Cool Draft

[ShredRed]

So, this is my first time on Newgrounds in a very long time. A few weeks back, I started writing again to get rid of stress, and I figured this wonderful place would be a great place to launch my career as a writer, something I've always wanted to do.

Now, I know this one might be really bad, seeing as it's the first I've written since being out of practice for about a year. This is why I'm looking for constructive, respectful criticism. If you do that , I'm sure we'll get along just fine :)

So, here goes....

Cool Draft Part 1

The leaves of oaks in the silent woods of Indiana shift once more, for it is October. Although I have lost my ability to see all that is beautiful, this picturesque setting will be forever my only companion. For although the people who visit me daily may call themselves my friends, try to snuggle up to me, get to know me, all they will ever be are hollowed souls of illusionistic comfort for which I would have never met had it not been for the leaves, paper-like. The oaks, standing high. The branches swaying as the heavy breeze sails over, under, around them. That night, the oaks and the leaves and the songs of others lost, became parts of my dreams. However, I have to escape them, the sinister visions of what others call illusion. For they also populate my vivid nightmares.

I needed to relax. My nervesâEU¦ a tangled mess of cautiousness. Or anxiety. IâEUTMve never had the chance or the patience to find out which. My wife had recommended a stay at a luxurious inn at the peak of some overrated Californian mountain, mostly inhabited by wealthy men and women who took great advantage of the alcohol and cocaine provide on the house by the manager (certainly not the cocaine, though. But to those who beggedâEU¦) to rid themselves of their furious guilt. Guilt of their ridiculous piles of money. Guilt of their undeniable success. Fuck it, I said. I needed a real retreat, not a simple vacation. Browsing the Internet, I found nothing. However, a local gas station attendant gave me information on Moss Creek, an off-the-map reservation the Native Americans of the area occasionally rented out to guests. They had several cabins available, and although you would gain better views of the river in most areas, I made haste to rent No. 6, the quaint cabin at the very edge of the reservation, just beyond view of the numerous tourist attractions. This was the place, I exclaimed to my wife, that I needed to visit to get my career back on track. What? Yes, of course IâEUTMll be alone, I told her. She said to âEUoebe safeâEU and to âEUoecome back soonâEU. It was as far from safe as possible. But I had come back, alright. I came back. Dammit, my love, my Rose, I came back!

Why canâEUTMt you realize that?

I packed a change of clothes, my notebook, and my clozapine. When I arrived at the reservation, I was hopelessly lost. The locals didnâEUTMt help much, never paid any attention to me, even when I yelled at them. However, I couldnâEUTMt help but to wholeheartedly agree with them. After all, I did happen to be an unfamiliar white guy in a black sedan, my tire tracks churning their ancestorsâEUTM soil.

After several hours and a few headache pills later, I pulled up alongside cabin No. 6. It was a small log cabin, about the size of an average garage, definitely not much of anything at first glance. I chuckled as I walked up the steps, thinking about Abraham Lincoln as a young man living in a cabin akin to this. When I walked inside, I was shocked at the massive bookcases lining the walls. So thoroughly did they take up the perimeter of the inside of the cabin, one may mistake them for wallpaper if they were two-dimensional. In all honesty, the damn place resembled a library, complete with period chairs, sofas, etc. This cabin surprised me that so many things could fit into such an inferior residence. I was so awestruck with the interior of the cabin, my senses failed to alert me to the blood stain that crept out from underneath the large Persian carpet in the middle of the dining area. Aside from that, the cabin seemed to be fitted to my standards and wishes, perfectly organized into the dwelling that I hoped it would be.

At exactly five in the evening, I decided to take a calm stroll through one of the many trails in the woods that surrounded the reservation. With my hands warmly stuck in my pockets, I absorbed everything my senses brought me. The rustic patterns of red and yellow in the trees. The fresh, crisp taste of the autumn air. The smell of wet soil and distant smoke. All of it like ecstasy for my mood. My soul. My heart. My nightmares.

