Halloween Story Chazwriter Challenge
- Thread starter Renee750il
- Start date
That's very kind of you Bax. I just looked at that creepy picture and wrote. I think anyone can write if they sort of let loose of his/her feelings (or imagine someone else's feelings) and just put those into words that describe them best.
I think Renee's story is wonderful. I felt like I was right there, lost in that fog with that feeling of desperation she describes so well. Her writing is very vivid and really involves the reader as if he/she is part of the story, I think. Well done Renee!
I wish some other people would take a stab at it. It's a fun thread. Just write anything that the picture inspires in you...a very creepy, haunting picture. I love it!
Perfect for Halloween.
I think Renee's story is wonderful. I felt like I was right there, lost in that fog with that feeling of desperation she describes so well. Her writing is very vivid and really involves the reader as if he/she is part of the story, I think. Well done Renee!
I wish some other people would take a stab at it. It's a fun thread. Just write anything that the picture inspires in you...a very creepy, haunting picture. I love it!
Perfect for Halloween.
Here is Hyia's
THe Black Evil Horse
It was 1982 in Western Virginia. Halloween day, Princess Fona was getting on her costume when Lily her Mom called her down to tell her today was Halloween day but she also told her about the curse of Virginia.
THe curse was if you see a black horse you will die under neath the horse and rider in your ghostly dreams.
About Princess Fona, SHe has curly brown hair, black fingernail polish, and a white long sleeve shirt. She loves fairy tails, mysteries, novels, and of course, the Adams Family. She really really likes that.
SHe next went out side and got ready for Trick or treating. She then got kidnapped by the ghostly figure and he killed her in real life not just in her dreams. .SHe is still a princess but now a princess ghost, and no longer a zombie princess trick or treater. The end.
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SHe said she got caught up in the story and I told her that Renee would be pleased. Now I will read your stories and poems to her.
THe Black Evil Horse
It was 1982 in Western Virginia. Halloween day, Princess Fona was getting on her costume when Lily her Mom called her down to tell her today was Halloween day but she also told her about the curse of Virginia.
THe curse was if you see a black horse you will die under neath the horse and rider in your ghostly dreams.
About Princess Fona, SHe has curly brown hair, black fingernail polish, and a white long sleeve shirt. She loves fairy tails, mysteries, novels, and of course, the Adams Family. She really really likes that.
SHe next went out side and got ready for Trick or treating. She then got kidnapped by the ghostly figure and he killed her in real life not just in her dreams. .SHe is still a princess but now a princess ghost, and no longer a zombie princess trick or treater. The end.
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SHe said she got caught up in the story and I told her that Renee would be pleased. Now I will read your stories and poems to her.
HEre is my effort.
Charcoal
It has been a really bad day. Work sucked, her boss jumping down her throat, the car broke down and of course when she called for help, there was no way he could come, and then tempers flew as soon as she came in the door. It was not her fault, the hoses are old, he should have changed them, HIm not her, but that was not the way he saw it. She's already doing everything else, the shopping, the clothes, the house, the children, why can't he take care of this one thing for her? How can he shout at her when it was she that had to walk home in the dark on Halloween night, carrying everything? There certainly was no worry for her safety was there. SHe had no sooner stepped in tired, hot, upset before he started in on how the house was a mess. Why could other women manage a job and children and still keep the house right? WHat was wrong with her? His shouting rattled the windows until he wore himself out and slammed down in his chair with his beer.
