#freewritting

[world-of-yana]

[one-step-at-a-time25]

A freewrite for writing class that escaped me

[marcosxii]

Nice when you find what you didn't even know you were looking for.

Any time,

we can get higher than this.

[puremfblank]

Silly me to think I’d ever be understood

[war-of-the-skies]

Rain. (Part 2)

Credits to @splutter00 thanks for the idea and for all those who wanted the part two here you go x

The hero almost slips down the stairs as they break through the front door of their apartment, paint peeling from the wooden frame. Rain pours down on them, soaking their hair and colliding with the sweat dripping down their forehead. The streets are shiny with water, reflecting the bright yellow headlights of the cars stopped in traffic, blocking the road. Maybe the rain was a coincidence, a fluke, a deeply misunderstood sign. But it doesn’t matter anymore, whether it was some stupid prank, or it really is some sort of warning, they couldn’t go back, and pretending like they didn’t have a painfully bad feeling deep in their chest isn’t an option.

They hear a deafening bang as they slip past the cars jam packed behind the traffic lights and turn their head to look toward the direction of the sound. A horrible shiver creeps up their back when they realise that it’s their apartment that it came from. They don’t dare look away, frozen by the disbelief that someone had found where they live, let alone break into their house. After a few minutes, a dark, tall figure angrily makes their way to the window of the apartment room and their eyes lock on the hero after a few seconds of scanning the streets. The figure doesn’t dare break eye contact as they back away from the glass. So the hero runs.

With already battered shins and buckling knees, they stumble to the end of the road, running a hand through their dripping hair in attempt to unstick it from their rain-soaked forehead. A searing pain travels up their leg as they push their limp into a hopping sprint; and they can feel the figures eyes burning into the back of their head. The hero is afraid. Afraid of who that figure is, what they are, and of what they can do. Running down the streets isn’t an option. It’s too predictable. They need to find a way through to the other road that the figure won’t think to consider looking.

The hero slips into a tight alleyway, taking deep breaths to hold back the rising fatigue of claustrophobia. They squeeze their arms to their sides and begin to shuffle as fast as they can toward the main road, side stepping to the end of the cramped and gloomy space. When they turn the corner, they’re met with blazing eyes, staring back at them through dark locks of hair falling slightly across their face. The person whom the eyes belong to is a tall figure, dark and muscular. Supervillain.

The hero’s breath is trapped in their throat. They can’t breathe. At first the hero thinks it’s because of the very sight of the big bad standing right before them. But no, it’s the supervillain’s very power doing this to the hero, squeezing their throat with nothing but the air around them, suffocating them. The hero’s feet are steadily being lifted from the ground, their whole body now suspended in the air by nothing but their neck. The hero tries to reach out and grab whatever is holding onto them, but when they try to grasp the hand in front of them, their fingers are met with nothing but air. Telekinesis.

Tears run down the hero’s cheeks as they swipe at the air in front of them, only for them to clasp onto nothing. Every kick of theirs only makes the weight on their windpipe worsen. Only makes the oxygen less interested in their body. Only makes their mind less interested in consciousness. The hero tries to say something but it comes out in strangled chokes. “Please…” they try to suck in a breath. The supervillain throws them.

They hit the stone wall but before they can get the chance to breathe, they slide down, landing on their injured leg when they hit the ground. The hero opens their mouth to scream but nothing comes out, their swollen throat refusing to make a sound. Instead, silent sobs come out as the hero tries to move their weight off of their leg, their attempt unsuccessful. They’ve never felt so helpless. So exhausted. So exposed.

The hero manages to take a breath. Small but relieving. Then they repeat themselves, practicing begging, “please-”

The supervillain picks them up again. The hero hadn’t even noticed they were there, but now the hero was being pushed up against the wall, their legs untangling from underneath them. The hero winces, not knowing whether to be relieved or not that the weight was taken off of their injury. The supervillain looks down at the hero’s limp leg, almost smiling. “Did you know the name of the villain who did that to you?” The supervillain sneers.

The hero sucks in another breath. “What?”

The supervillain pulls the hero away from the wall and quickly slams them back into it. “Did you know their name?” Their shout makes the hero’s ears ring.

“No.” The hero coughs out. “…but why-”

The supervillain slams them back into the wall and whispers into the hero’s ear with the voice of insanity, “did you know that they died after you left the fight? After you ran?” The hero’s eyes widen. supervillain’s breath is hot against the hero’s ear, making them tremble in fear. “I’ve got a problem, hero. Do you know what that might be?”

