(no subject)
Hello! To help me (greatly) in writing class, which do you prefer:
Version 1
His footsteps echo madly, calling from the sunken ruined walls like the twisted step of an insane black waltz. The last bones of the ancient city are passing behind him; the blasted inner ruin of broken, unnamed buildings silently swallowed by the shadows that seem to seep from the earth. Ahead of him through a pale luminescence loom the foreboding shadows of dark hills.
The rockiness beneath his feet becomes patchy; his footsteps no longer echo but thud into half-mud and around him briars and small bent trees confuse his running, his movements becoming erratic and staggered. He begins to slacken his pace, his breathing becoming heavier, deeper. The image of a towering tree ahead falls across his fleeting thoughts; perhaps his mind has started to listen to muscles that shout for rest.
The tree was lean and tall, standing like a silent guardsman among the lesser trees and bushes of the copse. Stumbling up to it, he reaches out a pale hand towards the gnarled bark. As his faintly illuminated fingers begin to pulse in proximity to the flesh of the tree, a sound freezes them dead. The murky dark just ahead snaps his shining eyes toward it as the sound shudders back through his mind; a whispered suggestion of strange words or rustling laughter.
The murk tortuously clears, or perhaps coalesces; like a gradual illusion of the mind, that yet the mind wails, pleads against - there emerges a shape. A figure; she stands as high as his belly, her round head topped with lank black hair. Her face seems to scream at him in madness and power, belying the surrounding, stifling silence. The awful doubtful echoes of unreality shatter into terrible truth as she raises her arm suddenly - the earth at the same time seeming to erupt from deep below. His shaking hand finally grips the bark of the tree, as from the ground behind him bursts a rush of flesh and maw - a great worm of the underworld, monster of the deep, stinking of death and shedding dirt as it rears into the thick black air.
OR
Version 2
His footsteps echo madly, calling from the sunken ruined walls like the twisted step of an insane black waltz. The last bones of the ancient city are passing behind him; the blasted inner ruin of broken, unnamed buildings silently swallowed by the shadows that seem to seep from the earth. Ahead of him through a pale luminescence loom the foreboding shadows of dark hills.
The rockiness beneath his feet becomes patchy; his footsteps no longer echo but thud into half-mud and around him briars and small bent trees confuse his running, his movements becoming erratic and staggered.
His pounding mind was void of thought; like a beast his flickering consciousness took on the whispering essence of his world - fear and a pulsing heartbeat gave rhythm to the well of darkness from whence brief concepts emerged - a wall, a tree, the sky, light. He begins to slacken his pace, his breathing becoming heavier, deeper. The image of a towering tree ahead falls across his fleeting thoughts; perhaps his mind had started to listen to muscles that shouted for rest.
The tree was lean and tall, standing like a silent guardsman among the lesser trees and bushes of the copse. Stumbling up to it, he reaches out a pale hand towards the gnarled bark. As his faintly illuminated fingers begin to pulse in proximity to the flesh of the tree, a sound freezes them dead. The murky dark just ahead snaps his shining eyes toward it as the sound shudders back through his mind; a whispered suggestion of strange words or rustling laughter.
It is written by those whose moods take them to such depths, that true horror, when felt within, must have an element of doubt; a gradual, lingering dawning. The sudden shock, the knife in the dark, touches the realm of instinct only - rather it is when the brain becomes slowly aware, shivering through with fearful, hopeless questions, that it knows the deeps of nightmare.
And so here the murk tortuously clears, or perhaps coalesces; like a gradual illusion of the mind, that yet the mind wails, pleads against - there emerges a shape. A figure; she stands as high as his belly, her round head topped with lank black hair. Her face seems to scream at him in madness and power, belying the surrounding, stifling silence. The awful doubtful echoes of unreality shatter into terrible truth as she raises her arm suddenly - the earth at the same time seeming to erupt from deep below. His shaking hand finally grips the bark of the tree, as from the ground behind him bursts a rush of flesh and maw - a great worm of the underworld, monster of the deep, stinking of death and shedding dirt as it rears into the thick black air.
