So I know that some of you might remember me. Good 'ol Shadowwolf96, under this account, and then leaving. LOL I probably still have some stuff here in the back. So I'm really bored and I've been reading some of the writing on the writing thread. --insert biting lip and strangled obscenities right here-- ._. Just sayin' that I miss the old crew and the people who were experienced, from my time. ;-; But yeahhhh, was reading through all the stuff and figured I want to put something on here again.
1. Whack me hard with a critique bat. One lesson for you all is that critiquing only makes you stronger. If you can't handle critiques, then you're not a good, positive writer. End of story.
Seriously. You can't post something like this...
"Bane jumped and sat on the ledge. Sitting, he whined. Something shook behind him and his eyes darted around. He found the noise and ran toward it. His claws sank into flesh. The intruder died."
..and expect people to go all, "OHMAIGOD, This is so good. You have perfect sentence structure and your thoughts are well put out."
If I saw something like this, I would be hitting at every single word. I critique to put my opinions out there and make another's writing better. If I don't like your piece, I won't tell you flat outright 'cause that's just rude. But facts will be facts.
2. Before I go on a huge tirade about writing and how people are friggin' acting about it these days on Res, I'm going to actually post a story. Though nagging on people does sound like a lot of fun...
So 3. I'll actually get into my piece from here.
> This is about Shay.
Shay is deranged.
Shay is mental.
Don't ask me how.
Don't ask me why.
He just
is.
So the whole knife point thing in the beginning is odd, but that's just how he sees the crack in the ceiling. If you suggest that I should instead imagine him taking a knife and jabbing it repeatedly into the ceiling, GO AHEAD. I loveee ideas. <3
So without further adieu~
(And don't ask about the rn. I would like to murder Google Chrome. <3)
Melancholy
There was a crack in the ceiling. Only, it wasn’t a crack. It was merely the dotting of knife points that had scratched through the layering of paint that coated the plaster of the ceiling. He stared at the little slices on the ceiling, thinking, always thinking. They didn’t think he could comprehend them anymore, thought he only responded to the tumult of memories, of nightmares that tossed around in his head. The violence came from those nightmares, they said, and they gave him medicine to stop that. But he knew how to hide the pills under his tongue, how to crush them to dust when he was alone in his room. He liked the memories.
They were his escape.
He continued to look at the crack. He watched it deepen and the outer layering of paint, the fine chips that had been severed from the slice began to wilt. They curled in on themselves, away from the wall, and fell away with a crude grace. They fell and pattered against the ground, and he watched. He watched until it became unbearable, seeing the white wonders falling so beautifully around him, wanting to embrace him and pull him away. So he got off of his bed and lay down on the ground, and he made a snow angel. The white snowflakes peppered his face with gentle kisses.
The white was everywhere as the ceiling continued to turn grey. When all the snow had fallen from the now lifeless, ashen cloud above him, he panicked. The white was all around him now, suctioning onto his arms, turning red and melting against his skin. Thick, angry blood clawed at him, pulled him into the dark recesses of his nightmares and his dreams. The hate he had called upon so many times before, twisting him into another person.
He was swept up in a sea of blood, laughing manically as he continued to stretch his arms and legs out around himself. Blood angel, he called it now, since the snow was gone. His cackling had brought attention, like it always did. Steady arms pinned his legs down and his arms thrashed wildly as he fought them. Something sharp punctured his thigh, more real than the blood that had slunk up to his neck and was insistent on plastering itself like a mask on his face.
He fell away into a cloud of darkness, the blood disappointed that it hadn’t stained its intended canvas.
When he woke, he looked down at the cotton fiber of the sheets that covered him, dull brown eyes vacant and lost. He threw the sheets away from himself and swung his legs to the side of the bed, then craned his neck back and stared upward, to the only place he knew.
There was a crack in the ceiling. Only, it wasn’t a crack. It was merely the dotting of knife points that had scratched through the layering of paint that coated the plaster of the ceiling. He stared at the little slices on the ceiling, thinking, always thinking…
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