- Joined
- Apr 17, 2018
This is a VERY rough draft of a story I've been working on.
Please tell me what you think, even if bad critisism
The Writing Thread
- Thread starter darkhorse816
- Start date
Please tell me what you think, even if bad critisism
- Joined
- Apr 22, 2015
The prose is good but the story is kind of muddled. I didn't really get a good grasp of what was happening and why it was important.
Personal preference: have something happen in the first page to kick things off.
- Joined
- Apr 17, 2018
Thanks for reading; I really appreciate it!
I'm making every chapter a day of ''Investigation'', the first chapter is more of an overall world-building chapter as the two American investigators arrive in the flooded city of Rotterdam.
I have semi-finished my second chapter, too; it has more of the ''Main story.''
I'm making every chapter a day of ''Investigation'', the first chapter is more of an overall world-building chapter as the two American investigators arrive in the flooded city of Rotterdam.
I have semi-finished my second chapter, too; it has more of the ''Main story.''
- Joined
- Nov 17, 2017
I try to make the time to write short stories every now and then. I’ve not done that for some time.
—
—
Wind howls as it sweeps past barren trees, carrying with it a dense snowfall. Every flake of snow in the air shines its own twinkle of diffused sunlight. The snow is already knee deep. Every step forwards in this blizzard is a moment where I really think about mortality. But I must grit my teeth and walk. The place must be close. I hope the veil of snow hasn‘t led me off the path. Nature is hiding. The wind and snowfall are constantly scrubbing the ground with more pure, smooth white. There are no tracks, no paths to be followed. But I know the way. I must. If I don’t, I will fall and become buried until spring. The place must be close. Yesterday evening, I was able to measure the stars under a clear sky. Today I can see only a few black tree trunks ahead before the veil of snow cuts my view short. It is better than nothing. I must make the most of it.
I stumble and lean against a tree. My eyes can only see little stars dancing now. My feet won’t carry me any further. The snow beats on against my face, as the wind only picks up. My hand slides against the tree as I struggle to stay upright. It doesn‘t feel like bark. It’s smooth, like rock. I slide my hand along the stone pillar. Defiant laughter coughs out of my throat. I have found the place. Though I cannot discern it with my eyes, this pillar must be the one marking the entrance. It cannot be mistaken, as this is the only structure within several days of passage through the wilderness. A mysterious hideout only few know about, and even fewer can find. But as close as I am, I still have many moments where I can die before I make it inside. Desperation or determination, I cannot give up now. Even as the banks of snow feel taller than anything, and my legs weaker than ever. And I will need to dig the door out from under the piled up snow with my hands. Stumbling onwards, the only thing I can do is try.
The heavy wooden door into the half-underground hideout finally creaks open, and I let myself fall inside in exhaustion. The freezing cold stone floor feels impossibly comfortable and welcoming. The darkness gives my eyes relief. I catch my breath for a moment. Every inch forward, it feels like safety is still an infinite struggle away. I have to still push the door closed, so the wind won’t carry more snow inside. I have to still somehow light the fireplace. I have to still take off my snow-buffeted, wet to the core clothes before I am taken by the cold. Every step is too high. I… I can’t give up now. But there is no struggle in me. No matter how much I focus my sheer will to keep going, there is nothing more to pull from. “Do you wish to survive, traveler from afar?” a clear, light voice says. Who could be here? It makes no sense… I must be delirious, seeing things. ”I do,“ I say. I barely have a voice. “I will treat you in comfort back to your rightful health and strength, should you accept my bargain. You see,” the voice says as I interrupt them. “Nngh, who sent you here?” I say, as I turn onto my side on the floor and sweep my gaze over towards the inside of the hideout, seeing a vague figure wearing a dress or robe, with a faintly purple-glowing lantern in their hand. “That is immaterial. I want in return a favor, that you bring me the Crimson Eye. I have faith in your ability to retrieve it for me, great Manuel,” they say. “I will… accept your offer. By the… honor of my spirit,” I say. In this moment it is a low price for a second chance.
I slowly sit up from the comfort of a warm, yet rather hard bed with simple covers. I had nightmares again. I feel like I must have been bedridden, barely conscious for days. Only little glimpses of lucidity. The lady has been caring for me, true to her word. “Manuel,” she says as she raises her gaze towards me and we look in the eye. The hideout’s interior is a stone hall with sparse wooden furniture, but there are places to sleep and a table by the fireplace where she sits. ”I am awake. Who are you?“ I say. “My name is Irma. I am a sorceress,” Irma says. “I’ve heard of you. There are stories about you,” I say. “Oh, the common folk enjoy their saucy gossip, don’t they? You and your adventures are also on their lips, great Manuel,” she says, laughs softly and walks over to me, grabbing my wrist and pressing her thumb on it to check on my pulse. “And I have written your next chapter, great Manuel. I hope you will not resent me for it,” Irma says as she gently pushes me to lay down as I feel it is futile to struggle. “I do not know the true nature of the bargain you have thrust on me, sorceress,” I say as I feel an invigorating blood rush in my body, “but I will try to remember that you saved my life, Irma.”
I stumble and lean against a tree. My eyes can only see little stars dancing now. My feet won’t carry me any further. The snow beats on against my face, as the wind only picks up. My hand slides against the tree as I struggle to stay upright. It doesn‘t feel like bark. It’s smooth, like rock. I slide my hand along the stone pillar. Defiant laughter coughs out of my throat. I have found the place. Though I cannot discern it with my eyes, this pillar must be the one marking the entrance. It cannot be mistaken, as this is the only structure within several days of passage through the wilderness. A mysterious hideout only few know about, and even fewer can find. But as close as I am, I still have many moments where I can die before I make it inside. Desperation or determination, I cannot give up now. Even as the banks of snow feel taller than anything, and my legs weaker than ever. And I will need to dig the door out from under the piled up snow with my hands. Stumbling onwards, the only thing I can do is try.
