(Monthly) Short Story Writing Prompts Submission Thread

seems interesting~
life... ah so interesting

 

:|

Can you, um, please post something?

 

ah sorry, so it's called: Flashes of Life words: 606

Spoiler

The sky, blue and so mesmerising; so serene yet melancholy. The sounds of the wind came and went so quickly. What is life? What is giving? What is… this hell that we live in? Life, oh so short, like the leaves on an autumn day. Falling so softly, so sweetly, until no one remembers it anymore. Disappears like a snap of a finger. What is the use of fake friendliness even though we hate each other? Why do we try even though it’ll go sooner or later? I don’t know, maybe only god knows. Maybe god just want to torture us, for us to go through this hell and never know why. Maybe god just despise our cruel and darkened hearts. I sat down cross-legged, looking at the blue sky.


I slowly closed my eyes and let my memories rewind to the beginning.


A perfect family of three. An outstanding father with numerous Nobel prizes. A beautiful mother whom fingers dance across the piano. A breathtaking daughter who everyone is jealous of. A perfect family of three… with a family mutt. A daughter who never should have been born. One who is not outstanding in any way, not beautiful in any way, not breathtaking in any way. Just average.


Watching from afar, she felt a sharp pain in her heart. Why can’t she fit in with the family that she does not belong to? Where should she go? Her fists clenched, relaxed, then clenched again. A piece of heaven that won’t ever fall into her hands.


She walked away as silently as possible. Heh… but it seems that even god won’t help her with this single task. The floor creaked loudly, startling the happiness dialogue in the perfect family of three. “Is that her?” The mother would say. The father would respond, with a tone of abhorrence, “Ignore her… that thing isn’t my daughter.” A melodic voice, one that would mesmerise a whole colony, “Father, don’t talk about her like that. Despite her average appearance, she is still my sister.” Even though they talked quietly, every word could be heard by her.


The daughter came into the view of her. Her voice held a tone of agitation, “W-what do you want?” The daughter would smile sweetly, but that sweet smile looked like the face of Satan about to take her away, “Nothing, my sweet sister.” The daughter’s smile fell, her face scrunching up in disgust. “Don’t disturb us next time, got it mutt?” The girl was too frightened to fight back and nodded unconsciously.


Back then, why was I so stupid? Thinking about it know, I really want to smack the smile off the daughter’s face. To see that girl being tortured, her sweet voice screaming and begging to be released. My only regret.


The corners of my mouth lifted up as I remembered the agonizing wails of the perfect family of three. The sound of pain and tortured made my skin crawl, but I love it anyways. I could remember the last look on that disgusting daughter’s face: dismay. Only, I was too young back then and the daughter’s death was too short.


I opened my eyes once again. Tilting my head towards the sky, I could finally laugh my heart out to my content. Am I still human? After that incident? I would beg to differ. Ah… life, so short.


I closed my eyes to my last breath.


… … …


When I opened my eyes again, I saw redness all over. A voice of reverence broke the silence that surrounds me, “You… what is your name?”

 

60 more words...

 

seriously? *bows* i am very very sorry....

 

@Fluffy13unny You don't seem to understand. What happens after death.

Not a lengthy flashback that tells us the MC is ugly.

 

♫ Using my free time on Nuf when I am supposed to be resting or sleeping♫
but I am not resting, I am still typing ♪ la ♪ la ♪ la ♪ la ♪ la♪

Hmm… Oh god, I hope this doesn't turn into another massive essay… (It did.. sort of..)

@iampsyx

Spoiler: To Psyx

This is how I looked at it or read it. And this is my train of thought, the first thing I thought about is there any explicit or implicit identification of what relationship the narrator and the “you” have? To do this I took apart every interaction and in a way, to the reader, it was 2 entities.

The narrator “voice” and the “you” the “body”, they drive the story, one did so by describing and saying, the other did so by simply being.

The “body” is an absentee presence and is filled in by the reader. If I examine that dynamic, I will have fill in the blanks this way.

