r/WritingPrompts • u/katpoker666 Moderator • Mar 15 '24
Off Topic [OT] Fun Trope Friday, Writing with Tropes: Parental Issues & Gothic!
Hello r/WritingPrompts!
Welcome to Fun Trope Friday, our feature that mashes up tropes and genres!
How’s it work? Glad you asked. :)
Every week we will have a new spotlight trope.
Each week, there will be a new genre assigned to write a story about the trope.
You can then either use or subvert the trope in a 750-word max (vs 600) story or poem (unless otherwise specified).
To qualify for ranking, you will need to provide ONE actionable feedback. More are welcome of course!
Three winners will be selected each week based on votes, so remember to read your fellow authors’ works and DM me your votes for the top three.
Next up…
Max Word Count: 750 words
Trope: Parental Issues
Genre: Gothic Please note that there is far more to gothic than horror and the Victorian period. And remember that having clear gothic elements is enough to meet the genre requirement. For example, Neil Gaiman’s work would fit in here nicely as gothic comedy. Or play with Gothic fiction’s own trope of having an absent mother figure and the implications thereof.
Skill: Use color symbolism to bring extra meaning to your gothic environs (optional)
So, have at it. Lean into the trope heavily or spin it on its head. The choice is yours!
Have a great idea for a future topic to discuss or just want to give feedback? FTF is a fun feature, so it’s all about what you want—so please let me know! Please share in the comments or DM me on Discord or Reddit!
Last Week’s Winners
PLEASE remember to give feedback—this affects your ranking. PLEASE also remember to DM me your votes for the top three stories via Discord or Reddit—both katpoker666. If you have any questions, please DM me as well.
Some fabulous stories this week and great crit in campfire and on the post! Congrats to:
Want to read your words aloud? Join the upcoming FTF Campfire
The next FTF campfire will be Thursday, March 21st from 6-8pm EST. It will be in the Discord Main Voice Lounge. Click on the events tab and mark ‘Interested’ to be kept up to date. No signup or prep needed and don’t have to have written anything! So join in the fun—and shenanigans! 😊
Ground rules:
- Stories must incorporate both the trope and the genre
- Leave one story or poem between 100 and 600 words as a top-level comment unless otherwise specified. Use wordcounter.net to check your word count.
- Deadline: 11:59 PM EST next Thursday
- No stories that have been written for another prompt or feature here on WP—please note after consultation with some of our delightful writers, new serials are now welcomed here
- No previously written content
- Any stories not meeting these rules will be disqualified from rankings
- Does your story not fit the Fun Trope Friday rules? You can post your story as a [PI] with your work when the FTF post is 3 days old!
- Vote to help your favorites rise to the top of the ranks (DM me at katpoker666 on Discord or Reddit)!
Thanks for joining in the fun!
4
u/katpoker666 Mar 21 '24
[ineligible for voting]
—-
‘Maybe Daddy?’
—-
“Oatmeal be darned, Rose, where’s my fudgeridoo-ing copy of the Necronomicon?” Aleister growled, his pale blue eyes narrowed beneath their lashings of liner. “I need it for our daily Eldritch Horror summonings at the Abbey.”
“Yes, Al. Big culty-wulty work for the mighty Crowley himself.” Kissing his nose, the preternaturally pasty woman laughed. “In all of these years, have you ever seen one of the Great Old Ones? Aiwass ‘dictating’ The Book of Law for you to transcribe doesn’t count.”
“For the last time, I did not imagine Aiwass on our honeymoon in Cairo just to impress you! And I’ll have you know too Thelema is not a ‘cult.’ It’s a mutual gathering of likeminded followers of the occult who like sex and want to meet unknowable beings.”
“And who just so happen to worship your every move and pay you a modest 40% tithe for that privilege?” Rose winked. “C’mon honey, it’s only us. You can say it’s a cult.”
“For the last shaven-shih-tzu-ing time: Thelema is NOT a cult!”
“Is.”
“Isn’t,” Aleister rubbed his temple, smearing white and black makeup to a murky grey. “Daggumnabbit: now look what you’ve made me do! My makeup is RUINED.”
Laughing, Rose pointed to the clock waving an arm clad in exquisitely dark diaphanous silk. “Oh look, you’ll be late to cult school if you don’t hurry!”
“I get no respect around here.” Aleister shook his head. “But you know what Rose? You couldn’t wear custom Victoria Wilder if I didn’t have Thelema. You’d be stuck in basic Hot Topic. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
Rose lowered her eyes.
“Didn’t think so.” He gestured at his face. “Could you find my Necronomicon while I fix this mess?”
“Okay.”
As Aleister walked to the powder room, Rose shouted up the stairs, “Angelica, have you seen your Daddy’s copy of the Necronomicon, erm, Big Booky?”
Loud scuffling sounds echoed back down.
Shhhh
“Uh-um no Mommy. I look.”
Angelica’s tippy-tapping toes ran around in circles.
“Ang, honey, are you pretending not to know where Daddy’s book is?”
Shhhh
“Don’t you shush me young lady!”
“No you—“
“Do you have someone up there? You know no friends before daycare!”
Muffled thuds and the clash of plastic china hitting the ground led Rose to exclaim, “That’s it! I’m coming up!”
Angelica’s door was stuck. A low moan sounded.
“I’m coming baby!” Her mother slammed against the portal with all her might.
The moaning grew louder.
“Stop, Mommy! Hurt ‘thulu!”
“‘Thulu? Who the heck is ‘thulu and what are they doing in your room? Open the door this instant!”
Inside Angelica’s room wearing a sparkly pink unicorn hat, the legendary Eldritch Horror known as Cthulu sat nursing a wounded tentacle and holding a steaming cup of herbal tea in another. The Necronomicon was off to the side covered in yellow crayon.
“Angelica! Crayon?! Your Dad is gonna— W-wait, you’re Lord Cthulu, the mightiest of the Great Old Ones?”
“Guilllty!” A giant awkward grin spread across his face as his silver glitter-covered tentacles waved happily. “Nice to meet you, Rose. Would you like a cup of strawberry tea?”
“Oooh, strawberry, my favorite! But how did you know my name?”
Angelica and Cthulhu exchanged looks and giggled. “Eldey-rich, mama.”
“Oh . . . right. Well, welcome Cthulu. It’s lovely to have you here.” Rose looked around the table at the three other teacups. “Wait, is someone else here?”
“Lobon, Tamash, Zo-Kalar? It’s okay to come out,” Cthulu smiled as each being emerged from their pastel camouflage along Angelica’s walls before returning to darker shades.
Angelica looked up at her mom with wide doe eyes, “Friends stay? Mama too?”
“I guess?” Rose gasped and shrugged looking at her daughter. “Shouldn’t we get your Daddy, honey?”
