A short story (one of my hobbies) i have written..

Hello all,

I was digging through an old notebook when a couple of pages fell out. i wrote this short story probably 3 years ago and had forgotten about it. After i had read it i realized i really enjoyed it and i wanted to share it. I feel like some of the metaphors in here are really great and i don't feel like i've written as well since this time period.

this is the only place i have where i really have friends so i wanted to just share this with you guys.

it's quite dark but well written in my opinion. i hope you enjoy it.

It's in the third post, my next post after this one, haha i wasnt sure if it was going to fit in this one. sorry for the confusion

Wow that's a short one alright!!!!!

I cant see a story mate?

Natasha sits astride a white horse, stepping lightly through the wild grass and clover. Her normally dark brown hair is instead a deep red, slicked back and held in a bun with sticks like a geisha girl. A tattered wedding dress barely hangs on her pale, waifish body. It's now varying shades of black and gray and looks as if it had been salvaged from a fire in someone's attic.

She rides through a vast, rolling field that's surrounded on all sides by dense forest engulfed in flames. The trees ripple like belly dancers inside the fire, never burning down only burning. The sky is somewhere beyond the fog of violet smoke which reeks of sulphur, pine resin, and burning flesh. Embers in the shape of tiny red butterflies dart past both sides of her head, they weave crisscross trails of crimson like a child scribbling through the air with a crayon.

Natasha comes upon a small playground in the center of the field. A simple pit of sand with an ancient slide with the wrong end pointing towards the sky and a rusted swingset. A scrawny, raven haired boy who looks about sixteen is rocking back and forth, spinning the cylinder of a revolver. He's dressed in an immaculate, shiny black suit. His shaggy hair hangs down and hides his face. The only sound Natasha can hear is the sickening creak of the chains as the boy swings. It's deafening in it's isolation. The young man spins the cylinder and holds the gun under his chin. Natasha scrunches her freckled face and covers her eyes in fearful anticipation. CLICK. She shudders, terrified by the sound which sounded as loud as a gunshot to her.

She dismounts, feeling the grass tickle her bare feet. She kisses the horse on it's nose just before it turns and runs, full stride, towards the burning horizon line. When she turns, the boy is holding the pistol rather limply to his temple, as if he were bored with the whole scenario. He squeezes the trigger slowly, excruciatingly, until finally.... CLICK. Even though Natasha can't see his face, he seems disappointed as he spins the cylinder once again. She steps into the sand, squishing it between her toes. There's only a few feet seperating them now and his hair seems to be moving. As she gets a closer look, she sees hundreds of tiny spiders that are bright blue as if to mimic the lights on a police car as they scurry around in his hair. She tries to speak to him, but no sound comes out. She tries again.... nothing. At the top of her lungs she screams at him but there is no sound except the clicking of the pistol's hammer and the creaking of the rusty swingset. The boy places the gun in his mouth this time and Natasha bites her lip in anticipation of the gun fire. CLICK.

Springing to his feet, the boy presses the revolver firmly between Natasha's lovely green eyes. The seemingly young boy's face is beautiful, but lifeless. His eyes are hollow and sunken, black as ink. His skin is pale and waxy, a death mask. One of the spiders crawls out of the socket on the left side of his face, where his eye used to be. It crawls slowly down his face like a tiny blue tear. Time slows down as he pulls the trigger. BANG.

Natasha wakes up, and springs from her pillow. Her heart is beating like a war drum in her chest. Breathing deeply, deliberately, she pulls herself together. Her silhouette is drawn on the pillows and sheets from her profuse sweating. The blankets are strewn everywhere, as if she had been in a vicious fight with them. She feels something tickle her left shoulder. She swipes at it and looks down to see a tiny blue spider, crawling across her mostly bare mattress. She shrieks and scrambles into the bathroom and locks herself in. She curls up into the fetal position, allowing the cold tile to cool her skin which feels as if it's on fire. She sniffles and cries, the smell of sulphur still lingering in her nostrils...




perhaps to be continued, we'll see how it's received. thank you all.

haha sorry bro, i wasnt expecting anyone to even see it that fast

?? where is the story?..is it one word, ROAR? Im confused

There it is!...good story Nik! enjoyed it, thanks for sharing.

Yeah nice writing mate.

Like they way you present a great mental picture of your character's & scenes

thank you so much you two...

it really excites me to know that other people enjoy it!

goob job it's very easy to picture the scene through your writing and that's the sign of a damn good writer