The hero’s breath is stuck in their throat again, and an exhausted expression is covering their face. When the hero tries to reply, their voice breaks, and their eyes swell with tears. The supervillain studies their pained eyes, before quietly whispering again, “I’m running out of players, and you’re the reason.” Before the hero can even absorb the information, the supervillain throws the hero again, and they fly straight into a house window, shattering it. The hero gasps as broken glass pierces their skin, and they reach behind them to pull a larger piece from their shoulder, dropping it in front of them. The hero’s own hot, red blood dyes their fingers and flows in lines down their back, staining their clothes crimson.

The hero practically whimpers as they stagger to a stand, hissing as they pull another piece of glass from their thigh, reopening the barely healed wound. Black spots appear in their vision, and they lean against the wall, limping to the nearest street they can see. The hero knows they can’t win. Not in this condition. So they trust their instincts and try to get away. They don’t dare look back, knowing that it will only slow them down. They shudder when they feel the rain again, washing away the blood and diluting the water falling in rivers to the ground. The drains turn a horrible colour of burgundy, and the hero can only look away and hope that they’ll make it out alive.

Just as the hero thinks that they’ve escaped the supervillain and turns round the street corner, they run into someone. A heaving chest and dark green eyes, they blow out a breath when they speak. The voice is familiar, yet horrifying to the hero. The last person the hero wanted to see. “Hero.”

Villain.

Hey guys thanks for all of the support on the part one of this post I hope you like this just as much it took me a disgusting amount of time to post this and I apologise for that but I might start making this a bit of a series now if you wanted to tag along so tell me if you want a part 3

[danielleelizabethhh]

“Your subconscious wants to peel back those layers until you make a conscious decision to heal yourself”

-d.n

[abstractasitis-blog]

Paint me with your lips, create beautiful layers of colors across my skin. Hear moan with each gentle stroke of your fingers beneath the sheets. You’ve created an alluring masterpiece off of my body, for I will always be your canvas and you will forever be my artist

- The Art ot Making Love

[jazmine-here]

Writer's Block: Nausea and Commas

Written by me in 2013.

i have this idea and it's epic.

my head feels like lead and mom's feet are on my back but i have this idea and it's everything i've ever wanted to write about but never did.

i try to picture the faces―the eyes―the dialogue―the commas between the heartbeats, and it feels real. nothing feels contrived. Times New Roman font and punctuated heart-lines are running down and out and it's real.

it's not throwing up purple prose and witty sentences for the heck of it.

it's not leaving my characters in paper cuts or folding them down the margin.

this is not about the grammar it's about my veins.

i want to leave the bed and write it down but it's 5:40am and i have to make breakfast at 6. There are boxes i still need to unpack; Mom needs her mattress out of the garage by 7. Then I have to help her set up her room and scrub the floors. The kitchen needs cleaning; the clothes need folding; I need money for groceries―does Dad have any? But I can't go without Mom because I don't like facing people's faces by myself; everyone's eyes end with periods and they never talk outside the brackets.

Maybe Mom will just let me push the basket. After that―....

crap.

I had this idea and it was epic but the semicolons broke up the heartbeats and i think i just broke the plot. i try to think back to the images. The faces have lost clarity [lens focus] and I can't make out the words. The edges of the font are blurry, and so are the character's chins.

Look at it―it's far out there now. Like the whole screen just boated out to the Atlantic Ocean and now all i've got left between my commas is sand and space.

Look―it's far up here now. it's not on my heart anymore it's on my eyelids.

i keep trying to pull it back down but it's making my eyeballs water. that must have something to do with the sunrise; whenever the sun comes up, i can't see my ideas anymore, because the heat always burns my thoughts and all i can think about is the sting.

i close my eyes. easier to see them in the dark. i wish i could put the pen to my brain and write them on the pinkest part before they're gone...

"Honey?"

There's an acid bubble in my throat; it's that feeling i get when i can't get the story up. or down.

"Honey, is everything okay?" The sun is peeking through Mom's hair, making the strands look gold.

"Yeah, Mom...just felt a little sick."

"Sick?" The wrinkles under her eyes have no stories or plot lines.

"Yeah, trying to figure out if I'm nauseated or hungry."

"Do you need tea?"

"No, thanks. I'll try to go back to sleep."

"If you say so...just don't throw up on the sheets."

i turn on my side and press my mouth against my wrist veins. i wish i could draw the story out of my blood with my teeth.

because i had this idea and it was epic...

...

...

...

...but now i can't find a heartbeat.