Young Writers Society

Right. I'm interested in any feedback you may have on this piece, so fire away. My first piece posted on this forum.



I was in agony then. I was chained to many walls, unable to be free. Their incessant chatter brought nothing but torment to myself. And then one final day I was free. My chains were gone. All by one act I committed. Even now I still feel the liquid over my hands, which warmed me and comforted me.

And none were left after that incident. They had shut the exit, sealed it against my will and efforts, leaving me alone here in the house. No! Not alone. There is... the clock. It was left there by a former patient of mine, obviously for a grotesque joke. I still remember his green hair, and skin as white as snow. It has been there ever since, a silent sentinel of all the events that had occurred in the house.

Tick.

Tock.

The ticking clock; it's ringing in my ears. That sound, that pattern is what I can only hear. Day or night, sunset or sunrise, the rise and fall of nations unknown, it permeates throughout. Never hesitating, never silent. It seemed eternal once; the whole universe had revolved around that clock. Copernicus was wrong. It is the only constant in my life, yet soon it shall never be heard again.

How long have I been in this darkness? Days? Months? Years? This rat-hole of a mansion, this dreary hell; I have walked through it countless times. The doors are locked. There is no way out. I have shut myself into the darkest corners of my mind. This is my world, and it shall be all that is left.

Ever since that incident, this place has been empty of everything but me. Do I still hear them? They who once resided here? Do I hear... their screams? Their laughter? The bloodstains remain, but they are gone. Yet the ever-observant ravens glare at me from their posts on the walls, and they are the silent sentinels of this house.

I trace the scars on the walls, the gouges in the rooms, the still-sharp edges of the ruined furniture. My fingers cannot bleed even as I touch the edges. They are calloused, and even knives cannot pierce them. There is nothing except darkness. The shades of the past gather about me, but they have been ignored long ago.

My mouth opens, my tongue moisturising my cracked lips, softening them. There is no more taste. I am too old to experience such a thing. All I have left is the Clock, and it is cold and dreadful.


Tick.


Tock.

It is slower now. It has been four and twenty rounds around the house since it started to slow down. My ears are still perfect and, having attuned to the metronome of my universe, are able to detect even a picosecond's worth of difference. For it is my life, and I live by it. It is my oracle, my Bible, for in its beats there is meaning. There are an infinite number of words I hear in that sound itself, and it all makes sense. It always does.

Stumbling through the house as always, I peer with my eyes into a room I had never entered ever since that day, but have walked past it numerous times. The straitjackets are lying in the corner of the room. My eyes are drawn to the rust, crimson-red, on the fabric. I no longer see what seemed to be a morgue in that room. The clock giveth and taketh; it gave its rhythm, but took my visions. But it shall not take away what has happened, for the past is encased in adamant and cannot be removed from the dingy corners of the sewer that is my mind.

Tick.



Tock.

The sounds are gradually getting slower. It seems as if they were pushing against the second hand of my Clock, to stop it and destroy all that I stand for. Who are they? They look like they wear those white uniforms, yet covered in a layer of dust. Their faces are masked. I feel I know them, that I have delved into their minds before, but I cannot recall their names.

I see them! They are holding up sledgehammers; they blaspheme in all tongues, laughing in their insane laughter, as they did perhaps eons ago. They stand around it in a circle, lifeting the Devil's blade up, ready to snatch my soul away!

I run! In a mad dash through the maze-like corridors of my mansion. I slip, I trip, I fall, but I feel only a tinge of pain, indiscernible through my insane rush. In my hands there is the Great Knife, which savours the air it is in, ready to do my will, as it had done so many years ago.

The iron doors that lead out from the wards to the entrance hall lie broken on one hinge. I step on the sharp hinges and propel myself towards the Clock in the center of the room, where they are lifting up the sledgehammers. A cry escapes from my mouth. I am momentarily stunned; for it had never once emerged from my throat ever since I treated my asylum patients, and was attacked by them. Then the sledgehammers started to fall in an arc towards the clock, and I leap towards them.

Foam drips from my mouth as I am running through them what I have in my hands. I feel the warm fluid on me as I madly swing my arms, as if possessed by the Devil. One! Two! They fall at my touch; the incident repeats itself again. I run everywhere, not constraining myself, into the rooms, the toilets, repeating my act. The clock has just started to sound the twelfth hour.

Eleven long strokes of the clock, each latest stroke twice as slow as the one before it. I fall to my knees. Is this it? Would this be the end? My heart has slowed, but my eyes dart uncontrollably all over the main hall, and they finally rest on the Clock.



Dong.



And it seems that the Red Death held sway over all, for it became silent.