“Sorry Rose. Angelica says you’re cool, and that’s good enough for us.” Cthulu and the others shook their heads. “But we’re the OGs. Aleister’s a wannabe. We have a reputation to maintain. You understand?”
Rose nodded, dumbfounded.
—-
WC: 664
—-
Thanks for reading! Feedback is always very much appreciated
—-
Please note the wonderful Whomsteth inspired and provided a foundation for parts of this piece. Whether they will admit it after reading is another matter. Nevertheless their help was appreciated
2
u/oliverjsn8 Mar 22 '24
The first block is a great start getting us right into the mindset this is going to be over the top and a comedy. The near curse word brings us to mind that there is a layer of innocence that juxtaposes the fact he is looking for a copy of the Necronomicon. (Why do I get an immediate sense of an anti-Ned Flanders, maybe that is why the others avoid him.)
Now I will say the title doesn’t quite do it for me, whereas the first block does.
Going into Rose, I don’t know quite what to make of her. At first, she feels like she is an unbeliever, not just a critic of Thelema as a cult. As we are in a world where the supernatural is just another part of daily life, maybe add something earlier that it is real.
“I’m coming baby!” Her mother slammed against the portal with all her might.
The word portal in this sentence threw me a bit. In a world of magic I thought literal portal not a door. You say door before and after the instance, so I know it’s a door. Maybe unyielding barrier, obstruction etc if you want to avoid saying door again in sequence.
“Sorry Rose. Angelica says you’re cool, and that’s good enough for us.” Cthulu and the others shook their heads. “But we’re the OGs. Aleister’s a wannabe. We have a reputation to maintain. You understand?”
The end makes me think Aleister wants to become an old one as he is a ‘wannabe’ and they are the OGs. I don’t think this was the intention as he is a leader that tries to summon the great old ones. I can understand making them not want to be seen with Allister. as he isn’t cool.
I really enjoy the character of Allister. The makeup and innocence make a great character. Angela also made me laugh by spinning in a circle while ‘looking’, it's very believable.
Overall a fun story, good words.
2
u/katpoker666 Mar 23 '24
Thanks Oliver! Some great crit and calls as always. The title was a remnant I forgot to delete (Cthulu was almost a baby daddy!). Darn Zach and making me try to title stuff! With Rose and Aleister I may have gotten carried away trying to be a little too clever. Aleister Crowley was a real guy as was his first wife, Rose. He started a crazy cult called Thelema and claimed The Book of Law was dictated to him by an old one on their honeymoon in Cairo. Never let it be said he wasn’t romantic. Lol. He wanted to be a godhead like the OGs in a way inspiring worship and heavy tithing along with more salacious things from his followers. He claimed to be a master of the occult. In my head I thought it would be funny if he couldn’t channel for real and his m little girl could with ease and he didn’t know. And of course the OGs then had to be cool and kid friendly. So uhhh yea: a taddddd carried away on this one. As you rightly spotted bc I could have done a better job linking it all back together. Thanks again for the awesomely helpful crit! :)
0
4
u/Dependent-Engine6882 Mar 21 '24 edited Mar 21 '24
Within my Unmatched-colored Eyes
<Gothic romance>
—
“Why don’t you understand?!” I screamed, feeling the world around me crush and burn. “How many times do I have to repeat this?” I asked the man facing me. “You’ll end up dying if you stick around.” Despite my efforts to remain collected, my voice broke as visions of what would happen to him if he decided to stay defiled in front of me. “I’m trying to protect you.”
With each passing day, I watched him wilt and grow weaker. With each caress and touch, I was sucking life out of him. Slowly, painfully killing him.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to save him.
Feeling ashamed, I was unable to look him in the eyes. To see his handsome face covered with vivid red scars and bluish bruises. I tried but failed to face the consequences of my stubbornness.
“But Marline, I love you.”
And just like that, all of my defenses fell apart.
In another life, a perfect one, the words that had rolled off his tongue would’ve made me the happiest woman on earth.
But my life was far from perfect.
I was far from perfect. I was a monster. And falling in love was a luxury monsters couldn’t afford.
Young, foolish, and charmed by his angelic smile, I jumped headfirst and dragged him along into this hell. I naively thought that loving him was enough to protect him from the curse.
Unlike the rest of my family members, who all had special abilities, I carried death and pain within me.
“I know,” I mumbled.
My shimmering eyes were red and surrounded by heavy purple hues due to lack of sleep and how much I cried.
“I love you too. Every inch of my being yearns to be with you—”
“Then why push me away?!” He raised his voice, making me flinch and back away.
And all of a sudden, the kind, green eyes I loved to get lost in became dark and cold.
The sudden shift in his tone dragged me back to a less pleasant place. One I’d spent my whole life dreading and fleeing. One that shaped me into the broken woman I was.
It reminded me of that emotionless voice relentlessly calling me a monster. He sounded like him. Angry, scary, and merciless.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t break away from my past and father’s ghost. I hated this feeling, and I hated myself.
I hated being the reason behind my beloved’s suffering.
“Look—” Shaking, I contoured the countertop separating us. “My eyes.” Standing on the tips of my toes, I hoped he’d see how ugly they were. Standing there, I had to resist the urge to throw myself into his arms and cry until I could no longer breathe.
Ignoring the risk, he inched closer and pressed his feverish forehead against mine. “Beautiful. Just like you, my love,” he breathed as our lips brushed.
“No.” I shook my head as tears burned my flushed skin. “Those odd-colored eyes are those of a devil.” I took a few steps backward. “Please, please, leave. I don’t wanna hurt you anymore.” My voice was barely above a whisper when I followed, “I don’t deserve you.”
The thought of letting the only man who accepted and loved me go was devouring every inch of my tainted soul, but I needed to put an end to this.
“And please don’t say that you love me ever again. You deserve much better than this sick, twisted kind of love.”
“No,” he kept repeating, as if he were reciting a prayer to a god long gone.
The flame feeding the love I bore for him was intense, and bright, and violent. It was burning everything on its way. And I couldn’t just stand there and watch it turn his beautiful off-white wings to ashes.
I had no choice.
“We’re like two parallel lines. We may be able to sit and admire each other from afar, but our paths will never meet,” I said before leaving the cabin we shared.
It was my safe haven.
It was his hell.
As I dragged my feet across the forest, a song crossed my mind.
I could taste the saltiness of the tears that got trapped between my parted lips as I continued singing. I could feel the happiness I felt beside him wrap around my neck and tighten its grip.
I could feel all the bright colors he brought into my life wash away and faint.
—
Word count: 750 words.
The song I referred to is Monster from the cartoon Adventure time.
