Name: Sewpur Wryter 2008-03-05 15:08
This is kinda long, but bear with me; I'd greatly appreciate it. Anyways, I'm writing a short-story in horror genre for my ENG 201: African American Literature class.
What I have here is the prologue. I just need people to look over it with a critical eye and point grammar errors and anything you think could be improved, and any problems you see. Thanks in advance guys.
Prologue:
As general rule, no one entered the house after dark.
You see, at night things change. Consider, for instance, nature’s most esteemed guardian, the tree: the one time playground of chipmunks and children twists and cracks under the fog of dusk. Its branches are talons, and its trunk—a residence for spiders and maggots. Mimicking its still rooted brethren, the old-wooden house dons a veil of angry shadows and crows—silent unnecessarily.
Due to the musty structure’s elevated position atop the only upward sloping terrain in the neighborhood, or perhaps because of its voraciously greedy nature, the moon never rose fully above the house. The single, glaring white eye of that most silvery of celestial bodies would merely squint out from behind rotting planks and crumbling shingles. It was warning us—we were sure. Warning us to stay away or else risk joining it in imprisonment.
That old house, sitting atop a hill of specters and obscurity, came to embody the terror of night for us.
It was all just physics and astronomy of course; nothing truly changed when the sun began its daily tour of foreign locales. We knew it—all of us. We knew it while we walked to school on a cloudless day. We knew it while we played cards out on the lawn instead of doing homework. We even knew it when the lights went out and we settled down to sleep; safe in our beds.
It was our argument against the railing laughter of the darkness; never quite heard, but always felt when the sun turned its protective gaze elsewhere. However, arguments rely on the assumption that your opponent is willing to concede the point and shake your hand after a skillful presentation of logic and reason.
When we walked home alone from some late running event, or when we couldn’t weasel our way out of walking the dog down that dark, deserted street, our best efforts at forcing that forbidden house into an intellectual corner merely induced a manic grin of creaking siding.
As a general rule, no one entered the house after dark, but tonight was a date peculiar among all others. Tonight marked the blackest night in American history: Martin Luther King Jr. day.
The whole town congregated for the celebrations earlier that day. We were there as well. Amidst a haze of cackling children, invasive incense and smirking (but dying all the same) old men and women, the four of us drank our fill of the festivities. Speeches were read, spears were thrown, and feasts were consumed.
Discarded watermelon rinds formed piles of fleshy mouths with broken smiles.
Then it happened. Somewhere along the line, the insanity of Kevin’s heritage put a gloss on his eyes that could match a waxed billiard for obscenity. Alone, in the dark, I still see those bulbous orbs—near to bursting with the desire to claim the birthright of all porch monkeys. It was the civil right: the right to go to school with real people; the right to utilize three seats on a bus while only sitting in one; the right to enter a house—a forbidden house.
We were walking home then. The crowds had dispersed. Narrowed to a wicked crescent, the moon peered at us from behind its wooden cage. A breeze hurried past us and the forbidden house gave moan of timber and steel.
Swollen, protruding—Kevin’s eyes turned to us as we trudged cautiously through the dark. I pulled my jacket tighter around my sculpted frame and shivered. It wasn’t cold out—not really.
“Hey,” Kevin barked into the silence. “Hey, guys. Lets—”
I kept walking—we all did. The closest streetlamp sputtered and died. Darkness seized the opportunity to surround us. I felt the house’s stare like a hand on my shoulder. In reality, it actually was a hand on my
shoulder—Kevin’s hand.
I couldn’t have known that though, at least, not then. When the light went out, Kevin was invisible. Looking back, that natural camouflage was, perhaps, the single greatest factor in pushing us over that fine line between safety, and the forbidden house.
What I have here is the prologue. I just need people to look over it with a critical eye and point grammar errors and anything you think could be improved, and any problems you see. Thanks in advance guys.
Prologue:
As general rule, no one entered the house after dark.
You see, at night things change. Consider, for instance, nature’s most esteemed guardian, the tree: the one time playground of chipmunks and children twists and cracks under the fog of dusk. Its branches are talons, and its trunk—a residence for spiders and maggots. Mimicking its still rooted brethren, the old-wooden house dons a veil of angry shadows and crows—silent unnecessarily.
Due to the musty structure’s elevated position atop the only upward sloping terrain in the neighborhood, or perhaps because of its voraciously greedy nature, the moon never rose fully above the house. The single, glaring white eye of that most silvery of celestial bodies would merely squint out from behind rotting planks and crumbling shingles. It was warning us—we were sure. Warning us to stay away or else risk joining it in imprisonment.
That old house, sitting atop a hill of specters and obscurity, came to embody the terror of night for us.
It was all just physics and astronomy of course; nothing truly changed when the sun began its daily tour of foreign locales. We knew it—all of us. We knew it while we walked to school on a cloudless day. We knew it while we played cards out on the lawn instead of doing homework. We even knew it when the lights went out and we settled down to sleep; safe in our beds.
It was our argument against the railing laughter of the darkness; never quite heard, but always felt when the sun turned its protective gaze elsewhere. However, arguments rely on the assumption that your opponent is willing to concede the point and shake your hand after a skillful presentation of logic and reason.
When we walked home alone from some late running event, or when we couldn’t weasel our way out of walking the dog down that dark, deserted street, our best efforts at forcing that forbidden house into an intellectual corner merely induced a manic grin of creaking siding.
As a general rule, no one entered the house after dark, but tonight was a date peculiar among all others. Tonight marked the blackest night in American history: Martin Luther King Jr. day.
The whole town congregated for the celebrations earlier that day. We were there as well. Amidst a haze of cackling children, invasive incense and smirking (but dying all the same) old men and women, the four of us drank our fill of the festivities. Speeches were read, spears were thrown, and feasts were consumed.
Discarded watermelon rinds formed piles of fleshy mouths with broken smiles.
Then it happened. Somewhere along the line, the insanity of Kevin’s heritage put a gloss on his eyes that could match a waxed billiard for obscenity. Alone, in the dark, I still see those bulbous orbs—near to bursting with the desire to claim the birthright of all porch monkeys. It was the civil right: the right to go to school with real people; the right to utilize three seats on a bus while only sitting in one; the right to enter a house—a forbidden house.
We were walking home then. The crowds had dispersed. Narrowed to a wicked crescent, the moon peered at us from behind its wooden cage. A breeze hurried past us and the forbidden house gave moan of timber and steel.
Swollen, protruding—Kevin’s eyes turned to us as we trudged cautiously through the dark. I pulled my jacket tighter around my sculpted frame and shivered. It wasn’t cold out—not really.
“Hey,” Kevin barked into the silence. “Hey, guys. Lets—”
I kept walking—we all did. The closest streetlamp sputtered and died. Darkness seized the opportunity to surround us. I felt the house’s stare like a hand on my shoulder. In reality, it actually was a hand on my
shoulder—Kevin’s hand.
I couldn’t have known that though, at least, not then. When the light went out, Kevin was invisible. Looking back, that natural camouflage was, perhaps, the single greatest factor in pushing us over that fine line between safety, and the forbidden house.