Mayor Rose
Professional Meme
Not sure how much attention this thread will get, but I'm trying.
I'm a horror fanatic, and really enjoy reading short horrors. I'd love to read anyone's, and if they want I can try to critique it. I'm sharing mine so critique on myself is also welcomed! I don't offend easy, so don't be afraid to say things.
Remember: If someone says something negative (critically), try not to feel hurt. It is just opens a door for you to improve on that specific subject. Everyone has the ability to improve, and we can't improve if we do not see flaws. Be as polite as you can with the critiques, but still tell what you liked and what you didn't (what could they change?). Suggestions are only suggestions, if someone suggests you change something make sure they have an explained reason behind it. More than one critique for a single story is VERY VERY encouraged. Their opinion is not ultimately golden just because they are not yourself. Please remember all of this!
I have a couple so beware! (You don't need to read them to post your own)(Note: my titles are satirical)
I may add more
Be confident in your writing, or at least be confident in the idea of improving.
I'm a horror fanatic, and really enjoy reading short horrors. I'd love to read anyone's, and if they want I can try to critique it. I'm sharing mine so critique on myself is also welcomed! I don't offend easy, so don't be afraid to say things.
Remember: If someone says something negative (critically), try not to feel hurt. It is just opens a door for you to improve on that specific subject. Everyone has the ability to improve, and we can't improve if we do not see flaws. Be as polite as you can with the critiques, but still tell what you liked and what you didn't (what could they change?). Suggestions are only suggestions, if someone suggests you change something make sure they have an explained reason behind it. More than one critique for a single story is VERY VERY encouraged. Their opinion is not ultimately golden just because they are not yourself. Please remember all of this!
I have a couple so beware! (You don't need to read them to post your own)(Note: my titles are satirical)
As you follow your science partner, Samantha, into her crimson-brown home, an immediate cold air meets your back and sends chills up your spine. She makes note of your shock to the temperature and says something about the heater being broken for about a week now. You leave it alone despite feeling uneasy about needing a heater in the late spring and, with your politeness and manner, take off your shoes near the door before reaching for your coat.
You hesitate, fingers stopping in their tracks above the buttons as a particularly winter-like wind swipes at your form. You decide to leave your coat on, thankful you wore it. You follow her swiftly passed her kitchen and into her living room.
You didn’t know Samantha too well, being only assigned partners for an end of the year project several days ago. She seems nice enough, but there’s something wrong with her smile. It’s tight; like the curve doesn’t fit right on her face. You don’t comment on it, not feeling close enough to her to be able to offer a shoulder to cry on if she so needed. Besides that, she was fairly normal with her blonde pony-tail, blue irises, average-sized stature, freckle dusted cheeks, and moderate intelligence. You could even like her, if you gave it some time, but you had no patience for that anyways.
She reaches for the remote, saying something about a cute boy she saw last week at the market, trying to clear the awkward atmosphere that has grown around the two of you, but it is dull noise to you as you look about the room and spot an old man. He, presumably her grandfather, lays upright in a worn-down recliner, eyes shut and body stilled. You assume he is sleeping but the way he’s sitting makes it feel like he’s staring at you from behind his eye-lids. You quickly turn away, feeling like a peeping-tom of sorts watching him sleep.
“Sorry, I like to work with the TV on.” She claims, making quick to get her books out from her backpack.
You get to work. The temperature drops further, and Samantha offers you a blanket which you gladly accept.
“Odd. It gets cold, but never this cold. Must be the outside.” She comments, wrapping wool around herself as well.
You nod, swallowing your remark on how it was early June, and it was fairly warm out. You take a glance at her grandfather, who has only moved to lay his hands neatly across his chest, reminding you of someone’s position in a casket. The idea makes your blood run cold, like ice has gathered in your veins – it doesn’t even look like he’s breathing – but you quickly dismiss it as nonsense. She doesn’t seem to notice anything strange so he must be fine, you think.
Only a few episodes of a show pass and only a few pages of work are filled when you hear a sound like electricity flowing but not connecting or ending anywhere. An incomplete circuit? A broken wire? You try to ignore it, but it gets louder, like the noise is burrowed inside your head and not occurring around you. Your eyes dart around the room trying to figure out where it’s coming from. There’s a sizzling in your head.
