Current Wallet Value

[Matthew.]

So! For the very first Writer of the Week, let's have everyone write a story. A short story, a long story, or anywhere in between; but a story.

Here's the kicker: you are only allowed two lines of dialogue, and the piece must be written in first person.

The outline of your story, is that you have to describe your surroundings, the situation your character finds themselves in--if they are--and you must not start your story off with an action. ie: "I was standing on the bank of a river, when I noticed[. . .]"

Start as few paragraphs as you possibly can with an action.

Submit your stories here!

DEADLINE: Next Monday, July 5th, 2011.

This post has been edited by Matthew. on Jun 28 2011, 01:47 AM

[Lucy Moomoo]

A light shone in the distance—far off in the distance, far up in the night sky. The bright white circle intrigued me, with a rainbow halo circling it in haphazard spikes. This was the only light I could see in the cloudy sky, growing and shrinking, growing and shrinking. I stared in awe as I let my slim cigarette drop onto the dewy grass out of my loose, shaking hands; not sure if what I was seeing was real or not, but I didn’t want to find out.
My first instinct was to run back into my house, and so I did—not without a harsh stumble or two beforehand, of course. I didn’t really care much at the time, though, I had enough dopamine and serotonin and adrenaline and all those other brain chemicals rushing through my body at such an incredible pace that I didn’t even feel a thing. My door was wide open as I stood in the doorway, panting—did I leave it that way? I couldn’t remember for the life of me. All I knew was I could feel the heat of the light behind me growing, the brightness pouring into my otherwise empty house.
I can’t really remember what happened next—my adrenaline was so pumped that my animalistic instincts took over all of my free will. Somehow, I ended up trembling in the corner, listening to a soft, seductive voice from the other room. “Do you feel it?” She cooed to me quietly. I didn’t know what she was getting at, but I could feel it.
It was the spiders on my skin, crawling every which way. Up and down my shirt I could feel the spiders’ hairy little legs, in my pants and pits and the bottoms of my feet. Every cell in my body exploded with ticklishness; it was then that I started stripping down and out of my clothes, shaking the spiders out, picking at the ones that were still alive and creeping.
It was the red-hot needles pricking through the spiders and into my muscles, burning me to the core. Deep inside my carcass I could feel the slow, sharp hot pokers twisting deep under my skin. The fires of Hell scorched my sensitive skin, and I thanked the Heavens for killing off the spiders this way… and prayed repetitively for the flames to go away, to just go away.
It was the cold sweat of fear and adrenaline, pouring from my pores down to the floor. Obsessive, I ran my hands over my sleek body, wiping away the sweat as I helped the fire kill the spiders. The fire did not yet kill itself though—now, it was more like the burning of dry ice on a sore. Slowly, I melted, sinking deeper and deeper into the floor…
It was the shaking and continual thoughts, killing me. It was killing me! It was killing me… it was killing me.
The soft voice spoke once more. “Tell me, how badly do you want to live?” Extreme persuasion stuck to her every sweet word; I couldn’t bear it any longer. I knew what she was getting at, I just knew—I leaped up from my slumped position, ready to put up a fight.
It intensified. All the spiders—who were, at this point, biting me—all the needles, all the sweat, all the shakiness: all of it tried to squeeze into my small little chest, but no more would fit. Just a split second since after jumping up, I felt all of it burst out of my cage and out into the world.
The spiders screamed. It was an ear-piercing, gut-wrenching shriek, an emotionally flooded, death-defying screech that I will never forget. The thousands of spiders all howled in shrill defeat, the same high pitch multiplying as each one dropped off my body and onto the floor. Slowly, the pins and needles pulled themselves out of my skin, taking every minuscule arachnid down underground with them.
The dry ice melting off my skin was, to say the least, incredibly uncomfortable. Clearing the sweat off me, the ice left nothing but third-degree burns on my body, leaving me lying on the floor as I gasped for air. Every breath I took felt icy and cold; they were little short gasps in my thin-lined lungs.
When all this was finally over, the only part of my body I could feel was my chest, heavy and overflowing with energy.

