Other My One-Shot Scenes

[Kennedy]

When settling into a new forum, I often try to show-and-tell a bit of my work so people can get more of an idea of my writing style--or maybe throw myself to the wolves right off the back when asking for criticism or comments on my work.

Either way, the following are a few one-shot scenes I wrote when I was inspired... Normally by a song. Feel free to provide any thoughts, constructive feedback, etc.

Anyways... This is my way to break the ice and break out of my shell (and any other cheesy line I can think of about overcoming shyness).

 

[Kennedy]

. dance with the devil [breaking benjamin] .
(post-apocalyptic, single scene)
​

The masquerade was just the beginning.

Becks had one job for this mission, and it was the job she absolutely despised. She argued, pleaded, even tried to lock herself in her little cubby of a room in the underground; but they still made her do it.

She couldn’t decide which was worse: the fact that they forced her to dress up to look like some ridiculous princess… Or the fact that the dress was colourful. No one else would be wearing any colour at this masquerade, and they were forcing her into a dark plum coloured ball gown.

“When I die, their asses are going to be haunted,” Becks grumbled bitterly under her breath as the taxi slowed. “I swear on my own grave. They’re...”

The twenty-two year old trailed off, hazel eyes staring at the mansion in awe. Most of the building had been torn apart in the initial destruction of Earth as everyone had known it; what used to be white brick was permanently stained with black from the fires of Hell, broken glass in every window, the roof barely holding itself up. But when the flickering light of the heatless fire pits that lined the walkway to the entrance hit the building just right, the opaquely black night sky giving ways to endless shadows, an eerie beauty swept over the environment like a welcoming fog.

Welcome, Rebecca. To the End.

One of the many servants, a sickly-thin looking man dressed in a black tuxedo with singed holes in the fabric, opened the cab’s back door for Becks to step out. Boney fingers of the man’s deathly pale hand reached out, offering her a hand out of the back seat of the vehicle. She quickly declined, keeping both hands on the rather full-skirt of the gown as she stood up straight.

Stepping onto the walkway, she nervously pulled at the black silk shawl to be tighter to her shoulders. Such a contrast between the dark plum of the gown, the porcelain paleness of her own skin. It had taken a very long, hot bath to get the amount of air soot that usually clung to her, staining her skin with a slight grey tinge. That was the only alone time she had been given in the underground before being primped and pampered. Pale skin clean, dark brown hair brushed, washed, and pulled back in a classic updo, and two inch heels to give a little more height to her 5-foot 4-inch frame. She felt like she was missing something…

“Miss?” the servant whispered hoarsely to get her attention. She glanced unsurely over her shoulder and he handed her the mask. “You l-l-left this in the taxi.”

A small smile crossed her pink-glossed lips and she nodded a very slight ‘thank you’, afraid that if she spoke her voice would give away her nerves. She took the mask from him and turned back to face the mansion. “Okay… Just… Breathe…” she whispered to herself.

The inside of the mansion was more hauntingly breathtaking than the outside. The entryway was empty aside from the lingering scent of brimstone; the broken floor tiles crunching weakly under her high-heeled shoes. The ground beneath the tiles was still solid, but the sound still made her hold her breath, as if she was expecting to fall right through into the realm of the Dead. She walked further, following a hallway lined with paintings of past Presidents; each painting ripped, burned, and defaced with the stain of red blood. It was a hallway of remains. Painful reminders of what used to be.

As she neared the main ballroom, the lights still a flicker of heatless orange flames, Becks could hear the faint sound of a string ensemble playing a very beautiful, lively waltz. Which seemed so much the opposite of what the mood should have been, with the dilapidated ruins of a building that used to house a world leader and the type of guests expected at the soiree.

She stopped suddenly, her breath caught in her throat as her shaking hands brought the mask to her face. The mask fit like a glove; a feminine plum colour that matched her dress with sharp, silver-glittered wisps of lines following the shape of the mask. Her movements felt weighted, as if she could collapse under the pressure of gravity at any moment. Breathe, she told herself, finally remembering to inhale.

This was her time.

She entered the ballroom, trembling hands holding the full skirt of her gown in order to calm the nerves. Her own eyes peered through her mask at the large gathering, careful not to make eye contact with the eyes that peered back at her. As alive as the eyes seemed to be that stared right through her, giving her an internal chill, the scent of death hung heavy in the air. Becks wanted to cringe at the smell; wanted to turn around and run away from the place.

