Write = Get Reviews Forum a short prologue -- I promise ..

this is ready for publishing (I hope). If anyone can refute that claim, please do so. Hit me hard with what you really think. Was it a struggle to get through, or leave you wanting more? Cheers.Gentaro swung by the ankles, chin pinned to his chest and arms to his sides; his head tracing the sign of infinity in slow orbits through the dark like a vessel between gravity wells. Twisting up, the mesh of his snare sliced at the ridges of his spine and chafed on his throat; twisting down, the top of his head swept within reach of the predator below. “It’s okay . . .” A distant voice. From where? The others were too far off to be heard, and his screams too constricted for them to hear him. With each pass as his pendulum slowed, and the stench of mud and undigested meat grew more intense. “It’s okay, Taro-kun.”  Dad? “You’re safe now. It’s over,” his father said.“It’s okay.” For a moment, the memory gave way to the present, and light pried at the cracks between his eyelids. His clenched fists held bed sheets, not mesh; the restraints were the cradle of his father’s arms. “Shhh . . . You’re okay.” But the darkness had penetrated too far; its absence now made no sense. His father’s voice slipped away, abandoning him to the sultry air and endless night. Still shut, his eyes darted in their sockets. His mind could not let go. Of all the sounds of those three weeks the torment of silence had only been outdone by the noise of his heart pushing blood to his throttled lungs.  “Calm down . . .. Everything’s all right now.” How could it be? How? He collapsed into his father’s grasp the way he used to as a child, but the breath against his the top of his head revived the memory. So lucid the presence, it vibrated on his skull, the mesh grating between the soft skin of his cheek and the hard enamel of the dagger-like protrusions.  “It’s okay now. You’re okay.” His eyes would not open. Through gasps of air, he wrapped his arms around his father. He’d been screaming, convulsing, fighting his father’s hold, fighting the tangle of sheets and IV tubes. He fought to open his eyes, but he only saw the plume. Flames whooshing overhead, the fireball, rising, growing, and engulfing the air . . . and then light. Brilliant blue light.  He buried himself in his father’s embrace, and he sobbed. It was over. It really was. But it was not okay. *** So, he wasn’t dead. But not deadwas a spectrum. The fog was parting from his mind. The medication was wearing off. Sweat had soaked through his gown, and his eyes twitched against the overhead wattage. Even the light seemed to hurt his skin. The burns hurt the most. He felt behind himself for the pillow and tucked it under the base of his skull to relieve the strain on his neck. Phlegm slid down his throat. It felt good–something to coat his tattered respiratory tract. “Where’s Nyla?” he said. The effort strained his insides. “Where is she? And Ronin?”
He scratched the scab on his ear. He must have been in the hospital for at least a couple days. Another voice was in the room now besides his parents. A nurse. He could hear, but it all sounded under water, and what he heard made him want to crawl back inside the Earth. “Someone is here to see you, Mr. Daigo,” said the nurse. Her Aussie accent grated his eardrums. “Is that all right, Mr. Daigo? Gentaro?” His mother told the nurse it was fine. He heard the nurse leave through the curtain that surrounded the bed and slide it shut behind her. Her footfalls made almost no sound, and a moment later she was welcoming the visitor at the door. Gentaro knew who it was by the click-clacking steps. The polished long-toed shoes slinked beneath the curtain a second before the visitor dragged it open to intrude. His vinyl trench coat scuffed the bedside table as he entered, the strap of his business bag dinging the IV pole. Gentaro groaned upon seeing the self-styled cliché of a man, the man he called the Dick.  The nurse was squinting at a business card she couldn’t read. She handed it to Gentaro’s mother, said, “He flew in from Japan this morning,” and brought a hand to her chest while she gave the Dick a phony smile. The Dick pressed himself closer to Gentaro’s bedside, displacing his parents, who’d made the trip for more noble reasons. He knew the Dick would ask him what happened. But the memories–the terror–he’d woken with were already slipping, much the same way that even a vivid dream did. He did not want to recall things. The first few days had gone well–he could talk about that to appease the Dick. Maybe he could mention Ronin as well. No, he decided. He should have warned the project planners, and his crewmates, about Ronin beforehand. No, he shouldn’t have had to. The planners should have known Ronin’s tendencies on their own. And they should have known the tendencies of the terrain. Then the other days would have been avoided. He didn’t want to talk about the other days.
The Dick traded bows with Gentaro’s mother, and then he gave her a copy of the same business card she was already holding, which she politely accepted. “Detective Sekihara,” she read aloud as if she hadn’t read his name a second before he’d barged in. “Organized Crime and Foreigner Crime Division.” Her voice bore no trace of concern or suspicion. She was like that. If a cop said her son did something wrong, then her son did something wrong. The Dick spoke at length to her in Japanese, not once acknowledging Gentaro and his dad, never mind that in spite appearances, Gentaro’s first language was Japanese, and his dad spoke it nearly as well.Gentaro’s dad was not as obliging his mother. He stood up from Gentaro’s side and the cool, not-to-be-messed-with detective backed into the nurse he’d also been ignoring. A head taller than the Dick, Gentaro’s dad asked in Japanese if the Dick wasn’t out of his jurisdiction, to which the Dick gave a thin smile and replied in rehearsed English, “I arrived here for the purpose of courtesy, not business. I became alarmed when I heard of the condition of Mr. Gentaro Daigo.”
“Well, I’m not dead,” Gentaro blurted. The exertion made him grab his throat, and the IV tube caught on a lever on the side of the bed, tugging at the needle in his skin. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t want to look any more defeated than he could help. “You can go home,” he said, waving his free arm as the nurse fiddled with the tube on the other. “Arrest me when I get back.” 
His mother scolded him, and apologized to the Dick. Being away from Japan must have ruined her son’s manners. 
“If it’s not too much,” the Dick pressed her in Japanese; “perhaps I could have a few minutes with your son before I leave. Not about the conspiracy matter–that can wait. But it would mean a lot if he could share with me what happened.”

not sure why the formatting is all messed up. lots of 404 errors on the side bars, too. Anyone else having trouble getting the writers cafe.org site to work properly?