The heavy wooden door into the half-underground hideout finally creaks open, and I let myself fall inside in exhaustion. The freezing cold stone floor feels impossibly comfortable and welcoming. The darkness gives my eyes relief. I catch my breath for a moment. Every inch forward, it feels like safety is still an infinite struggle away. I have to still push the door closed, so the wind won’t carry more snow inside. I have to still somehow light the fireplace. I have to still take off my snow-buffeted, wet to the core clothes before I am taken by the cold. Every step is too high. I… I can’t give up now. But there is no struggle in me. No matter how much I focus my sheer will to keep going, there is nothing more to pull from. “Do you wish to survive, traveler from afar?” a clear, light voice says. Who could be here? It makes no sense… I must be delirious, seeing things. ”I do,“ I say. I barely have a voice. “I will treat you in comfort back to your rightful health and strength, should you accept my bargain. You see,” the voice says as I interrupt them. “Nngh, who sent you here?” I say, as I turn onto my side on the floor and sweep my gaze over towards the inside of the hideout, seeing a vague figure wearing a dress or robe, with a faintly purple-glowing lantern in their hand. “That is immaterial. I want in return a favor, that you bring me the Crimson Eye. I have faith in your ability to retrieve it for me, great Manuel,” they say. “I will… accept your offer. By the… honor of my spirit,” I say. In this moment it is a low price for a second chance.
I slowly sit up from the comfort of a warm, yet rather hard bed with simple covers. I had nightmares again. I feel like I must have been bedridden, barely conscious for days. Only little glimpses of lucidity. The lady has been caring for me, true to her word. “Manuel,” she says as she raises her gaze towards me and we look in the eye. The hideout’s interior is a stone hall with sparse wooden furniture, but there are places to sleep and a table by the fireplace where she sits. ”I am awake. Who are you?“ I say. “My name is Irma. I am a sorceress,” Irma says. “I’ve heard of you. There are stories about you,” I say. “Oh, the common folk enjoy their saucy gossip, don’t they? You and your adventures are also on their lips, great Manuel,” she says, laughs softly and walks over to me, grabbing my wrist and pressing her thumb on it to check on my pulse. “And I have written your next chapter, great Manuel. I hope you will not resent me for it,” Irma says as she gently pushes me to lay down as I feel it is futile to struggle. “I do not know the true nature of the bargain you have thrust on me, sorceress,” I say as I feel an invigorating blood rush in my body, “but I will try to remember that you saved my life, Irma.”
- Joined
- Apr 25, 2019
I wish I would have seen this thread for NaNoWriMo season 
- Joined
- May 21, 2019
He strutted into the bar in nothing but a speedo, one eye bloodshot and its sibling spasming gonadal as snow billowed around him. Every man turned to face their new adversary. Seldom had a new queer encroached upon their territory so rakishly as Nicki Nightshade on this most priapic December night. At a glance there wasn't much to this pretender — slender shoulders, protruding proboscis, and a sickly white complexion marred only by a Korean tattoo which roughly translated into "Queen's Fart Throne" — yet the nobles of this domain were much too seasoned to be deceived by appearances alone. Tonight's canvas of snow would surely be stained in globular hues of brown and red.
"Howdy, stranger. What can I get you?"
"A round of screwdrivers for the house."
Unzipping his thong he removed a wallet from his rectum. The barman sniffed in appreciation, savoring the flavor of fresh faggot. Screwdrivers he said. Screwdrivers. They could hardly believe the nerve of this...this...catamite! Clearly he meant business and his business was buggery of the highest order. Even the fabled Standard Fuckparty would fall short of tonight's fecal festivities. A psy-trance remix of Auld Lang Syne came on. Nicki raised his glass.
"A toast to things long lost. Gerbils, liver function, anal beads, Mustangs and cumrags. We take what he have for granted until it's all gone one day. Every day the grains of our hourglass slip through our fingers like santorum through a sieve. May we always be the solid and not the liquid as we fumble our way through life. Cheers."
Glasses clinked and men laughed. A Saint Andrew's cross was wiped down and fitted with stirrups. In the spirit of the season all shafts and sphincters stood ready to give and receive. Softly, in the corner, a one-legged midget whispered.
"Gunt bless us, every one..."
"Howdy, stranger. What can I get you?"
"A round of screwdrivers for the house."
Unzipping his thong he removed a wallet from his rectum. The barman sniffed in appreciation, savoring the flavor of fresh faggot. Screwdrivers he said. Screwdrivers. They could hardly believe the nerve of this...this...catamite! Clearly he meant business and his business was buggery of the highest order. Even the fabled Standard Fuckparty would fall short of tonight's fecal festivities. A psy-trance remix of Auld Lang Syne came on. Nicki raised his glass.
"A toast to things long lost. Gerbils, liver function, anal beads, Mustangs and cumrags. We take what he have for granted until it's all gone one day. Every day the grains of our hourglass slip through our fingers like santorum through a sieve. May we always be the solid and not the liquid as we fumble our way through life. Cheers."
Glasses clinked and men laughed. A Saint Andrew's cross was wiped down and fitted with stirrups. In the spirit of the season all shafts and sphincters stood ready to give and receive. Softly, in the corner, a one-legged midget whispered.
"Gunt bless us, every one..."
Last edited:
- Joined
- Dec 14, 2022
I feel like sharing stuff I've written for my tabletop RPG that is a WIP in the GURPS system. I have more, but I'm revising them currently. My only goals aside from the synopsis is to keep it to one page to the best of my capabilities. It is a fun exercise to constrain your writing.
Shaneequa
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Oct 11, 2020
Blurb;
Amidst the squalor and desperation of "The Pit," a rogue warrior makes a stand against organized crime, setting off a chain of events that could either annihilate or liberate the rebels fighting against their oppressors.