My walk lasted for about three hours, and as soon as I arrived back at my lincoln-log home, I began browsing the dozens of bookshelves it had to offer. In these cornucopias of literature, there was not a single language absent from their collection. English, French, Dutch, Russian, German, Italian, and Spanish writings graced the crevices of the shelves. Even the ancient tongues of our ancestors adorned this library. Gaelic and Latin, Old English, some African lyric poems from eons ago stuffed in a notebook. However, even with the vast number of dialects that frequented the shelves, it was not they that roused my attention the most. It was the creators of these works that sent my mind reeling. Lovecraft, a personal favorite, appearing to have a special foothold on the collection, dominated an entire shelf. DanteâEUTMs Comedy stood out with a binding of soft tan leather of which I had never seen before. This was my sweet paradise. This was the salvation IâEUTMve needed since I began writing five years ago. The tender embrace my mind craved from the harshness of reality. All of thatâEU¦.

Until I laid eyes on the very thing that set my nerves on edge.

Perusing the selection before I settled in for the night, a certain name exposed itself to me between two Lovecraft works. Abdul Alhazred. Mad creator of the Necronomicon. My nerves sailed like they never had before, not because of the author of the book I now held in my hands, nor the actual appearance of such vile literature. What sent me into terror was the simple fact that Alhazred and his Necronomicon were made up by Lovecraft himself to fuel some of his stories. They were fictional entities. So why were they here, physically here, bearing down on my thoughts.

Until midnight I pondered this sequence of unfortunate events, arriving at no rational explanation. Several coffees were downed on the subject before I felt the weight of sleep upon my eyes.

One A.M. Not long after this time, I was awoken by the near inaudible sound of voices outside of my bedroom wall. Silently, I sat up in bed, still dressed in the outfit I had worn during the day, and crept slowly over to the wall. Cupping my now sweaty hands over my left ear, I could still not recognize what was being said. But it was definitely being said fast. Damn fast. And was thatâEU¦was that gurgling? Yes. Oh God, yes, there was no reason for it not to be. It had to be gurgling. It had to be. It had to be. It had to be. ItâEU¦.

The voices stopped as soon as a swift knock against my door awoke me. It was 2:00 A.M.

I hoped that my night owl visitor was someone I would recognize. My beautiful wife, come here worried. However, no such luck came my way, for when I opened the door, just a crack, I could make out the beginnings of a puddle of dark crimson staining the welcome mat. I let the door swing itself open to the sight of what I pleaded to Christ was a tipped-over bottle of red wine. Before I experienced the displeasure of witnessing the unknown scene in front of me, however, the cabin began to feel warm. I hurried to my bedroom, towards the unfamiliar heat, all the while, the scent of smoke becoming stronger.

[ShredRed]

Let's try that again, without copy and pasting from Word like a jackass.

Cool Draft Part 1

The leaves of oaks in the silent woods of Indiana shift once more, for it is October. The oaks, standing high. The branches swaying as the heavy breeze sails over, under, around them. That night, the oaks and the leaves and the songs of others lost, became parts of my dreams. However, I have to escape them, the sinister visions of what others call illusion. For they also populate my vivid nightmares.

I needed to relax. My nerves... a tangled mess of cautiousness. Or anxiety. I have never had the chance or the patience to find out which. My wife had recommended a stay at a luxurious inn at the peak of some overrated Californian mountain, mostly inhabited by wealthy men and women who took great advantage of the alcohol and cocaine provide on the house by the manager (certainly not the cocaine, though. But to those who begged...) to rid themselves of their furious guilt. Guilt of their ridiculous piles of money. Guilt of their undeniable success. Fuck it, I said. I needed a real retreat, not a simple vacation. Browsing the Internet, I found nothing. However, a local gas station attendant gave me information on Moss Creek, an off-the-map reservation the Native Americans of the area occasionally rented out to guests. They had several cabins available, and although you would gain better views of the river in most areas, I made haste to rent No. 6, the quaint cabin at the very edge of the reservation, just beyond view of the numerous tourist attractions. This was the place, I exclaimed to my wife, that I needed to visit to get my career back on track. What? Yes, of course IâEUTMll be alone, I told her. She said to "be safe" and to "come back soon". It was as far from safe as possible. But I had come back, alright. I came back. Dammit, my love, my Rose, I came back!

Why can't you realize that?

