Panda's Artsy thread thing
Aug 3, 2014 0:50:36 GMT -6
Post by Chinapandaru on Aug 3, 2014 0:50:36 GMT -6
I'm writing currently, if you wish to watch me write go here: docs.google.com/document/d/1qKp8WJalcTKbVG2op4DpSButRCPAP7JiE2THW0oFcrk/edit?usp=sharing
This thread is probably gonna change a lot over time aha but for this very moment it's going to hold a story yaaaaay
It's probs just going to be a really long Amechu oneshot omg
But anyway
I'll post a little teaser and then the rest can be seen by going to the link above uwu
Alfred Smiled.
Alfred smiled. He wasn’t sure why at that moment.
“Goodbye, Yao.” He choked.
“Goodbye, Alfred.” Yao responded.
Their voices were weary, both of them tired. Yao’s life was fading, that much was clear. Alfred closed his eyes. He was prepared for what was to come. Or so he thought. He heard the sharp hiss, the hiss that Alfred only assumed Yao gave upon finding food.
And his eyes snapped open. The blood that ran down his neck rivaled the tears falling from his eyes. He gasped for air. A snap followed, ending his life.
+++
Alfred’s eyes widened as he stared into the darkness. The clock beside him read 2:37. His arm slid out of the sheets, falling upon the nightstand as if stings holding them up had suddenly snapped. His hand desperately searched for his glasses, which were in a few moments upon his face.
This time, he needed to be quick.
He sat up straight, throwing the covers off of his well-built body, revealing plain grey boxers as the only clothing he wore.
He stood. He was quite unsteady at first, but he stood. He stood, walked over to the wall, and allowed his hand to reach out and flick on the light.
Wow, that burned.
He quickly headed over to his desk, which sat before the window that showed the city lights below. It was a beautiful sight, but Alfred payed no mind.
He quickly sat down and reached for a notebook in the corner of his desk. It was already open to a blank page, and silently Alfred thanked his past self.
Alfred wrote down what he could.
“His name was Yao, and he was dying. He killed me, that much I know. Think he ate me. He reminds me of a snake, and”
The pen fell down onto the paper. Dammit. Why couldn’t he remember? Anything, anything? He couldn’t even remember any visuals, he couldn’t remember his voice. He could only remember what he knew happened, what he knew was said and what he knew he felt. He knew he had a reason and he knew he knew the reason, even if he no longer knows. He flipped through the pages of the notebook, hoping any previous entries would spark a memory. They were all the same. Didn’t he ever think to write anything else? The notebook was almost empty of clean pages, all that would be left was the same words, the same memories, over and over and over again.
He let out a scream.
And then he remembered. And Alfred wrote another sentence.
“His name was Yao, and I had loved him.”
Alfred studied to words, before closing the notebook. It was a red notebook, the words “Dream Journal” written upon it in messy sharpie.
Alfred stood up, turned off the light, took off his glasses, and crawled back into bed.
Maybe Yao would visit him again.
“Goodbye, Yao.” He choked.
“Goodbye, Alfred.” Yao responded.
Their voices were weary, both of them tired. Yao’s life was fading, that much was clear. Alfred closed his eyes. He was prepared for what was to come. Or so he thought. He heard the sharp hiss, the hiss that Alfred only assumed Yao gave upon finding food.
And his eyes snapped open. The blood that ran down his neck rivaled the tears falling from his eyes. He gasped for air. A snap followed, ending his life.
+++
Alfred’s eyes widened as he stared into the darkness. The clock beside him read 2:37. His arm slid out of the sheets, falling upon the nightstand as if stings holding them up had suddenly snapped. His hand desperately searched for his glasses, which were in a few moments upon his face.
This time, he needed to be quick.
He sat up straight, throwing the covers off of his well-built body, revealing plain grey boxers as the only clothing he wore.
He stood. He was quite unsteady at first, but he stood. He stood, walked over to the wall, and allowed his hand to reach out and flick on the light.
Wow, that burned.
He quickly headed over to his desk, which sat before the window that showed the city lights below. It was a beautiful sight, but Alfred payed no mind.
He quickly sat down and reached for a notebook in the corner of his desk. It was already open to a blank page, and silently Alfred thanked his past self.
Alfred wrote down what he could.
“His name was Yao, and he was dying. He killed me, that much I know. Think he ate me. He reminds me of a snake, and”
The pen fell down onto the paper. Dammit. Why couldn’t he remember? Anything, anything? He couldn’t even remember any visuals, he couldn’t remember his voice. He could only remember what he knew happened, what he knew was said and what he knew he felt. He knew he had a reason and he knew he knew the reason, even if he no longer knows. He flipped through the pages of the notebook, hoping any previous entries would spark a memory. They were all the same. Didn’t he ever think to write anything else? The notebook was almost empty of clean pages, all that would be left was the same words, the same memories, over and over and over again.
He let out a scream.
And then he remembered. And Alfred wrote another sentence.
“His name was Yao, and I had loved him.”
Alfred studied to words, before closing the notebook. It was a red notebook, the words “Dream Journal” written upon it in messy sharpie.
Alfred stood up, turned off the light, took off his glasses, and crawled back into bed.
Maybe Yao would visit him again.
bOOM WRITER'S BLOCK HAS VANISHED