Genre: Thriller
Style: Gritty
Themes: Redemption, Rebellion, Justice
The room is thick with desperation, a smell that competes with the musty decay of old wallpaper and rotting beams. This place, "The Pit," stands as the last rung of the societal ladder, a refuge for people without refuge. Here, the discarded converge—those who've exhausted all other avenues, those seeking to trade obscurity for infamy. Faint light trickles through the cracked windows, barely noticeable against the backdrop of the flickering neon glow emanating from the peeling sign outside.
In the corner, the Bloodhounds huddle discreetly around a tattered map, their whispered voices just another layer of the room's ambient hum. They're coordinating, a symphony of nods and pointed fingers outlining a strategy that has been days in the making.
Suddenly, the air thickens; even the neon sign outside seems to dim, as if reluctant to shine upon what’s to come. The door creaks open, and in walks Charlie, flanked by two stone-faced enforcers carrying an air of menace. Their reputation is a living, breathing specter—the sort that chokes the air out of a room. Stories of them breaking spirits as easily as bones circulate like whispered curses. Their eyes scan the room; finding me, they smirk, a silent acknowledgment of the hunt.
The hollow echo of distant laughter and the forlorn melody of a jukebox momentarily gives way to silence. Around the room, patrons lower their eyes and hunch their shoulders, as if making themselves smaller could lessen their presence. The Bloodhounds, my allies, tighten their grips on concealed weapons, their eyes locked onto the unholy trinity now in our midst.
Across the room, Charlie sits, legs sprawled wide, his devilish smirk belying the gravity of his errand. He's a relic, a remnant of the old world I broke away from the night my blade first severed the life of a human trafficker—a lieutenant under the Beasts, puppet masters of the old order, manipulating both politicians and police into their web of organized crime.
Flashback images flicker through my mind; Charlie laying wires under the floorboards of The Pit days ago, his face shrouded in darkness. I had let him, my eyes observing from the shadows. Some might say it was doubt, but it was calculation. Every predator needs to think it has trapped its prey before the tables turn.
As I make my way through the room, each step is a battle against the floorboards that seem to groan in despair. In the peripheral gloom, shadowy figures loom—the Bloodhounds, rebels against the Beasts, and my newfound kin. They were journalists, veterans, and abused souls who, like me, realized that fighting from within was like swatting at a wildfire with mere twigs.
Charlie clears his throat, his voice dripping with a menace that conjures the image of molten metal cooling into a weapon. "Last chance, kid. You come with me, or the Bloodhounds end tonight." His eyes flick to a device on the table; a detonator, its LED lights winking ominously like the eyes of a demon. Wires snake out from it, slithering beneath the tablecloth. I don't doubt its authenticity; a fraud would not carry the stench of volatile chemicals.
Images of my sister, bound and brutalized under the Beasts' regime, clash in my mind with the emancipated faces of the trafficked victims I saved. My father had joined the Beasts after succumbing to his weaknesses, becoming a cog in a machine of despair. There was no decision to be made.
The walls inch closer, tightening the room like a noose. My hand twitches towards my pocket where my father’s knife sits. It had been his before he betrayed us, and I had stolen it the night I decided to stand for something. The blade forever stained with the blood of their captor, it became my beacon of hope, a tangible counterpoint to his legacy of despair.
Charlie relaxes, his eyes softening, mistaking my silence for hesitation. His smirk broadens, a crack in his façade revealing the arrogance underneath.
In an instant, I draw the knife, its blade springing forth, eager for justice. The room erupts into a grotesque ballet of chaos. Chairs topple, glasses shatter, and the Bloodhounds rise from their corners. The rest of the room scatters in a frenzy, ducking behind tables and fleeing towards the exit, sensing that the undercurrent of violence has now breached into a flood.
As my blade finds its home in Charlie's flesh, his enforcers charge. But they are met with equal force. Bloodhounds, once seemingly meek, unleash their concealed fury, knives and pipes in hand. One enforcer collapses, the other staggers back, suddenly outnumbered and outclassed. The warmth of Charlie's blood gushes over my hands like a long-awaited embrace. He crumples to the ground, his old world collapsing with him.
His eyes widen, a flicker of realization sparking moments before they dim. "You thought I'd join you? I am not your prey, Charlie; I am your reckoning."
A Bloodhound rushes forward to seize the detonator, his fingers deftly pulling wires loose, disarming the device with an expertise that belies his former life as an army engineer.
I slide my mask back over my face—a torn grin stitched into the fabric. I'd been handed this mask the night I avenged my sister’s tormentors, cutting them down one by one. The mask's previous owner, a Bloodhound taken by the Beasts, had told me it represented the monster society had made me and the warrior I had chosen to become.
A hallowed silence envelops the room. One of the Bloodhounds steps forward, holding a cloth. "Through blood, redemption," he murmurs, a phrase that echoes the ritualistic core of our group. I understand it's for cleaning my blade, a ritual that signifies both closure and acceptance.
As we exit The Pit, a member distributes small devices, untraceable phones. "We've found their fortress," he says, his voice tinged with victory. "One of our own, a former journalist, managed to infiltrate their network. We have what we need."
These are my people, my transformed, my awakened. We understand the risks, the weight of the life just taken, but in a world where justice is a phantom, we are its corporeal shadow. The Bloodhounds have always found ways to replenish their ranks, even as society paints them as renegades. We've been recruiting, waiting, planning.
And so, we hunt.
Shaneequa
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Oct 11, 2020
Blurb;
In a perilous forest, haunted by "The Miserable Smiling Killer," one man's desperate quest for clarity leads him through an existential maze, both physical and emotional.
Genre: Thriller
Style: Atmospheric
Themes: Identity
Moonlight streamed through the gnarled branches, casting shadows that danced in the woodland mist. My breath emerged in puffs, fogging the cool air. The ground, a perilous maze of undergrowth and hidden pitfalls, demanded extreme vigilance.
