Some writings.

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prophet
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Joined: 21 May 2010, 06:36
Location: Missouri.

Some writings.

Postby prophet » 14 Jun 2016, 03:43

I was doing a paragraph fight and I was using a character named Alex, who is a schizophrenic heroin addict, for realistic melee. I really liked my opening. What do you guys think? Any suggestions regarding how I could improve my writing?

Disorganized, catatonic steps leave their prints in the nigh fluorescent white snow -- reflecting the light of the moon to ensnare those that find themselves between either body. This manifested itself more aesthetically to those without a firm comprehension of reality -- the air vibrated; gusts of winds skewering through the unfortunate. It rattled their minds and rended their flesh; it inversed their perception, ripping into their senses and diluting them.

Hands twitch erratically, physically clawing and grabbing onto others -- onyx hued fabrics are torn from clothing. A creature had muscled into the madness and grappled him.

Now, with its only precedent a blink, Alex was standing in front of a great stone citadel; a perimiter of great grey man-made monoliths and spiraling structures of exquisite architecture.

This stimulus reacted oddly with the fluids bouncing and swirling with his blood, pressing up against the inside of his vessels; attempting to make him burst. Alex's pallid flesh strained itself, trying desperately to keep itself intact as veins protrude and impress themselves upon skin; then, crimson spews and corrupts the white snow.

Yet, Alex retains his mind -- his sight unhindered. Yet, he was fully aware, fervently so, that his body was destroyed; on the ground... puddled, nothing. Then, they came; the denizens of the dark which only exist in the shadow, which thrive on his despair -- always watching, always scheming -- brooding in their insatiable pool of hatred. He heard them occasionally, cackling and moaning in pleasure at his instability. Their pink, worn bodies assumed their typical quadrupedal stance and merged on him. His screams didn't stop them as they lapped him up, cupping their hands and taking large portions of him into their nearly detached mandibles. Their blackened eye sockets sparkled and folded inwards, a token of their absolute delight.

Alex felt his arm, somewhere in the fray -- exhibiting itself to its master. It spasmed and searched desperately in the depths of where his hoodie pocket should have been, trying to retrieve grandfather's pocket knife. Maybe if Alex lacerated them, and bled them, they would leave him alone.

A prickling, sharp thorn made itself known. What happened? Alex was tossed back to where he was before the demons tortured him, before they consumed him, like they always do. Patting palms reassuringly glided over his jean legs, and unfortunately encountered an anomaly pushing to his desperate fingers -- the blade in his hoodie pocket was stabbing into his leg.

Emphatically ejecting a cry of both pain and relief, fingers curled around the hilt of the small blade. Alex was sure of it -- injury kept them away. His loose coffee-colored bangs hung down over his now narrowing cyan eyes as concepts bursted into his demented and twisted conscious. Yes, absolutely, positively certain.

With crossed-eyes and a freshly curled grin which wrinkled and stretched his countenance, the blade rotated inside of what it had created. Wincing madly, Alex could barely contain his elation. Incessant laughter accompanied by intermittent screams climbed the walls hungrily.
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