Young Writers Society

I wrote this a while ago, maybe more than a year. I don't really remember. Normally I don't really like things I wrote so long ago, but I sort of like this, so I decided to post it.

Am I dead? I hope so.
Pebbles crunch under my feet as I spin in circles, breathing in the mountain air. I’m up high, higher than should be allowed. Clouds cloak the sky thirty feet below me. The sun’s so bright, but my eyes only feel its warmth, not its burn. The smell of tangerines twirls around me, and then it strikes me; I don’t know what a tangerine smells like.
A euphoric giggle slips through my lips, then turns into a chuckle, then a chortle, then I’m laughing so hard I clutch my stomach to repress the rippling pains.
Am I high? Probably. That’s a more sane idea. But can being stoned transport you, or at least your mind? I wouldn’t know. Never done drugs.
Drunk, maybe?
I stop laughing, stop moving, and stare out at the limitless blue surrounding me. Maybe this is all an illusion. Maybe it’s not real. Maybe I’m going to wake up, hung over, forced to return to normal life.
Cracks appear in the sky, like cracks on concrete, jagged black lines. Piece by piece, the sky falls, leaving a gaping hole, bottomless, sucking, a vortex, a vacuum. It pulls at the clouds, and they siphon upwards, spiraling through the gaps.
Tears form in my eyes. No! It’s not over. It’s not breaking, my unreality isn’t breaking. Isn’t shattering. I refuse to let it. I’m not drunk or high, I’m dead. Or something equally one-way.
Everything quiets, then trembles, then slowly morphs, falling back into place. The sky shoots back up and fits together, like pieces of a puzzle. The cracks seal up, repair themselves. Fix my utopia. My shelter. My sanctuary.
Shivers wrack my body, and I fall to my knees. I bite my lip. I want to scream, at everyone and everything. Or nothing and no one, since that’s all that’s here. And that’s how it should be. Just me and nothing that can possibly hurt me. This is how it should be. Alone. Perfectly alone. I don’t need anyone, I need nothing. Just… just me. Just me and myself and I and this mountaintop and the clouds and the sky. Here, nothing can touch me.
I stand up, still clutching my stomach, eyes closed, and spin, in circles, around and around. I shudder, over and over, but keep spinning. All I have to do is keep spinning, keep moving, just keep going. Focus on this, this alone. That’s all. Just… just make it. That’s all I have to do. Here, nothing can touch me.
Buzzing fills my ears; static, my vision. The ground below me quakes, and I’m almost knocked off balance as I spin. But I keep spinning, keep moving. Just keep moving. Just keep moving. It’s alright. I’m safe here. Here, nothing can touch me.
My foot blindly steps onto a small rut, and the rut shakes, toppling me over. I brace myself, expecting to hit the ground and to feel pain, but I feel nothing. Nothing except the feeling of falling. It’s almost better than being on the mountain. Falling, it’s perfect. Here, nothing can touch me.
Cold air rushes at me, but I keep my eyes closed. I hold myself tighter. I forget about the bottom, forget how I will smash into the ground, how the pain will seize me. I focus on falling. All I have to do is keep falling. Here, nothing can touch me.
Over time, I realize that I’m no longer falling. I’m standing. I did not notice the transition. I open my eyes, peeking through my lids. I’m standing in a sauna, warm air pelting me, shriveling my skin. It encompasses me, a cocoon of steam. The hiss of water on hot rocks shrieks through the room. I just stand there. I don’t move. I can’t see through the fog, and I don’t want to. As long as I don’t perceive anything around me, there is nothing around me. All I can take is here. Here, nothing can touch me.
The hissing stops, and the fog clears. Clears to blackness. The heat retracts, and all I feel is a bone-chilling cold. Everything is nothing. Nothing’s good, right? As long as I stay in nothing, nothing can touch me. Here, nothing can touch me.
Wrong.
Here, something can touch me. The voices, they found me. They haunt me. I thought I had rid myself of them, but they found me. Here, they can touch me. They scream in my mind, in my ear, names, accusations, torturing my soul.
Adulterer. Prostitute. Liar. Thief. Luster, envier. Tormentor, kidnapper, murderer!
I fall to my knees, pressing my hands to my ears, trying to block out their words, their evil, too true words.
No! I shout. I beg. No! Stop! Stop, please. I can’t take it, stop, please, stop! Stop! Please!
Tears fall down my cheeks, coating my face, drowning my eyes, submerging my heart. Cleansing it. Purifying it. I think. No, I don’t. Nothing can clean me, my heart, or my soul. I’m dirty, horrid. The voices, they tell the truth. They only reveal my own treachery. But what they say, it’s painful!
I weep, begging for my euphoria back, my utopia, my nothing. Begging for death.
Don’t you get it? the voices whisper. This is death. You are dead. This is Hell. You had your chance, but you lost it. You gave it away. Welcome to Hell. Welcome, but never good bye. You’re going to stay here forever.
Sobs push me over.
No. No. No! I’m not in Hell. I can’t be. They’re lying. Yet… something tells me they can’t lie. But why? Why? Why?
A light, a soft pin prick of a light, appears, just a little, not even there, barely there. But it’s enough. Without thought, I stand up and run, fleeing to the light. I need the light. I need the light!
The ghostly voices follow me, pull me back, push me back, but still I run, ripping through them, away from Hell, which is everywhere, everything, in me. But still I run. Because I can’t stop. Stopping is submission, and submission means I’ve given up, and giving up means nothing will change. I keep running. I have to run!
The blackness presses against me, suffocates me, steals my breath. But still I run. I don’t need breath; I’m dead. All I need is the light.
I flee through the darkness, but no matter how fast I run, how far I have to have traveled, I never get any closer. The light’s still small, small and out of reach. Unattainable.
No. No. No! I keep running. I keep running and running and running. I run until I cramp, my muscles strained beyond capacity. I tumble over, unable to carry my own weight. My adrenaline from seeing the light fades, my energy fades. I am drained, empty. And it scares me. But I can’t do anything about it.
Adulterer. Prostitute. Liar. Thief. Luster, envier. Tormentor, kidnapper, murderer!
Here, nothing can touch me. Nothing but the hellish voices trapped in Hell itself.
But I can’t summon the energy to cry.
Here, everything can touch me.