I recalled a grainy, black-and-white photograph from an old newspaper: a wide, ghoulish grin belonging to "The Miserable Smiling Killer," a former philosopher. The image haunted me as I navigated the forest, where past and present, fears and dreams, merged in a nightmarish vortex.
My heart raced with thoughts of Elaine, whose name filled the void in my soul. The locket in my pocket, bearing her miniature smile, was a remnant of our love before her mysterious disappearance.
Suddenly, I spotted a twisted grin illuminated by moonlight. My pursuer, the hunter, was near.
Frantic questions about Elaine and our love swirled in my mind. Time blurred as I moved through the forest, alert and determined. A distant howl added to the ominous atmosphere.
A root snagged my foot, and I stumbled, narrowly avoiding a bear trap. Mistake. The trap, not of my setting, signaled the cunning of my pursuer.
The air grew colder. He had heard me. I faced a choice: run or confront. As I stood, the locket pressed against me, a reminder of the choices we make in loneliness.
I gazed at the moonlit path and saw him emerge from the shadows. My resolve hardened.
Clutching the locket, I advanced, not in retreat but in confrontation. I threw the locket at him, striking his mask. Time froze. His steps faltered, and for a moment, I saw not just a monster, but a reflection of my own despair.
Our eyes met through his mask. In his gaze, I recognized bewilderment, recognition, and tragedy.
I ran past him, embracing the uncertainty ahead. I broke into a clearing, where a wooden cabin stood, as if waiting for me. It was a sanctuary, a symbol of my journey towards meaning.
What is the meaning of life? The urgency of the question faded, replaced by the realization that meaning is something we create, not just find. And that realization, for now, was enough.
I recalled a grainy, black-and-white photograph from an old newspaper: a wide, ghoulish grin belonging to "The Miserable Smiling Killer," a former philosopher. The image haunted me as I navigated the forest, where past and present, fears and dreams, merged in a nightmarish vortex.
My heart raced with thoughts of Elaine, whose name filled the void in my soul. The locket in my pocket, bearing her miniature smile, was a remnant of our love before her mysterious disappearance.
Suddenly, I spotted a twisted grin illuminated by moonlight. My pursuer, the hunter, was near.
Frantic questions about Elaine and our love swirled in my mind. Time blurred as I moved through the forest, alert and determined. A distant howl added to the ominous atmosphere.
A root snagged my foot, and I stumbled, narrowly avoiding a bear trap. Mistake. The trap, not of my setting, signaled the cunning of my pursuer.
The air grew colder. He had heard me. I faced a choice: run or confront. As I stood, the locket pressed against me, a reminder of the choices we make in loneliness.
I gazed at the moonlit path and saw him emerge from the shadows. My resolve hardened.
Clutching the locket, I advanced, not in retreat but in confrontation. I threw the locket at him, striking his mask. Time froze. His steps faltered, and for a moment, I saw not just a monster, but a reflection of my own despair.
Our eyes met through his mask. In his gaze, I recognized bewilderment, recognition, and tragedy.
I ran past him, embracing the uncertainty ahead. I broke into a clearing, where a wooden cabin stood, as if waiting for me. It was a sanctuary, a symbol of my journey towards meaning.
What is the meaning of life? The urgency of the question faded, replaced by the realization that meaning is something we create, not just find. And that realization, for now, was enough.
Audio Version;
This is a Dead By Daylight fanfic
EDIT: 1/21/2024
I'll try to edit posts instead of double posting when I'm allowed to edit.
Blurb;
Trapped in a clearing by a nightmarish killer, a desperate young man confronts his fears and past through the lens of song, fighting for his life in a duel of melodies and dread.
Genre: Thriller
Style: Suspenseful
Themes: Survival, Identity, Music
In a clearing bathed in pale moonlight, under the twisted branches that clawed at the sky like skeletal hands, I paused. My lungs begged for air, filling with the pungent odor of damp earth and rotting foliage. The wind seemed almost absent, as if even the air was afraid to move, barely grazing against my sweat-soaked skin. Every instinct screamed at me to keep moving, but something held me back. The Miserable Smiling Killer was out there, lurking in the labyrinth of shadows, always one step behind me.
The legend said that he was once a rejected artist who had turned his thirst for recognition into a thirst for blood. A rumor had it that before the spree, he'd worked on a project that was too macabre for the art world to tolerate. Spurned by his peers and embittered by the rejection, he crafted the mask he wore today. That very mask was his final work, an epitome of his transition from a mere artist to an embodiment of terror. It was said that he'd used clay dug up from the graves of his victims, sealing their fates as part of his twisted visage. Each life he took was a stroke on the canvas of his twisted masterpiece. They called him the Miserable Smiling Killer because he always left his victims with a grotesque smile carved onto their lifeless faces. And tonight, he had his eyes set on adding me to his gallery of horrors.
The scar on my foot throbbed, a wicked souvenir from one of his traps—a patch of nettles laced with needles during our first horrific encounter. Flashbacks of that night flickered through my mind. I had barely avoided stepping on a far more dangerous trap—a cluster of sharpened sticks concealed under the forest floor, ready to skewer me. I had cheated death then, but the scar on my foot was a constant reminder of the thin line I walked. It had been a subtle but efficient mechanism, giving me a clue that he relished both physical and psychological torment. Terror bubbled in my chest, but in this brief moment of stillness, the words of an old melody slipped into my thoughts. It was a lullaby my mother used to sing, a song of resilience passed down through generations of my family: "Oh child of the moon, let your heart be your tune." A cultural anthem that spoke of courage in times of despair.
My lips parted. Could a song really summon courage, even now?
I hummed the first note.
"O little boy, why have you stopped singing?" The voice that floated from the dark thicket wasn't mine. It was a warped, grotesque echo, dripping with cruel mirth. My own melody, turned into a vile parody.
Panic surged through me. I'd been found.
