It's simple enough. I hear a lot of people (or actually mainly tech) talking about literature and whatnot, and how they would love to write it. Personally, my only obstacle is either a lack of inspiration or lack of purpose, which I shall be providing in plethora. The Rules of Engagement are simple: I will call a subject every Wednesday, and naturally, write my own story of it to prelude this. However, the prelude will not directly be related to the subject, to keep plagiarism off. At the end, I shall be giving you a lovely subject, some prerequisites, and we're off! You reply your short stories within 5 days. I will then judge them on the Tuesday, and figure out some new subject (and write my new prelude). Then, on the Wednesday, we shall all start again! Week 1: A mind in the Dark It's a natural thing, to be afraid of the dark. Everyone will deny it, but none of them will actually want to enter that scary dark room, especially not alone. At least, any sane man wouldn't. I? I like the dark. It's my friend, it greets me after a busy day, asks me what's wrong when I am feeling down. The dark is where lies are said and truths are heard. But am I the only one who can also see the truth in the dark? No, that is all wrong. The dark is more than a friend. The dark is my lover, who wraps me in it's caress when I return, who's lips greets mine when we are alone. Am I the only one who can feel the dark? But, inevitable as it is, couples fight, and the dark showed herself to be nothing but a bitter ex. A fake smile adorns her face when she greets you, but when you turn your back, all you will receive are daggers. The more I try and regain her, the more she runs away from me. Am I the only one who chases the dark? The dark is nothing but a lost friend. Someone you thought you knew, but whom you didn't know at all. I realized that too late. Someone who betrayed you long ago, but you still hold dear in your heart. Am I the only one who remembers the dark? Actually, the dark is my worst enemy. Someone who puts up a fake face, wins your heart, tears it apart, betrays you, uses you, blames you. Am I the only one who, after all that, still desire the dark? The dark is simply a woman, in all her complicating ways. Nothing need be said but that, for it's the perfect explanation for the dark. Or, at least, it would be. But, if the dark is all these things, why do I still desire her? If a woman is all these things, why do I still seek her? I know now, why I am afraid of the dark. It is not because I do not know the dark, for the dark I know so well. It is because I do not know myself. As you can see, the theme of this week will be "The Dark". Unlike many novels, where sight is a very important part of the experience, and where most events are based upon what the main character sees, we'll immediately challenge you to go a step further. The short story must be themed in some darkness, and most descriptions, events, and knowledge must come from other senses but sight! Think revolutionary, and good luck! Edit: To solve confusion: The Prelude is for inspiration, and to set the tone. You make a new story from scratch. You have a max of 10000 (since that is the max for any reply)
Darkness, in contrast with brightness is a relative absence of light. It is the appearance of black in a color space. It is my being, my soul. I see darkness. I feel darkness. I hear darkness. I smell darkness. I touch darkness. I taste darkness... ...and then I opened my eyes. EDIT: Scryercloak gets 4 likes and I don't get any? I see how it is Edit: 5*
She awoke to blurred vision and the sound of rain. Her wet skin coated in a film of red even though the rain beat over her. She gripped her chest as the last waves of an unexplainable rage and pain left her empty and lost in the rainy night. She opened her eyes and examined her surroundings. Bodies. Hundreds perhaps more. A long trenchcoat lay at her side with a strange six pointed star embroidered on the back, it too stained red. She shook once and then drew the oversized coat over her shoulders before getting to her feet. She walked around what looked like a battlefield,... trenches full of bodies most looking of women and children. Soldiers slumped over their fortifications as if they had little time to react. A foreign voice yelled in her direction. With a hiss and a whirl she turned towards the approaching danger. "Hiss?" she thought. "Did I just hiss?" A light blinded her eyes as a voice echoed in her mind. "Isabella",... "Isabella, are you alright?" Her eyes blink and adjusted to the bright white room. It was her new home, a cell-like room in a private research center for Dr. Xilocient, the man who found her all those years ago. "Isabella. its time for your meal," a nurse said as she slowly laid a tray down at the girls art desk. Pictures of many places and people she's never seen lay strewn about the table. The nurse Lydia was still new and didn't understand her "diet". "Dr. Xilocient insists you drink this special shake laced with a blood compound to help you with your weakened blood system. "Ahh,..." Isabella said as she closed her eyes and tilted her head back slightly. "Type O today is it?" The nurse pailed visibly before recovering to ask "How did you know?" Isabella's eyes open slightly as glanced up at two pictures of a wolf and a man before replying, "I can smell it." Her days were spent in the brightly lit room. Food to keep the hunger at bay,... questions to keep the Doctor's mind busy,... and a chilling dark emptiness in her mind that refused to offer up it's secrets. Over 50 years have passed since the "young" doctor found her at the slaughter sight of a jewish concentration camp. She was the only survivor. The years that passed taught them that she stayed the image of a 20 year old girl, could not maintain hemoglobin in her blood and required constant resupply, oh yeah, and she suffered complete memory loss. Her only hints to her past were the remaments of her memory that drifted to the surface as pictures on her room walls. Everytime she closed her eyes her darkness revealed another piece of her fragmented memory in the form of a picture on her wall. She never remembered drawing them,... but she'd seen the video coverage of her making them time and time again. Will her Dark half darken her bright room with her history, or will the light of her life obliterate the sins of her past?