My mind could hardly comprehend this vast silence, this dulling of the world, this feeling my ears were experiencing. The Knife drops from my hands. It pierces through the rotten wood, even though it is dull and rusty. My hands are shaking, as I slowly stand up and walk to the clock.

My fingers roam all over the carvings on the clock. They are macabre. I feel Baphomet presiding over the ball of the Red Death. A cat is draped over the clock, black as midnight. And the now immobile pendulum hangs over a man that falls into the void. But it does not make a sound. It is cold and not shaking.

It is gone! Gone!

I cannot stand this silence, this drowning of reality! It hurts me, torments me, but it cannot end! I scratch my cheeks with fingernails as hard as iron, feeling my own blood on my fingers. It does not hurt. I pick up the Great Knife and slam it into the clock furiously, repeatedly, but it never makes a sound.

Why wouldn't it? Why wouldn't it tick, why wouldn't it make sounds when I did to it what I did to everyone in the incident, as they laughed and screamed? Why? I am in denial; I slam my fists onto the ground, breaking the flimsy planks in my rage. My teeth cut into my lips and tongue, but nothing compares to the void that has formed.

It is gone! It will never come back. Even if I were to pray, earnestly with all my heart, no one would listen! It has never abandoned me before; why has it taken everything away now?

My rage grows to a climax, and I madly run through the corridor of nails - from my throat comes a hoarse but loud shout, resounding through all the rooms, as I fled from the vacuum. But I cannot!It is in myself, I can only remove it by one way! I see a wall of blade, and I run towards it.

It is closer! I can feel the oblivion that is to come! No more pain, no more emptiness!

"Enough! Enough!"

A very good story.

But I think it needs a little more work.

For one thing, things get very confusing after a point. Once he starts running from those masked ghosts or what not, it becomes difficult to understand.

Also, I think I found some grammatical errors though I am not sure about them.

It was left there by a former patient of mine, obviously for a grotesque joke.

I think this should be 'as a grotesque joke'.

They are calloused, and even knifes cannot pierce them.

Not knifes. It should be 'knives'.

I scratch my cheekcs with fingernails as hard as iron, feeling my own blood on my fingers.

You must have meant cheeks here.

Overall, your concept was really great. Just work on it some more and I am sure it will be brilliant.

Good Job and Good Luck !

Could you please include any parts that you think are confusing? In some parts I have deliberately obscured the meanings of certain phrases or sentences, so do specify which parts are confusing that I may explain or edit them.

I think this should be 'as a grotesque joke'.

You mistunderstand my usage of the word 'for'. The clock itself is not the joke, but it is for a joke.

Thanks for the compliment.

This story is great. It definitely is creepy. I agree that it is a little bit confusing, specifically this part didn't make a whole lot of sense. Even after reading it all, I still don't understand who "they" are.

"Who are they? They look like they wear those white uniforms, yet covered in a layer of dust. Their faces are masked. I feel I know them, that I have delved into their minds before, but I cannot recall their names.

I see them! They are holding up sledgehammers; they blaspheme in all tongues, laughing in their insane laughter, as they did perhaps eons ago. They stand around it in a circle, lifeting the Devil's blade up, ready to snatch my soul away!"

In your last paragraphs you had some mistakes,

brekaing the flimsy planks in my rage. My teeth cuts into my lips and tongue, but nothing compares to the void that has formed.

I'm guessing you meant breaking. And it should be my teeth cut or my tooth cuts. And when you said,

resounding trhough all the rooms

you spelled through wrong. But, the story was good. Just maybe make it a little bit more clear if he is alone in the house and just imagining the people with sledgehammers or are there actually more people in the house.
I've noticed that there are a lot of stories about insane asylums. But this was really good and definitely made me think of crazy people. The repetition of the tick tock also added a lot. And your style of writing made me feel rushed and desperate. Great job.

Thank you for helping me to rectify my mistakes.

(The following sentences will help clarify, although I had not intended to do so, for doing so would remove most of the mystery surrounding the protagonist and the 'incident' that took place.)

I had intended for 'they' to be a mysterious entity only present in his mind. 'They' were supposed to be manifestations of the protagonist's mind, a representation of the nurses at that insane asylum, if you will. It is a reference to the Nurses in the Silent Hill video games. 'They' also represent that which eats away at his mind and sanity.

I wanted to show that there would only be one person, the protagonist, in the mansion.

mattimias wrote:Ever since that incident, this place has been empty of everything but me. Do I still hear them? They who once resided here? Do I hear... their screams? Their laughter? The bloodstains remain, but they are gone. Yet the ever-observant ravens glare at me from their posts on the walls, and they are the silent sentinels of this house.

'Empty of everything but me'. There's the sentence. I don't think it needs to be clearer than this.

