SevenWritez
New Member
EDIT: The story is easier to read with italics and the change in font (only for the letter scene), so I apologize if the dialogue scenes become a bit confusing. I'm too lazy to toy with the tool bar in this posting window. However, it should still be follow...followable.
This is a short story I wrote for Creative Writing a week or so back. We were told to take a quote, base a storyline off of it, and then see what happened. This is what I conjured up. I don't find it too blaringly original, but I along with the others in my class who read it enjoyed it, so I thought what-the-hell, I'll post it. Hope you enjoy it. Also, the first two pages (not sure how this transfers over, but I wrote everything in single-spaced size-ten font, so...), are a bit garrulous, so I apologize for that. The story jump starts after that, and it is there that I think readers will enjoy it.
Anyhow, that's all, here it is. Hope you enjoy.
Flames - "Dreams that do come true can be as unsettling as those that don't." - Brett Butler, Knee Deep In Paradise
The thing you need to understand is that I’m a nice guy. I help people. Yeah. See, there was a long speech here before, but it’s been replaced by the blunt and beautiful prose of my own simple words. Does that make sense? Golly, I hope so—I really do. This guy here didn’t understand me, even though I tried and tried and tried to help him. But yeah, I gave him many things. I gave him friendship, I gave him courage, I gave him…ah, some other things, too. He was lost, and all he needed was a map. And me? Again, I’m a nice guy—I gave him that map. And, well…
The night sky glazed over in red hues, the flames from the fire misting the world around it in shimmering images cast behind sheets of rising smoke, waxing the skin of anyone who stepped too close in tendrils of sweat. A fire like this had never been seen before; a fire like this had never been felt before, at least, none of the first timers thought. And they were right. Fires shouldn’t make you scream and wince back when you were yards away; heat shouldn’t reach that far. This one’s did. There was something alien, something unorthodox, something that provoked you to come closer (if you watched the flames steadily enough, you would have sworn you saw a hand forming from the smoke, beckoning you closer…closer…just a little closer), but all the while warning you, pleading with you to stay away. There were two forces in that fire, fighting for control in that deteriorating building. A laugh—loud enough to be considered a sonic boom—cackled out from deep inside the building’s frame, and everyone at the scene who heard it recognized it as Ronny’s laugh, but deeper, darker, manic. That laugh had changed. It was different, and, like the fire it had bellowed out of, it was something alien, something unorthodox, something none of them had ever heard or ever imagined hearing before. The firemen stared in awe—any time they came within forty yards of the building the edges of their uniforms curled up and back in black crisps, their skin boiling to a Fahrenheit and their primal instincts sending their legs into a quick thrust backwards. No one could get close, and no one dared try to. Ronny was in that fire, and Ronny was still alive. All they could do was watch.
…Well, let’s just say I gave him a few other things, as well.
The reflection in the mirror held no resemblance to the boy who would have looked in it just two hours before. Under his left eye a mesh of purple-blue skin had began to phase in nastily, tinting the lower portion of his eye to a dark bruise, standing out like a naked man at a funeral on his pale skin. The pale-faced acne-ridden boy was still there though, curly red hair patched in with dark smears of brown, some of it dirt, some of it dog-shit, a mix-up of opposing colors now a clumpy shag on his head.
A stray tear rolled down the side of his face, and he swiped away at it absently, a red streak of what was there earlier now just a still waterfall frozen in place beneath both eyes. He turned on the faucet, watched the water run down into the sink, and waited for the gray whisks of steam to creep up like groping fingers before he finally cupped a puddle above his folded palms.
His lips pulled back and let out a hiss through gritted teeth, willing himself to countdown from ten as Satan’s piss swashed around in his hands, numbing the nerves in his palms and eventually sending a dull throb to his to his wrists and upper forearms.
He looked in the mirror again—still pale, still acne-galored, two red blotches under his eyes; and of course, the blossoming bruise. He counted down from five.
On four he leaned forward, head hung over and looking directly into his cupped palms. On three his lips parted and almost let out a sigh, but all that came was a silence. On two…
“**** it,” he muttered.
He brought his hands up and brought his head down, his face being swallowed in the steamed water. He roared through gritted teeth into his palms, but the cupped hands muted him to a low grumble.
