Rate the Story Game, número tres

8. It's really sweet and I'm curious as to where everything ends up, like I already like Matt and I want him to get back with this Skylar character, but the grammar and spelling were a little wonky and it seemed a tad clichéd.

----

First class of the morning, Nattie and Juliet had math together. Algebra 2 honors, which came naturally to Nattie. Juliet hated it, hated it, hated it, but no matter. No matter if she didn’t know the logarithmic function; she knew the trail of tiny curls along the fumbling boy's neck and each one of his desperate analogies to try to help her understand, and the thing was that he honestly did want to help the skinny, soft-spoken blonde.

She always swore it was futile, nowhere short of impossible, but nothing was impossible for Nattie, ever. He would go to the moon and back just to prove a point of his, and no matter how irritating it could become, it was always ultimately a little bit endearing.

Nattie was cute and good at math, if not so much else, Juliet figured. She liked him quite a lot more than she would let on.

--- bit from All Alright, unposted fun. fanfic

Seven. I would liven it up with more interesting words or sentence lengths to bring the idea out a little more.

- -

My stomach convulses as my blood tries to attack the poison jumping from organ to organ. My head feels tender as the corner of my eyes play tricks on me. Why won’t my body just relax and let the ocean soothe the turbulent thoughts of the mind? I urge it, I pray for peace throughout; to feel Kitty rub its soft head against my skin and to purr as it curls up next to me for the night ahead of us. The taste of hatred for the current world trickled down my throat, making me gag. A roar erupts from within my head, destroying my dream of solitude. What is happening? What use am I in reality if I’m unable to think of anything else but the nirvana waiting at the other end of the light?

Everything comes back to the blood, back to the fight undergoing through my every limb. Just surrender please, give up the losing battle. It’s over. I want this. Come to me Kitty. I stretch my arms towards the ceiling that seems to be coiling into the distance. I’m a tiny piece of shit in a world that doesn’t even try to understand how the superego can drive a human to the edge, and they’ll never understand me because this iceberg is sinking. Once my body drops from the conscious I’ll be able to sit and watch the world go by where everything works out in the end.

Slowly I feel the sharp focus of the room ease on my retina and I can’t feel my hand tracing patterns on my aching stomach. The last flicker of emotion splashed across my face as I felt the ocean fill the room I was in and my mind finally start to sink.

- -

Rewrite of Special K.

10. The descriptions are absolutely amazing.

---

The voices of dozens of little girls filled the crisp spring air. We ranged in age from as young as four, which was how old I was althoughI'd be five next month, to as old astwelve.After that,children were too old to live in this orphanage and were sent to live somewhere else. Each of had a story. Some were true orphans, with parents who had perished in somehorrible accident or grisly murder. Others, like myself, had parents who were still living but couldn't afford the burdens of a child.

I have several patches of memory from the day I was left at this orphange. I remember my mother pushing my blonde hair from my forehead and planting a kiss there. I remember both of my parents promising profusely to return for me, and I remember my naive childish beliefs that they would. Last I heard, my father was in prison due to trouble with the Russina police, and my mother was a begger onthe streets.

Whatever the story, we were all the same here. Boy, girl. Short, tall. All were the same. We were all nameless faces clamoring for a spot ona pedestal that did not exist.

April 9, 1989 was an unseasonably warm day in the Ukraine. Fifty one degrees fairenheight. We were allowed outside todayasa resultofthis oddity in the weather. The boys, all twenty-seven of them, played their usual outdoor game of 'Dragon', and the girls, who numbered thirty-eight, played hop scotch. It was a rather boring game, but it was better than being stuck inside on such a nice day.

"Senoma, throw the pebble!" Yvonne chided. Yvonne was the eldest girl in the orphanage, and so it was unwritten that the others listened to her. I fingered the small brown pebble in my hands. It was quite pretty, and I didn't wanttothrow it. "Go on, then."

