Full Verse Review: Fly Girl by NotPhoebee.

What’s it like to be afraid? I gots to tells ya—I wouldn’t have the first idea. Buckling under the weight of a future either yearned for or desperately scrambled to escape? Aw heck, what would a simple high-school groundsman like me know about such a thing?

No sir-ree. A bumpkin like myself ain’t got no business relating with a Fly Girl. A girl who’s out to learn that it’s not about winning the gold—it’s about the courage to stay in the game.

For me, that game was competitive duck-duck-goose. I contended at the very stretches of athletic achievement… I didn’t play well, exactly. It’s just that it’s a stretch to call the game either athletic or an achievement.

For Charli—this tale’s protagonist—flying was the ring she threw her hat into. A bigger ring. A higher one. And unlike mine, hers didn’t involve getting smacked on the back of the head by a seven-year-old and running in circles till you pass out.

Career-ending, illegal foul-play aside—which the ref still never pulled a card for—Fly Girl tells a deeply relatable story. It tells an emotional story. An emotionally honest story. The kind of novella where you turn the final page and want more, but don’t, because it ends on the exact note it was meant to end on. Yet for all the inarguable quality, I’m disheartened to admit it’s also the kind of story that will never truly find its readers on sites like Royal Road.

It’s complete, but it’s short.

It has action—briefly, and late.

It’s science fiction, but only in the speculative hoverboard tech that Charli competes with.

There’s no magic. No progression. No needy elves you claim you want but would secretly leave on read because, let’s face it, she’s a bit much.

There’s no soul-bound UI feeding the protagonist cheat skills like a gambling addict feeds the mafia’s accounting department. (You go to dark places before you wash out of competitive goose.)

It’s a quiet story.

And while Royal Road doesn’t release official demographic statistics, it’s generally understood to be a male-dominated space. This is not a stereotypically male-coded story. If the author hadn’t submitted it to me directly, I doubt I’d ever have come across it—and even if I had, I’d have ignored it at a glance.

I’d have been wrong to do so.

I’d have missed out on a deeply intimate exploration of the remarkableness of everyday courage—and how courage in one part of your life can bleed outward, quietly, insistently, transforming the whole.

Bardic Planet isn’t about what’s popular. It’s about what’s good. I’ll say it again, Fly Girl is good. So let’s dive in, you and I, to see just why. Starting with the…

Character & Voice:

What makes a champion?

Is it the grit to never back down from a fight? To face your fears head-on? To set aside that cripplin’ terror of the ring and—after your public disgrace and your wife leaving you for the bronze-medallist of the Musical Chairs National League—put that duck-embroidered bib back on and reclaim the lost glories of your past?

Perhaps.

But for Charli, it’s something quieter, braver, and far less theatrical.

For her, it’s accepting the past hurts for what they were; pressing boldly into an unknown future; and asserting agency over the one thing she can control—the life she leads in the present.

Gun-shy after a hold-up, Charli begins this story afraid. Terrified of dying—but perhaps even more terrified of really living.

Whatever the moment, her mind sprints straight to the worst possible scenario.

“But what if it doesn’t work the way you want it to? What if you can’t adapt fast enough to it? … Aren’t you scared?”

And again:

“But what if you go out there and he comes back? What if he hurts you again. Shoves you off your board? Something worse?” My hands shook in my lap at the thought. I could imagine it clear as day. The gun, the very same one that had stared me down last week, pointed at Eden. The cruel pale finger wrapped around the trigger paralyzing her with fear the way it had with me.

She spends her days apprenticing in her uncle’s workshop, modifying and repairing hoverboards—equipment she loves and fears in equal measure. As alluded to above, her fears compound after an incident involving a preppy douchebag, a gun, and the lingering trauma it drags behind it.

Life moves on, though. And as much as she might love to hide away, so must she. She still has her friends, and one of them has a team competition to prepare for.

At least, that was the plan.

But, true to the old saying: when people plan, God sends a musical-chair DOUCHE BAG to come after MY WIFE!

Or, if you’re less culturally sophisticated than myself, they might phrase it simply as: “He laughs.”

But what happens next is no laughing matter.

Her friend gets injured by the same skunk-rat-bstrd who robbed her uncle’s workshop, and just like that, Charli is press-ganged into COTS—Children of the Sky.

Pressure mounts.

She buckles—

But she learns to get back up when life knocks her down.