SHE went to her room and shut the door. THe only thing left to do was to retreat to the sketch book. Her place, and her place alone, the only place where she could go where she could control what is happening. SHe opened it up and let her fingers brush the pristine paper. Thinking that the tooth would hold a charcoal nicely. She began to feel the tension unwind in her mind. The first stroke made the back bone of a horse. A black horse, to fit her black day. SHe filled in the muscles with wide strokes, thinking heavy, to fit her mood. Wondering why why why should her boss be so ugly to everyone all the time. There should be a rider to take him away to the place where he could get what he deserves. She reaches for her charcoal pencils for detail. Shading in a cloak, yes, that is what he needs. She wants him foreboding. SHe smudges away the face, until only a dark pit remained inside the cloak, a grim reaper of a spirit, so evil that there would be no question, no way to fight his power. She took a piece of sandpaper and rubbed her pencil against it, stroking one direction until it was sharp, sharp like the pain she felt inside. Several quick strokes filled in the mane, and brought the rider into focus. While thinking of the man in the next room, his mood making a thick fog of anger that tried to seep under her door she rubbed her finger against the vine charcoal and swiped it across the ground of her drawing, over and around the horses' feet, and off into the background. Hoping this poisonous fog would swallow them both whole, the man that professed he loved her, and the man that controlled her income. Let them both fall to this rider, this bringer of grief, and doom. Finally she penciled in a mountain range so rocky and immense they could never escape. With a heavy sigh, she tore the page out and pinned it over her desk. HEr emotions released, her ducks back in a line.
It was time to fix dinner, to do the dishes, to keep her feelings locked inside so that words and fists wouldn't fly. She knew he would see the drawing, and she knew he would rip it off the wall, she knew he would throw it on the floor in disgust. She also knew he would know and that was enough for now. He could not take this away from her. She could always make more. And one day, one day she would draw herself away from him once and for all.
Charcoal
It has been a really bad day. Work sucked, her boss jumping down her throat, the car broke down and of course when she called for help, there was no way he could come, and then tempers flew as soon as she came in the door. It was not her fault, the hoses are old, he should have changed them, HIm not her, but that was not the way he saw it. She's already doing everything else, the shopping, the clothes, the house, the children, why can't he take care of this one thing for her? How can he shout at her when it was she that had to walk home in the dark on Halloween night, carrying everything? There certainly was no worry for her safety was there. SHe had no sooner stepped in tired, hot, upset before he started in on how the house was a mess. Why could other women manage a job and children and still keep the house right? WHat was wrong with her? His shouting rattled the windows until he wore himself out and slammed down in his chair with his beer.
SHE went to her room and shut the door. THe only thing left to do was to retreat to the sketch book. Her place, and her place alone, the only place where she could go where she could control what is happening. SHe opened it up and let her fingers brush the pristine paper. Thinking that the tooth would hold a charcoal nicely. She began to feel the tension unwind in her mind. The first stroke made the back bone of a horse. A black horse, to fit her black day. SHe filled in the muscles with wide strokes, thinking heavy, to fit her mood. Wondering why why why should her boss be so ugly to everyone all the time. There should be a rider to take him away to the place where he could get what he deserves. She reaches for her charcoal pencils for detail. Shading in a cloak, yes, that is what he needs. She wants him foreboding. SHe smudges away the face, until only a dark pit remained inside the cloak, a grim reaper of a spirit, so evil that there would be no question, no way to fight his power. She took a piece of sandpaper and rubbed her pencil against it, stroking one direction until it was sharp, sharp like the pain she felt inside. Several quick strokes filled in the mane, and brought the rider into focus. While thinking of the man in the next room, his mood making a thick fog of anger that tried to seep under her door she rubbed her finger against the vine charcoal and swiped it across the ground of her drawing, over and around the horses' feet, and off into the background. Hoping this poisonous fog would swallow them both whole, the man that professed he loved her, and the man that controlled her income. Let them both fall to this rider, this bringer of grief, and doom. Finally she penciled in a mountain range so rocky and immense they could never escape. With a heavy sigh, she tore the page out and pinned it over her desk. HEr emotions released, her ducks back in a line.
It was time to fix dinner, to do the dishes, to keep her feelings locked inside so that words and fists wouldn't fly. She knew he would see the drawing, and she knew he would rip it off the wall, she knew he would throw it on the floor in disgust. She also knew he would know and that was enough for now. He could not take this away from her. She could always make more. And one day, one day she would draw herself away from him once and for all.
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Very cool, spooky story, Hyia I hope you keep writing!