=============
The first thing that registers on your mind is the ceiling.
[What's going on?]
You're alive.
[I am?]
Lying on the floor in your room, you are staring at the ceiling above you. You notice the thick strip of cloth hanging from a low ceiling beam, its lower end torn in the edges, and a snort bursts out of your lips.
[I can do anything right...]
The next time you try hanging yourself, you should go on a diet first.
[(defensive/ deflection) Subtext: what's wrong with me?]
Oh, but will you try again?
[I don't know...]
After all, you got scared in the end, didn't you?
[I was scared]
Crying, trying to untie the knot around your neck, gasping for breath, wanting to live, at the very last moment.
[I wanted to live]
You did.
[I didn't want to die, I got scared]
Just like how you couldn't use the knife you threw under your bed to stab yourself in the stomach and bleed all over the floor, even though you've imagined it for so many times.
[I know, I am pathetic...]
You laugh. In the end, they were correct, after all. You're nothing but a useless, worthless, disgusting waste of human space who can't do anything right. You can't even kill yourself.
[Stop it!]
Turning your head sideways, you see the clock hanging on top of the calendar. 7:06 pm. Time isn't waiting for you. Your siblings are going to get back home soon.
[I can't let them see this, I can't let anyone see this.]
=============

In asking rhetorical questions, questions that the voice would ask and would answer. Makes it feel accusative, and disapproving.

Like for example when if I said ...

Me: Where's all the pie? (Neutral)
Bob: I ate it...all
Me: *Unhappy*

Me: Where's all the pie? (Accusation)
Bob: I-
Me: Ya ate it all, didn't ya? (JUDGEMENT! HAMMER OF GOD!)
Bob: S-Sorry!!!

The question becomes an accusation, a judgment of Bob, who did something wrong. And in both case Bod did do something wrong, he ate all the god damn pie!!!

In the story that exact moment is:

After all, you got scared in the end, didn't you?
Crying, trying to untie the knot around your neck, gasping for breath, wanting to live, at the very last moment.
You did.

The “voice” it wasn’t asking a question, it was making a point. And that in the beginning of the narrative the “voice” took a stance, it disapproved and was unkind to the “body”.

I hope that helped, and being judgemental is, in fact, the "drama" of the story at the moment. if you remove it, I don't know what it will become, but it certainly will be a completely different feel to it.

On the song life on mars:
The song is a song that gets played a lot in that TV show. The songwriter (Bowie) said this about the song. It's about: "A sensitive young girl's reaction to the media." In 1997, he added, "I think she finds herself disappointed with reality... that although she's living in the doldrums of reality, she's being told that there's a far greater life somewhere, and she's bitterly disappointed that she doesn't have access to it."

Those lines...
Now she walks through her sunken dream
To the seat with the clearest view
And she's hooked to the silver screen...

(PS just occurred to be when i was spell checking this)
one thing you can experiment is this, italics
==============
The first thing that registers on your mind is the ceiling.

I am alive.

Lying on the floor in your room, you are staring at the ceiling above you. You notice the thick strip of cloth hanging from a low ceiling beam, its lower end torn in the edges, and a snort bursts out of your lips.

The next time I try hanging myself, I should go on a diet first.

Oh, but will I try again? After all, I got scared in the end, didn't I?

Crying, trying to untie the knot around my neck, gasping for breath, wanting to live, at the very last moment.

I did.

Just like how I couldn't use the knife I threw under your bed to stab myself in the stomach and bleed all over the floor, even though I imagined it for so many times.

You laugh.

In the end, they were correct.

I am nothing but a useless, worthless, disgusting waste of human space who can't do anything right.

I can't even kill myself.
============

Removing the word "you" from the rhetorical question gives a different tone to the story. It is still second person narrative, but you separate the thoughts from the narration. Of course, it might mean it feels more disruptive, you might have to re-balance the distribution of thoughts and narration.

@SpearOfLies

Spoiler: Feed the Feedback

Thanks and cheers friend

hmm… But also, I do apologize that I wrote and overly trolling story… I guess part of me just wanted to make a story loaded with twists and turns with the intention of telling people that it is not what the twist is that is important it is how you get there… they are all distraction, they don't worth anything, there are hundreds and there will be more...

