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message 1: by Brigid ✩, No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. (new)

Brigid ✩ | 11973 comments Mod
People expressed a desire for this topic in the "Torture Scenes" topic, and I'm surprised it wasn't in existence yet. I mean, I know there's already a "Death Scenes" topic, but ... Murder is just the most fun kind of death scene there is. So, murder away! (And I guess attempted murder scenes can count to, so as not to make it too narrow of a category...)


message 2: by Jo (new)

Jo (Penname8) | 1574 comments I really need this. I need to write a scene of a school massacre, and I'm stumped.


message 3: by Isaac (new)

Isaac | 8014 comments MUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRDDDDDDDDEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRR SSSSSSSCCCCCCCCCCEEEEEEEEEEEEENNNNNNNNNEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSS

YES YES YES YES YYYYEEEEESSSSSS

*I'm not excited at all it's not like I've written a lot of them*


message 4: by Isaac (new)

Isaac | 8014 comments Done and Gone

http://www.goodreads.com/story/show/2...

Girl stops, takes a breath. Glances around.

(Darkness is everywhere, shrouding the streetlights to even where it’s hard to see the streetlights pouring their beams onto the road below.)

Girl closes her eyes. Hums song to herself. Slowly kicks forward on the street. Scooter grudgingly moves.

(A picture of a little girl throwing a ball to a pretty woman. She giggles, lighthearted. The woman does the same back.)

Dog howls. Girl spins around. Checks the street. Turns back around sluggishly. Pushes forward again.

(The smiling family vanishes. Screams echo around the darkness belonging to nobody.

-Don’t hurt me, please.

No response.

Just a laugh.)

Senses sharpen. Anxieties flutter. Girl moves a bit faster.

(The darkness is pierced by a glimmer of a metal sharp object. She had been told not to touch them before, but he was. He was.)

Breathing quickens.

(-Don’t… I beg you.

*laughter*

-Stop it. *sobs*)

Words tumble. Her mind coils back. Fear.

(The object pierced through flesh. A loud, blood-curdling scream. Laughter.)

Girl cries. Tears.

(-Stop… stop….

*laughter*

-But—

-Silence

*scream*)

Girl falls. Clutches her head. Falls to her knees.

(He smiles. He is done. Pause. He turns his head back slowly with no emotions on his face.)

Girl trembles, brings hand to face.

(He grins maliciously.)

Girl does nothing.

(-You.)

Girl opens her eyes.

(He disappears like the previous picture, and there is nothing left. The darkness is lifted.)

Girl raises off the ground, looks around again. It is night. Girl puts foot back on scooter. Takes breath. Kicks again.

(It is gone.)

It is gone.


I don't really think it's a flashback scene because I'm not sure if it's even a flashback.


message 5: by Acacia (last edited Mar 17, 2012 05:58PM) (new)

Acacia (acaciaa) MURDER SCENES OH BOY.

This is another random scene from the new story I have. It's kind of the first scene I think maybe. And if it's confusing, well... I don't know any more than you do. I just kind of want to put it somewhere. :)



He sways and falls to his knees at her feet.

For the first time in her life, she pities him.

His left arm hangs uselessly at his side, and if she looks closely enough she can see the footprint of her shoe on his shoulder where it breaks. His right arm steadies him on the shifting sands of the beach.

“Please,” he whispers, lifting his face to look her in the eye. His eyes are dry, but every cell in his body trembles. “I know you’ve got every right to do this, I know, but please. I am begging you, literally on my knees begging you… just give me a second chance.”

She draws the gun from its holster and cocks it. The noise sounds like freedom.

When she presses the barrel against his forehead it squeezes a sob out of him. She shakes her head and speaks with no sign of the tremor that he always used to put in her voice. “I gave you so many second chances.”



Caroline woke up with the blankets wrapped around her ankles and a pounding in her head. Even though it was pitch black outside and she didn’t know how long she’d been asleep, she didn’t need to check the time on her phone. It was 2:37 AM. It was always 2:37 AM.

She felt her way through the dark to the staircase. From downstairs came a faint blue glow and the muffled sounds of pixels dying on the TV screen. Good – at least she didn’t have to wake Seph up. It always made the guilt that much worse.

As she leaned against the banister he noticed her and looked up, ignoring the controller in his hand. The light bouncing off his glasses flashed red as his game character was overrun by the opposing team.

“It’s happening again,” she said.

Two minutes later they were in the car, peeling down the highway at sixteen miles over the speed limit.

“You know where it is, don’t you?” he said as he just barely caught a turn.

“Yes,” she insisted. “It’s only half an hour if you take this road.”

He looked at the exit signs whizzing by. “The ocean?”

She nodded.

“Great,” he said, turning as she pointed. “I love a good day at the beach.”

Her neck and cheeks flushed red. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “You shouldn’t have to do this with me.”

“Hey. Hey.” He held out a hand on the middle console, which she took. “You are not an inconvenience.”

Smiling, she bowed her head. “I am, though,” she insisted. “You just haven’t realized it yet.”

They took the rest of the drive in silence. Caroline almost wanted to keep talking just so she knew Seph wouldn’t fall asleep at the wheel – hadn’t he woken up yesterday at five? – but as they drew closer to the beach all that was left in her lungs was anxiety.

“Stop,” she said abruptly, and he did. They had turned into a parking lot at the top of a long, sloping sand dune that became a thin strip of flat land just before it melted into the ocean.

“You’re sure?” Seph said as she stepped out of the car. Her nightgown billowed around her knees. She was focused enough that she almost slammed it in the car door before the wind blew it the other direction.

She stepped to the edge of the parking lot and looked down. Lit by the starlight were two tiny smudges on the water’s edge, and as she watched one fell to its knees.

“You don’t have to come down,” she said, like always.

“Yes, I do,” he insisted, like always.

They strode down the slope, silent until Caroline saw the gun raise.

“Lauren!”

The girl on the beach turned, gun still poised, and a smile spread across her face.

“Sorry, sis,” she called as Caroline drew closer. “Did I wake you?

The light was enough to see each other with, and besides the clothes it was like looking into a mirror.

“This ends, Lauren,” she said. “Now.”

“Oh, darling Caroline!” Lauren said, a hand fluttering to her heart. “Thank you ever so much for driving all this way to show me that I’ve done wrong! You’ve even brought your bleeding heart of a boyfriend, oh, how wonderful! Tell me, please, where can I repent?”

“Stop it.” Carline took a step forward, one that Lauren matched with a step back and a venomous gaze. “This isn’t a joke. And I’m not asking you to run into my open arms or anything like that. They closed a long time ago. Just don’t do this. This one thing. Please.”

