Christopher Lee
Formerly BluePhoenix711
Just looking for general advice. The scene is meant to be... not so much scary, but to invoke a sense of some sort of dread, but I think I've overdone it on some description and lost my way a bit. Any advice is helpful.
861 Words in length
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COFFIN SCENE
He had no idea how long he had been in the box, only that his clothes were sticking to his skin and his eyes were stinging beneath a sweaty brow. It was dark, ‘cept for one tiny hole about three quarters of an inch in diameter cut at eye level. A tiny ray of light pierced through it, spotlighting a mole on his right cheek. He squirmed in the tight enclosure, raised his head and peered through the hole with one eye shut. For a moment he could see nothing but a bright light, but then a whirring ceiling fan materialized into focus, hanging beneath white, spotty drop-ceiling tiles. He lowered his head back down and sighed. The lid of the box was just a couple inches above his protruding gut, making the act of moving his arm up to wipe his brow all the more difficult.
As he lay there, staring at the hole with the intensity of a prisoner staring at a barred window, he began to feel anxious. His heart beat a little harder in his chest, his hands began trembling a slight tremor. He inhaled deeply through his nose, counted to Three-Mississippi, and exhaled through his mouth. He continued this exercise for a few minutes more.
The light through the hole, which had been the first visible sign of hope since he had awoken, had now become something dark and malignant. A taunt. A tease.
Peek through all you want, fatty. You fat little peeping Tom! You’re never getting outta here alive.
“Shut up,” he muttered. It was the voice inside his head, again. The same voice that spoke up whenever he stood in a long line at the mall, surrounded by sweaty, irritable people eager to purchase their wares and migrate to the next store.
Migrate like cattle, the voice said. And you’re one of ‘em, fatty. A big fat cow grazing on all the slop they feed you and all your fat friends.
He’d been told that the voice wasn’t real, in a sense. His therapist had assured him during many a session that it was just his own voice, another part of him, but nonetheless him, expressing itself when his anxiety came out to play or his asthma started acting up and he couldn’t catch a breath. He was doing that now, his breathing shallow and wheezy. If it wasn’t so ****ing cramped! He would be okay if the box was just a little bigger.
A little rounder too, huh, fatty?
He was right, of course. A little rounder wouldn’t hurt, either.
The man's name was Jeffrey Vanderkam. He worked as a programming analyst for one of the largest software firms in the United States. He enjoyed using deduction and digital logic to crack issues and solve problems. Critical thinking was his passion. His favorite, though, was when he fixed one problem but caused several more. That was when the fun began.
But that was sitting in a desk chair, on his laptop, with a snickers bar and a twenty-four ounce Dr. Pepper beside him on the desk. When the chase for a solution had really begun, the Dr. Pepper would have a little ring of sweat around its base and the chocolate would be melting to the wrapper on the snickers bar. His neon yellow polo would be stuck to his back, a large damp spot trailing from neck to the crack of his ass.
But this wasn’t in his office. He didn’t even have a snickers bar or a Dr. Pepper to pick his energy up. Hell, at this point he would even settle for a butterfinger. After another half an hour of meditative breathing, Jeff had calmed down enough to really assess his situation. The last thing he remembered before waking up to this living nightmare was sitting on his couch at home, Playstation controller in hand, playing Call of Duty. Remember me... The new one in World War Two. He remembered it being dark out, as it was about nine-thirty when he had finally gotten showered, ate dinner, and sat down to relax for the night. He remembered the last game he played, at some place called Gustav Cannon. He remembered a sudden coldness in his living room. He remembered looking down the sight of his scope, picking off less experienced players with a sniper rifle from a discreet vantage point. It was freezing. He thought a little harder and could remember the match ending. He had done well: thirty-three kills to just two deaths. He remembered scooping his Dr. Pepper up off the table and taking a swig, swallowing ice cubes with it, despite having removed from the fridge over an hour beforehand. Definitely finishing it off, he thought. I remember an empty bottle. So cold... It was so cold.
And that was it. That was the last thing he could remember. He remembered that chill entering his body. He stared at the hole in the box, losing himself in the light shining through it. Had someone poisoned his drink, perhaps? Or the snickers bar. Maybe that. His head was started to hurt. Why was it so cold that night? Why couldn’t he remember anything else? Why did it have to-”
A loud thud outside. Someone was there. Another loud thud. The light from the peep hole vanished, leaving Jeff in darkness. He gulped. Something began scratching at the lid of his box. That's when he felt the chill again. This time it rose up inside him, seemed to come from him, like a part of him leaving his body. He could see his breath, icy cold, even in the darkness.
