Drabble

Jun. 4th, 2007 04:18 pm
hils: (Default)
Dave was saying today that he has to write a murder mystery story for his writers club and that it has to be a maximum of 1000 words. The plot he came up with was more like 10,000. LOL

I suggested he submit a drabble and our whole office started discussing whether it would be possible to write a murder mystery in 100 words. Here is my attempt:

The demise of the amateur detective was sudden and unexpected, his surprised eyes staring upward as he lay supine on the drawing room floor. The murder at Rudloe Hall was no longer a mystery as Lady Fennyworth had revealed herself by shooting the detective before he could expose her for murdering her husband.

The ensuing panic and chaos had given her plenty of time to make her escape and she had to laugh at the idiocy of the man, who had insisted on doing it all by the book.

He should have just called the police and had her arrested.

Scorched

Nov. 24th, 2002 07:42 pm
hils: (Default)
Well, here's the first draft of the piece I was supposed to do for my writing class last week. Basically we got given this picture

title or description

And we had to write an inner monologue (from the POV of the man) about lust. This is what I came up with. It's not the final version so comments will be appreciated

Scorched

It won't be long until he comes to me. I can feel him there, watching me, rapture in his eyes as I perform the blessing. How he would despise me if he knew the truth, the way the blood rushes to my loins when he's near. Oh, I am truly a damned creature.

I pray every day for my salvation, but my soul is weak. No matter how fervently I pray I still think of him, dream of him. Sometimes I wonder if he has been sent to me as a test just as the Lord tested Job. Oh, how weak I am.

He's approaching me now and I don't know if I can bear it. I'm burning and for a moment I wonder if the fire will consume me entirely. But no, I'm still here and he is kneeling before me, his pale youthful eyes fixed on me with wonder as he awaits his communion.

With a trembling hand I place the morsel of bread in his mouth and my thumb light brushes his lips. They're so soft, like the petals of a newly bloomed rose. I wonder what it would feel like if I didn't pull back. If I allowed him to suckle on my finger. But the moment is past and my hand is now back at my side.

He's looking at me expectantly now and I realise I have yet to hand him the chalice. I look down and see the wine, the blood of Christ. It will bring him his salvation, but I am beyond that now. The desires of the flesh are too much for me.

He takes the chalice from me, unconscious of the way his very touch makes me feel. Oh how I wish I could be an innocent such as him.

He is gone now and I am alone.

Always alone.

How badly I want to gather him into my arms and caress him. To run my hands through that lusciously soft hair and to press kisses to those tender lips. I want nothing more than to make him mine, to show my love physically, emotionally and spiritually.

But it can never be. Those lips of his are reserved only for prayer and his love is only for the Lord.

I'm burning again, burning for him and burning with shame. And no matter how much I feel I know that this is only the beginning. The fiery gates of hell are awaiting me and Beelzebub is waiting to draw me into his arms and make me his.

In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.
hils: (Default)
This is the first draft of the story for my writing course. Basically we had to write about something that had happened to us and work in 2 or 3 flashbacks. There was a 500 word limit. This is what I came up with and I'd appreciate some feedback as the guy I normally show my stuff to isn't around

Back to School

I can feel my cheeks burning and tears stinging in my eyes. I won't cry, not this time. I'm an adult damn it! It's not supposed to be like this. I know everyone else is staring at me, I can feel their eyes without having to raise my head. How long before the whispers start? The sniggers and giggles? No, I won't cry, I've spent years working up my defences against this and I'm not about to let them down now.

"Look at her hair. I bet her mum cuts it for her."

"You've got a degree. I thought that was supposed to mean you had a brain."


Not much of a difference really. I may as well be back at school.

I guess it started when we moved back to England. While we were in Germany everyone was in the same boat. We were all Forces families and we had to get used to moving around. Everyone was nice to each other but nobody really made friends. There was no point; you'd just have to leave them when the next posting came through.