Lyrics:
I know we'll never grow old together
Cause you'll never grow old to me
[…]
I've always felt like a monster
Long before I was bit
Only seen as a monster
Let's just say I'm used to it
Thank you for reading my story. All crits and feedback are appreciated.
2
u/Novel-Ant-7160 Mar 22 '24
Overall, I understand the idea and emotion you were trying to convey in this story. The idea is related to a love that cannot happen, with the emotion of longing, guilt, and possibly shame.
I did feel the story felt very narrated (ie: lots of ‘telling’, even though I hate that kind of characterization), and would benefit significantly by trying to show how these emotions affected Marline.
I feel the emotion of guilt and shame is best defined when you kind of characterize Marline’s own moral standards first, then show how what she did kind of breaches those standards, resulting in guilt.
For example, it is clear Marline never wanted to hurt her lover so her standard here is that she typically does not want to hurt that which she loves.
You could write a paragraph kind of outlining this initially. Maybe something like:
“I fell in love with him the moment I saw him. He was young, full of life, and had an angelic smile. When he embraced me I felt like I could surrender my very being to him, a person whom I wanted to be with for an eternity.
But as I look at him now, his face gaunt and tired, his once beautiful skin now covered in red scars and dark bruises, I feel like I have let him down. I sometimes stare at the mirror at my own flawless and unchanged reflection, and sometimes, for a brief moment, I remember what I have done.
Some days I tell myself that he is mortal, and that in time he will fade. I deny that it is my own powers that drain him, and thoughtfully he lets me believe that. But I know this is not the truth.”
For the longing aspect, you have to build up the stakes behind why leaving something is so hard. You can do this by adding maybe snippets of their relationship.
Maybe like:
“As I told him to never say he loved me again, my mind wandered to the last time we were happy. My head rested in his lap as he sat tall shielding my eyes from the midafternoon sun as we had lunch on the castle lawn. I remember feeling safe, like all the terrors that life could throw at us would just lose its force and collapse harmlessly to the ground.
I felt this memory tear away never to return. I tried to grasp on to that memory, holding on to the feeling that somehow we could return to that time, but reason made it impossible.”
Overall I think you have nice story that could have much more emotional impact which would boost it to the next level.
4
u/wordsonthewind Mar 21 '24 edited Mar 21 '24
His governess broke the news to him in her usual matter-of-fact manner two months earlier.
"Your father's coming home soon," she only said at the start of his morning arithmetic lesson. "I expect you to be on your best behavior for him, understand?"
"Yes, miss," he replied dutifully. It was the first time he'd heard any indication that Father was alive at all.
Mother kept the servants busy. She'd ordered certain rooms reopened and they filed in and out of them systematically, scrubbing and polishing and replacing. The garden staff buzzed, the kitchens had done some hiring. She directed it all with an easy confidence.
His earliest memories of her could not be more different. He'd heard the rumors: he was born under a dark sky as night fell in the middle of the day, a terrible omen if there ever was one. His mother had refused to look at him. She'd called him a monster.
Her madness only grew from there. She had to be restrained from trying to claw off her son's face. It had to go, she kept saying. There was an abhorrent truth beneath it that had to be revealed for all their sakes.
She was confined to the attic. A presence in the stuffy little room at the top of the stairs, a thin reedy voice calling to him from behind a locked door. Calling for her son.
The servants never took him to her when that happened. They knew better than that.
She remained there until Father passed away.
There was no funeral. No mourners came, no will was read out. But it was the only explanation that made sense. His mother seemed to come back to herself all at once. She took charge of the household again, managing the staff as though she had been doing nothing else all those years. She ordered his nursery barred and locked. She had a mask made for him that he was to wear during his lessons with the governess and whenever they had company. No one ever commented on it.
For a long time he was convinced he was hideously deformed. But the house had mirrors and he never saw anything strange when he looked into them. Only his face.
Except that thought felt wrong. That wasn't his face he saw in the mirror, something deep inside him whispered.
But what was it?
His questions had only grown since then, but no one had time to answer them. The guests were arriving in earnest now and the house was always busy. They nodded to him, enquired about his studies. They never mentioned his mask.
They talked about him when he wasn't around, though. Sometimes he heard snatches of conversation from beyond the hall, only for them to break off and smile politely at him as soon as they realized he was there. All of them had the same ornately-carved wooden box. And the night before Father was to return, Mother took him aside and pressed a box into his hands.
He opened it at her nod. Inside was a white mask on black velvet lining.
"Be careful with it," she said. "It's from the oldest atelier in Venice. Your father had to pay through the nose to get them to take a commission outside of Carnival. God rest his soul."
There was nothing Carnival-like about this mask. Its hollow eyes stared out at him, almost like it was alive.
He wanted to ask about his father. Instead he said, "Am I to put this on right away, mother?"
She laughed gently. "No, darling. Your usual one will suffice until your father returns."
Father would arrive at night, he'd heard. Now, in his room, he sat up at the window, waiting for the gates to open and a lighted carriage to come down the driveway.
It took him a while to see it when the gate did open. The carriage had no light, but it was theirs. A man got out and walked confidently up the driveway. Father, no doubt about it.
He pressed his nose to the glass pane like a child, trying to see what his father looked like. But it was too dark and he couldn't tell.
Idly, he brushed a hand against the mask. He wondered if he was imagining the tingling in his fingertips.
16
u/Tregonial Mar 21 '24 edited Mar 21 '24
The ruined castle of my homeland loomed above us, its silhouette dominating the horizon, threatening to blot out the sun. Imposing towers of dark stone stood strong despite the collapse of the great hall and castle keep.
“Elvari, why are we here?” I demanded an answer from the eldritch god who stood beside me. “Am I to mourn the fall of my father? I am only glad that duplicitous old man is finally dead.”
“Is there truly nothing that you desire to find within these walls, my son?” He asked.
I clenched my fists and refused to maintain eye contact. “You’re not my father, and I’m not your son. I was deployed as an envoy from my kingdom to negotiate for peace. I am not a tribute or sacrifice. Or a gift sent by my father for your entertainment. To be adopted by the eldritch equivalent of a crazy cat lady.”
“I’m male, and I don’t adopt cats,” Elvari flashed me an inhumanly wide grin. “Cats are mean to the fish folk under my command. I prefer fostering abandoned puppies and small humans delivered to me as sacrifices.”
I stomped my feet on the scorched grass. “I am not an offering to you!”
“That’s not what I was told.” Elvari shot me a puzzled look. “Now, let’s not stand here all day absorbing sunlight, failing to photosynthesize anything. We’re not vegetables,” he said, draping a tentacle on my shoulder. “Or solar panels.”