Four seconds later he pulled his hands away, the slosh of water falling to the sink with a sharp, wet smack. He looked into the mirror now. His face was otherwise the same, but the white-skinned acne-ridden reflection was now red-faced acne-ridden. The color was only an unconsciously forgotten side-effect; what he had wanted was that quick moment of pain, that burning ecstasy that first kissed your skin, and then bit down hard. It all came and went in the spur of a few moments. It was what he had wanted to help relieve the tension of things that had happened earlier today. And now it was over, and that was fine.
He turned off the faucet and left the bathroom, walking down the narrow corridor to his own room on the back right side of the wall. He walked in, sat down on his bed, crawled under thin black sheets, and silently allowed himself to cry. His eye still throbbed, but the pain was nothing like it had been when he first received the blow. He had been walking home late, staying after school to finish up a test not completed due to lack of time (for Ronny, most uncompleted projects were more or less blamed on a lack of time), when three jocks he had gone to junior year school with passed him by on the street. It was 4:45 then, and it was evident that they were drunk. Or stoned. Either way, he knew what was going to happen before it happened—their contemptuous smiles and taunting glares showed as much.
He cried beneath his blanket sheets, silent sobs that could not be heard, the only note to his inner turmoil being the tears rolling down his cheeks (the red waterfalls were no longer still), and the heaves his chest took with each inner choke. He sat silent, pondering, thinking, contemplating on the moments of his life and what they signified, what they would lead him to. He had done this many times before, but never once after being hurt, being completely mauled—he was lucky to have gotten out with only a bloodied arm, nose, and (bruised), eye. But still, he had been here before.
Today’s actions had only beckoned that far away depression even further home. Ronny closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep.-
There is a man laughing—not a boy’s laugh, but a man’s. It is too deep to belong to an innocent. Ronny is running down a long strip of road. He does not know where he is; all he sees is the road, for to the left, and to the right, there is nothing but blinding darkness. It is from that darkness that he can hear the maniacal laughter. He begins to sprint, and as he does, he does not notice the flames that begin to emerge around him, the stones and pebbles that begin to dance about him. He does not notice any of it. He only knows that he is running down a road, and that wherever it leads, it won’t escape that laughter—that deathly, maniacal laughter. It is after him. It is chasing him. When he wakes up, he won’t remember anything.
This is a short story I wrote for Creative Writing a week or so back. We were told to take a quote, base a storyline off of it, and then see what happened. This is what I conjured up. I don't find it too blaringly original, but I along with the others in my class who read it enjoyed it, so I thought what-the-hell, I'll post it. Hope you enjoy it. Also, the first two pages (not sure how this transfers over, but I wrote everything in single-spaced size-ten font, so...), are a bit garrulous, so I apologize for that. The story jump starts after that, and it is there that I think readers will enjoy it.
Anyhow, that's all, here it is. Hope you enjoy.
Flames - "Dreams that do come true can be as unsettling as those that don't." - Brett Butler, Knee Deep In Paradise
The thing you need to understand is that I’m a nice guy. I help people. Yeah. See, there was a long speech here before, but it’s been replaced by the blunt and beautiful prose of my own simple words. Does that make sense? Golly, I hope so—I really do. This guy here didn’t understand me, even though I tried and tried and tried to help him. But yeah, I gave him many things. I gave him friendship, I gave him courage, I gave him…ah, some other things, too. He was lost, and all he needed was a map. And me? Again, I’m a nice guy—I gave him that map. And, well…
The night sky glazed over in red hues, the flames from the fire misting the world around it in shimmering images cast behind sheets of rising smoke, waxing the skin of anyone who stepped too close in tendrils of sweat. A fire like this had never been seen before; a fire like this had never been felt before, at least, none of the first timers thought. And they were right. Fires shouldn’t make you scream and wince back when you were yards away; heat shouldn’t reach that far. This one’s did. There was something alien, something unorthodox, something that provoked you to come closer (if you watched the flames steadily enough, you would have sworn you saw a hand forming from the smoke, beckoning you closer…closer…just a little closer), but all the while warning you, pleading with you to stay away. There were two forces in that fire, fighting for control in that deteriorating building. A laugh—loud enough to be considered a sonic boom—cackled out from deep inside the building’s frame, and everyone at the scene who heard it recognized it as Ronny’s laugh, but deeper, darker, manic. That laugh had changed. It was different, and, like the fire it had bellowed out of, it was something alien, something unorthodox, something none of them had ever heard or ever imagined hearing before. The firemen stared in awe—any time they came within forty yards of the building the edges of their uniforms curled up and back in black crisps, their skin boiling to a Fahrenheit and their primal instincts sending their legs into a quick thrust backwards. No one could get close, and no one dared try to. Ronny was in that fire, and Ronny was still alive. All they could do was watch.