I swung my arm back to send the pebble across the lopsided squares that Edith, a mousy seven-year-old girl, had drawn. However, a loud cry in Ukranian stopped me

"Senoma!" the headmistress yelled."Come here, dear."

I skipped over to the headmistress. She was a delightful woman,and she treated her charges well. Standing withher wasanunfamiliar group of people. There were two adults, the mother and father, and three children. Two boys and one girl. The two boys whispered among themselves at the sight of me, and the words coming from their mouths were gibberish to my ears.

"Senoma, these are the Bakers," the headmistress said, gesturing to the group of people."They're from California, which is a state in America. Do you know why they're here?" I shookmy head,chewing onthe nail of my thumb. The headmistress pushed my hand away from my mouth before continuing. "Senoma, these nice people want to adopt you and take you back to America. Would you like that?" I perked up a bit at these words. I would be going to America? The land where children went to school and families cooked outside on things called a barbeque? I nodded my head vigorously, and a strand of my buttery blonde hair fell into my face.

Send Me Away With the Words of a Love Song

8.5 The description is nice, but it didn't really connect with me. It's my personal opinion, though, so no matter :3 It's still really good.

***
Ice and Fire. Those were the words that were bleakly uttered as Aurora opened her eyes. It was so cold, the chill racing mockingly up and down her bare flesh as harsh and searing as an open fire. Cold Fire. Did that make sense? Did it really matter? Nothing made sense anymore in Aurora’s jumbled thoughts. The line between dream and reality had become blurred and thin, barely visible to the naked eye.
Idiotic. That’s what she was. Aurora winced as she remembered chugging down the vile substance just minutes before. She should have known that drinking Vodka and inhaling Coke would lure her into a drug-induced sleep. Glancing around, the college student futilely wished that this was a dream her own mind had produced. She knew better, of course. The metallic scraping of his blood-corroded claws echoed across the landscape, blood lust apparent as it met with her wary ears.
Always the same landscape.
Rusted, crimson hallways stretched as far as the eye could see, with a multitude of complex hallways and scarlet stairs winding almost-smugly through the scene. Freddy knew it was impossible to escape. He knew that all too well.

One-Shot, Drug-Induced Sleep

7. You have some good descriptions and an interesting premise, but there was nothing there to really hook me into the story. Also, the sudden switch to Freddy's point of view threw me somewhat.
--

The late-afternoon sun threw its crooked limbs over the straight-backed, oak furniture in Mycroft Holmes’ office. One such sliver of light dangled over the shoulder of the room’s only inhabitant, catching his eye and causing him to squint down at the page he was trying to read. He fidgeted in his uncomfortably hot waistcoat, and buzzed his secretary to demand that the shutters be fixed by tomorrow morning.

Of course, sir. Oh, and one more thing Mr. Holmes – you have an unscheduled visitor.

When the door opened, Mycroft put down his pen and peered at the visitor. He was thinner and looked more tired than he was the last time they had seen each other – as was Mycroft himself – but still held himself as rigidly as ever.

“Ah, John,” he said delicately, making the split-decision not to get up but gesturing to the chair on the other side of the desk. “It’s been…”

“Yes,” John confirmed, inclining his head and taking a seat. “Yes, it’s been a while. I’ve –”

“Been staying with your sister, I know.”

Silence fell. John adjusted his chair so that the shaft of light didn’t fall across his eye line, and Mycroft watched him carefully. The last time they had been face to face was under the neon, unsympathetic gaze of hospital lights, both unable to speak through the thick, choking smog of disbelief as a limp figure on a hospital trolley wheeled past them. Mycroft shook the image from his head, shuffling the papers in his hands. He knew exactly what John had come here to ask him, but wasn’t going to initiate that particular conversation, so he took a different route.

“Have you been back in London long?”

“Three days,” John replied. “I – I made myself come back, I – Mrs. Hudson…”

Mycroft inclined his head. “She’s doing alright?”

“Yes, she’s fine. Well – as fine as you could expect,” John said, his voice twitching on the last word. He coughed. “I didn’t want to leave her alone, but I couldn't – the flat, I mean… I couldn’t go back there.”

