Writing Explorations: Week 64, Darkness

[The Mood is Write]

My Writing Explorations series of exercises are a chance for users to explore new concepts and practice the art of raising two fingers to Writer's Block while screaming obscenities to fickle muses: to rebel against the idea that a person requires a mythical force inside them to make new and amazing things.

No. Listen well, users: there is no being inside you waiting to be let out. You are the writer, and in this exercise, you are given a place to push not only against Writer's Block, but also against the forces of stagnation. Feel trapped in your genre? Explore a new one! Stuck with a singular archetype? Do something else! In this thread, you will not be critiqued unless you request it. Should you wish it, I will happily offer my thoughts on how it might be improved, but I will not comb looking for fixes: this isn't the place: this place is for safely trying new things and indulging a love of writing.

Shake the bars of your cell block and roar, writers!

[fieldbox=How do I take part?]Curious about how this works? Good! Look over the offered themes and prompts and the bonus rounds, then think about them. Then, take your thoughts and get writing. You can write to one or more (or none) of the prompts, the theme in the thread title, the bonuses: hell, you can even cast aside all of what I offer if you get a different idea.

The whole point is "get writing!"[/fieldbox]

Prompts:

1. Thirteen black hoods, painted with the blood of lambs and embroidered with the hair of children, turned in unison toward the sound of the whoopie cushion.
   
2. One day, the main character wakes up as a human (or inhuman) lie detector who is accurately able to tell when someone is lying. Their ability tells them that everything their best friend says, including their name, is a lie.
3. A character sold their soul to the devil years ago. Today, he gives it back and says, "I need a favor."

Bonus Rounds:

• Write in a random genre.
• A character has this type of mindset.
• "You say 'potato', I say 'damn it, put the ray-gun down'!"
• Someone's bound protector hates them. They still have to do their job... technically.
• "Remove your hand or I will, and then I will beat you to death with it."
• "It's blood, not nuclear waste. Chill out."

 

[Shirelin]

Screams. Blackness. Alarms. Blackness. Consciousness was brief flickers, always giving way to black and silence. The woman groaned quietly as cold seeped in through her back. Dragged. She was vaguely aware of being dragged as black threatened again. Screams...

Cold snapped around her wrists, her ankles, pressed to her back. The chill was like a predator, staring at her, watching, ready to take her. Black consumed her again.

Her head throbbed, her body ached. All was silent. Too silent, and she wanted to scream, but no sound came out. It startled her, scared her even more. Shackles. Shackles around her wrists and ankles. The clink of their chain was all she had to go on, the icy grip of metal clinging tight. She had no leverage to free herself. Where was she? Why was it so dark?

The woman couldn't see a thing. It was like pitch had been poured over her eyes, and no amount of blinking allowed her to see through the shadows. She shivered, from cold, from the fear that sank into her very bones. Where was she?

Medly dared not even move her neck; her head hurt too much. Nausea threatened her, but she did all she could to ignore it. Panic swelled alongside it and the chains clinked and rattled as she jerked one wrist, one ankle, then the other. No give. Nothing.

Something moved, blacker then the surroundings and she cringed. Something primal, deep down, wanted to flee, to pull away, but there was no where to run. It rushed her, swarmed her, encircled her. It felt strange, not quite like oil, but not like flesh either. It was cold against her skin where the silken texture went and finally, a noise escaped. A whimper. It was a Shadow Stalker. A being entirely of shadows, and all she knew feared them. She did especially.

It flashed in her mind. The stalkers attacking from their nooks and crannies, falling upon the council, the Hunters. Screams... Pain. She couldn't see, but lances of pain shot up her arm from her middle finger. Teeth, sharp and jagged, tore into exposed flesh, and she couldn't even see it. She was glad. She'd seen what they'd done outside... where it was she was. The dungeon. She was in the dungeon.

"Then just throw her in the dungeon." The voice was her own, a shrug of her shoulders as she looked away from the terrified creature. None knew its language, as melodic as it was. Blue eyes matched her hair and skin. A female that didn't burn when silver was pressed to her wrist. Not supernatural, but not human either. "We'll figure out what to do with her from there."

Where prisoners lay forgotten, wasting away. And she ordered it anyways.

"Help... me..." She whispered out, though no one would hear. She knew that, and still she tried. Her head hurt so much. The stalker... no... It moved further, devouring her hand just short of the shackle... Slowly, taking its time and tears ran down her cheeks. The only warmth she felt was the blood seeping down her wrist, her arm. Why couldn't she scream? The pain beat her down, and everything back black.

How much time had past? Her hand was regrown. Her fingers twitched and curled, an unconscious test to see if it was right. Her stomach growled, louder then she'd been able to whimper. It had taken so much to regrow her hand, so much energy that she no longer had. And the Stalker was gone. She tested her bindings again, wincing as they dug into delicate flesh. Her hand was still sensitive.

A quiet lullabye came from her, a humming melody that she oft used to calm herself. There was no sound. Nothing beyond her beating heart, pounding in her ears. Nothing but the tune of a child's melody she didn't even remember learning. She shivered again, trying to pull her knees up close, but the shackles kept her in place. She whimpered again, closing her eyes. Pain gnawed at her feet, pins and needles off set by the pierce of teeth. Reflexively she kicked, but it did nothing to dislodge whatever had her now.

"See? It wasn't so bad." She purred out, tracing her fingers down the Hunter's cheek. He flinched and looked away, shame burning in his eyes. She snorted and stood, resuming her dressing. Both of them had gotten their needs filled, then why was he acting like that? It wasn't like she'd- OK, so she had, but that wasn't her fault. He'd been too handsome to resist.

Time became blurred, with no window to tell her the passage of days. Each time she woke up, more was devoured, torn away. A personal hell, and each time, a new crime surfaced, dredged up from deep in her memories. Her voice had long given out, throat parched, lips cracked.

And then, the devourings stopped. Still, there was nothing to tell her the time, but the relief was sweet. Something in the air changed, and the woman slowly lifted her heavy head, Footsteps. Not Stalkers. Stalkers didn't walk. One light, one heavy... The door opened, flooding her eyes with light, and she winced, letting them fall shut. She was too tired to fight. There was nothing left.

"Get her down, Hunter Philip." The small voice surprised her, but her eyelids were too heavy, too hurting from the bright light for her to think to respond. The voice... sounded appalled. Appalled at her still being alive? She didn't know... The shackles loosened and she fell into powerful arms. Hunter Philip... She knew a Philip...

Why was it so hard to think? "We need to get her to Al."

"Indeed." Darkness claimed her again.