Madness

Scarecrow wrote:For Castlesinthesky's contest, I picked picture number 7.

He had been thrown unceremoniously into the cell, landing hard on the cold stone floor. James tried to stand, but his cruel beating at the hands,~1~ and the heavy boots of the merciless guards had left him too weak to even curse his own misfortune. His tormentors threw something into the room, and a second later he heard an ominous bang as the solid steel door was shut,~2~ and the sound of a bolt being slid into place on the other side of the door. He tried to force his weak body to rise for a second time, but he was far to~3~ frail and blacked out.

After an uncertain time, he~4~ slowly regained consciousness. For a third time he tried to stand, and to his surprise, succeeded. Cuts stinging and bruises aching, he looked around the room, and it slowly dawned on him that he was doomed. Cold stone walls surrounded his eight by six foot cell. He examined the steel door only to find it virtually impregnable, and the concrete floor offered no avenues of escape.

Despairing, he~5~ sat down in his bare, windowless prison, and noticed an object lying on the floor in front of him. It was a small pistol, and a quick examination told James that it contained a single bullet.
He lost of track of time;~6~ not knowing whether it was night or day, for the small light bulb hanging from the roof~7~ always remained on. Food was brought in once a day, or what he assumed was a day. It was always the same, consisting of a small plastic jug and a stale loaf of bread. It was enough to keep him alive, but he remained very weak.

He grew into the custom of marking a line on one of the cold stone walls with every day~8~ that passed, using a black texture he had found in the back pocket of his jeans. As he drew what he counted as the fifty seventh line, he marvelled at how foolish he had been. A popular boy in the senior year of high school~9~ had put him up to breaking into a notorious gangster’s car, saying that if James did he could hang out with him. James, a small kid in year eleven, had being eager to impress the boy,~10~ he had snuck up to the gangster’s massive Mercedes, and started smashing windows as he had been told,~11~ the car went of instantly and strong hands had grabbed him from behind. He had then been dragged off into an unmarked van, and has~12~ he had been hauled up into the back, only semi-conscious, he had caught a glimpse of a boy, about a year older than himself.~13~

How much of a bloody idiot he had been, tricked into doing something as downright stupid as that.~14~ Now he was trapped, trapped with the smells of his own urine and excrement in one corner, and with the gun staring at him in another.

He considered trying to shoot one of the men that slid the food through a small hatch in the doorway, but every time the food was brought a guard peeped through the small window of bullet proof glass set into the doorway, checking to see if James had the gun in a threatening position, before sliding the bread and jug of water through.

He spent the long days looking the gun, gazing at its polished black surface; it was beginning to look inviting.

At what he counted as day one-hundred and forty-one he utterly lost it,~15~ he ran at the door,~16~ he punched the walls until his knuckles bled. He~17~ collapsed in a heap in his corner and wept, despairing in his madness. From that day forward, as well as drawing a mark for each day, he began to draw a picture of a hangman.

At day one-hundred and fifty-one, he drew the last of the hangman’s legs,~18~ tears streaming down his face, he gazed at his handiwork. He knew who the hangman was. ~19~

He couldn’t take it anymore,~20~ he leapt mindlessly for the pistol, scrabbling at it,~21~ he finally got a grip on it and raised it to his temple.

Death would be his escape from madness.

Kk Thanks guys.

For Castlesinthesky's contest, I picked picture number 7. Aw, I love Sarah


He had been thrown unceremoniously into the cell, landing hard on the cold stone floor. James tried to stand, but his cruel beating at the hands, and the heavy boots of the merciless guards had left him too weak to even curse his own misfortune. His tormentors threw something into the room, and a second later James1 heard the ominous bang as the solid steel door was shut, and the sound of a bolt being slid into place on the other side of the door.2 He tried to rise again, but he was far too weak and blacked out.


After an uncertain time, he slowly regained consciousness. For a third time he tried to stand, and to his surprise, succeeded. Cuts stinging and bruises aching, he looked around the room, and it slowly dawned on him that he was doomed. Cold stone walls surrounded his eight by six foot cell. He examined the steel door only to find it virtually impregnable, and the concrete floor offered no avenues of escape.


Despairing, 3 he sat down in his bare, windowless prison, and noticed an object lying on the floor in front of him. It was a small pistol, and a quick examination told James that it contained a single bullet.

He lost of track of time; not knowing whether it was night or day, for the small light bulb hanging from the roof always remained on. Food was brought in once a day, or what he assumed was a day. It was always the same, consisting of a small plastic jug and a stale loaf of bread. It was enough to keep him alive, but he remained very weak.


He grew into the custom of marking a line on one of the cold stone walls with every day that passed, using a black texture he had found in the back pocket of his jeans. As he drew what he counted as the fifty seventh line, he marvelled at how foolish he had been. A popular boy in the senior year of high school had put him up to breaking into a notorious gangster’s car, saying that if James did he could hang out with him. James, a small kid in year eleven, had being eager to impress the boy, he had snuck up to the gangster’s massive Mercedes, and started smashing window’s4 as he had been told, the car went of instantly and strong hands had grabbed him from behind. He had then been dragged off into an unmarked van, and has he had been hauled up into the back, only semi-conscious, he had caught a glimpse of a boy, about a year older than himself.

How much of a bloody idiot he had been, tricked into doing something as downright stupid as that. Now he was trapped, trapped with the smells of his own urine and shit5 in one corner, and with the gun staring at him in another.


