insanebutvain, The Novelist

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11/28/2017 2:04 AM

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0 wins / 4 losses





i live in: sydney, australia

i am: not that great of a writer, a hopeless procrastinator, a low-key alcoholic

love: plants

at any given time I am: in a fierce emotional battle between working and hating myself 

songs: gooey, if I believe you, the other side of paradise

currently "working on": cetacean.

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1. Of or pertaining to ink; inky; black, like ink; as, atraental galls; atramentous spots.

Insane is an understatement.





adjective, Archaic.

1. malicious; cruel; pitiless.

This little girl has Daddy issues. 



Originally written for Morgan_R's 90 minute challenge. This took closer to two hours, but I'm hoping it might still be a contender. 

Kudos to @Romulus for reading through an earlier version of the story. 

If anyone thinks I should edit the story to be less intense, PM me or leave it in the comments. I was a bit unsure about publishing this, but hey, fuck it. 



LINK INTO YOUR BROWSER TO PLAY! Feedback MUST NOT be left in comments, please PM only. 


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1. Any of various marine mammals of the order Cetacea, including the whales, dolphins, porpoises and... mermaids? 

Just keep swimming.




Recent Posts

Feminists are taking all our stuff on 10/16/2017 3:07:35 AM
Why does not wanting to be seen without makeup make girls 'snobby bitches'?

short gothic story for exam prac! feedback pls!! on 9/6/2017 7:42:10 PM
At the beginning of each paragraph you mean?

short gothic story for exam prac! feedback pls!! on 9/6/2017 2:33:28 AM
Noah reluctantly peeled open his tired eyes to be met only with darkness. It was a thick darkness, one that stifled the whole town of Bristol. ‘What time is it?’ he thought blearily. In answer to his unspoken query, the grandfather clock in the hall chimed, three times. 3am. Why had he woken up so early? Sighing, Noah closed his eyes again, but shivered as a whisper of cold air tiptoed across his face. His gaze flicked over to the window that faced the street, the window that his maid had definitely closed before she went to bed. Somehow it had slid upwards; it was undeniably, offensively open. The whisper of wind grew louder, escalating to an under-the-breath mutter like the one the old crones used in church. Noah didn’t appreciate the disturbance of his sleep. He swung his legs out of bed – or he tried to. Something wasn’t right, he thought. Why couldn’t he move? He focused on his toes, tried to wriggle them under his wool quilt. All he felt was a slight tingle, an unsettling tickle that suddenly blazed over his whole body. He was trapped in this spot, unable to move an inch, his eyes the only thing to be left uninhibited. They darted left and right crazily, synched with the uneven thumps of his little heart. ‘I’m not scared.’ He thought to himself. Suddenly, the frenzy of his eyes was cut short as a movement by the window caught his attention. His window had been open only a few inches, just enough to invite the bitter fingers of cold a warm refuge. Now as Noah watched, he could see, with utmost horror, that the gap was becoming wider as the window climbed upwards. The slow scraping of the window sent tiny snowflakes of paint floating to the floor and let out a timid, groaning creak, one that seemed amplified in the silence of the night. Noah tried to look away, to snap shut his eyes, but his authority had been stolen from him. The best poor Noah could do was recite the Lord’s prayer in his head, stumbling through the lines and thinking at the same time that there was no godly explanation for this. He wasn’t scared, though. The window halted its movement with a squeak of protest. The wind was now utterly liberated, and rushed in to spit on the face of the boy who had tried to defy the elements. Something else, something different rushed in with the wind. Noah was fortunate not to notice. A small thud on the floorboards near the window managed to attract his attention, however. ‘What was that?’ Noah’s prayers increased in intensity. His mind rushed to complete verse after verse, as if every stanza bought him closer to safety. Interjected with his Hail Mary’s, his mind kept circling back to the same phrase – ‘I’m not scared, I’m not scared.’ He couldn’t be scared, he told himself. God had a plan for him, and there was no force on Earth that could change that plan. If he were scared, that would be like doubting God. Noah knew that doubting God was a sin, and it would lead him to Hell. His father had told him many times of the horrors of Hell – eternal suffering and flames and damnnation beyond any human reasoning. With great effort, Noah wrenched his eyes from the window to the cross hanging opposite his bed. As long as he kept watch on the cross, the demons his father told him about could never grab him and drag him down to Hell. He would be safe, as long as he listened to his father. Noah found that his concentration had slipped, and he had unknowingly paused his desperate cries to God. He refocused on the cross, eyes straining in the heavy darkness, but something in the back of his mind piped up in protest. Something was wrong, there had been a change in the chilly atmosphere of Noah’s once-safe room. With a start, he realised that the cross, his only comfort, had moved. It was sinking, ever so slowly, towards the floorboards. Or was it? It was hard to know for certain in the maze of shadows and crouching things hiding just out of sight, teasing him from the corner of his eye. Noah squinted uncertainly at the cross. It had jumped back to its original position while he wasn’t looking, and now it was pretending innocently that it had been there all along. He didn’t know what to think, his prayers had been forgotten. A single thought screamed through his head in circles, an endless mantra of “I’m not scared, I’m not scared, I’m not scared, I’m not...’ He shifted his gaze to his toes, which had become frozen even under the blanket Noah willed himself to move, begged his legs to cooperate, to answer his pleas. No matter how he tried, though, his prayers went unanswered. His heart seemed to be the only movement he was capable of, the beats becoming louder and wilder and even louder... The sound almost echoed off the walls, it was so obvious Noah was sure that his whole house was listening to the torture. In fact it was quite loud, and while the noise did not wake any of Noah’s family, something else was excited by his terror. Out of the darkness, something thin and pale curled around the foot of Noah’s bed. He squinted his eyes helplessly, trying to make out the thing, still unable to move a muscle. Suddenly, horribly, he realised – a finger. Noah’s eyes rolled back in his head and his mind went black. He couldn’t take it, he passed out before even venturing to consider what this talon could be attached to. After an undetermined period of time, possibly minutes, possibly days, Noah came to. He immediately wished he hadn’t. Squatted on his chest, pinning him down completely was something that could only be a demon. Noah had never seen a demon before, but this dark, seething figure emitted vibes so terrible it could only be from Hell. Peeling, cracked skin stretched tight over the demon’s thin frame, spotted with blisters. The demon had hair, long, inky tentacle that clung to Noah’s arms and neck, wriggling and squirming like they were alive. The demon opened its pale lips, ran its slimy tongue over a row of blackened teeth. Hot breath strangled the cool breeze and caressed Noah’s shivering face. “Are you scared, boy?” came the almost unintelligible rasp from the creature’s throat. Noah thought of god, and how everything happened for a reason, and how his father said sinners would get dragged to Hell. He tried to look away, tried to look somewhere else, anywhere else. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the cross on the wall suddenly plummet to the floor, cracking loudly as it hit the wooden boards. He looked at the thing sitting on his chest, straight in its eyes. “I’m fucking terrified.” The demon’s eyes widened in fear and confusion, and Noah noticed that they strangely human-like. It was in the reflection of these eerily familiar eyes that he noticed the glint of the silver cross that hung above his head. Without pausing to think, Noah reached back, wrapped his hand around the cross’ base, ripped it from the wall and bought it down hard on the demon’s head. The impact rattled his bones, made him grit his teeth and squeeze shut his eyes. When he opened them again, he was alone in his room. The window was closed.