That's good storytelling, Smkie, pure and honest.
I love how each person has put themselves out there and invested something of themselves in their stories. That is how you wring the emotions out of your readers -- even if the voice or situation you've used is completely fantasy, that gives it the essential truth that a GOOD story needs
Love reading these. I hope more people post up!
I hope you keep writing! That's good storytelling, Smkie, pure and honest.
I love how each person has put themselves out there and invested something of themselves in their stories. That is how you wring the emotions out of your readers -- even if the voice or situation you've used is completely fantasy, that gives it the essential truth that a GOOD story needs
Love reading these. I hope more people post up!
The Painting
This, being my first trip to an art gallery in the small town of York, England, I moved slowly among the works to take in all I could. With my complimentary glass of Chardonnay in one hand, I drank in the beautiful paintings in oils and watercolor. Depicted were scenes of gardens, alive with bursting color, landscapes of purple moors, frothy seascapes and rich still-lifes. There were vases with dalais and poppies, fruits and vegetables and a whole wall of portraits of people I didn’t know. The gallery was in a fairly large, drafty, old brick building, made smaller by twists, turns and strange angles, cutting off the view of the whole, save for one hall way at a time. My feet barely stopped as I meandered through a maze of walls, enjoyably sipping my wine. That is, until one large, dark oil jerked my eyes toward it‘s spot on the wall. It commanded me to linger, to stop my feet. My eyes widened, I felt my pupils dilate as I searched this dark, ominous, near life-like picture. Here it was, out of place among the rest, luring me to take still, a closer look. I stepped forward and then back again, straining to focus, to ensure it was just a regular painting. With my hand, suddenly trembling, I tipped back my wine glass to finish the contents quickly and set the glass down on a little shelf under the painting. Quickly, averting my eyes from my wine glass’s spot on the shelf back to the painting, I felt a weakness all over. Was it my quivering limbs or did the black horse in the painting move? It must have been the wine making me light headed, as all was still now.
Moving my gaze from the horse up to the rider, I saw a handsome, virile man, cloaked all in black. I wondered if this were a real man, someone known to the artist. He had expert command of the spirited and anxious black horse, whose muscular and powerful body was clearly in a high state of action. Where a moment before, I wondered who this dark, handsome man was, I began to sense a vague familiarity with him as he held my gaze in his knowing, dark eyes. I was gripped by an unexplained and powerful emotion. Who was this man atop the black horse, with whom he was almost one? Mysteriously, I felt a connection to a strange past. Was he a missed chance from another life, another plane in this life? My consciousness soon evaded me while primal senses took charge of me.
Jagged hills in the background were shrouded in the darkness of a frighteningly stormy night. Blustering winds tore at the rider’s cape. So vivid, I could feel the air from the snorting, black horse, his nostrils flaring and eyes widened in trepidation that night. Thunder cracked above my head. I could hear the wind, loudly hissing through the trees, ripping away fall leaves of no particular color and carrying them swiftly on the wind out of the picture, though no trees were in the picture, no leaves.
The horse moved again and my head suddenly whirled round and round, my vision blurring. Feeling sick and steadying myself on the wall behind me, I sunk carefully down onto a cold, marble bench placed along that wall. Closing my eyes to try to regain normalcy, I suddenly felt the familiar rolling motion of a horse under me, my legs against hard leather, my arms crushed against my sides. My surroundings were nothing but close blackness. Not a movement of a shadow, not a glimmer of a cloud could be seen.
As eerily as it began, all motion stopped. My eyes, straining to see anything, anything at all, began to focus. Consciousness crept in and I found myself lying on a large bed, ensconced in layers of white gauze, like cob webs all around me. Terrified, but comfortable, I lay motionless, trying to make sense of my condition. Where was I? How did I get here? Though a fire burned in the stone grate, mixed with the acrid smell of wood smoke, there was a musty, dankness about the room and a foggy, non-descript atmosphere, save for the very near surroundings. Two antique side tables flanked the bed I bewilderedly lay on, a worn, burgundy velvet chair by a small paned window and an old steamer chest completed my view.
