The "Creative Writing" forum, which includes Retro Game Reviews, has been archived and is now read-only.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.
Tripping over my own indignity I scuttled across a gravel forecourt, alive with the frantic dancing of searchlights. I delicately limbered around their beams unseen in my black outfit; tip to toe a collage of leather and nylon. In a catlike fashion I clawed my way up the mesh fence, thrashing wildly towards the pinnacle like an eel.
Alas, my plan fell through. Sitting as proud as tinsel on a Christmas tree laid a thick curling mass of razor wire. Spool upon glinting spool of wire tied in thick knots all around the top of the fence.
Amid my distraction my boots slipped and instinct took over. Instinct, the least logical of human autopilot reactions. Instinct can be a good thing. Instinct makes you look before walking out into a road. Instinct tells you to shield your face when something explodes in front of you. Instinct, when falling, however, tells you to grab hold of something – anything – to stop you falling.
Razorwire was my salvation. Flesh, tissue and muscle hung from the jagged chunks of wire like deflated balloons. Face first I fell, my stumps grinding deep into the gravel and my cover blown in a spectacular fashion. Pulmonary and aorta pumped and starved and I slipped into a blood-puddle coma.
So there’s my story, sorry it’s so brief. Some details can be left out when you’re writing with your mouth. I wasn’t going to write this story. My instincts told me not to bother, that nobody would like to hear it. But I’ve learnt to ignore my instincts.
Alas, my plan fell through. Sitting as proud as tinsel on a Christmas tree laid a thick curling mass of razor wire. Spool upon glinting spool of wire tied in thick knots all around the top of the fence.
Amid my distraction my boots slipped and instinct took over. Instinct, the least logical of human autopilot reactions. Instinct can be a good thing. Instinct makes you look before walking out into a road. Instinct tells you to shield your face when something explodes in front of you. Instinct, when falling, however, tells you to grab hold of something – anything – to stop you falling.
Razorwire was my salvation. Flesh, tissue and muscle hung from the jagged chunks of wire like deflated balloons. Face first I fell, my stumps grinding deep into the gravel and my cover blown in a spectacular fashion. Pulmonary and aorta pumped and starved and I slipped into a blood-puddle coma.
So there’s my story, sorry it’s so brief. Some details can be left out when you’re writing with your mouth. I wasn’t going to write this story. My instincts told me not to bother, that nobody would like to hear it. But I’ve learnt to ignore my instincts.
Yeah, really liked it all but the last paragraph. It wasn't wrong to include it, but I felt it was written in the wrong sort of tone, personally.
Anyway, well done.
Anyway, well done.
Very good!
I just fancied adding a post-script really, I had an itch that needed to be scratched. Oh, and some sort of retrospective moral thing too.
I enjoyed this. top descriptive writing. Not so sure about the last paragraph though, I didn't think it was necessary, seemed to be like an excuse for writing a short piece, which I thought there was nothing wrong with whatsoever.
Then again, the point about learning to ignore the instincts, I liked that...
Then again, the point about learning to ignore the instincts, I liked that...
For a very short one its a good one.
The Great Escape as written by Shakespeare? Nice, but odd.
'Tis nice and simple, the kind of story we should have more of, in my opinion.
Not really much personal experience in it, I mashed my head up, not my hands and there was no razorwire. So basically it's nothing to do with my life... at all. But still, thanks.
Ouch.
Drawing on personal experience, eh? The infamous fence episode.
A catlike eel?
I like it.
Drawing on personal experience, eh? The infamous fence episode.
A catlike eel?
I like it.
Tripping over my own indignity I scuttled across a gravel forecourt, alive with the frantic dancing of searchlights. I delicately limbered around their beams unseen in my black outfit; tip to toe a collage of leather and nylon. In a catlike fashion I clawed my way up the mesh fence, thrashing wildly towards the pinnacle like an eel.
Alas, my plan fell through. Sitting as proud as tinsel on a Christmas tree laid a thick curling mass of razor wire. Spool upon glinting spool of wire tied in thick knots all around the top of the fence.
Amid my distraction my boots slipped and instinct took over. Instinct, the least logical of human autopilot reactions. Instinct can be a good thing. Instinct makes you look before walking out into a road. Instinct tells you to shield your face when something explodes in front of you. Instinct, when falling, however, tells you to grab hold of something – anything – to stop you falling.
Razorwire was my salvation. Flesh, tissue and muscle hung from the jagged chunks of wire like deflated balloons. Face first I fell, my stumps grinding deep into the gravel and my cover blown in a spectacular fashion. Pulmonary and aorta pumped and starved and I slipped into a blood-puddle coma.
So there’s my story, sorry it’s so brief. Some details can be left out when you’re writing with your mouth. I wasn’t going to write this story. My instincts told me not to bother, that nobody would like to hear it. But I’ve learnt to ignore my instincts.
Alas, my plan fell through. Sitting as proud as tinsel on a Christmas tree laid a thick curling mass of razor wire. Spool upon glinting spool of wire tied in thick knots all around the top of the fence.
Amid my distraction my boots slipped and instinct took over. Instinct, the least logical of human autopilot reactions. Instinct can be a good thing. Instinct makes you look before walking out into a road. Instinct tells you to shield your face when something explodes in front of you. Instinct, when falling, however, tells you to grab hold of something – anything – to stop you falling.
Razorwire was my salvation. Flesh, tissue and muscle hung from the jagged chunks of wire like deflated balloons. Face first I fell, my stumps grinding deep into the gravel and my cover blown in a spectacular fashion. Pulmonary and aorta pumped and starved and I slipped into a blood-puddle coma.
So there’s my story, sorry it’s so brief. Some details can be left out when you’re writing with your mouth. I wasn’t going to write this story. My instincts told me not to bother, that nobody would like to hear it. But I’ve learnt to ignore my instincts.