ellaswritingnook

[ellaswritingnook]

I'm not sure if you're still doing this, but here's a snippet from my WIP :)

"Eileen is so beautiful. Some would even say that she is too beautiful for this world. But that has never made sense to you. Eileen is your world — how could she be too beautiful for herself? You admire everything about her. The way her raven black hair falls in perfect curls that bounce with each step she takes, the way her tanned skin glistens like bronze in the sun, and the way her emerald eyes — God, her gorgeous, innocent eyes — glow in such childlike wonder at everything around her. Eileen is perfection — sculpted in Galatea's image by Pygmalion himself. Eileen is art—crafted and painted by the most careful, skilled hands. Eileen is yours. She is your Eileen."

For a little more description, Eileen's favorite thing to wear is her red dress. It's totally fine if you don't want to draw her or aren't able to get to her!

writeblr… who up? send me your oc descriptions or a snippet of writing and i’ll draw my interpretation <3

[ellaswritingnook]

Do you have any advice on how to balance writing with everyday activities? It's just, I never find the right time to write and I always feel like there's something more important to do.

Balancing Writing with Daily Activities

In fact, I DO have advice! This is something I struggle with a lot, as do many other writers. ♥

Here are some things that have helped me:

1) Be Realistic About Your Available Free Time

Sit down with a calendar and look at the current month--or just the current week if you prefer. Block out any days where you know you won't have any time to write, maybe because you have full day plans or something scheduled during your usual downtime. Now, look at each remaining day and consider how many hours of free time you will have on those days. "Free time" would mean time where that time doesn't have to be devoted to something else. Now, for each of those days, list out the non-writing activities you'd like to fill that time with on each particular day. This would be things like be socializing, playing video games, watching TV, working on a fun project... whatever activities you'd like to do on those days in the free time you have available. Think about how much time you'd like to spend writing each day, then assign an amount of time to each activity--either how much time you'd want to spend or how much time you think you'd spend. Now, see how each day pans out. Is there room for writing?

2) Make Writing a Priority

We all love to do things we enjoy, whether that's completely re-do our Animal Crossing island as Fairy Core, watch Encanto for the 77th time, or spend time in nature and find a nice spot to read a good book. However... if you have four hours of free time Monday through Friday, you can't do all of those things AND spend an hour writing. Something's got to give. So, looking at the activities you want to do on a particular day again, see which of those things you can prioritize behind writing. Maybe you reeeally need to take that 1-hour nature walk each day for self-care, so that's a top priority. But maybe you work on writing for an hour after that, and if there's time leftover, you can watch Encanto again or work on your Animal Crossing island. Sometimes the only way to get writing done is to be honest with ourselves about what we really want to do versus what we need to do, in this case, need being spending time writing.

3) Try Hard-Scheduling Your Writing Time

During some rough patches, I've had luck hard-scheduling my writing time and keeping it up like an appointment that can't be cancelled. Treating it that way, both in terms of personal priority and prioritizing it with others, makes it a little easier to stick with sometimes. Looking at your free time again, pick an hour (or two, or three) each day--all the better if you can do the same hour each day--and commit to writing during that time. When you get to that time every day, get your butt in the chair and write no matter what.

4) Find the Quiet Time in Your Day

As busy as our days might be, you probably have some quiet time during the day. It might be in the morning when you wake up, or maybe right before you go to bed. It might be the hour between when you get home from school or work, and family members or roommates get home from school or work. It could even be your lunch break, your commute on public transportation, or maybe a gap between classes. If you can find that patch of quiet time during your day, find a way to seize it and write. Even if you only write for 15 or 20 minutes, doing that every day (or most days) will get you moving forward on your story.

5) Honestly, Just Do It. Or, Maybe Don't...

For all of the above, and all the times one of the above has worked well for me, one thing I've learned about myself is this:

I'm just making excuses...

Sure, there always seems to be more "important" things to do, but at the end of the day, most of those things aren't actually that important. They're things I choose to do instead of writing. Why? Well, there can be a number of reasons. It could be because writing is hard, and sometimes it's easier to clean or do laundry than to sit down and flesh out a character or work on a difficult plotting problem. It could be because I'm not in the mood to write, or because my mental well being isn't in a good place for writing. It could just be that I'm choosing to do other things besides writing for no particular reason.

