One of my favorite hobbies is writing short stories. I’ve always enjoyed those televisions shows where they would tell a tale you could get lost in. When I was a young girl, I would write to my hearts desire and even compose music soundtracks for the story I was writing! My love for writing is #2 on my list of loves as Music shall always be my #1. I received a few Creeper questions via Facebook, deviantart and Youtube that I’d like to answer here.
What type of stories do you usually write?
– I enjoy writing stories that could be placed within the Gothic category but also psychological horror. I do have a few Science Fiction short stories as well.
Do you outline your stories or just write?
– This depends. If it was for an assignment I would outline. If it’s for myself, I just write and then analyze.
What is the earliest story you remember writing?
– Let’s see — I was 10 sitting in my grandparents house for a visit. I had a notebook and composed a tale that took place in the early 1900s. It was about a young girl named, Rebecca, who was trying to find the truth of paranormal activity.
What’s the first story you received feedback?
– The Girl. I wrote it for a school English project and put it on Deviantart. Re-reading it now, I see all the errors and I’m in the process of re-writing it.
Thanks for the little questions. I’m off now to consume a dinner.
**** This is a story I wrote in 9th grade (I’m guessing) for a school horror project. Needless to say the post here, I’ve re-written to make it more how I write now. The original intro will be written below the Re-Written.*****
It’s 5:08 AM. I’m still awake from the night before. The house is silent as it creaks with the wind. My mother lay asleep next to my father in the next room. Their snores seem to echo throughout the silent house. I’m lying upon my bed, bathed in light from the sky. I don’t know what has come over me lately. I just never sleep. I got out of my bed quietly, tiptoeing downstairs. No lights are on and I smile in the dark. I love the dark and the way it holds me. The way the devil’s arms seem to be around me. Much like that of the embrace of a lover.
I made my way to our neat and tidy living room. Everything had its place. Ever since mom became best friends with Prozac. I went over to the family portrait. As I’m standing there looking at our faces with the phony smile and the “everything is well” pose… I wished it would burn. Burn to hell. Burn it all! I hate having a fake smile. I hate the way I cannot be true to who I am within. No one would understand what’s within. No one… not even myself.
I try to hold back tears as I stood there. Oh, what I would do to have my friend back. If he wouldn’t have died, maybe my mind wouldn’t be in this state. He taught me how to be strong in a family full of liars. A family full of lunatics that would tear each other down instead of help them up. I throw the portrait into the fireplace and watched it burn slowly. A grin came upon my face as I watched the flame devour our faces. First, my father’s face, then my mothers and finally mine. I felt a sense of evil running through my veins. It was like a drug and I was the addict. No rehab for me. I slowly walked into the kitchen and grabbed a knife. I slowly made my way up the stairs, being ever so quiet, and slowly opened my parent’s bedroom door…
© Mercy Desdemona 2012
Original Written in ’06:
It’s 5:08AM. I’m still awake from the night before. My mother lay asleep next to my father in the next room. There snores seem to echo through the house. I tiptoe downstairs. No lights are on. I love the dark. The way it holds me. The way the devil’s arms seem to be around me. A loving embrace.
I go towards the living room. Looking at my family portrait. I wish it would burn. Burn to hell. Burn it all! I hate my fake smile. I hate the way I can’t be myself. No one understands. No one!! Not even me!! Oh. What I would do to have my friend back. If he wouldn’t have died, maybe my mind wouldnt be in this state. He taught me how to be strong in a family full of liars. A family full of close-minded lunatics.
I throw the portrait in the fire. Grin as I watch our faces burn. BURN BABY!! first my father’s face, then my mothers. Finally mine. I felt the evilness goes through my veins. It was like drug. I was addicted. No rehab for me. I slowly walked into the kitchen. Grabbed a knife. Started making my way up the stairs. I slowly opened my parent’s bedroom door….
© Mercy Desdemona 2006