Thanks for your review. The feelings you have described that you felt are exactly the feelings I wanted people to feel in this short piece.

This is a very well written and hauntingly beautiful story. I love your use of language, especially your vocabulary. It's obvious that you've been reading a bit of Edgar Allen Poe, and you are able to emulate his style really well. Just a few things that will make this story even better than it already is (I think).

First of all, you're doing pretty well at the whole 'showing not telling' thing (number one rule of writers), but I think you can do even better. You say some things pretty outright, like referring to the straitjacket, the blood, I suppose the knife as well. If you just describe these things, sort of insinuating that they're there, instead of saying it outright, then you can really shock the reader and make a chill go down their spine. Perhaps instead of having the character see the straitjacket, they could feel it instead, feel it wrapping around them, tightening around their arms... or something like that. Insinuation can be really, really effective in horror-type stories. But the way you've written it here IS still effective and works really well, just to let you know.

Anyway, I think your language is beautiful and I certainly hope you continue to write stuff like this.

Thank you Ellen. I was trying to emulate his style, and I'm glad that I've partially suceeded.

I do not 'show' instead of 'telling' these parts as I felt that there would be too much of 'showing'. If I do insinuate every possible thing, the entire story would be rather vague as the reader would not know what I was talking about without prior knowledge of what I had in mind before writing this piece.

By the way, I deliberately 'said some things outright' to include references on what inspired me.

Thanks for your compliment. It's really encouraging me to write more.

Very dark and compelling. The concept of the clock is what kept me interested in the first place, but then your style of writing really drew me in (It is quite reminiscent of Edgar Allen Poe).

You seem to really be able to capture your character's desperation and madness through your writing which is really quite enviable!

Only a couple of things though, in one part it seems you've made it too 'wordy' in your attempt to create desperation;

when I did to it what I did to . . .

To me it just sounds clumsy and it doesn't really flow with the rest of your piece all that well.

and lastly, when you said;

from my throat comes a hoarse but loud shout

This confused me a little, how can a shout be hoarse and loud?

Otherwise, I enjoyed this and I hope you put up some more works in the future

I had to go find my bounded book of Edgar Allen Poe's works after reading this short. I nodded read it again as soon as you allude to the Red Death because your style had reminded me of his works. It's still rough to be sure. There are many instances where I think the language can be clearer while still keeping that feeling of haze, maddening insanity. For instance:

Stumbling through the house as always, I peer with my eyes into a room I had never entered ever since that day, but have walked past it numerous times.

Ignoring the unnecessary use of "it" in the last clause, the sentence on the whole is not necessarily confusing, but unwieldy. "With my eyes" here is unnecessary. I tried to think of why you would include it. The best I could come up with is that you are trying to isolate the senses into their respective body parts (the eyes, the ears, the mouth, the fingers) so as to separate them from the speaker's self. If so, there is not a strong enough case, it is not obvious and compelling enough to justify sentences like these.

And it seems that the Red Death held sway over all, for it became silent.

Strive for sentences like these: poignant, sharp and unmuddled. In a scene like this one, where the speaker narrates even as his mental state deteriorates, it is even more important to use language that keeps the reader in the setting, while still conveying that "chaos" (not the best word, I realize). Do not waste words. Poe was a master at doing this. I am not always a fan of his, but I can always admire how wonderfully he writes, making the most surreal settings clear and real.

Which brings me to imagery. Another part of Poe's writing that made him famous was the life he gave to each of his settings. Take the palace in The Masque of Red Death for example. The sectioned halls and descriptions of their colors grab the reader. It is memorable and the palace of seems real and fully fleshed out. In particular, the description of the black room bathed in bloody-scarlet stuck with me. In contrast, the setting in your piece is based only on what the speaker feels, and as a reader I never felt compelled by the setting. I want to be immersed. I feel like some opportunity was wasted in creating a truly haunting setting given the one man in a huge scape.

My rage grows to a climax, and I madly run through the corridor of nails - from my throat comes a hoarse but loud shout, resounding through all the rooms, as I fled from the vacuum. But I cannot!It is in myself, I can only remove it by one way! I see a wall of blade, and I run towards it.

This is what I wanted more of the whole time. Truly powerful imagery, I loved this.

Polish in your writing will come with time. What you have in your writing is raw power that reminded me of Poe's works. Such that even though I was not immersed in your setting or character, I did feel that dark madness that made this piece such a compelling read. It's rough right now, but I look forward to seeing how your writing grips me given a little polishing. Keep on ticking.

Hey!



This was a very nice read, your mood was kept through out the whole story and it only stuck on one subject about your character! Which is nice to know and read for once! I loved this a lot! Maybe add more details into it but its wonderful! Keep writing!

~Randi (Alabaster)