forum short stories:)

Started August 22, 2019 by Deleted user

tune

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I don’t have the attention span to write long ones, so I’ll post stories if you just want to read or critique. I’ll put trigger warnings before some, I tend to get dark sometimes.

Oh, you can share your own if you want me or others to critique them as well.

I'm so down for this! Let's see what you got!!! 😁

People have such strong morals. It’s funny how little they know about what goes on over their heads because of them. Or under their grounds. Or how little actually belongs to them.
Kiko Mayoko closed her journal with a sigh. The sun was setting. It was quite pretty from the roof, but she was waiting for something.
“Do you enjoy watching the sun set?” A male voice behind her asked. A smile crept onto her face, slowly, from one corner of her lips to the other.
“I do.” She replied. “But it looks different here than in Japan.”
That was a lie. The Tokyo sunset and the sunset in Korea looked exactly the same.
“How so?”
“I think it’s more of a yellow than a red here.”
The sun was always red to Kiko.
The man stepped forward to look.
Kiko stood, stepping up so she was just behind him.
“Look,” she whispered, “it’s like an orange. A big, shining orange.” He stepped closer. She followed.
“I see it. Like a peach mochi.”
He met her eyes. She saw only black, but knew he saw delicate surprise in hers.
“It is that way.” She smiled and moved to hug him. He let her.
His mistake. In one fluid motion, she “helped” him off of the roof, sliding his shoes off of his feet as he fell. She didn’t look at his face, but knew exactly what it looked like anyway-
Shocked. Betrayed. Terrified.
In a second it would look dead. She set his shoes neatly down, gently dropping a prewritten note next to them.
Tomorrow morning, the citizens would hear that the Korean dictator had committed suicide last night, and his son would take control. Hopefully he would do better than his father, for his sake.
They’ll never know everything.

Try describing the surroundings more; keep senses such as sight, sound, smell, taste, and feeling (emotional counts as well) in mind.

Please share! It’s ok neither do I

Moons
Prologue: A Night of Doom

Ellen walked along the deserted road, enjoying the fresh air that was filling her lungs. She looked up at the vibrant full moon with its splendid glory shining through the thick, dark clouds. In the distance she could see her home perched on top of a hill watching her kingdom as it slept . She thought of her new baby as she walked.

All of a sudden Ellen heard a wolf howl from the woods that were near her. A big, dark black creature with red eyes exit the forest. The creature stopped and stared at her for a while, then it bared its glistening, sharp white teeth and began to growl. Ellen turned to run, but it was too late! The creature jumped at her and tore her to shreds, devouring her as the night witnessed what was happening.

Inside the castle that was on top the hill a man sat in a solid gold throne. The man looked up as three men in gold clad armor entered the room. All three of them had a somber expression on their faces. The first knight had thick, blonde hair, muscle bound arms, and a very monotone voice. The second knight, the twin of the first knight, had very short blonde hair, a goatee, and deep blue eyes. Their names were Tim and Jim. The king was a large, strong person with dark brown hair with a solid gold crown with rubies, sapphires, and diamonds perched on top of his head. He had high cheekbones, dark brown eyes, and a light brown goatee. The king's name is King Duke of Sanford.

"What's wrong?" asked King Duke in a clearly concerned voice. One of the three knights walked closer to the throne. The knight had long, thick muscle bound arms with hands as large as a cannonball, thick black hair, and deep, brown eyes that always seemed to shimmer.

"I am sorry to tell you Sir, that you're queen is dead." King Duke slumped back into his throne.

"Cole, do you know how Queen Ellen died?"

"We think it was a bear due to the fact that the fatal wounds are too large for a wolf to have done it, but we are not completely sure." The three knights left the room. King Duke sat and began to cry, not knowing of how to take care and protect their first born child and daughter, Trista. A few days later King Duke ordered that everyone be back in their homes before sundown.

Chapter One: Daddy Issues

A lone female figure wearing a brown hooded cloak stood at a fruit vendor, looking for what she thought was the perfect orange. She had beautiful dark auburn hair, brown eyes, and blood-red lips. She was standing next to a stranger, who kept looking at her out of the corner of his eye. As she was picking up an orange, she heard a trumpet blow loud from the direction of the palace. At the sound of the trumpet everyone around her started to bow, for the trumpet meant that King Duke was coming in his horse drawn carriage. A strong hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled her down.