Slowly, Lauren nodded. “One day,” she said, “that just might work.”

She flung her arm out to the side and pulled the trigger, and the man slumped over into the sand.

“Lauren!” Caroline shouted, but she was already walking backwards and fading with every step. By the time she had recovered enough from the sound of the gunshot to try to catch her, she was gone.

Seph knelt by the body, wincing as he turned it so they could at least see the face. Caroline covered her face with her hands and forced herself to take a few deep breaths.

“I’m sorry,” Seph said. She just nodded.

“Okay,” she sighed. “Okay.” After another moment she sat beside Seph in the sand and tilted the dead man’s chin to get a better look.

“Do you know him?”

She shook her head. “Lauren did, but no. I don’t recognize him.”

After a moment’s search, Seph produced a wallet with ID in it. “Max Raleigh,” he said. “Twenty-two. ID from Colorado.” He closed the wallet and placed it gently in the sand. “So why is he dead on a beach in Maine?”

Caroline shrugged. “Whoever he is, whatever he’s here for… I’m glad he’s dead.”

Seph looked at her harshly. “Why?”

She stood up and looked down at Max Raleigh’s corpse, déjà vu washing over her. “Because she was afraid of him.”


message 6: by Brigid ✩, No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. (new)

Brigid ✩ | 11973 comments Mod
ME GUSTA MUCHO. <3


message 7: by Isaac (new)

Isaac | 8014 comments Brigid *Flying Kick-a-pow!* wrote: "ME GUSTA MUCHO. <3"


message 8: by Kriss (new)

Kriss (krisslee) | 5015 comments Mod
Acacia wrote: "MURDER SCENES OH BOY.

This is another random scene from the new story I have. It's kind of the first scene I think maybe. And if it's confusing, well... I don't know any more than you do. I just k..."


ACACIA. COME UP WITH YOUR STORY IDEA. AND WRITE IT D8 I NEED MORE.


message 9: by Acacia (last edited Mar 17, 2012 08:56PM) (new)

Acacia (acaciaa) Thank you for the nice comments you guys! *hug* You are the best.

KRISS TRUST ME I AM TRYING


message 10: by Kriss (new)

Kriss (krisslee) | 5015 comments Mod
YOU BETTER BE. IF YOU WEREN'T, I'D HAVE TO DO SOMETHING TERRIBLE.


message 11: by Kriss (new)

Kriss (krisslee) | 5015 comments Mod
Harhar. I have one of these scenes from Saints of Our City:

What are you looking for? The thought was abstract, strangely disconnected. It was a voice that spoken up from the back of my brain, whispering, dangerous, imploring. If I let it, it would tear me apart. I tried to focus on the task at hand, on my rapid breath, on the quiver of my thighs as I crouched low against the ground. But, still, there was that question. What are you looking for, what are you looking for, what are you looking for?

If I was a lesser man, the darkness might frighten me—it was absolute. There was no moon, there were no stars to light the sky at this hour. There was the smell of rain in the air, there was the sharp outline of the alleyway. Also, a sense of suspense, as if the world was asking a question.
What, the world might ask. What is happening?

The city was silent in a way that no city ought to be. There was a telltale lack of cars, of lights, of human life. For all intents and purposes, it seemed disserted. And there I was, crouched low in an alleyway, breathing unsteadily, panicking. There were no lights beyond the alleyway—there were no windows dotted with life. The question, the question.
What are you looking for?

“You shouldn’t be here,” the voice said; a rushed whisper, and I thought maybe I could have imagined it. I stiffened; then stood leisurely and turned towards the man at the head of the alleyway.

“I know.”

Everything had the quality of a dream. And I was thinking, this wasn’t where I wanted to be. I wanted to be in my bed. I wanted to be anywhere but here, asleep, alive, dreaming, dreaming, dreaming. I wanted to be dreaming.
Please, God, let this be a dream.

More aptly, a nightmare.

“What do you want? I shouldn’t be here, either. I can’t believe I’m doing this for you. You told me to come here.”

“You owe me,” I whispered, like that explained everything. God, it didn’t. It didn’t explain nearly enough. And even in the darkness, I could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy, imploring, condensing, sad. Oh, yes, I thought. He was sad.

“I know. But how much?” It was, perhaps, the weight of those words that put the tremble in my hands.

“Too much, too much.” And then I thought about saying sorry, but the word would be like a sin, tasting wrong in my mouth. I couldn’t apologize—that implied regret, and I would never allow myself to regret my following actions. I wasn’t regretting what I was about to do. I couldn’t. I saw the street behind his broad shoulders, a stretch of gray, and everything seemed gray. His face, hidden in shadows, a sharp angle of cheek and chin—his eyes, lost, seeing some place. Seeing me? I didn’t know.

I closed my fingers around the Glock in my belt—cold metal, deadly metal. I was thinking, how can this gun kill a man? He breathed loudly in the dark, the sort of breath that was raspy and barely covering fear. And I stared at him. I stared at that angle of cheek, of chin, at the dark caverns of his eyes, sunken by the shadows.

I unlocked the gun, and then cocked it. I raised the weapon before he knew what was happening. The shot rang out before I could rethink it, a bang breaking the unnatural silence of the city, with equally unnatural noise, like nothing would ever sound right in this place. And I closed my eyes, I breathed. His body hit the ground, a heavy noise, a heavy weight of an incomprehensible sadness I couldn’t understand. Or maybe I could. Maybe I understood too well.

I opened my eyes again, staring out at that stretch of street, and then towards the crumbled body. You owe me, I thought. You owe me and this is the price. I knelt on the ground, fingers thick and fumbling as I set to work. Thinking, maybe this is wrong. Maybe I’m doing the wrong thing. Maybe this isn’t worth it.

Don’t do this, part of me begged. Just don’t do it.

I had to—besides, it was too late to take anything back. I’m not sure when it became my choice. I’m not sure if it ever was. I was thinking that, maybe, this was the only way to do it. I was angry, I was angry and sad. I was thinking that maybe, just maybe, this was how things were supposed to be. I was thinking that maybe this would wake up all the dreaming, sleepy people in the world. And then they would see. They would see their lives and decide that they weren’t right, they weren’t okay, they weren’t living how they were meant to live.

I was angry with people. I felt betrayed by them, by humanity, but the docile lambs we had become. No one understands the agony of knowledge, anymore—insolence makes everyone satisfied with their life. My hands continued to tremble, and as I stared at them, pale in the darkness, I thought maybe they didn’t belong to me anymore.

What are you looking for?

And I knew the answer. I knew what I was supposed to say, to the question.

What are you looking for? What are you looking for?

I was looking for something to believe in again. I was looking for meaning in something.

Are you looking for it? Or making it?