Life:
enjoying surprises in stories → seen too much, always see it coming (no more surprises, ever) → appreciate the HOW and WHY rather than the WHAT and WHEN

I mean personally, I think, there will always be more, "OMG my _____ is really my ______". It is the in between that is the real magic, but often people don't see it, the shiny surprise it too distracting.

#thejourneymatters

But I guess I am still a long way to go to reach that level of complexity in my writing, hope that if i keep sharpening my skills and craft I can get to those dizzy heights before I kick the bucket...

BTW: @SpearOfLies since I got your attention here.
Heard that Twitter is shutting down vines.
All the vines stars might be moving to you tube now…
Well, I guess it's all vine then.
Ba Dum tsssss!!!

 

Edit of my story
Fantasy, 2400-ish? words

Spoiler: Still Untitled

He stared, his glare burning into the man standing before him. His vision had long gone red by now, whether from the blood dipping to his eyes or from the hatred that had risen up inside him he did not know. He had fought with this man, a much lesser creature he had thought, and lost. Now he lay, crippled on the blood soaked dust amidst a battlefield that’s frenzy was only broken by the calm of death and the pounding of blood in his ears. His cultivation was lost, taken and stolen by this man laughing before him. Years of toil and pain gone in an instant. It felt empty, something fundamentally part of him was gone. So he cursed and poured out his bitterness in an unearthly wail, as though malevolent spirits had risen from hell and were damning all living things. And he cried tears of hatred and of blood.

Slowly a pain grew harsh and biting from his veins. It felt dry and burnt him, seeming to hollow and burn a hole through him around his veins. He felt the fire and agony course through him and he laughed, a hoarse croaking cackle, for all he had done was for naught. He was to die to the foe he thought lesser than him, and no matter how he wished or how desperate he was, he didn’t even have a chance to take his enemy with him. The pain was lesser now, all was seemingly fading into oblivion. He looked to try to burn that man’s mocking grin into his mind, to remember it for his next life and take revenge. Looking up however he didn’t see his expectation, rather he saw a twist of fate that would make the Devil himself laugh, his foes visage was contorted with a terrible pain, his skin seemed to stick to his one and his veins bulged and twisted. They writhed themselves like a den of snakes, fiendishly crawling under his skin, pulsing a dark green-black.

To see his killer suffer so wretched a fate made him feel the joy of vengeance. Yet it was not complete for that foe still survived, and he felt it his duty to end it. With the last push of strength, he lifted himself from the cold grave he had lain in, and did all he could to fight, finally ripping the throat of his hated oppressor. The skin tore and something snapped, soon hot blood was flowing from his teeth. Bright crimson it splashed, pouring its burning self against the darker red stain of dried blood already coating the ground of the battlefield. His killer still clawed at him, trying to push him off and salvage the already ruined throat. But he clung on, pouring the last of his strength into his jaws, desperate to win this fight that had degraded into barbarism. He had been a cornered animal, and once a chance to kill and strike back was given, he’d bite into it.

Until the futile struggles of his oppressor stopped and that body fell limp he didn’t let go. Then their he stood and marveled at the sudden silence of battlefield. He was the only one standing on a field of corpses that stretched on for miles. Mounds lay here and there, lives discarded like trash. Grimly he looked at the last to die, all had been gasping hopelessly for release, all their veins had been died black and all their skin shrunk. Many had taken their own lives rather than to die of the pain. Neither side was spared. He was alone on a graveyard of millions, surrounded by corpses without hope of a burial. Standing in this endless field, he fit perfectly, drenched in blood and missing an eye. The only sign that he was alive in this land of death was his ragged breathing. Each breath ripped at his lungs and made blood leak from his chest. Other than that he might have been a corpse left standing. “I surely fit my name, Yánxù Ren (meaning last man)” he groaned, then collapsed.