…Well, let’s just say I gave him a few other things, as well.
The reflection in the mirror held no resemblance to the boy who would have looked in it just two hours before. Under his left eye a mesh of purple-blue skin had began to phase in nastily, tinting the lower portion of his eye to a dark bruise, standing out like a naked man at a funeral on his pale skin. The pale-faced acne-ridden boy was still there though, curly red hair patched in with dark smears of brown, some of it dirt, some of it dog-shit, a mix-up of opposing colors now a clumpy shag on his head.
A stray tear rolled down the side of his face, and he swiped away at it absently, a red streak of what was there earlier now just a still waterfall frozen in place beneath both eyes. He turned on the faucet, watched the water run down into the sink, and waited for the gray whisks of steam to creep up like groping fingers before he finally cupped a puddle above his folded palms.
His lips pulled back and let out a hiss through gritted teeth, willing himself to countdown from ten as Satan’s piss swashed around in his hands, numbing the nerves in his palms and eventually sending a dull throb to his to his wrists and upper forearms.
He looked in the mirror again—still pale, still acne-galored, two red blotches under his eyes; and of course, the blossoming bruise. He counted down from five.
On four he leaned forward, head hung over and looking directly into his cupped palms. On three his lips parted and almost let out a sigh, but all that came was a silence. On two…
“**** it,” he muttered.
He brought his hands up and brought his head down, his face being swallowed in the steamed water. He roared through gritted teeth into his palms, but the cupped hands muted him to a low grumble.
Four seconds later he pulled his hands away, the slosh of water falling to the sink with a sharp, wet smack. He looked into the mirror now. His face was otherwise the same, but the white-skinned acne-ridden reflection was now red-faced acne-ridden. The color was only an unconsciously forgotten side-effect; what he had wanted was that quick moment of pain, that burning ecstasy that first kissed your skin, and then bit down hard. It all came and went in the spur of a few moments. It was what he had wanted to help relieve the tension of things that had happened earlier today. And now it was over, and that was fine.
He turned off the faucet and left the bathroom, walking down the narrow corridor to his own room on the back right side of the wall. He walked in, sat down on his bed, crawled under thin black sheets, and silently allowed himself to cry. His eye still throbbed, but the pain was nothing like it had been when he first received the blow. He had been walking home late, staying after school to finish up a test not completed due to lack of time (for Ronny, most uncompleted projects were more or less blamed on a lack of time), when three jocks he had gone to junior year school with passed him by on the street. It was 4:45 then, and it was evident that they were drunk. Or stoned. Either way, he knew what was going to happen before it happened—their contemptuous smiles and taunting glares showed as much.
He cried beneath his blanket sheets, silent sobs that could not be heard, the only note to his inner turmoil being the tears rolling down his cheeks (the red waterfalls were no longer still), and the heaves his chest took with each inner choke. He sat silent, pondering, thinking, contemplating on the moments of his life and what they signified, what they would lead him to. He had done this many times before, but never once after being hurt, being completely mauled—he was lucky to have gotten out with only a bloodied arm, nose, and (bruised), eye. But still, he had been here before.
Today’s actions had only beckoned that far away depression even further home. Ronny closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep.-
There is a man laughing—not a boy’s laugh, but a man’s. It is too deep to belong to an innocent. Ronny is running down a long strip of road. He does not know where he is; all he sees is the road, for to the left, and to the right, there is nothing but blinding darkness. It is from that darkness that he can hear the maniacal laughter. He begins to sprint, and as he does, he does not notice the flames that begin to emerge around him, the stones and pebbles that begin to dance about him. He does not notice any of it. He only knows that he is running down a road, and that wherever it leads, it won’t escape that laughter—that deathly, maniacal laughter. It is after him. It is chasing him. When he wakes up, he won’t remember anything.