The next morning, the warm, welcoming heat of the morning sun shot straight into my bones and woke me up early sunrise. My eyes jumped open and did nothing but stare at the ceiling blankly for quite some time, before my brain caught up with my body, and I had to realize I was awake. I rolled over onto my left side, and an intense pain shot from the tips of my fingers up to the middle of my ribs. This sensation shocked me up to a sitting position.
What the hell happened…
That morning, when I looked around my bedroom, it was the first time I ever took a real look at it. I took a whiff and smelled some odd, unidentifiable rusty smell, mixed with a little bit of something more acidic. My reclining chair was knocked over—how the hell did that happen? And clothes strewn all over the floor—wait, was I naked?
It all flashed back to me. The voice… that sweet, unforgettable voice rung in my head. All of it rushed back, full-speed… the spiders, the ice, the fire, the Hell, and Heaven… I touched my leg to prop myself back up and winced as a burning pain stung deep though my thigh. Shocked, I looked down and saw a scab a few inches long, half an inch deep: did I do that while I was picking at the spiders?
On the wall, in bloody, scrambled letters, I had written a few illegible words, some of them smudged over and erased with bloody handprints, while others could still be read, like the word “spiders” and “death”.
I wouldn’t let myself believe what had happened last night—and I didn’t know if I should, either. It was all just too real to forget, though. On the surface of my skin, phantom spiders still crawled. And the ringing voice in my head repeated the same few words over and over again, asking if I could feel it.
But it was all over now. The morning sun gleaming through the tall evergreen trees that surrounded my little hideaway gave me hope. The fresh air winding into my room through my open window gave me serenity. And the early sunrise, albeit mundane, gave me courage. It was the changing of the seasons… it was the start of a new beginning. And that faithful morning was the last time I decided to do meth.

Kill me now, Miss Sweet Voice!
You leave me with no choice...
I'm over now, TOO MUCH
To handle, death is such
A beauty...
You've killed me alive, meth!
Left me to face my d e a t h
So alone, lost and cold,
My faith is what you hold.......
Get these spiders off me

This post has been edited by Lucy Moomoo on Jul 1 2011, 02:18 AM

[Matthew.]

I was gonna' post one on the last day, but damn. That was amazingly written, Lucy. Beautiful, even. I think it would be even better had I experienced what you wrote about. Maybe clean addicts can have a much better understanding of it than I did.

But it was just the kind of writing I was hoping for. DESCRIPTIVE! Making sure you show the reader what you see. That's all writing is: having an image, and expressing that picture to someone--that feeling.

[Lucy Moomoo]

Thank you so much Matt! <3 I was pretty proud of it myself, to be honest, but I couldn't have done it without your guidance. Thanks for setting those few simple guidelines, dude---it really helped me get out of my comfort zone with my style choices.

But hey... that all was just imagination. I've never even done meth. I just learned a lot about it from meth heads in rehab and took their few words on what it's like and turned it into a story. Gotta thank Lakeside-Milam Rehabilitation for this little piece!

[Lucy Moomoo]

So. . . I win then, right? ;

[Undead_Knuxchao]

I kept meaning to write something but I was always overly occupied with other work or interests. Next week though!

[Matthew.]

You were the only contestant, xD Yeah, you win! I'll make a new one this Tuesday.

I need to come up with an idea for prizes. :/

[Undead_Knuxchao]

I've finally got something to write about. Now its just a matter of typing it out.
I might wait until my new laptop comes in though. Typing shit on my 4g sidekick isn't a hassle but my phone keyboard doesn't lik to register vowels sometimes.

EDIT: just "lik" that. Perfect example. XP

This post has been edited by Undead_Knuxchao on Jul 11 2011, 04:47 AM

[Haru]

A LITERARY DOODLE -- TOO LATE FOR SUBMISSION, I KNOW.