-- First chapter of Taking The Wheel.

7.5. I like the description, and I feel you've got the characters well, but it feels like there's something lacking. It didn't really grab me. It seemed perhaps a little too sterile. I'd expect more surpressed emotion, even from Mycroft.
------------------------------
It had been raining the day she died.

It was a romantic sort of death, a gradual fading away. A pallor that settled over her skin, a loss of interest in what was around her, a loss of her mind.

By the end she was an animated statue of cold pearly grey. And then she died.

It had been raining on the day of her interment.

Her parents had chosen the word, put it on the top of the notice that was posted on the Parish churches noticeboard, and the obituary that was placed in the village newspaper and the front of the little booklets with the order of service:

Interment of Jessica Ann Lewis
Saturday, January 1st 20—

They’d asked him to speak, too.

He’d declined.

It had been raining the day he left.

The perpetual rain, the pain of the last half a year of watching the girl he loved die had shown on the car he drove.

It was not a bad car, nor was it a particularly old one.

But he had forgotten it as he took her out for walks, trying to get her to see the beauty of the village that she had once shown him.

Trying to get her to admire the living green that crawled over the grey stone that made up almost every building in their little village.

She wouldn’t, couldn’t.

His car had been left to sink into the soggy, mossy ground; the paint to chip; the body to rust around the edges, becoming a sunset orange that she once would have loved.
Stray.

8. It flows really well, and your rhythmic style of writing is quite effective: such as the repetitive phrase ''It had been raining...''. It definitely sets a sombre tone, and is a good read. I just think that it's lacking in emotion and passion for such a situation: the piece seems a bit detached. But the descriptions are very good.

***

''Cheers and congratulations fall deaf to my ears as I am stripped then clothed in proper attire. A warm weight is rested on my shoulders, and then I am steered to the mirror, like an unsecure child. It is beyond patronizing, the way that they are bestowing compliments upon me, brushing my hair and helping me walk from place to place. I am a champion, apparently, so why am I being treated like an infant? I feel as if the true Ivy is trapped, chained and bound by each drop of blood on my hands. The ornate, full-length mirror looms above me, taunting me into looking, just glancing at the face that I have learnt to despise. The face that killed 10, and let her own brother die.

There she is. Leering at me in the mirror, green eyes cold and pale skin sickly. Red hair fixed in fake little curls around her deceiving little face. Pale pink lips twisted mockingly at my hatred. Corrupted mind filled with dark thoughts. I was wrong before. This is the true Ivy, filled with bitterness and rage. Adorned with a green cloak embellished in gold patterns, the outfit underneath hidden by the mysterious cloth.

I am a murderer.''

Chaptered Story, The Arena

7. It reads nicely enough, if not a bit choppily in the second paragraph, but it feels as though it is something that I've read before. Perhaps it's the shortness of the excerpt, but I didn't really get any feeling or voice that would set it apart from the other stories focused around a murderer that I've read.

---

Dearest Carolyn,

Just a quick note to remind you of my existence. I apologize for the sudden hiatus in my calling upon you – I hope that you will find it in your heart of hearts to forgive me. It seems as though in my absence you have become a most respectable lady, and I must say, I’m very disappointed. The only ladies worth knowing are the dishonourable ones, and you, m’dear, have always been worth knowing.

I miss you terribly. Pray let me call upon you next Wednesday for lunch to reconcile.



*

My dear Douglas,

Oh, you foul man! How do you sleep at night, in full knowledge of the way that you abandoned me? I hope that in the coming times my name will bring upon you an air of guilt for your thoughtless transgression. My sensibilities urge me to forbid you my forgiveness, but my incredibly dishonourable heart grants your wish. I cannot deny it; I never shall be fully ‘respectable’ as my nature as tainted me thus far with the air of ‘worth knowing’, as you put it, but no matter. I’ll take infamous for one life time over famous for hundreds. There shall be no future generations biting their thumbs at me, good sir (although my association with your Shameful self is ever jeopardizing this easily gained endeavor, and I have half a mind to do a thing about it).

