Writing : The Rough House: Prompt of the Week #8

@alien. ? Is that under 1000? Nevermind. Your piece is the second one ive seen lately that had a mix of 1st person and collective POV. I like it. The inclusive (group-like) writing has a way of drawing me in. Maybe its me or the novelty of it on mine eyeball, but i likes it.

@Pandaman. Good action, just the right amount of viscera, tastefully done. Pace is good. Like the bell curve crescendo of it. Something to emulate there. The inherent mystery is also well played.

This doesn't count as a story, but...

The trees are in the fire -- I think Jackson is too.  It's like Christmas for cannibals. 

Either they've seen a helicopter before, or they're just ignoring us.  They can try ignoring the holes in their heads as soon as Hargrave gets her to stay still for a minute -- this gale is gonna fuck up my average.

Anybody alive in here? - Panda I think your video scared everybody off - HA.  jk

Panda - I'm just playing - know you're a busy man - hell - we all got a lot of balls in the air.

Fritz do you give a prompt each week and anyone can write on it? Like the March flash thing? I've got three or four stories in the air as rough drafts but i can't seem to get motivated to finish any of them and might jsut throw them all out. I like deadline prompts.

And i know what u mean by having unfinished stories. Not every one of mine finds its way to completion.

When I looked at this last night I think i got the wrong picture.l I wrote about the people dancing in the fire with a spaceship in the background. Now I see the first picture is of a little ghost girl.I'll work on that, but I kind of like my rough story about the fire picture.I'm going to post that one, even though it is rough, in the workshop. I coudl use some comments on how to make it better. Will try to come up with one for the ghost pic as well.

Wind whispers so softly in the tree's, so very soft. Kissing my skin with an intimate tendril of air and rustling the leaves in a tear jerking chime. I let the tears fall, not stopping them as they fall into the open pages of my book and make little wrinkle spots over words I don't care to read anymore. I cry because he doesn't cry.

He doesn't cry because he can't. And how I wish he could. I watch him slumped against a grave stone, bottle in hand, chest not rising. Leaning over his lifeless body I let my tears fall on him only for them to disappear as they hit his skin, like they never existed in the first place. Pale as his skin is though I doubt the little droplets would have even shown.

Behind his brown curly hair I see the name Young engraved on the stone he took his last slumber against. That was my name. The one he gave to me. The one I cried when he asked me to take. Happy tears though. Those sweet little drops of water when all in life has come together and you know you are complete.

When I passed I had hoped he would hold on to those memories, let the joy we had together drive him on. But he gave in. He couldn't hear me gently encourage him, ears closed against my gentle voice. In his deafness he picked up the bottle, and, finally has set it down.

More tears come as I see his spirit rise from his body, thin as fog after rain. Wandering eyes look at me for a second, barely able to call his voice I urge for him to remember who I am. No matter what I say though he is gone. He lumbers ahead, eyes not seeing and ears not hearing, into what ever hell he has drunk him self into. All I can do is watch him go, hoping he finds his way back to me soon.

Damn I just remembered there was something i wanted to use the book for!! Oh well, thanks coverwriter :)

This place would always be beautiful.

Sarah’s breath caught in her throat at the memory as she looked over the field. Her mother had whispered those words in her ear the first time she’d been brought here as a child.

Closing her eyes, Sarah turned her face towards the sun and let the warmth fill her. Arms outstretched she remembered countless days wandering through the tall grass. Even when the snows would rise past her knees, the chill of winter would never touch her. Not here.

Barefoot and laughing, she’d run haphazardly through the trees, chasing squirrels and butterflies, imagining they were dragons and fairies. This place was hers, and hers alone. All her secrets were whispered to the trees. Dreams and desires, hopes and fears, all kept in silent counsel under the boughs. It was here she’d brought her most sacred treasure: a worn journal, gifted when she’d come of age.

It lay here still, buried under the labyrinth of gnarled roots belonging to her favorite tree. Lovingly wrapped in oiled leather, the journal held a year of her life. Uncounted lines of script and prose framing sketches of every secret discovered in that field. Every year she vowed to fill another journal, keeping them in secret until she met him, the one she would give herself to. Together they would lie under the stars and share their affection in hushed whispers. Only he would ever know her heart.

The breeze rippled through her dark hair and tugged at the edges of her linen dress. The bleached fabric flowed and hugged her slender curves, caressing her as the hem danced around her ankles. Opening her eyes, she took in everything, wanting to keep this perfect memory locked in her mind and her heart forever.

Clutching the blank journal in her hands, she tossed it into the air as if releasing a bird into flight. The breeze carried the empty pages across the field, dancing like the butterflies and birds he used to chase. A tear traced down her cheek as she watched them disappear into the sky. How far would they fly? She wondered, imagining each page as an unrealized fragment of her soul. Would they ever be found?

