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1:08am Mar 16 2011 (last edited on 1:11am Mar 16 2011)
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Posts: 25
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Parasites Like Us Amaurosis “Timeliness is but a mere instant and you missed it.It slipped right through the cracks and between your calloused fingertips.And there it goes again…” Chapter One Colorless clouds rolled mournfully over insipid landscape, monochrome colors fading nostalgically into one another, the once cheerful birdsong of the long forgotten past lingering plaintively in the sorrowful, eternal silence of now. Looking down, eagle’s eye view, the grays outshone the reds that used to linger, shockingly accented against the once lush greenery. Tears of reprise rolled down ancient hills, and in the distance, a ragged, worn excuse for a home stands, tall and prideful, as if it was not weathered and beaten by time but a well-tended suburban home in the cities where life thrives. Inside this home was a young man, bordering the end of adolescence and one year before the cusp of adulthood. Clean-shaven but battered, the boy’s sharp, pointed features outshone the once crisp, well-fitted suit he wore, the once thick fabric threadbare and frayed, jacket long since lost. Paper skin lay over high, prominent cheekbones, jaw working furiously, teeth scraping and pain stirring. Golden, honey eyes rested sorrowfully under the furrowed, alabaster brow. Unkempt, medium-length raven hair hung in his face, lying over the nape of his neck, and his posture was tired but wary. He crouched near the only piece of furniture, picking up something from the floor. Leaning towards it, his eyes filled with sorrow, and then a deep hatred. He crushed it in his hand and slammed his eyes shut, standing slowly. Turning towards the door, he tried to settle the emotions clashing in his chest; he dropped the crushed bits of gl*censored*, his hand bleeding but remaining uncared for by him. It was a hand. Why would he need that now? Why should he? The ground shook suddenly and he was thrust to his knees. The drumming of a thousand footsteps slammed around him, and he kept his eyes shut as a rough, unkind hand squeezed the back of his neck, sending a sharp pain down his spine. Another sharp prod on his right shoulder and his body was out of his control, swerving sharply in that direction. More touches, prods, squeezes, and jabs followed, making him twitch and jerk uncontrollably, and yet he kept his eyes shut. “One more,” a gravelly, low voice grunted, and he felt a sharp, unbearable pain spike its way though his body, his arms thrusting outward and his head jerking back. His mouth opened as if to scream, and yet no sound came out; rather, he stayed, hands clawing the empty air and body on fire. The possessor of the gravelly voice came from behind him, and the man’s posture was savagely erect compared to his thin, sinister features. Dull, gray eyes scrutinized a hard, weathered face and sunk deep into the angular facial structure of this menacing man. His frame was wiry yet wrought with age, the wrinkles of his older years not giving way to his young, sure stature. The air he brought was ominous and foreboding, and the boy on the floor felt his sharp pianist fingers scrape under his chin. Shuddering, his eyes opened and pierced the older man’s sharply. The man gasped slightly but recovered, glaring into the deep golden orbs with such a piercing savagery that the boy was forced to shiver in not fear, but disgust. “Ansel,” the boy rasped, finally, and took a shuddering breath, his body shaking. The older man grinned, his ancient teeth slipping over gray, cracked lips. The boy watched as the man called Ansel leaned over his petrified body and breathed in deeply, and then in a terrifying moment of sudden rage Ansel knocked the boy to the floor, all feeling rushing into the child’s body very suddenly, the sharp pains waking him and the agony of misused nerves relentlessly painful. The boy rushed to his feet despite the agonizing shockwaves of pain and an animalistic screech ripped out of his throat as he lunged at Ansel, right fist pulled back and left hand thrust forward in a desperate, feral stumble. Ansel’s smile grew wide, reaching from ear to ear, and he sidestepped the boy’s swipe, landing a sharp blow on the back of the child’s neck. Crumpling, but not to be bested so easily, the boy slammed his hands on the wooden floor and used the buoyancy to ricocheted himself upward, twisting