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  • So this is something short I write in a full school period. I was bored, so I thought I'd write something that I have no idea whether it'd be NSFW or not. So yeah, I got a hell of a story for you.

    _______________________________________________________________

    I fell to the ground, my hands covering my ears. The voices were back. They’ve returned.They were telling me things, things that I should do.

    “End yourself. Just do it you little rat.”

    I tried to resist the urge to break something, failing as I dragged myself to my feet as I put my fist through the bathroom mirror. Blood covered my hand, glass shards sticking out everywhere. I pulled the shards out, frantically looking in the cabinets for gauze. I couldn’t find anything, my hand bleeding much worse now that the shards were out. I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my hand, tying a tight knot at the bottom. I screamed as the voices came back, my sudden adrenaline rush pushing them out for mere moments. I fell back to the ground, the voices becoming louder and louder. My head felt like it was being crushed. The pressure built up more and more, my head aching to the point I could only scream. I screamed at the top of my lungs, my vocal chords being torn apart. I kept screaming louder and louder, hoping to drown the voices out.

    “It’s all useless. You might as well give up.”

    I beat my head on the tile floor until blood started spraying the ground.

    “You’re a mess. Clean this up before someone sees.”

    I stood up, my legs shaky. I felt like I was going to vomit. I fell to the ground once more, throwing up all over the floor.

    “This idiot can’t even keep it to himself. You’re useless, I hope you know that. Just kill yourself. Just end it.”

    I tried standing up, but I was out of energy. I crawled over to the closed and reached in, looking for a mop.

    “Don’t reach for the mop, grab the shotgun. It’ll be of more use to you.”

    I pulled myself up on the knob, forcing myself to reach up for the shotgun. I grabbed a box of buckshot and pocketed it. I took the gun off safety and went outside. Vomit still covered the front of my sweatshirt.


    “So. I see you’re following our directions. Well? What are you waiting for? You know what you need to do.”

    I walked over to my neighbours house, standing at the front door. I reached for the doorbell, but decided against it. I loaded the shotgun and knocked on the door. The wife opened the door. She wore a white apron. I raised the shotgun. She screamed. Startled, I pulled the trigger, sending her flying back into the house. Her body smashed through their glass coffee table, glass stabbing her in the back. I continued into the house to see the husband struggling to put bullets in his handgun. I turned the shotgun on him. He looked up at me, a look of pure terror painted on his face. I pulled the trigger. His body smashed up against the wall. I left the house, moving on to the next.

    I knocked on the front door. No one answered, probably having heard the shotgun. I waited a second, reloading the two missing shots. I kicked the door in, breaking the hinges from the wall. I proceeded into the house. There was a landing above me with a person hiding behind the bars. They tried to crawl to one of the rooms, being stopped by the sudden shot of the gun. The bars broke, their body falling from the landing. I laughed as their body smashed on the ground, blood splashing everywhere. A man ran in holding a rifle. He fired, hitting the vase next to me. I was sprayed with the shrapnel. He pulled back the bolt and put another shot in. I pulled the trigger to the shotgun. His body fell backwards, the rifle falling next to him. I heard police sirens in the background.

    Then, I realized it was the only thing I could hear. The voices were gone. They were gone, but I knew their final wish.

    I raised the barrel of the shotgun to my chin and pulled the trigger.

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    • I fell to the ground, my hands covering my ears. The voices were back. They’ve returned.[space]They were telling me things, things that I should do.

      “End yourself. Just do it you little rat.”

      I tried to resist the urge to break something, failing as I dragged myself to my feet as [repetition/awkward wording -> ‘as’ is repeated in the same sentence] I put my fist through the bathroom mirror. Blood covered my hand, glass shards sticking out everywhere [this is a bit ambiguous]. I pulled the shards out [this is a brutal and painful action; an opportunity to make the audience squirm – it feels wasted to convey it in 5 words], frantically looking in the cabinets for gauze. I couldn’t find anything, my hand bleeding much worse now that the shards were out [there’s another missed opportunity here]. I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my hand, tying a tight knot at the bottom. I screamed as the voices came back, my sudden adrenaline rush pushing them out for mere moments. I fell back to the ground, the voices becoming louder and louder. My head felt like it was being crushed. The pressure built up more and more, my head aching to the point I could only scream. I screamed [repetition; scream. I screamed…] at the top of my lungs, my vocal chords being torn apart. I kept screaming louder and louder, hoping to drown the voices out.

