Straddling an aging chair on an even older porch, a man, rugged features accentuated by the saturated light of the morning, sits. His grey eyes are darting playfully, taking in the splendor. It is the genesis of a crisp autumn and is forest ablaze in a rash of fiery colors. Lazily drifting to the cool dusty ground, deep reds, and tantalizing yellows, give up their places in the arms of the trees with every slight gust. Mournful chirps fill the air - the birds are singing the final rites for a long and fruitful summer. The pale sun shimmers in a sterile blue sky.
Eventually, he rises, joints cracking painfully, teeth gritted in a silent, screaming agony. He scratches his beard, matted and white, with rusty fingernails. Somewhere in the cabin behind him, pans clattered, and the sound of meat sputtering away on a woodstove is audible. He shambles to the door, and grunts, swinging it open.
“Is it ready?” A hoarse voice, more cough than speech, rumbles from his chest.
“Just about, you impatient old bastard.” The girl retorts, a shy, yet bright, smile, flashes across her face – the last thing he sees before the bullet tears through his back.
Blood haphazardly sprays from the gaping wound, painting the spartan room a speckled crimson. He collapses. From behind him, a man shrouded, white knuckles clenching a revolver, strides into the room. The girl is screaming.
“Where is she.”, the intruder asks, his tone dangerously calm. The old man shakes his head, mouth clamped shut defiantly, life seeping from him. With one fluid motion, the revolver is now trained on his head. One shot rings out. The birds are silent now. Grey eyes finally go still.
The shrouded figure step forward towards the cowering girl.
“Where is she.” He repeats himself, detached yet seething.
The girl is sobbing, she gestures to the cellar door. “Sh … sh... she’s there. Please, just let … let me go.”
The still-smoking barrel of the gun delivers his reply.
Throwing it open, and winding down a set of rickety wooden stairs, the macabre scene indicates that he’s too late. Flies buzz from coils of warm intestines. Butchers knives, freshly stained from their deeds lie on a bloodied table. A human body cleaned, and prepared, hangs, dripping from the hooks.
He crawls back upstairs, body racked with grief, face contorted in a pain that threatens to tear him from within.
On the stove, the meat is burning.
© Copyright 2025 Kev. All rights reserved.
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I attempted an in line of this, but I couldn’t find the nouns and verbs to make sense of the sentences due to all the purple adverbs and adjectives you’ve drowned them in. I suggest you take another stab at this with a focus on keeping the writing simple and clear. Then “maybe” embellishing if what remains warrants doing so. A good starting point would be to create a version where you strip out ALL the modifiers and give it a read and see what you have.
Hi Kev, I appreciate you are new here, and possibly new to writing? I would suggest that you put this piece through ProWritingAid or a similar style editor, and take note of the comments that are made. And read, read, read. As much as you can about craft, and grammar, and how to let a story sing out.
You are using far too many adverbs and adjectives. If you need more than one adjective, consider if you need one that is stronger on its own. If you need an adverb it usually means you need a stronger verb.
Keep working, get better, and don't worry if your first draft is horrendous. Everyone's is.
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Temple Wang