Competition Ends 7th September 2019 3:49am

Write a Scene 2

Daniel Long
Thought Provoker
United States
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Joined 26th Nov 2018
Forum Posts: 97

Poetry Contest

Show a scene with one of the prompts below.
With the great submissions in the last prose competition, I felt there should be another! This time I'll give you some navigation so choose a prompt from below and make a scene!

1. A shadow shows up from behind you...
2. You discover a suicide...
3. You awake to find yourself doused in gasoline...
4. You're caught in a rainstorm...
5. You're at a grave...

One entry
New write taken from one of the prompts
Minimum 750 words!
Must be prose!
PM me with questions
One month!

Daniel Long
Thought Provoker
United States
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Joined 26th Nov 2018
Forum Posts: 97

Savannah's Headstone

  Sheila is and always was a schizophrenic. This misery has haunted her since the dolls in school shifted their eyes to her – whispering… she still hears them. Shrieking glasses in the cabinet… no they were only fracturing, shattering when she slammed her own head through the cabinet door. Oddities plagued her mind more so than the fresh taste of reality.
     “Sorry” she’d say to herself aloud for believing nonsensical delusions, for even believing flowers come into blossom because they have eyes, parting their petals to see the sun. She still swears those dolls looked at her.
     There she was. A late October day enclosed her body with a shroud of cold. The beautiful foliage of dead leaves embracing their brilliant, white Autumn star. Sheila wandered into an old Gothic cemetery which cradled her friend Savannah’s deathly reticence, for her headstone was the youngest in the aging burial ground. Not a mourner left to visit, she took a briskly walk around every shrubby hill and bend on the vanishing dirt paths. Pikes of crab grass and tall weeds blanketed the graves, the headstones were as well draped in green moss and thick branching vines. There’s beauty, no depression here.
     Sheila would memorize the names upon the headstones and their dates of departure. ‘Their day of deliverance,’ as she thought often of her own coming sunset. Still, there’s enough ‘burning sun’ she held. These walks in the cemetery bring respiting moments of purgatories within. Distant voices from beneath the earth still call for her to come back. There was only one headstone Sheila came to visit however.
     Savannah’s headstone is nearly uprooted from the swelling roots of a great maple she was buried beside. “That tree was a child, and you were a child when you came to rest here Savannah” Sheila whispered to her headstone. Savannah’s tilted, moss-ridden headstone was sacred. These were the times she cherished with her only friend. Sheila would prop herself against the maple’s trunk beside Savannah with her poetry journal.
     Whispers constant, Sheila often daydreamed rather than compose her ‘legacy in pen.’ She typically wrote enough a day to fill a page, no more. Everyday a whisper, everyday a poem spoken to her. Grasping her journal, head leaning on the trunk, eyes shut, pen in hand… always listening. This day yet a whisper. The page vacant of words, only a white-hot glare from the paper in the glaring midday sun, her eyes shut… listening.  
     “I come when you’re cold” a voice whispered.  
Sheila’s eyes shot open as if to the hell of gunfire. She looked about the stone clustered cemetery.
     “It can’t be” Sheila stammered.
Her mind spoke in doubts; her heart hammered her chest as she came to. Her eyes came to rest on her friend’s headstone till they glazed over. She laid her head back, her eyelids snipped out the daylight.
     She felt the warmth of the descending sun fade from her face. The illumination of her eyes dimmed in her long-awaited sunset as it bled to death into the blue twilight of her life. She’s come to rest beside her only friend. She thought not to leave anytime soon, she felt her friend watching over her. “One hug” she whispered, “just wished I coulda’ given’ ya one last hug.” Without parting her teary curtains, she crawled over to Savannah, wrapped her arms around her, and kissed the mossy stone.
     The stone chilled her cheek.
     “Come back” Sheila whispered. A tear trickled and disappeared into the moss…
“Come back.”
Her eyes drained of their last tears as their wells have iced over.    
     “Sheila” a soft voice crept into her ear.
A damp eyelid hoisted, the frosty night gave a fresh chill to her teary eyes. The needles of crab grass dagger into her bare feet. The whites of her rainy eyes illumined in the pitch-night’s white moon.
Her eyelids unlocked from their death, something opaque had filmed over her eyes it seemed, for whatever it was, it couldn’t be what her eyes were showing her. Then a ice-cold hand rested on her cheek.
     “Thank you” the soft voice whispered.
Sheila detached her cheek from the moss and looked up into two brilliant, wide eye-moons. Moss dangling from her tear-sore cheek, her eyes finally found her whisperer.
     “Here…” a hand combed the moss out from Sheila’s hair.
     “I missed you” Sheila’s voice choked. Savannah smiled.
     “I’ve been hugging you all along.” Savannah drifted her fingers over Sheila’s mossy cheek.
Sheila couldn’t speak. She couldn’t find the words save three that define the most powerful emotion.
      “Hush” Savannah rested a finger upon Sheila’s lips, “I know.”  