He fell into a deep sleep, and found world of pain and blood, his world, and how he lived. He failed to win the war and had to watch his friends and family die. The revenge he got was hollow, as the curse and pain brought on his enemy was mysterious, and killed indiscriminately, leaving nobody but him. He shook and thrashed as he saw what had transpired and what his life had been. It was filled with death and cruelty, equally spent taking lives and protecting his own. He fought and writhed in his sleep until he felt that he was fading away and he lost himself in his graveyard of a mind. He felt madness and chose to accept nothingness and oblivion to get away from his pain.

Elsewhere, in a more peaceful land sat a man in a thatched cottage. This man looked neither old, nor young. His hair was silver, a shining steely color, and his eyes were as blue as the sky on a crisp winters morning where the sun peaked out early in the day. He was leisurely reading a book, seeming relaxed and content. Till he stopped, frowned a bit, and sighed. He set down his book carefully, and pulled out a small pocket book. This book was worn and weather-weary, with a faded black cover and yellowing pages. As this man flipped through his book, from front to back, it took him too long of a time to seem natural, as if he was flipping through a great tome or encyclopedia. Finally, he came to the last page with writing, though there were more empty ones after. This page was white and new, it only had two words on it, but these words where written in a dark crimson, fierce and striking. The man frowned anew and sighed again as he looked down on the two words, Yánxù Ren, “This one has had a bloody path, full of strife and toil” he muttered to himself.

He set the pocket-book down upon a table, open, with the name fiercely glaring, then walked over to a shelf, mostly covered with books, but also holding many strange and unusual items. Most of the walls of this cottage were covered in similar bookcases. From the bookcase he took down a strange looking lamp. It was like a candle holder and like an oil lantern. It had a glass container surrounded by thin ribbings of silvery gold, seeming strange and not from this world. He set the lamp on the table next to the book and tapped the book. Suddenly a harsh blue flame sprung from the words written there. The flame fought and writhed, as if venting fury its fury on the pages of the book, but it was in vain, for quickly the man picked up the flame with a scoop of his hand. Then sealed it inside the otherworldly lantern as easily as one would pour a glass of water.

In the lamp, the flame spoke, it had a dry raspy voice, like someone that had not talked for a long time, or someone that had shouted and used up their voice recently. “I am Yánxù Ren, who are you and where am I,” the flame growled out in a commanding tone.

“I have gone by many names” Said the man, he had a deep and mellow tone that was pleasing to the ears, like a cello or a bassoon. “Some of them lost, some famous, some dead some, living. But what is the importance of a name? If you insist on naming me you can call me Death, I think that is what I am known best as. You have died, by the way, a horrible agonizing hateful death I presume. I should know this, as my job is to take those who died with hatred and help them find peace in themselves, and to regain an appreciation of beauty and life.”

“Peace, I shan’t ever get peace.” The flame growled, “I have lived a life of slaughter and of hatred, my greatest joys have been to kill my foes and trample others. I do not deserve peace or happiness. I do not even deserve the comfort of this death.”

“Everyone deserves peace, they may never get peace with the world, but if they can at least have peace with themselves than that should be striven for. For the world outside the mind is fabricated by the world inside the mind, and one should know how they interact.” Death spoke “Do come with me and I will show you what world you are missing, and what happiness the world can hold”

Thus saying so Death picked up the flaming lantern and put away his pocketbook, then stepped outs ide the door of his cottage. Outside was a beautiful crisp sunrise, painting the sky awash with reds and oranges. It was so vibrant that a stone would turn to look and the clouds would frolic in its pink rays. They stood and watched as the great morning sun rose and chased away the final vestiges of the dark black night sky. They watched as the deep blue of night, speckled with stars slowly turned purple, then red, then finally rested at a light blue, with white clouds painted in smooth lines streaked across.

The fire was moved by the beauty of it, and as its hatred lessened, it shrunk a bit. But it still saw blood in the reds, and storm beaten oceans in the blue. It saw a sea of burning blood climbing up the sky, growing higher and taller. It screamed and cringed in fear as everything was distorted by its splintered memories and twisted emotions.

Then death took the lantern and walk down a path going through the rocky hills his cottage was in. The path wound down, and the sides were filled with mist. It coiled around, covering the grass and blanketing the rocks. Flowing and breathing, it left a sense of mysteriousness and filled one with wonder and peace. It calmed, soothed and entranced, as live creature does, but in a way no living creature could, highlighting the beauty of the rough landscape, and showing the sharp natural crags of the rocks.

