The "Creative Writing" forum, which includes Retro Game Reviews, has been archived and is now read-only. You cannot post here or create a new thread or review on this forum.
Running, he kept running. They were just behind him, and he knew they would persist. He turned again, to look at his persuers. He wished he hadn't.
Each of the, things, were grosley mutated, scarred. There were more stitches than skin, more wires than bones. One wore a bag over its head, another was limping slightly. But this did not stop them. Nothing could stop them...
His heart missed a beat. A dead end. A dead end, where the corridor ended, where his life ended. He turned to face his fate.
The crowd cheerd. Up had done it again, the lead singer threw himself into the crowd, the guitarist spun and flung his arms up, screaming. The crowd cheered again, and again. "Up! Up!..."
"Up, up..." he thought. The things were close behind him, and his lungs were screaming, his ribs were wailing... He smashed the door open.
The crowd screamed again, but the wrong type of scream, the type of scream that you only hear when somone dies. Or is dying. The man had seemingly thrown himself through the door, onto the railings above.
Time stopped. He hung there, above the crowd, above the band. They, the things were standing at the door...
There was a shot. The man fell. The crowd stopped. The band stopped. The things walked away...
Each of the, things, were grosley mutated, scarred. There were more stitches than skin, more wires than bones. One wore a bag over its head, another was limping slightly. But this did not stop them. Nothing could stop them...
His heart missed a beat. A dead end. A dead end, where the corridor ended, where his life ended. He turned to face his fate.
The crowd cheerd. Up had done it again, the lead singer threw himself into the crowd, the guitarist spun and flung his arms up, screaming. The crowd cheered again, and again. "Up! Up!..."
"Up, up..." he thought. The things were close behind him, and his lungs were screaming, his ribs were wailing... He smashed the door open.
The crowd screamed again, but the wrong type of scream, the type of scream that you only hear when somone dies. Or is dying. The man had seemingly thrown himself through the door, onto the railings above.
Time stopped. He hung there, above the crowd, above the band. They, the things were standing at the door...
There was a shot. The man fell. The crowd stopped. The band stopped. The things walked away...
thunks, ill do better next time....weird topic
I feel it needs more description of what is going on, even if its subtle, but I liked the blunt sentences that matched the direction the piece was going in.
This is pretty effective. I like it as he's running, and turns to see the things. I wasn't wholly sure of what happened at the end though, but nonetheless, it's quite good.
hmmm, yus
MrGlitch wrote:
> One wore a bag over its
> head,
:D
> One wore a bag over its
> head,
:D
Thnx
I have no idea what just happened.
But I liked it.
Bit more spit and polish, and you're laughing.
But I liked it.
Bit more spit and polish, and you're laughing.
Running, he kept running. They were just behind him, and he knew they would persist. He turned again, to look at his persuers. He wished he hadn't.
Each of the, things, were grosley mutated, scarred. There were more stitches than skin, more wires than bones. One wore a bag over its head, another was limping slightly. But this did not stop them. Nothing could stop them...
His heart missed a beat. A dead end. A dead end, where the corridor ended, where his life ended. He turned to face his fate.
The crowd cheerd. Up had done it again, the lead singer threw himself into the crowd, the guitarist spun and flung his arms up, screaming. The crowd cheered again, and again. "Up! Up!..."
"Up, up..." he thought. The things were close behind him, and his lungs were screaming, his ribs were wailing... He smashed the door open.
The crowd screamed again, but the wrong type of scream, the type of scream that you only hear when somone dies. Or is dying. The man had seemingly thrown himself through the door, onto the railings above.
Time stopped. He hung there, above the crowd, above the band. They, the things were standing at the door...
There was a shot. The man fell. The crowd stopped. The band stopped. The things walked away...
Each of the, things, were grosley mutated, scarred. There were more stitches than skin, more wires than bones. One wore a bag over its head, another was limping slightly. But this did not stop them. Nothing could stop them...
His heart missed a beat. A dead end. A dead end, where the corridor ended, where his life ended. He turned to face his fate.
The crowd cheerd. Up had done it again, the lead singer threw himself into the crowd, the guitarist spun and flung his arms up, screaming. The crowd cheered again, and again. "Up! Up!..."
"Up, up..." he thought. The things were close behind him, and his lungs were screaming, his ribs were wailing... He smashed the door open.
The crowd screamed again, but the wrong type of scream, the type of scream that you only hear when somone dies. Or is dying. The man had seemingly thrown himself through the door, onto the railings above.
Time stopped. He hung there, above the crowd, above the band. They, the things were standing at the door...
There was a shot. The man fell. The crowd stopped. The band stopped. The things walked away...