“Don’t you lay your disgusting tentacles on me!” I bellowed, shoving the offending appendage off. “You should know who I am! I am the twelfth prince of Velia, son of King Asven of—”
“And I’m the sixth eldritch prince of the Abyss, son of the Old King of The Devouring Deep,” he had a punchable smug look to him. “Who are we kidding, we’re both unwanted former princes. Didn’t you detest your old man, why even use his name?”
“…you’re right…I hate that old geezer…” I cursed under my breath.
“Ah, finally something we agree upon,” he smirked. “I have no love for uncaring sperm donors either. What kind of father would use his son as a political hostage and bargaining chip?”
“My crappy kind of father.”
“And mine too,” Elvari echoed my sentiments. “Because we’re bastard princes deemed less valuable than hidden treasures in crumbling old castles like this.” He swapped back to his usual chipper self in a flash. “I can’t wait to find secret stashes in secret tunnels! Last one to find treasure pays for dinner later!”
And then he was off, scuttling across the vast bailey faster than I could run after him.
“Wait for me, you slimy old sucker!”
We sped along corridors where once colorful tapestries and murals of my father’s glory days were losing ground to invasive vines. Entering the chapel, where darkness began to swallow the light as we ventured deeper into the expansive maze of secret passageways. I pushed past heavy wooden doors, whose ancient hinges creaked in loud protests. Following the glowing trails of eldritch slime among torn carpets and dust-covered cobblestones.
Approaching my father’s underground study, I fell into a portal that opened beneath my feet and sent me tumbling through a sea of shadows. Ghostly voices of cursed servants and doomed family members whispered into my ears. All pleading and begging for release. Several bemoaning my father’s folly in making too many deals with those beyond the Veil and from the Abyss.
Spectral hands reached out from the black fog that engulfed my surroundings. Beckoning me to join them in their accursed existence. I couldn’t shut out their cries, which grew louder and hungrier for my life. A scream escaped my lips, as I fought to free myself. I kicked at the tentacles slithering up my legs to no avail. Darkness overwhelmed me, locking me in a deadly embrace, shutting out my eyes.
I expected to die, not to be pulled back into reality by a tentacle swarm.
“Sorry for not warning you,” Elvari said, pulling his tentacles back.
“I should’ve known better, what with all the ungodly contracts my father made,” I huffed and stood up. “So, what did you want me to see?”
My father’s diary sitting on the study table answered my question. In its yellowed pages detailed his plan to send me away to safety. Away from the impending doom of his broken promises to petty gods. To the doorstep of another deity who he felt would understand.
Elvari.
Word Count: 748 words.
It is a sequel to this prompt response I wrote.
5
u/AGuyLikeThat Mar 21 '24 edited Apr 04 '24
The Student's Bequest.
(Lizard & Wizard ep3)
Urban Fantasy
The e-bike rattled and bounced over the broken concrete path as George rode through the park.
”Can you go around the ditches please?” The telepathic request came from the magical lizard riding in his backpack.
“You didn’t need to come, Barry. You could’ve stayed in the apartment.”
“Oh, and what will you do if another demon shows up? You must retrieve that staff and tome, George.” His draconic familiar’s impatient insistence was getting annoying.
The young student pulled his bike to a sudden halt. “After we visit Nan. If I don’t show up on time, it’s a fate worse than demons. She’ll cut off my stipend! Then I - we’ll - have nowhere to live,” he snapped.
“Hmm. I guess you have a point.”
The pathway through the park led past the wrought iron gates that marked the rear entrance to Grace House.
“This place has always given me the creeps,” said George, as he looked up past the arched windows at the ornate gabled roofs. “But I guess it's the type of place filthy rich old boomers like.”
“Your grandmother owns this mansion?” For a change, Barry seemed impressed.
“Kinda. Used to be a nunnery, then they converted it into a retirement village. She has a ten percent stake and a whole wing to herself.”
“Well, that explains why the place reeks of ghosts then. But if your family is rich, why do you live in such a tiny box?”
“Uh, it’s her money. And there’s a lot of grandkids. And Nan kind of hates my dad. He reckons she’ll never die, and if she does, there won’t be much left for us…”
George parked and chained his bike, then combed his hair and dusted himself off.
He paused near the foyer doors.
“Now listen Barry. Nan acts like her mind is going, but she’s a sharp one underneath. So while I’m talking to her, keep it zipped or she’ll work out that something is going on.” He was getting good at whispering under his breath.
“You can project your thoughts to me, you know. It just requires some concentration.”
As the glass doors opened, George thought hard about yelling. ”Like this?”
“Why you little…”
A pale nurse greeted George with a bloodless smile.
“Ah, Mr George. So good to see you again.”
“Good morning, Nurse Diesel. Can I head on in?”
There was an awkward pause. The nurse licked her lips and blinked at her computer screen. “Yes. Go ahead dear.” She pressed a button under the desk and the thick black doors behind her opened.
The faint but familiar musty smell of old carpet welcomed George as he trudged down the hall.
”Wait.” The dragon’s thought carried a tone of concern.
“What’s wrong?” George stopped and checked his shoulder.
”Did she say your surname is George?”
With a heavy sigh, George nodded.
”George George?” The dragon’s thoughts fairly hummed with amusement. Little puffs of smoke floated out of the bag.
George winced, even though he was used to this kind of reaction. “I use my middle name to break it up.”
”Oh, I see. And what’s your middle name?”
“Saint.” George grumbled.
”George St George?!”
That’s when George learned how annoying telepathic laughter could be.
Like always, Nan was waiting in the drawing room in her fancy wheelchair, looking out the window with a china cup of cooling tea beside her.
“Here he is. The prodigal son. Or is it my son’s son?” She peered at him through rheumy eyes. “A slightly lesser disappointment, but disappointing nonetheless.”
“Hello, Nan.” George forced a smile.
“I talked to the Dean. Your results are very average. I’m going to have to pull some strings if you’re going to get a job…”
”Omg she’s in one of these moods. We could be here for a while,” he thought.
With a start, he realised that she had stopped talking and was staring at him. The sound of a zipper opening came from his bag.
“What have you got there, boy?”
In an emerald blur, Barry flew around her chair, examining the old lady who watched calmly in return, strangely unsurprised.
”Your Nan is a ghost, George. Too stubborn to pass on. She’s been haunting this place for years."
Barry landed on his shoulder. With a flash the world shifted, and for a moment George saw a desiccated corpse sitting in the wheelchair, before his Nan reappeared.
“Oh, a new pet is it, George? Perhaps there’s hope for you yet!”
WC-747
Notes:
The Fun Trope for this week is Parental Issues! and the genre is Gothic (well, sub-genre, this series is urban fantasy primarily). George has to deal with his familial responsiblities by visiting his Nan in a creepy old mansion, where Barry makes a surprising discovery about George's heritage!
