u/Zestyclose_Bed_8207

Whenever there’s a fight scene between a group of heroes and nameless goons, the tension falls apart. Like, I’m somehow supposed to believe that Goon 17 will defeat the main character. Why do we even have them? They seem both pointless and expensive.

Centuries pass without me getting a good day’s sleep. Content with the progress from yesternight, I cozy up against the wood and expect to sleep the whole day. I close my eyes, and I see nothing.

Rummaging rustles me awake. I open my eyes, but I see nothing. The intruder’s clatter masked my vigorous tussle inside the box. I didn't drill a spy hole because I feared stray light, so I’m limited in estimating the months of delayed work caused by every bang. One month. Two months. Three months. I can’t get distracted. I hear a painting rip. Is it a homeless person making a bed, using the vistas of Romania as a blanket? Or is it something worse? Teenagers. The Police look for those.

I push the lid off and stand to assess the damage. A scamper of feet exits through the once boarded-up entrance. I try to count the trespassers, but the daylight blinds me. I see nothing. Beaming sunlight is splitting my warehouse in two, separating me from my studio. I stand guard next to the door, forced to postpone any investigation until the neighboring factory hides the sun. I spend another day awake.

I enter my studio without gazing at the left corner. I grasp Gabriela’s stomped face in a clenched fist of ire. The bat's-eye view of the Carpathian Mountains, the blood-seeped halls of Poenari Castle, and Izabela, my chambermaid, wonderfully dead, all three paintings missing. My face mold sits on the mannequin. I feel insulted that it didn’t entice burglary, but relief takes over, and I loosen my grip on the ruined painting.

It is time to look at the left corner. I close my eyes and start counting to five so I may steel myself. One. I fear I lost centuries of work. Two. Work that upon completion would give me comfort and rest. Three. Work of desperation from a being that seeks identity. Four. I open my eyes. Five. Missing.

I take an empty canvas and place it on the empty easel. I stare at it as I stare into mirrors. I see nothing.

The story is about a vampire painter.

I got the following prompt:

Genre: Bump in the Night
Character: Insomniac
Object: Easel

I want to know when, if ever, it becomes clear the main character is a vampire?

But I really want to know if it is clear what the missing painting if the left corner was of.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/16VRypKDyS-GknoTvRSciGkByiYUwngqG/view?usp=drivesdk

A thousand years ago, the King of Darkness Vevesh took seven years to conquer the world in the War of Wars, with only the Light Smiths posing a threat. The Dark Lord won, hunted down, and killed all ten million of them.

That last part isn’t true, as my good friend Relis is a Light Smith and she is alive. I didn’t know about any of this. We are in the capital on a field trip to the newly opened Vevesh museum, which commemorates the prosperity and dark clouds that Vavesh brought to New Smog. The admission was free, and by the looks of it, a lot of cheapskates found out. While our teacher is squeezing, hoping to buy tickets for the class, we skitter between the adults to play Hide and Kill. I hide behind a statue of Vavesh’s great sword, sloping my body to match its shape.

Now I wait, and I’m in awe. A statue is giving me a look of death, a look that says, “don’t touch my sword boy”.

They built the museum so this statue is visible from both floors, and from the last floor you can fear right to its face. It had a confident helmet, the confidence of smelting a crown atop battle gear, like he already knew he was to be King of the World, with many, many spikes on top. I imagine him standing over a blacksmith and demanding “More spikes, more!” with the blacksmith having to extend the spikes to his shoulder pads and on his back. If someone needs to change that light above him and falls, they will get impaled for sure. That would be awesome.

“Got you!” Relis says, stabbing me with a foam dagger. It doesn’t even hurt. She also gets mesmerized by the statue.

“This guy’s cool!” I say. By now, my whole class had gathered in front of it.

