Results 1 to 2 of 2

Thread: First short story ever,would like feedback

  1. #1
    Registered User
    Join Date
    Sep 2009

    First short story ever,would like feedback

    Silent Tears

    By Dorrian Hawkins

    Demon Verse: 1

    Humans, they are so unethical. They put on so many masks, even though they already wear the ones they want to put on. It’s humorous really, but as immoral as they are, they make my job so much easier. At birth, humans are my brothers. Sin is natural to them, but just as my enemy doesn’t directly effect a persons life, I just like him cane prick into a “patients’ mind, pulsing an idea or illusion their way, but that is the thing about humans. If they don’t want to see or remember something, I and those like me can do nothing, to make them not forget it.

    Chapter 1: Forget
    My mind was lost. I couldn’t move my eyes away from his blank, tearing stare. The drops that crawled from his bloodshot eyes left shiny streaks on his pale face. With each appearing tear, my withered heart, decided to beat. The vibrant pulses from my core stopped, when he used his hands as a dam, to block his flowing tears.

    He stood on the edge of the beach, close enough for the island’s thick cluster of palm trees to cast a lovely shadow across his face and far enough that, his bare feet rested in the hot, midday sand. Above him, the clouds were an ominous red, behind them, the grey sky cracked with fierce, silver lightning. For the first time since I was a child, I could hear the thunder bellow, trying to out do lightning. The peaceful shade of grey acted as light on his facial features, causing the salty drops of liquid on his face, to glisten.

    This will be a good last day.

    As he slowly paced towards me, I heard the gentle crashing of the waves. They held a unique beat, first, peaceful to thunderous, then, thunderous to peaceful. Wanting to see this magnificent site, I looked up, and saw that the ocean was, dead still. There were no waves in the scarlet sea. It just sat there, and with my poor, aged eyes, it looked like an enormous puddle of blood.
    As he stepped directly in front of me, I could see he was attempting to hold in his sobbing. This of course, caused him to breathe frantically and led to him screaming “Liars, All of you, liars! This lady, Julie, she’s my new mommy.”

    I guess he was referring to me.

    Continuing he said, “She told me what you’d say. She said you’d send me to Hell and that, there is someone else that loves me, someone who was thrown down and wants his justice.”
    Watching, listening, I saw that his pupils were dilated and that they franticly scanned each corner of my aged face. Without warning, he then sprinted toward me and aggressively hugged my brittle figure.

    Naturally mute, I could say nothing. As he clasped his hands around my feeble back, I winced in pain. Tightened his hold, his long arms pulled at what brittle, grey hair I had left. I looked down at him and met, a beaten beggars’ face and the analyzing eyes of an infant.
    Losing his mother had brought him to frenzy, leaving for a week, we thought he was dead. That confirmed everyone’s thought that, going crazy, would wipe us out before the apocalypse would.

    Hugged him back, my arms quickly grew tired. I resituated my body and held both of my, numb, wrinkled hands behind his back.
    I gave what looked liked, a mother’s love.

    As he pulled his limp body up, he positioned his mouth next to my ear and whispered, “He told me about the person, the one that deceives all of us. He said that, he has even been, misleading you.”

    Gently loosening from my grip, he stepped back as if a shy child. He looked towards the sandy ground, playing with his hands. Looking back up, he glanced towards me, but, I had a feeling, he didn’t see “me”.

    Still fumbling with his fingers, he hunched his back and formed a warped smile on his face, “I know a lot now, I could hear him say in a low tone, “I know who’s watching us. I know who killed my mom and I even know what happened to your son, but Joe says the end of the world doesn’t matter, as long as we become Christians.”
    He started to whimper, he took a couple steps back towards me and with an innocent, questioning voice whimpered, “I’m a Christian, right Julie?”

    Joe knew none of them were Christians, at least none of them that were left.

    As he stopped, his tearing eyes grew wide. He gazed at his hands, as if there were ants slowly eating them. I could see he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. His vibrating lips slowly opened, but nothing came out. His naked chest suddenly lifted, a salty sea breeze, that his gasping mouth had swallowed, was traveling into his desperate lungs. Forcing the air down, he quickly brought it back up with a loud scream. Looking at me with shocked eyes, I knew now, that was like me.

    He quickened his pace of his breathing, while continuing his cries of pain, yelling, “My hands are on fire, oh God my hands! Someone, help me please!"
    I stood, staring at the young boy, allowing my cloudy, aged eyes to distort his form, turning him into my son.
    Altering the landscape around me, I tried to envision the gorgeous scene that, Joe had shown me. Screaming, people begging for help, it was so beautiful, but not the best part of the vision. What I loved most was, the pain and sadness the fire brought. The grief in my son’s eyes, brought tears of happiness to my own.
    I loved my son, and it pains me that I took this form of joy away from him. I messed up with my son, but I won’t deprive this boy of the pain he is entitled to.