Never fear, your correspondence has been placed in its usual spot if ever a time arises when confirmation of your proclivities with the fairer sex becomes necessary. I am sure this tawdry slice of wood pulp will be reduced to dust within moments of its arrival so I shan’t linger any longer than previously, and close succinctly: Do not be late. And yes, I shall be timing you.



*

The heat of summer months always excited Douglas, with its ability to flush the skin of untouched innocents in a mockery of intimacy, and he loved to wander the park in search of these fair skinned Beauties swearing underneath the shade of old oak trees. This same sun touched Carolyn’s hand as she reached for the sugar set in the middle of her table, that same gold flame that had kissed and caressed the flesh of youthful Ganymedes, but now the charm of it was gone, and it was a mere strip of light against her pale skin. “So, what is it this time? Another sailor boy with sticky fingers? Or are you at those gaudy letters again? You know it doesn’t pay to be in love, Douglas.”

“Come now, Carolyn. Can I not just wish to delight in the company of one of my oldest and best friends?” Douglas took a sip of tea, in mock offense at Carolyn’s words – yet the expression on her face remained, changeless, and with a sigh, he put his cup back down upon the table. “Discreetness apparently has nothing to do with action, but rather with your connections. Lords and their disciples are able to flaunt their Shame without fear of consequence, but any of us lowly subjects so much as look at another in the wrong sort of fashion, and immediately we are labeled a criminal. Tell me where the fairness lies in that.”

- Cabin Pressure Victorian era AU: the beginning of a fill for this prompt.

Nine. You described the scene really well, and though I know next-to-nothing about Cabin Pressure, the characters are well-illuminated in such a short scene. :D

--

Her eyes are the fire.

The light flickers against them, gold and yellow and red and orange messily splattering together, like a bad painting . She's taller and leaner now, falling against the wall as her hair blows up and around her, almost as if she is a match ready to ignite an inferno. Her eyes are piercing now, the edges clearing, and she opens her mouth to speak.

But before she can, the light behind her brightens and surrounds her nearly perfectly, almost forming a halo. Her features begin to slowly fade away, leaving only her brilliant eyes.

He's always loved her kaleidoscope eyes.

-Kaleidoscope Eyes.

9. It's an interesting scene, but there's not much to it so it's kind of vague. But that's probably just because it's an excerpt.
---

Lungs breathed in the cold and polluted metropolitan air; smog-filled and hazy near the peaks of the tall buildings that scraped the sky with either savage knife points or crushing it with blunt flat tops. A nose smelled the scent of blood, sweat, tears, grease, smoke, and everything else of the city and its inhabitants.

Muscles tensed and feet soared over large cracks in the land that exposed either water or the guts of the city, the underground houses, pipelines, and transportation, as well as the markets from which they had just come. A swarm of hair, dark and curly, flew around a face like a cloud of black flies. It could have been a dark brown color, for it was dirty.

As the lungs worked harder and harder, the feet had to slow their pace and the hair calmed down, the flies seeming to die or lay dormant, waiting to take to the air again. Hands with grimy nails wiped the sweat off a frowning face as she caught her breath.

--Sky Castle, posted

8. I can see what's going on in my mind's eye. You described things in a lot of detail. However, remember that too much detail can destroy the point of any story. If you get caught up in the detail you can easily forget what the purpose of the story is. Still, is great for an excerpt.

- - - - -
With much caution the young woman stepped onto the bridge. It seemed sturdy enough, which gave her a boost of confidence. As she got closer to the top she felt the wood beneath her growing weaker. Even with the light from the moon she was unable to see a small patch of ice right in her path. The moment she stepped on it her foot went out from under her causing her to crash down onto the rickety bridge. The moment her body hit the wood it caved through. Her screams didn't even echo through the forest. It was as if the darkness swallowed all sounds.

