Rate the Story Game, número tres

So post an excerpt of your writing for the person below to rate.
It can be from a posted or unposted story.
And just a terminology for lesson for those like me who didn't know, "uneverything" means untitled/unposted/unfinished. Easier to type.

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(Atë)

There’s a needle in Ryan’s vein. Brendon sees, but he doesn’t say anything. And then later it’s screams and yells. Ryan cries until he can’t anymore. He’s left sitting on the bed hiccupping while Brendon throws some clothes and his iPod in a suitcase before leaving to go back to his apartment. Ryan’s alone.

He throws his head back to scream, but the noise won’t come out.

So instead, he sleeps.

(Morpheus)

Ryan’s lying in a hospital bid while an old woman in a nurse’s uniform stands over him. She presses a glass into his hand.

“Drink, my child, drink.”

Ryan lifts the glass to his lips and swallows, sputtering and gasping, choking as the acidic liquid burns sliding down his throat. He can’t take in breath and after a moment, the edges of the room begin to darken.

“Do not bear false witness.” She presses two fingers to his forehead and Ryan collapses.

--Drink of the River.

9. It's simple, but really effective. :D

I kept replaying the scene in my head, but the words always came out wrong. It seemed Marcus' words kept sounding like 'I'm leaving you." and 'I'm sorry it had to be like this.'
I stifled a sob.
Why did Marcus have to go?
There were plenty of fit, healthy, young men ready and willing to fight. But....no.
'Stop being so selfish!'
But how could I not be?
How could I not panic, as my insides were being torn and ripped into shreds?

I tightened my grip on Marcus' arms wrapped around my waist.
There was no way I was going to lose him.
I turned to face my husband on the other side of the bed. Even in sleep, his face looked so peaceful, so unconcerned. I envied him.
How could someone, about to join the Army, the S.A.S, look so untroubled? He might....die. Did he ever consider that? Did he consider how I would feel?
I shoved Marcus' arms away, jumping out of the bed.
He did not wake.

7. I don't have a problem with what it says, but the way it's formatted. I think it would work better/more effective if it were more in a paragraph form.

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The call disconnected and Brendon wondered--hoped against it--that Dylan’s home life didn’t resemble Ryan’s, too.

He rolled back over onto his stomach and swore under his breath. He hadn’t even noticed, really, but he was half hard, probably from thinking about hotel rooms and Dylan saying things like ‘blow’ while laughing and breathing in his ear, albeit not physically. He hated jerking off during the day. It was so complicated and risky. He wasn’t even allowed to lock the bathroom door and his mom didn’t want him to shower during the day when he’d just “need another one later”.

“Brendon, your mom and I are running to the store!” Boyd called up the stairs. “Do you need anything?”

“No!” the teenager called back, hardly believing his luck. “Thanks, though.”

If tripping over fences and going to parties was already causing second-degree burns, Brendon didn’t want to know how bad it would be after he left Dylan’s hotel room. Maybe the wind would have calmed down by then. Maybe autumn would start tickling the sand the way Brendon’s boxers were tickling his thighs as he pushed them down his legs.

--Confusion is the Strongest Emotion; chapter four: august gives me blisters.

I really liked it! Dru, I really love everything you do, practially. I look up to you. You're my... Mibba Idol. 10.

---

Love. People used to tell me it's the unconditional feeling between a male and a female. The part that confused me is male and female. Can you love someone of the same gender? Is it sin? I'm not big on religon, at all. I've never loved any of my girlfriends. I've never had sex with anyone of them, though. I've always caught myself checking out guys' butts. I always tried convincing myself that it's just a phase. This is my story.

My best friend in highschool was Jerry Monroe. Me and him used to sleep over at my house a lot. We swam every summer. And his abs, his body... I couldn't keep my eyes from his abs! Around two summers ago he admitted to me that he was gay. He asked if that would make things weird, but of course I said no.

Around a week later, when he came back from California, we got together and threw a house warming party at his new condo. There was booze, weed, cocaine... The usually high schooler party favors. Me and Jerry took about seven drinks each before we were buzzed. That's when we started sharing blunts and lines. We usually didn't do drugs, but we could handle it. After that he wanted to show me around, and pulled me up to his bedroom. I stumbled along with a goofy grin on my face.

--brownies and weed.; chapter two: Love.