    Turning away from the boy, I lean up against a tall, tan palm tree, attempting to put some strain off of my weary legs. I closed my eyes, trying to absorb this glorious scene, but it was to quite. I guess, during the apocalypse, God decided to take away natures music, the birds.

    They should have known that, you can’t escape the apocalypse by running to an island.

    I quickly opened my eyes when I heard a faint rustle coming from the overgrowth.
    Joan, the boys sister, suddenly burst from the island’s thick prickle bushes yelling, “Sean, is that you? Why are you screaming?”

    When she grew closer, I could see that, her face held a puzzled expression, which she used to look between me and her screaming, younger brother.
    Swiftly walking past me towards her kid brother, her kicking feet tossed hot sand onto my wrinkled ones.
    She had missed him. When he disappeared for a week, she spent the whole time, grieving under a palm tree. Everyone thought he was the reason my son was gone. There was so much they didn’t know, yet they thought they knew so much.

    Forcing his trembling hands toward me, his sister couldn’t see what was wrong. She grabbed his sweaty, shaking hands, causing him to cringe in pain. Pulling out of her grip, he again, forced hands towards me, continuing to tell me that, his hands were burning.
    Trying to envisioning the hands of my late son, I convinced myself to think that his teenage hands were fine, normal fingerprints, a few cuts, and rough from his short time on the island. I had succeeded in taking the boy away from his sister and now I didn’t even want him. I have no desire to be with one who knows and has seen what I have.
    Now staring at me, I could tell by the look in the girl’s eyes that she knew what I had done, by now everyone else probably did to.
    Catching my eyes, the girl stepped towards me s yelling, “Who the hell are you! What did you do? Did you think that just because you’re a mute, and old that we wouldn’t suspect it was you! We all know what you did!”
    I could hear her, but I wasn’t listening. All that I could comprehend was, the screaming of her younger brother. It echoed in my head, rapidly hitting my ear drum. Growing tired of the second set of screaming in my head, I lifted up my limp arm, pointing a crooked finger towards the bloody beach, the joints in my elbow and finger tightened and cracked, showing signs of arthritis.
    Grabbing her kid brother she stared at me and walked him out of the overgrowth and towards the scarlet beach. I turned around I imagined her smiling at me, but of course that was just an illusion I used to make myself feel better.
    Walking through the thick weeds, I let my mind wander into mental blankness. With time a came to a clearing in the core of the island. There were no palm trees, weeds, or bushes. Only the green grass, that looked as it was freshly cut.
    In the middle of the clearing, I saw a small well hiding in the shadows of the red clouds. It was made of stacks of durable, dull colored rocks. Walking towards it, I sat down on its rigid, coarse edge. Using my tattered hands, I rubbed it’s grey, stony plates.
    Glancing up at the murky sky, I lifting a leg and I dropped it into the well, scraping the loose skin against the hard stone.
    Looking at the cut, I used my fingers to rub the deep slash.
    Dripping into the dark pits of the well, rosy blood clung to the edge of my fingertips. Again, I tilted my head back in the direction of the gloomy sky, while putting my other leg into the well. I closed my blurry eyes, only to her the echoes of people screaming and yelling in my head. When I opened them back up, I saw that the sky was blue and that the sun was slowly emerging from behind the cloud.
    As it revealed itself from behind the clouds, I lifted my hand into the air, allowing the sun to shine on my crimson blood. It looked like a crimson star in the daylight.
    Resting my tired arm down on my lap, I slumping over, letting my crooked spine do what it wanted. Looking into the shadows of the well, I came back to reality, when a crack of lightning revealed the things hiding in the dark cavities of the well.
    In that, I saw just how depressing my life was.
    Pointing my scarlet blood colored finger towards the bottom of the well, I watched as it coursed down my finger. Reaching the tip, it fell. The blood’s brilliant glimmer shone in the crevices of the well. Courteously showing me the way, I followed it, and just like that, for a second before afterlife, I would be able to forget, forget the reason they scream, forget why the voices sound so close.

  2. #2
    I liked it. Some references were lost on me, like the references to poeple or what the said. Also you continued to pepper your main character with old, withered, wrinkled - persouly I thought okay I get it she's old. I mean I get it.

Similar Threads

  1. Searching for Holocaust short story
    By richards1052 in forum General Literature
    Replies: 2
    Last Post: 09-27-2014, 06:52 PM
  2. Short stories are an outdated form
    By Watershed in forum General Literature
    Replies: 49
    Last Post: 12-17-2010, 01:52 AM
  3. Replies: 14
    Last Post: 12-05-2007, 08:48 AM

Posting Permissions

  • You may not post new threads
  • You may not post replies
  • You may not post attachments
  • You may not edit your posts