MariasDitch
Fish
Hey, this is for a Creative Writing Class. The prompt: write a scary story using 1000 or fewer words. I'm at about 950. Please tell me how it is/criticize!
...
Mary and Eileen live in a quaint two-story home with their mother and father. They like to play with their dog, watch the tv, and play ball. But most of all, the siblings love to play with the old dollhouse in the attic. It is in an old, dark corner of the attic, the pink wallpaper of the dollhouse a sharp contrast to the gloomy atmosphere of the room. They are up here today; I watch them as they trek closer. Perhaps if they were more observant, they would notice my porcelain eyes tracking their movements. No luck though, at least for them. To them, I am only a doll.
I hear their thumping footsteps now. Stupid, dumb giants. It gets louder and louder until their movements begin to shake my home. My smile stays still, like a red knife wound. A smile, but no mouth to scream. And how I want to. A latch clicks; my home explodes with light. I sit straight up in my chair, still as stone. I've never shown any signs of my conscious nature, but oh how I want to just jump up and latch on to their nose, or claw at their eyes. How I want them to just scream in fright. I wish. I have companions in my home, though they show no signs of being sentient like me. A mother, a father and two other little girls keep me company. Mary and Eileen always want to play with the other members of my family, not me. I'm too expensive for them; a gift from a late grandmother. I'm fine with this. I'd rather not be grabbed by their meaty hands. Mary grabs father with her chubby fingers. I watch in disgust.
Now is about the time I zone out and wait for the torture to end. But this time a sickening crack stops me. Looks like father had an accident. Mary and Eileen let out a comical gasp and stare in horror at their precious doll's dismembered body. He lays on the ground, his fragile arm shattered into pieces on the floor. His smile is still intact. Each shard of his arm is like an imperfect diamond that glows in the faint light of attic. If only human flesh is as beautiful as this. Oh, I nearly forgot; it is. Torn tendons and ligaments with a jagged white bone breaking through the skin, the elbow bending backwards and nerves twitching in pain, a spurt of warm, red, blood cascading down the broken bone... oh the thought enough sends delightful shivers throughout my body!
A sickening scream is heard from outside, followed by a ripping noise. It is music to my ears. Mary and Eileen's attention is drawn from father doll to the dusty attic window. They need to stand on their toes to see. Mary only gasps; Eileen screams. Both spin around and run downstairs, Eileen beginning to bawl on the way down. Once I hear the attic door slam shut, I jump down from the dollhouse kitchen and onto the floor, making sure to land on father's fragments; they crack beneath me. From there I climb up miscellaneous shelves to reach the window. My hands claw at the edge of the window, and I manage to pull myself up. I now have a wonderful view of the scene outside my window.
The walls in Mary and Eileen house are very thin; I can usually hear the family's conversations throughout the day. Today, I heard that Father will be going out to trim the branches off the oak tree in the backyard. Looking at the gruesome sight in front of me, it looks like he did a little more than that. The leaves of the oak are a rusty orange, as they are this time of year. They littered the ground, slick from the rain last night. Now, they are slick with blood. Oh silly Father, you must have slipped! Slipped right into a wood chipper it seems. His body is splayed out on the wet ground; the remains of his forearm lay a few feet away. A streak of blood paints his face, the rest of is as white as mine. Blood loss, most likely. The stump of his arm is still leaking. Come on Father, have some self-control! His chest is heaving in and out, gasping for the oxygen he holds so dear. The wood chipper is still whirring behind him, working very hard to process the bits of bone and flesh stuck in it. It spits out a few chunks; they mix with the wood chips already there. If I could, I would be screaming in delight.
A door slams; Mother appears in my vision. She runs to Father and cradles his head in her arms, making a point not to look at his arm. She turns her head and yells something towards the house I cannot hear, then turns back to Father. Mother brushes her hand over Father's forehead and bends down to kiss it. Father looks comforted by her presence. Oh, that simply won't due. I hop down from my perch and move silently back to the dollhouse. The father doll had been sitting in the living room with mama before his demise. Mother doll is still sitting on the couch, a smile painted on her face. I pick her up and tip her down the stairs. She breaks in half. Outside, the roots of the oak tree bend and snap; the old tree topples over. The sister dolls are in the bedroom together. I smash their heads together. Downstairs, it is quiet. And I stand in this sweet space all alone. Finally, the emotions forcefully applied to my face match what I feel inside.
