How To Critique A Short Story

On the eve of the National Robotics Championship, I smashed my carefully designed bot to pieces and announced my withdrawal. Everyone said I was a fraud who was quitting out of fear of being exposed. Online, the netizens mocked me relentlessly. Only one person, Adrian Cross, the so-called genius of the century, spoke up in my defense, his voice dripping with false sincerity, "I believe in River Lowell’s skills. Only he deserves to be my opponent. No matter what setbacks he’s facing, I hope he comes back to the arena and proves himself." In my previous life, the robot I built was identical to his. No matter how I tried to prove he had copied me, Adrian stood before the cameras, wearing his benevolent mask, and said, "It’s fine. This robot can go to River. I can always build something even better." His fans swarmed me, tearing me apart online, and no one believed in my talent. I swallowed the humiliation and vowed to rebuild my robot from scratch. However, when I was assembling it, the Power Core in my kit exploded, shattering my skull. That same night, I was rushed into the ICU. Netizens clapped and cheered, saying I got exactly what I deserved. That night, my girlfriend, Lila Hart, signed the hospital’s DNR consent form without hesitation. Until the day I died, I never understood how Adrian had gotten my robot’s data or why Lila had joined forces with him. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the very day of the competition.

Two years ago, as a graduate of Werewolf Medical School, I volunteered to go to the most remote and poorest pack, as it had always been my dream to help werewolf patients in need. I heard from my teacher that the werewolves in the Rogue Pack were the poorest and that their living conditions were the worst. Most of the werewolves there were old and weak, so I volunteered to go to that pack as soon as I graduated. After I arrived, I helped them build an infirmary and even set up a blood station. Every year, I led them in voluntary blood donations. But one time—right after I had taken a short break following a blood donation—they turned on me. They slandered me, calling me a selfish and heartless healer. Worse still, they accused me of faking illness, claiming I was lying comfortably in bed while patients were dying—refusing to lift a finger to save them. Not only that, they stormed into the infirmary, seized all my herbs and equipment, and completely trashed the place I had built for them with my own hands. Recalling the days I had spent day and night healing them—only to see my infirmary destroyed and my dream shattered—I let out a bitter smile. I picked up the phone and called the dean of my home pack. "I'm ready to return," I said. "I want to serve the patients in our own pack." Then, without a trace of regret, I left that place behind. However, after I gave up, the whole pack regretted it and begged me to return.

In my previous life, everything I do to care for myself somehow ends up benefiting my new housekeeper instead. I apply expensive skincare, yet dark spots and fine lines spread across my face, whereas the 45-year-old housekeeper's face becomes silkier. I jog every morning, yet my body only grows heavier and bulkier, while hers becomes slender and toned. When my husband notices the stretch marks on my abdomen, his face twists with disgust, and he never touches me again. "I genuinely can't bring myself to touch you. How can you look worse than Mirabelle when you take such good care of yourself?" My housekeeper looks at me with a sinister smile. A chill crawls up my spine, and the strange feeling makes me fire her on the spot. Yet, as soon as she leaves, I start aging at lightning speed, entering menopause 20 years early and developing diabetes and high blood pressure. I see every doctor I can, but after hanging on for a week, I die from a stroke. When I open my eyes again, I'm back on the day she first reports to work. This time, I push away the royal jelly she sets in front of me with a pleasant smile. "I've been avoiding certain foods lately. You can have it instead."

During lunch, an older female colleague asked me, "How old are you? Do you have a boyfriend? When are you planning to get married?" I shook my head. "Twenty-seven, no boyfriend, and no plans to get married." She was momentarily stunned. "What are you talking about? How can a woman not get married?" she asked. I smiled without responding. Realizing I wasn't joking, her expression darkened. "Did you work as a escort and get caught? Is that why no man wants you?"

It was a national holiday and we decided to drive back to my husband's hometown to spend the holidays. One day before we left, my husband's childhood crush came crying to him that she had not managed to buy train tickets home. My husband immediately decided to let her have my seat in the car and insisted that I take the train instead. I looked at him in disbelief. There was shock in my eyes. Even my son insisted I take the train. "Mommy, Aunt Rosie is so pretty. How could you make her take the train?" I did not argue. I booked my train ticket right in front of them. However, it was to my own hometown. I no longer wanted a biased husband and a disloyal son.

Midnight. I heard a faint meowing through the window. I was about to have a look when floating words appeared in front of me. [Don't open the window! There isn't a cat outside! It's a serial killer!] [I'm done. How could the side character be so dumb? I can already imagine how tragic her death will be.] [Go and find the villain! He loves you so much! He will surely protect you!] I quickly retracted my hand on the window latch…

The princess of Oberlin City scorns the poor, and I'm the biggest thorn in her side—I live in squalor but am specially admitted by a prestigious college meant for the rich. "What right does a peasant like you have to study at the same college as me?" Nails appear on my seat, and the shampoo in my bathroom is switched to glue. Chantelle Gorman even daringly tries to ram me over at the campus entrance—all because I'm a poor young woman from the countryside. To survive, I set my sights on her father, a perfect gentleman. He's a domineering CEO who's never had a shortage of women in his life. It's too bad he has no other children besides Chantelle. Chantelle thinks I'm a piece of trash who'll get kicked to the curb after a night of pleasure, but she doesn't know how easily the women in my family conceive. I give birth to seven sons and a daughter for the domineering CEO. How can Chantelle possibly go up against me and my eight children?

My boyfriend and I set out on a graduation trip, but in the remote wilderness, we were kidnapped. The abductors had cruel intentions toward me, and to protect my boyfriend, I played along, buying time for him to escape and get help. After our rescue, though, a video of my assault spread online, turning me into a target of vicious gossip. "She's the woman who got it on with two guys in the wild!" "Kidnapped but so into it? What a freak!" "How does she even show her face? Shameless!" When I confronted my boyfriend about the video, he dodged the question and broke up with me. "I'm about to start at a top company. I can't be with someone so tainted." Heartbroken, I was pushed off a rooftop to my death. But when I opened my eyes, I was back on the day of the kidnapping, given a second chance to rewrite my fate.

Calvin and I had been married for seven years. While packing up some clothes, I found a cheap lighter in the pocket of his jacket. Everything he wore, from the inside out, had been carefully chosen by me to highlight his refined taste and status. However, in that girl’s Twitter photos, he looked like a college boy, dressed in cheap clothes and wearing a digital watch that cost only a few dollars while kissing her. Using a throwaway account, I casually liked the post and commented, "A perfect match." Then, I turned to Calvin and said, "How did I never realize you had such a thing for bargains?"

My sister aims her camera at my face as she livestreams. She forces me to get on my knees before her as everyone in her class watches. Then, she tells me to lick her shoe clean. My parents know about her behavior but don't care how it affects me. Their indulgence only makes my sister's behavior worse. This is precisely what I want, though. If one wants to ruin someone, the first step is to turn her into a psycho!