Vincent walked alone through a forest, solemnly breathing the moist air. His thoughts were tumbling through his head, ripping him for physical acknowledgements. In fact, he was so deep in his own thoughts that he couldn’t even notice as the ground pulled him deeper down with every step due to the thickening moisture of the air. He was even too lost to even consider maneuvering through the wood, which gave him a zombie-like appearance as he stumbled onward seemingly uncaring. Not only was Vincent walking dejectedly, but he didn’t even flinch away as thick swampy bushes and sticks lacerated his arms and legs.
As he continued to wander, Vincent’s mind raged with ambiguous war, ripping his soul to shreds. The shells slamming against the caverns of the war-zone were loud enough to drown out the sounds of creatures skirting away in the darkness. Normally, Vincent notices more in one glance than most people notice in an eternity; but, now, the flashing of guns was bright enough to conceal the creatures too big to be afraid, but too shy to show more than their eyes to the helpless wanderer. The looming density of gunpowder enshrouded even the smell of decay, keeping Vincent from noticing the menace in the forest around him. He had wandered so far that the mud was reaching up a little past his shoelaces with each step, forcing Vincent to strain more muscle to pull himself onward.
It wasn’t until Vincent’s feet sank deep enough for the muck to engulf his ankles, tripping him and slamming his face to the slime that he snapped from his dejected silence. An explosive shell seemed to smash against his head, and just in time to notice that mud had clogged its way up into Vincent’s throat. Scrambling in a panic, he pushed his palms to the slime and tried to lift himself up, but his hands just sank in and became incased in the grime.
Before Vincent could even try to pull his arms out and roll over, six long, rough, vines snaked out of the brush and pushed him further down, holding his corrupted mind at bay. Vincent knew then that he was inevitably dead, and felt it was best that only one girl would know.
What was in his head.
Author notes
This story is metaphoric, and not a suicide note. I had to make that last comment because I've already had two people think that I was trying to say I'm going to drown myself tonight upon reading this.
I wrote this story because, well, I tried a new style of writing and a very important person said that she liked my old style...this is in my old style, so I hope that it is appreciated.
Signed,
Forlorn Content
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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Unique
Deep and dark. His mind on inner turmoil and unseeing. The war raging in the background is a nice touch as was his initial sense of panic, then acceptance. You have an original way of giving vivid imagery in a monotone style of writing. Does that make sense? Can't think of a better way to describe it. The ending is a twist, but makes an impact on the reader. Well done.
beginning: 4, language: 4, ending: 5, characters: 4.
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METAPHORS! Yay! Okay, this makes muchly sense now. One thing though: you say the protagonist's name too often. There's no need for anything but 'he,' after the first mention of the name, until there are two characters.
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This really didn't read like a suicide note to me. I liked this write very much. Well detailed and very descriptive. If this is your 'old style' I suggest that you stick with it. It seems to flow quite naturally. In my own writing, at least, I've found it best to write the way that flows out the easiest and not worry so much with how the words fit artistically together. This piece has a well defined fell to it. Ties itself together nicely.
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This was very different. Great descriptions and the details were wonderful. I didn't think it was suicide note. I thought it was more of a tortured souls. A man with many doubts.
~*Brooke*~
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