But the fire was unmoved as it waited for ambushed in every crag, and saw the mist coiling and grasping like the hands of the souls it killed. It shrunk away from the mist and cursed as if damned.

Death next showed the spirit flame a forest, vibrant with life. It lay at the food of the rocky hills and stretched on for eternity. The path now trailed through its dappling shadows, with the light colored green from the leaves dyeing everything a malachite hue. Through the forest chirped beautiful songbirds, and the rustlings of small animals signal an abundance of life. Dotted here and there were wildflowers blooming and bursting with color, accent the faint green glow. They walked until they found a lake, translucent in color. Looking in you could see the bottom and see fish swimming. The lake was mirror smooth, without a breath of wind to disturb its stillness. Death just sat there and set down the lamp, waiting and absorbing the peace.

The flame stood and marveled he saw the lake, he had never seen something so serene, but then the in the glassy waters he started to see the blank pupils of dead eyes. In the stillness and calm he saw the stagnation of death. The silence became stifling, heavy and oppressive, seeming to swallow everything and fill it with an eerie calm only found in a graveyard or other such land of the dead.

Death took him up after a while, and brought him through the forest and out to a village. The village was located in a small valley with a river that was filled with soil rich enough to cover the landscape with hues of vibrant, bright, greens. Death took the flame to a high hill where they could overlook the village and view the festivities within, for this hamlet was celebrating and everyone was dancing gaily and laughing. It was a sight to behold with colored banners streaming between houses and a great bonfire burning in the square. The air was filled with the scent of roasting boar and alive with joyful music. As they watched, some fiddler struck up a fast jig and around the merry folk went, dancing lively and quick.

The flame saw this and cracked what could have been a smile. It seemed to wave to the music for a bit, but then it thought of his own life and the villages it had seen, the greatest memories it had, the biggest and most prominent all ended with fire and blood. Hamlets like these ended up being swept away in the tides of war. The men that used their feet to dance turned those to marching, and the women’s bright eyes turned dull from tears. Till later when the fighting moved through, the homes would lie burnt and the now green fields would turn barren. But he saw that for now, it was happy.

Then death took the flame to a bran near the village. It was peaceful and quiet inside, away from the bustling festivities. The air was calm and carried a pleasant smell of sawdust and hay. Death took the flame and brought him quietly to a hidden corner of the barn, tucked away and secret. In that corner lay a mother cat and several kittens, they were sleeping soundly curled up together with their gentle breathing and the soft sound of purring filling the space. The kittens seemed so peaceful and safe, and the mother so protective, giving an overwhelming sense of security even to those just looking.

Now, finally the flame’s shell started to crack, it could not find a fault or horror hidden within this sight. He shrunk a bit, and started burning less fearfully, though still dancing quite fiercely. The fire burned and seemed to sigh, feeling a bit of relief from the memories that tormented it.

Seeing this, Death smiled a bit, and led the flame away. He took him up past the village and on to tall mountains to see endless white glaciers glinting in the sun. Death brought him down deep valleys and through rustling streams, showing the beauty of the world. Leading onwards he brought him past great metropolis, bustling with life, to places of peace, hidden and calm. At each place he would stop and watch the flame as it lost the hatred in its burning, as it grew smaller and more gentle, burning slower and more indistinct. Finally, the spirit in the flame curled up and slept, serenely and peacefully. The fire surrounding slowly winked out and the lamp lost its brightness. Seeing this, Death smiled and stood up from the place he had been sitting, and pulls out the pocket book containing the name. He flipped through more slowly this time, revealing thousands of names written and crossed out, then when he gets to the last written page he pulls out a pen and crosses out the final name, Yánxù Ren.

 

You want this one on the table of contents, or the old one?

Or should I just put both?

 

Pleasant, but first of all it doesn't seem to match the prompt. In fact it doesn't seem to have a specific goal or theme. That might be because of its brevity, however I would like a bit more exposition and background, rather than just reminiscing. It was well written though, and I did really like the emotion and word choice.

