A Pure Love

A Pure Love

The silent whisper of the trees chilled the night air. The moonlight showered the village with the dancing rays forming a soft white glow. Thin tendrils tickled her toes around her flimsy flip-flops. A distant growl rumbled over the distance between her and the storm, but she paid no mind. Her wide eyes roamed over the area before her, her body growing stiff.
Her free hand flew to the two dying white roses in her hand to keep them from drifting away in the wind, which was slowly getting stronger and stronger as the gods’ low snarl crept closer and closer. A dim flash illuminated the path in front of her. She made a high-pitched gasp when she heard the silent peep of a tiny bird lying in the middle of the dirt path. Her feet hesitated, and her eyes widened as she studied its trembling body and oddly-bent wing. She sidestepped and quickly resumed her path.
A low whistle hummed in her ears, and she stopped short. Her head jerked left and right, her feet spinning her in place. She resumed her walk, her fingers tightening her hold on the white roses.
Her nose scrunched up when it felt a teardrop plop itself on the tip. She wiped it away without a thought.
A gust of wind bowled over her, and she nearly fell over. She opened her jean jacket and sheltered the wilting flowers so as not to lose anymore petals than necessary.
Her feet carried her off the pathway and down the aisle. Each stone possessed a face carefully shaped to depict a blank expression with lips slightly parted, watching her with empty eyes. She carefully ignored them and watched the ground pass by, each blade of grass screaming at her to run.
She didn’t hesitate.
Her legs tensed as she moved quicker through the night. More rain dripped on her from the incoming clouds. A dark growl erupted from above; her bones shook from the freezing rain and howling winds.
The willow tree she stopped at provided a thin roof from the pelting raindrops. The sky flashed, shouting at the living things below to make way for the thunderclap that followed. Goosebumps trailed up and down her arms and legs, and she pulled her jacket tighter around her. She squinted through her lids with her dried-out eyes at the stone in front of her.
The eyes stared back at her.
That blank expression seemed to engrave itself in her mind. Even when she looked away, she could see the frightening glare carefully study her. She looked back at the soft mound of dirt in front of her covering what was once her best friend and loving companion. His death still stained her mind with dark thoughts; she can still remember his scream as the car drove straight into the lake. His best friend couldn’t stop it.
But she barely escaped with her own life.
She wished desperately to be with him again. Why did she have to live? Why did they rescue her? It’s been two months, and she still visits her beloved whenever she can.
She pulled out the white roses, which looked much thinner than they did when she picked them. Most of the petals were gone, and they were still going; the wind had no mercy. She crouched down and set them next to the stone, her eyes avoiding the carved face on the gravestone.
The wind screamed at her again, her thin hair hiding her eyes from her beloved. She pulled the strands behind her ear and cried out as her two white roses flew away. Her legs wouldn’t stand for it; they carried her after them, but the flowers were too quick. They were gone.
She stopped and cried in her hands. Her hands were sopping wet with rain and, now, tears. She wiped her face and sniffed. Her body slowly turned around to stare at the gravestone beneath the willow tree. A bright flash illuminated the cemetery again, and an ear-splitting shriek escaped her lips.
All eyes were on her.
Each gravestone was alive. Every face had a body to go with it. They were wholly human, staring at her with those blank expressions. Their eyes were a milky white, their skin pale as the moonlight which had once shone upon the cemetery earlier that night. They didn’t move. They just stood there…watching her.
Her eyes fell on him.