So, try just sitting down... right now... shut down Tumblr, turn off Netflix, put your phone on vibrate, ask anyone you live with not to bother you for a bit, and just start writing. Right now. Read through the last few paragraphs that you wrote, and go for there. Or, if you're plotting, look at the last bit you plotted out, and move forward.

Or, maybe this is the moment where you realize you're not working on your story because you've lost interest in it, or maybe you have no idea where the plot is going. Or maybe your heart and/or brain just aren't in a good place, and you have to accept that right now isn't a good time to worry about writing--but things will get better. You can try again next week.

If you think something about yourself or your project is what's holding you back, try having a look at my Motivation master list of posts. See if you can troubleshoot the problem. Otherwise, like I said, you can try again next week. You'll get there, I promise!

You've got this! ♥

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[ellaswritingnook]

Mental Exhaustion in Writers

I get asked all of the time "why don't I have my fire for writing anymore?"

It's because you've 1. put so much pressure on yourself TO write 2. you've spent so much time putting down your writing and 3. you've made yourself feel inadequate anytime you couldn't write

So now you're over here, in this cycle of unhealthy mannerisms and thought processes about your writing when you should be having fun with it.

Ultimately, something about writing seemed fun to you when you started, right? Otherwise, why would you have started? Whether it was the idea of reading a story that didn't exist yet, whether you thought the act of writing or worldbuilding or character creation was fun, something about writing seemed fun and enjoyable to you.

But you twisted it and twisted it until it became a pretzel of self-sabotaging insults and pressure until now you've popped and all of that expanding air of excitement and joy you used to get from writing has released from your brain and now you're just mentally exhausted.

Take time to relax and to repair your bubble so that you can begin to expand and blow it up again.

You need rest after you've put yourself through so much. It's okay to take a step back for a bit, revitalize your brain, your creativity... it's okay. Take a little time away from writing.

You don't have to be writing 24/7 to be valid or good or even great.

You simply being is enough. Allow your brain rest sometimes.

-H

[ellaswritingnook]

Warnings: mentions of gore, implied death/murder

This is a follow up to "The Cracks"

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It's taken so much to convince herself that she isn't crazy. When this had first started, she'd compared herself to Lady Macbeth - hallucinating the blood that stained her hands for eternity. After a while, she thought it was worse. She wasn't like Lady Macbeth. This was real. The blood was real. Once she'd come to that realization, she had begun to wear gloves.

Now, at 2a.m, she wonders why it would matter if this was real or not. She's on her knees, vigorously scrubbing at the floors and walls. Her apathy has left her to feel almost nothing. She doesn't feel the sponge in her hand, doesn't feel the water as she wrings it in the bucket, and she doesn't feel the warm blood beneath her knees. The blood that is soaking into the floorboards. She's found that she's only able to feel two things anymore: love and gratitude.

This is what love is, isn't it? She asks herself. To be so overwhelmed with the feeling that you're left exhausted and numb on your knees?

The gratitude, she doesn't like to think about. It brings her to a darker part of her mind where she stores all of her ignorance and want of ignorance.

She never sees it happen, and she's thankful for it. Never sees the blood as it leaves their bodies. Blind to the knife that sinks into their flesh. Whenever it begins, she sits in the corner in one room over and clamps her hands tightly over her ears. And she waits. It normally takes the same amount of time - never past three hours. He leaves the room with his bloody clothes and goes to take a shower before going to bed.

She wishes that she could curl up in the bed with him, but she's seen what happens when he realizes what he's done. And so, she cleans.

The first time it happened, she had made the mistake of thinking he was insane. That he was bloodthirsty. But, in the morning, when he saw what he did and had the same reaction as her, she knew that he couldn't be.

He's normal, she tells herself now, we are normal. She scrubs harder at the floor. She scrubs so hard that her rubber gloves begin to tear. She doesn't notice it until it's too late.

A warm feeling invades her palm and she snatches her hand away from the floor, dropping the sponge in her haste. She lifts her hand to inspect it and immediately regrets moving it. The blood begins to drip down her arm, leaving a horrendous streak behind it.

Holding back a sob, she quietly gets up from the floor. She walks into one of the corners where a trashcan sits next to a sink, silently hoping that none of the floorboards creak. He can't wake up. He can't see what he's done.

At the sink, she takes off her gloves and washes her arm almost as profusely as she had been washing the floor. Once she's satisfied, she turns the faucet off, leaning over the sink as she watches the blood flow into the drain.