9
- - -

Confined to my room. Yeah, that’s not cool. Not cool at all mom, just… I yeah. Stupid stupid test they’re all making me study for. Even Uncle Barry was all for it. How the hell is the Cold War relevant to anything? Well I guess overall it is relevant… Just not to me? How is it realistically meant to help me with this superhero gig I mean surely that stuff is better suited to I don’t know, Superboy? Just… I don’t see myself being all diplomatic or anything when I’m the Flash. Did that sound conceited? We’re… we are all definitely on the same page right I mean. Uncle Barry doesn’t have me in this mini Justice League to not learn things right? I mean surely its just like a business and, uh, when someone stops being in charge they hand the job down to a successor, right? I don’t know, I mean dude, I’m fifteen and I have super speed and my best friend is an acrobat am I seriously meant to know what I’m on about?

- Unposted YJ Fic; Wally's pov

9. I liked the run-ons.

-

"It's not about who we deserve," you always said. "But who we want."

The first time you did so, a smile twitched in the womb of my mouth, so eager to hear what I thought was going to be something saccharine. Like, a surprise trip on a cruise ship, perhaps, or an invitation to be your valentine.

What you said next was, "I know I deserve better than you, but look at where I am now, you lucky little thing!"

I looked at where you were then - in my arms, in my bed, in my life - and birthed a smile anyway.

- You Have Been Measured

9. I really liked the opening sentence. Some of the word choice felt awkward, but I think it was because I wasn't use to reading such words.
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You turn my skin into sand and watch me slip into the cracks in your hands. I’m the fierce harsh sea, upending boats and murdering sailors. I shouldn’t be melting into your bones and clinging to your heart; but here I am, plastered to you. The grain of my being is flowing over you and merging with your foundation.

I’m drowning in you and you don’t even know. I’m gasping in the deep end, wondering where ‘I want’ changed into ‘I need’. Could you notice me please, and throw me a life preserver? Because I’m dying over here, swept away in the current of never-going-to-happen. It’s far too strong for me, and I’ve lost all will to swim.

-Ripples (unposted)

9. 'fierce harsh sea' just sounds overwhelming to me. I think you'd be fine with either or but I really liked how deep it is.

-

Zeus detonates the sky with fulmination and thunder and electricity and I can hear Hera crying out, trying to relax him but he threatens her with a clenched fist of her own beautiful hair. I'm alone, all alone, palms against my ears holding my breath as Poseidon swallows me whole under a crushing wave. Tumbling beneath the water, cold and cutting, the tide pushes me onto the embankment. Cough cough cough water like cement stuck in my throat. I don't have much time so I gather my dress and broken pieces into my arms, running and running until I reach some kind of farm land spotted with old sod. And just like that Hephaestus sets the land ablaze, burning away crops and marking beaten tracks in the ground.

- ? ? ? ?

10.

-

[...]Michelle nodded, sipping at her own as she asked as to if Adele had spent the night.

“Yeah, ‘course. M’not gonna make her head home at some godforsaken hour just for you,” She winked lightly, making her joke clear. Ronnie reached under her counter of the prescribed cigarettes, long and white in their box. She was allowed them due to her forgetting to take her daily pills usually, and she often thought clearer when she was inhaling the smoke.

“Any issues lately?” Michelle spoke calmly, going into that professionally irritating mode that Ronnie wanted to forget about. It was easier to think of Michelle as a friend, not her therapist.

“Naw, I’ve been fine. No urges for fingers down my throat or a negative four pant size. There was the prettiest sundress the other day and it hung off of me like a sack. I’ve learned my lesson, Mich, really. You know I only keep you around for the cigs nowadays.” Ronnie slipped a stick between her fingers, rolling it lightly as she drank her coffee. Michelle laughed at her bluntness, but appreciated it. Better she was truthful then lying again, right?

“Good, m’glad. You’re less irritable when you’re eating. How’s life outside you win? Applying to the University still, right? There’s a great little nurse up there; she’ll who to contact if you need help and decide not to carry your phone with you. I’m still proud of you, hon, even if you’re leaving me and keeping the cigarettes.”

That’s exactly what Ronnie loved about Michelle. She understood her trust and didn’t abuse it, just always ensured that Ronnie knew her options. Michelle knew how to give Ronnie room and smother her all at once, just helping her client not make stupid choices. If anything, Michelle was just a good friend, not someone that was supposed to soothe you until they were able to pick apart your mind.

