(no subject)
This is the basic rough draft to the beginning of my story, its sucks so far, and I will be totally revamping it at a later date, what I want is for you people to criticize it to the extreme, I also want people to talk to me in person about it.
In what he thought was his last breath he opened his eyes. The blue sky looked down upon him like a fond uncle, the white clouds like old warming memories. A thin gray tendril of smoke laced its way across his vision, and with it the smell of burning timbers. His head swam, leaving him groggy and dense. He turned his head, to see where the smoke was coming from and was assaulted by the first wave of pain. He felt like he was on fire, and bringing his hands to his eyes he could see that he was on fire, or, at least he used to be. Split and bubbled, his hands and face were a ruin of scorched flesh. His hair was naught but melted stubble and his left ear was completely burned away. His arms and chest were also burned, though not as badly. He sat up from where he was laying tenderly, groaning and weeping all the while.
The snow around the blackened shell of a house was all but melted away, showing patches of burnt grass. Smoke trailed from the house like spirits gone to heaven. Helplessly, he called to whoever would listen.
“Help me!” the birds fluttered away from their nesting places in the trees as his call rocked the placid stillness of the mountain. “Help!” He called again, spinning in circles, looking everywhere at once, looking for anything at all. Looking for anyone.
His face was awash in pain; it was as if the skin was still aflame, still burning. He tried to recall what happened, his mind reaching like an outstretched hand into the nothingness that was his memories. I can’t remember anything… I can’t remember… anything. Unbidden, the tears came to his eyes, half from the pain, half from his loss. He sank to his knees in his misery. Placing his hands into the cold snow to ease the pain, he looked around once more.
The landscape was bleary from his weeping, but he could see that he was in a clearing of a forest, next to a blackened shell that used to be a decent-sized log cabin. He was on a mountainside, in the heart of winter. It was early morning and the sun was just beginning to peak over the treetops. His clothes where singed, the already black cloth darkened with soot and ash.
He stood from the snow once more, cringing when he accidentally put his burned hand down to help himself up, and made for the cabin. The fire had burnt itself out, and the inside of the cabin was a ruin of timbers and ash. He made his way through the once-cabin tentatively, poking about the ashes for anything salvageable. Time passed, and he unearthed an iron box, mercifully untouched by the flames. He opened it with his boot, not wanting to damage his hands anymore then he had to. Inside were a few pieces of gold, a simple mirror, and a piece of yellow ribbon. He reached his hands out gingerly, and when he touched the ribbon, his hand shot back as if pinched, an image had flashed through his mind when he touched the ribbon, the first memory he recalled since he woke up. More of a picture then a voice, the words Asaph Bixin burned across the darkness of his mind.
“Must be my name.” He mumbled sullenly as he grabbed the gold and the ribbon and left.
Asaph left the burned out house and headed down the mountainside, in search of healing, and shelter, and a place to belong.
In what he thought was his last breath he opened his eyes. The blue sky looked down upon him like a fond uncle, the white clouds like old warming memories. A thin gray tendril of smoke laced its way across his vision, and with it the smell of burning timbers. His head swam, leaving him groggy and dense. He turned his head, to see where the smoke was coming from and was assaulted by the first wave of pain. He felt like he was on fire, and bringing his hands to his eyes he could see that he was on fire, or, at least he used to be. Split and bubbled, his hands and face were a ruin of scorched flesh. His hair was naught but melted stubble and his left ear was completely burned away. His arms and chest were also burned, though not as badly. He sat up from where he was laying tenderly, groaning and weeping all the while.
The snow around the blackened shell of a house was all but melted away, showing patches of burnt grass. Smoke trailed from the house like spirits gone to heaven. Helplessly, he called to whoever would listen.
“Help me!” the birds fluttered away from their nesting places in the trees as his call rocked the placid stillness of the mountain. “Help!” He called again, spinning in circles, looking everywhere at once, looking for anything at all. Looking for anyone.
His face was awash in pain; it was as if the skin was still aflame, still burning. He tried to recall what happened, his mind reaching like an outstretched hand into the nothingness that was his memories. I can’t remember anything… I can’t remember… anything. Unbidden, the tears came to his eyes, half from the pain, half from his loss. He sank to his knees in his misery. Placing his hands into the cold snow to ease the pain, he looked around once more.
The landscape was bleary from his weeping, but he could see that he was in a clearing of a forest, next to a blackened shell that used to be a decent-sized log cabin. He was on a mountainside, in the heart of winter. It was early morning and the sun was just beginning to peak over the treetops. His clothes where singed, the already black cloth darkened with soot and ash.
He stood from the snow once more, cringing when he accidentally put his burned hand down to help himself up, and made for the cabin. The fire had burnt itself out, and the inside of the cabin was a ruin of timbers and ash. He made his way through the once-cabin tentatively, poking about the ashes for anything salvageable. Time passed, and he unearthed an iron box, mercifully untouched by the flames. He opened it with his boot, not wanting to damage his hands anymore then he had to. Inside were a few pieces of gold, a simple mirror, and a piece of yellow ribbon. He reached his hands out gingerly, and when he touched the ribbon, his hand shot back as if pinched, an image had flashed through his mind when he touched the ribbon, the first memory he recalled since he woke up. More of a picture then a voice, the words Asaph Bixin burned across the darkness of his mind.
“Must be my name.” He mumbled sullenly as he grabbed the gold and the ribbon and left.
Asaph left the burned out house and headed down the mountainside, in search of healing, and shelter, and a place to belong.