A cold sweat broke out on my forehead, my heart pounded against the walls of my chest, as out of the foggy perimeter of the large room, the black figure emerged. But this wasn’t the handsome rider. This near apparition pointed an accusatory, skeletal hand toward me. The hand shook with tension. My eyes traveled upward in search of the handsome, tanned face and knowing eyes that had before, evoked a stirring in me. But what I saw was a hollow, empty area beneath the gaping cloak where a face should be. I blinked and strained, but could see no face. Was this a nightmare? Was I going to wake up soon? I needed to hear my own voice, but could not speak. I wanted to pinch myself, but could not move. Foreboding turned to utter panic. The only voice I heard was the shrill screaming trapped within my head.
Where was the hallway in the art gallery I had been standing in moments before, the marble bench? Where was the art gallery, my wine glass on the little shelf, the paintings? I longed to see the other people who were visiting this centuries old building, the familiar comfort of unfamiliar faces…any faces. I could not move. I could not speak. Complete darkness then enveloped me, protected me from the terror of the faceless figure in the black cape. I felt nothing. Both of my worlds ceased to exist.
Slowly, I awoke with a crushing headache and as I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was a small puddle of something red next to my face. I moved my hand on a cold, wet surface. Looking at my hand, I realized it was covered in blood, my blood. There were people bending over me; one woman stroking my face with her warm, motherly hand and a young man covering me with his wool coat. As I came to and my eyes and brain worked together to recognize my surroundings, I realized I was on a slate floor next to the marble bench. What a sweet and familiar place I was in. Welcome was my minor head injury from sliding from the bench onto the floor. It was real. Welcome was the real art gallery and the real people with faces and warm hands.
Then it all came back to me, but not very clearly; my wine glass, the black, ominous painting, my gauzy entombment. What was it in the painting that had left me with lingering trauma, but tingling curiosity? My eyes began to move upward toward that spot on the wall in search of an answer. Instinctively, I knew I shouldn’t but something….someone drew me back into the dark, stormy night.
This, being my first trip to an art gallery in the small town of York, England, I moved slowly among the works to take in all I could. With my complimentary glass of Chardonnay in one hand, I drank in the beautiful paintings in oils and watercolor. Depicted were scenes of gardens, alive with bursting color, landscapes of purple moors, frothy seascapes and rich still-lifes. There were vases with dalais and poppies, fruits and vegetables and a whole wall of portraits of people I didn’t know. The gallery was in a fairly large, drafty, old brick building, made smaller by twists, turns and strange angles, cutting off the view of the whole, save for one hall way at a time. My feet barely stopped as I meandered through a maze of walls, enjoyably sipping my wine. That is, until one large, dark oil jerked my eyes toward it‘s spot on the wall. It commanded me to linger, to stop my feet. My eyes widened, I felt my pupils dilate as I searched this dark, ominous, near life-like picture. Here it was, out of place among the rest, luring me to take still, a closer look. I stepped forward and then back again, straining to focus, to ensure it was just a regular painting. With my hand, suddenly trembling, I tipped back my wine glass to finish the contents quickly and set the glass down on a little shelf under the painting. Quickly, averting my eyes from my wine glass’s spot on the shelf back to the painting, I felt a weakness all over. Was it my quivering limbs or did the black horse in the painting move? It must have been the wine making me light headed, as all was still now.
Moving my gaze from the horse up to the rider, I saw a handsome, virile man, cloaked all in black. I wondered if this were a real man, someone known to the artist. He had expert command of the spirited and anxious black horse, whose muscular and powerful body was clearly in a high state of action. Where a moment before, I wondered who this dark, handsome man was, I began to sense a vague familiarity with him as he held my gaze in his knowing, dark eyes. I was gripped by an unexplained and powerful emotion. Who was this man atop the black horse, with whom he was almost one? Mysteriously, I felt a connection to a strange past. Was he a missed chance from another life, another plane in this life? My consciousness soon evaded me while primal senses took charge of me.
