that part of herself.”

Mirna swallowed, frown carving deep lines above the bridge of her nose. “I’ll leave it, then. But I won’t stand by when it hurts her.” She straightened her spine. "And I will go talk to him. Open his eyes about the damage he's doing."

Jereh gave a soft half-shrug, half- chuckle that meant good luck even if his lips remained sealed.

 

Later that day, Mirna sat rigid in Eirran's study, walled by maps and parchments piled on the great mahogany table. A draft from the high window lifted a corner of parchment as Eirran entered quietly.

Surprisingly, the look on his face told her he was expecting her to come.

“We must speak of Lily,” she said.

He nodded. Waited.

Her knuckles whitened against her skirt. “She’s growing attached to you - not as a prince but as a father. And you…” her fists tightened “…you encourage it.”

He flinched, barely. He did not deny it. His wing brushed a coastline on the nearest chart and stilled.

“Have you considered,” she pressed, softer now, “what it means for her to know she will never belong to your world? That she will always be lesser? Every beat of your wings reminds her that she doesn't belong. What happens when she realizes all her love can’t bring you down to her?” She paused. “There’s a reason children of both worlds are raised among humans, a reason beyond faith, beyond politics. They’re born of earth. You, Ilari, are born of sky. You speak different languages.” She grasped at the fabric of her dress. “This bond you’re creating - if it shatters, the wound will scar.”

“What do you suggest?” he asked, the tones of his voice rasping against each other.

“I have no solution. Only a warning: every piece of your world you give her reminds her she can never have it whole.”

“And what if I want her to be my daughter?” he whispered.

“Then live with this: she will love you more than you can ever return,” she said. It was not a reproach, only the truth.

When she left, the air in the study stilled.

Eirran walked over to the tall window overlooking the courtyard with the fountain where Lily liked to spend her afternoons, but now it was empty, bland, devoid of her warmth. In his mind's eye he saw her sitting by that fountain, trying to scrub the Ilari shine from her skin. He pictured her on the rooftop garden then, her frame hunched, eyes solemn. What if he had brought her here only to suffer?

He had no answer - only a hollow ache.

He saw his father’s mouth shape the word: Stillborn.

Perhaps he’d forged his own lie.

He remembered Lily’s smile on the terrace - her courage, her wonder, that never gave room to envy.

Perhaps the answer lay not in grand gestures but in small ones.

If he couldn't give her the sky, he would give her a window.

For now, it would have to be enough. Until he found some way to give her more.

He understood then that every gift he gave her was paid for with debt.

That night, he eased her door open. Moonlight spilled across the floor. He unlatched the high window to let the room breathe, and a gentle draft stirred the downy edge of the feather laying in her hand. In sleep, Lily’s fingers twitched - a small, unconscious clutch. He left, leaving the feather carry what words could not.

[avonleaastra1]

A Quiet Schism

There’s a quiet sadness I’ve been sitting with lately, both as a writer and a reader.

It feels like there’s a schism, a vast canyon between what some of us are desperately searching for and where we’re forced to look for it.

As a reader, I find myself lost in the in-between. I long for stories with the emotional depth and careful prose of literary fiction, but wrapped in the wonder and metaphor of fantasy. I want slow burns that truly smolder, where the stakes aren’t about saving the world in the first act, but about saving a character’s soul over the course of a journey. Where the "payoff" isn't a level-up, but a quiet moment of heartbreaking understanding between two people.

But the landscape feels so binary. On one side, the familiar, fast-paced Chosen One narratives, fun in their way but often leaving me emotionally hungry. On the other, dense, politically intricate fantasies that are masterfully built but can sometimes feel like examining a beautiful, cold clockwork mechanism - astonishing, but without a warm, beating heart at its center.

Where is the space for the rest of us? For those who want to live in the intimate, painful, and beautiful moments that happen to take place in a world with wings and magic?

As a writer, the sadness is echoed. You create something to fill that very void you feel as a reader. You pour care into the quiet moments, the glances that hold centuries of weight, the trauma that isn't a plot device but a ghost that haunts every decision. You offer it freely, not for profit, but for connection. Just for the hope that someone else who feels this same hunger will find it and feel less alone.