Slowly, she turns to face the room.

The quadrant that she had been cleaning is pristine. She'd gotten all of the blood off the walls and the wooden floor - although looking a bit darker than before - is spotless. The rest of the room, however, is still dripped in crimson. She has hours of scrubbing ahead of her.

Sighing, she takes her ripped gloves and throws them into the trashcan, making a mental note to take the bag out so that he doesn't see it. Under the sink, she grabs new gloves from atop a stack.

As she walks back to her bucket and sponge, she refuses to look behind her at the trashcan. She wants to remain ignorant for now. Ignorant to what she'd picked up from the floor and put in the trash before she had started to clean.

Yes, she reminds herself, I'll have to take the trash out. He wouldn't be able to stomach the sight of that poor girl's hand.

A character starts cleaning in the middle of the night rather than going to bed

[ellaswritingnook]

The Whistling

Prompt from ReedsyPrompts: Start your story with the narrator saying "I remember. . ."

Warnings: mentions of death, violence

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I remember when the whistling started. Allie had been the first to hear it.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

It had been easy for me to disregard. Whenever someone works a late shift, it’s easy for them to think they heard something — to think they saw something.

“Were you whistling — just now? Was that you?”

“Why would I be whistling?”

Before I left that night, Allie never mentioned seeing anything in the stockroom. She was intent on the idea that I’d been whistling as I fixed up the store, but I know that I never made any sound.

“Must’ve been the ghost, then.”

The scoff that I made that night had offended her even more than my disbelief. She had said it in a fake, joking manner, but I could tell that she was being serious. Everyone has always been under the impression that the stockroom is haunted. We've all heard our names called by a bodiless voice when we're alone. But, it's like I said: in the middle of the night when you're by yourself in an empty store, it's easy to think you heard something. It's a far too simple task to spook yourself with your imagination. It's much harder to realize the bodiless voice you're hearing is truly your mind.

And that's what I had told Jane.

"It's just your mind playing tricks."

First was Allie. And then Jane.

"But — I'm telling you — I saw one of the boxes move."

"It didn't move, Jane. It's late, and you're tired."

When we checked the security footage for both nights, Allie's provided no more information. With only one working camera in the stockroom, we weren't able to see where Allie went. She was seen on the grainy, black and white video thirty minutes before I left, but after that, she didn't show up again. It's like she'd vanished.

I hadn't told anyone, but I'd wondered if she had gone insane. She was so convinced that she had heard something.

But then, Jane happened.

While it shows what happened to her, Jane's video is more confusing than Allie's.

Ten minutes before I left, I had gone into the back to grab my stuff. The security footage shows me crossing in front of the camera to get to my locker. Jane follows after me but stops directly in front of the camera. Although there's no audio, you can make out her mouth moving.

"Did she say anything important to you? Anything that would help us understand what happened?"

"No," I had lied to the investigators, "no, she didn't say anything out of the ordinary. Just told me to have a nice night and that she'd see me for my shift on Saturday."

Not even fifteen minutes after I had left, the camera shows Jane making her way down the aisle between all the shelves, holding a box filled with new products. As she begins to put them away, she's out of the camera's view for a few moments before returning into the aisle. With her box empty, she turns her back against the wall and starts to head out of the aisle.

Those twelve minutes of the recording are so incredibly normal compared to its ending.

Just as the time shown on the camera hits 12 a.m, a box falls from the top of a shelf in the back. Jane comes to an abrupt stop as the box she's holding falls from her hands. She looks directly into the camera, dark eyes wide. She stays that way for a few minutes — standing completely still to the point where she must be holding her breath. And then, slowly, she turns back around and makes her way to the shelves in the back.

She's not even back there for five seconds before she's thrown across the room in the position that the opening employee will find her in the next morning: neck broken, body twisted, with both her eyes and mouth wide open.

She had told me, and I hadn't believed her: "I saw one of the boxes move.".

And then, there were the lies I told. The investigators weren't the only people I lied to. I still remember when Jane came up to me in the back as I was grabbing my things from my locker.

"Can't you stay a little later?" Her eyes held so much anxiety, and I could tell that she'd been crying. But why?

"Jane, I've already been here for ten and a half hours. I'm going home." I closed my locker, ready to leave. But, as I turned to go, I watched Jane's face. Her eyes became wide as fear pooled into them, and her mouth opened in a small gasp. I'd never really watched someone go pale before, but the color in Jane's face bled out of her as she stilled.