“Hey. I’m going to make some hot chocolate. Come with me?” Samantha asks all of a sudden, and you quickly get up in reply, eager to leave the sound behind.
Sure enough, as soon as you exit the room and into the kitchen it stops and the quiet is bliss. You watch and lean back against the counter as she digs through her cabinets for the packets and rambles on about how they’re hidden away for the warmer seasons and nearly impossible to locate. You glance back at the living room where the recliner is perfectly positioned to meet your eyes. It’s empty. Weird, you never heard him get up. You suppose he’s just a silent man, but even that thought doesn’t sit well with you.
You feel sick to your stomach. You begin to hope a conversation will rid of the rocks that have piled up in your abdomen, so you decide to bring up her relative.
“Your grandfather must have finally gotten too cold. Surprised he could withstand it that long in that chair.” You joke, but the words come out raw. The rocks get heavier. Your body freezes. Your muscles feel clammy. Your bones are screaming at you to move.
The static returns and it buzzes in your ears so loud that you can barely hear her reply. She stops what’s she doing and looks down at the checkboard tile of her kitchen solemnly, her bangs now hiding her eyes in a shade.
“My grandfather died a week ago. Power-line accident.”
The electricity burns its way through your brain, the sound unbearable now.
Something moves from behind you.
You hesitate, fingers stopping in their tracks above the buttons as a particularly winter-like wind swipes at your form. You decide to leave your coat on, thankful you wore it. You follow her swiftly passed her kitchen and into her living room.
You didn’t know Samantha too well, being only assigned partners for an end of the year project several days ago. She seems nice enough, but there’s something wrong with her smile. It’s tight; like the curve doesn’t fit right on her face. You don’t comment on it, not feeling close enough to her to be able to offer a shoulder to cry on if she so needed. Besides that, she was fairly normal with her blonde pony-tail, blue irises, average-sized stature, freckle dusted cheeks, and moderate intelligence. You could even like her, if you gave it some time, but you had no patience for that anyways.
She reaches for the remote, saying something about a cute boy she saw last week at the market, trying to clear the awkward atmosphere that has grown around the two of you, but it is dull noise to you as you look about the room and spot an old man. He, presumably her grandfather, lays upright in a worn-down recliner, eyes shut and body stilled. You assume he is sleeping but the way he’s sitting makes it feel like he’s staring at you from behind his eye-lids. You quickly turn away, feeling like a peeping-tom of sorts watching him sleep.
“Sorry, I like to work with the TV on.” She claims, making quick to get her books out from her backpack.
You get to work. The temperature drops further, and Samantha offers you a blanket which you gladly accept.
“Odd. It gets cold, but never this cold. Must be the outside.” She comments, wrapping wool around herself as well.
You nod, swallowing your remark on how it was early June, and it was fairly warm out. You take a glance at her grandfather, who has only moved to lay his hands neatly across his chest, reminding you of someone’s position in a casket. The idea makes your blood run cold, like ice has gathered in your veins – it doesn’t even look like he’s breathing – but you quickly dismiss it as nonsense. She doesn’t seem to notice anything strange so he must be fine, you think.
Only a few episodes of a show pass and only a few pages of work are filled when you hear a sound like electricity flowing but not connecting or ending anywhere. An incomplete circuit? A broken wire? You try to ignore it, but it gets louder, like the noise is burrowed inside your head and not occurring around you. Your eyes dart around the room trying to figure out where it’s coming from. There’s a sizzling in your head.
“Hey. I’m going to make some hot chocolate. Come with me?” Samantha asks all of a sudden, and you quickly get up in reply, eager to leave the sound behind.
Sure enough, as soon as you exit the room and into the kitchen it stops and the quiet is bliss. You watch and lean back against the counter as she digs through her cabinets for the packets and rambles on about how they’re hidden away for the warmer seasons and nearly impossible to locate. You glance back at the living room where the recliner is perfectly positioned to meet your eyes. It’s empty. Weird, you never heard him get up. You suppose he’s just a silent man, but even that thought doesn’t sit well with you.
You feel sick to your stomach. You begin to hope a conversation will rid of the rocks that have piled up in your abdomen, so you decide to bring up her relative.
“Your grandfather must have finally gotten too cold. Surprised he could withstand it that long in that chair.” You joke, but the words come out raw. The rocks get heavier. Your body freezes. Your muscles feel clammy. Your bones are screaming at you to move.