Fear twisted her stomach into knots as she slowly made her way through the crowd of well-dressed people, feeling each pair of eyes she passed wearing her down little by little. It wasn’t until she slowed her pace, feeling his gaze, that she remembered to breathe once more. For a gaze that was as cold as winter air in the dead of night, the fear in her stomach began to warm, a feeling of relief of a familiar set of eyes watching her before she could see him.

“Rebecca.”

His voice was firm, but comforting; like being wrapped in a warm fuzzy blanket before lying down on the cold cement floor. She was surprised that he ended up behind her, having not even noticed that she had passed him in the crowd. She turned slowly, a very small smile crossing her lips. She didn’t want to reveal too much of her fears at once, especially in his presence.

“Luke.”

Her voice was shaking.

The young man approached her in a gliding stride, creating the illusion that he was floating across the floor. Even in her heels, he still stood head and shoulders over her; short black hair tousled stylishly, black eyes hidden behind a crimson red mask with black outline. His pale skin gave more colour to the mask and the completely black ensemble he wore: a fitted tuxedo with dress shirt and narrow tie, the only accent against the black being the crimson red handkerchief in the pocket.

“Let’s dance.”

His voice was sensual as he took her hand before she could object, guiding her easily to the other dancers as she continued to stare, just dazed by his appearance. Her hand still trembled in his, her gaze finally focusing on her surroundings once more. He always had that way with her… The sudden loss of reality as she caught sight of his black eyes; staring into an eternity of darkness.

Her body tensed when he turned around to face her again, his left hand resting on her side, his right hand holding her left as they stood close, her right hand on his shoulder as they readied to waltz. The sound of the string ensemble grew louder, bolder, suddenly an entire symphony orchestra of song as he lead her in the dance. Her hazel eyes stared up into his as she took very slow breaths, each step they took together feeling lighter and lighter. The peering eyes and the scent of death only grew stronger, the people only looking like shadows in her peripheral vision. The lights from delicate chandeliers hanging above dimmed, the music taking over any other noises she may have heard. The shadows grew longer, darker, her grip tightening on his shoulder and hand for reassurance.

In the back of her mind, she heard a faint whisper.

“Say goodbye. The dance has begun.”​

 

[Kennedy]

. california love [2pac ft. dr. dre] .
(modern)​

The water was the perfect temperature; the perfect pressure coming from the shower head. The warm overhead lighting shone above the shower curtain, the pale colour of the tiles leaving no traces of shadow. Beads of water trailed down my back like snails creeping along my skin as I slowly opened my eyes, feeling like I had just awoken from a dream. The steam accumulating in the confined room added to the dream-atmosphere; the water felt unfamiliar, but the surroundings were just the same. I was in my own bathroom; in my own apartment.

The wall tiles need to be cleaned.

I move my face closer to the wall so my eyes could focus. Right there, between the tiles… They needed to be scrubbed. My index finger reached up in front of my eyes, touching the grime. It was rough; but not as rough as the look of my dirty finger nails. My nose scrunched up slightly, wondering how I had made such a mess…

I turned slowly on my heels so I faced the stream of water. The temperature was still perfect. Droplets hit just below my collarbone as I lifted my chin towards the ceiling, the rhythm soothing my mind once more. My body swayed slightly under the water, a fruity aroma of soap rising into the air as I washed--no--scrubbed my body. There was music… More upbeat so I started to bounce instead of sway to the song. Had it always been playing? Didn’t matter; it was a good song, and I was nodding my head; my eyes closed to take in the music and the water.

I turned around to wash my back and suddenly stopped. My left hand held the loofa tight, mid-reach behind me. My eyes opened, a frown on my face as my mind raced. I was back, no more dreaming.

I remember walking to my bedroom… Undressing… It was mechanic. I remember not even thinking about it; I just closed the door, turned on my shower speaker, turned on the hot water…

But how did I get here?
And more importantly…

Who did I kill?
​

 

[Kennedy]

. i am the fire [halestorm] .
(urban fantasy, single scene)​

She stood at the bottom of the basement stairs, cold earth crunching slightly under her running shoes as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other uncertainly. It smelled of mildew-growing, century-old stones; the air was heavy with a dampness that chilled her deep down to her soul. The weak stairs she had very, very slowly walked down had now disappeared behind her in shadows, the darkness enveloping objects with an ominous silence that rang in her ears.