halfway and landing a crunching blow to the back of Ansel’s head with his feet. Ansel, before the boy could land on the floor, shot out a hand and grasped the boy’s right foot, twisting his arm and causing the child to twist uncontrollably in midair. The boy slammed into the wooden floor, thin body worn and beaten, mind numb. Ansel snatched the boy up by the shirtfront, holding him above the ground, though they were the same height. The young man neglected to struggle but instead glared at Ansel, the hate in his eyes brimmed over by the pure liquid gold that surrounded his pupils in sweet resilience. Ansel’s smile faded and suddenly he gave the boy a death glare, causing the phrase If looks could kill to enter the boy’s mind. Gritting his teeth, Ansel shook the boy roughly, ground, “Name.” before tossing the young man on the floor like carrion. He hit the floor with blunt force, small enough to avoid injury but hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Shaking, he stood, and rocked on the balls of his feet for a while before finally swallowing and clearing his throat. Almost hesitantly, he opened his mouth, feeling the paste separate from his lips; it had been so long since he’d spoken, he was unsure if he could do it again. “Name…” he croaked, and then felt a furious wave of self-anger careen through his body. How weak must he seem? Shaking his head roughly, the boy spoke faster, his voice steady and smooth. “Griffiths.” He looked at Ansel, hate brimming in his golden eyes. “Trey Griffiths.” “Well…” Ansel hummed eerily, and Trey’s eyes widened and his heart pumped maniacally as the older man stepped towards him. Unwillingly, he stepped back. The older man grinned and stepped forward again. Trey stepped back, and they continued this pattern until his back hit the far wall. The older man stopped, suddenly, and turned. “Griffiths…” Ansel whispered, and by his eyes, he was far away. His fingers drummed steadily on his side with a small, subtle movement, one Trey noticed by chance. There was a familiar thrumming of footsteps, the thousands he thought he had heard before. The dilapidated shack creaked and groaned under the pressure of all the bodies that were piling into its small enclosure, and Trey was suddenly surrounded by a surplus of heavily armored, robust beings, their grey armor strikingly unblended with the rest of the bland colors that lined the walls. The man was calm, and his air suggested the beginnings of nefarious deeds; the boy stood, tensed, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. His hair stood on end, and the dried blood on his hand felt like a lead weight was attached to his forearm-he wanted nothing more than to collapse from hunger, fear, apprehension, and sheer and utter weariness. His eyes were heavy, and he fought a losing battle to keep them open; his knees buckled and slammed on the wooden floor, his head swayed, and his eyes flickered madly as he fought to stay awake. It was not until his torso thumped on the floor that he realized he’d been drugged. -------------- I have more done.
Fiction.
Usually I write realistic. So this is new. Just let me know if I should continue.
Actually, critique would be much appreciated.
Be rude as hell. :D |
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1:43am Mar 16 2011
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Posts: 656
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Hmmm. Laya likey. More? XDDD *gets out red felt editor's pen*
 ~I know I'm infuriating. Live with it.~ |
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1:46am Mar 16 2011 (last edited on 6:02pm Mar 18 2011)
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Posts: 479
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More please, Lingerie. *Edited so I sound a little less creepy. XD
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2:04am Mar 16 2011
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Posts: 25
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Chapter One-Part Two
In his mind’s eye, Trey saw beautiful things-rolling landscapes of deep green, dew dappled among an overwhelming amount of greenery, the sunlight reflecting in the most pleasing of ways. The sky was a light lavender, gold and lilac splattered in captivatingly beautiful patterns across its surface; if he was Van Gogh, the sky was to be his muse, the beauty his true inspiration. When he breathed, he breathed deeply, savoring the fact that he was not choking, nor did he have to restrain himself from laughing freely.