More like forcing it, I thought. And then I realized something. I had become a killer. That was something I would never be able to take back—it was something that meant more than anything else I’d ever done. I’d taken a man’s life. Someone I had known, once, or thought I had known.

I closed my eyes against the darkness, against the sin in front of me. I was not meant to linger, I was not meant to dwell. I was supposed to be mechanical, precise. I was supposed to get this done the way a robot might, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. My shoulders hunched, muscles straining, and I felt the ache in my throat as the tears swelled behind my closed lids.

I’m sorry.

That wasn’t enough. That was never enough. This wasn’t enough. It could be enough. Enough, enough, enough. What was enough? Nothing, ever. No. I felt the tears down my face, wet, hot. My hands trembled. I couldn’t linger, I couldn’t linger—not even with this intimate moment, this thing that was staring at me. And what was staring at me? Death. And a choice, a decision, a decision I had already made and I wanted to take it back.

Let me take it back, God, please. Let me take it back. I regret what I’ve done. But it was necessary. Weren’t necessary evils acceptable? Weren’t they what was supposed to happen? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe people were just capable of performing atrocities because they understood the weight of their actions, like nothing else ever did.

I opened my eyes again. I fumbled with thick fingers, shedding Adam’s (because that was his name, Adam, he was Adam) shirt and jacket. I got the knife out of my belt, and carved two, long slits in his back. The blood swelled like my tears had, and it was warm like my tears had been—warm on my hands, coating them, covering them, macabre gloves.

I thought it was ironic. I thought it was a cruel joke. I thought it was a signature, as surely as my name was. I closed my eyes again, as I stood, as I felt my panic ebb, as I felt my sadness ebb. It was replaced with focus. I had to remember what I was doing.

I had to remember who I was, even as it slipped away.



message 12: by Isaac (new)

Isaac | 8014 comments That was awesome.


message 13: by Isaac (new)

Isaac | 8014 comments MURDER SCENE TIME!

She headed over to the windows, and as she started closing the curtains, I stood up and gently hooked the necklace around her neck.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. Her fingers ran over the pearls. “Is this what you wanted to return?”

“Um, yeah.”

She turned around to face me, giving me a small grin. “That’s very kind of you, but I don’t think this is mine.”

“You can keep it anyways, then.”


“But what if it’s someone else’s?”

“You’re the last person I asked.”

She opened her mouth to say something else but was abruptly stopped when I threw my hand over her mouth. My hand grabbed her necklace, twisted it, and yanked hardly while I lead her over to the couch by one of the windows. I realized that curtain wasn’t closed, so after looking around the street outside, I closed them myself. As I was doing so, she managed to squirm a little bit out of my knees, which were lying on top of her waist. My other hand slid off her mouth as she did so.

What are you doing?” she screamed.

I jumped off the couch. She started running for the door, but I tackled her, both of us landing on the ground with a loud thud. I flipped her over, wrapped my hand around her mouth and nose again, and twisted the pearls around and started pulling. Her face slowly started turning red, then sort of a nasty shade of blue. Her chest went up and down in ragged spurts, and her beautiful, beautiful blue-green eyes were wide and seemed to be popping out.

After what seemed forever, her chest stopped rising and falling. Her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, rolling a tad bit back.

I had killed Faith Churchill.

Two feelings washed over me: 1) a strange feeling asking me, “What have you done?” but at the same time not sounding very regretful, and 2) the most powerful sense of euphoria and excitement I had ever had in my life.

I could feel the life escaping from her, going directly to me. Proudly, I took her soul. How many people could say they owned a soul? I could now. I now had this gorgeous being’s soul under my possession. I felt so powerful, so high in the clouds.
I had done it.

I went into her kitchen, pulled out a knife from one of her drawers, and when I came back, I pulled up her shirt and plunged the knife into her abdomen. I slid it down, a steam of blood oozing from her skin as the cut elongated. I made another cut perpendicular to that, then a circle, then two more slanted lines, and a line with three others intersecting it.

Two days later, after Faith didn’t come to any of her classes or respond to any phone calls, the police came into her house to find her dead, her body and floor caked with blood, and the word “LOVE” carved into her midriff.



message 14: by Darby (new)

Darby (darburst) | 70 comments Random scene. Not from anything, written specifically for this topic.

He shoved her to the ground and she let out a cry, more from surprise then pain.

"I've chased you round the globe. From Cape Town to Los Vegas. Why did you run? You could have lived?! You wouldn't be on the ground, helpless, weak, and pitiful now. Why ya do it?" he spit in her face.

"Because, because," she faltered. "Because life on the run was better then life with you."

He shoved her to the ground again. She groaned. He pulled out his knife from his pocket and cut her right shirt sleeve off at the shoulder, digging into her skin. She screamed a sound pleasing to his ears. As though someone was playing Mozart from a music box.

"Please stop, I beg you." she cried. Her tears flowed down her perfect cheeks.

He chucked his knife aside and stared into her eyes. He held her face in his hands. "Look at me," he cooed, "Look me in the eyes Elizabelle. You've ran from me, avoid me, and now I've found you. And all I have is one question, why?"

She cried some more. Blood flowed endlessly from the cut on her shoulder. A river down her arm dotting her jeans with red blotches. Drip, drip went the blood. Tick tock went the clock in the foyer behind them.

"Because of what you did! To her! To me! To my life!" she screamed at him.

He grasped her hand tightly. She let out a small cry. His ring dug into her hand drawing small drops of scarlet blood.

"Listen, I'll let you live. All you have to do is admit your wrong and come with me. That's all you have to do." he cooed slowly.

"Never!" she screeched like a banshee.

"Then you leave me no choice," he said standing. He pulled out a small pistol from his back pockets. The one with T&M engraved on it. He aimed it at her heart.

"One last chance. I'm in a nice mood today."

She whimpered but shook her head.

"I'm sorry Elizabelle, I truly am." he said solemnly. Then he pulled the trigger. The explosion went off shaking the small house. The girl let out a scream that could awaken the dead and kill the living. She fell over and blood poured from her wound. "You'll- you'll regret this. They'll come for you. They don't like it when you kill one of us and now you've gone and killed two." she whispered. And then she fell over dead. And he realized that in the light her blood wasn't red, but a clear silver color. He blinked a couple of times before pocketing his gun and walking out of the house.


message 15: by Isaac (new)

Isaac | 8014 comments *quietly walks in*

At seven o'clock on that Saturday, I knocked on her door after taking a surveillance of the area. She answered it, looked happy, and let me in. My gloved hands rubbed each other anxiously. She asked me why I was wearing them, considering how warm it was outside.