The static returns and it buzzes in your ears so loud that you can barely hear her reply. She stops what’s she doing and looks down at the checkboard tile of her kitchen solemnly, her bangs now hiding her eyes in a shade.
“My grandfather died a week ago. Power-line accident.”
The electricity burns its way through your brain, the sound unbearable now.
Something moves from behind you.
I don’t want to be here. The sound of clicking glass and elegant speech fills the room, soft opera music a dull background. The only thing I look forward to is the food, which was rumored to be prepared by some of the best gourmet chefs in the country. People sneer as they drink their poison in shiny hourglass forms, laughing like pigs who had too much to eat and raved about their fullness. Some attire downright blinds me, their personal designers more than a little sparkle-happy. I began to walk around, viewing portraits, scenic paintings, abstract statues; observing just about everything and anything inanimate in an effort to ignore the living.
A couple men ask me to dance, but I can only respond in a cut smile and a tight “no”.
They walk away briskly after that, grumbling something about being a tease. It almost makes me laugh how irresistible men in their broad-shoulders and dangerous eyes seem to find me. Why do these men feel as if they’re entitled to a dance with me, as if I’m required to give them the time of day, and if I don’t I’m some type of wench in need of an attitude-adjustment. Oh, how male-female politics truly do bore me.
But, yet again, I also seem to hate my own gender as well.
All the women here, or anywhere, only care about their hair and their curves and how they make men feel. I, however, only dress for my parents, to please them and their ridiculous ideals on social etiquette and girl stereotypes.
So maybe in that sense, I was no better.
Although, that thought really does nothing to lighten my hatred for the people in the room and, quite frankly, their dreadful characteristics.
There is the ring of a bell and the pause of music. Everyone appears to stop speaking at that very moment, crowing in delight and in unison at the fresh aroma of food entering the hall. People gingerly make their way over to their assigned seats at the table as waiters and waitresses hurriedly trying to fill it. I spot my parents gesturing to a seat next to them, and I respond by walking over with fluent motion, legs gliding against each other from the confines of my charcoal-colored dress, hips moving to the beat of my own step. As soon as I approach the table, a feeling like rocks piling in-between my intestines fills my core. I hesitate in front of the wooden chair garnished with smooth curves and bits of polished marble, my parents staring at the enclosed dishes waiting for them expectantly.
Time slows for some reason. The smell of fresh food grows bitter in my nostrils, the once inviting and delicious aroma now an odor of tar and burnt flesh.
Something is wrong.
The waiters and waitresses filter out too fast, closing the doors of the kitchen behind them with loud clicks and thuds. My heart rate picks up in my chest as everyone, almost as if in a trance, reach out to their plates. The smell grows stronger, and my brain supplies the confirmation that yeah, that very much tastes like death in my mouth. Their food gives way to bouts of ash-like steam as they remove the tops to their feast and I gag behind my hand.
The food is deformed, looking like black glop that shifts under the heat that bubbles its insides. However, upon further inspection, I spot that it is not waves of pressure gliding through the food’s surface, but rather its own desired movement. Like on a schedule, the dinner grows and turns to the guests all at the same time.
I hear groaning – or was that growling? Either way, I am positive food is not supposed to make that kind of noise. Everyone laughs like it’s a show, picking up their forks and knives, completely unaware of their fates lain before them on silver platters.
They are blinded.
“Mother. Father. Something isn’t right. Please – what are you -” I practically choke on the words, my need to speak stabbed and dead in my throat while I look down at the goo that stares back.
They ignore me, and it’s when a chorus of – yes that is growling – disgustingwrongwrong growling - fills the room that I realize our grave mistake of ever coming to this party. I take one last glance at the food that has now grown teeth and thick talons at the end of arms of slime before tearing off my heels and sprinting towards the doors. I collide into them, clutching at the door knob that just won’t budge, slamming my body against it in a wave of hysteria.
There is a drop in the air and the slick sound of something biting and cutting echoes in my ears.
I have a feeling it’s not the people eagerly enjoying their meal.