It was a pleasant feeling, really. “Up.” The voice that roused him from his unconsciousness was unpleasant, gravelly; like the one speaking had swallowed ash and had scratched a rock against the back of his throat. He was grabbed quite roughly by the shoulder, and Trey blinked very slowly, the paste separating from his eyelids. He felt like a train wreck; grunting, he sat up, and blinked up at the one who’d spoken. “Walk.” the one who had spoken was a quite large, stocky fellow, with hard eyes of a deep maroon color, and skin the color of tanned leather; he looked quite the frightening sight. Deep, hard muscles bulged, and after a moment of Trey’s wordless staring he was hauled up by his shirtfront and slammed none too gently against the far wall. “Walk.” The owner of the thick voice repeated, and Trey saw a vein bulge under the nape of the man’s neck, another on his dark forehead pulsing. The dark man leaned towards him, pupils dilating, glaring so severely at Trey that he could feel the anger emitting of the larger man in pulsating waves that made Trey, for all his mildly deranged mind could muster, do something that was more than gratuitous but less than honorable. With one swift, awkwardly energetic movement, Trey’s right foot connected with the dark man’s pride, allowing some wiggle room. In hast, Trey wriggled out of his grasp and grinned in joy when his sneaker-clad feet clapped on the stone floor, causing a recurring echo that seemed to linger plaintively in the ominous silence. Without hesitation, Trey pivoted, his thin body lurching forward with abnormal speed, arms and legs flailing wildly. Dashing down the long, stone corridor, he stumbled, cutting a right corner short, slapping his hands against the wall to keep from flying off balance. He never took the chance to look behind him, raw adrenaline roaring through him, and his vision erratic, unfocused; he dashed into plenty of the armor-clad men but none managed to possess the reflexes needed to cut him off. By the time he’d turned his fourth corner, hundreds of footsteps thundered behind him; heartbeat pounding staccato in his eardrums, feet clacking on the floor, Trey set his jaw and kept forward, determined to flee, to escape, and then to come back later and act out his unintelligent revenge. Quite suddenly, like the apparition of every nightmare Trey had ever experienced (which, by last count, were plentiful), Ansel was before him, appearing with a large, resounding crack, and he tackled Trey and had him pinned in less than a minute. He hoisted Trey up, keeping the child’s wrists twisted together behind his back with his left hand, and he used his right to make a vice grip about his neck. He held Trey so he was facing the now two dozen members of the armored men, sweating and panting in their thick grey armor, the large, tanned-leather man in front, glaring beady eyes of death at Trey’s struggling form. Ansel squeezed his neck and began to speak, his aged voice cracking with angry redemption. “This,” Ansel shook Trey quite roughly, making a small scene about it. “is a child. He’s seventeen. He’s starving. And you…you drunken, gin-sodden morons couldn’t catch him?” Ansel’s grip tightened and Trey grimaced slightly, managing not to wince in pain. He shook Trey once more, and the young man had to wonder if the man was going to be making a habit out of this shaking-it was very annoying. “You men are well-trained warriors! You are brutes, built for war, and you just got bested by a starving seventeen-year-old boy.” He sounded absolutely incredulous, and Trey was unsure if it was the fatigue or if he was truly insane that made him do this; he laughed. His wiry shoulders shook, golden eyes filled with mirth, and he folded in on himself, choking mildly in Ansel’s grip, coughing and laughing some more. After a sharp squeeze from Ansel, Trey forced his head around to smile ruefully at the man. He grinned lopsidedly, and very suddenly his mirthful eyes darkened, an ex