I didn't say anything; instead, I clutched her shoulders and yanked her to me, crushing my lips on hers. She pulled herself away, looking stunned and asked me what I was doing nervously.

Grabbing her again, I threw her onto the ground and placed myself on top of her. My hand slid my knife out of my back pocket while my other took out some pantyhose. I looped the pantyhose around her neck three times, tied it, and yanked as hard as I could. As her face slowly turned into a shade of red and a light blue, I slid the lid off the knife and pierced it into the corner of her mouth, slowly dragging it to one ear. Then I did the other side.

When I was done cutting her cheeks, I checked her pulse.

Lauren Johnson was dead.

I pulled her shirt up just like I did Faith and made a couple of crude slashes into her abdomen.

Three days later, headlines told about a woman found strangled with the word "HOPE" carved into her.



message 16: by Kriss (new)

Kriss (krisslee) | 5015 comments Mod
Emily [Can I just have one person, please?] wrote: "*quietly walks in*

At seven o'clock on that Saturday, I knocked on her door after taking a surveillance of the area. She answered it, looked happy, and let me in. My gloved hands rubbed each oth..."


Oh lawdy o.o I like it. Intense.


message 17: by Kriss (new)

Kriss (krisslee) | 5015 comments Mod
Mine is kinda long. And more the implication of murder than actual murder:

I understood why people called them birds.

It was because they wanted to be angels. But when people thought of angels, they thought of God. And people had stopped putting faith in God a long, long time ago. By acknowledging them as angels, we would be acknowledging their victory. So, instead, we mocked their desire to grow wings; we mocked their desire to become holy (even if, secretly, that’s what we all thought of becoming). We tried to make them seem more human, even though they were already human. We used slang terms to degrade them, to bring them to light.

They didn’t want to be angels, everyone thought. They wanted to be birds. And wasn’t that a childish desire? Isn’t that what every child wanted, at least once? To be a bird? To fly? I would have grown up fearing them, I think, if we called them angels. Instead, I saw them as children. I would always be seeing the Enthrall members as children, trying on fake wings.

Funny thing, though. I love birds. I loved the way they sing, the way they fly, the way they dance in the air. Birds are the essence of freedom. When you cage a bird, you can’t take away its freedom, you can’t take away its flight. But when you do sever its wings, you take away the fact that it is a bird. That is how you defeat them—it is an idea ridiculously simple and profound at the same time.

This bird was dead. Its heart had stopped beating; its wings would never, ever fly the way they were meant to again. There was no one else around me. It felt like there was no one else for miles and miles, and I guess that was true—I guess I was completely alone, here. The city was eerily quiet, just like always, unnaturally quiet. The quiet of the dead, I thought. Maybe this was the city of the dead, or the city of dreamers. Or a city of fools. I didn’t know.

It was also dark in the room I was in; in this abandoned room where no one else ever went. I remember, back when I was in school, that people said this place was haunted. I never believed it. I never believed in ghosts, in things like that. I only believed in what I could see and touch and feel.

Like the bird, the broken bird in my hands. That was real. It was the first time I’d felt any guilt for months, and it wasn’t even for a human life. Was that wrong? I didn’t think so. I thought the death of this eagle was unnecessary and even cruel. I had become cruel. I stared at the body of the bird in the dark of the broken, demolished, vandalized room.

I held it in hands that no longer shook. It was a great, magnificent bird, one I’d stolen and destroyed. We had a zoo, here in the city, and I thought a lot of the time it represented the people very well. We were all half-tamed, placated animals locked in cages.

I’d stolen it. I’d stolen the bird from the zoo. It had been an act of whimsy—a fool’s act of whimsy. I had thought that, maybe, just maybe, the symbolism of the slits in the backs of people was wearing off. The impact of it wasn’t the same as it had been originally. I needed something new, a novel idea; something to catch them off guard. Of course, they weren’t any closer to catching me now then they had four years ago. No one knew it was me, doing the killing. No one at all.

I was cutting off the wings, now—trying to keep the tendons intact. It was a struggle, through muscles and bones, and it left me feeling empty inside. I was defiling the bird’s beauty. However, in a way, I was doing it a favor. No eagle deserved to live in captivity. I spread the wings out after I was done, each of them very large, black and white. It was a harpy eagle. I’d done my research. It was the largest bird of prey alive. Dead, though, it seemed much smaller.

The boy was already dead. I hadn’t felt guilty when I shot him, no. I’d done it with mechanical precision. He was young, I knew. The youngest one yet, actually. Ash Sloan. That was his name. He was thirteen, not even a man, yet. I hauled him up onto the small, shaky table, putting him down face-first. It had been easy to kill him, I thought again. Harder to kill the eagle then it had been this boy.

I had had to remind myself, as I held the gun that would be the death of him, he was the future of my enslavement. He was the future of the Enthrall. He would grow up to be just like his father. Who I really wanted to get my hands on was the older Sloan—Avian. Ha, his name was ironic. So, so ironic. He was a bird, all right.

But this younger Sloan would do. I had the harpy wings stretched out beside him on the table, and I had a very thick needle and thread—it was more like wire—in my pocket. I pulled them out, and began to sew the wings onto the boy’s back. They looked unnatural and strange, having none of the grace they had while they were on the living eagle. On the boy, they looked ludicrous. Like a joke gone wrong.

This is what people wanted?

But then, the wings were more symbolic than anything else. I had to remind myself of that. Everything the Enthrall did was symbolic. I grabbed my knife, and began to carve words into the boy’s back. He hadn’t been dead long—blood swelled along the jagged creases of the letters I wrote into his skin. I tried to imagine something else, anything else. I wasn’t doing this. It wasn’t me. Was it?

Who was I, anymore? I was a mystery. I was a human being that seemed more like a mystery. My name was just as ironic as everything else I did. The Saint. That’s what people were calling me. I wasn’t a saint. I was a human, just like everyone else. Just like the people who were posing as angels, even though they weren’t and they never would be. I wasn’t a saint, I would never pretend to be a saint. I didn’t want to be.

I was beautifully flawed. I was human. I was me.

But what did my actions say about who I was? They said I was sick, deranged. That I was a killer.

I wanted people to understand, though. I wasn’t just a killer. I was a messenger. I was a harbinger. That’s what I was. This was all for the better. I stared at my handiwork, at the wings sewn roughly on his back, at the words ranging down his spine. I could be worse. I could be doing this without a reason. I had learned, a long time ago, that there were two types of crimes. Those of passion, and those of cold, unfeeling necessity. This was a crime of passion.

I grabbed the boy, throwing him carefully over my shoulder. He weighed virtually nothing. Before I left the worn, slumping building, I spilled an entire thing of gasoline over it. It had been extremely difficult to find, gasoline. I had paid a fortune for the commodity, only to waste it. I dug a match out of my pocket and through it on the debris of the building. No one would miss it.

