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Thu Dec 29, 2011 8:47 pm
Fantasea says...



It's plain and simple, but you know in your mind that the type O blood in your hands does not match the very same structural clumps which coarse through your veins. That blood on your hands is not yours. You look down, and notice that the small innocent dream you have had is reality. striking isn't it, how it can all go to shit in a matter of minutes, your entire life, the memories of you and your mother cycling in the rain, pushing your youngest brother George into a puddle, all enshrined by the thought that you have just murdered an innocent young girl. Sure, you didn't mean to do it, you're just a quiet boy who plays too many board games and solves Rubik's Cubes in the hope that you can gain some kudos in that big boy version of Show and Tell - maybe even some friends. You haven't really murdered someone, don't be so naive, the body submerged in a blood of your archaic demise is merely resting, yes, resting in your onslaught. Peace has succumbed your body, and that shaking feels only a brittle hand on your strong physique. But it's a party, the cliche location for a Halloween Horror to unfold, and you're the killer! Imagine that, the lonely schoolboy and his dead trophy girl, stepping up to his podium in shackles, aren't you a fucking ideal sight?

There's always time to run, so why are you standing there? Don't you fucking dare pull the 'traumatised boy' routine, there isn't a midlife crisis mother here to shield you from the taunts of the mob.

You're on your own.

You've established that, and now you've come to terms with the evasive action you must take. People are dancing in the room below, and if there is any positive, at least you killed her with a 1954 baseball swing, that's one piece of vintage trash rendered useless. Why does a child of your age have such a rotten item in a glass frame above his bed? Good, you're still wearing the mask your father bought you from the local Castaway's, minus the stench of old folk and worn rubber. Ten pounds, like hell he paid that amount. Tantamount to this awful headgear, you still have blood on your hands and a corpse against your feet - luckily this wasn't a pyjama party or you'd be charged with rape in addition to assault! Well you've gone and killed her now, so finish the deed and stuff her up. Don't leave any fingerprints, the Poirot marathon you watched with your mother two weeks ago surely taught you enough about disposing of bodies. Take off her gloves, she never was Bell of the Ball anyway, and be careful not to stain them with too much red ooze, garnishing her corpse is one thing, getting white satin dirty is another.

Now isn't this an iconic scene? You, the masked figure, pulling the damsel from her soft rug to her closet - it's similar to a farmer collapsing their scarecrow for autumn harvest and preparing for the next yield. However, be sure not to forget that while the farmer dries his brow from the blistering rays of the sun, you wipe the excess onto your cuff since you have brutally murdered a passing individual. You never dreamed of getting close to a popular girl, let alone killing one - she might even make a good conversation piece. You need to clear your conscience, and begin your escape. Look around the room, and in your hands - that blood isn't going to dissipate, eliminate any last fragment of DNA which has you bound by a leash of discovery. Run, wash your hands, but don't look down into the sink. Your mind is clear, and you have begun your retaliation, fighting back the society that has oppressed you for so many years. The person in which you slaughtered like a wild deer caught under a vapour of a burning forest was indeed - much like the wild rarities we strive to diminish - innocent. For this reason, tell yourself that you will not look into the sieve that you shake wildly over. It is not your time, you are not weak, and despite killing unjustly, you have the element of surprise to lean against. Retract your evidence, hold it filmy beneath your costume, and grin deeply, for this situating is going to fix itself; running will not accomplish anything. Change begets change, and our shifting environment means that our expiry is one which we dare not think about, yet we are happy to see strike the hearts of those we do not feel that same mutual emotion for.

----------------------------------------
This is the introduction of a short story I planned to write a few years ago. Finding it once more, I feel as though I could delve deeper into the personality of the character. Please let me know what you think, I feel as though my writing might need some work, haha
  





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Sun Jan 01, 2012 7:01 pm
WelcomingException says...