-

Beautiful Things

8.5

---

Oliver rubbed his forehead, staring at the carpet in frustration. “Jona,” he breathed, dropping his hand and leaving disheveled hair for Jona to stare at. He sighed and closed his eyes. “I coul’n’ care aneh less than I do now.” He was being particularly rude, self-centered, and recluse, but Jona refused to believe he was just a bad person. Oliver was fighting demons, worse than ever.

The situations with Amanda weren’t getting better. He had been cheating, the rumors were true. Not too long before he got with Jona, he slept with some blonde, Russian girl. He didn’t think about it, he didn’t care at that moment.

Things were getting too hard now, though. Everything compiled restlessly and he had to deal with it. He was sick of the fans sometimes, all the girls screaming and no one listening to their music. He was sick of talking with his band mates sometimes, but he wouldn’t trade anything in for tour.

Jona frowned and nodded once, plopping himself on the bunk. Oliver stared down at him for a moment, then sighed and sat himself on his lap, legs on either side of Jona’s. “’m sorreh,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to Jona’s shoulder. “’m feelin’ ill, tha’s all.”

“You don’t ‘ave to lie, Olleh,” Jona said after a moment of comforting Oliver. This only hurt Oliver more, but he didn’t retreat like he normally would have. He slipped his fingers around Jona’s neck, fingers seeming to grasp desperately at the hair on it- the ungraspable ones.

“Don’,” Oliver replied simply, fingernails grazing at the skin once more, subtly before he gave up on trying to obtain the grip he so desperately wanted. Jona was there, it didn’t matter. Someone was there and he didn’t have to worry.

“Breathe,” Jona whispered into the off side of his neck. “Nothin’s so important as to make ya feel this way, nothin’.”

Oliver furrowed his brow, relaxing shortly after. It wasn’t something he heard normally, but it was definitely cliché. He closed his eyes once again, letting his skin melt onto Jona’s. Oliver wasn’t falling in love, but things seemed to get a little bit easier with his words and touch. They just seemed in place, despite the utter chaos of their whereabouts, these things.

Oliver felt at peace, and for now, that was enough for both of them.

-Chapter six of Justified as You Let Yourself Show

eight.

---

"You were prettier when we were younger." Brendon said. He was smoking again. "With your hair all done up and your make-up. Your cheekbones were so much thinner. God, you're so fucking selfish. Cutting all your hair of and dressing in clothes that a sixty year old man might wear. Not even thinking about the rest of us."

Ryan was gagged. Brendon had put a piece of cloth in his mouth and then duct taped his mouth, not because he was worried abut anyone hearing. The room was sound-proofed. But because he was sick of hearing it, he said. "I wish I'd killed you when you were younger. But I'll cut your hair at least. It's so fucking long. You look like a girl and not even a pretty one."

Ryan tried not to cry. It made it harder to breathe because his nose got stuffed up and he was lying on his back. He'd already passed out a few times from lack of oxygen.

---uneverything

8.5
Jesus, that's scary.

-

There was Chris, all right. Entirely naked and writhing on the bed – an image she definitely did not ever need to see again. But that wasn't what kept her staring. In bed with Chris was, unmistakably, Beverly. Brett recognized Beverly's clothes that had been thrown carelessly on the floor, and she watched with disgusted horror as she ripped open the condom package. Jesus fuck, Brett hadn't seen this coming. Her first reaction was to scream. But the larger, more reasonable part of her brain took over, and she backed out of the room quickly and closed the door before they noticed her gawking at them.

She stood outside of Chris' door, feeling wooden. Was this why Beverly was so eager to join Brett for spring break? Was it all because of Chris? Brett tried to think back to every word Beverly had said, anything that could have indicated that she wanted to fuck Brett's brother. And Chris, what about Chris? Did he just let Brett tag along with him and his older friends in the hopes that Beverly would come with her? Her head was spinning with rage. That fucking whore, she thought savagely.

Brett was distracted by the sound of someone running up the stairs, and within seconds Cassandra Vanderbilt appeared. "Hey, Brett?" she said breathlessly. "We ran out of rum, do you know where we can get more?"

Of course, Brett knew where her mother kept her secret stash of booze, but she just didn't give a shit anymore. "No," she said dismissively. "I'm going to bed." Leaving a perplexed Cassandra behind, Brett strode across the hall to her bedroom and disappeared inside.