I hummed under my breath as I walked towards the bridge.



message 18: by Isaac (new)

Isaac | 8014 comments <3


message 19: by sucre'd fiend (new)

sucre'd fiend (sucredfiend) | 79 comments Ah, murder scenes aren't quite my forte, but I'll give it a shot


message 20: by sucre'd fiend (last edited Apr 21, 2012 10:55AM) (new)

sucre'd fiend (sucredfiend) | 79 comments Medusa stood in the shadows, bitter. Her mother made her like this, the snakes that were now what made her hair, and those men. Her eyes were glowing golden hue, her pupils thin black slits. Now, there was no going back. She put on her shades as she waited. She was going to end those who'd tortured her. She was going to pick them off one by one and bag er revenge.

She found him right away on the street. His scar made him easy to spot, with her new found eyesight. She let out a low hiss, the sound startling a rat in the green dumpster behind her in the alley. He was a leading a girl towards her. Some stupid broad who was wasted beyond compare. Her curly red hair was matted to her face and neck with sweat and her make up was beginning to run. Medusa snorted, rolling her eyes as her tongue flicked out.

They were getting closer now and she slink back further into the shadows. Almost here. Just get a little closer, yah bastard. He didn't suspect a thing as he lead the drunken ginger to the alley. She let out an ugly giggle as he slid his hands along the flat frame of her curve less figure. What a catch. One of the snakes beside her ears began to whisper to her.
We have our chance! We can end him! Make him cry bloody murder! Watch him squirm! Taste his blood! Devour his flesh! Stone him!
That's exactly what Medusa planned to do.

She crossed her arms over her chest, waiting patiently for him to begin taking advantage of the drunk broad. When he did, she cleared her throat, drawing attention to herself. The girl seemed to sober up at the sight of dozens of glowing eyes glaring down at her. He immediately pushed the girl in from of him, making Medusa's face contort with disgust. She cocked her head to the side, motioning for the girl to run. The drunk bitch just ran and took off. Now, it was her and him. And, she'd finally remembered his name.
"Anthony," she purred, "so good to see you again."

He stumbled back, trembling without his human shield around. "Who are you," he asked, bewildered and afraid. Medusa smiled wider, finding pleasure in his fear. She was filled with a feeling she'd never had before. It was exciting, and she wanted more of it. She took a step towards the bumbling man, not answering him. Instead, a snake swung down from the top of her head. It hissed viciously before responding to his question.
Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under't.
Soon the rest of the snakes were echoing the Shakespearean line, making her cackle. "The ruse is up already, sweeties, but play the flower I shall." The snakes caressed her soft skin restlessly, growing more and more excited.

Another step brought he closer to him. He began to compose himself to run, but the sight of her transforming made him froze. Her legs melded together to form a long tail, her skin rippling from the waist down to become green scales. She was suddenly larger than him, her long python like tail cooling around him. Her nails had grown out as she shed her clothes, like a snake shed skin. She was now truly Medusa, the Gorgon of the Myth. Her grip on him tightened as he squirmed, beginning to scream. She stuck her hand in his mouth, grabbing his tongue as she leaned over him. She cold eyes stared into his frightened green irises. She could see her reflection in them, and God, did she look even more beautiful than she had ever been. She smirked and tugged sharply, pulling his tongue from his mouth. He gave a wild howl and she wrapped her fingers around his neck, cutting off all sound.

The slow, steady breaking of his bones was like music to her ears. His eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets as squeezed down on his throat. She left enough room for him to breathe. She wanted him to feel this, to feel every bone in his body break and his organs become ground to mush, while he was still alive.

She drew her tail further together, crushing him. He gave out a strangled scream and she twisted his neck, turning his head around. A steady stream of blood trickled down from his nose. At last, she removed her shades, turning him to face her. They shone brighter as the snakes in her hair shook fiercely, their own eyes glowing as well. He slowly turned to stone, his features stuck in their dying position for all time. She set her work of art down carefully, slowly shifting back as she returned her glasses to their spot on her face. With a soft whistle, she looked over her first masterpiece. A smile splayed across her face as walked off, hearing the first of the horrified screams as the stone art was discovered.


message 21: by Isaac (new)

Isaac | 8014 comments New murder scene!

It was considerably warm that night for September, and everybody’s window was open. It made it easy enough for me to get in.

I climbed through their living room window into their small home. The floor gently squeaked as I crept down their hallway. Shadows were thrown about all over the floor. Moonlight and streetlights reflected off various pictures hanging on the walls.

Their room was very neat and clean. They lay together, facing opposite directions. Slowly, I slinked over to him first. I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and carefully placed it over his mouth. My hand searched my back pocket for the knife I had stolen from their house at our last meal. I took it out and counted backwards from three. When I hit 1, I swiped the knife across his throat. His eyes opened at once, scared and unsure what just happened. He stared at me for what seemed like hours before muffled screams came out of his throat. I took the knife and whipped it across his throat one, two, three more times. By this time, Amanda was awake. She sat up sluggishly, but her eyes were bright and alert. “Max,” she said softly as she looked over at him. When she saw me, she let out a shrill cry. “What are you doing here?” she cried. She looked down at Max. “What the hell are you doing to him?” She jumped over him to see a thick crimson liquid pooling on the bed and dripping off onto the floor. Max’s face was growing very white, and his screams were becoming less and less powerful.

She flung herself at me, knocking me over at an awkward angle. I landed with a loud
thud, my body moaning from the weight on top of me. Amanda stood up and looked back at Max. Her face became almost as white as his. “Max,” she cried, tears flooding her eyes. She darted for the phone on the other side of the bed, but I was back on my feet. I jumped on her, causing her to fall over and hit her head on the corner of their wardrobe. Her head now profusely bleeding, I threw my hand over her mouth to silence her cries. Yanking out a pair of pantyhose out of my pocket, I managed to wrap it around her neck three times and pull. Her dark, beautiful eyes bulged. Her screams grew fainter and fainter as Max’s had done. Her face went from a bright red to a sickly white than a faint blue after minutes of me tugging.

Finally her body stopped flopping under me. Her jagged, strained attempts at breathing came to an end. Her eyes seemed to settle back down into their sockets. I removed my hand and for once, I didn’t see a smile on her.

I went over to Max. He had a very faint pulse, but you can tell he was shutting down. Taking my knife, I plunged it into his chest. Blood spurted out of his mouth and dribbled down his chin.

And then it was over.

I sat in silence for a few seconds before I chuckled. Those poor idiots. For once, something didn’t happen all because of their absent-mindedness. These people didn’t deserve the fate they had; I am just a manipulative son of a bitch who took advantage of this couple.