Clouds of smoke drifted lazily overhead as the wind carried the distant sounds of what was to come. Taking another deep breath, she emptied her heart and mind, letting everything fall away. In her head, she danced again through the trees, barefoot and innocent. Faster and faster she raced, heart pounding as her laughter echoed through the trees. Nothing could catch her in that perfect moment.

Rough hands twined through her hair and pulled at her clothes, driving her to the ground. Biting back tears, she ran her fingers through the grass and remembered all the days she’d spent staring at the clouds in this very spot. Ignoring the sound of fabric tearing, the tattered remains of her dress gathered at her elbows as the hem was yanked over her hips, she shivered despite the warmth as her pale skin was laid bare under the summer sun. They may have my tears, she thought, but I will not scream.

This place would always be beautiful.

Into Infinity Obscurity

It was not until the sun was at its apex that the words on the page began to fade. Was it the words or was it the trees? Ashleigh looked around pensively, not quite nervous. She saw nothing out of the ordinary though, the words on her book were blurry, but she attributed that to her eyesight. She stood up and moved away from the shade of the tree, and into the light.
It was far too blinding though. She squinted and looked back at her hiding place under the oak, the spot was fading, a coil of greens and browns and greys. Tilting her head, Ashleigh stared, but saw nothing. She sighed and looked out into the clearing. There was a promise there, an obscure, possibly dangerous promise. But it was a promise nonetheless.
Why not?
The girl smiled. She closed the book and began running heedlessly in the soft summer breeze. The scent of grass and leaves was everywhere, almost overwhelming. But it was enough. Ashleigh sat down again and opened her book. For a moment she looked at the pages without reading them. Words popped sporadically in her brain, but she did not know them. The girl sighed and tossed the book aside, too content with the afternoon to focus. She lay back in the grass, but even that grew old after a moment. Strangely, Ashleigh felt full of life, a burst of inexplicable, fiery exuberance. She stood up again and jumped.
She could not tell how high she jumped, or if she had jumped at all, but the sensation of the act felt good. She bent over and picked up her book again, attempting to read once more. But the result was the same, she felt too alive to waste time with reading, words simply would not form in her mind. Understanding of the pages was lost on Ashleigh as she laughed heartily. She stopped.
What was she laughing at? What was she laughing for?
If the day had been different, Ashleigh might have thought about it, but today was too perfect. Time could not be wasted today, unless it was wasted doing something pointless. She tossed the book aside and looked about. The wind picked up and blew a gust into her face. She smiled and giggled.
Flinging her arms open, Ashleigh ran wildly about, laughing and even attempting to sing (no one was here but her, why shouldn’t she?) to the trees. Sound did not seem carry though. It was a strange thing; the sound left her mouth, rich and thick as honey, but from there, the sound seemed to dissolve. That did trouble her.
But she only thought about it for a moment, it was no use thinking about it, she would just sing louder. And louder she did sing, but it made no difference. No sound, no matter how loud, would pass beyond her lips. The harder she tried, the more frantic the girl became. Nothing worked though. Something was wrong.
Unable to do anything else, Ashleigh sat hard on a pile of dirt. That pile had not been there before. She picked up her book and brushed off the pages. Maybe now she could read. She read for a while, but the interest was not there. She was not excited anymore, that sense of life had faded, and had faded quickly.
The words on the page became fuzzy. Ashleigh squinted, trying to see them better. Maybe if she stood up and moved around, she could get better lighting. But that did not help. The words faded faster. Faster. The girl began to panic, everything was blurring together. Greens merged with browns and blues merged with purples. Then those colors blurred. Everything was a mass of swirling, indistinguishable color. The light obscured everything. The trees, the sky, the grass, the book, everything became one. And then, everything became nothing.

@Fritz:  Shit, I like that one.  I didn't get any horror vibe from it throughout, but the end gave me goosebumps. 

With what you've got, I almost thing 1500 words would top it off pretty nicely.  What you've got right now reads pretty clean.  Some bumps to buff off, but nothing major.

Friday the !3th.

I like that prompt ALOT.

I'm getting confused about all the contests. So this is rough house #7 but a vote is up for rough house #1? What is the tiem line on all this. Are there votes for rough house? I sometimes don't see the obvious right there in front of me. Do we compete in roughhouse or not? And if so, what is the time frame? Maybe there is no answer, which is fine, just feel like I'm kind of not i the know. 

Well I would rather enter the Rough House competition instead of the non-competition haha! Who wouldn't? As a new-comer, I'm hesitant to comment but i will anyway. I think you guys need a dedicated site for the winners and runners up of all these competitions. And maybe a board of what all is available to go in for competitin. It gets confusing. Some things you write in and never hear anything back, so better to go on the workshop. Does that all make sense? Love the whole group and everything. I really do. But sometimes I just feel lke there are too many options out there and what you write in one might get lost.

