This is a page for me to start posting small snippets of prose I've written, similar to my poetry archive, any stories I had written for a Creative Writing course or similar are indicated with a †. I did most of those as practices in character description. While I often don't think most of them are necessarily the best, I feel like I should put them somewhere. Pieces without titles just have the date of their writing.
A longer piece of prose, as well as a piece of drama(both from that class), may also be read. Another piece, written for the fun of it may be found here. It was made as a bit of a character study of a TTRPG character of mine.
Franciszka stood at the top of the stairs, gazing upon the thing sitting in the laboratory with something that wasn’t quite curiosity and wasn’t quite horror.. She saw what was once her husband, shambling forth with a lethargic suggestion of movement. As she cautiously proceeded, her shoes made soft slapping sounds in the viscous liquids coating the floor. She saw as the skin and tissues of its face seemed to collapse in upon itself; the left eye that was bulging out from old flesh was a beauteous sphere of thousands of hexagonal ommatidia, as though bedazzled with a million glittering rubies. She saw as the hardened shell of his body split forth at the top as something crawled forth from a hole formed from what was once his neck. She saw the large fly’s exoskeleton was slowly hardening as its wings unfurled and the head swiveled as it looked around. Franciszka stumbled back from the thing as she ran out the door, locking it as she went to think of what to do with the fly in the basement
It was the night of Halloween; the evening breeze softly caressed the branches of the trees above, and the moon’s bright light beamed down as though she was smiling down on the Earth herself. The night was a dark shawl thrown upon the sky, bedazzled with a million tiny stars. Aguya stepped out from the door of the house, dressed as a witch. She’d made plans to meet with her friends, Varvara and Snezhana, at the entrance to the local woods.
Eulalie was a broad-shouldered and tall young woman, her mousy hair long and dark brown. She crept around corners and tried to keep herself out of peoples’ sight. She stood tall, with a slouch and some minor kyphosis. Her doll-like eyes were a dark brown, a colour like that of freshly tilled soil. She’d keep her voice at a whisper, careful to not attract any more attention than necessary. She’d wear shawls, capelets, mantles, coats, anything to try to hide herself away from prying eyes.
Krzysztofa was a brilliant young girl, with caramel brown hair that was usually tied into a bun. She stepped into the frigidity of the coming winter, those dying breaths of autumn that are felt in November. She had a beige sweater, a brown shawl, black slacks, and a pair of brown boots. Her breath lingered in front of her face, in the shape of the clouds overhead. She took a moment, and another, and another to just stand and take in the shift. The sun always made her death—so vividly displayed on the horizon—so much sooner this time of year.
The fields of wheat stretched out as far as one could see, an endless golden ocean of a monoculture on its way towards collapse. Bianca looked out over this, long scythe in her hands. Her blonde locks shone like that ancient fleece of Jason and Medea; her eyes had a deep and rich colour like that of honey or amber. She sighed and swung her scythe, cutting down stalks of wheat. This was back-breaking labor, but a roof over her head and food in her belly was worth it, she supposed. She looked forward to that evening, with bread and stew that one of the other farmhands had made. She felt autumn breeze dance along the fields, like catfish and crocodiles swimming through this radiant crop.
Cecelia stepped into the gelid fog, relishing in the coldness of winter. She was wearing a large brown skirt, a chartreuse skirt apron, a pair of sabots, a tan blouse, and an olive shawl. Her rich, dark brown hair was tied back into a bun. She shambled towards the mailbox and saw it was empty. She sighed and slowly made her way back inside. Someday, that letter would come, and she would cherish that moment.
The breeze was dancing in the air, the mist the trailing skirts of wind, as Coumba trudged her way through the swamps. Her tall boots sank into the water. She sighed. Her hair was styled into dreads, her eyes were dark like rich honey and tilled earth. She wore a pair of battered jeans, a gray phrygian cap, a dark violet blouse, and a black coat. The mud splashed as she pushed herself, rushing further through the swamps. She would never see her mother again, and that thought was a wondrous comfort.
Françoise sat in front of her vanity, looking at her reflection. It stared at her: her rouged lips, her preened eyebrows, the mascara on her lashes, the bleached blonde locks so fancifully curled, and her blue shadows at her lids. She was beautiful—she was stunning—but she was still unsatisfied. They loved her, said she was at her prettiest, but she still felt hollow. Empty. This was wretched, she thought. Was there something wrong with her? She was finally what they said she needed to aspire to be, and yet she still felt nothing. She slowly got up and, after a brief moment of thought, punched the mirror. It shattered and splintered, the shards falling to the floor. She sighed, feeling the glass in her hand and the blood drip down it. Yes, it was painful, but it confirmed something. She had felt something, she thought, as a single tear rolled down her cheek. That was enough. In that moment, she had some degree of confirmation that she was truly alive.
Fatima stood, feeling the sea breeze breathe against her. She wore a red niqab, with embroidered flowers at the edges. Her rich brown eyes had cow-like lashes. She wore a long-sleeved and loose gown with more floral embellishment decorating her, and her ankle-length skirt blowing in the wind. She held the comb, beautifully made from silver, with floral ornamentation and a large trilliant-cut ruby adorning the top. She regarded it, a sign of a life she once lived with someone who she once foolishly loved. Her grip tightened and her face grew colder. She pulled her arm back, and hurled the comb into the sea. The wind picked up, causing her skirt and sleeves to flare wider in the wind. She sighed, turned around, and walked off. The sun set behind her, garbed in its red and violet burial shroud.
Back to Creative Writing 2021 Collection
Back to Main