A sample
PostPosted: Sun Jun 08, 2003 4:42 pm
Here's part of the (current) first chapter of my first big "project" as I like to call it. Warning: it's a tiny bit violent. If you're not sure then don't read any farther.
One
here he was again. back in this place that he only recognized subconsciously. even though it was unfathomably dark, he somehow knew where he was. he was there. . .wherever "there" happened to be.
now he could see. colors, shapes and sounds were dimmed, blurred, and muffled, but that little secluded corner of his consciousness still knew this place well and could see quite clearly.
too bad it wouldn't share this knowledge with the rest of his mind.
things happened too fast here. minutes were like seconds. everything blinked by at incomprehensible speed, but he managed to catch a glimpse of things. . .however, those things didn't make much sense.
abruptly, things slowed down.
now he knew where he was. he had lived here once, long ago. . .hadn't he?
but something about this place made his hair stand on end. sent a chill running up and down his spine. made him shiver.
so there he stood, in a sense, looking down at himself. it was a sensation kin to watching a memory on a worn theatre screen: a memory documented on film that had aged for decades, played by a warped camera at an odd speed. . .
like being beside himself.
suddenly, he realized the image of himself was very young, still a child, and lying on the floor. . .or was he?
it was hard to grasp things now. like a sudden lag in the relay of information. he could see that the child was covered in . . .something. . .something. . .in a puddle of. . .
the "camera" turned on him. he could see himself as he was presently.
he rubbed his hands together. they were sticky. . .whatever his hands were covered in, it had dried a little, enough that it was. . . sticky. . .dried and sticky. . .sticky. . .
now he was stuck in a loop of some sort. all that came to his mind was the word "sticky". . .over and over. "now what?" he thought.
at that instant information returned, came rushing in like a tidal wave, removing whatever obstacle had been standing in the way.
he looked down at his hands, rubbing them together at the same time. whatever had been sticky before was no longer so. . .
his hands were bleeding profusely. . .either bleeding or covered in blood. . he couldn't tell. . .did blood get sticky when it dried? he couldn't think of an answer. . .
terrified, he turned his gaze to the child again, realized that it was a puddle of blood the child was soaked in.
his hands.
his face.
his hair.
it was everywhere all of a sudden.
he turned around. . .
the vague image of his house, destroyed, mutilated, in pieces, was the last thing he remembered before all the horrific scenes retreated back to that little corner. . .
Before he woke himself up, screaming.
He shot up to a sitting position, trembling, sweating, gasping for breath. Scared out of his wits.
Slowly he realized he was in bed, it was still dark, and, above all, he was not covered in a red, sticky substance.
It had only been a nightmare, the rational part of himself said. He usually trusted the logical side of him, but this time it was hard to believe. Everything had been so real. . .yet surreal, and more than a little disturbing.
He would not cry. He wouldn't. . .
So he just sat there, staring at the wall, convincing himself that he felt nothing.
Nothing at all.
Lemme know what y'all think.
One
here he was again. back in this place that he only recognized subconsciously. even though it was unfathomably dark, he somehow knew where he was. he was there. . .wherever "there" happened to be.
now he could see. colors, shapes and sounds were dimmed, blurred, and muffled, but that little secluded corner of his consciousness still knew this place well and could see quite clearly.
too bad it wouldn't share this knowledge with the rest of his mind.
things happened too fast here. minutes were like seconds. everything blinked by at incomprehensible speed, but he managed to catch a glimpse of things. . .however, those things didn't make much sense.
abruptly, things slowed down.
now he knew where he was. he had lived here once, long ago. . .hadn't he?
but something about this place made his hair stand on end. sent a chill running up and down his spine. made him shiver.
so there he stood, in a sense, looking down at himself. it was a sensation kin to watching a memory on a worn theatre screen: a memory documented on film that had aged for decades, played by a warped camera at an odd speed. . .
like being beside himself.
suddenly, he realized the image of himself was very young, still a child, and lying on the floor. . .or was he?
it was hard to grasp things now. like a sudden lag in the relay of information. he could see that the child was covered in . . .something. . .something. . .in a puddle of. . .
the "camera" turned on him. he could see himself as he was presently.
he rubbed his hands together. they were sticky. . .whatever his hands were covered in, it had dried a little, enough that it was. . . sticky. . .dried and sticky. . .sticky. . .
now he was stuck in a loop of some sort. all that came to his mind was the word "sticky". . .over and over. "now what?" he thought.
at that instant information returned, came rushing in like a tidal wave, removing whatever obstacle had been standing in the way.
he looked down at his hands, rubbing them together at the same time. whatever had been sticky before was no longer so. . .
his hands were bleeding profusely. . .either bleeding or covered in blood. . he couldn't tell. . .did blood get sticky when it dried? he couldn't think of an answer. . .
terrified, he turned his gaze to the child again, realized that it was a puddle of blood the child was soaked in.
his hands.
his face.
his hair.
it was everywhere all of a sudden.
he turned around. . .
the vague image of his house, destroyed, mutilated, in pieces, was the last thing he remembered before all the horrific scenes retreated back to that little corner. . .
Before he woke himself up, screaming.
He shot up to a sitting position, trembling, sweating, gasping for breath. Scared out of his wits.
Slowly he realized he was in bed, it was still dark, and, above all, he was not covered in a red, sticky substance.
It had only been a nightmare, the rational part of himself said. He usually trusted the logical side of him, but this time it was hard to believe. Everything had been so real. . .yet surreal, and more than a little disturbing.
He would not cry. He wouldn't. . .
So he just sat there, staring at the wall, convincing himself that he felt nothing.
Nothing at all.
Lemme know what y'all think.
"