Let's have us some fun. Shall we Jeffrey?
861 Words in length
-------------
COFFIN SCENE
He had no idea how long he had been in the box, only that his clothes were sticking to his skin and his eyes were stinging beneath a sweaty brow. It was dark, ‘cept for one tiny hole about three quarters of an inch in diameter cut at eye level. A tiny ray of light pierced through it, spotlighting a mole on his right cheek. He squirmed in the tight enclosure, raised his head and peered through the hole with one eye shut. For a moment he could see nothing but a bright light, but then a whirring ceiling fan materialized into focus, hanging beneath white, spotty drop-ceiling tiles. He lowered his head back down and sighed. The lid of the box was just a couple inches above his protruding gut, making the act of moving his arm up to wipe his brow all the more difficult.
As he lay there, staring at the hole with the intensity of a prisoner staring at a barred window, he began to feel anxious. His heart beat a little harder in his chest, his hands began trembling a slight tremor. He inhaled deeply through his nose, counted to Three-Mississippi, and exhaled through his mouth. He continued this exercise for a few minutes more.
The light through the hole, which had been the first visible sign of hope since he had awoken, had now become something dark and malignant. A taunt. A tease.
Peek through all you want, fatty. You fat little peeping Tom! You’re never getting outta here alive.
“Shut up,” he muttered. It was the voice inside his head, again. The same voice that spoke up whenever he stood in a long line at the mall, surrounded by sweaty, irritable people eager to purchase their wares and migrate to the next store.
Migrate like cattle, the voice said. And you’re one of ‘em, fatty. A big fat cow grazing on all the slop they feed you and all your fat friends.
He’d been told that the voice wasn’t real, in a sense. His therapist had assured him during many a session that it was just his own voice, another part of him, but nonetheless him, expressing itself when his anxiety came out to play or his asthma started acting up and he couldn’t catch a breath. He was doing that now, his breathing shallow and wheezy. If it wasn’t so ****ing cramped! He would be okay if the box was just a little bigger.
A little rounder too, huh, fatty?
He was right, of course. A little rounder wouldn’t hurt, either.
The man's name was Jeffrey Vanderkam. He worked as a programming analyst for one of the largest software firms in the United States. He enjoyed using deduction and digital logic to crack issues and solve problems. Critical thinking was his passion. His favorite, though, was when he fixed one problem but caused several more. That was when the fun began.
But that was sitting in a desk chair, on his laptop, with a snickers bar and a twenty-four ounce Dr. Pepper beside him on the desk. When the chase for a solution had really begun, the Dr. Pepper would have a little ring of sweat around its base and the chocolate would be melting to the wrapper on the snickers bar. His neon yellow polo would be stuck to his back, a large damp spot trailing from neck to the crack of his ass.
But this wasn’t in his office. He didn’t even have a snickers bar or a Dr. Pepper to pick his energy up. Hell, at this point he would even settle for a butterfinger. After another half an hour of meditative breathing, Jeff had calmed down enough to really assess his situation. The last thing he remembered before waking up to this living nightmare was sitting on his couch at home, Playstation controller in hand, playing Call of Duty. Remember me... The new one in World War Two. He remembered it being dark out, as it was about nine-thirty when he had finally gotten showered, ate dinner, and sat down to relax for the night. He remembered the last game he played, at some place called Gustav Cannon. He remembered a sudden coldness in his living room. He remembered looking down the sight of his scope, picking off less experienced players with a sniper rifle from a discreet vantage point. It was freezing. He thought a little harder and could remember the match ending. He had done well: thirty-three kills to just two deaths. He remembered scooping his Dr. Pepper up off the table and taking a swig, swallowing ice cubes with it, despite having removed from the fridge over an hour beforehand. Definitely finishing it off, he thought. I remember an empty bottle. So cold... It was so cold.
And that was it. That was the last thing he could remember. He remembered that chill entering his body. He stared at the hole in the box, losing himself in the light shining through it. Had someone poisoned his drink, perhaps? Or the snickers bar. Maybe that. His head was started to hurt. Why was it so cold that night? Why couldn’t he remember anything else? Why did it have to-”
A loud thud outside. Someone was there. Another loud thud. The light from the peep hole vanished, leaving Jeff in darkness. He gulped. Something began scratching at the lid of his box. That's when he felt the chill again. This time it rose up inside him, seemed to come from him, like a part of him leaving his body. He could see his breath, icy cold, even in the darkness.
Let's have us some fun. Shall we Jeffrey?
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