But they had trusted me, and by doing so entrusted me with their souls, which I put in my pocket separate from my weapons.

I removed the knife from Max’s chest. Lifting up his nightshirt, I carved one word into him, and then I did the same to Amanda, who was slumped up against the wardrobe, pantyhose still tied around her throat.

Four days later, a neighbor went to check on them. A bloodcurdling scream was heard throughout the whole neighborhood. Every channel reported about the young murdered couple who had the words “POOR FOOLS” carved into them.



message 22: by Isaac (new)

Isaac | 8014 comments Murder scene!



He backed off of her after a few more minutes before grabbing her bra. His gaze went from that to her. Smiling viciously, he took it and wrapped it around her throat, pulling it as hard as possible. Choked gasps came from her, her hands clutching at her throat, trying to remove the bra. He tugged harder. Her face started changing shades, her eyes straining. She tried to do anything to make him stopped; she kicked and hit, but he never let go. The smile stayed on his face.

As she started growing weak, he laughed. The laugh was one that sounded like somebody was watching something funny; it was light and cheery, but at the same time twisted and cruel.

Her vision grew blurry. Jagged breaths were the only noises escaping her now. Her legs and arms stopped flailing as she grew still. It’s too late, it’s too late, was the last thought the crossed her mind.

She gave up.

The hunter grabbed a knife from the kitchen and stabbed her in the stomach, howling with laughter each time he stabbed. Blood splattered all over him. His eyes were wide, absorbing what he was seeing. It was beautiful in his eyes.

Sirens were heard outside. He stopped stabbing her and stared down at his hands which were now dripping with the thick crimson liquid. His grin faded before it came back, spreading across his face. Standing up, he went outside and held his hands up, showing off the work he just did.

The hunter was full.


message 23: by Gabby (new)

Gabby MWAHAHA my Favorite thing to write about


message 24: by Yaa (new)

Yaa (mediocreatbest) | 151 comments Sometimes I hate my parents. I hate them so with such intensity I’m surprised I don’t burn from the inside out. But when I think these things I tell myself it is not God’s way, and go and read my Bible. Then I feel better.

Today is one of those days when I feel like taking a knife and carving my first, last and middle name in my mother’s navel.

“Zebediah, I’m sorry, but you can’t go to the church party tonight. We’re going to Mrs. Krushnell’s house to conduct a wedding ceremony and we need someone to babysit Ezekiel,” she says, shrugging on her coat.

“But Mom! This is going to be the biggest church party of the year! And who has a wedding ceremony in the night?” I exclaim. I know I am whining but I can’t help myself.

“Zebediah.” Mother exhales sharply. “Mrs. Krushnell has solar urticarial - if she goes in the sun she’ll get a dreadful rash! And we told you no! Now please stop whining. It’s un-Christian like.” She grabs her purse from the mantelpiece and calls at Father to hurry up and get ready. “Now, I’m sorry you can’t go. But you need to consider: What Would Jesus Do?”

A regular teenager, like Ezekiel perhaps, would cuss at Mother and stomp and whine and claim that her love for him wasn’t true until he got his way. But I’m not like Ezekiel. I’m a Child of God.

I sigh and answer, “He would accept the answer and try and think of the well-being of others, try to make the best of the situation.”

Mother’s lips transforms into an approving smile. “Very good, Zebediah.” Father enters the living room just then and with a peck on the cheek from both parents, they are gone.

I sigh, walking into the living room. Ezekiel is lying on the couch, and he is watching the music video on MTV intently.

I sit on the couch, keeping in mind to sit a wide distance apart from him, and get my Bible from the side-table. “Ezekiel, Mother said not to watch MTV, remember? And your feet aren’t supposed to be on the couch.”

“One,” Ezekiel replies, keeping his eyes on the dancing girls wearing skirts that would make Mother faint, “It’s Zeke, you retard. Two, as if I care what mom thinks.”

I pray for Ezekiel every night that the devil in him will disappear. It saddens me to think that if he continues this behaviour he might never reach Heaven.

We stay like this for twenty minutes, Ezekiel watching MTV and me reading Mark, when the doorbell rings. Normally, Ezekiel acts like a deaf man when he hears the melody signifying the arrival of a person, but now he rushes from the couch to the door, almost tripping on the jeans he refuses to leave him without, the jeans that expose his underwear.

‘That’s odd,’ I murmur, following him to the door. Mother didn’t mention we would be expecting guests.

I see Ezekiel, smiling goofy, at a young girl. Her auburn hair reminds me of autumn, her porcelain skin the colour of snow in winter, the aroma emanating from her just like roses in spring time. She smiles when sees me standing there, and she says, “Hi. I’m Sasha.” I extend my hand out to her and smiling nervously, she accepts it. “Zebediah Hersch.”

“Jeez, Zeb,” I hear Ezekiel mutter. “Have you seen any kid that shakes hands with each other?”

I can see the rise of her breasts through her tight blouse, and I feel myself go hard. A wave of sadness crashes over me, for I have noticed something private.
Please forgive me, God. I did not mean to sin.

“Me and Sasha are just gonna go to my room for a science project,” Ezekiel announces. I raise my eyebrows, then give him an approving smile. It is a rare moment when Ezekiel shows interest in schoolwork. “Okay, sure,” I find myself saying.

I walk back into the living room and return to reading my Bible.
Mark 1:21-27. "They went to Capernaum, and when the Sabbath came, Jesus went into the synagogue and began to teach. The people were amazed at his teaching, because he taught them as one who had authority, not as the teachers of the law. Just then a man in their synagogue who was possessed by an evil spirit cried out,
“What do you want with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us? I know who you are—the Holy One of God!”
“Be quiet!” said Jesus sternly. “Come out of him!” The evil spirit shook the man violently and came out of him with a shriek.'


I smile at the passage when I read this. God, why are you so wonderful? Why are you are so powerful and awesome? A wet patch abruptly appears on the page and it takes me a moment to realize I’m crying. I smile through tears. Only God can make me cry tears of joy.

I close the Bible, content. I have a sudden urge to share the Bible’s words of wisdom with Ezekiel. I get up from the couch and approach his room. I open his door and a cool blast of the A.C. greets me.

‘Ezek-’ My eyes are deceiving me. I know Ezekiel is not truly a Child of God, but can he actually do this? I observe silently as my brother moves awkwardly on top of a lump shielded by his bulky frame. The lump has a fan of reddish hair around her head, with clear skin.