@Fluffy13unny

 

Either this one or both, I don't care. Whichever is easier.

 

Both are easy to do... I'll put both I guess.

 

Ah, I forgot to reply to this! >.<

I see. So the judgmental 'feel' came from the voice of the 'voice' (lol). XD I always use italics to represent the main character's voice in a not-1st-person-pov story, so I wanted to try something else. Since this is just an 'experiment', I don't think I'll change that part. More like, I'm tired of rewriting it! I wanna write something else! hahahahhaha But thank you for your thoughts!~ ^^

 

It is so much better now, especially because you added how all the scenery is connected together and how he reminisced his own life from seeing the village.

 

Done~ I think? Written for December's prompt, "Boundary."
(between the boundary of complete work and an incomplete mess ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ prolly D: haha)

There was more dialogue to this as well but I didn't think it'd fit with how sparse it was in the first place so I'd love critique on this especially for pacing since I know setting and characters not fleshed out and this was as complete as I could get it solo editing so apologies in advance.

Title: Breath
Genre:
Word Count: 1316
First attempt vvvv

Spoiler

Cracked stone greets her charge. The wind crackles around her, dirty locks obscuring her view.

It had always been the icy wind as her companion. Like an ensemble, she follows along the roadway’s left, ruddle orbs shifting in whorls before her.

Around her, the market bustles. Like this, life has moved on without her.


As the carriage creeks forward with the camellia in bloom, icy eyes address her arrival. With an austere bearing, he meets her in the autumn gloom.

He levels their gaze, addressing her plainly not with an utterance of spite, but with a malice that could only be directed towards her alone. It pierces through her, and suddenly, the poise and diction she’s practiced solely for him weeks before on end diminish to mere a nothingness before him.

It’s as if time hadn't passed at all.

The words she’s rehearsed become a mess at her feet and muddled breaths assail her. Beneath him each memory collapses like a shroud, shards shattering her beat and befuddling her senses.

Like clockwork, he ticks.

His face contorts to a scowl, and she remembers she’s everything he hates.

It’s as if she’d wade through mud.

It isn’t until he leaves, with his back turned in the same likeness that she’s always been used to, that she remembers to breathe again.

It isn’t until months before they speak.

Like an accident, he doesn’t seek her.

He makes no move to mind her, but it is she that finds him.

It is not until then that she comes to a resolution.

He smiles, hands reaching to amend a crook of his tie, gloved fingers twitching with a nervousness he hopes only he perceives.

“A crooked man can only hope that he fixes himself with the same meticulousness.”

It’s a testament, she thinks, but if she she’s truly living how then does it explain this dream-like lie?

He speaks over her, silver eyes meeting hers, “To evoke the grudge of our country’s priestess, is an inexcusable offense, is it not?” In his hands, the clink of ice clatter. “I’m a sinful man.”

He elicits from himself a dry laugh, pistol in hand.

As the summer shines with autumn in toll, she’d remember his tender gaze. She’d think back to when he’d smile, not with a reproach of spite, but so filled with tenderness she believed that he’d leave no doubt in her mind that he loved her.

It was enough to leave her dreaming.

Now as the fall approaches she’d see how well silver and violet melded, watching as the withered leaves ascended, crushing the berries lain beneath her feet.

It was always her eyes that thawed him.

She knows that when she looks at him her heart shatters just a little more. It’s not enough, simply accompanying him at his side.

It’s a decades worth of wait, welling to his mind shards of her smile. His fists clench. Biting he his lip, he draws blood to direct his composure. He knows he’ll need it when he meets her.

“...Since when were you that kind of girl?”

She hates it, and she knows that even if they lock eyes that he’ll look as if he’s seen garbage. He struggles not to choke her, though he wants to right then and there. It’s the moment he’s so long anticipated that he can’t even remember from where it stemmed. But he must remember, because that’s what he’s always strived.

For each head held for her, it is a vow pledged when he saw her among the corpses.

