Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-27905100-20170411221351/@comment-28060931-20170413210935

I slowly step through the pitch-black hallway, my footfalls ringing[Ringing. A bell rings. Ringing is usually a high-pitched fast-paced sound. I think saying that the footfalls thumped or thudded would fit better.]''' throughout the echoey house. The sole light in the house portrudes from the lamp set above the table, upon which is some sort of game. I don’t know which one yet. I suppose that with a little time, it won’t matter anymore.

A cacophany[cacophony] of joyous laughter erupts from the table. They still haven’t noticed me yet,[I would remove the word 'yet' and the comma; I think it might flow better but it's up to you.] slinking slowly towards them. One of them shouts something unintelligible from across the room, and in a few moments, comes back holding a large bowl of… something.[describe the something: is it a liquid, is it yellow, blue, etc. Be more specific.] They each take a large handful, and shove it greedily inside[Again, for the hundreth time: it might just be me, but I think '... into their mouths' would flow and sound better.]' their mouths, scattering crumbs and a sickly orange dust all over their fingers.

The three figures sitting around each roll a dotted square[a square is a 2D shape, so describing a dice(I presume), as a square, doesn't work.], bouncing them around the table, laughing. One playfully shoves another, and they continue bouncing the cubes. They laugh again.

A blinding flash resounds['Resound'is used to describe a sound, not a visual thing, so I don't think it's correct here], ending the laughter all at once.

The green walls shine with a lacquer from however many years ago, the paint cracking and broken in the uncovered places. The sole light in the room, burnt out years ago, still flickers as if trying to hold onto its last scrap of life. The walls have broken out in some places, and the sole window in the house has given out and broken. I slowly crawl up a leg of the table, and on top. A half-full bowl of sickly-orange chips lie there, and three figures still sit around it. Each one’s face has gone grey with rot, and their hair sits unkempt and falling out. I bite into the chip. The people had long gone silent, and belonged to cockroaches now.

I was kind of confused by the ending; what happened. What does he mean they belong to the cockroaches now? What happened? The people are still alive somehow. The atmosphere and description were good, though, they got the job done. If want to get this story on the site I would recommend rehearsing it a lot more. Maybe you don't since it's just a class project for school. Anyway, I hope that if the case is so this advice helps you find vices in future stories -- good luck!