I packed a change of clothes, my notebook, and my clozapine. When I arrived at the reservation, I was hopelessly lost. The locals didnâEUTMt help much, never paid any attention to me, even when I yelled at them. However, I couldn't help but to wholeheartedly agree with them. After all, I did happen to be an unfamiliar white guy in a black sedan, my tire tracks churning their ancestors' soil.

After several hours and a few headache pills later, I pulled up alongside cabin No. 6. It was a small log cabin, about the size of an average garage, definitely not much of anything at first glance. I chuckled as I walked up the steps, thinking about Abraham Lincoln as a young man living in a cabin akin to this. When I walked inside, I was shocked at the massive bookcases lining the walls. So thoroughly did they take up the perimeter of the inside of the cabin, one may mistake them for wallpaper if they were two-dimensional. In all honesty, the damn place resembled a library, complete with period chairs, sofas, etc. This cabin surprised me that so many things could fit into such an inferior residence. I was so awestruck with the interior of the cabin, my senses failed to alert me to the blood stain that crept out from underneath the large Persian carpet in the middle of the dining area. Aside from that, the cabin seemed to be fitted to my standards and wishes, perfectly organized into the dwelling that I hoped it would be.

At exactly five in the evening, I decided to take a calm stroll through one of the many trails in the woods that surrounded the reservation. With my hands warmly stuck in my pockets, I absorbed everything my senses brought me. The rustic patterns of red and yellow in the trees. The fresh, crisp taste of the autumn air. The smell of wet soil and distant smoke. All of it like ecstasy for my mood. My soul. My heart. My nightmares.

My walk lasted for about three hours, and as soon as I arrived back at my lincoln-log home, I began browsing the dozens of bookshelves it had to offer. In these cornucopias of literature, there was not a single language absent from their collection. English, French, Dutch, Russian, German, Italian, and Spanish writings graced the crevices of the shelves. Even the ancient tongues of our ancestors adorned this library. Gaelic and Latin, Old English, some African lyric poems from eons ago stuffed in a notebook. However, even with the vast number of dialects that frequented the shelves, it was not they that roused my attention the most. It was the creators of these works that sent my mind reeling. Lovecraft, a personal favorite, appearing to have a special foothold on the collection, dominated an entire shelf. Dante's Comedy stood out with a binding of soft tan leather of which I had never seen before. This was my sweet paradise. This was the salvation I've needed since I began writing five years ago. The tender embrace my mind craved from the harshness of reality. All of that...

Until I laid eyes on the very thing that set my nerves on edge.

Perusing the selection before I settled in for the night, a certain name exposed itself to me between two Lovecraft works. Abdul Alhazred. Mad creator of the Necronomicon. My nerves sailed like they never had before, not because of the author of the book I now held in my hands, nor the actual appearance of such vile literature. What sent me into terror was the simple fact that Alhazred and his Necronomicon were made up by Lovecraft himself to fuel some of his stories. They were fictional entities. So why were they here, physically here, bearing down on my thoughts.

Until midnight I pondered this sequence of unfortunate events, arriving at no rational explanation. Several coffees were downed on the subject before I felt the weight of sleep upon my eyes.

One A.M. Not long after this time, I was awoken by the near inaudible sound of voices outside of my bedroom wall. Silently, I sat up in bed, still dressed in the outfit I had worn during the day, and crept slowly over to the wall. Cupping my now sweaty hands over my left ear, I could still not recognize what was being said. But it was definitely being said fast. Damn fast. And was that...was that gurgling? Yes. Oh God, yes, there was no reason for it not to be. It had to be gurgling. It had to be. It had to be. It had to be. It...

The voices stopped as soon as a swift knock against my door awoke me. It was 2:00 A.M.

I hoped that my night owl visitor was someone I would recognize. My beautiful wife, come here worried. However, no such luck came my way, for when I opened the door, just a crack, I could make out the beginnings of a puddle of dark crimson staining the welcome mat. I let the door swing itself open to the sight of what I pleaded to Christ was a tipped-over bottle of red wine. Before I experienced the displeasure of witnessing the unknown scene in front of me, however, the cabin began to feel warm. I hurried to my bedroom, towards the unfamiliar heat, all the while, the scent of smoke becoming stronger.