Thanks for reading, I really hope you enjoyed the story! All crit/feedback welcome!
1
u/TotesMessenger Mar 24 '24
4
u/Novel-Ant-7160 Mar 21 '24 edited Mar 21 '24
The Demon
I was ten years old when my father first told me that he had seen a demon standing over the marsh lands that our home backed on to. He had heard the haunting caws of a raven just as the sun was setting and there it was, two bloodshot eyes that hovered above the darkening, turbid water full of decaying algae, on a body covered in dark scaly flesh.
He called out to me: “Son! Come here!”
When I ran from the living room to the backyard I saw him staring into the darkness. I looked to where he was gazing, but I could not see a thing.
“Father? What is it?”
“Son! You fool, he is there!”
As I stared into the marsh lands the croaks of toads gradually became deafening. A whine of a single cicada stretched on and echoed into the darkness. I saw the sweat dripping down my father’s face as his wide open eyes kept looking forward, unbreaking at whatever he was looking at. His jaw was slack as if something had mesmerised him.
I stood at the doorway for a moment, but the humid summer night air was unrelenting. I turned away to enter our house. As I did so, I saw my father close his eyes as if he was asleep, and in a moment he opened them and went inside with me.
Over the next decade this demon followed him.
When I turned 14 I asked my father to take me to the town’s general store to buy a magazine. We had walked halfway to the town when we began crossing a small footbridge that hung over a river that snaked its way through the town. Before crossing, my father paused, his arm barred me from continuing.
“Please, we did not mean to wake you.” My father said.
Again, there was no one I could see.
“Father? Who are you talking to?” I asked.
“SON, YOU BE QUIET”. He yelled.
He then started to stare forward once again.
I focused on the footbridge hoping to sense something, but I did not. I heard the creaking spruce trees as they bent towards each other in the wind, and the rustling of the orange and yellow fall leaves of the white barked birch trees that surrounded us. But there was no demon.
After a moment, my father closed his eyes and when he opened them, he told me that we had to go home.
After that day my father began to disappear for weeks at a time, appearing during the late night covered in sweat and sometimes blood. My mother would argue with him, and I could hear them yelling until dawn.
On the day I graduated from high school, my mother and my friends had set up a table in our backyard overlooking the marsh. My friends took turns giving speeches about how we first met, and how I would have a bright future. When my mother brought out the cake, my father was nowhere to be seen.
“Son, come here!” I heard him call out.
I stood up and walked up to the marsh. There I saw my father standing over an animal that had died and had been torn open by another predator. He had his arms elbow deep in the rotting organs of its abdominal cavity. His face was smeared with blood.
I heard my mother cry out and rush back into the house. All I could do was to stare at him. The sounds of the marsh became deafening and like so many years ago I could hear a single whine of a cicada stretching as an isolated unbroken sound. As I think back on my childhood, I can only remember the thought of my father being there, but in reality he was already gone. In photos he always had a glassy look in his eyes, like his mind was elsewhere. At that moment I accepted that madness had overtaken him. This demon had taken him from me over 10 years ago.
Now, when I look at him through a clear plastic cage, I can sense that he is still lost. He does not lie, and tells me that he still sees the demon, but only less. Some days when I watch him during the times when the demon visits, I always hope to see a glimmer of the creature. I hope that by seeing it I can finally have my father back.
------------------------------------------------
WC: 750
Critiques and comments are welcome
I went with a more experimental tone this time. It's supposed to be Southern Ontario Gothic, kind of like the tone found in Margaret Atwood's Surfacing mixed with the story and tone of a short film called "All these creatures" by Charles Williams.
The story is not original. This work is more about experimenting with aesthetics rather than story. "All these creatures" is on youtube and it's brilliant.
5
u/MajorTim1100 Mar 21 '24 edited Mar 21 '24
Another Romance
"Please just think about this, what would your parents think about you dating Milton, " Rachel pleaded to her friend.
"Dating devils is so in vogue right now, they'd understand," Griselda said with a dainty wave of white lace embroidered gloves. Rachel sighed as she watched her friend drink from her tea cup with graceful movements born of high society customs, while surreptitiously casting glances at the Brass Embassy the pair was sitting opposite from. Rachel had no doubt in her mind the tea shop's proximity to the terribly gorgeous building was why Griselda chose this spot for their rendezvous today. She had even come dressed for the occasion, wearing a scandalous black dress that exposed her shoulders, a far cry from Rachel's more homely appearance. She looked fit to either attend a funeral or dance in a ballroom for the dead, and Rachel could guess which Griselda would prefer by her numerous glances at the dreadful building the devils of Fallen London resided in.
At another one of Griselda's glances at the Brass Embassy, Rachel spoke up. "Griselda, dear, what are you hoping to see, a glimpse of your beloved?"
"Shhh, not so loud!" Griselda hissed as she quickly brushed her hair strategically to the side, as if to hide herself from the burning yellow windows of the Embassy. Peering at the building through strands of golden blonde hair, Griselda says, "Milton knows we're out here I just know it. These devils know everything there is to know down here, haven't you heard?"
Rachel was about to make another snarky comment, but a chill ran through her body all of the sudden. Something in the corner of her eye burned, and when she turned to behold the devil's embassy from the depths of Hell, she found herself being stared down by blood red eyes. Silhouetted against the never ending yellow light the windows of the Brass Embassy always exuded, Rachel couldn't make out anything of the female figure but the glowing enchanting red irises that seemed to stare into Rachel's soul.
Ting! A delicate sinister sound rang out, and Rachel almost jumped out of her chair in pure fear. It took but a second for her to realize her surroundings and ascertain the source of the noise as a teacup being placed on its plate, instead of a beautiful deviless holding one of their forks ready to take her soul, but when she turned back to the Brass Embassy the red eyes and their owner had disappeared back inside the handsome building. Yellow light blazed out of the windows, leaving Rachel to wonder at the tantalizing depths of hell within.
Griselda, having watched the whole thing, smiled knowingly at Rachel. "I wasn't making that up when I said that Rachel. Milton tells me of all his suitors and stories he hears on his adventures in Hell, you wouldn't believe all the secrets these devils collect."
Rachel made an attempt to retain her composure before speaking again, smoothing down imaginary wrinkles and fussing with her dress." I'm sure Milton is exaggerating, nobody trusts devils around here. He just wants to be mysterious and pretend they're all-knowing or some devilish nonsense. Your shouldn't trust a word out of his mouth."
Griselda leaned forward to get closer to Rachel and said," I don't know Rachel, one look into their eyes... " Griselda looked into Rachel's eyes and all Rachel could imagine were the glowing eyes staring out of the Brass Embassy, "And you just get a sense that they know every little secret that you have." Griselda smiled cheekily. "And I mean every little secret."