I clear my throat and Ezekiel finally notices me. He cusses then tumbles off the girl on to the floor. I hear the rustling of clothes being put on, the clang of a belt. The girl sits up and averts my gaze, looking for her clothes on the bedspread. I turn around for her to change, and it’s when I hear her murmur, ‘I’ll call you later, Zeke,’ that I turn around. She doesn't look at me as she brushes by, exiting the room; the bang of a door follows a few seconds later.

I look at Zeke. He has put on his trousers, and is facing me, fuming. ‘What the hell, man? Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?’

“You were...” I swallow, before continuing. “You had sex. You were supposed to be studying.”
He rolls his eyes. “Well obviously I wasn’t.”

“Who are you?” I whisper. “The Ezekiel I knew did not lie or cuss; he did not commit premarital sex.”

“The Ezekiel you knew,” he replies, looking at me right in the eye, “became a Zeke and grew up. Which is more I can say about you.” He gives me a disgusted look. “What the hell do you want from me, you religious freak?”

The fingers I’d only ever used to turn the pages in my precious Bible curl up into a fist. He notices this and a bemused laugh trickles from his lips. “Have you come to beat me up?”

“What do you want with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us? I know who you are—the Holy One of God!” “Be quiet!” said Jesus sternly. “Come out of him!” The evil spirit shook the man violently and came out of him with a shriek."

The passage suddenly pops in my mind.

“Be quiet,” I instruct in a murmur.

“Fuck,” he begins, stretching out the word into multiple syllables, “off.”
His shoulder hits the blade of mine as he walks past me. This demon has turned my brother into the spawn of Satan, I realise. A mixture of untapped love and rage flows from me and I know what I must to. I walk to his bedside table and grab a lamp from there. I unplug the illuminating device from the socket and carry it. I walk calmly into the living room and find my brother still sitting on the couch.

His head makes a satisfying crunch as I bring it down on his head. Shards of processed glass rain from his head and I clutch a fistful of red-tinted hair and tug. Locks of hair are transferred from his head to my hand and I walk around the couch until I’m facing him.

His face harbours a confused expression, with eyes half-opened. Pieces of the lamp are sticking to his skin, making puckered lines, allowing blood to flow. His mouth is open; he is trying to speak, but the blood prevents him from doing this.
I connect my left hand with his face, then the other one, and I continue this cycle for so long it feels like a familiar routine.

“I banish you, demon!” I shriek, spraying spittle on him. “Leave my brother alone!” For a second I think I’ve succeeded, that my brother is as pure as me. But then I remember that dire act of sin, fornicating, and I know this demon is serious and more powerful.

I grab a shard of remnants of the lamp and plunge it in his thigh. His thigh starts raining blood, and I drag the same shard from his neck to his waist, then from his left breast to his right. He suddenly begins to shake incessantly, and as abruptly as he started to shake, he stops.

I drop the material on the floor, breathing heavily. I start to smile and I glance upwards, to the ceiling.

“Thank you, God. Thank you for giving me the strength of driving the demon out.” I wipe sweat from my face and look at my brother. He looks disgusting, like he was driven over by a tractor, but I know it is the inside that counts. In the inside he looks like paradise, I am sure.

I then subside on the couch next to him, and wait for him to wake up. Thirty minutes pass and I frown. Now that the demon is out, he should have been reborn by now. His heart should have started to beat, his cuts re -healed, to become a true Child of God. Five minutes later I start to panic.
My breathing changes to short, shallow breaths. Oh God, what have I done? This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Wake up!” I shriek. I slap my brother’s face, then start shaking him. “Wake up, dammit!”
I’m sorry God, for cursing. I’m sorry.

I start crying, but unlike an hour ago where I was crying for happiness, I am crying because I have committed the ultimate sin. I wipe the snot on the back of my hand and tell myself to calm down.

“I've got my mind made up, and I won’t turn back, because I want to see my Jesus one day,” I start to sing and like a switch my anxiety has disappeared. I brush my fingers along my eyes, mopping up my tears.

I go to the kitchen and start boiling water. I sit down on the chair and wait for it to finish. I am constantly fidgeting during this period and I nearly scream when I hear the kettle start whistling. I walk to the kettle and open the lid. Surprisingly, I am calm, almost happy.

I smile as I pour the water over my skin, as it brands itself on my body, as it turns my skin an ugly shade, as I get used to feeling of being burnt; get used to what will await me when I die.


message 25: by Isaac (new)

Isaac | 8014 comments O_O Whoa. That was... twisted, I guess you could say.

I liked it a lot.


message 26: by Brigid ✩, No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. (new)

Brigid ✩ | 11973 comments Mod
Dang, intenssse. But yeah, I also liked it a lot.


message 27: by Yaa (new)

Yaa (mediocreatbest) | 151 comments Thank you!


message 28: by Isaac (new)

Isaac | 8014 comments *applauds*


message 29: by Isaac (new)

Isaac | 8014 comments (http://www.goodreads.com/story/show/2....)

This is part of a short story. The link is above.

Calmly, she put her hand in her jacket pocket. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s a little too late for that,” he said sharply.

“Not too you,” she said, anger in her voice. “To Mom. To Annie and Andy. I’m sorry they had to deal with you.”

“What did you say?” he said, nearing her.

“I’m sorry they had to deal with an ass like you,” she shouted. He ran at her with his hand raised. She ducked, kicking him in the knees. Stumbling, he landed on the couch.

“I’m wanted, Dad,” she said, her voice cracking. “I’ve killed eight people. But none if it matters if I don’t kill the one thing that made me kill them.”

His eyes widened as she pulled a jump rope out of her jacket. “Remember this?” she said, her voice now a whisper. “You bought me this when I was four. It was the only good memory I have of you.” Her glance switched from the jump rope to him. “And I’m going to have one more good memory.”

He tried to bolt away, but she jumped on his back, wrapping the jump rope around his neck. She jerked it harshly, pulling his head up off the floor. Gagging, he tried to fight to get her off of him, but she kept twisting and tugging. His face was a deep shade of red, turning into a violent purple. The twins opened the door, their jaws dropping as they saw her. Suddenly, he stopped fighting, growing limp. His head hit the floor as she let go, trembling. Looking up at the twins, she saw them with shock on their faces, tears rolling down their cheeks.

She got off of him, leaving the jump rope. She headed towards the twins with her arms out, but they stepped away. “Annie, Andy,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”

“No it’s not!” Annie screamed. “You killed Daddy!”

Stacy stood there as they ran back into their room, locking the door behind them. She wanted to scream, wanted to sob. She had done what she wanted for her whole life. Why did this feel terrible.

Turning around, she observed her work. It didn’t feel wrong, yet it didn’t feel write. Still trembling, she headed to the door of the apartment before looking back at his body one last time. “Happy Father’s Day,” she whispered before leaving the apartment.
A tear rolled down her cheek as she walked down the sidewalk.