“Get down or the King will put you in the dungeons!” said the stranger next to her.

“He won’t put me in the dungeons.” She told the stranger.

“Who has seen my daughter Trista?” King Duke asked as he looked at the crowd. He spotted a person in a brown cloak standing, and started to walk towards that person. Trista saw that he was heading directly for her, and tucked her head to her chest so that he would not be able to see her face.

“Pull your hood down, now.” King Duke ordered her. As Trista pulled down her hood, King Duke got an angry expression on his face. “I thought that I told you that I don’t want you going out of the castle grounds when it is getting dark!” The stranger looked at her in utter disbelief, for he didn’t even suspect the Princess Trista was the person that he ordered to bow.

It’s great. Maybe you could substitute some of your vocabulary to make it more interesting?

Shadow Storm

Prologue

The fog crawled through the town, wrapping it in its arms. Amidst the fog stood a single figure, whose features could not be seen. All that could be made out of the figure was that it apparently wore a shroud, and wielded a long axe. The figure seemed to stand at a height of 6’9”, and had the silhouette of a man. The man and the fog walked through the cold, dark town. The air was silent and still; not a single citizen was out. The windows in the small reddish-brown brick buildings were shuttered and dark.

The man continued to traipse through the town. He paused. As he does the fog stops rolling into the town. The mysterious figure looks around, listening to something that only he could hear. The man shifts his grip on the axes handle, and approaches a dilapidated house with a dark blue door. As a dog would follow it’s master, the brume (another word for fog) follows the man. As the man takes the steps up to the house he yet again readjusts his grip on the axe, and with a mighty swing strikes the door.

The man repeats this process. As the door is now splintered into shards of wood he enters the house. As he infiltrates the building the fog encircles the home. Inside, the man methodically searches from room to room. The air inside the house is full of dust. Webs clutch the edges of the ceiling and walls. Dust hugs whatever it can get a grasp on. As the man walks he disrupts the quiet with squeals from the floor.

Kicking in a door, the man smiles to reveal that he has glistening pointed razor sharp teeth, for he has just found what he came for. Kneeling in the farthest corner of the room sits a woman, huddled with her family as if for warmth.

“Mommy, I'm scared,” says one of her children, a beautiful young girl with raven hair bearing a red stripe down the left. The girl vainly attempts to nuzzle closer than already possible.

“Shh, Delnis, everything is going to be alright,” the young girl's mother said. Like her daughter, the woman had brilliantly bright blue eyes, but had curly dark red hair instead. She looks up at the newcomer. “Don't you dare harm my children!”

The man continues to smile. He raises his axe as if to strike. Dawn pulls her children closer to her. Her son, a dark brown eyed rascal with strikingly white hair, grasps onto Dawn and Delnis.

“Please don't hurt them mister. They're all that I have left; we're all that she has left!”

“Be quiet Delnir!” Dawn demands. With the reflexes of that of a cheetah, the man lunges at the three, grabs Dawn, and pulls her from the grip of her family. Dawn tries valiantly to free herself from the grasp of the man in vain. She had tried to stab the man with a knife that she had concealed on her person. Enraged, the cloaked figure throws Dawn to the ground.

Adjusting his grip on the axe, he swings at Dawn, leaving a deep crimson gash in her porcelain flesh. Her blood oozes from the wound as a fountain. The man swings again, chopping off one of her hands. The more blood that flows, the happier the man becomes. Dawn slips in her own blood. Using this to his advantage, the hooded man swiftly decapitates her.

The children watch in horror as their mother, the strongest person they know, is easily defeated by the hands of this stranger. They weep for her in silent terror and agony as the stranger hacks their beloved mother to bits and pieces, spraying them with her blood with each sickening thwack of his axe.

The man, evidently finished with his deed, goes to grab Dawn’s severed head. As he does this Delnir rises up, and attempts to slice the stranger with the very knife that Dawn had used. The man, out of instinct, waves his arm and forces Delnir to carve a gash into his own face. Once done taking care of the brave, foolish boy, the man retrieves Dawn’s head, and walks out of the room and building. He leaves the once quiet town just as he came, and as he departs the town the mist follows him, enveloping him in it’s cold, damp, shroud.

