Morning all. I write some short stories at the moment, I'm studying for a degree that involves creative writing, but I'm not up to that part yet, so I'm just practising for now and seeing what I can do currently. Would you guys mind giving me some constructive criticism on the stuff I have so far? Thank you
You’re 8 years old. It’s a sunny Saturday somewhere in the middle of the Summer holidays. One of those hazy days where you drift from one thing to another, in a daze of contentment and happiness. You’re out with your friends, playing in the field by the road. Everyone thinks it would be fun to play a prank on a random passer-by, and you’re all for it, so you all sit around for a few minutes thinking of what to do.
One of your friends comes up with the best idea. He’s always just one step ahead of you in everything. You don’t hate him for it, but it’s why you feel slightly uneasy around him. Intimidated, maybe. The idea is a classic. The oldest trick in the book. So simple it can’t go wrong. The old “stick a coin to the pavement” trick. It’ll be a good laugh seeing the greedy gits scrabbling about on the floor after a penny, right?
So you and your friends set to it. You provide the penny, and someone else runs back to their house and returns with the glue. Within seconds, a prank the likes of which only a bored young mind could concoct is primed and ready for it’s first victim. You all dive behind a nearby bush, parting the branches and leaves just enough to see your trap ready to spring.
Perhaps it’s because it’s your penny, perhaps it’s because of the slightly voyeuristic feel of the whole thing, watching unnoticed from the bushes but you can’t help but feel uneasy about the whole thing.
It only takes a few minutes before someone spots it. It’s a man, probably in his 20s. He spots the penny, bends down to pick it up before straightening up again and carrying on with a confused frown across his brow. The next is a mother of two, one in a pram, the other toddling along next to her. She spots the penny from a fair distance. She must keep her eye out for spare coins left lying around. She stops the pram, her toddler wanders on a few steps before he realises she’s stopped. She kneels to pick it up, but just can’t seem to get her fingers under it. She recoils from the penny, checking her fingers. It looks like she’s broken a nail. She carries on at a pace, her toddler struggling to keep up with her. It seems she’s quite annoyed with your little trick.
As time goes on, more people spot the penny and hopelessly try to pick it up, to no avail. Just as you all start getting bored of your practical joke, an interesting looking fellow shuffles up the street, in the direction of your penny. He’s short, with a slight hunch to his posture. His thick glasses distort wide, darting eyes. He’s wearing a fusty old leather jacket that you’re sure you can smell from here. It’s open at the front, revealing a stained, blue and green striped shirt which only just covers his beer belly which sags over mucky, baggy jeans with holes at the knees. His boots are scuffed and worn, but still serviceable.
You can tell when he spots the penny. His eyebrows raise, and a small, shocked smile passes over his features. He ducks down onto one knee and sets about trying to pick it up. A frown creases his brow as the penny fails to shift. Still, he tries again. Nothing. He continues scratching at the penny. From your vantage point you can see his nails are incredibly short, probably from chewing. There’s no way they’re long enough to get any purchase under the coin. But still, he tries. And tries. His attempts are getting more frantic now, his face becoming panicked.
Is that… Is that blood on his hands?
You and your friends suppress various surprised gasps and cries as you all notice that his fingers are now bleeding from clawing at the penny glued to the ground. “Why wont it move?” he cries. His hands and the coin are now stained red with his blood, but still he continues to pry and pull and scrape at the penny with no result. You can see now that one or two of his nails have come away from his fingers, broken, torn and bloody.
Suddenly, he stops. He stands up, shaking, and looks down at his quivering, bloodied hands. He breaks the silence, “I don’t exist, do I?” The madness is clear in his eyes now. Open hands clench into fists, “I don’t exist, I can’t influence the world anymore! Oh god, oh god.” His eyes are wild now, his expression frantic, and his body quaking. Then, as soon as the madness started, it seems to end. His face melts into a serene expression of peace and tranquility. “There’s only one way to be sure.”, he says to himself, the broken, fearful voice now replaced with certainty and confidence. Slowly and calmly he turns to the road and steps down off the kerb. With all the nochalance in the world he strolls out into the road.
The screech of brakes.
The blaring of a horn.
The crumpling of steel, the smashing of glass.
