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Hi Person. This story has taken 11 days to plan and it took 2 days to get the first sentence down. Now I am uploading it.
Hopefully you will enjoy it. Even more hopefully you'll understand everything in it and why I used everything as each section and word was thought through.
Small note: Bear in mind that it might take more than one read to understand it.
Secondary note: If you are struggling to understand the story line. Know it jumps from present, to past memory, to present to past memory and so on. The present is always linked to the memory following it.
An evil eyed picture frame being asphyxiated by evil eyes. His feet planted into the ground as he stood strong like an oak, his skin riddled with tiny upright hairs that swayed subtly in the cold winds as the heat retreated out of the open windows. The fire was out.
The metal corpse was tossed onto a table top. He grabbed for his weighted axe, resting it on his shoulder as if it were a wet towel. The floorboards squealed under the pressure of his body marching over to an emotionless door. The opening remained dank and musty from the night before, reaching forward with an open palm he twisted the neck of the knob until a small click was heard, only to then swing it open and walk bare foot into the outside world. Blades of grass brushed along his feet, painting them with water as he made his way to the edge of the clearing. Tool in hand; he thrust the iron blade into the wood, the tree now maimed and crying.
Age six was the first time he’d ever placed his hands on an axe, he recalled clumsily hitting the trees with the blunt end, and his dad hiding his amusement. Father and son, out in a beautiful world full of sunshine and blue skies.
A folded picture was pulled out of the man’s pocket, a photo of his pregnant wife and him, captioned: “1 Month left”. After fishing it out of his jeans, he gave it to his son and told him to keep it safe, without a single doubt, he did.
Hundreds of years, dedicated to gathering enough sunshine and water to remain alive, only to become severed limbs tossed into an ever-hungry flame. Stretching for his flint and colliding it with the steel to burn the memories of a once tall tree. He now had his warmth, but with great labour brings great hunger and just like the flames, a man needs to be fed too.
Subsequent to him living next to a farm, he ventured to crop his wheat. He placed a grain between his teeth as he bit down to hear cracks and crunches. It was ready to be harvested. Harvesting the seed heads into a sack, he proceeded to thresh and winnow the wheat to edible grains.
Recalling memories of his father and him on the farm, cultivating the land and most importantly, grinding that grain into flour for their bread. Grinding had to be done manually with powerful arms, of course. Yet, at a young age he wasn’t as powerful as his father. Being seven at the time, he was given a flint and steel to start the oven. A very young boy, trusted with a very powerful instrument. Keeping it locked away was what he loved to do, making small sparks and admiring the power he held at his fingertips.
The tantalizing aroma of fresh bread flooded the room. Tearing off bite-sized chunks and shovelling them into his mouth, he smiled contently and gained pride in his work. He thought now to rest as the day grew dark, yet instead he looked back at the mangled picture frame. Sadness and depression took over as he feared it, backing away and lying in a fetal position in the most numbing part of the room, wherein the warmth of the flames could not reach him. His Herculean build made lying on his arms, feel as if he were to lay on a bed of rocks, his skin absorbed his tears and as he inhaled the air, dust came with it, causing him to wheeze and croak. The biting cold caused his body to shudder; the bony skeleton of death ran his icy finger down the poor man’s spine.
The village was in flames, an inferno had let out and the helpless screaming of women and children pierced his young ear drums. Traumatised by what had happened he ran home to look for his father, to find he was there but he made no sounds. Crushing his ribcage slowly was a wooden beam resting on his chest. He ran over to be beside him, talking to him and saying loving words, telling him that he wants to help and only being told to leave. His infant heart sank deep and drowned, he was devastated, deprived of love and air as his lungs had begun to fill with ash.
“Go!” His father screamed “Get out of the house, stop worrying about me!” the pleas of a desperate man trying to save his son were heard but never practised.
“No!” he exclaimed, awakening from the corner of his room and repeating it over and over again, blood rushed to his head and he grabbed the picture frame. Throttling it, choking it, squeezing all life out of it so it wouldn’t be true, so that he’d never have existed, so that his father could still be alive and his mother wouldn’t die out of a product of birth. He tried and he tried, and he tried and he tried.
Hopefully you will enjoy it. Even more hopefully you'll understand everything in it and why I used everything as each section and word was thought through.