[ShredRed]

OK, sorry about any other copy and paste Word mistakes I make along here. Trying my best.

Cool Draft Part 2

The voices outside must have been the causes of the inferno that raged in my bedroom. They had obviously broken in through the window without my hearing them because there was an abundance of glass shards sprawled out on the floor. My possessions were already gone. I could smell the leather of my travel bag burning. At first, I had attempted to quiet the blaze by using the carpet to snuff it out, all the while breathing endless gusts of smoke. All of my efforts failed, so I made a break for the shattered window. I jumped through it, cutting myself in the process, and distanced myself from the cabin enough for an ironically comfortable heat to emit from the disaster before me. I watched the cabin burn down until resembled one of the buildings at Hiroshima, then left it behind as I used my phone for a flashlight to illuminate my way, hoping to find the trail that lead to the reservation office.

When I found my way to the offices, shuddering in terror and freezing to death, I found them uninhabited and closed. Now that I thought about it, I hadn't seen any lights, signs of life, nothing for the past half an hour. I assumed the worst; the possibility that the locals burned me out of my house and left the reservation, hoping to scare me out of their property. Only later did I learn the assumption I made should have been a hope. Someone was there with me, watching me. Paying close attention to my every move. Waiting for me to fuck up, trip on a stick or rock, so they could ambush me, perform atrocities that no human being should do. That wasn't going to happen, I said. Not ever.

I decided to explore the office before trying to find my way out of the reservation. The door wasn't locked, oddly enough. I cautiously took a step inside, shining my phone's LED light as far as it could reach into the cabin. I saw nothing of interest, so I stepped inside and shut the door about halfway. As silently as I could, crouching, I crept around every nook and cranny of that office until there was nothing left to be uncovered. I turned around to leave, when I then saw a shadow dart across the moonlight shining through the crack in the front door. My heart leapt out of my chest as I quickly slid myself into the tightest corner in the room. I shut my phone off, for fear that if the shadow saw it, my position would be made obvious. Holding my phone against my chest, (in these situation, you hold on to whatever you happen to be nearest to at the time) I waited in silence. After five minutes of nothing, the door opened ever so slightly. The moonlight was blocked by a tall figure standing in the doorway. It looked around the room. I know this because the only feature that I could make out were its ears. Then, as if it knew someone was thinking of it, it took three long strides inside, keeping the door open. I couldn't breathe, not just because it was a dangerous act to do so, but because fear had me in its tightest grip at that moment. Footsteps coming closer, not changing pace, always with the same speed and volume, as if walking to a slow rhythm. Yards. Feet. When the dark figure arrived inches from me, I nearly fainted. It was just around the corner that I had been peeping out from behind. In an act of complete rashness, I retrieved my phone from my pocket. Pointing it in front of me, I turned it on. The ensuing illumination revealed the figure just millimeters away from my faceâEU¦I was so racked with fear I could not possibly move. It was staring at me, although I cannot be sure because the abominable shadow before me appeared to have no eyes. Yet, despite this horrid feature, it continued to stare at me, bending down to reach my pathetic fetal position height. I heard a sound that resembled radio static, smelled ashes. Then, the horrible figure began to back away, still bending down, walking backwards, and still...staring at me. The static became quieter as it got farther away, until I heard the door shut, and then it stopped. I sat there, unable to move, to speak, to scream, for ten minutes. As I drifted into sleep, I swear I heard the sound of the door opening once more.

I awoke with a start to the bitter smell of burning leaves. The thing was gone, and sunlight poured through the windows in solid rays. My vision was mildly blurred for a few seconds before it returned to normal. I checked my pants for my wallet and phone. They had not been touched, nor had the rest of me. However, when I got up, I nearly passed out due to a splitting pain in my head. The feeling was akin to someone forcing a metal rod into my skull and then melting it. Wincing as I stood up, I had a look about my environment. The office was as it had been that night. At least, I assumed it was the previous night, since no one had arrived to assist me. Looking back at the ground, I saw a dried area of blood, about a foot in diameter. How much had I lost? Walking out of the office, the reservation was as desolate as it was the night before, not a damn soul in sight. A few minutes passed. Then hours. It never became dark, so I could only assume I had woken in the early morning. All that was possible now was to try and comprehend my situation. What was it that I had laid my eyes upon? Still, I could see its face, though every time I thought of it my heart skipped a beat. I took a walk through the reservation, figuring the only rational thing to do was to follow the smell of smoke I had encountered a few hours previous.