The clearing where I stood had been known as the Whispering Glade, an area steeped in local folklore. It was said that the spirits of the forest spoke to those who dared to listen, their voices carried by the wind through the twisted branches. But tonight, it was as though the spirits themselves were muted, leaving me alone to face the looming dread.
My eyes darted around the clearing, fixating on a large, jagged rock lying in the underbrush. Among the twisted roots and scattered leaves, I noticed a broken branch and a half-buried glass bottle, but the rock seemed the most promising. The very same rock my father taught me to use when we practiced hurling stones at targets as a child. It wasn't just proximity but a connection to my roots that made me choose it. Not a sharp edge, but better than a fist. I lunged for it, grasping its cold weight. My hands trembled.
He emerged then, stepping out of the darkness as if birthed by it—a mountainous figure, face concealed behind that chilling grin etched into his mask. The mask was a monstrous piece of artistry itself, crafted from a meld of clay and leather, its ghastly smile almost luminous in the dim light. He moved with terrifying grace, a predator locking onto his prey.
"Last notes are always the sweetest, aren't they?" His distorted voice sang my tune again, a sinister mockery of my hope. He was toying with me, reveling in the irony of turning my refuge of song into an instrument of dread.
Time felt like a twisted rope unraveling. I had been running for hours, each minute stretching into an agonizing infinity. Exhausted, emotionally frayed, I knew I had reached the limits of my endurance.
Sweat trickled down my temple. He was close—too close. I had only one shot. With a cry, more a scream than any lyric, I hurled the rock. It connected with a sickening thud, shattering the dreadful smile on his mask into fragmented pieces.
Stunned, he staggered back. His anguished howl filled the night. As if I had shattered a horcrux, he clutched the remnants of his mask, the material essence of his warped soul, his confidence deflated as if I had punctured his very being.
I turned and ran, fueled by a wild mix of triumph and terror. He didn't follow, his howls becoming a distant echo as I plunged deeper into the dark maze. But something inside me had shifted. I couldn't shake off the haunting realization: I had fought him off, but at the cost of my own voice, now forever tainted. Singing was my escape, a vital part of my identity, a sanctuary where I felt invincible. Music had always been my coping mechanism, a lens through which I processed both joy and sorrow. Now, that lens was shattered.
Yet, in the cacophony of despair, a newfound perspective emerged. It wasn't just defiance that propelled me forward but also an insatiable drive to survive, to reclaim not just my voice but my very right to exist. I found a bittersweet clarity: the song might be corrupted, but the will to sing, to fight, to live—that was mine. And in a place that sought to silence me, it was the loudest defiance I could muster. Embracing this duality, I let a different melody seep into my thoughts. I hummed it softly, a secret pact between my spirit and the winds that had finally started to murmur through the Whispering Glade. I would continue. I would find my way out of this living nightmare, if not for the sake of the song, then for the spirit that gave birth to it.
The legend said that he was once a rejected artist who had turned his thirst for recognition into a thirst for blood. A rumor had it that before the spree, he'd worked on a project that was too macabre for the art world to tolerate. Spurned by his peers and embittered by the rejection, he crafted the mask he wore today. That very mask was his final work, an epitome of his transition from a mere artist to an embodiment of terror. It was said that he'd used clay dug up from the graves of his victims, sealing their fates as part of his twisted visage. Each life he took was a stroke on the canvas of his twisted masterpiece. They called him the Miserable Smiling Killer because he always left his victims with a grotesque smile carved onto their lifeless faces. And tonight, he had his eyes set on adding me to his gallery of horrors.
The scar on my foot throbbed, a wicked souvenir from one of his traps—a patch of nettles laced with needles during our first horrific encounter. Flashbacks of that night flickered through my mind. I had barely avoided stepping on a far more dangerous trap—a cluster of sharpened sticks concealed under the forest floor, ready to skewer me. I had cheated death then, but the scar on my foot was a constant reminder of the thin line I walked. It had been a subtle but efficient mechanism, giving me a clue that he relished both physical and psychological torment. Terror bubbled in my chest, but in this brief moment of stillness, the words of an old melody slipped into my thoughts. It was a lullaby my mother used to sing, a song of resilience passed down through generations of my family: "Oh child of the moon, let your heart be your tune." A cultural anthem that spoke of courage in times of despair.
My lips parted. Could a song really summon courage, even now?
I hummed the first note.
"O little boy, why have you stopped singing?" The voice that floated from the dark thicket wasn't mine. It was a warped, grotesque echo, dripping with cruel mirth. My own melody, turned into a vile parody.
Panic surged through me. I'd been found.
The clearing where I stood had been known as the Whispering Glade, an area steeped in local folklore. It was said that the spirits of the forest spoke to those who dared to listen, their voices carried by the wind through the twisted branches. But tonight, it was as though the spirits themselves were muted, leaving me alone to face the looming dread.
My eyes darted around the clearing, fixating on a large, jagged rock lying in the underbrush. Among the twisted roots and scattered leaves, I noticed a broken branch and a half-buried glass bottle, but the rock seemed the most promising. The very same rock my father taught me to use when we practiced hurling stones at targets as a child. It wasn't just proximity but a connection to my roots that made me choose it. Not a sharp edge, but better than a fist. I lunged for it, grasping its cold weight. My hands trembled.
He emerged then, stepping out of the darkness as if birthed by it—a mountainous figure, face concealed behind that chilling grin etched into his mask. The mask was a monstrous piece of artistry itself, crafted from a meld of clay and leather, its ghastly smile almost luminous in the dim light. He moved with terrifying grace, a predator locking onto his prey.
"Last notes are always the sweetest, aren't they?" His distorted voice sang my tune again, a sinister mockery of my hope. He was toying with me, reveling in the irony of turning my refuge of song into an instrument of dread.
Time felt like a twisted rope unraveling. I had been running for hours, each minute stretching into an agonizing infinity. Exhausted, emotionally frayed, I knew I had reached the limits of my endurance.