The snapping of bones and the tearing of flesh.
Silence crashes in on the world like an avalanche. It is broken only by the dripping of blood from the now crippled bumper of the car. The man lies broken a few feet away, his head facing towards you. On his face is a peaceful expression, as a final twitch marrs his features one last time.
That was a good laugh, wasn’t it?
I meandered down the dark and lonely side street, lost in my own thoughts. Wasn’t all that sure how I got here, I guess I just gravitate towards the quiet places, the out of the way corners and the small-time coffee shop you learn about from a friend of a friend. Not that it mattered. Everywhere is quiet now.
It was the dead of night, probably somewhere around midnight but I wouldn’t know. My watch gave up days ago and I’d never been that good at keeping track of time. A cold wind picked up the dried out leaves on the ground, rustling them past my feet like a shepherd would lead his flock. I pulled my old leather jacket tighter around me, slipped my hand into my inside pocket and pulled out another cigarette. I carried on walking, just toying with it in my hand. Cigarettes are hard to come by these days, gotta savour every one.
I looked around at my surroundings. The fading street lights above cast everything in a sickly yellow monochrome that made me feel uneasy. The houses around here were your standard middle-class suburban dwelling, probably once upon a time they were home to a new family. Couples, newly-wed and with newborn child, both in steady, well paid jobs. Comfortable with their money, their place in life. Everything is peachy. Looking at them now it was almost possible to believe that was still the case. These houses had been left more or less untouched.
I moved my shoulders, rotating them back and forth a couple times, trying to shift the weight of my bag to a more comfortable position. I try to pack light whenever I go anywhere, but some essentials just don’t accommodate that. The contents of my bag were basic foods, stuff that wouldn’t go off any time soon. A penknife, bandages and the ‘Grumpy Stick’, as my little brother used to call it. To everyone else it was a baseball bat with a handful of six inch nails hammered through it, but my little brother saw how it set out to really put a downer on somebody’s day and called it my ‘Grumpy Stick’. The name just kinda stuck, I guess.
I put the cigarette between my lips, it felt reassuring. I never bought all that ‘it’s a substitute for your mother’s nipple’ bullshit but I guess there was some kind of truth to it after all. I stopped for a moment, bowed my head and raised my hands to my face to cover the lighter from the breeze that was picking up. It took a couple tries to get the damn thing going but eventually a small, faint flame flickered into life. After a little persuasion I managed to finally light the cigarette and took a long, deep drag on it. I put my lighter back in my pocket, zipped up my jacket against the cold and looked up to take a look at where this road actually led.
Fuck.
It had it’s back to me. Good, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t know I’m there. Gotta hide. Really don’t need a confrontation with one of these right now. A Stickler. I should probably explain.
About a year ago, there was an outbreak of the ‘flu’. You know all those zombie flicks that start with the flu? Well, that’s how it started in real life, too. Flu-like symptoms, leading to intermittent audio-visual hallucinations, followed by deep-set paranoia which then becomes violent insanity and eventually death. Then comes the re-animation. It’s not a pretty sight, watching a corpse anything up to a week old pick itself up off the floor and start walking around again. These aren’t zombies, though. That would’ve been a nice alternative compared to these freak shows.
At first the corpses would just get up and shamble around. Slow, stupid, just like your stereotypical zombie. Thing is, they weren’t violent to begin with. They just sort of, existed. The military, the government, every scientist under the sun had no fucking idea what to do with them, so we just let them be for the most part, until someone could come up with a plan.
Then the mutations started.
It started off with just little things, mostly cosmetic. You’d see a zombie that looked thinner than the rest, or maybe fatter, or taller, shorter, stockier. Nobody paid it much heed until the really crazy shit started happening.
It’s not like zombies don’t classify as ‘crazy shit’, they most certainly do. But the undead are at least believable, I mean, that stuff happens in nature, parasites taking over critters brains and making them do all kinds of weird stuff. Look it up. Anyway, what happened next made this shit look mundane. They kind of, separated into categories, types, I guess. The first creature distinct from the regular zombie crowd was the Sprinter. These nasty fucks had somehow shed most of their skin, leaving just rags of flesh and exposed sinew. Their fingers grew into talons and their legs became grotesquely muscular. As you can imagine, they run really, really fast. Humans are pretty original with their names.