Of course all that changed when my Dad left the army. We settled down and I found myself in a school that I knew I was never going to leave. Not until I moved to Secondary school anyway. The people I met here were going to be stuck with me until we went off to University

Of course everyone was curious about the new girl at first. But as soon as they found out that there wasn't much to me, that my family wasn't especially rich and that I was quite shy, that was it.

"Look at her clothes." They whispered, loud enough for me to hear of course. "I'm amazed she can even afford to buy in charity shops."

The teachers turned a blind eye of course. They had their star pupils to focus on. The ones whose parents were in the PTA and on the school governors board. What did it matter if one girl, whose grades were average, was being picked on a little. It was part of school life.


And now here I am again. It's not everyone this time, just one woman who seems to think that putting me down in front of everyone in our office will make her look better. Maybe she doesn't realise how many bad memories she's stirring up or maybe she does. People are strange creatures and I don't think I'll ever figure them out entirely.

"If someone is picking on you just ignore them and they'll go away."

So I don't cry. I'm not even sure I can anymore
hils: (Default)
This is what I've written for my course this week. It's a bit hard to describe the task we were given. Basically we were given a piece of writing similar to this and told to do our own version. The original piece was about baking pie and having an operation. If you can't work out the two events I'm describing then I've done something wrong

Restoration

This'll soon make everything clean she thought as she poured a healthy amount of washing up liquid into the bowl. Beside her a large pile of dirty dishes sat waiting to be made clean, the food on them having dried into something she shuddered to put a name to. There were cups there too, with the last dredges of tea in the bottom. "Cup of tea?" She'd asked the policeman politely while he'd been covering her precious possessions with a silver dust which she just knew wasn't going to come off easily. Bad enough that so many of her things had been stolen, now what she had left was being ruined too. She scrubbed hard, trying to get everything to sparkle. She wanted no reminder of this mess. Everything needed to be clean. Her hands had become wrinkled, clearly having spent too long in the soapy water. "Do you have insurance?" She let the cold water run and began to hold the dishes underneath. The sooner it was finished the better. She just wanted these people gone and out of her house so that she could get everything tidied up. She wanted it back the way it was. Clean. But no matter how hard she scrubbed she knew that there would still be germs. Dirt that couldn't be seen. She supposed it would never be really clean again.

Version 2

Oct. 7th, 2002 03:01 pm
hils: (Default)
This is probably going to be the final version of the story for my course. I've shown the first draft to a couple of people and made some ammendments and this is what I came up with. I found it hard to keep within the 400 word limit but hopefully this has done the job

As always if anyone has any thoughts then please leave a comment. Thanks :)

I can still remember my first kill. Not surprising really, something like that isn't easily forgotten. The details aren't as vivid in my mind as they once were though. I can't remember what she was wearing anymore, or what colour her hair was. All I really remember is my heard pounding in my chest as I hunted, that and the smell. Not just the blood that poured from her throat, but the fear.

Fear has a strange scent, and no matter how many books I've written and how many I write in the future I don't think I'll ever be able to do it justice. It's a cold smell, like a chill December night only darker and more intense. It climbs inside your head and assaults your every sense until you can feel nothing else.

It's strange really, I'm not much to look at. Just your average man with my beard and large glasses doing little to compliment my appearance. Why would anyone suspect that beneath the man is a killer, one who has tasted blood on countless occasions.

The moon is high tonight and I feel the stirring within me, howling for the taste of blood. It won't be long before I give in. In the past I'd fight the blood lust for as long as I could stand, the thought of taking yet another human life scared and repulsed me. I don't fight it so much now; I'm starting to accept what I am. An animal. A killer.

Most people refuse to accept the beast within, but we all have them. Mine just happens to show itself more readily than most. I look up at the moon once again and realise that it's time, time to give in to the primal instinct that lurks within us all.