OMG. I loved this! It was so interesting, I couldn't stop reading it! I love how you made me feel and see what she/he was feeling and seeing, I felt as if I was right in the story, it was cool

(I know this is pretty old, but hey, I'm cool, k?)

Yo! Because I stalk you, I found this, realised that you didn't have any reviews on it yet, then I was all ZOMG. Basically, I'm going to review this for you.

M'kay, so I liked this. It was definitely interesting. You managed to pull off some really great descriptions too, and with those descriptions, you also portrayed the MC's emotions in a way that was anything but telling. You showed us everything that was going on rather than telling us, so that was a nice breath of air. I like your interpretation of hell too because it's original. You don't have the classic everything being on fire idea, and instead, you have a surrounding that's beautiful, but it then turns horrid. not at all cliché, so well done!

When it comes to structure and junk like that, I did notice that habit of yours sneaking in now and then. Most of the time, your short sentences suited what was going on in the scene, but they would sometimes creep up in areas where I don't think they were needed. It wasn't a huge problem that bothered me or anything, but I thought I'd better mention it. Short sentences are great for causing suspension and tension, but if you slip into the habit of relying on them too much, it can get a little distracting.

Although the descriptions and such in this are really good, I did find that they felt a bit repetitive sometimes. As in, you had a lot of descriptions and such, but the story itself didn't really seem to be moving forward. You kept on describing how the world around the MC seemed to be collapsing and such, but nothing was really... well, happening. When it comes down to it, all that happened her was some guy/girl running away from a load of nasty things, and then she saw a light but couldn't run into it. A story like this works perfectly for flash fiction, but this is actually rather long, so it definitely couldn't be classed as flash fiction.

On a similar note, I'd like for you to add in more details. Okay, so the MC's in hell, right? (either that or she's turned insane) Well, why? How did she die? What did she do that was so bad? The only time we get hinted at this is when you have the voices in her head shouting abuse at her. They were shouting a lot of things though, from murderer to prostitute. Did she really do all of those things? If so, I'd like to know at least a bit about them. Even if you have her mention some names. The name of someone she killed, for example, and describe that a little bit. Just give us some background information, I guess. I'd like to know more about the situation the MC's actually in because it all seems very intriguing.

Overall, I do think this is a neat piece of writing. I could gush about your descriptions all day, but I won't, otherwise I may annoy you. All you really need to add to this is some background details to give the story itself some kind of backbone to stand on because right now, it seems a little empty because we know nothing about the MC or his/her life. I don't want any life stories or anything, but you know what I mean.

Keep writing,

xoxo Skins