Writing Prompts: Tétartos on 8/31/2017 4:01:00 AM
Aw why isn't there a prompt for this week?

American Horror Story: Cult on 8/31/2017 12:36:51 AM
But coven had such female empowerment! Cool witches and girl power! Teen drama! Honestly the best part of it was the girl who killed anyone she had sex with. That's kind of a cool power.

American Horror Story: Cult on 8/30/2017 8:57:20 PM
Really? I liked the last season, I felt like it mindfucked me a couple times which is refreshing considering most of the other shit on TV.

Writing Prompts: Tétartos on 8/24/2017 8:02:24 PM
If anyone reads this criticism would be really appreciated, I need all the help I can get please! After serving the Maryland State police for more than eight years now, the office coffee machine had been abused to the point of no return. Bandy Jamison has just completed her usual morning harassment of said machine, and took her cup of mediocre coffee into the main office. She had been working here for quite some time, and at thirty-six she would probably only have a few years left out on the field before being chained to an office desk. Already Brandy felt her waistline was growing - it was hard for her metabolism to keep up tight the constant stream of sugary coffee and donuts. She by no means had the intimidating aura of her youth, and in fact her demeanour was quite friendly for a police officer. She walked past the desks of the new recruits, smiling encouragingly at a few who looked up with nervous eyes. It was hard when you first started, especially the paperwork. Some days work was hard for her too, especially today. Brandy had been assigned the case of a young girl's death, and it was her job to interview the mother of the child. Luckily it was just a routine investigation into an accidental drowning, but dealing with the grief and anger of the mother would undoubtedly make for a tough morning. Brandy came to a halt in front of a plain metal door, 'interview room four'. Sighing, she stepped inside. "Zara Monal?" A slim, brown-haired woman looked up quickly and hurriedly wiped away the remnants of tears from her piercing green eyes. She appeared pale and tired, weighed down by the dark bags that came with endless sleepless nights. "That's me." she said, her voice catching slightly. "I'm so sorry for your loss, Zara. We really appreciate you being so cooperative, it helps us wrap this up as quickly as possible." Brandy forced a smile, trying to seem encouraging. It must have worked, because she was rewarded with a perfect grin from the grieving mother. "Now, Zara, I just need to confirm a few detailed with you, if that's okay. Zara sat up taller in her chair and nodded her approval. "Alright. So to begin, would you please state the full name and birthdate of your child." "Lily Grace Monal. Born 19th August, 2012." "Thank you. Now would you mind talking about the events leading up to the incident? Feel free to take your time, there's no rush." "No, it's fine, I can talk about it." Zara took a deep breath. "Everything was normal, just like any other day. It was a Saturday, so we slept in that morning. Lily had been given ice skates for her fourth birthday, and she was desperate to try them out. We drove to the ice rink, she was out there all day. She took to it so quickly, absolutely loved it. Later that night, I was making dinner. I thought she was in her room, and I went upstairs to tell her to come and eat, but.. she wasn't there. I searched the whole house, top to bottom, all her usual hiding places." "How long were you searching inside?" interrupted Brandy. "I'm not sure, probably fifteen, maybe twenty minutes?" "Thanks. So what did you do next?" "I- I walked outside, screaming out to her. It was freezing, it was around 8:30 and there was a wind blowing in. Somehow I noticed footprints on the ground, and that's when I realised she must have gone off to the old pond in the back garden. It had frozen over, so she probably thought she could skate on it. I should have realised sooner, I should have paid more attention." She hung her head. Brandy could see how hard it was to re-live the horror all over again. "What did you do when you... found her?" she prompted. Zara sniffed and bit down on her lip, trying not to cry. "I sprinted to the pond as fast as I was able. I tried to be there in time, tried to save her. But I came around the corner and the ice on the pond had already been broken. It looked so wrong, the pale ice had been so pretty but now it was scarred by that dark gash. The water looked so black in the darkness, so deep and unforgiving. I ran over to the hold in the ice, stuck my hands into that cruel water. I touched something-" Zara began to sob, her tears falling unchecked. "I felt her hand, it didn't even feel like her. It was so small, so cold. I couldn't- I couldn't accept she was never going to hold my hand properly again. I pulled on her, pulled her out of the water just by one hand and I heard the socket in her arm pop, I was pulling too hard but she didn't cry out, she didn't move and she just lay where I had heaved her to, face down on the dirt." Brandy decided to interrupt. Enough was enough. "Thank you for that, Zara. I know it was hard. I just need to ask one last thing. Did she have any injuries before the incident? We're just trying to tick all the boxes, find out what bruises Lily accumulated during the actual event." "Uh, she had... She had some scrapes on her knees, just small ones from playing outside... Oh, and her head. She hit her head falling down the stairs, it left a big bruise." Brandy looked up. "A bruise on her head? Whereabouts? When did that happen?" "It was towards the back, right on the top. Happened probably a week before. It didn't seem serious." "Excuse me, just a minute." said Brandy. She rushed out of room four and back to her desk, reaching for her case file. "Lily Monal, aged four. Deceased, cause of death: accidental drowning. Notable injuries: Large bruise, upper cranium. Inflicted 0-2 hours before death, possibly contributed to drowning." Brandy sat down heavily. She had read between the lines, but that didn't mean she liked what she found there.

Writing Prompts: The Threequel on 8/14/2017 9:27:55 PM
Do we have to include all the prompts? Or just write a story with one?

Manchester Bombing on 5/23/2017 8:07:57 PM
Everyone at my school is freaking out, especially since in my area last night there was some kind of explosion that basically woke everyone up and scared the shit out of everyone. And with Vivid starting soon there are going to be thousands and thousands of people in the city every night, which some people think is going to be the target of an attack.

Short story! Feedback appreciated! on 5/11/2017 10:24:20 PM
My excuse is I'm lazy, thats all I can offer honestly. I'm not motivated to do much. Also if you have any feedback on the story I'd love to hear it because I need to edit and polish it for school anyway :)