Jagged hills in the background were shrouded in the darkness of a frighteningly stormy night. Blustering winds tore at the rider’s cape. So vivid, I could feel the air from the snorting, black horse, his nostrils flaring and eyes widened in trepidation that night. Thunder cracked above my head. I could hear the wind, loudly hissing through the trees, ripping away fall leaves of no particular color and carrying them swiftly on the wind out of the picture, though no trees were in the picture, no leaves.
The horse moved again and my head suddenly whirled round and round, my vision blurring. Feeling sick and steadying myself on the wall behind me, I sunk carefully down onto a cold, marble bench placed along that wall. Closing my eyes to try to regain normalcy, I suddenly felt the familiar rolling motion of a horse under me, my legs against hard leather, my arms crushed against my sides. My surroundings were nothing but close blackness. Not a movement of a shadow, not a glimmer of a cloud could be seen.
As eerily as it began, all motion stopped. My eyes, straining to see anything, anything at all, began to focus. Consciousness crept in and I found myself lying on a large bed, ensconced in layers of white gauze, like cob webs all around me. Terrified, but comfortable, I lay motionless, trying to make sense of my condition. Where was I? How did I get here? Though a fire burned in the stone grate, mixed with the acrid smell of wood smoke, there was a musty, dankness about the room and a foggy, non-descript atmosphere, save for the very near surroundings. Two antique side tables flanked the bed I bewilderedly lay on, a worn, burgundy velvet chair by a small paned window and an old steamer chest completed my view.
A cold sweat broke out on my forehead, my heart pounded against the walls of my chest, as out of the foggy perimeter of the large room, the black figure emerged. But this wasn’t the handsome rider. This near apparition pointed an accusatory, skeletal hand toward me. The hand shook with tension. My eyes traveled upward in search of the handsome, tanned face and knowing eyes that had before, evoked a stirring in me. But what I saw was a hollow, empty area beneath the gaping cloak where a face should be. I blinked and strained, but could see no face. Was this a nightmare? Was I going to wake up soon? I needed to hear my own voice, but could not speak. I wanted to pinch myself, but could not move. Foreboding turned to utter panic. The only voice I heard was the shrill screaming trapped within my head.
Where was the hallway in the art gallery I had been standing in moments before, the marble bench? Where was the art gallery, my wine glass on the little shelf, the paintings? I longed to see the other people who were visiting this centuries old building, the familiar comfort of unfamiliar faces…any faces. I could not move. I could not speak. Complete darkness then enveloped me, protected me from the terror of the faceless figure in the black cape. I felt nothing. Both of my worlds ceased to exist.
Slowly, I awoke with a crushing headache and as I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was a small puddle of something red next to my face. I moved my hand on a cold, wet surface. Looking at my hand, I realized it was covered in blood, my blood. There were people bending over me; one woman stroking my face with her warm, motherly hand and a young man covering me with his wool coat. As I came to and my eyes and brain worked together to recognize my surroundings, I realized I was on a slate floor next to the marble bench. What a sweet and familiar place I was in. Welcome was my minor head injury from sliding from the bench onto the floor. It was real. Welcome was the real art gallery and the real people with faces and warm hands.
Then it all came back to me, but not very clearly; my wine glass, the black, ominous painting, my gauzy entombment. What was it in the painting that had left me with lingering trauma, but tingling curiosity? My eyes began to move upward toward that spot on the wall in search of an answer. Instinctively, I knew I shouldn’t but something….someone drew me back into the dark, stormy night.
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I am Death. I am Life. I am revered and reviled, fawned over and feared. Rituals are held to summon me, to appease me, to keep me at bay. Prayers pour over my ears in the daylight and softly whisper under my cowl at dusk. People fail to remember that Death always follows Life...always follows Death. Two sides of the same coin.