Her body hit the ice with a jolt, but only for a moment as it was as thin as paper. Crashing through the ice she became engulfed in black, icy waters. Desperately she tried to swim to the surface, but the current was pulling her under and down the river. She struggled with all her might to swim against the current; however, her attempts were futile. The current was much stronger and her body was weak with fatigue. Soon she let darkness engulf her mind and body as the river carried the soon-to-be lifeless body away to a silent grave.

Never Ending, posted

7. The description is good and I can clearly see the scene in my head, of what happened to the young woman and her untimely demise. However, the words feel hollow. It's a scene that should be rife with emotion and yet I didn't really feel much from it.

---



Carolyn,

Do not keep this note, please dispose of it upon reading. I have full intentions upon exposing myself, for it is late, and I am drunk, despite all of my previous convictions. The feeling is not one that I relish and it leaves me with a question: what on Earth had I seen in such a state in the first place? Perhaps I am not drunk enough.

You see, my favorite servant has just left me. Deserted me, I should say, for his quarters are now empty, devoid entirely of any small facet that would betray that once it was occupied by a roguishly handsome boy, whom I never failed to delight in. What is especially does not hold is any scrap of paper upon which I may have scribbled my indecency. There is no other situation to assume but the worst. I fear to view the morning paper in the case that my ruin shall be on display, for all of England and Her socialites to see, and I flinch from every sound should it become that of a fleet of brute men under the guise of the Metropolitan Police uniform coming to whisk me away to prison.

I do not know what I should do now. Hire another servant and wait out the inevitable, I suppose. There is only one thing that I am certain on and that is concerning the future treatment of the lower classes in my household. In a word: shan’t. In eight words: I shan’t get involved with any of them.

Oh God, I am a ruined man. I promise that your name shall remain untainted; I would not dare breathe a word of your knowledge under penalty of death.



*



My Douglas,

I do hope you have pulled yourself together since that last correspondence. Anyone who did not know you would mistake the letter writer for that of a hysterical woman, screeching and paranoid. Normally if such acts against your person are to be committed, there will first be a request to bury the matter under an impressive sum of money, and therein will lay your chance to vanish it. If a request does not appear, then more likely he simply acquired an interested party to ease his ascension into our ranks; haven’t you heard of John Gray? Of course you have. No doubt your little Adonis has followed in such footsteps.

Honestly, Douglas, I would not panic were I you. You were designed for a life of unheeded leisure and this stress could be quite detrimental to your health. Might I suggest a soothing visit to a Turkish bath to ease your mind?



P.S. I shall also be holding you to your word of a lack of involvement with your lower classes. I’d give you a month, but that would be generous. You could do well to hire less tempting specimens but I suppose that would go against your nature. A bet, then, that in a fortnight you shall no doubt find some cause to fall back upon this pledge.

- Cabin Pressure Victorian era AU: the beginning of a fill for this prompt.

9. I'm not familiar with Cabin Pressure, but this is really well written and has me intrigued.

---

Things were never supposed to be like this. She felt as if her world kept crumbling down around her, brick by brick. There weren’t many bricks left. Alaric was there, and despite the fact that part of him had crumbled, the rest of him was solid. It was this solidarity that helped Elena hold it together; she felt that at any moment she could explode into a pile of dust.

It was a long time coming too…First with her parents’ death, and now with the death of Jenna along with the departure of Stefan.

Her friends tried to help, but it was only Alaric that could keep her from floating away and slow the seemingly constant stream of tears. She couldn’t help but feel that everyone she cared about was leaving her in some way. Who was next? Jeremy? Damon? Maybe even Alaric, her solid brick with the chipped corners.

- Uneverything, Vampire Diaries one-shot

8. I know absolutely noting about Vampire Dairies, but the imagery in the first paragraph is amazingly vivid, and the hopelessly and chaos of her feelings and situation comes across very strong in the last paragraph; it really pulls the reader in the moment.

___

I come to the bus stop and there’s an elderly lady who gives me a suspicious look.

Well I’m sorry if sort of look like shit right now but my best friend is dead.