A sound like liquid hitting against the floor follows, and I’m reluctant to look down at the red blur that has gathered shortly behind my own feet in a splatter. My shoulder hurts from the efforts of trying to budge the door, but for some reason it begins to matter less and less. I turn, muscles and bones controlled by a mind different from my own, facing my body towards the massacre. The eyes of coal and bloodied claws look appetizing, and my stomach growls despite the fear in my mind. I’m hungry. I shift towards the table, legs gliding and hips swinging once more. I approach like a predator to its prey, but my brain screams at me that’s not the precise case here. Soon I can barely hear my own thoughts over the roar of my sudden need, and I reach out towards my dinner. It looks good.
“I’m hungry.”
A couple men ask me to dance, but I can only respond in a cut smile and a tight “no”.
They walk away briskly after that, grumbling something about being a tease. It almost makes me laugh how irresistible men in their broad-shoulders and dangerous eyes seem to find me. Why do these men feel as if they’re entitled to a dance with me, as if I’m required to give them the time of day, and if I don’t I’m some type of wench in need of an attitude-adjustment. Oh, how male-female politics truly do bore me.
But, yet again, I also seem to hate my own gender as well.
All the women here, or anywhere, only care about their hair and their curves and how they make men feel. I, however, only dress for my parents, to please them and their ridiculous ideals on social etiquette and girl stereotypes.
So maybe in that sense, I was no better.
Although, that thought really does nothing to lighten my hatred for the people in the room and, quite frankly, their dreadful characteristics.
There is the ring of a bell and the pause of music. Everyone appears to stop speaking at that very moment, crowing in delight and in unison at the fresh aroma of food entering the hall. People gingerly make their way over to their assigned seats at the table as waiters and waitresses hurriedly trying to fill it. I spot my parents gesturing to a seat next to them, and I respond by walking over with fluent motion, legs gliding against each other from the confines of my charcoal-colored dress, hips moving to the beat of my own step. As soon as I approach the table, a feeling like rocks piling in-between my intestines fills my core. I hesitate in front of the wooden chair garnished with smooth curves and bits of polished marble, my parents staring at the enclosed dishes waiting for them expectantly.
Time slows for some reason. The smell of fresh food grows bitter in my nostrils, the once inviting and delicious aroma now an odor of tar and burnt flesh.
Something is wrong.
The waiters and waitresses filter out too fast, closing the doors of the kitchen behind them with loud clicks and thuds. My heart rate picks up in my chest as everyone, almost as if in a trance, reach out to their plates. The smell grows stronger, and my brain supplies the confirmation that yeah, that very much tastes like death in my mouth. Their food gives way to bouts of ash-like steam as they remove the tops to their feast and I gag behind my hand.
The food is deformed, looking like black glop that shifts under the heat that bubbles its insides. However, upon further inspection, I spot that it is not waves of pressure gliding through the food’s surface, but rather its own desired movement. Like on a schedule, the dinner grows and turns to the guests all at the same time.
I hear groaning – or was that growling? Either way, I am positive food is not supposed to make that kind of noise. Everyone laughs like it’s a show, picking up their forks and knives, completely unaware of their fates lain before them on silver platters.
They are blinded.
“Mother. Father. Something isn’t right. Please – what are you -” I practically choke on the words, my need to speak stabbed and dead in my throat while I look down at the goo that stares back.
They ignore me, and it’s when a chorus of – yes that is growling – disgustingwrongwrong growling - fills the room that I realize our grave mistake of ever coming to this party. I take one last glance at the food that has now grown teeth and thick talons at the end of arms of slime before tearing off my heels and sprinting towards the doors. I collide into them, clutching at the door knob that just won’t budge, slamming my body against it in a wave of hysteria.
There is a drop in the air and the slick sound of something biting and cutting echoes in my ears.
I have a feeling it’s not the people eagerly enjoying their meal.
A sound like liquid hitting against the floor follows, and I’m reluctant to look down at the red blur that has gathered shortly behind my own feet in a splatter. My shoulder hurts from the efforts of trying to budge the door, but for some reason it begins to matter less and less. I turn, muscles and bones controlled by a mind different from my own, facing my body towards the massacre. The eyes of coal and bloodied claws look appetizing, and my stomach growls despite the fear in my mind. I’m hungry. I shift towards the table, legs gliding and hips swinging once more. I approach like a predator to its prey, but my brain screams at me that’s not the precise case here. Soon I can barely hear my own thoughts over the roar of my sudden need, and I reach out towards my dinner. It looks good.
“I’m hungry.”
I may add more
Be confident in your writing, or at least be confident in the idea of improving.
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