- unposted chapter of the life cycle of a star

9
- - -

I can’t. there are so many things I can’t do right now. I can’t… cope. I never thought about this happening. Bruce can’t be dead and I can’t do anything but accept he is but at the same time I can’t accept this. I just don’t think I can handle it. I can’t talk about it, I know that because I tried. I think that’s the worst of it. I can’t talk about it and I’m meant to be the talker of our little screwed up family. I think if I did say this - any of this - the others would pat me on the back and say al those bullshit things about grieving. That this is natural. But I don’t want it to be natural. I don’t want it to be natural because I don’t want this happening. I want to blink a few times and snap out of some horrible day dream.

- Unposted Batfic, Dick's POV

9.5. A capitalization problem once but I like how rushed this feels and how well you've captured emotion.

-

Zeus detonates the sky with fulmination and thunder and electricity and I can hear Hera crying out, trying to relax him but he threatens her with a clenched fist of her own beautiful hair. I'm alone, all alone, palms against my ears holding my breath as Poseidon swallows me whole under a crushing wave. Tumbling beneath the water, cold and cutting, the tide pushes me onto the embankment. Cough cough cough water like cement stuck in my throat. I don't have much time so I gather my dress and broken pieces into my arms, running and running until I reach some kind of farm land spotted with old sod. And just like that Hephaestus sets the land ablaze, burning away crops and marking beaten tracks in the ground.

- uneverything

10
- - -

We’re holding a memorial thing in about an hour. I can see the League down there along with a few others. Those who really were Bruce’s nearest and dearest. Alfred’s there handing Diana a drink and Clark is with Tim, hand on his shoulder, probably comforting him. Roy’s down there, I’d recognise that red hair anywhere. I wonder who he roped into watching Lian. I guess Wally will make an appearance too. I’m not sure if I want him here. I mean, Wally’s my best friend… Since we were Titans, but I don’t know if I can face him. Babs just rolled in with Dinah. That’s even worse. Babs will know I’m keeping it bottled up. She’ll try to make me talk and I know she’ll have the best intentions but I don’t want that right now. I don’t need that right now.

I need to stop looking out of the window. But maybe this, the mirror wasn’t my best choice. I look every inch myself. Dick Grayson, laid back and jolly, well not so jolly today but that’s understandable, isn’t it? My hair looks good and you can’t tell I’ve been losing sleep. Not yet. Give it a day or to though and I’ll start looking the way I’m feeling. I wonder if that’s when they’ll start getting concerned. I really hope not. I don’t want questions. I don’t want to talk about it. I want them to be okay first.

“Dick?” I didn’t even hear Cass open the door so she just succeeded in momentarily scaring the crap out of me. I feel sorry for her, she’ll meet Damian for the first time today. If I were her that’d be the last thing I want. I can see her through the mirror. She’s wearing a pretty red dress, nothing to fancy but still pretty, and her hair is down. It looks like something Babs picked out for her. In another time or place I’d say she looked pretty but right now its like someone’s twisting the knife Bruce’s death stuck in my gut. A bitchy reminder that he’s really gone.

- Unposted AU Batfic; Dick's pov

eight point four.

---

"You were prettier when we were younger." Brendon said. He was smoking again. "With your hair all done up and your make-up. Your cheekbones were so much thinner. God, you're so fucking selfish. Cutting all your hair of and dressing in clothes that a sixty year old man might wear. Not even thinking about the rest of us."

Ryan was gagged. Brendon had put a piece of cloth in his mouth and then duct taped his mouth, not because he was worried abut anyone hearing. The room was sound-proofed. But because he was sick of hearing it, he said. "I wish I'd killed you when you were younger. But I'll cut your hair at least. It's so fucking long. You look like a girl and not even a pretty one."

Ryan tried not to cry. It made it harder to breathe because his nose got stuffed up and he was lying on his back. He'd already passed out a few times from lack of oxygen.

---uneverything

10. Wow, I like it... very chilling. The only thing that seemed weird was this bit: Brendon had put a piece of cloth in his mouth and then duct taped his mouth, not because he was worried abut anyone hearing. The room was sound-proofed. I think the "not because..." could start a new sentence; maybe combine with the next sentence?

-

“Can we go, Frank?”

He won’t look at me.

In the nauseating silence, I reach down to tear the blond boy from the magazine, my hands suddenly cold with congealed blood. I know that I must not forget the cellar— the preserved children, the fucking stench of death. No matter how my mind begs for anesthetization. Would it be so bad to let go, to allow the memory of Frank’s snarled words to liquefy to nothing but a sickening taste in my mouth?