Small note: Bear in mind that it might take more than one read to understand it.
Secondary note: If you are struggling to understand the story line. Know it jumps from present, to past memory, to present to past memory and so on. The present is always linked to the memory following it.
An evil eyed picture frame being asphyxiated by evil eyes. His feet planted into the ground as he stood strong like an oak, his skin riddled with tiny upright hairs that swayed subtly in the cold winds as the heat retreated out of the open windows. The fire was out.
The metal corpse was tossed onto a table top. He grabbed for his weighted axe, resting it on his shoulder as if it were a wet towel. The floorboards squealed under the pressure of his body marching over to an emotionless door. The opening remained dank and musty from the night before, reaching forward with an open palm he twisted the neck of the knob until a small click was heard, only to then swing it open and walk bare foot into the outside world. Blades of grass brushed along his feet, painting them with water as he made his way to the edge of the clearing. Tool in hand; he thrust the iron blade into the wood, the tree now maimed and crying.
Age six was the first time he’d ever placed his hands on an axe, he recalled clumsily hitting the trees with the blunt end, and his dad hiding his amusement. Father and son, out in a beautiful world full of sunshine and blue skies.
A folded picture was pulled out of the man’s pocket, a photo of his pregnant wife and him, captioned: “1 Month left”. After fishing it out of his jeans, he gave it to his son and told him to keep it safe, without a single doubt, he did.
Hundreds of years, dedicated to gathering enough sunshine and water to remain alive, only to become severed limbs tossed into an ever-hungry flame. Stretching for his flint and colliding it with the steel to burn the memories of a once tall tree. He now had his warmth, but with great labour brings great hunger and just like the flames, a man needs to be fed too.
Subsequent to him living next to a farm, he ventured to crop his wheat. He placed a grain between his teeth as he bit down to hear cracks and crunches. It was ready to be harvested. Harvesting the seed heads into a sack, he proceeded to thresh and winnow the wheat to edible grains.
Recalling memories of his father and him on the farm, cultivating the land and most importantly, grinding that grain into flour for their bread. Grinding had to be done manually with powerful arms, of course. Yet, at a young age he wasn’t as powerful as his father. Being seven at the time, he was given a flint and steel to start the oven. A very young boy, trusted with a very powerful instrument. Keeping it locked away was what he loved to do, making small sparks and admiring the power he held at his fingertips.
The tantalizing aroma of fresh bread flooded the room. Tearing off bite-sized chunks and shovelling them into his mouth, he smiled contently and gained pride in his work. He thought now to rest as the day grew dark, yet instead he looked back at the mangled picture frame. Sadness and depression took over as he feared it, backing away and lying in a fetal position in the most numbing part of the room, wherein the warmth of the flames could not reach him. His Herculean build made lying on his arms, feel as if he were to lay on a bed of rocks, his skin absorbed his tears and as he inhaled the air, dust came with it, causing him to wheeze and croak. The biting cold caused his body to shudder; the bony skeleton of death ran his icy finger down the poor man’s spine.
The village was in flames, an inferno had let out and the helpless screaming of women and children pierced his young ear drums. Traumatised by what had happened he ran home to look for his father, to find he was there but he made no sounds. Crushing his ribcage slowly was a wooden beam resting on his chest. He ran over to be beside him, talking to him and saying loving words, telling him that he wants to help and only being told to leave. His infant heart sank deep and drowned, he was devastated, deprived of love and air as his lungs had begun to fill with ash.
“Go!” His father screamed “Get out of the house, stop worrying about me!” the pleas of a desperate man trying to save his son were heard but never practised.
“No!” he exclaimed, awakening from the corner of his room and repeating it over and over again, blood rushed to his head and he grabbed the picture frame. Throttling it, choking it, squeezing all life out of it so it wouldn’t be true, so that he’d never have existed, so that his father could still be alive and his mother wouldn’t die out of a product of birth. He tried and he tried, and he tried and he tried.
| Credit | Bubz for the title suggestion |
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Look at some of the top 10-15, Azie's was well written, and extremely creative, detailing on how Steve was crazy. Arty's was amazingly creative, etc. Yours, just, wasn't. He already lived in the world, so no creative backstory on where he came from, no ability to detail how he got there.
You could've called it "Steve's family dies" and it would've related everything that happened in the story in that sentence.