tifroc
in
getitwrite
Intro
Name: Chris Brown
Genre: Fiction/Drama
Favorite Writer: Hmm, Clive Barker at the moment.
Why I Write: Immersing yourself in a world or writing is more pleasurable than most things.
Favorite Time to Write: Late.
Sample: "Tell me." Dawn rose from her chair and waited, staring into the woman's soft brown eyes. She was still kneeling on the wet concrete floor, her hands tied back, her ankles bound together.
"You know," she answered coldly, "I told you. She's dead." The words struck her. Dawn raised her hot, sweating hand high into the air, and slammed it into the woman's temple. She squealed like an animal being brought to slaughter. The woman fell to her side and sobbed quietly, attempting to preserve her solemnity.
Dawn began to cry. She was angry, she knew. It was this woman's fault that her daughter was dead. Her tears, though, were not of sadness, but of pity. Dawn stepped forward and placed her foot just above the woman's ear. The woman's sobbing now turned to screeches of pain, pleas of forgiveness. Dawn's tears flowed silently from her wide, distant eyes as the woman thrived and convulsed. Her head began to bleed as her skull ground against the rough floor. Dawn thought of her tears, and the woman's blood, running down the drain together. Her tears broke into laughter. It all made sense. After all, they were both murderers now. She laughed and cried, pressed and pushed, until the convulsing ceased.
Genre: Fiction/Drama
Favorite Writer: Hmm, Clive Barker at the moment.
Why I Write: Immersing yourself in a world or writing is more pleasurable than most things.
Favorite Time to Write: Late.
Sample: "Tell me." Dawn rose from her chair and waited, staring into the woman's soft brown eyes. She was still kneeling on the wet concrete floor, her hands tied back, her ankles bound together.
"You know," she answered coldly, "I told you. She's dead." The words struck her. Dawn raised her hot, sweating hand high into the air, and slammed it into the woman's temple. She squealed like an animal being brought to slaughter. The woman fell to her side and sobbed quietly, attempting to preserve her solemnity.
Dawn began to cry. She was angry, she knew. It was this woman's fault that her daughter was dead. Her tears, though, were not of sadness, but of pity. Dawn stepped forward and placed her foot just above the woman's ear. The woman's sobbing now turned to screeches of pain, pleas of forgiveness. Dawn's tears flowed silently from her wide, distant eyes as the woman thrived and convulsed. Her head began to bleed as her skull ground against the rough floor. Dawn thought of her tears, and the woman's blood, running down the drain together. Her tears broke into laughter. It all made sense. After all, they were both murderers now. She laughed and cried, pressed and pushed, until the convulsing ceased.