All the wards set around the thresholds a few years ago by the Traveling Mage had done their work well. A record number of babies had been born since, including the son of Young Andy's wife, despite her frailty and narrow hips. She'd never been the same since, it was a hard birth by any standard, but Andy still had his wife and Ina was able to smile at her son each morning. The Elders in council secretly traded stories of seeing the Lone Specter pacing through town on his midnight steed, frustration evident in the set of both their shoulders. It wasn't natural, they knew, to keep one side from the other. They knew the soul was merely borrowed and it yearned to return to the ether, to later emerge in a new form. A few more years went by and for the first time in memory, grandparents met their second grandchildren. Then their third. Some of the Elders achieved the unheard distinction of Great-Grandparent. And all the while, the Lonely Rider kept watch, pacing through town on his coal black stallion.
I watch the sparks fly from under my horse's hooves as he stamps the cobblestones in irritation. The dearth of souls was wearing on us both. Unity was shattered, my two forms beginning to grate. Life was abundant, with no Death to keep the balance. Dues were long forgotten, the townspeople blissfully unaware of the chaos swirling in the air above them. I alone can see the threads extending from each person, from each soul. In other towns, in normal times, these threads were glittering, gleaming, polished anew with each birth arising from another's death. Now they were tarnished and tattered, battering at each other. The townspeople did not see their elders withering more with each passing year, did not see the babies born less robust. They did not see the flesh falling from my horse, the lack of gleam in my day form. All they saw, all they cared about was not having to say goodbye to their loved ones, even as those so well-loved quietly wished for a release I could no longer provide. The wards ensured that. The wards ensured the world would continue to tilt off balance. The Traveling Mage was no were to be found, even by me, to be forced to lift these wretched barriers keeping me from continuing the natural, ever-lasting cycle of Death.
For without Death, Life loses power.
I am Life. I am Death.
I am Doomed.
All the wards set around the thresholds a few years ago by the Traveling Mage had done their work well. A record number of babies had been born since, including the son of Young Andy's wife, despite her frailty and narrow hips. She'd never been the same since, it was a hard birth by any standard, but Andy still had his wife and Ina was able to smile at her son each morning. The Elders in council secretly traded stories of seeing the Lone Specter pacing through town on his midnight steed, frustration evident in the set of both their shoulders. It wasn't natural, they knew, to keep one side from the other. They knew the soul was merely borrowed and it yearned to return to the ether, to later emerge in a new form. A few more years went by and for the first time in memory, grandparents met their second grandchildren. Then their third. Some of the Elders achieved the unheard distinction of Great-Grandparent. And all the while, the Lonely Rider kept watch, pacing through town on his coal black stallion.
I watch the sparks fly from under my horse's hooves as he stamps the cobblestones in irritation. The dearth of souls was wearing on us both. Unity was shattered, my two forms beginning to grate. Life was abundant, with no Death to keep the balance. Dues were long forgotten, the townspeople blissfully unaware of the chaos swirling in the air above them. I alone can see the threads extending from each person, from each soul. In other towns, in normal times, these threads were glittering, gleaming, polished anew with each birth arising from another's death. Now they were tarnished and tattered, battering at each other. The townspeople did not see their elders withering more with each passing year, did not see the babies born less robust. They did not see the flesh falling from my horse, the lack of gleam in my day form. All they saw, all they cared about was not having to say goodbye to their loved ones, even as those so well-loved quietly wished for a release I could no longer provide. The wards ensured that. The wards ensured the world would continue to tilt off balance. The Traveling Mage was no were to be found, even by me, to be forced to lift these wretched barriers keeping me from continuing the natural, ever-lasting cycle of Death.
For without Death, Life loses power.
I am Life. I am Death.
I am Doomed.
Skittledoo, if you love to write, write something now. It doesn't have to be just for Halloween. This could be done anytime. Go for it! I love reading all the stories. And I would like to see what you come up with. It's fun, isn't it. We should do this more often.
Zoom, that was awesome. What a concept you thought up. Wow!
(Thanks Renee.)
Zoom, that was awesome. What a concept you thought up. Wow!
(Thanks Renee.)