This place--the basement of The Cathedral--was rumoured to be where Death itself roamed, where someone’s worst nightmare became real; and Agatha Whitmore had locked her fourteen year old daughter down there half an hour ago. Fifteen minutes of screaming and pounding on the door with her fists, and Jules realized that she was alone.

It was time to face whatever was hiding in the dark.

As Jules stood up straight, fists fallen to her sides, the air tensed with another chill--this time, a familiar one. A chill that she hadn’t felt since her younger self screamed out in the night years ago. The chill when doctors had reassured her parents were simple “night terrors”. But it was so much more… So much unseen to the naked eye but gripped her very being.

“Show yourself, Wraith,” she whispered. Her voice was hoarse as is from screaming at the heavy door that had been at the top of the stairs. The door that had been locked on her after being forced inside.

She wasn’t sure what to expect: the awakening grumbles of a giant monster, a threatening voice to respond. A foreign tongue, maybe a slithering of a snake-like creature.

But there was no more than silence in the dark. Silence and air that was growing thicker with each breath she took. She knew exactly what her mother was hoping for: a daughter with the power to wield the shadows. To become the next generation of protectors. But as the deep, cold feeling of death crept deeper inside of her, Jules knew that she was to be…

She slid her right hand into her pocket while closing her eyes for focus. She gripped her lighter tightly, already whispering incoherently under her breath as she felt the slow suffocation of the Wraith moving closer, bony tendrils reaching… Slowly…

Jules lit the small lighter in her hand. A successful sparked flame appeared the first try as she raised it in front of her face and exhaled, as if she were blowing out a candle. With chaotic suddenness, the small flame expanded into a breath of dragon fire, exploding directly in front of her. An ear shattering shriek reacted from the flames, Jules’ eyes caught an outline of the shadowy figure of Death cowering back in defense.

“I am not a child of the shadows.” Her voice wavered when she spoke; not of confidence, but of fact versus a very powerful spirit. “I am a child of fire.”

An ominous groan responded, the Wraith outline seeming to grow against the shadow of her light that had turned back to a single flame. The shadows would not help her, but only the Spirit. She would have to use more force than the little she had just tried.

Taking a hesitant step backwards, Jules held her left hand steadily over the flame of her lighter. The flame faltered as the Wraith began its descent on the teen once more, Jules face twisted into a painful cringe as she stood her ground. She could see her breath once more as the air grew colder, the flame strengthening underneath the palm of her hand. The smell of burning skin overthrew the scent of the dank basement; a few more seconds and the lighter fell from her trembling hands.

Her left hand now glowed with the flare of the fire; the Wraith grabbed her other hand with its bony tendrils and she felt immediately drained. A slurping noise was incredibly faint to the human ear as it fed on her soul. Her left hand reached desperately into the dark to touch it--she needed to touch the spirit before it was too… late…

“No… More…!”

With a final cry, Jules shoved her glowing hand where her right arm seemed paralyzed, feeling the ice cold bones of the Wraith in her hand as the flare burned into this spirit. The Wraith wailed in surprise, the flare from Jules’ hand spreading an incredible warmth against the cold of its presence; creeping up the supposed arm of the spirit and enveloping the rest of its body in pure heat.

A burst of light from behind Jules and the Wraith cowered once more, letting go of her arm and fading quickly back into whatever darkness was left. Agatha rushed to the side of her daughter as she fell to her knees, her hands shaking, palms up.

“Jules… Jules, talk to me,” the mother cooed in a hushed voice, wrapping her arms protectively around her daughter’s rigid body.

Jules was silent as the lights slowly turned on in the basement, showing absolutely nothing hiding where the shadows once covered. She looked down at her hands; the left hand skin nearly burned right off. The left frozen with a frost bite that looked like it would never recover.

Her mother’s hushed voice broke the silence as the teen was cradled. “Jules, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Let me go.”

Jules’ voice was cold. Distant.

Untrusting.

“Let me go.”
​