      “It’s all useless. You might as well give up.”

      I beat my head on the tile floor until blood started spraying the ground.

      [a lot of these actions are repetitive; falling down, getting up, blood being spilt. You need to create more diverse, and immersive, imagery instead of just stating what happens]

      “You’re a mess. Clean this up before someone sees.”

      I stood up, my legs shaky. I felt like I was going to vomit. I fell to the ground once more, throwing up all over the floor.

      “This idiot can’t even keep it to himself. You’re useless, I hope you know that. Just kill yourself. Just end it.”

      I tried standing up, but I was out of energy. I crawled over to the closed [closet] and reached in, looking for a mop.

      “Don’t reach for the mop, grab the shotgun. It’ll be of more use to you.”

      I pulled myself up on the knob, forcing myself to reach up for the shotgun. I grabbed a box of buckshot and pocketed it. I took the gun off safety and went outside. Vomit still covered the front of my sweatshirt.

      “So. [comma] I see you’re following our directions. Well? What are you waiting for? You know what you need to do.”

      I walked over to my neighbours [neighbour’s/neighbours’] house, standing at the front door. I reached for the doorbell, but decided against it. I loaded the shotgun and knocked on the door. The wife opened the door. She wore a white apron. I raised the shotgun. She screamed. Startled, I pulled the trigger, sending her flying back into the house. Her body smashed through their glass coffee table, glass stabbing her in the back. I continued into the house to see the husband struggling to put bullets in his handgun [this wording doesn’t feel natural; the typical phrase used is ‘loading’ not ‘putting bullets into’]. I turned the shotgun on him. He looked up at me, a look of pure terror painted on his face. I pulled the trigger. His body smashed up against the wall. I left the house, moving on to the next.

      I knocked on the front door. No one answered, probably having heard the shotgun. I waited a second, reloading the two missing shots. I kicked the door in, breaking the hinges from the wall. I proceeded into the house. There was a landing above me with a person hiding behind the bars. They tried to crawl to one of the rooms, being stopped by the sudden shot of the gun. The bars broke, their body falling from the landing. I laughed as their body smashed on the ground, blood splashing everywhere. A man ran in holding a rifle. He fired, hitting the vase next to me. I was sprayed with the shrapnel. He pulled back the bolt and put another shot in. I pulled the trigger to the shotgun. His body fell backwards, the rifle falling next to him. I heard police sirens in the background.

      Then, I realized it was the only thing I could hear. The voices were gone. They were gone, but I knew their final wish.

      I raised the barrel of the shotgun to my chin and pulled the trigger.

      -

      Mechanical issues – nothing major or repeating. You’ve a tendency to awkward wording but it’s more of a stylistic issue rather than a mechanical one.

      Styles issues – You should take some time out to read Mike MacDee’s Carbon River. Simply because his story is a strong example of how to use unique and inventive imagery. There are a lot of stories that do this; it’s a core requirement of writing. When people say you should ‘show rather than tell’ this is what they mean. Here, let’s look at an example of how Mike deals with a gun firing in his story The Laughing Desert (about giant ants).

      “Nash instinctively draws his pistol and pelts the thing with a salvo of heavy lead slugs that bury in its flesh like pellets from an Airsoft gun.” Think about the words we’re seeing here; instinctively, draws, pelts, salvo, heavy lead slugs, bury, flesh, pellets, airsoft. They are all vivid, and imaginative, and interesting.

      Let’s look at how you describe a firing gun.

      “I raised the shotgun. She screamed. Startled, I pulled the trigger, sending her flying back into the house. Her body smashed through their glass coffee table…” What about this sentence? Screamed. Startled. Trigger. Flying. Smashed. -> Most of these words are already in heavy circulation in your story. They don’t hit as hard, and they aren’t as interesting as they could be.

      For what it’s worth your style still functions once the guy starts shooting. It’s cold, distant and aloof – that works as a contrast to the brutality of the killings and makes them a lot more shocking. If they were peppered with just a few compelling descriptions you’d find that it all comes together to create something much stronger. This short, percussive and simple style, however, is a major let down for the first half where it’s him screaming and bleeding over and over for 500 words; that section, more than any other, needs some more interesting imagery. What does the scene look like? What does it sound like? You mention mounting pressure; storms, , crashing waves and kettles whistling on the pot, are all images that spring to my mind just on the fly. Think hard and long about how each event can be livened up and try to strike a balance between brevity, and creativity. Too much imagery and it’s purple prose, too little (like yours is at the moment) and it feels brutally spartan.