Rachel flushed and looked away. Griselda has been the only person she'd ever told about her preferences, and she's regretted telling her ever since. "I just can't believe you're so cavalier about all this. Your parents are strict Catholics, they would never let you see Milton."
Griselda laughed and looked up at the stalactites that dotted the cavern roof of the Neath, "Our parents are a thousand miles away on the surface, who cares what they think! And besides, your parents would want you to date a man, no?"
Before Rachel got a chance to throttle her friend, Griselda danced away towards the Embassy, claiming a date with Milton. Rachel watched as the doors opened and swallowed the silhouette of Griselda in their infernal light, leaving behind the deviless with red eyes again. A chill ran through Rachel as she saw a beckoning finger.
"My parents can go to Hell."
A fallen london fanfic, credits for setting goes to them
3
u/Tregonial Mar 21 '24
Oooh another Failbetter fan! I've always wanted to try Fallen London after Sunless Seas, but life (and other hobbies) keeps getting in the way. Love their mysterious worldbuilding settings and narratives.
Some crit here.
I think you could substitute "glances" with another synonym. From the first paragraph, it seems like that was all Griselda could do.
'Griselda says, "Milton knows we're out here I just know it." It should be "said", and it could use a comma between "here" and "I".
"but a chill ran through her body all of the sudden". I feel a more succinct way of putting this could be " a sudden chill ran through her body".
"Something in the corner of her eye burned, and when she turned to behold the devil's embassy from the depths of Hell, she found herself being stared down by blood red eyes. Silhouetted against the never ending yellow light the windows of the Brass Embassy always exuded, Rachel couldn't make out anything of the female figure but the glowing enchanting red irises that seemed to stare into Rachel's soul." These two sentences are long, over 30 words long. Not to mention a little repetitive, since you mention twice that those red eyes stared at Rachel. This segment here will need some restructuring.
Ting! should be italicized.
"It took but a second for her to realize her surroundings and ascertain the source of the noise as a teacup being placed on its plate, instead of a beautiful deviless holding one of their forks ready to take her soul, but when she turned back to the Brass Embassy the red eyes and their owner had disappeared back inside the handsome building." This sentence needs to be cut into at least 3 other sentences. 63 words is very, very long for a single sentence to run.
Overall, this piece does a good job of oozing the gothic, mysterious feel of a Failbetter game. I like that final line from Rachel, its a cheeky cherry on top of the cake.
2
u/MajorTim1100 Mar 21 '24 edited Mar 21 '24
Ty for the good crit, fallen london is actually great as a phone game, it has an energy system so it's ideal for randomly playing for a bit on the go, I'd give it a shot, the failbetter games are the reason I write at all I absolutely loved their writing so much, I even researched their descriptions of the Brass Embassy from Fallen london to help write this, glad to hear I could even imitate a touch of their stuff
5
u/MaxStickies Mar 20 '24
The Shade
A blood red sky paints the desert crimson and blue. Like a torn eyeball, the eclipsed moon hangs large behind the church’s knackered steeple, silhouetting the jagged tower. With revolver in hand, Michael traipses the trodden track to the battered doors. He raises his foot and kicks, the wood splintering. For a brief moment, he catches something scurrying behind the weathered altar.
He sits in the remaining pew, adjusting his black, wide-brimmed hat. “I know you can’t leave this place. No point hiding.”
The voice hisses from the darkness like a tornado’s roar. “What you want, kid?! Haven’t you done enough already?!”
“You know I haven’t. Job ain’t done till you’re gone.” He grins into the shadows. “And you ain’t gone.”
Tendrils of darkness flail from behind the altar, coalescing into an arm. Claw-tipped fingers grip the granite, cracking the stone. Obsidian muscles ripple along the limb as its owner hoists himself up. A thin, twisted torso supports a storm cloud head, white circles for eyes and fangs sans a mouth. The shade clings to the walls.
Michael smirks. “There you are.”
“What’s with the weapon? You know it won’t do anything.”
“If that thought brings you comfort, then sure.”
The spirit’s eyes narrow to crescents. “What’s it loaded with?”
“Silver, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. I sink one of these in you, and you’re done. But… I don’t think I want to.”
“What?”
“Let’s make a deal. If you promise not to hurt me, I see no reason to send you on. How’s that sound?” He lets his mask fall, his smiles dropping to a serious frown. The revolver returns to its holster. “I just want to talk.”
The shade drifts on murky mist towards him. “Alright. But why’d you put the fear of God into me?”
“I knew if I didn’t, you’d strike first. Needed to catch your curiosity.”
“You’re right, I would’ve; but you can’t blame me,” the ghost gruffly replies. “You put a bullet through my mortal skull. Turned me into… this.”
Michael waves his hands dismissively. “Come on, you were too far gone. Mother did not hesitate to hand me the gun.”
The shade sighs. “I know, and I’m sorry for what I did. The Devil had wrapped his finger round my soul.”
His hand clenches, as the memories flash through his mind. But he forces the contempt back down. “I guess that’s behind us know.”
“So it is, kid. But what do you want, really?”
Leaning forward, Michael rests his hands on his knees, peering deep into his father’s pale, empty eyes. He swears he sees him shift. “Stop bothering us. We’ve had enough of it.”
“What? You think--? Why’d I want to go back to the place I died?”
“We know it’s you. Rattling shelves, shattering windows, rats popping out the pipes? It’s the kind of childish crap we’d become used to before.”
“I’m telling you, it’s not me!”
“Even with so little for a face, I can see when you’re lying. I’ll make this plain: leave us, or I’ll force you to.”
The shade lunges forward, bearing his fangs. In an instant, Michael unholsters his revolver and aims it at his father’s head. “Is that your decision?” he asks.
“I ain’t leaving!” the ghost booms. “Not even your little silver bullets can make me!”
Michael smirks. “That’s actually true, they’d merely hurt you.”
“So what’s stopping me from slicing your throat?!”
The words drift in through the open windows, from the tumbling sands beyond. Prayers spoken in Latin, rhythmic in their telling, read by a rich, gravelly voice. The shade turns his head in their direction, his eyes widening. While his father is distracted, Michael slips from his seat and backs slowly towards the entrance. As he slides the door open, the spirit flicks his attention to him.
“What did you do, kid?” he growls.
“I knew you’d refuse. So now, I’m forcing you.”
His father takes to the air, spiralling towards him in a vortex of shadows. A quick leap takes Michael out of the church; he glances back, in time to see his father slam into an invisible wall across the opening. The shade scratches at thin air, shrieking and bellowing, tendrils of darkness peeling away from him.
Then, in a puff of smoke, he’s gone. The priest utters the last word, plunging the desert into silence. No more shade, no more screaming, no more shadows. Michael breathes deeply, before he traipses back down the path, towards the priest.