Thing is, they weren’t so bad. At least they stayed on the fucking ground. The Jumpers didn’t. Imagine a gibbon monkey. Their arms and legs are really long, pretty spindly, right? Now, imagine those limbs on a human, twisted horribly out of shape by the ruthlessness of the mutation. They didn’t exactly jump, more accurately they grabbed onto something and hurled themselves around the place. No one expects a mindless, reanimated corpse to fall off the ceiling and into your dinner, that’s for sure.
After that came the Creepers. They’re easily the most disgusting, disturbing and downright batshit insane mutation yet to rear it’s butt-ugly head. Creepers look like badly starved humans, seriously emaciated, a skin-and-bone job. Eyes, if they have any, sunk way back into their heads giving the impression that all they have is two pits of shadows to stare into your soul. The worst part is how they move. The Creepers have absolutely no regard for the condition of their own body, and they obviously don’t feel pain. If a Creeper wants to bend a joint in a direction that was never intended for a human joint to go, then by God it’ll bend it that way. The result is horribly, brutally twisted frames flopping and flailing across the floor towards you, with torn skin at every joint, marking the many times they’ve stretched their joints too far. They move with a frightening fluidity for a rotting corpse, and their limbs and joints bend at every unnatural angle you can think of. This makes them excellent at moving silently.
The worst, by far, however, are the Sticklers. Seven feet tall at least, tiny, child-like torsos and freakishly long, spindly legs and arms with fingers and toes to match. Their necks lift their heads a good foot away from their body, and can turn all the way around, like an owl. However, there is something wrong with the Sticklers. Their faces.
I did what any sane guy would do. I stayed the hell down, kept quiet and looked for a way out while trying not to make any sudden movements. Sticklers seemed to have a 6th sense for finding people who hide from them. A feeling of fear descended over me. There was nowhere to hide that I could get to without alerting that spindly wreck of a corpse. I was going to have to make a run for it, but I had no idea how fast it could move. No one did, because no one survived an encounter with a Stickler to tell the tale. Still, it was better than standing here like a moron, and getting to a hiding spot would alert it just the same, so I might as well make a run for it.
So I turned, and I ran. I ran harder than I’d ever run in my life, and that’s saying something. Ever since the outbreak my life has been a series of events resulting in running away from things. Some people say I don’t have the guts to kill the undead, I say I’d rather save my weapons until I have no choice to use them. Don’t want my Grumpy Stick breaking too soon.
Inevitably, the Stickler heard me and turned to face me. I looked back as I ran, and I wish I hadn’t. It was completely bald, no hair on it’s body at all, and no clothes to speak of either. It had nothing to identify what gender it used to be, no genitals, not even a manly or womanly body shape. It’s torso was that of a young child, but it’s legs and arms were easily five or six feet long. Instead of a face, all the Stickler had was smooth skin. It’s skin wasn’t even discoloured and dead looking like all the other undead, it was healthy looking and seemed almost like it was actually properly alive. For a mouth, all it had was a straight, clean slit. Not a tear in it’s face like some rumours would have you believe, and no giant, needle-sharp teeth like others would tell you. Just a straight, uniform slit which hung open ever so slightly.
For a long moment it didn’t do anything. It just stood there, pointing it’s face in my direction, but not moving at all. Totally stock still. I slowed down my sprint. I was always a curious person, and I knew one day it was going to kill me, but at least I’d die knowing something nobody else did. Almost sensing my reduction of pace, it seemed to sniff the air. How could it do that? It had no nose. Whatever it was using to smell me out seemed to work, it’s mouth curled into a fierce scowl and it let out an awful screech. I’d say it sounded like high pitched whale-song, but it was more rasping than that, like it’s throat was made of sandpaper. That scream was all the encouragement I needed to resume my full-out sprint. I lowered my head and just concentrated on running as fast as I could away from that thing.
