i have nice things to say about the stuff in this thread i have read. (i admit to skimming some of it. it's hard to catch up when there's so much text all put together...) i <3 the detective story on the first page. i will comment more on other things. i don't see much in the way of constructive criticism, mostly just support and "i likes", but i encourage you to swing clubs at my stuff. i can take it like a big girl.
my contribution (for now, more later, i goddamn hope.) this is something unfinished, supernatural fiction broken into scenes. so far there's 10 scenes, but that's a lot, so here are the first two. (it's partially inspired by
John Dies At The End.) no title yet, working title is "the sparks" or something like that. tell me if you want more. i intend to post it on my under-construction website, but who knows when that'll be.
also, "someday i want to be a writer, like, a published one." i imagine retiring, or maybe baby-making and writing something awesome during mat leave, but i'm having a bitch of a time seeing myself as a writer *now*. i even have a wrist tattoo that says "write life" in courier font, a nagging reminder to myself. i regret the tattoo (i have others i don't regret) because i always have to explain it when someone sees it, and i always end up feeling guilty and stupid because i haven't been writing lately... ever... so someone, puh-lease, give me a challenge or an exercise, cuz i do my best work when it's assigned and the format is constrained. a blank page is my arch nemesis - to me a challenge is a weapon to fight the blank page.
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#1: The Bathroom Scene Expected blurriness. Her contacts? Yes, they were dry. Not surprising. She tried not to rub her eyes, but the blurriness seemed apart from that. Water would help.
Her legs moved her to the bathroom. A garden of hygiene condiments littered the edge of the blue porcelain sink. This was not her domain. Her tattoo burned against her thigh. She knew peripherally that a mirror was poised for her inspection above her hung head, and that it was a door, slightly ajar, that hid more washroom fauna. She wasn't ready for herself yet, her face could wait.
Without warning she coughed violently, dark blood painting the blue porcelain. Well, it was better than the alternative.
Something bright flashed in the liquid and her breath caught, a painful sliver of adrenaline flashing across her shoulders. It’s still there! She hurriedly pulled some toilet paper off the roll and wiped every speck of blood she could find, flushing the mess down the toilet. She flushed again for good measure. The sparks scared her shitless.
She now felt it necessary to hazard a look in the mirror, expecting to find the sparks in her eyes, the threat of power staining her face into something barely human. She held her breath as she raised her head slowly. But it was only her own deprecation she saw, mascara down her cheeks, eyes puffy after a terrible sleep, the remains of her alcoholic evening making her pores large and her skin grossly sweaty. She exhaled and smiled grimly. It was time to go home.
And it was time to call Heng again.
She rounded up her belongings, her clothes and stiletto heels, her cell phone – out of battery. She found the door out of the foreign apartment, and discovered she was at least six floors up a winding staircase. Her hurried descent felt like free fall to her spinning head, but was more likely a series of lucky stumbles. Once outside in the glaring greyness of deep-city streets, she walked to the nearest intersection to determine where she was. Corner of Oscar & Clarke.
It came to her without effort, her 58-block route back to the Georgian Loft, the home she shared with four roommates. In the same instant she also knew three bus-route options and the higher likelihood of hailing a cab from a location three blocks west of here. The instant knowledge petrified her, another razor of adrenaline swept across her shoulders. The spark was in her, somehow. Something was stirring the wind, stirring up her blood. She had to hurry.
She hated the source of her instant knowledge, but she recognized the weighted advantage of choosing the cab option, and headed west. She would head straight to Heng's and call the others from there. If she had known eight months ago what would happen to them, that it would change them permanently, she wouldn't be here now. She wouldn't be so used to being scared.
#2: The Bedroom Scene He sat up in bed, awakened by the feeling that something terrifying had just happened. He felt like he'd been running for his life and just tripped over a rock, the intensity of panic and danger suddenly doubled. His sheets were drenched in cold sweat and clung to his body. He roughly rubbed his face with the sheet, trying to dry the sweat and get rid of the heavy feeling that pulled at him. Not ready yet to face the day, he let the sheet drop and hung his head, exhaustion creeping at him from behind. Finally, he opened his eyes again, wondering what time it was.
With a start, he noticed the blood on his sheets. It sparkled at him, like a wink. It was taunting him. "Oh shit."
He jumped up with the sheet and pulled the red-stained case off its pillow. The white pillow was also red. He grabbed the pillow, too, and ran down to the laundry room. He shoved it all in the washing machine and turned it on to cold water, fullest setting, and slammed the lid shut.
A cold shiver ran down his spine as he sat down on the stairs. The last time this happened, Jill was... There was so much blood... and the air was so thick with sparks that it hurt to move and all they could see was white. Cold and white.
He didn't want to think about it. It was time to pack and give Heng a call. He shook his head to clear the mess of memories, took a breath deep enough to fill every crevice in his lungs, and turned to go upstairs.
There was a sudden bumping sound in the washing machine, and he spun around, feeling the blood drain from his face. But it was only starting the next cycle. He hated being so jumpy.