Young Writers Society

The staff twirled around her fingers like an epileptic ballerina. It was odd – the staff. It was thin, as thin as the delicate paws of a butterfly or as precarious as a desert scorpion’s poison coated stinger. Her eyes darted around the…around the great field of nothingness in which she floated. Her hair swerved frantically around her head, her black, waist length hair swerved frantically around her head. The staff was black, almost as black as the nothingness which surrounded her. Her eyes swam, two amber fish, searching for something. Something of value. The staff twirled around her fingers, like a desert dust devil. The staff was perfectly straight, perfect, but at its crown it torpedoed into a whirlwind, a hurricane of wood, at the eye of which was a red ruby, its shade such a deep scarlet that it almost seemed black. But not black. Red. It was red. Her hair flailed around her head, like a drowning man looking for her help, desperately, but not finding it. Her hair almost seemed to have a red tinge to it. But it didn’t. Black. It was black. Like the darkness her eyes were searching through. Searching for something important…something of value…someone that once meant something to her. Her eyes were amber, dark, dark amber, dark orange – not quite orange actually, almost red, but not red, no, definitely not red, amber, her eyes were amber. The staff twirled around her fingers like the blades of a fan, but not creating any wind in this melancholy state of nirvana. Her face almost looked bloated, like the corpse of a woman – a woman with slightly elfish looking features – floating in a lake. She saw nothing but the black nothingness. Then…then a single red dot, emerging from the darkness like a firefly, rising from an ocean of oil. And another one. And another, soon the black canvas of nothingness was speckled like a Jackson Pollock painting , with tiny red fireflies. All of them beautiful, stunning, but none of them what she was looking for. None of them quite the right shade or colour. They faded away, one by one, like stars, outliving themselves, their light imprinted on her retina, on her memory. Her memory. What was it? Her eyes went still, no longer searching outside, but rather inside her own mind. The answer lay there. In her memory. She concentrated. The staff twirled faster.
There was something green. A blurred green mass…leaves, blue pieces of a jig-saw puzzle, sky showing through the spinning canopy above her. Someone laughing, cheerfully, it was her, she was holding somebody’s hands, and spinning, and laughing. Her hands were sweaty, holding onto whoever’s hands. It was the person she was looking for, she knew it. She looked down. The spinning stopped, the hands disappeared and the laughing faded. There was no-one there, only trees, her forlorn sentinels. But something was wrong. The person was supposed to be there. Why weren’t they? Where were…there was a scream, the shrill cry of a child in pain. The scene changed. The forest was on fire, the trees were fiery spires that reached up into the heavens, the forest floor transformed into a bed of red hot embers. Then everything seemed to speed up, the flames seemed to vibrate, throwing blackened shards of the broken forest into the air, only to return once the fire had died out, the ashes a funeral veil. Everything was white, covered in the ash. Time slowed down again. Returned to normal.
The staff twirled around her fingers like an epileptic ballerina. The staff’s spinning slowed. Her bare feet dangled below her, her toes winking at each other. Her hair was no longer flailing wildly about, but rather it was floating, as if she was under water. Her clothes seemed to be vacuumed to her, it moulded to her legs, arched with her shoulders, conformed to her breasts, and folded around her wrists. Almost as if her clothes were wet. But they weren’t. They were black, as black as the nothingness that surrounded her. It seemed to have dark red splotches on it, like dried blood maybe. But there wasn’t. There certainly wasn’t. Her clothes were plain black. There had to be another memory of the person. The nothingness seemed to glare at her. She half wondered why, but then pushed the thought away. A thought. She closed her eyes.
Her feet thudded on the burning forest floor, the embers tickling her soles painfully. It was as if she outran the fire or as if she was trying. A burning log collapsed to her left. She heard a bush baby cry out somewhere. Someone was to blame for this. Someone sabotaged the meeting. Someone didn’t want her to meeting with the person she was looking for. Maybe it was the person. It couldn’t be. She hoped it couldn’t. Who else could it be? Did anyone else exist? The thoughts pierced her mind. She didn’t like this. The scene changed.
She was sitting in a room, a small room with white walls, a single, naked light bulb hanging from the roof. There seemed to be a person lying on their back next to her, but she couldn’t see her. Maybe there was a small pool of red liquid right under the invisible person. But there wasn’t. And no-one was lying there. She was alone in the room, there was no-one else there. She frowned. It was odd- the feeling she had. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Like she had never felt this before. But she had, many times, and she could never ever put her finger on it. But this memory didn’t contain what she was looking for. It didn’t contain the person. She wanted the scene to change, but it didn’t. She was trapped in this room. There was something she was supposed to notice, or do, in this room. There was a window in the far wall. Outside it was night, but barely a mile away, the forest was still ablaze, a burning eye of a demon. There was someone lying next to her, and in an instant she knew that the girl lying next to her had been the one who had started the fire. The one who had sabotaged the meeting, the one who had delayed her search for the person. She knew in an instant that there was a small puddle of red liquid under the body. In her hand she held a knife. Or was it a gun? She shook her head…had she…could she? No.
The staff twirled around her fingers like an epileptic ballerina. She felt it twirling around her fingers. But she wasn’t in the great field of nothingness anymore. She was in the room. And there was no staff twirling around her fingers. Only the trigger of a AMT Automag 2 pistol. She stood up. There was someone standing outside the window, looking in. She felt the wet blood of the person she had killed against her skin, red splotches on her clothes. She took a step towards the window. The light of the fire outside caught the red tinge in her hair, highlighting it. Who was standing outside the window? She wore a black leather glove on the hand that held the weapon. She spun it around her index finger like cowboys in the movies always do. It was dark red, very dark red, all except for the barrel, which was pitch black. She took another step closer to the window. She caught the gun in mid spin, a chill running down her spine. It was the person. They were holding a gun. It was him. She had found him. But he wasn’t the person she had been looking for. He wasn’t supposed to be here. His arm hung loosely at his side. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was going to kill her. She loved him and he was going to kill her. She lifted her gun, he mirrored her, aiming the gun at her. Her finger put pressure on the trigger, but she didn’t shoot. She hesitated. He didn’t. Her blood splattered against the shattered window. Thousands of tiny red fireflies.

Her head broke the surface of the water. Her eyes opened.

Elooo people, my first post here...exited ! Umm...I know it sounds like fantasy at the moment, but it becomes more and more action/adventure as it goes on.

Before I start, know that I am very harsh, and I can't help being sarcastic.

Honestly, I struggled to read this. You have no trouble with grammar or spelling, but, FOR THE LOVE OF LIFE ITSELF, learn what a paragraph is. Please.
Also (See, this is a paragraph), you seem to repeat yourself a lot. It's totally redundant, and I get the impression that you're doing it to build drama and tension, but there are much better ways to do this. I feel that this would be better as a poetry piece, as you don't really describe anything that's going on. Setting, characters, any kind of plot.
In summation, to be really cruel, it didn't make sense to me. I found it hard to read and when I got to the end I thought, "What?" I understand it's your first post, and I hate to be the bad cop, but it does need a lot of work. Don't let this put you off, because this piece does have potential, but you're going to need to work hard to unlock it.

Hey Gohst! Just reading what Roostangarar said and for most of it, I have to agree- spelling, paragraphs and a bit of repeating. I think that most of the time the repeating added more flavour into the story, but by the end there was a bit too much. Now going on a more positive note. I really liked the main character and your description of her. The settings were great and projected a clear picture into my mind of what was hapening and were she was. I'm interested in what happens next, keep writing, have a great time in life and don't shoot anyone.