I could tell it was following me, the clicking and clacking of it’s clawed feet sounded surefooted and slow. A quick glance behind me told me that a Stickler’s stride dwarfs a humans any day, and it was gaining on me. I ran as hard as I could, aiming to get back onto the main road I’d turned off from. I guess I thought maybe someone else would be there, or at least some other zombies for the Stickler to get distracted with. The other mutations, at least, weren’t beyond cannibalism. The constant change from dark gloom to sickening monochromatic yellow as I ran between the street lights was disorientating and made me nauseous, but I had to keep up this speed. I was going to have to get creative.
I was getting close to the opening onto the main road, but speed wasn’t going to be enough, that fast bastard was gaining on me. I threw myself to the right, carrying all my weight and momentum into the old garden fence that bordered the pavement. Thankfully, age and the elements had weakened the wood and I smashed through it without too much pain and no injuries other than a slightly bruised shoulder. I rolled to my feet and dodged around a slightly bewildered looking zombie who’s personal space I had just rudely intruded on. I vaulted the next fence and ran into the house through the open back door. There was a loud crash and another ear-piercing scream from behind me. I guess Sticklers can’t see that well after all, and that one just found the fence. I heard the zombie I’d just run by let out a low wail which was suddenly cut silent by the horrible sound of bones breaking and gore splashing onto flagstones. Apparently Sticklers didn’t care much for regular infected.
I continued through the house, running as fast as I could towards the front door to make the most of the distance I’d put between me and that leggy monster outside. The front door was probably locked, but it didn’t stand up to me attempting to barrel through it. I rolled to my feet again, and sprinted out of the front yard and into the main road. There were several zombies here, and my little entrance had alerted them all to my presence. If I was lucky, the Stickler hated zombies enough that it would stop to dismember each one that got in it’s way, so I decided to leave as many as I could alive. I stopped to catch my breath, bent double, gripping my knees and panting heavily. Apart from the slow scuffing and shuffling of the zombies making their slow progress in my direction, it was completely silent. Where was the Stickler? Oh, great.
I straightened up and looked around. This was not good. My heart sank as I scanned across the rooftops. That’s right, it had simply climbed up the entire building. What was that annoying rumbling sound? Whatever, I was being chased by a Stickler, this really wasn’t the time to be thinking about stuff like that. I stood there, frozen with fear and exhaustion while the Stickler regarded me nonchalantly as though I was it’s latest plaything. The rumbling was getting louder, what the hell was it? Doesn’t matter. The Stickler let out another one of it’s screams and that was all the convincing my legs needed to get moving again. I picked a direction and ran for it. Left. The rumbling was louder still, it almost sounded like an engine, but there had been no signs of life when I got here in the afternoon. I heard roof tiles being knocked from their housings as the Stickler leapt from the building. I looked back to see it land, and it dropped to the floor with the graciousness of a cat. On it’s feet, no injuries, and it hit the ground running. There was a light behind it, silhouetting it’s tall, horrific frame. Were those headlights? That would explain the rumbling sound, it’s a car. Wait, it’s a car? It’s moving fast, and it’s heading in my direction aswell as the Stickler. I should probably get moving. My thoughts were moving slowly through my mind like treacle. It dawned on me that I was about to get run over, and that I really didn’t want that.
The Stickler, however, didn’t seem to realise. Maybe it couldn’t hear? I don’t know how those freaks get around. The car passed under a street light and I caught a flashing glimpse of it. It was a big four by four, one of those ones you see guys driving around when they’ve got something to overcompensate for. Still, it was big and it had a chance against that Stickler, provided it couldn’t teleport or anything.
Oh god I hope it can’t teleport.
The car slammed into the back of the Stickler’s legs, I heard bones snap. The horrible creature screeched as it fell to it’s knees and the car carried on, flattening it. It’s head looked up at me, lifted up fatally level with the radiator of the four by four. It screeched one last scream of defiance at me, and then the radiator of the car collided with the back of it’s head, catching it and tearing it free from it’s body.
Wait, shit, that car is still coming towards me.
I leapt out of the way as the car sped past me. I slammed into to pavement, headfirst. I think I must have lost consciousness. Next thing I knew I was being slapped awake by a dark figure above me. A female voice spoke out to me, “Are you alright? Can you move? Here, let me help you up.” Suddenly my point of view rose up off the ground. Everything blurred as I moved, and I slipped out of consciousness again.
And that’s how I met her.
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Topic: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___ (Read 313070 times)