Back in the house, Delnis carefully goes to her brothers side. She cradles his head in her lap, and uses a torn segment of her own clothing to stop the bleeding. Little does either of them know that losing their mother wasn’t the end of their problems, but only the beginning.

Word choice is amazing, the story is interesting though you could make it flow a bit smoother.

Here’s an old project I did for school a while back. It’s sort of like a short story I suppose. The exercise was to use a sentence(/short piece) from another students work and build something around that.

We sat at the end of the dock, Rykarr and I. The wind was chilling but we didn’t mind. We were both silent, enjoying each others company. We both gazed ahead at the ice that stretched out as far as we could see, the only hole in the ice a few feet from where we sat. It was beautiful. The faint sun shone on the surface, giving it a faintly translucent glow.

The silence was interrupted by movement as Rykarr reached into his gray fur coat for something.
He pulled out a bottle of whiskey with a small smile. I smiled back and took a sip. The liquid ran down my throat. A pleasant buzzing filled me, warming my whole body in the cold.
He watched me expectantly.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
I nodded my head. It was delicious.
He gave a relieved smile. “I thought you would.”
My lips twisted in amusement. “Your mother would be furious.”
“Ah you know,” he said running a hand through his ice gray hair, “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
I grinned, thinking of his mother’s reaction if she found us. Little did she know, but Rykarr and I were no strangers to alcohol.
“Where did you get it?” I asked.
“There’s a trading place a quarter league inland. I gave him a good couple fish in exchange.” He smirked. “That man didn’t know how I had managed to get them at this time of year.”
“But what if someone had noticed you? You could have gotten in trouble!”
“Ah aniqdux qavax,” he teased, “not if you know what you are doing.”
Aniqdux qavax, Little seal.
“How?”
“It’s easy. I’ll show you how someday.”
The laughter in his eyes turned serious. There was a pause and he looked deeply into my eyes, and suddenly he seemed very fragile.
“You’re a good friend Anai.”
His long lashes blinked over his dark eyes, his pupils wide, his face shadowing mine.
He sat back abruptly and began to twist a strand of hair around his finger.

“I made something for you, you know.” He looked nervously at me, his slightly webbed fingers twisting nervously. He held out a scrap of paper covered in his handwriting. It was a poem. A sonnet. I didn’t know how he knew that was my favorite. He handed it to me.
I blushed a little and tucked it deep into my coat pocket.
I would read it later.
I turned to him
“What about Eiless? Does this mean you’re finally over her now?”
He shifted uncomfortably.
“Her and me… It wasn’t a good idea.”
As the night slipped away and the gray sky began to faintly glow, we sat on the dock. The hair and fabric of our winter skin brushing against each other like a soft new language. We were just observing. I passed the whiskey bottle from my lips to his, hovering like a fog. I felt the nudge of a ruby sunset.
“Did you ever write a poem for her?” I asked.
“Not a single one.” he said. Our shoulders were leaning together like a kiss.
We sat together, silent, and watched the moon begin to rise, making my skin, darker than most, pale in its light.

He looked at me wistfully. “We need to go now.”
I sighed. “Yes.”
I took a deep breath and let it out again. I watched as my hands started turning to flippers and the fur clothes I was wearing became my skin once more.
I glanced over at Rykarr. He had changed as well. With a yip he leapt off the dock and into the hole in the ice. I dove in after him. He turned around and gazed at me with his wide black eyes. Then we swam down quickly.
Back home. All the while frolicing in the icy deep.

Your style is so pretty, it’s almost poetic. I also love how much of the surrounding story can be inferred from just this. Like, there’s no way of being sure what led to the point, yet it’s not confusing or annoying.
However, you should probably add commas here and there and adjust your sentence length. (especially at the very beginning. ‘We sat at the end of the dock, Rykarr and I.’ flows much nicer.)

Thank you so much. For the critique as well. The tone is party due to the sentence I used. I broke it up I believe. But I think it was something like,
The hair and fabric of our winter skin brushing against each other like a soft new language. We were just observing.
“Did you ever write a poem for her?”
It was from a friend who was very into the beauty of words and poetry speech. I tried to match the story to that.

Ah. Well, personally I really love fancy writing so I think it’s great.

( @KunoichiEris because now you can see more of my writing I suppose.)

(I was wondering why this thread popped up for me. Maybe I'll post some of my own.)

