(no subject)
Name: Jong
Age: Twenty
How long have you been writing?: All my life
Have you ever been published?: Nope
What is your favorite genre to write?: Whatever works best
Who is your favorite author?: Oh dear. I don't believe I have one.
Anything else you feel that you can contribute to the community (challenge ideas, graphics, mod duties if needed, etc?): Probably not? Depends on what needs doing, I'm always up for a helpful hand.
Sample writing:
It is always loud in the house. Noise spills from the radio, switched to the news channel which spews nothing but half-lies and promises of retribution. Noise from the earphones of the sister, the one who listens to singers with torn throats and broken hearts. Rock, she calls it. He disagrees. Regret, he whispers. It's nothing but regret and anguish and unforgotten sin. Noise growls from the father, the father who lives in a world of numbers and cutthroat betrayal, who sleeps with his Blackberry lying by his side. Noise rings loud and clear from the mother, laughing into the phone cradled against her ear like a baby tenderly rocked. She never held him that way, and it hurts when he remembers so he tries not to, tries to ignore the phone when it rings and rings and rings.
The noise is constant in the large house with silver-encrusted gates and empty hallways. It doesn't so much float through the air - like music, and he has forgotten what music sounds like, has forgotten what it is like to live with eyes shut - as it crashes. It slices and cuts through the air like the unforgiving claws of a hungry beast, tearing and ripping with a violence that is more frightening in its normalcy. His ears always bleed, and he has learned to live with the scent of iron and salt.
He growls in his throat, and it burns - but it feels right, and there is a rumbling within him that urges him to rip at his throat, to claw and rend in tatters. Blood will drip down his fingers, lovingly coating slender digits which had previously known nothing of the thumping life-liquid. There would be flesh under his nails, and they would hurt as he presses tainted fingers against his larynx, pushing and pushing and pushing until he can no longer scream from the burning pain. Until there is silence, except for the drip drip drip of blood onto cold marble floor.
There is only ever one set of cutlery at the long table at one time. The others - the ones who bring the noise, who live in the noise - will never know. Not in time, not to save the noise.
He brushes a hand over his throat and laughs, chokes on his laughter as it turns into tears - as all laughter does in the end, because nothing is forever. He has to believe that, he has to. Hope hurts, and it hurts even more as he falls - always falling, he doesn't know what it is like to be caught but oh, just once won't someone hold him? Won't someone finally look at him, and cry for him because his eyes are empty and his soul lost?
Nothing is forever. Not even the noise that fails to cover the silence in their hearts.