pression bordering regret flooding them. Ansel felt the child’s muscles tighten and very suddenly he was thrown back, flying through the air and crashing to the floor, aged bones snapping into each other, an agonized scream piercing the room. Trey pivoted and continued his run, knowing that Ansel was probably dead. He hadn’t wanted, nor had he planned, to use any outlying force other than his own strength, but he’d been left with no choice-it was odd, though, because that burst of energy had really drained him. He felt tired-well, moreso than he had previous to his slight rampage. His legs felt like lead, his eyes were heavy, and as he ran he knew he wouldn’t make the run, knew he’d never escape, at least not in this condition. He needed sleep, nourishment, warmth, rest in general; something was seriously wrong with him. What was happening? Why, so suddenly, did he feel so tired? The answers would not come, flitting in his mind and out in less than the millisecond it took him to think them; everything was hazy, now, swaying, the walls meshing together. Trey blinked, trying to clear the hulking m*censored* of gray lingering in his vision, when a blur flitted by his eyes. He blinked once more, when suddenly he felt an unmerciful hand gripping his throat. Though unable to see, he could still hear, and Ansel’s voice reached his eardrums as if from a liquid distance, an almost unrecognizable warble of words. “You insolent,” Ansel hissed, squeezing Trey’s neck, causing the boy to gasp in pain. “little nothing. Can’t you see I’m trying to help?” Ansel dropped the child suddenly and Trey gasped, coughing, forehead pressed to the stone floor. Slowly, he stood, and Ansel placed a hand on either shoulder, very suddenly gripping the child’s head and closing his eyes. Trey was confused, groggy, and utterly unsure of what to do; his mind clouded, he stood there, and felt a deep pulling from within his core. It didn’t hurt, at first, but the feeling was familiar, and suddenly he jerked his head away from Ansel’s grip, eyes wide, teeth gnashed together. “You heartless bastard!” Trey swung suddenly, angrily, his right fist connecting with Ansel’s left cheek, causing the older man’s head to jerk sharply to the side, the crunch of bone beneath his hand pleasing him. Before Ansel could react Trey raised his left fist and swung again, hitting Ansel so hard the man staggered, shocked, and a dark light entered Trey’s eyes. The familiar feeling of power washed over him and with it, grief so intense he rocked on his unsteady heels. Lightening crackled in the boy’s eyes, hatred so deep flashing in them that Ansel almost regretted his choices; and then, suddenly, the older man struck. He was much like a snake, so fluid in his movements that Trey barely had time to bl
ink before the older man hand landed three blows and was back in his original position. Ansel fought like a wolf, however; though his fluidity was snakelike, the patterns were simple, instinctual-strike-and-flight, step-by-step, he’d go in, hit Trey, and as the boy swung back Ansel had already returned. It was an infuriating battle, and Trey knew he would lose, but Ansel had not been able to take all of his power; in a furiously rushed effort, Trey relaxed. He rolled out his shoulders, shut his eyes, and focused; he needed it, now, the strange ability that had haunted him, his family. He needed the strength, and a whole heaping lot of it; he needed his speed back, and his thunder, his lightening, his gift, his blessing, his curse. There wasn’t much left, certainly not, but it should be enough. Trey’s eyes flew open and he was upon Ansel suddenly, gripping the man’s head in his bony, long-fingered hands, squeezing, aiming on his energy that the man had somehow absorbed. He felt it trickling between his fingertips, flowing inside of him, and he felt strong once more; in a strange way, he felt more mortal than ever, more normal, but maybe it was because that was how he had been raised, this curse haunting him. The older man growled, threw the boy off, pinning him. Trey struggled under him, eyes crackling with fury, and he felt a sweet rush of power within his core; there it was, what had been missing. He was awake now, eyes dancing with a wild light, his sense of right and wrong long since abandoned; his fingertips grazed Ansel’s chest just a hair’s breadth away and the older man shook violently, struck with the sudden force that had flowed directly from Trey’s hands, out through his fingertips. The man flew back, crashing into the floor once more, but Trey was not finished, not even close. He held out his right hand, extending the arm at the older man, fingertips pointed in his direction. He bent them up, slightly, and Ansel was in the air; suddenly Trey’s fingertips went down and Ansel crashed to the floor. Trey repeated this process six or seven times, slamming him into the floor, up, down, up, side-to-side, and the older man was covered in too much blood to be recognizable by the time the boy was finished. He extended both arms, fingers splayed, cackling, mind consumed by pain and rage and power, so much of it, he was unaware of reality. He laughed, once, a sharp, high cackle of a noise, insanity pouring from his voice into his laughter. His fingertips flicked up and the ground shook; the warriors behind him had