https://xitter.cf/t.co/S4Qy7qj4it Cloudfic
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📚 Paved with Gold by MP Fry — OUT NOW!
When Tess discovers a fractured, dangerous world beyond the yellow brick road, the familiar fairy tale darkens
📖 Kindle edition: just 99p on Amazon
✨ FREE with Kindle Unlimited
#PavedWithGold #FantasyBooks #KindleBooks #BookRelease
M.P.Fry retweeted
📚 Paved with Gold by MP Fry — OUT NOW!
When Tess discovers a fractured, dangerous world beyond the yellow brick road, the familiar fairy tale darkens
📖 Kindle edition: just 99p on Amazon
✨ FREE with Kindle Unlimited
#PavedWithGold #FantasyBooks #KindleBooks #BookRelease
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M.P.Fry retweeted
It's almost here. Its so close you can taste it.
Cloudfic.app The most focused writing environment you will find, anywhere.
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🤖 Made with AI
It's almost here. Its so close you can taste it.
Cloudfic.app The most focused writing environment you will find, anywhere.
#booklover
🤖 Made with AI
M.P.Fry retweeted
Cloudfic is nearly ready.
After months of building, testing and refining, we’re now aiming to go live within the next two weeks.
Cloudfic is a writing platform built specifically for novelists — with a focused writing environment, worldbuilding, manuscript tools, book formatting, fiction-aware AI and much more, all working together around your story.
And when we launch, you’ll be able to try it for 21 days free.
No endless setup. No stitching together half a dozen different tools. Just open your book and write.
Cloudfic is coming.
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🤖 Made with AI
Cloudfic is nearly ready.
After months of building, testing and refining, we’re now aiming to go live within the next two weeks.
Cloudfic is a writing platform built specifically for novelists — with a focused writing environment, worldbuilding, manuscript tools, book formatting, fiction-aware AI and much more, all working together around your story.
And when we launch, you’ll be able to try it for 21 days free.
No endless setup. No stitching together half a dozen different tools. Just open your book and write.
Cloudfic is coming.
Created for storytellers.
✨ 21-day free trial at launch
📚 Built for novelists
🌍 Writing, worldbuilding and AI in one place
#WritingCommunity #AmWriting #NovelWriting #IndieAuthors #WritersOfX #Cloudfic
🤖 Made with AI
Right now most of the options feel broken.
You search through endless lists.
Algorithms push the same big names.
Or you end up digging through thousands of titles hoping to stumble across something good.
And when you do find a great author?
You finish the book… and then wait 12–18 months for the next one.
So here’s the idea I’ve been working on:
A platform where readers can discover high-quality fiction in one place, open a story instantly, and start reading — no friction, no hunting, no chaos.
Stories release regularly, so there’s always something new to dive into.
Think of it like a living library for fiction — built around discovery, consistency, and great storytelling.
No noise. Just great stories.
Be honest:
If something like that existed, would you actually use it?
M.P.Fry retweeted
Episode One
Jack
Whitechapel breathes like a lung full of soot.
Rain needles the sodium light.
DCI Blake Ellery keeps her pace even; not fast, not slow. A rhythm that says she owns the street, even when it doesn’t want owning.
The cordon sits ahead like a torn seam. Blue-and-white tape. Two uniforms on the edge, shoulders hunched, radios murmuring. Beyond them: a narrow court, brick sweating damp, bins lined like teeth.
“Ma’am.” The younger constable lifts the tape.
Blake ducks under. The air changes. Cold, metallic; the faint sweetness of rot you never forget once you’ve met it.
DS Imran Qureshi waits by the entry, hood up, notebook already open. His eyes flick to her face, checking for cracks. He won’t find any. Not yet.
“Morning,” he says. “We’ve got a body. Female. Late twenties, maybe. Found by a delivery driver at five-forty.”
“Name?” Blake asks.
“Not confirmed. No ID on her. Phone’s missing.”
Blake looks past him. The crime-scene tent glows under a portable lamp, a white blister against brick. SOCOs move inside with slow, deliberate care, like divers in a wreck.
“Where?” she says.
Imran points. “Back corner. Against the wall.”
A pathologist’s assistant steps out, mask under their chin, eyes tired already. “DCI Ellery?”
Blake nods once. “Talk me through what you’ve got.”
The assistant swallows. “We’ve preserved as found. No movement beyond confirming life extinct. It’s… staged.”
Staged. That word always tries to make it theatre. Mara refuses to let it. It’s labour. It’s intent.
She steps closer. Shoe covers. Gloves. The ritual that keeps you clean, and never does.
Inside the tent, the world narrows to a single frame.
The woman is on her back, head turned slightly as if listening. Her throat is opened with a cut so clean it looks drawn. The blouse has been lifted. Skin pale under harsh light.