      Plot issues – for the most part this is short and simple enough to be interesting but it’s not got authenticity on its side. This isn’t a killer flaw given the length, but it’s worth mentioning that most schizophrenics aren’t violent, and those who are act out because of incorrect delusions and beliefs. They believe that what they are doing is the best course of action even if it strikes the rest of us as absolutely fucking barmy.

      Like I said this isn’t a death blow, but authenticity goes a long way to helping a story stand out from the crowd and can make your work much more immersive. If you're going to write about cars then you should research cars, if you're going to write about someone visiting Japan then you should research Japan, and the sames for mental health. Like I said; it's a great way to help your stories stand out from the crowd.

        Loading editor
    • Thanks for the feedback. I think I hit everything you talked about. I did some research on Schizophrenia, my sister studying psych as well. I hardly understood it, so I looked up the symptoms and found this: http://www.webmd.com/schizophrenia/guide/schizophrenia-symptoms#2 . I don't know if this is completely 100%, but I did add some stuff in.

      ________________________________________________

      I dropped to the ground, my hands covering my ears. The voices were back. They’ve returned. They were telling me things, things that I should do.

      “End yourself. Just do it you little rat. He can’t even stand right. Why the hell did they let you live alone? You can’t even function like a normal human being.”

      I tried to resist the urge to break something, failing as I dragged myself to my feet. I put my fist through the bathroom mirror. Blood covered my hand, glass shards sticking out of my bleeding knuckles. I grabbed one of the shards, slowly wrenching it out. I winced as I pulled, blood pouring out in massive amounts. I tore the rest out, each proving harder and harder to pull out the more I bled. Eventually, they started to slip as I pulled them, my fingers unable to get a grip. As I pulled the last one out, I frantically looked in the cabinets for gauze. I couldn’t find anything, my hand bleeding much worse now that the shards were out. Blood poured from the cuts, dripping down my fingers, hitting the ground, the grout between the tiles being painted in a thick red. I kept looking, blood leaving thick trails around the bathroom. I gave up looking and, without another option, I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my hand, tying a tight knot at the bottom. I screamed as the voices came back, my sudden adrenaline rush pushing them out for mere moments. I fell to my knees, the voices becoming louder and louder. My head felt like it was being crushed. It felt like I was trapped under the sea, drifting further and further down, the water around me growing darker and darker. I felt like I had gone down too far and that my mask had shattered. I felt like if I didn’t go back up, get the pressure out of me in any way possible, that I’d pop like a goddamn balloon. I pushed my hands into my temples, the pressure building up more and more, my head aching to the point that I could only scream. I shrieked at the top of my lungs, my vocal chords being ripped apart. I kept screaming louder and louder, hoping to drown the voices out.

      “It’s all useless. You might as well give up.”

      I beat my head on the tile floor until blood started spraying the ground.

      “You’re a mess. Clean this up before someone sees.”

      The pressure ceased, my ears popping. I took a deep breath, getting ready to actually do something with my life, no matter how small. I stood up, my legs shaky. I felt like I was going to vomit. I bent over, throwing up all over the floor.

      “This idiot can’t even keep it to himself. You’re useless, I hope you know that. Just kill yourself. Just end it.”

      I stumbled over to the closet and reached in, looking for a mop.

      “Don’t reach for the mop, grab the shotgun. It’ll be of more use to you.”

      I reached up for the shotgun, it’s cold metal meeting with my hands at the back of the closet. I grabbed a box of buckshot and pocketed it. I took the gun off safety and went outside. Vomit still covered the front of my sweatshirt. I sighed, remembering what the doctors told me.

      “Don’t do what the voices tell you to do. Never follow the voices. Most schizophrenics like yourself only act out because they think it’s the best course of action. You seem like you know what you’re doing as you haven’t acted out much, but still, I feel I should tell you.”

      When the doctors told me that, I scoffed. I thought it was stupid that I was being told to ignore the horrible things I’m hearing in my head. They thought I was an idiot, that I couldn’t control my own thoughts. I thought they were quacks and should have their licenses taken away. They told me I was mental, I said I was entirely sane. They said that I was different, that I would act out eventually, I truly believed I wouldn’t. I thought I knew everything, that I would know how to keep myself in control. Now I realized that they were entirely right.