Or: Neither
Or: Both exactly totally the same
Thank you!
Version 1
His footsteps echo madly, calling from the sunken ruined walls like the twisted step of an insane black waltz. The last bones of the ancient city are passing behind him; the blasted inner ruin of broken, unnamed buildings silently swallowed by the shadows that seem to seep from the earth. Ahead of him through a pale luminescence loom the foreboding shadows of dark hills.
The rockiness beneath his feet becomes patchy; his footsteps no longer echo but thud into half-mud and around him briars and small bent trees confuse his running, his movements becoming erratic and staggered. He begins to slacken his pace, his breathing becoming heavier, deeper. The image of a towering tree ahead falls across his fleeting thoughts; perhaps his mind has started to listen to muscles that shout for rest.
The tree was lean and tall, standing like a silent guardsman among the lesser trees and bushes of the copse. Stumbling up to it, he reaches out a pale hand towards the gnarled bark. As his faintly illuminated fingers begin to pulse in proximity to the flesh of the tree, a sound freezes them dead. The murky dark just ahead snaps his shining eyes toward it as the sound shudders back through his mind; a whispered suggestion of strange words or rustling laughter.
The murk tortuously clears, or perhaps coalesces; like a gradual illusion of the mind, that yet the mind wails, pleads against - there emerges a shape. A figure; she stands as high as his belly, her round head topped with lank black hair. Her face seems to scream at him in madness and power, belying the surrounding, stifling silence. The awful doubtful echoes of unreality shatter into terrible truth as she raises her arm suddenly - the earth at the same time seeming to erupt from deep below. His shaking hand finally grips the bark of the tree, as from the ground behind him bursts a rush of flesh and maw - a great worm of the underworld, monster of the deep, stinking of death and shedding dirt as it rears into the thick black air.
OR
Version 2
His footsteps echo madly, calling from the sunken ruined walls like the twisted step of an insane black waltz. The last bones of the ancient city are passing behind him; the blasted inner ruin of broken, unnamed buildings silently swallowed by the shadows that seem to seep from the earth. Ahead of him through a pale luminescence loom the foreboding shadows of dark hills.
The rockiness beneath his feet becomes patchy; his footsteps no longer echo but thud into half-mud and around him briars and small bent trees confuse his running, his movements becoming erratic and staggered.
His pounding mind was void of thought; like a beast his flickering consciousness took on the whispering essence of his world - fear and a pulsing heartbeat gave rhythm to the well of darkness from whence brief concepts emerged - a wall, a tree, the sky, light. He begins to slacken his pace, his breathing becoming heavier, deeper. The image of a towering tree ahead falls across his fleeting thoughts; perhaps his mind had started to listen to muscles that shouted for rest.
The tree was lean and tall, standing like a silent guardsman among the lesser trees and bushes of the copse. Stumbling up to it, he reaches out a pale hand towards the gnarled bark. As his faintly illuminated fingers begin to pulse in proximity to the flesh of the tree, a sound freezes them dead. The murky dark just ahead snaps his shining eyes toward it as the sound shudders back through his mind; a whispered suggestion of strange words or rustling laughter.
It is written by those whose moods take them to such depths, that true horror, when felt within, must have an element of doubt; a gradual, lingering dawning. The sudden shock, the knife in the dark, touches the realm of instinct only - rather it is when the brain becomes slowly aware, shivering through with fearful, hopeless questions, that it knows the deeps of nightmare.
And so here the murk tortuously clears, or perhaps coalesces; like a gradual illusion of the mind, that yet the mind wails, pleads against - there emerges a shape. A figure; she stands as high as his belly, her round head topped with lank black hair. Her face seems to scream at him in madness and power, belying the surrounding, stifling silence. The awful doubtful echoes of unreality shatter into terrible truth as she raises her arm suddenly - the earth at the same time seeming to erupt from deep below. His shaking hand finally grips the bark of the tree, as from the ground behind him bursts a rush of flesh and maw - a great worm of the underworld, monster of the deep, stinking of death and shedding dirt as it rears into the thick black air.
Or: Neither
Or: Both exactly totally the same
Thank you!