WC: 750
Crit and feedback are welcome.
4
u/Carrieka23 Mar 20 '24
Sun and Moon
Chapter 3
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
~Eilo~
The streets are cold and quiet, the chilling wind makes goosebumps appear on my skin. By instinct, I rub myself. I glance at the covering black clouds, not giving me a single light. It’s ironic how the weather is bad, especially since I’m seeing her.
My eyebrows furrow. Just thinking about her makes me angry. But why do I still feel those emotions? I swore to myself that I’d shut them down ages ago, not letting those cutting words slice my heart and mind. Is this what it means to love a family? What even is love?
I stop, glancing up. I see a modern two-storage white house. The butterflies chime sing to me, hoping I’d come inside. I walk closer to the wooden door, before opening it.
The house was full of light. A red and pink wallpaper that’s covering plenty of photos of my rewards. A’s honor, Sports awards, clubs, painting. It was like we are a happy family.
I could smell something good, it spread throughout the house. It was intoxicating to keep my mind out of balance.
“Ah, Eli! You made it home!” A sweet voice welcomes me. It makes my stomach twist.
“You must be tired from school. I made your favorite, ham and cheese with fried chicken.”
My legs give in. They drag me to the kitchen as I beg them to stop. They stop once they see that woman. Her green eyes stare into my soul. She still gives me that smile.
“There are you honey.” She smiles, leaning towards me before kissing my cheek. “There’s my perfect little boy.”
Perfect. She always calls me that.
“Mom…” My voice was low. “I’m not p-”
“Would you like to sit down, dear? I’m almost done cooking.”
Her lip is twitching. She knows what I was about to say. Usually, I’d debate with her for hours, but the first day of school drains the remaining energy I have left. So, like a puppet, I sit down.
She puts the food in the plates before walking over, the scent growing stronger by the second. She places it down, before sitting in front of me.
“How was school? She begins.
“It was good-”
“Elio, you know I hate that word, ‘Good’” Her tone sharpens. “Now, let’s try that again, honey.”
“M-My day…” I swallow back my comebacks. “I pay attention in class and took great notes. We already start lessons even on the first day.”
“That’s normal! It’s how your future is going to be, Elio. You must be perfect in order to have a career.”
Why? Even the most famous, successful people make mistakes. How come they can, yet I have to keep that perfect image? Still trying to fight back my tongue, I stab my fork to a piece of ham, cutting the steak with my knife.
“You know the rules, Elio. No eating until after you tell me your grades.”
“But I’m very hungry.” My mouth spoke without thinking.
That causes her lips to twitch again. I already know I am about to break a nerve.
“Are you talking back to me?” She asks, her demeanor now changing to a cold wicked witch.
I bite my lips, dropping my fork and knife.
“You really have the nerves to talk back to your own mother! I cooked you an awesome meal! I made sure you go to school on time! I even gave you those rewards, not you!” She shouts, her screams echo through the house. She starts to use her spells against me.
I could hear rain hitting the house, as lightning struck each second she speaks.
“You’re right.” My tone was more quiet and tired. I really want to just eat and sleep.
“Then put. The fork. Down.”
“I’m not even touching the fork!” I slam the table, reaching my limits.
“Here we go again! You fucking teens think you know everything, huh?! Well guess what mister-”
“Shut the fuck up. I ain’t got time for your lectures.”
She gasp, I could hear her voice breaking a bit. She’s probably about to pull the crying card now. And indeed, I could see the tears falling from her face. Usually, my heart would ache, but now I feel nothing. I’m like a robot, not understanding a single emotion.
Without looking, I grab my plate before walking upstairs.
“Fine! Run away from your problems, Elio!” She weeps. “But you’ll come back to me! You always do!” She finishes casting that last failure spell.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
WPC: 748
3
u/Tregonial Mar 20 '24 edited Mar 20 '24
Hi Haru,
Welcome back to FTF!
The first thing that stood out to me was...your protagonist's name. Is it Eilo, Elio or Eli? Considering Elio is the one that appears the most often, I'd assume this is the correct spelling.
"I swore to myself" could have been "I swear to myself" since you use present tense in this story.
"a modern two-storage white house"...this could have just been, "I reached home?" Unless this is a new home Elio isn't familiar with.
"Butterfly chime" or "butterfly chimes" will do, the plural should be in the 2nd word and not the 1st.
"A red and pink wallpaper that’s covering plenty of photos of my rewards", I think you meant "A red and pink wallpaper serves as the backdrop of my photos and awards." Otherwise, it sounds like the wallpaper is concealing/covering photographs of the rewards.
"“There are you honey.” should be "There you are, honey."
"She puts the food in the plates", should be "on the plates".
“Elio, you know I hate that word, ‘Good’” <<< it could do without the word "good" in this case, since it feels pretty clear what she was talking about.
How come they can, yet I have to keep that perfect image? -> This feels awkwardly informal to me for a narration? perhaps it could be "Why can they be flawed, yet I have to keep that perfect image".
"I could hear rain hitting the house, as lightning struck each second she speaks." -> If you are engaging the sense of hearing, it could be "the pitter patter of rain hitting the house" and bring up thunder instead of lightning, since thunder is what you hear, while lightning is what you see. It also feels a little exaggerated to say lightning is striking every second. If that were the case, either Elio is looking out the window to see blinding flashes of lightning repeatedly per second. OR it is impossible to hear his mother speak at all because its just rumbling thunder non-stop every second.
The story reads like an urban fantasy slice-of-life with a parental issues. The suffocating atmosphere of fear that the gothic genre is known for (besides old creepy cathedrals and castles) doesn't come through strongly for this piece. She's just throwing a hissy fit, and Elio is just sick and tired of her shit.
Now if the environment started twisting within the house as she grew angrier, and Elio grows more and more fearful as she smothers and suffocates him under her "love", the Gothic atmosphere could be strengthened. Since your setting is in modern world than the usual suspects like a creepy old Manor or medieval (not necessarily Victorian) settings
5
u/oliverjsn8 Mar 19 '24 edited Mar 20 '24
Her Family’s Inheritance
Primrose stood wearing her plain brown traveling attire in the manor's study, holding an envelope inscribed with her name. Her hem was stained from the long trip but there was no need to change into more appropriate clothing, as there was no one to impress here. Heavy curtains covered the room's windows blocking any light from the outside. If not for the lone candle sitting on a side table the room would be pitch dark.
She held a serious countenance as her fingers absently glided over the silky paper, its quality, and brightness spoke of the opulence the Plordue family name represented. The contents of the letter were forever etched in her mind:
To my Niece Primrose
Having come into possession of this letter, I have gone to join our ancestors. You may be wondering why you, of my many nieces and nephews, have come into the inheritance of the Plordue family manor. Call it intuition or maybe a sense of comradery that I felt when we first met all those years ago.