It was the first one she had cried in years.



message 30: by Janelle (new)

Janelle  (jj_thompson) | 14 comments This is one of my murder scenes i'm rewriting the old version was awful. So here is the new version of the end of the story. While i rewrite the rest of the story.

http://www.goodreads.com/story/show/3...


message 31: by Jayda (new)

Jayda | 2761 comments I'm going to have one of these come November! :D


message 32: by Isaac (new)

Isaac | 8014 comments For NaNoWriMo? :D

I ACTUALLY HAVE AN IDEA THIS YEAR GUYS.

REJOICE WITH ME.


message 33: by Jayda (new)

Jayda | 2761 comments Yeahh, for NaNoWriMo! :D In the prologue I explain how things came to be the way that they are, and there's a scene where the Queen faerie dies and... well, basically I'm deciding between her just being murdered, or if there's something power source in her heart so her heart gets ripped out.

Pretty violent, but I can't decide D:

Now... to read, or plot? That's my current decision to make D:


message 34: by Isaac (new)

Isaac | 8014 comments I love how you wrote that so casually. XD


message 35: by Jayda (new)

Jayda | 2761 comments ^ HAHAHAHAHAHA. That seriously made me laugh for like 2 minutes straight :D


message 36: by Brigid ✩, No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. (new)

Brigid ✩ | 11973 comments Mod
Jayda wrote: "Yeahh, for NaNoWriMo! :D In the prologue I explain how things came to be the way that they are, and there's a scene where the Queen faerie dies and... well, basically I'm deciding between her just ..."

RIP OUT HER HEART, RIP OUT HER HEART. That sounds much more fun. xD


message 37: by Brigid ✩, No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. (new)

Brigid ✩ | 11973 comments Mod
Oh, I wrote something about a murder recently. I wouldn't say it's really a murder "scene," but ... oh well. Here it is anyway. (This is a part I'm adding into Unraveling.)

Sometimes, I think it all started with the death of Christian Kinghorn.

Neither of us knew him, or had ever heard of him. He didn’t even go to our school, or live in Nine Oaks. He lived a few towns over, and if he hadn’t been killed then we would never have known his name.

But as it turned out, that’s how it happened.

Christian Kinghorn was shot in the back of the head. Another boy walked up to him, right in a classroom, and pressed a gun to the back of his skull. And––bam. Just like that, his short life was over.

After I heard the story for the first time, I kept wondering what that must have been like. For everyone. For the kids sitting around him, for the teacher, for the kid who just walked up and murdered him. But of course, I mostly wondered what it felt like to Christian. I wondered if he even knew what hit him. He was just sitting there, waiting for class to start––maybe looking at the clock, or reading his notes, or turning around to say something to the kid next to him. Then, he must have felt something nudge him in the back of the head. He probably thought it was someone accidentally bumping into him, or––I don’t know––one of his friends just playfully poking him in the head for some reason. And then, the pain. Or maybe it happened so fast, he never felt it at all.

It was the second teen death in the area in the past three years. First there was Matthew Bale, and now there was Christian Kinghorn. And both had died violently––a suicide, and then a murder. For an area that so often prided itself with being so pleasant and put-together, these occurrences felt out of place. They shook us all from our daydreams, and made us open our eyes to the horrors of reality.


message 38: by Isaac (new)

Isaac | 8014 comments *excuse me while I go delete everything I've ever written*


message 39: by Brigid ✩, No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. (new)

Brigid ✩ | 11973 comments Mod
Emily [But I am, most of all I am] wrote: "*excuse me while I go delete everything I've ever written*"

DON'T DO THAT.


message 40: by Isaac (new)

Isaac | 8014 comments BUT IT'S JUST NOT I DON'T EVEN KNOW I JUST WHAT *cries*


message 41: by Brigid ✩, No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. (new)

Brigid ✩ | 11973 comments Mod
WHAT


message 42: by Isaac (new)

Isaac | 8014 comments I DON'T EVEN KNOW


message 43: by Brigid ✩, No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. (new)

Brigid ✩ | 11973 comments Mod
ME EITHER.


message 44: by Isaac (new)

Isaac | 8014 comments YOU'RE JUST SO GOOD AND I'M JUST ALL BLEHHHHH


message 45: by Jayda (new)

Jayda | 2761 comments Brigid *Flying Kick-a-pow!* wrote: "Jayda wrote: "Yeahh, for NaNoWriMo! :D In the prologue I explain how things came to be the way that they are, and there's a scene where the Queen faerie dies and... well, basically I'm deciding bet..."

HAHAHA. See, that's what I was thinking :) Then I told my dad and he looked disgusted and was like "That's gross. Just kill her."

But I'm like... I want to make faeries less child-ish ya know?!

I think I'm going to rip her heart out :)
Now to figure out what the power source is, and why it's in her heart... Hmmm.


message 46: by Isaac (new)

Isaac | 8014 comments RIP HER HEART OUT

YES


message 47: by Kriss (new)

Kriss (krisslee) | 5015 comments Mod
Brigid *Flying Kick-a-pow!* wrote: "Oh, I wrote something about a murder recently. I wouldn't say it's really a murder "scene," but ... oh well. Here it is anyway. (This is a part I'm adding into Unraveling.)

Sometimes, I think it a..."


I need to finish reading Unraveling. ANYWAYS> That was glorious.


message 48: by Kriss (new)

Kriss (krisslee) | 5015 comments Mod
Jayda wrote: "Brigid *Flying Kick-a-pow!* wrote: "Jayda wrote: "Yeahh, for NaNoWriMo! :D In the prologue I explain how things came to be the way that they are, and there's a scene where the Queen faerie dies and..."

Rip out her heart. For sure.


message 49: by Brigid ✩, No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. (new)

Brigid ✩ | 11973 comments Mod
Kriss wrote: "Brigid *Flying Kick-a-pow!* wrote: "Oh, I wrote something about a murder recently. I wouldn't say it's really a murder "scene," but ... oh well. Here it is anyway. (This is a part I'm adding into U..."

Errm, you should wait until I finish the draft I'm working on. But yes! :D And thanks.


message 50: by Brigid ✩, No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. (new)

Brigid ✩ | 11973 comments Mod
Jayda wrote: "Brigid *Flying Kick-a-pow!* wrote: "Jayda wrote: "Yeahh, for NaNoWriMo! :D In the prologue I explain how things came to be the way that they are, and there's a scene where the Queen faerie dies and..."

Psh, dads don't know anything. Especially dads who are not writers. Haha.

So yeah, do itttt. Hmm. The power source is her heart because ... MAGIC. When in doubt, the reason is MAGIC.


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