"Did you hear it? The whistling?" Her whispered question would forever remain unanswered as I pushed past her and out of the back.

I was the last person to see Jane. I was the last person to see Allie. If I had stayed with them, would it have mattered? What good would it have done if I had gone missing along with Allie? If I had died along with Jane?

But now, as I stand outside in the dark alleyway, I allow myself to realize that I'm a coward. How hard would it have been for me to say those words to Jane: Yes, Jane. I heard it too.

I heard it then, just like I heard it a few moments ago in the stockroom. It had been faint from inside, but it was loud enough for me to hear: the sharp sound of a person whistling. It had been high-pitched — as if someone was trying to call their dog.

Taking a step forward, I pull out my phone. It becomes a spotlight for the empty boxes a few feet away from me. These boxes had been in the stockroom only a week ago — Allie and I had moved them out here once we unpacked them, joking around and making a makeshift fort out of them in the middle of the alleyway. Looking at them now, they've all been toppled over.

Could it have been the wind? It hasn't been windy recently, but maybe even a small breeze would have been able to knock some of the boxes over.

Slowly, I begin to move my flashlight over them. The boxes have definitely been tampered with. Some have even been deconstructed — flattened out as if to hide something.

As I take another step forward, my phone illuminates something unusual among the boxes. It's a single pink shoe.

My throat constricts as I recognize them.

How were we so stupid? Why didn't we check under the gigantic pile of boxes back here? We all knew Allie would never just run away.

I begin to bend down, planning to move the boxes off her body, but my body goes still as I hear it again — this time, a little louder. No — closer.

The whistle starts out high, but the pitch lowers until it bleeds out into the darkness of the night. It sounds like it's coming from behind me, but I can't be sure as it echoes into the silence. The hair on the back of my neck stands up as I realize it could be coming from the stockroom door.

Taking a deep breath, I turn towards the door and guide my light over it. No one is there.

I think about running from the alleyway and heading for my car. Would I be able to outrun whoever — whatever — is back here with me?

But I've already been a coward twice. I've left Allie here before; I can't leave her body like this now.

I turn back to the boxes and begin sliding them off of her one by one. As I take the first few off her, I can already tell: her body is oddly twisted.

When I've uncovered about half of her body, the whistles start up again. This time, they come in succession with no pauses.

I bite the inside of my cheek as I hear them get closer, and as I uncover Allie's broken neck, tears begin to draw lines down my face. The whistling, although it's in no particular tune, sounds off-key. I listen desperately for any other sounds: footsteps, breathing, anything besides the elusive echo that ricochets off the walls.

Finally, I uncover Allie's face, and a sob leaves my throat. Her mouth and eyes are wide open. Just like Jane's.

The whistling stops.

I fall to my knees on the asphalt as tears stream down my face. My shoulders shake as the silence envelops me. For a moment, I think that it's over. The whistling has stopped, I've found Allie's body, and now I can go home.

A whistle sounds from directly above me. My shoulders slump, and I close my eyes for a moment before slowly opening them. Defeated, I look up.

I'm not aware of my eyes widening or my mouth opening. The only thing I'm aware of is that it is over.

[ellaswritingnook]

The writer's blessing:

May you write 1,500 words with ease. May your characters be lively and not cardboard. May you need little editing. May your muse visit you as soon as you sit. May the Internet not distract you much. May your phone lie dormant while you write.

[ellaswritingnook]

Warnings: mentions of death

This is a follow-up to "The Funeral"

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It's a very odd sensation, the man thinks, standing over your own grave. If he were any other person, he might have found the sight of his own headstone disturbing. Instead, he finds it motivational.

He had watched from afar, away from the congregation, as they buried the body. The body that was supposedly his. It had been surprisingly easy to pay off the morticians, but perhaps he shouldn't have been too surprised. He himself had been consumed by the power of wealth.

Which is better? He silently wonders. To be consumed by greed or to be eaten alive by jealousy?

That's what it had been, hadn't it? Jealousy? He's thought about the answer to that question and he's convinced himself that jealousy is the only possible conclusion.

He had everything. His family had everything. He had watched his wife and daughter mourn over her false gravesite - seen his wife's pained expression and his daughter's confusion. The desire to run to them had practically drowned him but he had forced himself to hold back. There was something he had to do first. Something that was more important.