Sweat trickled down my temple. He was close—too close. I had only one shot. With a cry, more a scream than any lyric, I hurled the rock. It connected with a sickening thud, shattering the dreadful smile on his mask into fragmented pieces.
Stunned, he staggered back. His anguished howl filled the night. As if I had shattered a horcrux, he clutched the remnants of his mask, the material essence of his warped soul, his confidence deflated as if I had punctured his very being.
I turned and ran, fueled by a wild mix of triumph and terror. He didn't follow, his howls becoming a distant echo as I plunged deeper into the dark maze. But something inside me had shifted. I couldn't shake off the haunting realization: I had fought him off, but at the cost of my own voice, now forever tainted. Singing was my escape, a vital part of my identity, a sanctuary where I felt invincible. Music had always been my coping mechanism, a lens through which I processed both joy and sorrow. Now, that lens was shattered.
Yet, in the cacophony of despair, a newfound perspective emerged. It wasn't just defiance that propelled me forward but also an insatiable drive to survive, to reclaim not just my voice but my very right to exist. I found a bittersweet clarity: the song might be corrupted, but the will to sing, to fight, to live—that was mine. And in a place that sought to silence me, it was the loudest defiance I could muster. Embracing this duality, I let a different melody seep into my thoughts. I hummed it softly, a secret pact between my spirit and the winds that had finally started to murmur through the Whispering Glade. I would continue. I would find my way out of this living nightmare, if not for the sake of the song, then for the spirit that gave birth to it.
Audio Version;
Last edited:
Shaneequa
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Oct 11, 2020
Blurb;
In a forest of ancient secrets and lurking horrors, a man on a quest for a mythical locket discovers that he's just a pawn in a grander, more malevolent scheme, where the real treasure is the journey itself.
Genre: Horror
Style: Atmospheric
Themes: Quest, Mystery, Transformation
In the bowels of the waning night, a serrated moon hung low, casting shards of silver light that fragmented the forest floor into a jigsaw of shadows and eerie luminance. Ancient pines loomed like silent judges, and weeping willows whispered secrets in a language long forgotten. Between these towering entities, I glimpsed bizarre inscriptions etched into the bark—symbols so twisted they seemed to writhe and dance as I stared at them. Monolithic stones stood among the trees, shrouded in moss, eroded by both time and tears. My breath misted the air, coalescing into ethereal forms that disintegrated as quickly as they appeared.
This forest was a labyrinth; a malicious maze filled with unseen horrors. Twisted vines seemed to reach for my legs, then slither back into the darkness when I looked their way. Occasionally, I'd hear a hissing growl, a nocturnal predator concealed behind the curtain of foliage, its presence a mere whisper compared to the terror I was hunting.
Tonight, the real horror was visible, and my search was tinged with urgency. I was not here on a whim. This was the birthplace of countless rumors; tales of mysterious disappearances and ancient artifacts that were whispered like a secret language among the villagers. I had sifted through old manuscripts, half-scratched notes, and whispers from drunken men who spoke of an item—a locket that contained the key to understanding life’s most arcane secrets. A truth I feared and needed in equal measure.
I crouched behind the sinewy trunk of a gnarled oak tree, its limbs twisted like the hands of a dying man reaching for salvation. The ancient oak, a landmark in this forest, had deep carvings that resembled faces twisted in agony. My eyes darted through the veil of darkness, tracing every rustle and crackle echoing off the forest's moss-carpeted floor. The absence of animal calls struck me: a disturbing quietude as if the forest itself held its breath. And there, in the gloom, I glimpsed it—The Agent, the monster, the Miserable Smiling Killer. His silhouette materialized from the void, massive and contorted, a sadistic smile cloaked by the mask that clung to his face like a second layer of skin. He moved with an unnerving stealth, as if he was woven from the fabric of the forest itself. He seemed familiar with every inch of this malevolent paradise, like a skilled puppeteer who knew which strings to pull.
An acrid aroma pervaded the air—the pungent scent of oil and iron. He was close, perhaps laying another of those infernal traps. Each thud of his heavy boots reverberated through my marrow, as if playing a symphony of dread on the strings of my sanity. The rhythm of his footsteps had a pattern, becoming quicker, intensifying like the chimes of a grandfather clock striking midnight.
I had to move.
My hands clenched into fists, nails digging into palms, grounding myself in a reality too nightmarish to be true. In a fluid motion born of survival, I eased out from my hiding place, stepping lightly to avoid betraying my presence. But the forest was a traitor, and a twig snapped beneath my foot—a thunderclap in this sanctuary of fear.
The Agent's head whipped around, the inky droplets streaming from his mask's tear ducts tracing arcs in the night air. His eyes found mine. For a heartbeat, the world stilled. Then he lunged.
The forest path beneath me seemed to churn, twisting like a living creature. My body was a spring uncoiling, muscle and sinew propelled by raw terror. The forest blurred into a tunnel, and I was a streak of desperation through it. Yet, even in flight, my eyes were drawn to a surreal transformation. He began muttering incantations under his breath, a sickly chant that seemed to claw at the very fabric of reality. The hulking hunter's silhouette seemed to fold inward, collapsing into itself before expanding once more—now a veiled woman with gloves that whispered secrets to the shadows. With a hand sheathed in black leather, she gestured, and I knew, with gut-wrenching certainty, that I was being herded.
My foot caught in a loop of cord, and the world turned upside down. My chest tightened, lungs clawing for breath as if drowning in open air. The agony was exquisite—a constellation of suffering exploding across my consciousness as the trap's metal teeth, razor-sharp and unnervingly clean, gnashed into my flesh.
Dangling in my airborne snare, I saw her approach, her gloved hand reaching for something hidden within her sleeve. A glint of steel, and I was falling, landing in a heap as the trap was severed.