In the end it is that girl who precedes the color. The shamrock plumes, and suddenly for him it is a world painted in hues. Now that she seems them, she can only think how stupid she had been.

It was an illusion he saw, an accident that shouldn’t have been. Was she not simply the aide that accompanied the flourish of gold? Silken locks cared so well, it was a tarnished sepia that dulled the scene.

No matter how she wished herself an azure serenity that shined above the violet gold, it was never a silver lining that was to be cast. As always, hope lined her sight. And like an idiot, she’d dream of a vision that was never there.

She’s afraid she’ll break.

Midnight approaches as the clock strikes once more. Disappearing from her horizon is her leading light, a blank gaze rested simply on an open palm.

She thinks nothing, only the whistling wind dancing at the maul. If you’d broadcast her sorrow then not even the jury would mourn her existence.

She can see why he was so taken.


On the fifth morning, she hears the clomping of hooves, a carriage drawn in a funerary procession before her. Confusion besets her, but it does not take long for her to search his face for what fate entailed.

Today, his eyes aim solely for her.

Following the sound comes a deafening lull. Stilling the quiver, she starts to breathe. There, he breathes a light.

Here, it is nothing but hastened whispers. She strokes the satin that lines the floor, so beautiful they had been, worn not on stone or grass but tender, breathing flesh. Heaving a sigh she moves away each chain. Tapping away her fingers, the throes start anew, until to delirium it flows, a smile stretching her lips.

Candied dreams paint her horizon.Where her cheeks remain ablush in the argent gloom, a single kiss ventures a touch on her pallid skin.

When blood stains her dreams, she wakes to the chestnut locks she loves. With this, beneath the shroud she lies the illumination blooms before her. And for a moment, before she reaches out to chilled stone and damp chains she thinks he’s really there.

He does not remember her smile. Thinking to a far-off past, it was he who chose to forget. So that his vision would be filled with violet, she was an afterthought in his sight who brought beside her a flourish color.

Transfixed, he’d see her through the glass: Enthralled in a horizon he could not see, for a moment, he’d wished to be at her side

She’d endure.

Upon beating whip and crackled stone, her haven awaited. She’d trace over her scars, feeling each material burnt on her skin, tearing, scratching, gnawing away the marks that afflict her.

Only, it’d be a dismal cell that greeted her wake.

Like this, she lives: picking each gnash, she’d breath onto her flesh whispers of promises long promised in place an eternity away.

It is not until the fifth morning that he comes. Eyes woven, legs torn, she can’t even endeavor to see.
The next week he comes, he does not speak. Much like her former visits, he does not offer her respite.

Parting her lips, she speaks, uttering words of revisioned of yore. So low, it cannot be heard, she hazards and asks. It takes all that she has, fingers latched tightly on his arm, laughter playing weakly on her lips

She smiles, stitches tearing at the seams, a weariness he’s known to have never seen on her before. Reaching over, she tries to steady her arm, aiming for her target.

In her embrace, he hazards to breathe.

A resounding pout answers his theory, a tightening hold contesting the boundary. With all her breath she whispers. A single line leaving her lips expels from him something thin, a bitter smile worn stiffly on his features.

“Presumptuous words of a mere prisoner itching to be offed, are they not?”

She smiles, gaiety dancing in her voice, “The ramblings of one nearly delirious from madness cannot be pleasant to the ears, I assume.”

Cupping his face in her hands, with renewed vigor lighting in her voice, she speaks. “Since long ago I have been that kind of person."

 

Don't get it, but I feel like it should rhyme :\

 

Might be the shortness of the prose? That, or the do you think it's the setting or lack thereof? I didn't really write this with a clear intent outlined, but more of something written for the sake of writing, so reading it now I do think it's stale.

 

Lack of setting = I don't get it
Shortness of prose = Why doesn't this rhyme

 

It's a bit directionless, like free writing tends to be. When it comes to telling a story, the writer should have (or develop along the way) some clear idea so that they can describe it to the reader. If the writer also doesn't know what they're writing about, it usually comes off a bit confusing.