He hadn't just observed his family at his funeral. He had also watched the man who betrayed him. The man whom he'd once considered to be his best friend. The man who had pulled the trigger.

Lifting his hand, the man puts it over his chest where a scar rests. He feels himself itching with desire. Desire filled with hatred. Desire for justice. Desire for revenge.

Yes, he tells himself as he looks down at his tombstone, there are some things that are more important than family.

“It’s a very odd sensation, standing over your own grave.”

[ellaswritingnook]

The Mirror

Prompt: Image above

Warnings: unhealthy home situation

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The sound of their yelling shook the entire house. Their voices echoed throughout the rooms and halls and reverberated into the walls.

She sat on the hardwood floors of her bedroom with her eyes tightly shut - trying to block out the noise of her parents' escalating argument. They had gone to bed arguing the night before and she had hoped that they would forget their disagreement by the time that morning came around. Her hopes had been crushed when she had jolted awake due to the sound of a plate crashing against the kitchen floor.

She wasn't sure if she could remember the last time that her parents were actually happy. A time when the house had been quietly content. She tried to pull at a memory that tenderly lingered in the back of her mind, but it slipped away further into the distance - far away from the pointless yelling and insignificant arguments. A desire to follow the memory filled her heart. She wanted to remember whatever moments of solace and safety it held, but she knew that she wouldn't be able to. She was never able to follow it - never able to experience it.

And so she continued to sit on the floor with her eyes screwed shut as the shouting and snapping grew to an unbearable crescendo. Finally, unable to take it any longer, the girl stood up from the floor and walked over to her dresser. From the back of one of the drawers she dug out an old mirror.

Silently, she crept to her bedroom window and pushed it open. A light breeze entered the room and she sighed in relief to feel the sun shining down onto her face. She quickly climbed out of the window and landed on the grass of the backyard. The grass felt sharp and prickly beneath her feet as she began to walk away from the house - away from the yelling.

When the only sound that she could hear was the slight crinkling of leaves in the wind, she sat down and placed the mirror in her lap. She stared into her reflection and she looked at her surroundings.

In the mirror, it was quiet. The image that appeared before her was peaceful and the colors were more vibrant. She was more vibrant.

Her reflection stared back at her with excited and hopeful gray eyes that twinkled in amusement and her dark hair shimmered in the sunlight.

The worried expression on her face had been replaced with a slight smile - a small tug at the upper right corner of her lips. She looked happy.

Behind her reflection was a blue sky that once held gray clouds, but now held beautiful pure-white cotton balls shaped into images: a cat playfully swatting at a butterfly, a flower beginning to bloom, and a girl standing in between her parents while holding their hands.

The dead forest that she sat outside of was revitalized. The bark of the trees looked healthy and lush, green leaves sprouted from their careful branches.

Everything in the mirror was perfect. A serene feeling overtook the girl and she felt the warm embrace of safety. It was a feeling she didn't experience very often.

She wanted to sit in that spot for the rest of her life, holding onto the mirror and watching herself grow up in a perfect world. But she knew that this was impossible, that it was unhealthy to be so consumed by this desire.

Slowly, she turned the mirror over so that she was no longer looking into its false reality. She closed her eyes for a moment, taking a few deep breaths. Then, when she finally felt okay, she got up and began to walk back to the house.

She paid no mind to the grass stains that had formed on her jeans and she ignored the sharp feeling of the grass beneath her. She pretended that the sky was still a brilliant blue and that the clouds were still friendly shapes.

As she climbed back through her window and put the mirror back into its drawer, she refused to hear the ricocheting of their raised voices. She continued to believe that everything was fine. The mirror had solved her problem for now.

[ellaswritingnook]

The Contortionist

Warnings: Overall disturbing/creepy

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Every night before I sleep, my fears flash before the backs of my eyelids in quick, disturbing images. A demented clown. Some sort of gigantic, disgusting arachnid-scorpion hybrid. A familiar man from my past, standing in the aisle of a grocery store.

Last night, however, my mental intruder was an unfamiliar figure. At first, I mistook it for some kind of crippled animal, but as it grew closer in my mind, I discovered that it was a man.

He was lying on the dark expanse behind my eyes and his arms and legs - skin unnaturally gray - were bent at impossibly odd angles. He wore tattered clothing that at first I thought he was wearing backwards, but, as I zoomed in on him, I found that his head was twisted around backwards.