About another hour passed before I reached a mound of smoldering leaves, still hot. In a way, despite my predicament, I was comforted by it. Probably due to the fact that my father and I used to spend time together burning leaves in autumn. After minutes spend reminiscing, I noticed a distinct dark puddle from underneath the leaves. Nearing it, I was relieved to see that it was not blood, but water.

Wait.

Water?

[ShredRed]

Cool Draft Part 3

Curious, I began shuttling the ashes aside with my hands. About half of the remnants were gone before the puddle of dark water began to emit an eerie black smoke of its own. It was as if a shadow was creeping out of the fluid. As I neared it, beginning to sweat, I heard the distinct sound of radio static. I tried to back away, tried to escape, but a force too powerful to be human kept reeling my helpless body in. As my struggle continued, the day passed within seconds, and night began to emerge. The sky became painted with reds and blues and greens, like a monstrous reenactment of the Aurora Borealis. All the while, my vision began to fade. Then, out of the blackness of the water (was it even still water?), emerged the shadow-figure of the nightmare previous. With my faded vision, it was the only thing that I could see clearly. Trying with all my might to back away from the hideous abomination before me, I partially succeeded, and began to sprint towards the road. I witnessed the trees closing in upon me, becoming a tunnel only fit for a car. And still, I ran. I ran without looking back, with no use. The image of the eyeless creature, smoke emitting from its thin frame, static coming from its unseen mouth, was burned into my mind. And still, I ran. I ran until my veins pumped battery acid, until I could barely see the multiplying hallucinations before me. All of them, cast in shadow, every one resembling a demon in Hell. All of this, against me, for where the road should have been was placed a depression, a drop off, miles down. At last, I looked back. All of the demons were before me, now just staring. Towards me, through the crowd of hallucinations, came the shadow. It wanted me to give up. Like everyone else, it wanted me to give up. No! I can't take the pills, my friends! Never in my life will I succumb to medication. Never in my existence will I be defeated by this terrible disease, for it plagued me for five years of my life! But it shall plague me no more. I throw away my clozapine, my burdens, my doubts! Sheer willpower is what brings victory against enemies such as these! I do it for you, my wife, my Rose! For you, father, my mentor! For you, mother, my hope! I will sacrifice all to ensure that I live as a normal man, to not fear waking up the next morning, believing it to be my last in my home. Tempus fugit, shadow, time flies. And it has been many years that I have lived with you, endured the suffering you had laid upon me with a wicked hand. I turn to face the shadow, the hallucinations. And I run. I run until my disease no longer makes my wife tear up every night. I run until I no longer have to force down a pill a day just to ensure I will not go insane. I run until I reach the figure. And I ram my fist, my anger, my sadness, into its vicious jaw. Then I wake up.
Epilogue

This was the last of my hallucinations.

Five years ago, to this day, I had a panic attack. Well, more than that. I...lost all touch with reality, went into a coma running down a flight of stairs. Funny thing, how all of your dreams feature one common thing. Hallucinations are the same for most people. In mine, things were always chasing me, running me down. I had no choice but to go with the "flow" and run with my disease. My wife, poor thing, was horrified. We agreed to go to a psychologist after I had killed the dog in one of my attacks. Dr. Lee prescribed me medication, temporarily, until we could get to the root of the problem. She, along with my wife, assisted me in becoming like I once was. I was normal for a few months, until I had the last attack. After this one, I couldn't stand it anymore. I...I overdosed on my clozapine, the medicine I was given to treat the disease. Waking up in the hospital, I held my wife, Rose, until we ran dry of tears. I love her more than life itself because after the hospital, she never gave up on me, never backed down. And neither did I. I learned to control my attacks until they were no more. It took years of pain, years of hardships. But we defeated it.

We now live in an apartment in Chicago. SheâEUTMs having our first baby this fall, a boy. We couldn't be happier with what we have now. My name is Robert Locksley. I was afflicted with schizophrenia. But every disease has a cure. And every nightmare has hope.