She learns to lean on the emotional support and wisdom of others, slowly discovering that yes, some things are frightening… but win, lose, or draw, real victory comes from playing the game your own way.

Charli comes across as fully realised. Yes, she’s scared. Yes, she’s brave. But she’s also irrational at times—then red-faced when she catches herself in her own irrationality… then angered that she feels ashamed for feeling her own feelings.

She doubts herself at times, believes in herself at others. One moment she acts with caution; the next she’ll throw that caution to the wind and follow her heart’s desires.

This is all reflected in the voice of the novel. The story is told in first-person, past tense. We see through Charli’s eyes. We live in her head. We follow her progression from anxious self-doubt to tentative self-belief, all the way to moments of self-determined action.

She reads as a young woman slowly discovering who she is, who she wants to become, and what—and who—she’s willing to stand behind. She doesn’t get there all at once. Hell, by the end of the story, she’s still not there. But she’s made progress, not perfection, and she’s all the more human for it. it.

Remember that opening question? What makes a champion?

If Fly Girl has anything to say it, a champion is someone who gets back up every time they’re knocked down and finds a way to stand on their own two feet.

The supporting characters are all well-developed, each with their own personality and traits. From Eden’s oddly humble self-assurance, to the dogmatic passion of the COTS captain, to the patience and understanding of the team’s coach, and the gruff machismo of Charli’s uncle, Frank—every character feels like a fully realised person. Distinct. Memorable. A credit to their crafting.

Narrative & Structure:

Much like how your life starts to spiral after you’ve been disgraced from competitive goose, Fly Girl’s pacing is fast. Events move quickly. It can’t be helped—there’s a lot of story to cover in a very short word count. 23,566 words, to be exact.

The story moves quickly, yet it rarely feels rushed. The author chooses her scenes with care, spotlighting the moments most impactful to the emotional development of her characters. Another credit to the craft: much of good writing lies in deciding what not to show, and what earns its place on the page.

That being said, having read the work cover to cover… screen to screen?… I couldn’t help but feel a bit of whiplash in how certain emotional crises flare up and resolve themselves just as fast.

Take this moment, for example:

“Well, I’m probably not going to be able to fly at all…”

You should rejoin… Rejoin, but this time on your own terms… Tell Jenson to suck it and fly how you want” …

“I don’t know if I can”

“Just try…

“Fine. I’ll try. Again. For you.”

“No, for you.”

Just moments before, Charli was determined to quit the team entirely. A few short lines later, with little internal resistance, she’s changed her mind. The entire emotional pivot takes place in a single conversation within a single scene.

Because of the story’s brevity, that pivotal moment comes across as… underdeveloped, and a little unconvincing.

The narrative follows a three-act structure, with the final act cutting out before the credits roll. You have the setup, which establishes the stakes—such as the hoverboard competition, and Charli’s mother’s desire that she move back home instead of lingering in her uncle’s workshop.

You have the confrontation, where Charli faces her misgivings, develops, falters, stumbles, gets knocked flat, then pushes forward anyway.

And finally, the resolution, where she takes ownership of her life, gets in the game, and plays—not necessarily to win, but to prove she can.

The whole thing comes lineally and logically, ending on an open note—just like any real moment in life, you don’t know where it’ll go next.

(Unlike competitive goose, where you always know where it’s going: down. Usually involving a lawsuit.)

That being said, if I were to nitpick, I’d have appreciated a few more clues. Yes, Charli will compete—but what next? Is this the first step in reclaiming her passion for the sky, or just one bright moment before a new chapter takes her somewhere else?

I’m perfectly happy to fill in the blank patches of the canvas, but I’d have appreciated a few more shades to work with.

Ultimately, the ending is poignant and effective. But if the author ever takes a second pass at the manuscript, I think the story would benefit from a little more long-term motivation seeded into the lead-up.

Worldbuilding & Themes:

Fly Girl takes place in the fictional state of Pai. They have hoverboards and a sport centred around their use. Other than that, it’s almost entirely recognisable as our world. There are no magical kingdoms or edicts to analyse. No words of power, devils, or eldritch lore to sink your teeth into. This isn’t that kind of story.

It’d be as out of place as a gun-duel in a courtroom drama.

…You know what, that could actually work.

Awesome story prompts aside, there’s not much to say concerning the worldbuilding, with one notable exception. There is an LGBT romantic subplot in this story. It’s well-integrated, casual, accepted—showing, through the narrative, a non-idealised and non-fetishised lesbian pairing, one that exists naturally within the society around them.