Stop, I told myself as I usually do - always my first attempt to get rid of these disturbing images. It isn't real.

Yet, as I tried to console myself, I felt my entire body tense. The horribly familiar paranoia began to set in. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and I knew that someone was watching me. He was watching me.

Not only was he in my mind, but I could feel his presence in my room.

It isn't real, I told myself once again and urged my body to relax. When the image of him didn't even falter, I spoke to him directly: Go away.

A slow, satisfied smile began to spread like an infection across the man's face, showing his broken yellowed teeth. I could see his chest spasm and my body tensed again. Even if I couldn't hear it, I felt the sensation of noise bursting into my ears. He was laughing.

Stop, I repeated. But I knew there was no point. Almost cautiously, the man began to move one of his arms. I could sense the sound of his joints creaking and his bones cracking as he moved his arm out in front of him, and I could see the scars on the back of his hand and his missing fingernails as he began to drag himself forward.

I continued in telling him to stop and go away while also trying to convince myself that he wasn't real - that if I'd just open my eyes, he would be gone.

But what if he is in my room? I asked myself. And so I succumbed to cold cowardice and kept my eyes closed.

Go to sleep, I begged myself, please go to sleep. And, eventually, I did. The horrendous image of the contortionist faded for a moment and there was silence.

But the serenity only lasted for a moment before his figure and mocking giggles followed me into my dreams.

[ellaswritingnook]

Warnings: kidnapping, implied murder, overall disturbing

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Most of the girls had said that I wouldn't be able to do it. That I wouldn't make it very far. Their frightened eyes had pleaded with me - begging me not to go. I had almost complied. I had almost closed the door with a quiet and somber resignation. But then I had seen the small sparks of hope in some of their eyes, and I knew that I had to try. Their eyes held hope, but their souls lacked bravery. Cold and treacherous submission had squashed their courageous and rebellious psyches. None of them wanted to try, but I needed to. So I had slipped out of the room while avoiding their pointless cries.

Now, however, I stand outside and I take a moment to enjoy the gentle grass and the comforting feeling of the sun on my face. But I know that I can't stand in this spot forever, so I start to run in a direction that I hope leads to a road.

Before all of this - before I had been taken - I had been able to run at a solid pace for extended periods of time. But it's been a while since I've been able to run, and my endurance has significantly declined in the unknown amount of time that I've been contained. It doesn't take long until my legs begin to burn.

Sweat beads on my forehead and neck, and I can feel it as it begins to slide down my back. A tingling sensation tickles my neck and sine, but I ignore it, thinking that it must be because of my perspiration. The feeling doesn't go away. Quickly, I glance over my shoulder. I almost gasp, but my labored breathing doesn't allow it - a strained, startled sound comes out instead.

Although I feel that I've ran a great distance, I can still see the house. The man stands at its doorway, his hands nonchalantly tucked into his pockets. He makes no move to follow me, but I can feel his eyes as they watch me.

I turn back to face ahead, ignoring the panic that's begun to bloom in my chest. I expect to hear him start running, to hear the sound of his feet flattening the grass beneath him. Instead, I hear the faint sound of whistling. From where I am, I make out a faint, out of tune version of "Mary Had A Little Lamb". Is that all we are to him? Lambs to lead to the slaughter?

My throat chokes back sobs as I desperately try to speed up. The grass under me suddenly feels like needles and the sun burns my skin. Just a s a loud sob escapes my mouth, the whistling stops. It's quiet for a moment, with the only sound being my uneven breathing. And then comes the dreaded sound. The sound of feet slamming against the ground.

I internally scream, telling my legs to go faster, but all of my energy is practically drained. I refuse to turn around. Instead, I stare straight ahead, my eyes focused on the horizon.

Ignorant to how close he is to me, hope swells in my chest as the outline of a gate comes into view. I urge my legs to go faster, certain that this newfound hope will restore my energy.

But all hope comes crashing down as a hand grabs my hair and roughly yanks me back into a cage of arms. I want to fight - to flail and scream - but all the energy that I had just gained has suddenly been depleted.

I can't even manage to cry as I'm dragged back. Back through the field. Back to the house. Back to that claustrophobic prison where I'm sure to meet my doom.