She didn’t move, though. He moved instead, every step encouraging a pathetic whimper from her. Her foot forced a step back, and she lost her balance, falling to the ground with another shriek. Her face was soaked with either tears or rain—or both.
Her muscles tightened up ‘til they were too sore to move. His gaze made her bones jostle together and her teeth chatter. He seemed so human, and yet his once-lovely expression was completely vacant.
Her beloved stopped in front of her when they were an arm’s length apart. She moaned his name with an apology, but he did nothing. Her head shook as much as her tightened neck muscles would allow. Her body wouldn’t allow her to scoot away.
His hand crept toward her, palm upward. Her confusion was clear with her hesitation alone. What would happen if she took his hand? Would she become one of them? Would she finally die and live her life with him for eternity? Or would she die an agonizing death and regret her decision? Her heart was not pleased with her frightening thoughts of what could happen.
He was stiff as a board. His hand didn’t sway, the wind didn’t knock him over, and the rain didn’t make him flinch. His white eyes never left her, but she couldn’t do it. She built up the energy to scurry to her feet and hurry backwards, away from him.
He didn’t move.
She apologized, cried out his name, apologized for what happened, and wished she had never come. Her feet whirled her around, but the next ghost-human wouldn’t let her pass. She held her breath and retreated to her original spot.
Another crash caused her to jump, and she looked at her beloved again. He still stood there, watching her, but his hand held two white roses. Unlike the two she picked, his flowers were healthy and singing with life. Their beauty filled her heart with the same pure love they both had once shared.
She reached out for them, her eyes entranced in the roses’ splendor. She ignored the howling winds threatening to whip her off her feet. She didn’t notice the ghost-humans disappear for the split-second the sky lit up with a fierce flash. She missed the deafening shrieks of a hundred piercing voices. She wanted the white rose and the love of her beloved that came with it.
The wind wailed in her ear, screaming at her to run away from this place, the loud roar of thunder attempted to scare her away, and the pelting drops of rain grew to the size of meatballs; but yet she didn’t sway.
Her finger touched a thorn on the thin stem. She didn’t wince from the blood. Nothing happened. She could hold the two white roses, and nothing would happen.
He let go when she had a firm grasp on them. Warm blood oozed down her hand, clashing with her cold hand which was numb from the rain. It sidled through her clenched hand and to the bottom of her hand. The blood dripped onto her toes and slid down her foot into the grass, making its permanent mark in the graveyard.
The white roses fell from her hand and fell to the ground, disintegrating before they had the chance to touch the blood puddle beneath them.
She held her hand to her chest, clenching her shirt ‘til her knuckles turned white. Her breathing became shallow, taking sharp breaths just to stay alive. Her skin paled as she felt her spirit slowly seep from her pores. Her eyes rolled back in her sockets, and she watched the familiar pictures flash from one to the next like a slideshow. Her knees gave way, and she fell to the ground; she couldn’t feel the loud crack in her kneecap.
Her soulless body toppled over and lay in the grass, narrowly missing the tiny puddle of blood where her feet once stood. Her mind traveled into the dark realm of living nightmares, the expressionless faces carved into the hundreds of tombstones stamped in her eyelids.
The rain lightened as soon as her mortal life was taken. The lightning made its last threatening flash before taking its leave, the thunder tagging along behind.
The tiny red puddle of her blood slid down the cemetery hill, taking its time to relish its freedom. After much searching, the droplets of blood, and the last living drops of their pure love, settled in the petals of two dead white roses at the bottom of Cemetery Hill.