We don’t leave until Noreen dries her tears on the back of her wrist and stands up, rubbing the gooseflesh from her bony forearms. “Come on, Frank.” She touches his shoulder, almost warmly, but her eyes never stray from the money.

It’s still for a moment before he moves, flashing me a paralytic smile that dies before it reaches the muscles in his jaw. Noreen’s face contorts as he snaps shut the latches on the briefcase, but she doesn’t say a word. Upstairs, the two of them break the top off a bottle of red wine, and I take pictures while they strike pretentious poses with the money. Frank licks his lips and says “Shoot me, baby,” but he blinks too late and his closed eyes in the Polaroid make him look like the dead in hellish Victorian limbo, the corpse of a modern king propped up for a final portrait with his spoils. His jawbone juts from his face, eburnean, reminding me of yet another thing slipping away, all the thinning and fading— to bone and to rust and to hypomnesia; skeletons, rotten toys, stains in the grey matter.

Later, when he cuts his mouth on the bottle neck and blood splatters incarnadine across the broken tiles, I feel my insides heave suddenly, swallowing back bile.

- Capture.

10
- - -

Clark’s right, Bruce wouldn’t have want us to be upset. Not because we aren’t meant to be upset that he’s gone but because it’s the practical thing to do. Practical. That was Bruce all over. He said that we have to carry on for him, for Batman. That’s what he trained us for wasn’t it? It wasn’t about sidekicks or partners it was about legacy. Clark said a lot about legacy. He said a lot. I’m glad he spoke to me. He reminded me that even though Bruce was gone I still have the League. I still have Dick and I still have Alfred. I might have lost both my father’s but I have plenty more lined up in the wings.

“You ready for this?” Dick’s appeared beside me. He looks as suave as ever in his suit. Alfred picked it up for him yesterday.

I smile a little, stupid question. “Not at all, Grayson, you?”

He doesn’t smile back. This weird surliness doesn’t suit him. Dick’s usually the one who smiles after all. “How long until we can get this over with?”

“Not long, we’re just waiting for Wally…”

“You mean I’m the last one here?” Wally West, the fastest man alive skids to a halt in front of us. He pulls Dick into a hug, I forget that they’re best friends. Kind of makes me wish Kon and Bart were here…

- Unposted Batfic

nine

- -

Flowers. Each single one is so petite and frail but they also have a unique beauty. Doesn’t matter if they’re in a flock, each one catches your eye as a ripple of wind brushes their petals and stealing some of their sweet scent and capturing it within the soft breeze. The flowers aroma gets split up within pure oxygen, skimming along more and more petals. It flutters just like the insects that feed on its pollen up and up to the brightest blue of the sky and rests upon the cotton-soft clouds.

And when it rains, mother earths perfume sticks to the translucent droplets as a sign of hope. The water crashes and runs down the architecture of buildings, woodwork and glass whilst the flowers manage to seep into the inner confines; it brings a smile across the residents face as they begin to see the positive side to the sky’s tears. When the droplets seep into skin, they carry the hope throughout the blood stream, which then infects the body with the hope.

The sun will always rise, always set. It’s a known fact. And when it rises it trails the fragrance along every ray, multiplying the smell as the light it refracted or when the light is captured the scent is captured with it. Even in the worst weather, there’s sunshine somewhere, light to guide the way.

- - perfection.

Eight.

-

(we're only loud with the trumpets)

My wings fell off today. Little feathers have been floating to the ground for a while, marching on their merry way. I suppose they rode on a bird, or lived inside pillows. I will never really know, now. Soon everything else followed. The hollows and the curves, the tendons and the bones - they turned brittle and ran away with the wind. My back feels lighter. My halo had long glowed dim until it faded into the night, and the imprints of the harp strings have left my fingers. I do not know what this makes me anymore. One might say all the light is within, that I am still as good and pure as the day of creation. How I wish I believed that. And so I wish, but I cannot pray, because inside me there is dirt, there is ugly, there is abyss. My ribs are full of ashes and my heart is the color of soot, so much that I cannot even kneel and clasp my hands and ask to be heard. Sinners have the lowliest voices, next to the choir. Forgive me. I am all the way down here, and angels are quiet unless spoken to.

- All the dust is gone; unposted.