      Still though, in my mind, I craved, begged even, to carry out my plan. I wanted something more than what I could get currently. I needed something that I couldn’t be handed, so I decided to take matters in my own hands. Just then, the voices returned.

      “So, I see you’re following our directions. Well? What are you waiting for? You know what you need to do.”

      I walked over to my neighbours’ house, standing at the front door. I reached for the doorbell, but decided against it. I loaded the shotgun and knocked on the door. The wife opened the door. She wore a white apron. I pumped the shotgun. I put a tiny bit of force on the hairpin trigger, buckshot launching out of the steel barrel before she could scream, her body being thrown back into the house. She slammed into their glass coffee table, the glass shattering, stabbing her in the back. I continued into the house to see the husband squatting against the wall, struggling to load his handgun. I turned the shotgun on him. He looked up at me, a look of pure terror painted on his face. I pulled the trigger. His body smashed into the wall, a hole being left where he impacted. I left the house, moving on to the next.

      I knocked on the front door the same as the other house. No one answered, probably having heard the shotgun. I waited a second, reloading the two missing shots. I kicked the door in, breaking the hinges from the wall, splintering the wood around the screws. I proceeded into the house, stepping over the broken door. There was a landing above me with a person on their hands and knees behind the bars. They tried to crawl to one of the rooms, being stopped by the sudden shot of the gun. The bars were blown from the railing into the person’s body. The bars impaled the person, causing their body to fall from the landing. I let out a chuckle as their body smashed on the ground, the wooden bars being pushed further in. Blood splashed everywhere, the carpet being stained a dark red. A man ran in, a large, scoped rifle in his hands. He aimed and fired, hitting the vase next to me. I was sprayed with the shrapnel, some of them piercing my skin. Blood started to trickle from the cuts as the man realized he’d missed. He pulled back the bolt and put another shot in. I took the shotgun in one hand, aimed it in his direction and pulled the trigger. His body was thrown backwards, the rifle falling next to him. I heard police sirens in the background, growing closer ever so slightly.

      Then, I realized it was the only thing I could hear. The voices were gone. They were gone, but I knew their final wish. Suddenly I heard a small voice.

      “Do it you damn skitz.”

      I raised the barrel of the shotgun to my chin and laid my finger on the trigger. I pushed it towards the stock.

        Loading editor
    • Should I just upload this? If I don't get a reply by like 4 tonight, I'm just gonna do it.

        Loading editor
    • Don't: Just wait and I'll review it today.

        Loading editor
    • I dropped to the ground, my hands covering my ears. The voices were back. They’ve returned. [They’d returned; tense swap] They were telling me things, things that I should do.

      “End yourself. Just do it you little rat. He can’t even stand right. Why the hell did they let you live alone? You can’t even function like a normal human being.”

      I tried to resist the urge to break something, failing as I dragged myself to my feet. I put my fist through the bathroom mirror. Blood covered my hand, glass shards sticking out of my bleeding knuckles. I grabbed one of the shards, slowly wrenching it out. I winced as I pulled, blood pouring out in massive amounts [This is a meagre attempt at imagery]. I tore the rest out, each proving harder and harder to pull out the more I bled. Eventually, they started to slip as I pulled them, my fingers unable to get a grip. As I pulled the last one out, I frantically looked in the cabinets for gauze. I couldn’t find anything, my hand bleeding much worse now that the shards were out. Blood poured from the cuts, dripping down my fingers, hitting the ground, the grout between the tiles being painted in a thick red [that’s better]. I kept looking, blood leaving thick trails around the bathroom. I gave up looking and, without another option, I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my hand, tying a tight knot at the bottom. I screamed as the voices came back, my sudden adrenaline rush pushing them out for mere moments. I fell to my knees, the voices becoming louder and louder. My head felt like it was being crushed. It felt like I was trapped under the sea, drifting further and further down, the water around me growing darker and darker. I felt like I had gone down too far and that my mask had shattered. I felt like if I didn’t go back up, get the pressure out of me in any way possible, that I’d pop like a goddamn balloon. I pushed my hands into my temples, the pressure building up more and more, my head aching to the point that I could only scream. I shrieked at the top of my lungs, my vocal chords being ripped apart. I kept screaming louder and louder, hoping to drown the voices out. [you have a tendency for repetition a la further and further, louder and louder, harder and harder etc. that is so prominent it starts to feel a bit gimmicky]

      “It’s all useless. You might as well give up.”