I also found the prose too "flowery," which is made more apparent by the unclear setting. I can feel that you're trying to describe a scene, but it isn't entirely coming across for me. ...There's a woman who loves (?) a man who hates (?) her? Could you could give a short summary for your story?

 

FINALLY...this took a while but heres my confusing submission ._.

Spoiler

Doctor Guiles Faust, leader in the research of longevity.

A man so incredibly addicted to finding the path to immortality, has finally reached his end.

His brittle bones and weak muscle could barely carry his own body’s weight.

A constantly drone of ‘beeps’ hums in the background as machines keep his aged body alive.

He could feel it. The boney hands of death has already touched his shoulder. He only has to put one foot forward towards it and death shall embrace him.

No one was around him in the dimly lit hospital room. He never had any family. Research consumed his very being, every hour, every minute, and every second. But all his findings were for naught. He lived to the age of 91, considerably old compared to the average life span of 70 some years of his countrymen.

His vision was getting hazy. Tears welled up in his eyes. There was nothing he could do. His end is here and he had failed. Thinking back through his life, he had many regrets. Oh so very many…

The ticking of time seem to mock him from above. The constant clicking of clockworks inside the wall clock ticked on and on, ever endlessly moving forward.

Breathing was becoming incredibly difficult. His body was growing numb.

Guiles Faust knew his time had come. But was he going to give up? No.

It was not in his nature to give up.

He had one final trick up his sleeves.

One…Last…Trick…

He had set it up as a precaution years ago. He never though he would have to use it now.

Inside of his boney hands was a button, his last hope, his final chance.

With all the remaining strength in his body, he pressed it.

…His final breath left him then as gears began to turn.

Before his soul could have a chance to leave his body, before the reaper could show up and take him away, he activated the seal.

A demon summoning seal.

In a fiery explosion of flames and brimstone, his entire room transformed into a flesh prison. A pentagram with various seals on it was drawn around his hospital bed. Screams could be heard outside his room as well as the shattering of bones, the crunching of organs, and the final shouts of the newly deceased.

This was his final trick.

To sacrifice every single life inside the hospital to summon a powerful demon.

From the pentagram an orb of blood slowly formed from the blood oozing through the crack in the fleshy walls of his room.

From the blood, it formed into a shape of a man.

A well-built young man, looking around to be in his mid-twenties slowly was being formed from the blood.

Lastly, his boney corpse dissolved into a powder which coated in newly formed body. His soul followed along and saturated the new body.

With a deep breath, he opened his eyes.

New, reborn strength flowed through his body. An evil grin appeared on his face.

“So you finally accepted our deal Dr. Faust.”

From his own mouth a different voice came out.

“You better keep your end of the deal.”

Guiles said using the same mouth.

“Don’t worry, we demons are known for keeping our side of the bargain.”

A vile smirk appeared on his face again.

He had to share a body with the damn demon. This was his side of the bargain.

In return, they give him twenty years.

Twenty years to figure out immortality.

If he doesn’t succeed this time, he’s out.

His soul would be consumed by the demon in his body and brought down to the lowest level of hell.

His sin, betraying his brethren, his humanity, and laws of death.

“Welcome Doctor, to purgatory, the boundary between life and death.”

The demon Mephistopheles said with a certain pride.

“Within the twenty year agreement, you can’t die, regardless of flesh wounds or illness, or poisons.”

“You better sin as much as you can, a sinful soul is the most delicious for us demons.”

With his final worlds said, Mephistopheles retreated back deep into his psyche.

“I had no choice…”

With a grim frown replaced his evil smirking face, Guiles Faust walked once again into the world.

His goal set before him, his path the one less traveled.

People will curse him, people will hate him, and people will want his eternal damnation.

But what does he care? He has a goal, and it will benefit him and everyone else regardless of the method he takes, regardless of the paths he walks.

The results will always be the same. Either he fails and become the most evil man known to mankind, or succeed and become a hero.

With a renewed determination on his face, Doctor Guiles Faust stepped out of his broken hospital room.

Only time will tell what he will accomplish…The never ending march of time will soon tell.

Oh right...a title...uhm....The Faust Complex


EDIT: Also for those who are curious... https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Faust