Her veil lifted momentarily, and beneath it, her eyes were an abyss into which all light plunged and was lost. She spoke a single, unintelligible word, "Morai," her voice a dissonant harmony of malevolence and beauty. The word, like an arrow, lodged itself into the core of my being, resounding in an internal chamber I never knew existed.
Before transforming once again. The child in the dark hat stood before me, eyes glowing like twin moons, a harbinger from a realm beyond my understanding.
And then, in a voice tinged with something akin to regret, the child spoke, "You are not ready."
In that moment, a fragment of a story my grandmother once told me resurfaced—the tale of a naive boy who wandered into a forest and met ancient beings who tested his courage and wisdom. He failed their trials, only to return years later, transformed and prepared. The story was allegorical, a moral lesson, but here and now, it felt like a terrible prophecy.
I understood then that I was an unwitting actor in an unfolding drama, one more ancient and intricate than the scars on the old oak tree. My quest for the elusive locket, for the truth it promised, was not yet to be realized. And the forest—this living, malevolent, ever-changing tapestry of life and death—would keep its secrets for a little while longer.
Before my eyes, The Agent faded into the shadows, swallowed by the forest that had borne witness to this macabre display. Lying there, amid the earth and rot, I assessed my wounded leg. It throbbed in steady pulses, but it would carry me, for now. I fashioned a makeshift tourniquet from my shirt, wincing as I tightened it. Pain warred with relief in my disheveled psyche, a fleeting memory of a childhood story resurfaced—the story of a wanderer lost in a forest, searching for a way out but finding something much darker, and infinitely more compelling.
My leg was lacerated but not crippled, the immediate danger had receded like the tide pulling away from the shore, but I knew better than to mistake the forest's temporary leniency for mercy.
In this cruel game, I was a seeker—a seeker who had yet to find, a learner who had yet to understand. I was a pawn, and the board was far larger and more terrible than I could comprehend. The locket eluded me, The Agent escaped, but the forest had unveiled just a sliver of its truth.
And as the serrated moon took its final bow, giving way to the purples and reds of dawn, I limped back toward the village, bearing more questions than answers, yet also a newfound sense of purpose.
The forest was a riddle, and I was but a single piece in its grand and terrifying puzzle. But in the abyss of that fateful night, I'd found the one thing worth more than answers—a quest, a quest I would return to complete. And though the forest whispered menacingly behind me, as if laughing at a joke only it understood, I couldn't shake the feeling that, in some twisted way, it was inviting me back.
Thus, I returned to the village not as a hero, not as a victor, but as a man on a journey to solve an enigma, one that defied explanation and transcended horror. And though I was battered, broken, and humbled, I was far from defeated. Because now I understood—I was part of the forest's sprawling, intricate design, and my role, however humble, was yet to be played.
This forest was a labyrinth; a malicious maze filled with unseen horrors. Twisted vines seemed to reach for my legs, then slither back into the darkness when I looked their way. Occasionally, I'd hear a hissing growl, a nocturnal predator concealed behind the curtain of foliage, its presence a mere whisper compared to the terror I was hunting.
Tonight, the real horror was visible, and my search was tinged with urgency. I was not here on a whim. This was the birthplace of countless rumors; tales of mysterious disappearances and ancient artifacts that were whispered like a secret language among the villagers. I had sifted through old manuscripts, half-scratched notes, and whispers from drunken men who spoke of an item—a locket that contained the key to understanding life’s most arcane secrets. A truth I feared and needed in equal measure.
I crouched behind the sinewy trunk of a gnarled oak tree, its limbs twisted like the hands of a dying man reaching for salvation. The ancient oak, a landmark in this forest, had deep carvings that resembled faces twisted in agony. My eyes darted through the veil of darkness, tracing every rustle and crackle echoing off the forest's moss-carpeted floor. The absence of animal calls struck me: a disturbing quietude as if the forest itself held its breath. And there, in the gloom, I glimpsed it—The Agent, the monster, the Miserable Smiling Killer. His silhouette materialized from the void, massive and contorted, a sadistic smile cloaked by the mask that clung to his face like a second layer of skin. He moved with an unnerving stealth, as if he was woven from the fabric of the forest itself. He seemed familiar with every inch of this malevolent paradise, like a skilled puppeteer who knew which strings to pull.
An acrid aroma pervaded the air—the pungent scent of oil and iron. He was close, perhaps laying another of those infernal traps. Each thud of his heavy boots reverberated through my marrow, as if playing a symphony of dread on the strings of my sanity. The rhythm of his footsteps had a pattern, becoming quicker, intensifying like the chimes of a grandfather clock striking midnight.
I had to move.
My hands clenched into fists, nails digging into palms, grounding myself in a reality too nightmarish to be true. In a fluid motion born of survival, I eased out from my hiding place, stepping lightly to avoid betraying my presence. But the forest was a traitor, and a twig snapped beneath my foot—a thunderclap in this sanctuary of fear.
The Agent's head whipped around, the inky droplets streaming from his mask's tear ducts tracing arcs in the night air. His eyes found mine. For a heartbeat, the world stilled. Then he lunged.
The forest path beneath me seemed to churn, twisting like a living creature. My body was a spring uncoiling, muscle and sinew propelled by raw terror. The forest blurred into a tunnel, and I was a streak of desperation through it. Yet, even in flight, my eyes were drawn to a surreal transformation. He began muttering incantations under his breath, a sickly chant that seemed to claw at the very fabric of reality. The hulking hunter's silhouette seemed to fold inward, collapsing into itself before expanding once more—now a veiled woman with gloves that whispered secrets to the shadows. With a hand sheathed in black leather, she gestured, and I knew, with gut-wrenching certainty, that I was being herded.
My foot caught in a loop of cord, and the world turned upside down. My chest tightened, lungs clawing for breath as if drowning in open air. The agony was exquisite—a constellation of suffering exploding across my consciousness as the trap's metal teeth, razor-sharp and unnervingly clean, gnashed into my flesh.