Write a piece about someone who thinks they're prepared for something, but are not

[ellaswritingnook]

Although it doesn’t totally follow this prompt, this ‘lil short blurb was inspired by it :)

Warnings: mentions of death, kidnapping, sad, pretty creepy I guess

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        I can still hear her cries. The doctor had claimed that there had been no cries - that she had been stillborn - but I swear that I'd heard her and that her screeches had been panicked. She'd known, I think. She knew that her time would be short and that her end would be abrupt. As abrupt as her crying had stopped. They claim that she had made no sound, but I heard her. I still do.

        It kills me that I couldn't save her.

        And so her premature screams torment me and haunt the rooms of my home. Of what should have been our home. The home that was built on the hopes and aspiration that any young family's home is built on. But those hopes have long since been forgotten, and this home isn't even a home anymore - the comforting warmth and safety it once held were coldly stripped from its foundation, and now it's simply a structure that sits on its own broken bones. There is nothing left in it that is worth saving.

        Even as I stand in the room that was supposed to be her nursery, I know the preservation that I'm forcing on the building is pointless. I haven't moved any of the furniture that we had picked out for her. The crib that we had painted a delicate pink sits forever empty in the corner of the room with a rug under it that will never be walked on. A rocking chair that has never been used rests in the opposite corner next to vacant bookcases that once had so much potential. The toybox holds the heavy burden of nothing within its four walls, and the window behind it has its blinds lightly closed. Everything in the room is useless. Everything in the house is useless. I am useless.

        A tear falls from my face onto the dustless floorboards that I stand on. I stare at it for a few moments before bending down and wiping it off with my sleeve. I've kept the room clean for this long; I don't intend to make a mess of it now.

        As I stand back up, I hear it again. The crying. She's calling for me again.

        I take one more sweeping glance at the nursery before I step back out into the hallway and close its door. I pause and wait a moment for the crying to start again. It only takes a few seconds before one reverberates throughout the house. The cry echoes into my head and through my bones as I quickly turn towards the stairs. I've sat useless for far too long. Something must be done.

        One of my hands grazes along the stair railing as I make my way down, and the other holds steady on the wall. How long ago was it that these walls were put up? How long has it been since I'd first heard her cries? How long has it been since he left me? How long ago was it that I saved the first one? I find that either way, it doesn't matter. Either way, they are crying for me now.

        Their cries never seem to cease, and I'm certain that this is my damnation - to be stuck listening to the screams of my past and present. I stopped thinking about the future when I lost her. She took my purpose with her.

        I've found a purpose, though - one that I believed was new. I found it when I found them. When I saved them. But when the cries started and their little voices rang out in screams, I knew that it was not a new purpose. It was the same.

        It is the same.

        Tears are streaming down my face by the time that I reach the main floor, and the cries that come from behind the garage door splinter my heart into pieces. I step into the garage, quickly grabbing the key that's on top of a shelf, and remove the rug from overtop the trapdoor. Their cries quiet down as I slip the key into the lock. 

        "It's alright," I say soothingly, staring down at five pairs of wide, frightened eyes, "it's alright. Mommy's here now."

It’s three am and the children are in the garage crying and calling for you. Problem is, you don’t have children. 

[ellaswritingnook]

Reblog if you: have no intention of using Post+ to put your content behind a paywall,  and  have no intention to pay to unlock any content hidden by Post+ either

I wanna see something.

[ellaswritingnook]

The Bench

This prompt is in bold and is from the book: Complete the Story made by Piccaddily. 

Warnings: brief mentions of gore, a bit disturbing

---

     It's that fleeting hour of day when the moon and sun are high and bright at the same time. Like many things in my life, these summer nights won't last much longer. I sit quietly on a bench, enjoying the serene ambiance of the small park. This will quite possibly be the last time that I sit here. My dirty shoes rest beside me on the bench, and I press my feet into the soft grass below me while my hands run over the rough wood that I sit on.

     I've relaxed many times in this same spot - so often, in fact, that I've watched the children of the neighborhood grow from crawling to playing to simply walking by with the memories from their younger years slowly fading into the distant parts of their minds. They all know me and can easily recognize me, and it's for this reason that I know it won't be long now.

     They'll all ask Why? Why did he do it? But I plan on keeping silent because how can you answer a question with a response that no one wants to hear? Because I wanted to. They'll want an explanation, but the funny thing is that I can't give them one. So I'll just keep quiet.

     They'll all look at me, see me drenched, and ask How? And again, I will not answer them because I'd want to simply ask in return: Why is it any of your business? And they wouldn't like the idea of me answering their question with another question, so why should I make that idea into a reality? Silence is the only correct answer. It is the only thing in this world that is always present yet has varying meanings.

