Forums → Art, Music, and Writing → Alt's Menagerie of Art! Writing! Fractals! (Warning: Lots of images)

ummmmm. . . .

*will be posting old stories soon*

*is wondering if he should*

You should, you will, do it....nao. I want stories!!

DISCLAIMER: THESE ARE OLD AND CRAPPY

Skiing
His mental health had always been unstable; he was prone to night terrors and hearing voices. But his mental state was not too scrambled; he simply took a low does of medication. Two pills, 200 milligrams, that's all. Two pills each month and he was fine.
He and his two best friends had gone skiing. Up in a pristine slope in Colorado; the sun was shining off the snow, creating a pale-white glow that pervaded everything in their area. The time was 3:00.
He was a surreptitious man; his true emotions hidden behind a facade of stupidity and indifference, his eyes stared blankly at whatever they were fixated on. Yet behind those stupid eyes was a salient intelligence and word smithing; after all, the best writers are insane. He wrote editorials and short stories for a living, and his name was on many popular short stories across various collections: The Compendium of Tales, The Story Collections X, XIV, and XVI, and Stories of Steel. His publishing agency, Sycorax, was at first reluctant to enter his stories in these collections; they soon realized, however, by the sharp eye of one Mr. Crestview, that without his stories, the entire book would be tantamount to a random collection of scatterbrain thoughts vomited onto paper. He was good at what he did.
Their skiing trip had gone smoothly for a while. It was getting dark, however, so they needed to head back to the lodge; they had gone far out, so they needed to backtrack to the lift. He was walking at the rear of their group; minding his own business. But then, he heard a scream. The others weren't fazed, so he felt it was his duty to save the lost, freezing person who owned that scream.
Trekking out into the woods, he continued to hear screams, which enticed him into a northern direction. He kept trudging through the seemingly vampiric snow, still hearing these screams, as the wind pounded brutally against his face.
He began to feel weak, and deathly cold. He was catching hypothermia; yet still he continued onward to the person he was to rescue. Getting weak, he sat down up against a stalwart tree, breathing heavily. His vision began to darken. . . .
He awoke in a friendly lodge; with his friends next to him. He immediately got up, silently, and sat by the fire; the biting cold inside of him smoothing into a recuperating cool; he felt as though he were a half-corporeal being who lay in a cool river, the sublime cool inside of him like the freshest water. After warming sufficiently, he went over to his knapsack, and checked his pills. The bottle read on the sticker: "50 mg pill." He sank, contented, into a leather chair, and took two more pills. However, sometimes he swears he can still hear the terrorized screams of a small child in those woods. . . .

--------

Writer's Block
He sat on his desk, lightly cradling his aching head in his hands. A pen and paper lay beside him, lined with sentences that have been scribbled out. He had been trying to write another story for days; all attempts to start a new novel had been met with agonizing writer's block. He was a triple-A author; having written two Pulitzer novels, and four other that had been honored. His publishing agency was expecting another soon; but he just couldn't think of a single thing. Now matter how many titles he started, now matter how many openings and dialogs he wrote, he just couldn't find another story to sculpt.
He had tried everything; he had walked all day, waiting somewhat impassively for inspiration to strike. Yet none came. He would stare at something, with a steely glint in his eye; studying it intently. He would brainstorm various things. He would write questions. But no matter how much he did to call inspiration back to him, she would not smile upon him again. He had lost her; he had left all of his creativity in a final opus that was intended to be the opening into a whole new series. All traces of her had left him; not a single snippet had remained inside of him.
He had become used to this; living without inspiration was the common thing for him now. Inspiration was but an old flame; doused by the flood of his laziness, a forgotten memory, an ephemeral image of what was. He had been stricken with the heaviest grief; with separation anxiety. But now, his drab life had become the paradigm of his existence. He had sunk into a routine. A routine. A vicious repetition of the day behind it; with nothing new. Every day, after day after day, he just did the same things. He would wake up and fix coffee. He would read the newspaper. He would eat breakfast. He would watch TV. He would take a walk. He would get home. He would eat dinner. Then, he would rinse and repeat the same process thousands of times; with nothing at all interrupting his unstoppable grind forward. He lived like this for many years, each one progressively more mundane and painful.
He died a tortured soul; the colors of his personality faded by the washing machine of his inspirationless life, the once-magnificent structure of his literary mind rusted and broken from the pounding rain of his mundane aspirations. He had grown reclusive in his later years, and he had his groceries delivered. He knew not a single person anymore; the only thought of humanity was of that sweet little girl, inspiration. Left as but a single, washed-away footprint on a beach. His epitaph read but this: "Lost was his inspiration. Lost was his life."

-----------

The Letter
Once, a very solitary man, who lived in a secluded house far away from any other soul, received a letter. This was a puzzling occurrence, as he had no relatives, no friends, and no acquaintances. And yet, there was a letter sitting on his doorstep. On the back, it plainly read: "from someone who cares." No one cared about him. He was an exile. A hermit. There was not a single person who cared....that is, until he opened the envelope carefully. Inside of it was a piece of paper; a very subtle, elegant stationery. It was beautifully bordered, with a serene, floral print encircling meticulous text. The writing was a beautiful cursive font, handwritten with the utmost care, which simply read: "I'm still alive. Write back. Please. From, Sybil." The "L" was finished by a small swirl, which ignited memories from his past. Painful memories. Memories of a kidnapping; memories of a precious life lost to time. Yet with those few, eloquent words, all that was changed. All that was erased. And happiness filled the void, so much so that the man started to shake and cough, his body wracked by coughs of joy. These convulsive coughs shook his fragile frame to the core, so much that the old man could not bear the flood of joy. And so he collapsed to the ground, never to rise again, with the letter slowly falling onto the floor next to him.

Also, I'd really appreciate feedback on any of these, if you have any to give.

DISCLAIMER: THESE ARE OLD AND CRAPPY

There wasn't much to add to it, though.

Read Skiing then. Pwease?

Don't expect there to be a lot of posting here for a while. . .I've hit a block. . .not in an artistic mood. . . .

I love the skiing story, well done Alty.

I'm going to read the other two and give some feedback.

. . . . . .

Its been like a day. . .no feedback. I need feedback for improvement >.>

I need feedback for improvement >.>

he simply took a low does of medication

Thanks. Means a lot - also, I suck st typing, so lots of typos DX

I suck sttyping,

Maybe. . . .

I'm considering starting a novel. I have a few ideas lined up, I just need inspiration for one of them.

Threadus Revivus!

A lone wolf, lookin' for a place to be
attacked, beat back, lost track of by society
I can't see, I can't see
can't find a place to exist, a place just to be

it's the dullest point I've never seen
in the right park, barkin' up the wrong tree
A question to the answer I always flee
is it them, or is it me?

I've done nothin' but I still pay a fee
need glasses to be blind, without 'em I still can't see
in backlash, like being on a leash riding a jet ski
finding myself ain't exactly my cup 'o tea