“Ah, it looks like everyone had a tragic accident.”
...
Mary and Eileen live in a quaint two-story home with their mother and father. They like to play with their dog, watch the tv, and play ball. But most of all, the siblings love to play with the old dollhouse in the attic. It is in an old, dark corner of the attic, the pink wallpaper of the dollhouse a sharp contrast to the gloomy atmosphere of the room. They are up here today; I watch them as they trek closer. Perhaps if they were more observant, they would notice my porcelain eyes tracking their movements. No luck though, at least for them. To them, I am only a doll.
I hear their thumping footsteps now. Stupid, dumb giants. It gets louder and louder until their movements begin to shake my home. My smile stays still, like a red knife wound. A smile, but no mouth to scream. And how I want to. A latch clicks; my home explodes with light. I sit straight up in my chair, still as stone. I've never shown any signs of my conscious nature, but oh how I want to just jump up and latch on to their nose, or claw at their eyes. How I want them to just scream in fright. I wish. I have companions in my home, though they show no signs of being sentient like me. A mother, a father and two other little girls keep me company. Mary and Eileen always want to play with the other members of my family, not me. I'm too expensive for them; a gift from a late grandmother. I'm fine with this. I'd rather not be grabbed by their meaty hands. Mary grabs father with her chubby fingers. I watch in disgust.
Now is about the time I zone out and wait for the torture to end. But this time a sickening crack stops me. Looks like father had an accident. Mary and Eileen let out a comical gasp and stare in horror at their precious doll's dismembered body. He lays on the ground, his fragile arm shattered into pieces on the floor. His smile is still intact. Each shard of his arm is like an imperfect diamond that glows in the faint light of attic. If only human flesh is as beautiful as this. Oh, I nearly forgot; it is. Torn tendons and ligaments with a jagged white bone breaking through the skin, the elbow bending backwards and nerves twitching in pain, a spurt of warm, red, blood cascading down the broken bone... oh the thought enough sends delightful shivers throughout my body!
A sickening scream is heard from outside, followed by a ripping noise. It is music to my ears. Mary and Eileen's attention is drawn from father doll to the dusty attic window. They need to stand on their toes to see. Mary only gasps; Eileen screams. Both spin around and run downstairs, Eileen beginning to bawl on the way down. Once I hear the attic door slam shut, I jump down from the dollhouse kitchen and onto the floor, making sure to land on father's fragments; they crack beneath me. From there I climb up miscellaneous shelves to reach the window. My hands claw at the edge of the window, and I manage to pull myself up. I now have a wonderful view of the scene outside my window.
The walls in Mary and Eileen house are very thin; I can usually hear the family's conversations throughout the day. Today, I heard that Father will be going out to trim the branches off the oak tree in the backyard. Looking at the gruesome sight in front of me, it looks like he did a little more than that. The leaves of the oak are a rusty orange, as they are this time of year. They littered the ground, slick from the rain last night. Now, they are slick with blood. Oh silly Father, you must have slipped! Slipped right into a wood chipper it seems. His body is splayed out on the wet ground; the remains of his forearm lay a few feet away. A streak of blood paints his face, the rest of is as white as mine. Blood loss, most likely. The stump of his arm is still leaking. Come on Father, have some self-control! His chest is heaving in and out, gasping for the oxygen he holds so dear. The wood chipper is still whirring behind him, working very hard to process the bits of bone and flesh stuck in it. It spits out a few chunks; they mix with the wood chips already there. If I could, I would be screaming in delight.
A door slams; Mother appears in my vision. She runs to Father and cradles his head in her arms, making a point not to look at his arm. She turns her head and yells something towards the house I cannot hear, then turns back to Father. Mother brushes her hand over Father's forehead and bends down to kiss it. Father looks comforted by her presence. Oh, that simply won't due. I hop down from my perch and move silently back to the dollhouse. The father doll had been sitting in the living room with mama before his demise. Mother doll is still sitting on the couch, a smile painted on her face. I pick her up and tip her down the stairs. She breaks in half. Outside, the roots of the oak tree bend and snap; the old tree topples over. The sister dolls are in the bedroom together. I smash their heads together. Downstairs, it is quiet. And I stand in this sweet space all alone. Finally, the emotions forcefully applied to my face match what I feel inside.
“Ah, it looks like everyone had a tragic accident.”