English Short Story

I figure I may as well post my short story too. Have fun with it.


Robin hurried across the busy intersection, attempting to not be too late for a lunch meeting that started a few minutes ago. He ran a hand worriedly through his messy black hair, thinking of the people he was about to meet with. He was a swirl of anxiety and energy, his slim frame skilfully navigating through the swirl of people moving in a hundred different directions.

Then he saw Her, casually strolling on the pavement a ways from him, seemingly undisturbed by the surrounding people. They paid no attention to her either, though they maintained a distance, strange on the crowded sidewalk.

He always saw her from the corner of his eyes. Never when he expected it. A moment, crossing the street, seeing her lithe figure in the crowded sidewalk. When he turned towards her she was gone, lost in the sea of faces. His mystery woman, his muse in the midnight hours when he painted the face that haunted his dreams. Impossibly deep violet eyes framed by flowing white blond hair, pale translucent skin made slightly less ephemeral by the sprinkling of freckles across her nose.

He couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t know her, but they had never spoken, never met in the mundane sense. His muse, he called her, this mysterious, fey beauty his shadow companion in life. Robin was ever haunted by her. Relationships failed, opportunities passed without a glance. He painted, trying to capture this woman with his paints. Somehow he knew this would call her to him finally, compel her reveal herself to him.

That night in his studio loft he painted her as she has appeared to him that morning, so wild among the city people. He entered the trance state he always went into when he painted her. He only surfaced that morning, when the dawn sun shone through his windows. Blearily he came back to earth. She was there on the canvas in front of him. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned to see her, offering him a smile. Too tired to react he watched as she reached out to touch the paining of her. She shivered as she made a contact with the canvas like energy was coursing through her, like she was on the sweetest high. She moved closer to the painting and seemed to merge into her painted form. Robin stared in confusion for a moment before collapsing to the floor in a pile of exhausted limbs.


Robin woke that afternoon, lying uncomfortably on the hard floor. Glancing blearily at his watch he say that it was late afternoon. He couldn’t remember why he was there until he looked up at the easel he was curled below and saw another painting of his muse. Struggling to get upright his hand brushed the painting briefly, sending a feeling like the forest in a storm, wild fey energy. He saw her watching him and heard someone whispering Airlia.

Later that afternoon he was still brooding. He had made coffee and sat on his chair in front of the easel. The blackouts were getting worse. Looking at the painting he murmured the name he had heard, Airlia. He didn’t know why he had been gifted with her name finally. Things felt as if they were coming to a head. He felt trapped.

And then he sensed a presence behind him. Hopefully he whispered ‘Airlia?’
The voice that replied sounded like storm winds and lilting birdsong. ‘A name has power. Be careful who hears mine, my love.’
‘I’m yours as ever, my muse. Whatever you wish.’ Robin says. A thrill goes up his spine at finally voicing this to her, the object of his longing for so long.
‘Thank you. I’m sorry for what I have to do to you. Your mind, your paintings . . . they give me form again, they stop me fading away. They stop me going to the dark place. I’m sorry, I love you. I do.’ Airlia rambled.
Robin nodded. ‘I know.’ He replied.

He stood and turned to face her, seeing her for a moment only before she faded away. He called her name for the rest of the night, like a lost child.


It was days till he saw her next the agony of waiting, wondering if she would appear again. His paintings were flat and empty. Then one night as he was staring at the black canvas she appeared with the smell of the forest clinging to her. He stole a glance at her and saw tears silently running down her face. Her smooth hangs tugged him up and she him turned around to her and then her lips were on his and she tasted like tears and honeysuckles and she broke away to whisper again how sorry she was.

He painted. Airlia watched herself formed with tears running down her cheeks, making her green eyes brighter and her mouth red from kisses and blond hair tangled. As he painted Robin felt himself going into it and it was beautiful, his muse. His everything.