He considered trying to shoot one of the men that slid the food through a small hatch in the doorway, but every time the food was brought a guard peeped through the small window of bullet proof glass set into the doorway, checking to see if James had the gun in a threatening position, before sliding the bread and jug of water through.


He spent the long days looking the gun, gazing at its polished black surface; it was beginning to look inviting.


At what he counted as day one-hundred and forty-one he utterly lost it, he ran at the door, he punched the walls until his knuckles bled. He collapsed in a heap in his corner and wept, despairing in his madness. From that day forward, as well as drawing a mark for each day, he began to draw a picture of a hangman.


At day one-hundred and fifty-one, he drew the last of the hangman’s legs, tears streaming down his face, he gazed at his handiwork. He knew who the hangman was.


He couldn’t take it anymore, he leapt mindlessly for the pistol, scrabbling at it, he finally got a grip on it and raised it to his temple.


Death would be his escape from madness6.

A black texture is an object, it's like a pen and you can draw with it, but it goes through the paper but you can draw all pretty colors with textures.

And as for a more refined word, I toyed with excrement but I thought shit would also descrive his current situation

As for other things i'm making edits now.

And despairing is a word... I think... Maybe... Wheres my dictionary...

Thanks meep.

Scarecrow wrote:I picked picture number 7 by the way.

He had been thrown unceremoniously into the cell, landing hard on the cold stone floor. James tried to stand, but his cruel beating at the hands, and the heavy boots of the merciless guards had left him too weak to even curse his own misfortune. <-- The phrasing is a bit difficult for me to understand. The again, it could just be me who has problem understanding. His tormentors threw something into the room, and a second later James heard the ominous bang as the solid steel door was shut, and the sound of a blot <--bolt :D being slid into place on the other side of the door. He tried to rise again, but he was far too weak and blacked out.

After an uncertain amount of time comma? he slowly regained consciousness. For a third time he tried to stand, and to his surprise comma? succeeded. Cuts and bruises aching <--maybe you should put cuts stinging and bruises aching, or something like that. Because when I first read it, I thought the cuts were aching as well. , he looked around the room, and it slowly dawned on him that he was doomed. Cold stone walls surrounded his eight by six foot cell. He examined the steel door only to find it virtually impregnable, and the concrete floor offered no avenues of escape. <--I liked this last bit here.

Despairing<--Oh, there's such a word?, he sat down in his bare, windowless prison, and noticed an object lying on the floor in front of him. It was a small pistol, and a quick examination told James that it contained one<--maybe for better effect, you can replace one with: a single, or one solitary, or something? bullet.
He lost of track of time; not knowing whether it was night or day, for the small light bulb hanging from the roof always remained on<--haha, the prison would actually waste their money on electricity bills by leaving lights on, even in the night? Plus, even without the bulb, the cell is windowless and therefore there is no indication of time. Just what I'm thinking. Food was brought in once a day, or what he assumed was a day. It was always the same, consisting of a small plastic jug and a stale loaf of bread. It was enough to keep him alive, but he remained very weak.<--this sentence is okay, but I have a habit of using better synonyms if I can. Like, 'it was just barely enough to sustain him, and he remained dangerously frail.' But that's my opinion

He grew into the custom of marking a line on one of the cold stone walls with every day that passed, using a black texture<--texture isn't an object. I could be mistaken though. he had found in the back pocket of his jeans. Has As he drew what he counted as the fifty seventh line<--that's a lot of black stuff :D, he marvelled at how foolish he had been. A popular boy in the senior year of high school had put him up to breaking into a notorious gangster’s car, saying that if James did so, he could hang out with him. James, a small kid in year eleven, had being eager to impress the boy, he had snuck up to the gangster’s massive Mercedes, and started smashing window’s as he had been told, the car went of<--the car alarm went off instantly and a pair of strong hands had grabbed him from behind. He had then been dragged off into an unmarked van, and has<--? he had been hauled up into the back, only semi-conscious, he had caught a glimpse of a boy, about a year older than himself.<--weird phrasing.
How much of<--What a bloody idiot he had been, tricked into doing something as downright<--downright as stupid as that. Now he was trapped, trapped with the smells of his own urine and shit<--uhh...maybe a more refined word for it? Like 'faeces'? Defacation? Waste? in one corner, and with the gun staring at him in another.

He considered trying to shoot one of the men that slid the food through a small hatch<--I guess a virtually impregnable steel door can still have a hatch. It would still be kind of hard to shoot the man? He would probably only manage to shoot the hand and get in huge trouble for it? in the doorway, but every time the food was brought a guard peeped through the small window of bullet proof glass set into the doorway, checking to see if James had the gun in a threatening position, before sliding the bread and jug of water through.
He spent the long days looking the gun, gazing at its polished black surface; it was beginning to look inviting.
At what he counted as day one-hundred and forty-one he utterly lost it, he ran at the door, he punched the walls until his knuckles bled. He collapsed in a heap in his corner and wept, despairing<--you used the word despairing previously. But I guess its okay to reuse it. in his madness. From that day forward, as well as drawing a mark for each day, he began to draw a picture of a hangman.

At day one-hundred and fifty-one, he drew the last of the hangman’s legs, tears streaming down his face, he gazed at his handiwork. He knew who the hangman was.

He couldn’t take it anymore, he leapt mindlessly for the pistol, scrabbling at it<--scrambling towards it?, he finally got a grip on it<--the handle and raised it to his temple.

Death would be his escape from madness.