(I had originally written this scene/ short bit to be in one of my novels, but it never really fit in anywhere. Perhaps you will enjoy it.)

As always the temple was saturated in darkness. Even with the sun shining brightly upon the forest outside, the inner sanctum remained cool and quiet. A testament to what truly went on within the dark hallways and large room dusted with shadow. Worship of the deity painted along the wooden walls and thin screens, unfortunately, was not an activity readily participated in by the residents. Instead, they quietly prayed to the God met by all men, and to the instruments brought to life by their battle scarred hands.

Master and I currently sat within the largest room of the once temple, facing each other, although not a word had been spoken between us since we entered. His white kimono starkly contrasted the yawning maw of the statued ancient god behind him, and to my own darker clothing. This was meant to intimidate, to bring significance to the one before me, to the silent, yet intimate ceremony taking place between us. The only sounds coming from our breathing and the melodious, shing!, coming from the blade being sharpened by Master's hand.

My legs had long since gone numb, sitting seiza will do that after a number of hours, but the rest of my body was tense. Humming with the effort to keep silent. To keep still. We had been here since dawn, forgoing meals and other bodily needs as the afternoon sun blazed. The shadows dancing with mirthless glee. But as always this was a test of my resolve, my perseverance now that I knew my true duty. As it was my last test, I could not fail now. Victory and honor within my grasp. I could not turn back. The taste of blood and grit on my tongue from all my training echoing back to me with each swallow of my parched throat, each breath that seared my aching lungs. Just as sour and ripe as the pain which lead me here. The burn I felt in my bones, picking me up over and over again as Master and the others had beat me down. No. Turning back was no option.

"Calm yourself, Akira, the leaves will fall when they fall. Whether it be the wind that takes them or the fire." Master spoke finally, a rasp as loud as a scream as the entire world seemed to go silent to hear his words. A final stroke of the blade against the stone and he was standing before me, the blade's kissing my cheek with lover's softness. Blood of the sword's servant shall be the first blood it tastes. I did not look up, although I wanted to see my Master's pride. Did not move as the air whooshed as the blade disappeared and returned to my cheek like a slap. Did not move as blood oozed down my face and pain flared under my eye, the hot blade hissing against the coolness of my blood. My oath. My scar. The same scar we all had, we warriors of the mist. The same scar that was mirrored on Master's face as I turned my gaze from the ground to his face, standing as I did so.

I did not stumble, despite the blood rushing through my legs. Master's still towered over me, his imposing face cracking the tiniest bit as he bowed. The sword extended to me, it's tip resting on the sleeve of his opposite arm, red staining the white. I had succeeded. My hand shook slightly as I took the tsuka in my grip. Although it did not shake with fear, exhaustion, or grief, but with determination. For I had a mission.

"Akira, today you are a warrior. A true child of the blade. Serve–" Odd, with his face contorted in pain, Master looked frightfully like the forgotten god over his shoulder. My blade sticking out from his chest ruined the image just slightly. He stared at me, eyes portraying all the emotion that he could not speak. Shock, betrayal, rage, to name a few. His hands reached for my throat, extending awkwardly as his body lost it's strength. I took a step back, easily deflecting his advance. Before he toppled completely, I yanked my sword from him, and finally he released a guttural gasp of pain. Horror shown in the light left in his gaze now. I could almost see my reflection staring back at me within them. A small light shadow against the ink of the evening, not a touch of emotion on the moonlit face. "I had–loved–you–"

No he hadn't. He had honed me, just has he had done to the blade. Raised me to be a weapon, unknowing that it would be the one of his demise. He expired with no honor. A true horror to the leader of the mist warriors. I could not muster even the slightest grief for him.

I raised the blade so the gilded edge was level with my eye before bringing it down mercilessly to slice the light between myself and the world. Blood fanning out onto the floor and walls. The sword sang, just as ready for revenge as I was.

"Thank you, Master."

Whoa.

I honestly really love that and am way to spacey to critique anything but I’m going to forget it and I want to tell you I read it. Uh, watch your past and present tense?

I haven't started it yet, but I had an idea for something.

Someone who was a cop/firefighter/soldier (anything where someone can potentially save someone else's life) dies on the job. Upon dying Death (as in the horseman Death) approaches them, and tells them that they've been personally selected to be trained to be a reaper (because Death can't do the job alone).