It was on the day of your brother's funeral that I knew, you and you alone, were fit to inherit the estate. Your tears, your smile all fake. You cannot fool one who also bears the Plordue family 'curse'.
I am certain you felt it, the void where something integral to what one would call a soul should reside. Then one day that void began to fill, but not with what others would call humanity. A voice began to speak to you, that grew louder and louder. As that voice grew so did the hunger, the sensitivity to light, and the most unnatural of instincts. My advice to you is to embrace that voice, the true you. It will be what supersedes you, so nurture it.
I also urge you to be more cautious. When fulfilling your instincts avoid close family, it is too suspicious and you may have lost a valuable ally in the times to come. I reference your brother's 'murder by a disgruntled employee', you were lucky that my brother, your father, knew to cover up the details to the public. There are those who hunt beings such as ourselves.
To the Other,
Welcome to your training grounds my fellow. Know you are not alone here. You will find your brethren and myself below in the wine cellar. The manor is dark and a new caretaker is arranged, Primrose. Look among the others related to your host for the next caretaker once you sense Primrose has started to fully fade. There is plenty of space for you below when that time comes.
You will find the manor the most fertile of hunting grounds. Many a vagabond travel the nearby road to and from Paris, and some may even seek employment at the manor. Choose people who no one will miss.
Also, know that there is a well next to the stables. It is deep and five generations of Plordue have yet to fill it. We will meet once the moon is next full.
Primrose pulled the curtains back, letting the midday sun illuminate the study. She looked out on the countryside, the city of Paris barely visible in the distance. Taking the letter, she held it to the candle and let it catch fire before tossing it on the oil-soaked sofa.
She had known her brother, wasn't quite human. The cruelties he bestowed on wild animals and her dog, Atlus. All in secret and while always wearing a pleasant smile. As he got older, he started to grow bolder, more cruel. She deeply feared him, so it was on that hot summer afternoon she plunged the knife through his heart as he slept. Her father had helped cover up the crime, but the act had hollowed her. She thought he was comforting her in an odd way, telling her it was just her nature. That she must 'keep on smiling.' It was not until the letter had arrived she fully understood his meaning.
Making her way to the front door, she made certain to bar it just in case as she had done the other exits. Finally vindicated she watched the manor burn to the ground, it was then she allowed her tears to flow.
3
u/MajorTim1100 Mar 21 '24
Sick story, it had the most classic Gothic vibe of all the stories here in this comment section that I've read so far so props for that, for crit I'd say the second letter to the other that talks about the manor and training ground doesn't add anything really relevant to the story and none of the things in that letter are brought up again, the first letter carries enough of the setting and background of the story and works really well at establishing the Gothic vibe, but the second letter doesn't really do any of those things so it kinda feels a little tacked on
if you wanted to describe the manor more you can describe it through primrose eyes herself instead of the letter, which gives the added benefit of potentially putting how primrose feels about this manor and it's bloody history
0
Mar 18 '24
2
u/MaxStickies Mar 21 '24 edited Mar 21 '24
Hi Polaris, very intriguing story! I feel like you've nailed the gothic aesthetic, with a little bit of steampunk towards the end for good measure, which I like. You've managed to weave the worldbuilding nicely into the story: it seems more like showing than telling, but I also get a sense of what the world is about, so you've achieved a good balance there. I also like your descriptions, you provide a full picture of what's going on, and your usage of colour is great.
For crit, I think perhaps more details could be added. Your protagonist seems to know what's going on, such as parts where they seem to know why the ghost is there, and they sigh instead of freak out at the end. I think something to explain why this isn't all strange to them would make it a bit less confusing for the reader. You also start a lot of sentences and, more so, paragraphs with "I", so you may want to play around with sentence structure to break that up a little.
I also have some line edit suggestions:
"The cathedral is chilly in the winter and the cold soaks into my very heart." - I feel like this could be a bit more concise, something like "The cathedral is frigid in winter, its chill soaking into my very heart."
"but the rumors of the victims haunting the place I now was to have a wedding in gives me an uneasy feeling." - This feels like it could be more concise as well, as it reads a bit wordy. You could just leave the detail of "I now was to have a wedding in" as we can already infer that this is a wedding.
"It is dull and it drones on." - A simpler way to say this would be "It is dull and droning."
"After some moments, I hear Clyde say “Adelia?” yet I cannot respond." - This one reads a bit quickly as is, so I'd suggest turning it into two sentences, something like "After some moments, I hear Clyde say "Adelia?" Yet, I cannot respond." just to break it up a bit.
And that's all the crit I have. This story, or chapter I should say, is a lot of fun with fascinating worldbuilding. Good words!
2
u/raqshrag Mar 22 '24 edited Mar 22 '24
GHOSTS OF THE PAST
Dust rises from the wood floor wherever Kevin steps, leaving behind perfect imprints of his shoes. The apartment is exactly as he remembered it, yet it feels so alien to him.
Kevin's childhood self is memories trapped between these walls of intricately detailed black wood panels. Memories that belong to him; disconected from him. Few of those memories were happy.
The couch is different; smaller. It's still the same black that was Dina's preference for all her furniture, but no longer is Kevin, sitting in the middle, dwarfed by the empty space on either side. He wonders how often Gina's kids came by with their mother after he had left. Probably not often.
The old coffee table is still there. So much time was spent playing with Gina Junior, Duncan, and Missy. They were the only friends Dina let him have. His only company when Dina was off being Night Huntress. Gina Junior taught them poker and other card games. She was unbeatable at most of them. She shuffled and dealt like a professional. The four of them sit on the living room floor, playing Nertz. Gina Junior's hands move faster than Kevin could see.
Missy preferred board games, like Candy Land, or Snakes and Ladders. She also hatred losing. She knocks the board to the ground, and storms off to the kitchen.
Kevin wanders into the kitchen. Dina had left behind a lot of cookware and dishes he'd have to get rid of. He wonders how much he could sell the china for. He comes across the pan he remembers as Dina's favorite. When she was home, she did a lot of cooking and baking. She walks into the dining room, a streaming pie in her hands.
As Gina Junior and Duncan got older, they would often join their mother at Dina's base, leaving Kevin alone to watch Missy. Or they would spend time in the combat gym. Kevin opens the door and looks inside. He hated the training his mother had forced him though.
The suit is still there, on the stand, its bold pink and yellow stripes standing out. Kevin again wonders why his mother choose those colors. Their brightness was a side that she had never shown him.
(I noticed everyone was titling their stories, so I decided to too. I hope it's a good title)