It’s not loud.

It’s not the point of the novel.

It’s simply there—neither standing out nor shying back.

And in being so, it subtly adds texture to the worldbuilding without distracting from the plot or asking for permission to exist.

As for the themes, in the process of writing the rest of this review, I’ve largely already covered them. To summarise, the novella explores wresting courage from fear. Finding your voice. Leaning on others when you must, so you can learn to stand on your own when you should. It’s an exploration of life that quietly poses the question: what matters more—the outcome, or the journey you take to reach it?

Now, I’m just a humble high-school groundskeeper. I wouldn’t know nothin’ ’bout somethin’ like that. But if you’d asked me—and then asked me twice—I’d have to be sayin’:

“ThAt dOnE bAstRd StOlE mY wIfE! I ain’t give a shiny-hoot about the journey to get here!”

Craft:

Here’s another area where the story truly shines. Fly Girl is incredibly well written. The clarity of the prose is astounding. The rhythm is controlled—longer sentences for reflective moments and description, short sentences for declarative impact. The narrative and world emerge naturally, with exposition handled so contextually as to be almost invisible.

“My shop… You’re but a lousy apprentice… Hartfield… She’s got a spirit of steel! You could learn from her…”
“…I got a message. From your mother.”
“She wants you back home. She wants you out of Pai.”
“Listen, kid, she’s worried… after the robbery and all.”
“I can’t just leave.”
“You should be somewhere you’re safe.”
“I am safe!… Tell her I said no.”

The story flows extremely well. I didn’t notice so much as a tear in the connective tissue of the prose. No sentence feels overloaded; it reads as though the author combed through each line to ensure it did its job tidily and without complication.

If I were to throw in two minor critiques, they would be these:

First—the story is light on figurative flourish. Some writing goes too far with it—my own web fiction might well be such an example—but I couldn’t help but long for the occasional clever metaphor or novel simile to elevate certain emotional beats.

Second—I noticed small moments of redundancy, where an idea is expressed more than once when once would have fully sufficed. Honestly, even here, it could be argued it was intentional—for rhythm, for hesitation, for emotional realism

“I licked my lips. There was a silence between us that had never been there before. “Are you feeling okay?” I asked it even though I knew it was a dumb question. Obviously, she wasn’t feeling okay, I just needed to break the silence somehow.”

Like I said, it’s minor. Extremely so. And it takes nothing away from the professional polish of this work.

Frankly, if a little redundancy is the worst sin a story commits, then it’s still doing better than me—I once repeated the phrase “MY WIFE” forty-seven times in a single review.

Closing Thoughts:

Fly Girl is the kind of story most people will scroll past on Royal Road—not because it lacks quality, but because it lacks explosions, dragons, stat sheets, and traumatised elves who communicate exclusively through passive-aggressive UI prompts.

But that is precisely why it deserves to be read.

It is quiet.

It is human.

It is brave in the most grounded sense of the word.

Charli’s journey is not one of levelling up, conquering celestial beasts, or punching gods in the face (not that I have anything against that lifestyle). Her journey is something rarer, something harder, something most fantasy protagonists would sooner die than attempt:

She grows. Slowly. Awkwardly. Imperfectly. And with courage that’s earned, not granted.

NotPhoebee delivers a novella that feels honest in a way genre fiction seldom manages. A story about fear and the small, stubborn sparks of courage that survive it. A story about pushing forward when you want to hide. About taking the risk to compete—not to win, but to live.

Is it perfect?

No story is. But Fly Girl is polished, emotionally resonant, and crafted with confidence. And in a world where every second protagonist is a muscle-wizard demigod with daddy issues and a talking sword, it’s refreshing to meet a character whose battles feel like the ones real people fight every day.

It’s a story that stays with you—not because it shouts, but because it never needed to.

And if I may get personal for a moment… I, too, once stood before destiny with only a goose-embroidered bib and the lingering memory of a wife stolen by a Musical-Chairs Bronze Medallist. Charli may have had hoverboards, but we both know the weight of a past refusing to stay quiet. We both know the relief of standing up again anyway.

Fly Girl is worth your time. Worth your heart. And worth far more readers than algorithms will ever give it.

Now then—someone cue the 80s freeze-frame victory music.

Charli’s back in the game. And this time?

She’s flying on her own terms.

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