From what I understand - rough house is just a little side thing Panda put up.  It is just for fun.  Like practice.  With picture prompts.  Just some silliness.

That's what I thought. It's cool.I like prompts. It's just that there are a lot of competitions with that Thunderdome thing.I didn't realize there was one also  for this in some instances. I like what you are doing. I'm not complaining. I love the prompts and don't need contests. Just trying to sort things out. Thanks guys.

just some silliness?  It is all for fun, but the 'silliness' might be just a tad too much for my hackles to remain unrisen.  Story writing is story writing - be it battle, war, publications, prompts, practice, or for your cat.  It's all an amazing exploration and a challenge to articulate and express so other may be wowed. 

WOW - i got defensive there - apology - I just really like the picture prompts here - the challenge to create a flash from them is way fun.

I didn't mean to start any kind of criticixm. I love he prompts too. Sometimes I need filters. Like my computer shoudl say ,  " lisa think twice about what you are saying, let's resonsider...."  That would be an app I could use.  Especailly if it let you reconsider the next morning. It would be like recalling an e-mail but it really would work.

Choronzon

“Are you… will this work?”
The old woman smiled, a wicked smile that held back a secret. “Oh dear boy, what do I look like to you? Do you want this or not?”
Ian shivered involuntarily. “Yes… yes. Yes I want to do this!”
She smiled again, that same twisted, secret hiding smile, and seated herself in a high backed chair at the end of the room. Still watching Ian, she lit the candles. Phantasms flittered along the wall, frightened by the sudden appearance of the light. The wick hissed angrily at the intrusion of flame. “Then sit, my dear boy. We have some work to complete.”
Ian took in a deep breath. He steadied himself and took a seat at the far end of the table. The old psychic laughed. “How, my dear fool, do you think you’re going to be any good down there?” Ian, unconfidently, stood up from the table, the leather from the chair clinging to the skin on his arm hungrily. He sat down in the chair next to her.
“That’s a good boy.”
She looked unconcernedly through a grimoire, bounded by leather. She flipped through the pages, her eyes darting rapidly through the disturbing words without a hint of unease. Ian looked around him, the candle light waded back and forth along the walls, back and forth, back and forth. Ian was not sure how long he was looking at the light, hypnotized by the asymmetrical movements of the flames along the wall. He was a tall man, Ian, but in this room, a chamber really, he felt like he was a child. The ceiling was pointed like a cathedral, high into the air. A chandelier hung down from the highest point, a decrepit looking thing with the skeletal remains of candles, covered in a layer of dust and cobwebs.
It began to swing.
Ian did not see it at first, the flickering of candles distorted his perception. But then, the high ululating voice of the necromancer tore him out of his reverie. His initial reaction was to run, the sound was frightening. But he calmed himself.
The psychic was standing now, her arms outstretch, as if beseeching some god. She took no notice of Ian. Her shadow was cast against the wall. She was enormous, covering the wall behind her. She looked like the devil himself standing there. Ian felt his heart nearly fail.
“Boy!” She stopped her chanting and produced a knife. She strode toward him. He took a nervous step back but she was on him. “Do you give your blood willingly to bring back your wife from beyond the wall of sleep?”
He froze. His throat fused with his neck. His breath caught in his throat.  He chocked, gagged, but held it back. He listened to the beat of his heart, and breathed. “Yes,” he said without wavering.
He stretched his arm out and the necromancer slashed him, the hint of a vicious chuckled escaped her, but it was gone in a flash.
The blood began to flow.
It poured over his arm and down into a bowl the witch now held beneath him. The blood was red, dark and menacing. How could his blood be so dark. The candles flickered, agitated by the commotion. Shadows closed in on the pair, but they surrounded Ian. The psychic began her chanting again, higher and higher with words so unintelligible that Ian’s mind screamed to shut them out. But he held back his own screams. Then it all stopped. The candles flushed out and an inky blackness covered him.
He heard breathing, faint at first, then stronger and stronger. It rasped dangerously, hungrily.
“What is…”
“Silence!”
The command was so strong that it forced Ian back  into his chair, his heart thumping in his chest. The breathing faded then rose again, and faded and rose once more like the waves of the sea. But with each rise they became stronger. But there was something else in the breathing. It did not seem totally natural, human. It was something else.
Then it cackled, a high, shrill laugh. Light appeared in the candles again, the psychic was standing back at her end of the table. Her arms were folded in her thick, cavernous sleeves. The light slowly filled the room, and excitement and fear blinded Ian momentary. There she stood. Alive again.
“Belladonna.”