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Very rough, I know, but I had to get a rough draft written for school. A couple people wanted to see this, so it's been posted. Crits are welcome, of course. ^^

~ Jabber ~

This... isn't a good story.

First of all, the initial conflict is that she's walking somewhere with two white roses. Um... so what? This isn't a good catch. If it's that stormy and everything, why does she bother going there? If she is so miserable, then why is she going there? My grandma, when she was still alive, wanted to go visit her husband's grave site, but she only did it in good weather. So why is she going there for him? Why???? We don't know. All we see is a bunch of symbolism thrown down haphazardly. Not good enough.

So tell us who he is. Tell us why she is going there. This will give us internal conflict that can tickle our fancy. It's not enough to just give us external conflict and hope we "get it." We won't. It doesn't make sense without her internal conflict! Similarly, symbolism is only good when you have a solid conflict to fall back on.

Try again, love.

Jabber! *mucho glugs*

It’s been two months

Er, to keep with the same tense, say: "It'd been two months"

Okay! Well.

This was good; it wasn't spectacular. It wasn't amazing. It was good. There are some parts that weren't up to par with your normal writing.

Tension. Or however you spell it.

You need to build it up. Like seriously. I've found that short, almost choppy sentences seem to build suspense. Long, flowery stuff, like what you have here, doesn't quite do it. ALSO! Dialog! You really need it for horror! We don't get the same unique feeling with this, than we do with... let's say Steven King. He's the kind of rapid fire dialog. Short sentences with wonderful descriptions. You have the wonderful descriptions, but you have these longbutt sentences.

Otherwise, it was a pretty good attempt.

-Jared

Hello JabJab.

A distant growl rumbled over the distance between her and the storm, but she paid no mind.

A distant growl rumbled over the distance between her and the storm? How can that be? Clarify.

She made a high-pitched gasp when she heard the silent peep of a tiny bird lying in the middle of the dirt path.

How can birds be out during the night? It doesn't seem realistic.

She opened her jean jacket and sheltered the wilting flowers so as not to lose anymore petals than necessary.

Why?

His white eyes never left her, but she couldn’t do it.

White eyes? Ask yourself this: Is this realistic and believable to the audience? Techniques only work if there is an effective communication between the medium and the audience.

Overall impressions:

This is cheesy and at places, it doesn't seem to make any sense. Let me elaborate.

I think I'm beating a dead horse here since Snoink nailed one of the issues that I have with the piece but I have to really mention it again. Let me ask you this: Why was this girl going to a graveyard in the middle of the night? Relate that to yourself- Would you go into a graveyard in the middle of the night?

To make the audience believe this, you have to associate your character with a group of people in society which might actually do that. Maybe a gravekeeper? A mentally ill woman? The point is you have to characterize your character to the point where the audience can associate with.

There wasn't much of that sadly. All we know is that she is a woman. The writing itself doesn't work together in characterizing her. It's just her doing all these things with occasional descriptions. Have a look at the prose: Her hair, her hands, her nose etc etc. I'm surprised you didnt mention how her armpits smelled LOL.

Now with the stones being portrayed as ghosts. How do they symbolize ghosts? You only simply stated that the stones were like faces/ ghosts and expect the audience to get it. And while I'm at it, don't you find it strange that she can commune with these ghosts/ see them? Normally, people can't do that. Why can she do that?

Basically, you need to support this piece with more characterization and tailoring your writing more to make these events feasible.

You have some good ideas, you just need to figure out on how to make it more coherent.

Andy.

P.S: Your title had the adjective "pure" in front of "love". What do you think is considered pure love? Commitment? Chasity? I see some evidence of commitment, but I think your piece would also have a higher chance of success if you work towards communicating the value of commitment.

sorri about this i dont atually know who the quote correcly yet
ive just picked up a few things that need changing

[quote="JabberHut"]A Pure Love

A distant growl rumbled over the distance between her and the storm,

Her free hand flew to the two dying white roses in her hand

Even when she looked away, she could see the frightening glare carefully study her.

the wind had no mercy.

Her hands were sopping wet with rain and, now, tears.

Warm blood oozed down her hand, clashing with her cold hand which was numb from the rain.

The tiny red puddle of her blood slid down the cemetery hill, taking its time to relish its freedom. After much searching, the droplets of blood, and the last living drops of their pure love, settled in the petals of two dead white roses at the bottom of Cemetery Hill.

quote]


Ok the first one, you used distance and disant inthe same sentence.

And the same thing withthe hand hand in the next one, perhaps you could write; her free hand flew to the two dying roses she clasped

Thirdly. i think you need to change this just slightly, frightening glare carefully studING her, but i love the sentence other wise

"wind had no mercy" thats very nice. Giving the inaminate object the power of mercy, very clever!

And i like the "warm ozzed... classhing... cold hand" very descriptive comparison. top notch.

Finally the last sentence is both good and bad. I'd take out the first cemetry hill, because youve wrote it twice and its kind of distracting a bit. But otherwise i really like the last drops of her love setteling in the dead roses. You have illestrated a clicha with rose and blood, and youve made it freah and new. cleaver indeed.

i really like this short story, and after youve doon a second draft i think this will be almost perfect.
xxx