Written by gothicsurrealism (Daniel Long)
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Non-entry by the author of the competition.

Brandon Hursell
Lost Thinker
United States
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Joined 25th Nov 2018
Forum Posts: 32

Chapter 11 - Reticulocyte

She said, “What are your plans for this place?”
He studied it, let his eyes touch the walls and caress them. “Ya know, Beverly, there is something about me that won’t permit me to live here, at least not for more than a few hours. I can’t survive it.”
“This again? They’ve had their doctors check you every way known to man. There is nothing wrong with you.”
“Yet the symptoms persist.”
“You’re overworked. That’s all. It’s in your head.”
He wanted to believe her, but he felt his transformation taking place in the orb of his existence. It was beyond mind and body and gods, but fed by his lungs, physiologically mechanized by them, they as a fireplace stoker, as pipes of blood and light speed ejaculation.
There was sweat inside her body, bubbling just under the surface and gathering with chants of displeasure at crucial centers of towering organ systems.
“Would you feel better maybe if you took a shower? I can make some tea and lunch.”
“I hate tea.”
“It’s good for you. And you drink too much of that poison. You’re harming yourself. Have some tea. Please?”
“Get in the shower. You have clothes in there already.”
“It’s not poison by the way. And besides, it’s not like I have a choice.”
“But you do. I don’t know what makes you think like this.”
Dragging his feet on raw sandy tile, he got to the chamber and climbed into it. Burning hot, steaming mucus sprayed from the faucet head.”
It was the multitude of spirits in her that made him uncomfortable. It was something about this place that brought them to her cover, like they were inside her facial muscles and words, and the quick swings and shuffles of limbs and surface organs.
When he emerged from his shower, the rooms of the building had entered a new stage and she had fused with them. The femur on her left leg had extended and formed a joint at one of the rotating shafts that ran up the wall and fed into a manifold on the ceiling. The rest of her, her pieces, began to form their own bodies and slither on tracks that carried her away. She maintained connections with this central component sprouted from her thigh with cable made of syrupy veins and ligaments. Electricity cracked on the back of these human vines. She had become the wildlife of this place.
The ache as her bones splinter and melt into flesh, then shadow, then long outstretched wings. Her tentacles are brushing the faded paint of four pane windows, sheets of gray rain without. The rot of death. The flash of a portrait of an antiquated soldier, a family crest, a crust of street bread. Grass heavy with the languid stench of mildew. The courtyard is as far as I am permitted to travel.
And travel became me. It is what I did, even in this incarceration. My travel, as I could make it, defined me. Up and down the stairs, lingering in halls, stuck within the bony layers of wall, plaster, wood, fabric rusted into place. I sent the massive creature of her messages, explanations of my syndrome.
In her bed I could be with her. I could make her sweat. I could fill her mind’s eye with visions of slimy castle walls and mutated men of the future. And when she cast me out with the flesh and spit of gods, I wandered in the empty fields not far from her. I went a little farther into the swamps and bogs before I began to truly live again.
Centuries from now, I will stand and begin to return. Upon my arrival, I will gather up her Sisters into a solid human form once more. And her eyes will be soft and light and strong again.
I felt a spider crawling up my arm and I woke up. The sheets were sweaty. She was beautiful from the dusty sunlight that invaded us. I was weary from a long night of tremors. My body fought strong against this alleged phantom. She fought with it in deep, colorless waters, in steely citadels, and in the whispered chants from bowed heads wrapped in holy flame and ectoplasm that sustain the beating drive of the universe.
Her lips were like the heart of a new ecosystem, in the wooded caverns of a new world. She smiled barely. “How are you feeling today, Samuel?”
Written by Brando (Brandon Hursell)
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Strange Creature
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Joined 13th Aug 2019
Forum Posts: 2

Savor me

Take your time
You have to be meticulous
You can't just feed me Ur meat
If you never marinated it
Odds will favour u
If u add flavour to Ur meat
U can't pound me
Like taking a pound of flesh
Yes I take pounds
Tilting scales for u
But kiss u have to
Cleanse my palate
And I will have me hooked
Ready to savor
Ur meat
Written by Pennyndush
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