When he was done he collapsed gratefully onto the floor, thoughts gone and heartbeat faint. She looked down at him and kissed him for the final time and knew what she had to do.

She found a candle and lit it watching the flame burn bright. The studio loft, covered in countless paintings of her feeling like a shattered mirror.

Robin woke to find her standing above him, holding a candle as if praying. He understood immediately. ‘No!’ he screamed, ‘Please! Give that to me . . .now!’

The look in her eyes said everything. I love you. I’m sorry. I have to. Silently she moved the candle to the last painting. Silently they watched the red-hot flames hungrily devour the paintings.

Silently he watched his world burn.

English Assignment

ok, so i have to right a "suspenseful" short story for an english assignment.
so i wrote me a cliche fantasy.
it's supposed to be 1000 words and currently stands at 1539.
also, the writing gets a little sloppy towards the end.
anywho.... here it is:


He was running as fast as he could without losing balance and plummeting to his death; fear of falling clashing with the fear of the things behind him catching up. He was working hard not to look down, he knew that if he did he would get stuck, wouldn’t be able to keep going. Just as he thought this, the bridge jerked beneath him and he fell to his hands and knees.
From this position he couldn’t help but look down between the planks. He saw, impossibly far below, jagged rocks, dead trees, blazing fires everywhere and all slightly distorted by the heat rising from the barren land. And, out the corner of his eye, he saw demons lurking in every shadow, darting in and out of shelter when he wasn’t looking, eyes (of those that had eyes) glinting with the orange light of the fires.
Give that to me… NOW.
He hadn’t heard the words, the best way to describe it would be to say that he’d heard it in his mind, sort of bypassing his ears, but that wasn’t quite right either. The words were just there, and he wasn’t even sure where there was. He did know one thing; he knew they were catching up.
The bridge was still swaying like mad and there was no way he could run anywhere near fast enough to get away and maintain enough balance to stay upright. He pulled the small object out of his coat pocket and examined it briefly; this was what they wanted. He didn’t really know how or why he had it or even what it was, but as he held it he realised one thing; they weren’t going to get it.
So, he had three options: one, keep running and be either caught or fall, but that wouldn’t achieve anything; two was to throw it over the edge, but in the hands (claws, tentacles or whatever) of any of the demons below was just as bad as in the hands of the things behind him. So, option three seemed the best option. Even though it was just as unlikely to work as any other option, it somehow felt right. He took his sword from his belt – well, he thought of it as a sword, it was more of a big machete – and slashed at the rope holding up the bridge.
For a moment, all of reality stood still, save the ripples that ran along the ropes as the tension was released. Then the world seemed to jerk up. Everything became a blur of orange and black and he landed in a heap of sheets and limbs on his bedroom floor.
Amory Smith was a tall, blonde twenty-something with dishevelled hair and three-day-old stubble. He was also psychic. He had dreams, dreams of events that could have happened in the past, present or future. But, the dreams were never of his world, always of some other reality. Because of this, he had seen some pretty strange things in his time and was prepared to believe anything was possible.
He got up off the floor, pulled his coat on over the clothes he’d slept in and pushed all the books and old newspaper articles (books on the supernatural, witches cults, even ghost stories and cuttings about inexplicable events and things such as UFO sightings) off the oven in order to boil the kettle and make his much-needed early-morning coffee. He looked around his dingy, single-room apartment, complete with cockroaches and one tiny, grubby window.
He walked over to the window. The dream was becoming more regular, practically every night. The Pit – he wasn’t sure if that was what it was called, but it was just what he had always thought of it as – was real enough, and he knew that he was going there eventually, but the increase in regularity of the dream was still worrying. He didn’t want to go somewhere like that. He looked out the window and into the park across the road. He had a decent view from his 4th story apartment.
Darkness.