The lady pulls her coat tighter and shifts uncomfortably on the bench for those who wait. She doesn’t trust me. She doesn’t know the first thing about me.

Screw this all. I don’t want to wait here with this frumpy lady for just another shitty bus taking me nowhere I want to go.

I find a smaller side road with no cars on it and I run away down the middle of it.

I don’t believe in sidewalks, Nat told me one day when we were thirteen and confused. I’d rather walk down the road.

Why? I asked. That’s dangerous. You’d get hit by a car.

No I wouldn’t, he said and stared at me with serious brown eyes. Sidewalks are just an illusion of safety. You’re told to stay on them because if you don’t you’ll get hurt or killed but nobody gets mugged in the middle of the street. They get mugged and kidnapped on the walkways and the sidewalks and the places you’re supposed to be.

Oh, I said. Then I guess I don’t believe in sidewalks either.

Good, he said and gently kissed me. That way we can walk together.

Sounds good to me, I said with a smile and we held hands as we sat together on the lawn in his backyard.

The side road takes me to a small alley running behind some people’s houses and I don’t know where the hell I am but I don’t give a damn about it.

I run down the alley with my arms spread wide like they’re wings and I pretend that I’m flying. I’d wing my way up to heaven and spend the day with Nat talking and laughing and just being.

I don’t have wings and the soles of my feet are sore as I pound over the cracks in the concrete.

My brain doesn’t know where I’m going and my eyes don’t know where I’m going either so I close them and let my feet carry me on towards my destination.

- There's a Thousand and One Blazing Stars in the Sky, original fic

9, I adore your narrative voice. I literally love it, it's so frank and amusing but somehow really bittersweet because of the subject matter

- - - -
When they caught you on their lines like a fish on a hook you were painted blue as the autumn sky, threaded with wool veins that cast a strange tapestry across your chilled skin. I'd touched you there before, where once a pulse ran like a stuttering motor. I'd kissed every inch of you, in blatant worship, because who could ever attempt to conceal the sort of devotion you installed in me. Love big enough to turn around to my screeching insecurities and bellow right back, sending them whimpering into the back of my mind.

Why couldn't you just stay?

Maybe i wasn't worth staying for, living for. It's funny, I thought i'd die first. Not soon, more that one day when we're folded and frailed by age and experience. Death would stroll in and take a seat in our second best chair, maybe take a sweetened cup of tea, before clearing his throat. And quietly, so polite is death, he would suggest that maybe it was time we would leave. And i would grasp my coat and calmly kiss you goodbye. Bound for a land where joints don't grind to dust and ache like winter. A paradise; they say in some books. There i'd sit amongst the rolling acres of eternity, doing the crossword by the light of Jupiter and patiently waiting for you to find me there.

Now if we collide in heaven, will you feel the lines that fold my face and know me? Or will I have changed beyond repair? A couple dozen years of memories you'd have never touched altering me entirely. I wont be yours, but maybe that doesn't matter. Maybe I should never have assumed that either of us could even lay claim to the other. If fates design sets us apart, maybe i'll humour her, and turn away like I never knew you, felt you, held you. If I should be so bold, I might forget you and all we had on this terrible mortal plane.

Then I remember that your entirely unforgettable, in all your fearsome forms. In every way. So Darling, love. I will stir my weak tea and wait for Death to stroll in, and lead me out on his arm, to bring me back to your side again.

Unnamed Drabble -Massively a work in progress, which I doubt i'll ever post.

9. I absolutely loved this. The descriptions were just so wonderful...You made death seem not so bad and calm, and just, I don't even know exactly what I want to say, except that I thought this was fantastic.

---

She wasn’t really sure how things turned out the way they did. Alaric had started out as someone who could comfort her so easily and now he was someone she kept secret.

Their relationship had turned into one that hid behind closed doors and whispered words. She saw him in a new light and she was in awe.