But the platforms aren’t built for this. The algorithms don’t promote patience. They promote the immediate hook, the familiar trope, the explosive first chapter. It creates a cruel irony: the readers who want what you’re making can’t find it, and you can’t find them. We’re all just wandering the same digital bazaar, holding out our different kinds of lanterns, hoping to see a familiar glow in the darkness.

Maybe that’s all we can do. Keep holding our lanterns up.

—

From my work-in-progress, Earthborn.

He hid the tempest inside him behind the practiced Ilari mask. He only lowered his fingers so they would not see them shake.

“I will read them,” he said evenly, as though asked for a trifle, not the reopening of old wounds. “Tonight. When it is quiet and warm.”

...The bundle lay in his palm light as a feather, heavy as stone. He knew the hand at once—the slanted, stubborn script that crossed its own lines. In his chest, something trembled, rattled, and tightened into a painful knot.

“If you are reading this, it means you've found her. I know you will. Someday. That thought gives me strength to endure until the end.

You once asked me if what we had was real. If I loved you. What could I answer then that you would believe? Nothing. Or worse—that you would believe me, and where would that lead you? To ruin. So I kept silent.

Now that neither of us has anything left to lose, now I can say: yes. I loved you. I loved you enough to let you hate me.”

For those who want to read more:

Earthborn - slow-burn, character - driven fantasy

Winged empire; father–daughter bond; political & military intrigue; no LitRPG

[avonleaastra1]

Excerpt — The Stranger at the Door

The cottage smelled of salt and hearth smoke when three knocks rang out against wood—heavy as hammer blows.

Her stomach twisted into a knot. Her palms, clutched tight around a worn straw doll, went cold and damp. Late callers never brought good news.

Outside, the last crimson streaks of sunset sank into a leaden horizon. The evening star flickered above the fishing boats in Ulm’s harbor. The air was heavy with the promise of rain, yet the first storm had not broken.

Lily’s hair clung to her neck, droplets sliding down her cheeks like invisible tears.

Her aunt’s hands froze in mid-stitch. The rose motif lay forgotten as Mirna’s callused fingers gripped the fabric. Lily saw the tremor. Not from fatigue.

“Stay here,” Mirna whispered.

It was no request.

The door opened.

It wasn’t human.

The stranger’s cloak shimmered like liquid silver—not from rain, but from something other. Beneath it loomed a shape at his back, a silhouette no human body could cast.

Ilar.

Children whispered that God had spun them from His own hair, while man was molded from clay. That each step of an Ilar sanctified the ground, and each crossing of a human threshold brought both blessing—and desecration.

“Mirna Hamad,” said the stranger; his voice spilled through the room like oil—rich, uncanny, metallic harmony, as though spoken from five mouths at once.

It was beautiful.

It was terrifying.

Wings.

Too vast for the little room, they arched above him like white monoliths. Primary feathers longer than Lily’s arms, each plume glowing like an enchanted lamp.

Don’t look. If you stare too long, your eyes will burn.

She could not look away.

Story on WordPress

Earthborn - slow-burn, character - driven fantasy

Winged empire; father–daughter bond; political & military intrigue; no LitRPG

[avonleaastra1]

Excerpt — “The Well”

The sun had only just broken over the cliffs when Lily felt their stares.

The village children fell silent as she approached the well. Boys unclenched their fists, girls let their stones fall — all eyes fixed on her.

“There she is,” Dorin sneered, dirt on his hands and triumph in his grin. “The girl who reeks of rain even when the sky’s clear.”

Lily’s hands tightened on the rope handles. Say nothing. Fetch the water and leave. She had learned that lesson long ago.

But Lina lunged, yanking Lily’s dark hair. “If you’re one of them, why isn’t your hair snow-white, mongrel?”

Lily wrenched free. “Let me go.”

“Show us,” Lina hissed, dragging Lily’s arm into the sun. Shadows shifted. For an instant, her skin flickered — as if light burned beneath it.

The children recoiled.

Whispers slithered through the air.

Link to full story:

Earthborn Chapters – Page 3 – Earthborn – slow-burn, character – driven fantasy

Posts about Earthborn Chapters written by Avonlea Astra