     And where better to enjoy this silence than your favorite spot of solitude? What better way to remember this silence and to remind other people of it than to, quite literally, leave your mark? To leave a stain.

     And so I've come to the bench - the bench that I've come to believe is my bench - because it has always rested in this unchanging silence. If someone has to force this space to change, it's going to be me. It is me.

    Even with this belief, I still discover a sense of despair descending over me as I hear the sirens. They pierce the air and echo into my beloved space - destroying and defiling its beautiful peace.

    Even as they pull their cars over and step out to take in the sight of me before them, I feel almost exposed. But, although the safety of the bench is fleeting, I know that my silence will last forever.

    Even as I force my hands into the air, I can see in their stares the questions that I had already been expecting forming in their minds. Why? How?

    But, as I stand, the only responses that I openly give to them are my silence and the bloodstain left behind on the bench.

[ellaswritingnook]

October Update Schedule

As of right now, all the updates I have planned are for prompts :) I'm planning to update every Tuesday:

October 5th - "The Bench"

October 12th - "The Children"

October 19th - "The Chase"

October 26th - "The Contortionist"

Because it's October and people are posting a bunch of different horror prompts, I might end up adding a few more updates :D

If anyone is interested in requesting a prompt, I can either switch their prompt out with one of these or just add it to the end of my update list (mid to end of November).

[ellaswritingnook]

u know what, even if my writing isnt the BEST, i still made it all on my own. like there was a blank word doc and i filled it up with my own words, my own story. i took what was in my head and i made it a real thing. idk i feel like that alone is something to be proud of.

[ellaswritingnook]

My Writing

Here’s a list of the things I’ve written and posted!

- “The Dream”

- “The Funeral”

- “The Last One”

- “The Watch”

- “The Heart”

- “The Lake”

- “The Bat”

[ellaswritingnook]

The Bat

Prompts:

- Write a piece about an animal perfectly adapted to its environment

- In the darkness, every sound was amplified

- Something just came up the stairs

Warnings: Kinda scary (being home alone and having something happen/go wrong is literally one of my biggest fears, so if you’re scared of that too probs not a good idea to read this) and just a ‘lil bit of violence.

It’s spooky season and I felt in the mood to write something leaning towards horror, so here ya go :)

     The girl was terrified. She was stood in the corner of her room behind the door - the lights turned off as not to give away to her hiding place. In the darkness, every sound was amplified, and she tried to cover her mouth to muffle her breathing. Every breath only seemed to grow louder in her head.

     She had been sitting at her desk when she’d heard the front door creak open, and she had looked out the window to see if her parents had come home early. Neither of their cars was in the driveway, but the front door was wide open. She had felt a chill run through her body as the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. With her family’s farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, they had no cell service - her parents didn’t think they’d ever need it, and even if they did, there were no cell towers anyway.

     Getting up from her seat, she had tried not to make any noise as she quickly grabbed the metal baseball bat from under her bed, but the old house creaked under her weight with every step she took. With the bat in her hands, she turned off her bedroom light and stood behind where the door would swing open if someone were to enter. She hoped that she’d be able to hit them from behind and take advantage of her theoretical fight.

     And now, standing next to the door, she tried to keep confidence in herself. Even if I can’t win the fight, she thought, maybe I can buy enough time for mom and dad to get home.  Maybe the trespasser won’t even come upstairs. Maybe they’ve already found what they want.

     A crash sounded from below that she knew to have been her mother’s antique vase, and the girl jumped. The metal bat slammed against the wall.

     Her breathing quickened even more, and she tried desperately to collect herself. There was no point, though, she knew as a creak echoed. Her hands shook as she realized what that creak meant. Something had just come up the stairs.

     Trying to steady her trembling hands, she raised the bat believing that she was ready for whoever came through the door.

     The door screeched open in a dreadfully slow manner.

     She lunged from her hiding place and swung the bat as hard as she could - aiming for her assailant’s knees. The bat struck its target. The wooden door to her bedroom splintered. No one stood in the doorway.

     The girl took a tentative step back but quickly raised the bat again. The person could be in the hallway. She prepared to leap out of her doorway but never got the chance.

     Something cold and slimy wrapped around her left ankle. With a yank and a scream, she was gone - nothing left behind but a bat on the floor that she had dropped in her terror.