Dangling in my airborne snare, I saw her approach, her gloved hand reaching for something hidden within her sleeve. A glint of steel, and I was falling, landing in a heap as the trap was severed.
Her veil lifted momentarily, and beneath it, her eyes were an abyss into which all light plunged and was lost. She spoke a single, unintelligible word, "Morai," her voice a dissonant harmony of malevolence and beauty. The word, like an arrow, lodged itself into the core of my being, resounding in an internal chamber I never knew existed.
Before transforming once again. The child in the dark hat stood before me, eyes glowing like twin moons, a harbinger from a realm beyond my understanding.
And then, in a voice tinged with something akin to regret, the child spoke, "You are not ready."
In that moment, a fragment of a story my grandmother once told me resurfaced—the tale of a naive boy who wandered into a forest and met ancient beings who tested his courage and wisdom. He failed their trials, only to return years later, transformed and prepared. The story was allegorical, a moral lesson, but here and now, it felt like a terrible prophecy.
I understood then that I was an unwitting actor in an unfolding drama, one more ancient and intricate than the scars on the old oak tree. My quest for the elusive locket, for the truth it promised, was not yet to be realized. And the forest—this living, malevolent, ever-changing tapestry of life and death—would keep its secrets for a little while longer.
Before my eyes, The Agent faded into the shadows, swallowed by the forest that had borne witness to this macabre display. Lying there, amid the earth and rot, I assessed my wounded leg. It throbbed in steady pulses, but it would carry me, for now. I fashioned a makeshift tourniquet from my shirt, wincing as I tightened it. Pain warred with relief in my disheveled psyche, a fleeting memory of a childhood story resurfaced—the story of a wanderer lost in a forest, searching for a way out but finding something much darker, and infinitely more compelling.
My leg was lacerated but not crippled, the immediate danger had receded like the tide pulling away from the shore, but I knew better than to mistake the forest's temporary leniency for mercy.
In this cruel game, I was a seeker—a seeker who had yet to find, a learner who had yet to understand. I was a pawn, and the board was far larger and more terrible than I could comprehend. The locket eluded me, The Agent escaped, but the forest had unveiled just a sliver of its truth.
And as the serrated moon took its final bow, giving way to the purples and reds of dawn, I limped back toward the village, bearing more questions than answers, yet also a newfound sense of purpose.
The forest was a riddle, and I was but a single piece in its grand and terrifying puzzle. But in the abyss of that fateful night, I'd found the one thing worth more than answers—a quest, a quest I would return to complete. And though the forest whispered menacingly behind me, as if laughing at a joke only it understood, I couldn't shake the feeling that, in some twisted way, it was inviting me back.
Thus, I returned to the village not as a hero, not as a victor, but as a man on a journey to solve an enigma, one that defied explanation and transcended horror. And though I was battered, broken, and humbled, I was far from defeated. Because now I understood—I was part of the forest's sprawling, intricate design, and my role, however humble, was yet to be played.
Audio Version;
- Joined
- Feb 28, 2015
Shaneequa
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Oct 11, 2020
I use img AI for the covers, Eleven Labs for the audio. cGPT for the blurbs. Most of these are old that were just sitting on a doc file in my hard drive so it's not hard to make peripheral material.
- Joined
- Apr 2, 2023
I've been experimenting with atmosphere in my writing as it's one of my three big weak points as a writer. So I've been writing a few scenes with a silent protagonist and limited third person narration, focusing almost entirely on scenery and the surface level of what's going on, not even narrating the main character's inner thoughts. While this has been useful for the purposes of experimentation, what I wanna know if is this a feasible style of writing or if it's utterly retarded to not allow your audience to know what anybody's thinking at any given point? Am I writing screenplays but with extra steps?
Shaneequa
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Oct 11, 2020
I think it's a good exercise. Being able to convey what a character is thinking or feeling without outright stating it is good prose.
- Joined
- May 21, 2019
If you want to see what avant garde
retartedconspiratard
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Feb 23, 2021
- Joined
- Feb 8, 2023
I also had this suspicion. Maybe it's the overuse of cliches, but it reads like AI-generated pulp. Not necessarily a bad thing-AI can make surprisingly interesting things. Wattpad would eat this up. I like the demonstration of using AI for artwork and audio accompaniment. Using AI to narrate my writing helps to identify errors in word choice, repetitiveness, etc.
You can post here. No one's going to yell at you. Do what you want.
Shaneequa
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Oct 11, 2020
That's fair, those little flash fiction entries are usually just me sitting down with a vague idea and just writing sentences that "sound" good in my head. There isn't really a direction or intent behind them cause I just like to keep the wheels greased as it were. If I have to think more deeply about things like an actual plot or themes less actual writing gets done. It's good practice, but it does tend to become cliché and uninspired when you do it every day.
I wrote those while queued for Dead By Daylight so that's why they're about just running around in a forest. If I get bored of the prose I'll try to do something with a more casual voice, although my attempts are those are *also* pretty cliché cause I tend to just fall back onto particular phrases over and over. I think "Tougher than a $2 steak" is one that I use pretty often.
Someone once pointed out that R07 uses the phrase "Like a puppet with its strings cut." over and over and I straight up didn't notice until it was pointed out to me, so being aware of these things is something that can only help your writing.
- Joined
- Apr 22, 2015
One thing I like to do is try to imagine other perspectives in whatever situation you're working on. Try to imagine the perspective of an animal watching, or a stranger watching, or from an inanimate object, or you go for the perspective from character X or from a god or demon or whatever. Write that shit up and see what turns up. Even if it makes zero sense if character X is dead just write anyway from that perspective. You might be surprised.
std::string
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- May 17, 2018
I've done this with film noir style short fiction before.
It's a very cool and useful writing exercise since most writers tend to fuck up and say things instead of show them.