She was already aware that she loved him, and not in the familial way. Elena’s love for Alaric engulfed her entire heart in a way she had never experienced before. It was the reason she snuck into his bedroom in the dead of night so she could feel the comfort of his arms around her and his hot lips on her throat.

Alaric needed Elena too, just as much as she needed him, if not more. He didn’t say it, but she could tell by the way he looked at her and the way he held her that he wouldn’t be here right now if it wasn’t for her.

-

“I love you,” he whispered one night after she had crawled into his bed. His gaze was intense and she couldn’t form words.

Her initial reaction involved her lips pressed hungrily against his as he pulled her on top of him. His hands moved under the tank top she was wearing, sliding up her sides before resting solidly on her back, pressing her closer to him. She could feel his heart beat against her own, both quickened by their desire.

Finally, she pulled away.

“I love you too,” she gasped out, her breathing falling heavy on his face. He breathed in deep through his nose, delighting in her scent and enjoying the warmth she brought him.

Nothing about this moment felt wrong, but they both knew there was no way to explain it to their friends. They would never understand what was between them.

- My Body Is A Cage (Vampire Diaries one-shot)

Ten, ten! I loved this. There was just so much emotion and connection between the two of them; you can just feel it. How much they love each other and need the other. I'm a little bit speechless as what else to say, but this is definitely a ten.

___

There are no clouds in the sky tonight. She takes a small block of wood and throws it into the fire, watching as it slowly burns and turns black. From each corner of the room eyes watch her; they are alert and aware of her every move. Not one of them makes a sound. The girl walks slowly to a metal chair in the center of the room and sits; it is ice cold against her skin, but she is more aware of the Judges around her. Next to the chair is a small, worn out crib colored black and green; inside of it, a small mewling baby of five months.

“You had intercourse with a demon,” one of them states deliberately, xyrs voice catching on the word ‘intercourse.’

“I am,” she speaks slowly, flicking her eyes around to meet each of theirs, “very much aware of this, sai.”

Everything slows down for a moment as they process her words. The only thing that can be heard is the baby’s wails and the crackling of the fire; a stray spark bounces out and hits the glass door of the fireplace, snuffing out immediately. One of the chairs creaks as it slides across the floor and its occupant stands. Xe walks over to the young girl and places his fleshless hand on her head, bending down to her eyelevel. In her eyes is a sort of deep sorrow and pain, both of her irises dilated in fear. Neither of them wants this, but it is not their choice. She laughs coldly, shrugging off xyrs hand. Then she stands, she stands tall above them with her eyes looking down upon all of them. Bloody bones stretch out from her back slowly, spreading apart in a wide arc; a few stray feathers cling to the bones, but they are burnt and colored like ash. Each of her eyes are glowing like a wildfire.

“WHAT WILL YOU DO?” she wails, slumping down onto her knees; the remains of her wings twisting around her in a bony barricade. “Don’t hurt my baby, please…,” she sobs, rocking back and forth, “don’t hurt her...”

- The Shades Below

9. Very interesting! Your descriptions are very good and you do a good job of conveying the character's emotions.

---

Fuck it, he thinks, heading to the bar again that night. Why shouldn’t he get drunk? Why didn’t he just do something completely out of the blue and not think about the future.

Besides, he used to be spontaneous. He was just able to rein it in a bit more when he was with her. She made him want to be something more than just someone who drank too much. She made him come alive in a way that didn’t require the involvement of alcohol.

But he wasn’t here to think of her. He was here to start anew. To create a new path for himself maybe.

“Hey.”

I’ve had a few drinks by now and my head is buzzing.

“Why are you sitting by yourself?” I look up at the girl who’s sitting beside me. Big green eyes surrounded by red hair. She’s not Lola and I feel disappointed. But then I remember I’m here to not think about her.

Slowly, I smile at her and shrug. I have no idea what to say because I’m sure it would come out sounding depressing. My eyes move across her face taking in her features. Her skin is pale and glows in the dim lighting of the bar. It’s almost breathtaking and I wonder where this girl came from.