For you will always wake up.

[ShredRed]

Alright, so this one was kind of a disaster on the formatting front between transferring the story from Word to Newgrounds. However, I hope that you looked past my noob-like mistake and enjoyed the story. Aside from the quotation/apostrophe glitch, please give me your most constructive criticism.

Also, any help or tips on how to format a story correctly for this website, so I don't end up with a glitched out piece of shit copy like my first post, would be very much appreciated as a PM.

Again, sorry for the noob mistake. I will do my best to make sure it doesn't happen again.

[SgtMclovin96]

That was amazing. Keep up the good work.

[mhzinski]

There is a frustrating lack of control on the focal point of the writing. Everything that could be used to be suspenseful or dramatic is introduced too early and too clumsily for it to truly evoke any terror or empathy. It works well for comedic effect kind of like a play with characters entering, realizing they weren't called for, and then disappointingly turning off-stage.

Don't introduce the reader to nightmares and blood-stains and the terrors only to not use them immediately. Attention is generated through a solid flow, and though one could argue more suspense is made by making the reader wait for those details to be implemented while the character is unaware, that needs to be done very carefully and with better pacing.

There are also a few sentences that are not, and misused words that could be fixed if it were edited more carefully.

For future reference, beginning all of a narrator's sentences with I and it becomes boring much more quickly than proper sentence variation. It reads as amateurish and mundane instead of refined and organized writing.

4/10 writing.

[ShredRed]

At 9/15/12 02:34 AM, mhzinski wrote: There is a frustrating lack of control on the focal point of the writing. Everything that could be used to be suspenseful or dramatic is introduced too early and too clumsily for it to truly evoke any terror or empathy. It works well for comedic effect kind of like a play with characters entering, realizing they weren't called for, and then disappointingly turning off-stage.

Don't introduce the reader to nightmares and blood-stains and the terrors only to not use them immediately. Attention is generated through a solid flow, and though one could argue more suspense is made by making the reader wait for those details to be implemented while the character is unaware, that needs to be done very carefully and with better pacing.

There are also a few sentences that are not, and misused words that could be fixed if it were edited more carefully.

For future reference, beginning all of a narrator's sentences with I and it becomes boring much more quickly than proper sentence variation. It reads as amateurish and mundane instead of refined and organized writing.

4/10 writing.

You should know that the chaotic organization of the story is meant to represent the downfall of the main character's sanity. Yes, there are broken sentences and misused words, but they are there for emphasis on how hard his disease is becoming to control. This was almost what I was expecting to hear, however egotistical that sounds, because I was interested to see what I was able to do without any outline and plot guide.

However, I can agree with you on the overused "I" and "it" beginnings, along with the introduction of nightmares, etc. too early in the story. Looking through your past posts, and seeing that you are not exactly the easiest human being to please, I will take your criticism with the utmost attention. Anyway, thanks for reading the story, at least :)

[mhzinski]

If one were to write in a style that is purposefully ineffective as a writing style they should first establish they can write. Introduce how awesome one can be before they start making a mess of things for art's sake. One can't sit down at a piano and slam it and call it free jazz. They need a reputation to call it free jazz. One can't start off without a ground measurement and expect mistakes to bee seen as genius instead of mistakes.

A parabolic arc with the writing getting the most destructive at the climax looks more intentional that a straight line of occasionally misfiring.

[ShredRed]

At 9/15/12 03:23 PM, mhzinski wrote: If one were to write in a style that is purposefully ineffective as a writing style they should first establish they can write. Introduce how awesome one can be before they start making a mess of things for art's sake. One can't sit down at a piano and slam it and call it free jazz. They need a reputation to call it free jazz. One can't start off without a ground measurement and expect mistakes to bee seen as genius instead of mistakes.

A parabolic arc with the writing getting the most destructive at the climax looks more intentional that a straight line of occasionally misfiring.

Hey, you know what? I completely understand that. Really, you're right that I must make a name for myself before I begin doing what I did with this story. Too bad I didn't realize that before. But I am glad you noticed my purposeful mistakes. It makes me feel that I've accomplished at least a couple of my original goals.