And the abdomen—
Blake doesn’t blink. She lets her eyes do their job, one detail at a time, like a camera panning a room after a gunshot.
The incision is deliberate. Not frantic. Not exploratory. A long, controlled opening; the kind you see in theatres, not alleys. Organs displaced with a precision that feels like a message.
A SOCO tech, Hargreaves, looks up from the blood patterning. “No cast-off. No obvious struggle. Minimal spatter on the wall.”
“Meaning?” Mara says.
“Meaning she was still. Or made still.”
Imran’s voice comes from behind her shoulder. “That’s not the worst part.”
Blake turns her head. “Show me.”
Imran points to the brickwork above the body. Someone has chalked a line of writing, careful as a school exercise. The letters are neat, almost polite.
A NOTE, not chalk; white grease pencil, the kind used on glass. It sits on brick like a confession.
**“THE CANON IS A LIE.”**
Under it, a second line.
**“BEGIN WITH POLLY.”**
#ReadersCommunity #BookReview #readasample
Check out our the worlds first fiction streaming platform - coming to you very soon.
cloudfic.app
sign up now to receive the first 6 months completely FREE.
Episode One
Jack
Whitechapel breathes like a lung full of soot.
Rain needles the sodium light.
DCI Blake Ellery keeps her pace even; not fast, not slow. A rhythm that says she owns the street, even when it doesn’t want owning.
The cordon sits ahead like a torn seam. Blue-and-white tape. Two uniforms on the edge, shoulders hunched, radios murmuring. Beyond them: a narrow court, brick sweating damp, bins lined like teeth.
“Ma’am.” The younger constable lifts the tape.
Blake ducks under. The air changes. Cold, metallic; the faint sweetness of rot you never forget once you’ve met it.
DS Imran Qureshi waits by the entry, hood up, notebook already open. His eyes flick to her face, checking for cracks. He won’t find any. Not yet.
“Morning,” he says. “We’ve got a body. Female. Late twenties, maybe. Found by a delivery driver at five-forty.”
“Name?” Blake asks.
“Not confirmed. No ID on her. Phone’s missing.”
Blake looks past him. The crime-scene tent glows under a portable lamp, a white blister against brick. SOCOs move inside with slow, deliberate care, like divers in a wreck.
“Where?” she says.
Imran points. “Back corner. Against the wall.”
A pathologist’s assistant steps out, mask under their chin, eyes tired already. “DCI Ellery?”
Blake nods once. “Talk me through what you’ve got.”
The assistant swallows. “We’ve preserved as found. No movement beyond confirming life extinct. It’s… staged.”
Staged. That word always tries to make it theatre. Mara refuses to let it. It’s labour. It’s intent.
She steps closer. Shoe covers. Gloves. The ritual that keeps you clean, and never does.
Inside the tent, the world narrows to a single frame.
The woman is on her back, head turned slightly as if listening. Her throat is opened with a cut so clean it looks drawn. The blouse has been lifted. Skin pale under harsh light.
And the abdomen—
Blake doesn’t blink. She lets her eyes do their job, one detail at a time, like a camera panning a room after a gunshot.
The incision is deliberate. Not frantic. Not exploratory. A long, controlled opening; the kind you see in theatres, not alleys. Organs displaced with a precision that feels like a message.
A SOCO tech, Hargreaves, looks up from the blood patterning. “No cast-off. No obvious struggle. Minimal spatter on the wall.”
“Meaning?” Mara says.
“Meaning she was still. Or made still.”
Imran’s voice comes from behind her shoulder. “That’s not the worst part.”
Blake turns her head. “Show me.”
Imran points to the brickwork above the body. Someone has chalked a line of writing, careful as a school exercise. The letters are neat, almost polite.
A NOTE, not chalk; white grease pencil, the kind used on glass. It sits on brick like a confession.
**“THE CANON IS A LIE.”**
Under it, a second line.
**“BEGIN WITH POLLY.”**
#ReadersCommunity #BookReview #readasample
Check out our the worlds first fiction streaming platform - coming to you very soon.
cloudfic.app
sign up now to receive the first 6 months completely FREE.
I’ve been in the trenches of this industry for years.
I’ve felt the same pain every indie writer knows:
• the pain of trying to format a book at 2am
• the pain of fighting Word until your chapters collapse
• the pain of KDP templates that never quite work
• the pain of hunting for resources that don’t really exist
• the pain of thinking your story isn’t “good enough”
• the pain of watching brilliant writers fall into the slush pile because the process failed them, not the words
I built Tin Man because I lived that frustration myself.
It’s not about flashy features — it’s about giving writers a straight path from manuscript to book without needing a degree in publishing.
If you’ve ever felt any of this, you’re not alone.
We can fix it.
One tool at a time.
@grok @Grokipedia #WritingCommmunity #writingtips #writing #booktok #BookTwitter #bookstagram