It's plain and simple, but you know in your mind that the type O blood in your hands does not match the very same structural clumps which coarse (course) through your veins. (This was a really long and a little confusing... I had to read it a couple times to make sense of it) That blood on your hands is not yours. You look down, and notice that the small innocent dream you have had is reality. striking isn't it, how it can all go to shit in a matter of minutes, your entire life, the memories of you and your mother cycling in the rain, pushing your youngest brother George into a puddle, all enshrined by the thought that you have just murdered an innocent young girl. ( again, it was bit long and muddled, but I love the suspense you are building here) Sure, you didn't mean to do it, you're just a quiet boy who plays too many board games and solves Rubik's Cubes in the hope that you can gain some kudos in that big boy version of Show and Tell - maybe even some friends. You haven't really murdered someone; don't be so naive, the body submerged in a blood of your archaic demise is merely resting, yes, resting in your onslaught. (I love the denial he is feeling here) Peace has succumbed your body, and that shaking feels only a brittle hand on your strong physique. But it's a party, the cliché location for a Halloween Horror to unfold, and you're the killer! Imagine that, the lonely schoolboy and his dead trophy girl, stepping up to his podium in shackles, aren't you a fucking ideal sight? (A little confused at this point about what’s going on, but I’m sure you will explain further)

There's always time to run, so why are you standing there? Don't you fucking dare pull the 'traumatised boy' routine, there isn't a midlife crisis mother here to shield you from the taunts of the mob. (I like how you as the writer are talking to your character, as if you are not the one controlling him)

You're on your own.(Beautiful)

You've established that, and now you've come to terms with the evasive action you must take. People are dancing in the room below, and if there is any positive, at least you killed her with a 1954 baseball swing, that's one piece of vintage trash rendered useless. Why does a child of your age have such a rotten item in a glass frame above his bed? Good, you're still wearing the mask your father bought you from the local Castaway's, minus the stench of old folk and worn rubber. Ten pounds, like hell he paid that amount.(hmm... ok?) Tantamount to this awful headgear, you still have blood on your hands and a corpse against your feet - luckily this wasn't a pyjama party or you'd be charged with rape in addition to assault! Well you've gone and killed her now, so finish the deed and stuff her up. Don't leave any fingerprints, the Poirot marathon you watched with your mother two weeks ago surely taught you enough about disposing of bodies. Take off her gloves, she never was Bell of the Ball anyway, and be careful not to stain them with too much red ooze, garnishing her corpse is one thing, getting white satin dirty is another. ...

Now isn't this an iconic scene? You, the masked figure, pulling the damsel from her soft rug to her closet - it's similar to a farmer collapsing their scarecrow for autumn harvest and preparing for the next yield. However, be sure not to forget that while the farmer dries his brow from the blistering rays of the sun, you wipe the excess onto your cuff since you have brutally murdered a passing individual. You never dreamed of getting close to a popular girl, let alone killing one - she might even make a good conversation piece. You need to clear your conscience, and begin your escape. Look around the room, and in your hands - that blood isn't going to dissipate, eliminate any last fragment of DNA which has you bound by a leash of discovery. Run, wash your hands, but don't look down into the sink. Your mind is clear, and you have begun your retaliation, fighting back the society that has oppressed you for so many years. The person in which you slaughtered like a wild deer caught under a vapour of a burning forest was indeed - much like the wild rarities we strive to diminish - innocent. For this reason, tell yourself that you will not look into the sieve that you shake wildly over. It is not your time, you are not weak, and despite killing unjustly, you have the element of surprise to lean against. Retract your evidence, hold it filmy beneath your costume, and grin deeply, for this situating is going to fix itself; running will not accomplish anything. Change begets change, and our shifting environment means that our expiry is one which we dare not think about, yet we are happy to see strike the hearts of those we do not feel that same mutual emotion for. Ill just explain below,


Ok! So I love the suspense you brought in the story and how you as the writer where talking to the character as if you were his mind, yet you still created that barrier of difference between you too,

I did find that it was very jumbled together, and I did have to read things a few times to get a clear vision. It’s better to make really short sentences then very long ones, plus short ones give more emphasis on what you’re saying :)

Overall it was really good, I do wish you would have explained how she ended upstairs with him, and how he killed her since there seemed to be missing parts because of that, and me as the reader had a harder time relating back to the boy and being sympathetic for him.

I hoped this helped!
Keep Writring :elephant:
What a Welcoming Exception *
  





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Thu Jan 05, 2012 2:02 pm
Fantasea says...



Thanks for the comment, I really appreciate it. I've changed a little of the style in response to your comments, and developed the plot. My aim is to create a chronological set of events that occur in real time. Whilst this is simply the beginning, I'm attempting to show muddled thoughts, as if his own subconscious is fighting against him. When I'm home I'll release a little more, where he begins to make decisions of his own, and after writing more of the story I feel far more confident as to where this is going. I hope you'll enjoy it too, the feedback is very nice of you!
  








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