View Full Version : My Little Cyanide Pill - Horror - Excerpt - 941 Words

Wilson Edward Burroughs
April 13th, 2012, 11:46 PM
In My Sweetest Cyanide Pill, previously Was Ms. Wendy Sommers Here, the world is altered by the onset of something that can only be described as 'other'. The following is a scene in which the girls have secluded themselves in Billie's estate as the 'other' influence takes hold of the planet. Whether psychological or literal, this is its effect...

The world around the two women collapsed. Stood on the rings of an unknown world, they peered around. Their eyes were met with marvelously colored planets somewhat larger than they. An abundance of stars filled the black backdrop, twinkling like headlights in the distance.

Under the influence of euphoria and boundless giddiness, Billie jumped, soaring through a short stretch of empty space. She landed on a brilliant violet planet, turned and motioned for Wendy to follow before leaping to a rose-colored world. Wendy laughed, and in place of the usual exclamations of laughter came the high-notes of a violin. The woman grinned widely, following suit.*When she caught up to the other woman, they shared a kiss.*

They made a game of it, playing for the sheer sake of excitement. When one caught the other they would embrace for a short while before beginning anew. When the two laughed together, they made music. When the two shared a touch, nebulae were formed. The nebulae hurriedly became stars the two used for seating without hesitation. The heat warmed them, their legs and their bottoms. When their break came to an end, they again began hopping planets in a seemingly endless game of interstellar tag.

The women never tired, not even after hours of menial spinning, holding hands all the while. The moment they let go of the otherís hands, they fell. Plummeting off the planetís side, giggling as their backs made contact with a black hole beneath the world they had stood upon, they were whisked away to another strange realm.

Wendy, on her back, awoke. Her eyes opened to the sight of a grim sky and unhurried snowfall. She was in a forest of sorts, a forest wrapped in a thick, layered blanket of white precipitation. The trees were not unlike brown columns topped with a varied pallet of warm colors. It was as the autumn woods throughout New England, except in the stead of maple trees were marvelous leviathan redwoods. The grass untouched by snow was long, green as though it were summer. Springtime flowers sprouted from the thick, armor-like trunks of the redwoods.

A small bipedal creature with a pair of dove-like wings attached to its messy-haired head's right and left side fluttered into Wendyís field of vision. It giggled at her, the sound of a flute resounded. Wendy felt a warm hand latch onto hers, Billieís hand. The young woman looked to her left into the glazed over eyes of her partner. The blonde woman nodded once, then stood and pulled Wendy to her feet. The fairy creature flicked its head, telling them to follow.

They came upon the edge of the forest after a long jog, brushing foliage out their way as they did. They could see, in the distance, rolling hills, grass swaying in the wind and herds of grotesque animals barreling up and down the consistent protrusions of land. The fairy stopped where the trees did, shaking its head. The women understood the message: the small creature would go no further. They were on their own, as so they sprinted. Violins tinkled as the women vocalized their gay cheer, running through the rolling, windy, snow-covered hills accompanying a herd of lizard-tailed, lion-headed horses.

Despite the horse beasts towering stature, the women mounted a black and white paint stallion easily. On their reptilian-mammalian steed their euphoria-induced happiness was further exacerbated.

On it, Billie felt power, like she could take the sun by its rays and never give way. Power, to her, in that moment, was kin to freedom. And the joy of freedom is positively dissimilar to any other. Freedom is a drug we, as a whole, wish to partake. Some do not get that medicine; some take no salt in it. Freedom is power, power to control oneís own fate. Power is freedom, freedom to garner more power by oneís own devices. Freedom, like any other drug, can be overdosed on. Its effects are occasionally lethal, resulting in messy ends. Billie believed this.

On it, Wendy felt weak, subservient to its enigmatic, bestial will. That is not to say she was disgruntled. For letting the horse beast steer her, guide her like the North Star guides a lost sea captain, gave her the treasured gift of contentment. Contentment is an anesthesia, a veritable morphine to quell the pain rife throughout society born some time immemorial. Contentmentís a funny thing, becoming somewhat elusive as the hours fade to days and the days rush right on by. Wendy was born with an affinity for contentment, always fine with her life. There was no greater self-bought present, Wendy believed this. She was relatively impervious to pain. When tragedy struck she knew there was nothing to be done, why fight fate? We are all under its reign; one cannot and should not battle the inevitable. *

Snowflakes and wind whipped against their faces as they shot through the hilled plains. Great floating windmills in the sky above turned mammoth, wood-carved twin blades. Fish of unknown species, winged like butterflies, zoomed through the air, effortlessly navigating the labyrinth of windmills. Wendy, astounded by the landscape's abstract wonder and queerly noble majesty, leaned into Billie, wrapping her arms tightly around her waist, resting her face against her back.

The horse slowed, stopping as the scenery around them melted to Billieís bedroom. The horse was no longer a horse, but a pillow they both straddled. Most of the furniture had toppled over. The coffee tables, the dresser, the make-up dresser, the chairs and even the couch lay on their sides.

Any feedback is welcome, okay?

May 8th, 2012, 08:58 PM
Yo...just dropping a review. Truthfully, wasn't interesting. Interesting as in there are characters and story that I want to find out what has happened to or will happened to. This first part was just sort of informative. But no one can deny your ability to write its just...in the first few words (I say) sentences (more would say) and paragraphs (the rest would say) you should have your readers by the throat and this feels like you can get us better. They didn't talk, we don't know much about their personalities, etc. But I'm sure a rewrite would definitely turn things around.

May 9th, 2012, 06:46 PM
attached to its messy-haired head's right and left side - example of awkward phrases, not the only one. If it makes me re-read it three times to ensure I get the meaning, it needs to be rewritten. No matter how clever, it needs to be clear.

Violins tinkled as the women vocalized their gay cheer, - If this is supposed to be old usage it doesn't work for me. If modern usage, it's hamfisted. They are gay, they have a gay cheer?

You have a nice gift for a turn of phrase but this piece is muddled and all over the place. Need some dialogue, a little less narrative commentary that presumably proceeds from the characters but seems to me to come from the author instead. Think about the fact that generally the reader cares about the characters, not the author, or they don't care at all.