formed quite the crowd, gathered to watch this display of limitless ability. The stone cracked, chunks falling, a ferocious earthquake rumbling through the building, floor reverberating. Trey’s eyes danced wildly, the lightening crackling off his malnourished body backlighting the horrendous scene. Ansel screamed in fury, thrust forward and grappled Trey, hands clutching the younger man’s head and squeezing viscously, his beady eyes filled with more contemptuous fury than Trey knew possible. The older man’s hands pressed into his temples and Trey felt a surge of heat, and then an agonizing pain. All of his energy was being torn from him, and he bucked underneath Ansel’s aged hands, fighting in vain. Ansel laughed, a high, callous noise, thick with a psychotic redemption that Trey couldn’t name; the colors faded, meshed into another, a cacophony of noise in the background. The lightening ceased its crackle, fading, and Trey knew what he was becoming. After a long, agonizing moment, Trey went limp in Ansel’s arms. The older man stood, dusting himself off, the long gashes in his face slowly closing in on each other, healing. Trey watched, mesmerized, as every wound Ansel possessed mended themselves, curling into faded scars before disappearing altogether. He knew what this was, however, and before unconsciousness swept over him he swore revenge would be his waking hunger. ----------- Oh god. Dx There's like one bad word, I think. D: This so needs editing. Critique welcomed like religion: Open-minded and riding of faith. |
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2:38am Mar 16 2011 (last edited on 2:40am Mar 16 2011)
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Ahm. Here I'm only referencing the first post. I'm super slow and took a long time to write this, so hah. I've only read the first post right now. o_o Overall, I'd say just.. loosen up, man. I know deion is a great thing, but all those fancy words just bog you down. I can hardly even imagine most of this stuff clearly. I keep getting all hung up on the words. xD Why say 'bordering the end of adolescence and one year before the cusp of adulthood' when you can just say he's seventeen (or at least, I'm guessing he's seventeen from the one-year-before thing)? The writing basically seems to start out really stiff and fancy-like, then gradually get.. slightly more fluid. I did see you say in the Shoutbox that you were just experimenting with words in the first paragraph, but that is a perfect example of purple prose - something you should generally try to stay away from. The fourth and fifth paragraphs read much more easily, in comparison. And I like that last bit in the third paragraph - I love it when writing goes into a character's thoughts and emotions rather than just physical deions. It helps the reader identify with the characters. It helps in making them and their personalities more convincing. It helps in pushing the feel of your world and your plot's situation. And that's what you did there. You showed how careless he really is about his own health, and how aggressive he is toward his enemy, through his thoughts. His hand? PFFFFT. He doesn't need his hand. He's got some old guys to glare at. There were a few other nice bits like that, especially 'How weak must he seem?' In paragraph six, there's a no. Orbs. It makes me wanna kick puppies when I see people say orbs. o_o They are eyes. Eyes. Eyes. Not orbs. Orbs doesn't sound natural at all. It's like you're talkin' about a robot or something. The 'if looks could kill,' thing after that is also a little.. ehh. Not as bad as orbs, but it is a cliche phrase. Ahm. Other than that, not much that I noticed. Personally, I'd make most of the sentences much shorter, but that's just me. xD On the other hand, there were several confusing sentences. Fragments, run-ons, changes in tense. Seems like you got so bogged down with finding fancy-sounding words that the rest of those sentences got a little ignored. There was 'Tears of reprise rolled down ancient hills, and in the distance, a ragged, worn excuse for a home stands, tall and prideful, as if it was not weathered and beaten by time but a well-tended suburban home in the cities where life thrives.' Random present-tense bits there. Then there's 'Leaning towards it, his eyes filled with sorrow, and then a deep hatred.' This one looked like a fragment at first, but I guess it's not. It's just confusing because you're trying to say he leaned toward the gla-ss, then you mention his eyes instead. It sounds like.. his eyes leaned forward. xD It should be something like, 'He leaned towards it, and his eyes filled with sorrow, then a deep hatred,' or, 'Leaning towards it, he felt sorrow, and then a deep hatred.' Basically. Same problem with 'Shuddering, his eyes opened and pierced the older man’s sharply.' It sounds like his eyes shuddered. Oh, and you used two different spellings of grey/gray. And.. called Trey a boy, a child, and a young man. All of which can be taken to mean different things, especially when you compare young man to the other two. Consistency, man. Consistency. ;o /longpostomg