He said, "You ever kill a man before?"

I nodded, as a smattering of faces and memories flashed across my hippocampus. My gaze must've grown noticeably distant, as I looked up to catch worry upon Jeremiah's countenance. I couldn't help it... When you kill someone, you don't forget. You try, but you can't.

"Well... This'll be a tad different..."

The burly man punctuated his statement with a synchronized crackling of all ten knuckles. He had somehow managed, with a simple fidget, to adjust them all simultaneously. As I gazed in awe, he plunged both hands into his brass-studded cloak, producing a gleaming pair of pistols. Colt M1911's, twins clad in silver. I bit my lip -- the very image of that beautiful pistol reminded me of Dad. The surprises kept rolling, though. At a second glance, I became aware of the words etched into each barrel. Amat Victoria Curam. Victory Loves Preparation.

I shook my head, stifling a gasp of raw emotion. My father's beloved pistols... I could not believe they were being handed to me. I opened my mouth to speak, but Jeremiah shook his head and held one of his recently-adjusted fingers to my mouth. I understood, caressing both pistols with amor. With love. I hefted them, testing their weight against my hands and fingers. I gave them a spin -- then caught them, aiming at a fake enemy. Jeremiah cracked a genuine smile, and winked at me. He then turned about, rushing forward to a manhole cover in the middle of the dark street. With a silent lift, our path was revealed.
I took a last look at the moon. It was full, and even its reflection held a certain beauty displayed upon my paternal armaments. Then, I plunged into the dark.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This was for vengeance. All for vengeance. I know some of you won't agree with my actions, but why don't you take a walk in my shoes? My father's death was not the first, nor will it be the last. My kind, we live in fear -- of the night, of the dark, of the supernatural, of the stranger who looks a little odd across the street. A simple errand at night, and my Dad winds up dead. We know the culprit -- they live only six feet under. The sewer system is their home. And so that is where I ventured in search of retribution.

Jeremiah understood the anger I felt. He knew that, by handing my those guns so poetically filled with silver-tipped bullets, he was assuring the death of many creatures of the night. A few werewolves, some of the undead, perhaps a vampire. But he didn't care. They all deserved to die. Even moreso now.
Darkness. Then, after Jeremiah pulled the manhole over above us, even darker darkness. My heart skipped a beat -- did I mention my people feared the darkness?

As if he had read my mind, Jeremiah struck a light -- white phosphorous burnt my retina and played funky shadows upon the murky waters we stood in. The walls, as could be expected, were entirely brick. However, they were covered in slime. Blood stains also marred the brick. And bones littered the waters beneath us. What usually would have simply disgusted me only made me shake with anger. In that anger, I found strength. Without said strength, I would not have been prepared for what happened next.

Without warning, three shadowy figures leapt in front of us, flying into view. My hands already had pistols in them, thank the heavens. Naturally, I took aim at the first figure, and pulled both triggers. Both pistols flashed with power, and kicked back with clean precision as twin bullets raced forth. Each shot was a miss, but the concussive force of the weapons were revealed. One of the figures cloaked in sinewy shadow turned and ran away, ducking behind a local corner. The remaining two figures, however, continued the race towards me, and in front of me: Jeremiah.

I continued fire, taking aim precisely with each pistol seperately, then switching to the next. I pumped out two more rounds, tracking a figure as it bobbed and weaved from side to side -- coming closer with each second. At about that time, I saw Jeremiah's hand began to glow. Runes crawled across his fingers -- thrust forward at the enemies. His hand flashed vividly, and thick jade flames were projected forth, enveloping one of the entities entirely. It fell into the water, dead in an instant and scorched to the bone.

I continued to fire at the remaining foe, and after a few more tries a round appeared to hit the figure square in the chest. It recoiled, stopped dead in its tracks, then fell into the filthy water with a choking sound.[CODE][/CODE]