So, I like to write. Yeah... I'll be posting stuff that I write onto here. Critique is appreciated.
The story I'm posting first was a school assignment from the beginning of the year.
I rub my eyes, which are raw and sore from what feels like sand.
I sit up, wiping my eyes a final time before my eyes adjust to the light. Or, should I say, the lack of it. Everything is a muted tone. The sand I’m sitting on is a hollow black and the sky is a turbulent gray. My senses are briefly blocked by the strong scent of rotting flesh and salt. I don’t know how I got here or what I’m doing here; this is a nightmare.
I turn to face the sea, and am rewarded with a cascade of mucky, icy water that goes up to my thighs. The ocean is dark, murky, and turbulent, froth cascading onto the dark beach. In the water are murky red patches which look suspiciously like blood. Fog is slowly drifting from the waters in heavy clouds, and I decide that I would rather not wait for the fog to reach me with its clammy tendrils and scent of blood, and I start to head inland.
Barely able to see, I step lightly for a good thirty yards before I see the forest, long dead, with salt growths, reminding me of spearheads, dripping down the branches from the years of ocean winds. I nearly gag from the stench, a mix of rotting flesh and acid. There is a lone bird, a robin, singing a song that completes the picture in front of me. It is, strangely, the only sound I hear, even though the sky is raging.
Deciding that this is better than sitting in the fog, I head into the trees. Bleak and desolate, the trees had grown closer together farther into the forest, and I have to start watching my step or I will trip over one of the black, gnarled roots that shoot in and out of the hardened ground, but I abandon all care when I hear a low growl and snapping twigs. I wildly dash away from the noise, and end up, ironically, tripping over the very thing I had just stopped avoiding: a tree root. I fall backwards, my head hitting against the ground. As my world goes black, a tiny golden spot shines through the hazy sky. I can still hear the robin and its deathly song.
The girl collapses onto the ground. I briefly wonder if I should leave her behind, but I don’t really like the sound of the mutts eating flesh.
She’s very lucky, really. Most others who come never get as far as the woods. I remember back a few hundred years; a couple of Englishmen came around. They didn’t last five minutes because of the acid water. I can still remember the stench of melting flesh. Yuck.
The girl can become one of my friends. She might like the others; I’ll have to tell them she’s not there for mealtime, though.