      I beat my head on the tile floor until blood started spraying the ground.

      “You’re a mess. Clean this up before someone sees.”

      The pressure ceased, my ears popping. I took a deep breath, getting ready to actually do something with my life, no matter how small. I stood up, my legs shaky. I felt like I was going to vomit. I bent over, throwing up all over the floor.

      “This idiot can’t even keep it to himself. You’re useless, I hope you know that. Just kill yourself. Just end it.”

      I stumbled over to the closet and reached in, looking for a mop.

      “Don’t reach for the mop, grab the shotgun. It’ll be of more use to you.”

      I reached up for the shotgun, it’s cold metal meeting with my hands at the back of the closet. I grabbed a box of buckshot and pocketed it. I took the gun off safety and went outside. Vomit still covered the front of my sweatshirt. I sighed, remembering what the doctors told me.

      “Don’t do what the voices tell you to do. Never follow the voices. Most schizophrenics like yourself only act out because they think it’s the best course of action. You seem like you know what you’re doing as you haven’t acted out much, but still, I feel I should tell you.”

      When the doctors told me that, I scoffed. I thought it was stupid that I was being told to ignore the horrible things I’m hearing in my head. They thought I was an idiot, that I couldn’t control my own thoughts. I thought they were quacks and should have their licenses taken away. They told me I was mental, I said I was entirely sane. They said that I was different, that I would act out eventually, I truly believed I wouldn’t. I thought I knew everything, that I would know how to keep myself in control. Now I realized that they were entirely right.

      Still though, in my mind, I craved, begged even, to carry out my plan. I wanted something more than what I could get currently. I needed something that I couldn’t be handed, so I decided to take matters in my own hands. Just then, the voices returned.

      “So, I see you’re following our directions. Well? What are you waiting for? You know what you need to do.”

      I walked over to my neighbours’ house, standing at the front door. I reached for the doorbell, but decided against it. I loaded the shotgun and knocked on the door. The wife opened the door. She wore a white apron. I pumped the shotgun. I put a tiny bit of force on the hairpin trigger, buckshot launching out of the steel barrel before she could scream, her body being thrown back into the house. She slammed into their glass coffee table, the glass shattering, stabbing her in the back. I continued into the house to see the husband squatting against the wall, struggling to load his handgun. I turned the shotgun on him. He looked up at me, a look of pure terror painted on his face. I pulled the trigger. His body smashed into the wall, a hole being [delete; left] left where he impacted. I left [repetition; left] the house, moving on to the next.

      I knocked on the front door the same as the other house. No one answered, probably having heard the shotgun. I waited a second, reloading the two missing shots. I kicked the door in, breaking the hinges from the wall, splintering the wood around the screws. I proceeded into the house, stepping over the broken door. There was a landing above me with a person on their hands and knees behind the bars. They tried to crawl to one of the rooms, being stopped by the sudden shot of the gun. The bars were blown from the railing into the person’s body. The bars impaled the person, causing their body to fall from the landing. I let out a chuckle as their body smashed on the ground, the wooden bars being pushed further in. Blood splashed everywhere, the carpet being stained a dark red. A man ran in, a large, scoped rifle in his hands. He aimed and fired, hitting the vase next to me. I was sprayed with the shrapnel, some of them [it] piercing my skin. Blood started to trickle from the cuts as the man realized he’d missed. He pulled back the bolt and put another shot in. I took the shotgun in one hand, aimed it in his direction and pulled the trigger. His body was thrown backwards, the rifle falling next to him. I heard police sirens in the background, growing closer ever so slightly.

      Then, I realized it was the only thing I could hear. The voices were gone. They were gone, but I knew their final wish. Suddenly I heard a small voice.

      “Do it you damn skitz.”

      I raised the barrel of the shotgun to my chin and laid my finger on the trigger. I pushed it towards the stock.

      -

      So yeah this is a big improvement; good job. You can post this now if you want. I think it meets QS (although it never hurts to get a second opinion).

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    • Thanks, I'm gonna try to fix what you pointed out and upload it. :)

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    • A FANDOM user
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