He blinked and looked out again; he could see people jogging, people riding bikes, people walking dogs, families sitting down for a picnic by the lake. It was the perfect portrait of a peaceful Saturday morning.
Death. Destruction. DARKNESS.
There was no mistaking it this time; Amory knew he had seen the world of his dreams, the Pit. But what did it mean? Was that world bleeding into his somehow? Or was he having waking-visions of some kind? Whatever it meant, he was certain it couldn’t be good. He started as when the kettle whistled it’s high-pitched tone at him and turned to make the coffee. The sunlight glinted on the side of the rusted old kettle.
Fire.
He blinked it away and sifted through still more books on the ground for the coffee-grinder. He plugged the grinder in and the small room was filled with the smell of fresh coffee.
The smell of burning flesh. Enough to make you puke. FIRE.
He gagged. This wasn’t good. This really wasn’t good. He set down the grinder, having lost his appetite, and grabbed his keys. He’d go talk to Bill. Bill would know what to do.
Bill was just an old guy with a particular interest the supernatural that he’d never explained. But he did have an incredible knowledge of it.
Amory made his way to the door, navigating his way through the piles of books and dirty clothes and dishes. He walked down the stairs and across the street to his rusty old Moris Major. He stood and looked again at the park. Nothing usual this time, no fire, no red sky, no dead trees. He came up to the last set of lights and they went red.
Eyes.
Amory broke out in a cold sweat. Something was wrong and he wasn’t sure if even Bill would know what to do. He looked round to see the woman in the car next to him staring with a puzzled expression.
Watching. Glinting in the light of the fire. EYES EVERYWHERE.
The light was green now. He sped round the last corner and up the road to Bill’s house and ran across the lawn and up to his front door.
“Bill!”
Nothing.
He banged on the door and shouted louder.
“Bill! I’m in trouble!”
He heard movement from inside. Thank God.
Bill opened the door and peered out, “What’re you yellin’ about?”
“The P-Pit,” Amory stammered, “The dream. I’m seeing the Pit. Only I don’t think it’s just a vision anymore.”
“Come in, come in,” Bill ushered him inside, “This isn’t good.”
“So, you know what’s happening?” Amory asked hopefully as he entered the living room. There was a roaring fire causing everything to cast long, dark shadows.
Shadows.
“Not a clue, but at a guess – ”
Heat.
“ – I’d say that that world and this are colliding.”
Creeping out like tendrils. On the edge of perception. SHADOWS.
“It’s getting worse,” Amory said urgently, “We need to do something.”
“Look,” Bill was looking grave, “The world in this dream, the one you call the Pit, it has another name, most people call it Hell.”
Amory felt a sick feeling settle in the bottom of his stomach, but in a way, wasn’t really surprised.
“And there are things there that want something, want this,” Bill took a small object from his pocket and pressed it into Amory’s hand. It was spherical, make of glass or crystal and had a gold core, which was emanating a strange light.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t explain much at this point, you just can’t let them get this.”
“But what do you mean? Who’s them? Why– That shadow just moved!” He whisked around, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. He looked back and almost screamed, Bill was still seated in the armchair he’d sat down in, but his throat was slashed, blood soaked his shirt, the gaping wound looked like a grotesque mouth.
He bolted out front door and ran, ran as fast as he could. He had no idea where he was going but he just knew he had to get away.
Darkness.
His heart was racing; he was panicking now.
Fire.
He just had to get away, had to keep running.
Shadows.
Had to keep running. Had to keep his balance.
He stopped and almost toppled of the bridge. Bridge? He took in his surroundings, he was in the Pit, in Hell, and he knew that this time it was no dream. Just as he thought this, the bridge jerked beneath him and he fell to his hands and knees.
Give that to me… NOW.
The thing from his dreams, the Pit, it was all happening. Only this time was different, this time there was no question about what he was going to do. He took the sword from his belt where he knew it would be and slashed at the rope holding up the bridge.
For a moment, all of reality stood still, save the ripples that ran along the ropes as the tension was released. Then the world seemed to jerk up. Everything became a blur of orange and black.