I find it hurts less when I don't fight it so I relax and just allow it to happen naturally. It starts with the hair; it grows all over my body course and dark. At the same time my canines start to lengthen and the shape of my face begins to change. Soon I am on all fours, my clothes in torn shreds on the floor beside me. My claws make a light clicking sound on the stone floor as I pad outside and raise my head to the moon. Letting out a long howl I embrace the call of the wild.

Hmm

Oct. 2nd, 2002 11:48 pm
hils: (Default)
Well, this is the result of this weeks course work. I had to write a 400 word story involving a writer and a wolf. Really not sure if I'm happy with it so if anyone has any constructive criticism then please comment

The Beast Within

I can still remember my first kill. Not surprising really, something like that isn't easily forgotten. The details aren't as vivid in my mind as they once were though. I can't remember what she was wearing anymore, or what colour her hair was. All I really remember is the thrill of the hunt, that and the scent. Not just the blood that poured from her throat, but the fear.

Fear has a strange scent, and no matter how many books I've written and how many I write in the future I don't think I'll ever be able to do it justice. It's a cold smell, like a fresh winter's morning only darker and more intense. It climbs inside your head and assaults your every scent until you can feel nothing else.

It's strange really. As the writer of gothic horror people often commend the way I portray death and killers, little knowing how much of it is based on my own experiences. I'm not much to look at, just your average man with my beard and large glasses doing little to compliment my appearance. Why would they suspect that beneath the man is a raging animal?

The moon is high tonight and I feel the beast stirring within me, howling for the taste of blood. It won't be long before I give in. In the past I'd fight the blood lust for as long as I could stand, the thought of taking yet another human life repulsed me. I don't fight it so much now; I'm starting to accept what I am. An animal. A killer.

Most people refuse to accept the beast within, but we all have them. Mine just happens to show itself more readily than most. I look up at the moon once again and realise that it's time, time to give in to the primal instinct that lurks within us all.

I find it hurts less when I don't fight it so I relax and just allow it to happen naturally. It starts with the hair; it grows all over my body course and dark. At the same time my canines start to lengthen and the shape of my face begins to change. Soon I am on all fours, my clothes in torn shreds on the floor beside me. My claws make a light clicking sound on the stone floor as I pad outside and raise my head to the moon, let out a long howl. The call of the wild.
hils: (Default)
Well, my first piece of 'homework' is complete. Can't say I'm especially pleased with it, but then I never am with things I've written. For anyone who cares, this is what I came up with

The task was to look out of our window and write about what we could see, writing in the first person initially and then changing to third on the redraft.

HTML>



Window Watching


It's dark and he is thankful. At least in the dark there are shadows he can hide in. It's so quiet out there; the night has brought with it a stillness which no other time of day can bring. He likes it. He can stand there peacefully unobserved, just watching. He finds people so fascinating, but is hindered by his inability to make small talk. He'd rather say nothing at all than talk about the weather.


Here in the night, from the comfort of his own home, things are different. He can get a glimpse of lives he would not normally be privy to. It isn't usually much. Just a snippet of a conversation as people walk past, not even knowing that they're being observed, but it sustains him. He can imagine what happens next, create a whole other world just based on a few short words. Most people would think he was crazy but he's not, he's a writer.


A car drives by, occupied by four youths who must only just be of a legal driving age. Their stereo blares loudly, the bass causing his window to vibrate as this epitome of cool goes past. Soon enough, however, all is still once more


A woman leaves her house and for a split second two pairs of eyes meet. She must be wondering what he's doing stood there watching. She probably thinks he's a peeping Tom, either that or some nosy neighbour. It is beyond some people to be able to comprehend anything more complex than the sorts of things that appear on TV.


She frowns a little at his appearance, almost as though she is debating whether to say something to him or not. As is the way of human nature though, she decides against it, clearly having more important things to occupy her mind than some strange man living on her street. She hefts her handbag onto her shoulder and quickly vanishes from sight.


As her heels click down the street he wonders idly if she'll ever give him a second thought, or whether his shadowed appearance will fade from her memory just as the night fades into the dawn.


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