Silverlink Writing Group: The Writers

Lara Cowles

Here is a sample of my work.

Page last up dated 6 October 2008

Silverlink Writing Group Competition October 2008:- 500 words starting with:- The dark clouds rolled in as the thunder rumbled across the sky...

Word Count 528


The dark clouds rolled in as the thunder rumbled across the sky. Rose felt nothing, could not let the sky’s tears caress her fevered brow. The rain hammered against the glass of her small attic bedroom, thousands of fists trying to break through. She twisted and arched her back, unaware of her surroundings but unable to escape the torture of her sickness weakened body. Her eyelids flickered but did not open fully, desperately struggling to break out of the rampaging illness.Ah! Where am I? God, help me! Somebody…oh god, make it stop…Argh! Stop it, stop it, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean t- AHH! Please, please, please stop…
Her hands curled into balls, nails biting into the flesh.

No, no, no, don’t touch him, take me! No, NO! Oh my god, stop! Oh Jesus, help me, help me, not her! It’s my fault; don’t hurt her… please…

She cried out, shouting names of people she hadn’t seen for weeks, shut in the attic room.

They didn’t do anything, it was me…not them…let them go…please…I, ARGH! Yes, yes, take me, not them. Never them.

Bloodcurdling screams ricocheted of the painted walls as Rose felt the pain of red hot needles penetrate her skin, flames licking her feet, blood being forced into her throat, coughing. Tasting her own bile as she vomited up the crimson substance she was drowning in. Suddenly, her eyes flew open.

The end of…no…not them…I was saving them…I was trying to save them! Not the entire…but you promised! Oh…help…please, please, please not all of…

Then she woke up. Weeks of the torment in her head stopped, just like that. The sheets were damp and stank of old sweat, clinging to her ridiculously thin frame. Her cheeks were sunken, eyes bloodshot, hair lank and greasy. Not waiting to celebrate her sudden victory over the fever, Rose ran to the small window, ripping open the curtains.

She gasped. It was real, everything she had imagined, all true…Bodies were strung from trees and telephone lines like Christmas decorations, the streets black with dried blood, houses scorched from the massive fires that had ravaged the city. She let go of the windowsill, forgetting that she couldn’t support her own weight. Rose collapsed onto the floor, wrapping her arms around her shaking knees, she cried out in horror and grief. That was when the laughing started, a quiet giggle at first, then gradually growing in enthusiasm and volume.

“Shut up,” she rasped.

Don’t you like my artwork? I call it ‘Boulevard of Crimson’. Nice, oui?

She hit her head, “I hate you, you monster. You murderer!”

She shut her eyes…Until it came. Inspiration. A cure. She pushed herself onto her front, grinning in wild anticipation.

What are you doing? Stop it, now. No, put that down. Put the candlestick down! DON’T EVEN THINK OF IT YOU-

The detective sighed, “Looks like suicide. Poor lass.”

Rose’s mother sobbed, “She was ill for so long, but then she seemed to get better, she didn’t have as many fits!”

Detective Harrolds patted her back, “Sometimes, after a long mental illness, people can be overwhelmed by ordinary life. There’s no way of knowing what she saw.”


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