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3:04am Mar 16 2011 (last edited on 3:12am Mar 16 2011)
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Posts: 25
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Yoshi: I LOVE YOU. xD Haha, thanks for that. Seriously. I won't go and fix it HERE *runs to Word Document* ; after all, I absolutely love critique. And God, yours was so beautiful I wanted to cry rainbows. -Despises verb confusion- Really, I do it all the time. This is not an excuse: I do not write in third person often enough to keep a contangent grasp of points of veiw. I despise this entire first chapter. xD WILL DO. *salutes* And yeah. The ENTIRE FIRST PARAGRAPH plus a little was for school. The rest was me going barmy at two thirty, trying to remember how to properly compose sentences (since run-on sentences are apparently a thing with me xD). Honestly, it's a really bad habit; I overkill on THESE suckers. ----> ;;;. All the time. All the time. I'll try to hack down on them-well, I have been-but as I'm working on consistency, you'll probably be the only one to notice the abnormally slow depletion of my sentences. x3 Thank you. *spontaneous flying tackle* Oh, and by the way... ORBS. O.O Staring at you. LOOK INTO THEM. These unnatural OOOORBS. o.o o.O O.o O.O CAN YOUR ORBS DO THAT. xD Couldn't resist~ |
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3:16am Mar 16 2011
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Posts: 275
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Ok, first off. You're...You really, really, really love commas. Lol. Try not to use so many. Other than that, this is a great read. Uhm. More, please? D: |
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3:21am Mar 16 2011
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Posts: 25
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Lunch// I know, I know, I know. Oh god, commas are my weakness. D8 xD And okay.~ |
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10:45am Mar 16 2011
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Posts: 2,148
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... *sends Amz Gregg Reference Manual* ); |
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12:33pm Mar 16 2011 (last edited on 12:47pm Mar 16 2011)
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Posts: 3,642
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... You're makin' me iggle. xD Glad to help. ♥ Hah, ew. I always kinda hated writing for school. Freshman English was the worst. They wanted alliteration and similes and metaphors everywhere. Everywhereee. It all went to my head around here, a'course, because I already thought I was the cat's pants. You've obviously got a much better attitude. ;o And semicolons omg. I've always had the same problem.. except with dashes instead. xD Every other sentence wants one, I swear. *reads the second part now* o3o ... *and hides from the orbs* o_o *and looks up Whit's thing also* omg it sounds like the writing version of Andrew Loomis. Kinda. That's pretty magical. |
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2:35pm Mar 16 2011
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Posts: 25
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Whit: That thing is so expensive on Amazon. D8 And heeeey. xD |
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2:39pm Mar 16 2011
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Posts: 25
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Yoshi: GOOD. You SHOULD smile. xD *shrugs* I don't think I have a better attitude. I just enjoy making words. D8 *is untalented* Semicolons are my children. xD I used to that too, with the dashes-just like this, they'd be everywhere. OOOORBS. o.@ |
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6:35pm Apr 6 2011
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Posts: 25
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[[Sorry it's taking so long, to anyone who cares. A lot's been happening and I haven't been able to write. So I'll probably start it up again next week. Possibly. Most likely.]]
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