“You look sad,” she says matter-of-factly, taking a sip of her drink. I finish the one I’m working on.

“That’s because I am,” I say, pushing the glass out in front of me so the bartender will refill it.

“Want to talk about it?” I enjoy the sound of her voice. It’s comforting and warm, making her seem sincere. She’s probably just hoping to get laid.

“Not really,” I finally reply, handing the bartender some money when he sets a fresh drink on the bar.

- Uneverything (Brendon Urie one-shot, in his point of view)

6.5 needs work. Confused as to what was the point.

The girl with the V shaped scar and blonde hair woke up in a panic. She ignores the fact that she is in a strange place and that giant globs of sweat roll down her body. She can feel the hunger, the hunger that already knaws at her. She needs a fix, a hit,  whatever she could find, of heroin. She has already suffered through eight hours without it. 

"Need some relief?" a voice pierces the hot sauna.

The girl turns, a man stands there in the hot, humid chamber. He appears to be untouched by the heat. The girl looks, he is a tall, thin man with bone-white skin, black hair like a raven, and two distant stars that looks out from the shadows where his eyes should be. His face is set in a stone gaze as he looks down upon her.

"Julia, correct?" He asks with an etheral echo to his voice.

Julia nods as she raises her knees around up to her chest and then wraps her arms around them. She is scared of the man, he looks strange and he acts stranger. The man pulls a pinch of sand from his pocket and thrusts it upon her. 

Julia feels the lightness of sleep drift over her like a blanket. Within moments she is in the dream world, in the middle stands the starry eyed man. 

"This is my realm. I am feeling generous tonight for allowing a mortal to grace my company. Tell me, what is it you desire as of this moment?" he asks as he turns to face her. His face still set in a stone gaze. 

"Heroin. Please man I need some. I'll suck you off it helps!" Julia tells him as she is already to her knees. The man simply moves to the side and allows her to fall. 

"My dear. There is more in store for you than simple prostitution. This way." the starry eyed man orders her. 

-Silent Wishes Unreleased sequel to Silent Screams.

7. you desperately need work on your grammar, mostly hyphens and commas. the verb tenses are a bit mixed up in the beginning, which makes the story seem cluttered and unprofessional. the concept is promising but it's rather hard to read at the moment.

---

Andrew and Shannon watched them leave awhile before heading off toward their own silent block. The background noise eventually crept up on them: the groaning twenty-something engine, the faint croon of the Dixie Chicks, and their own breathing. He drummed on the steering wheel. She pulled her knees to her chest and almost wished they could keep this moment forever. Andrew made her feel secure or something along those lines, and he sometimes realized how much she needed him and felt the tiniest bit proud inside. Her sleepy smile from the shotgun seat was what tied all of his nights together, however dreadful or wonderful they may have been. He had to appreciate her for that.

Somehow, even though it was only five minutes from Juliet’s to theirs, it always dragged on as long as it needed to. Andrew finally pulled over in front of Shannon’s place, the yellow house with the blue door, and they hugged no more tightly than usual until Andrew realized he wasn’t satisfied with tonight. He was bored with the past ten years’ tradition, maybe, and so he kissed her.

Just a peck on the lips, completely innocent, but her eyes widened as big as the moon. She gasped softly.

“You bastard!” she murmured. Andrew cocked an eyebrow. She smiled and shook her head.

“Love you,” he mumbled.

“I love you more, maybe. Thanks for the ride.”

She kissed his stubbly cheek, slammed his door, and was gone. Andrew eased his foot off the brake and exhaled, entering his own driveway with his heart beating much faster than normal.

As he shut off the ignition and snuck back inside and everything spun a bit, he decided he didn’t care. What was done was done, and if he’d started a fire, so be it. Let it burn – they were young enough that they could stamp it all out if they needed to.

For now, though, he was home and he was tired. As sleep gripped onto eight other teenage heads, Andrew sat on his bedroom floor and lit a figurative candle to his mis-said words before climbing up to his top bunk and joining his deadweight friends in unconsciousness.

- all alright