“Yeah! No wonder he managed to kill my people”

 

-

 

We wander around the museum and end up in a room with a statue of Vavesh who is now holding his helmet under his armpit. He knew what he was doing; even without the helmet, the spikes on his back and shoulder give him a crown shadow. He is a Horg alright, and looks like how I imagine myself in my fantasies where I save the whole school. He stood atop a mass of skeletons, with a plaque at the bottom mentioning that these are skeletons of Light Smiths. You can’t tell they are Light Smiths because skeletons lack eyes. You can tell someone is a Light Smith by the rhombus retinas and pink eye color; with those missing, they look like the rest of us. I tell the teacher about this bad design I found; he sometimes gives extra credit to inquisitive students. I should also ask about how Relis even exists.

“You see, Marvek, the story goes that some Light Smiths adapted to the darkness and would cut off their eyes to pose as blind hogs. They would work jobs and get supplies for other Light Smiths that stood hidden from the world,” the teacher explained.

“So that’s where the expression ‘blind as a Light Smith’ comes from”, I said as the smartest kid in class. This made a lot of sense to me because Relis’s mother’s side was known for their good eyesight.

“Exactly,” my teacher said. “Well, Relis, since you are here, can you demonstrate what the Dark Lord was so afraid of?”
“Sure,” said Relis, “It’s easy.”

Relis held out her hands in front of her, mumbled a few words while twitching her fingers, shed a tear, and a ball of light manifested above her hands.

“Wow, can I do it?” I asked, but it was meant as an invitation for her to teach me rather than a question.

“Sure you can,” Relis said.

The kids from class quickly gathered around Relis, assuming they were as smart as me and could learn the magic. Relis told us that the mumbling is just her remembering a sequence of numbers. Over the years, Light Smiths cut the fluff from what was believed to be the full spell, and there is an easy sequence you can memorize that tells you which fingers you need to move; then you need to shed a tear and think of a loved one.

Kids around me summon light balls, but I’m having trouble shedding a tear since I was taught not to show emotion. Relis comes up with an idea. She knees me in the balls. Instead of taking revenge, I use what time I have while my eyes are still watery and summon my own ball of light.

“Easy,” I say, not crying.

All the visitors join in. Some people in the crowd had Light Smith friends and knew how to do the trick, and along with Relis started teaching everyone else. A lot of balls of light are summoned, and a lot of other balls are kneed.

“Teacher, why did we stop killing Light Smiths?”

“I don’t know”, my teacher says, smiling with a ball in his palms. “A lot changes in a thousand years.”

A crowd of aliens is watching me. They vary in size, some with more appendages than others, some might taste good if properly barbecued.

Between me and the crowd stands a tall, thin alien, clutching a dainty microphone. It has a huge bug-like head. A spotlight shines on Buggy, another on me. I am in bed. Bigger creatures flank the bed, not as tasty looking. We are in a black void.

“What is he?” the announcer asked.

“Man, or Fliurg?” the crowd cheered, cackling and flapping limbs in applause.

I cover my ears in pain and annoyance. A metallic piece is lodged inside my left ear.

A long-handed alien pulls the sheets off my right leg.

A fuzzy brute is trying to start a CX-35 chainsaw. Such gargantuan fingers couldn’t normally operate it, but this is my CX-35 chainsaw. I’d recognize my baby anywhere. I’ve made several improvements to Rusty over the years, one of them for easy startup. The CX-35 chainsaw is known for its superior gouge-action, capable of easily cutting through bone.

This is my bed. I grab the knife from beneath my pillow and start stabbing the nearest creature. The biggest aliens pin my limbs apart. The metallic earpiece coming loose in the struggle.

“Plagdum flegleg,” or some shit like that, the announcer said, gesturing at the multi-tentacled purple monster wrapped around my left arm. Purply slides the earpiece back into place.

Buggy, giddy with the show, turns to the audience.

“That’s some Fliurg behavior if I’ve ever seen it.”

The crowd starts chanting.

“Man, or Fliurg? Man, or Fliurg? Man, or Fliurg?”

Big Fuzzy is startled by the chainsaw whirling in success. My panic strength kicks in but isn’t enough to overpower my captors. Compared to them, I am a woman.

Fuzzy starts cutting my leg. I writhe in pain, managing to move both arms slightly. Fuzzy is halfway done. The pain stops. I watch in shock as my leg is amputated. Blood shoots everywhere, yet not as much as you’d expect, on account of my ingenious splatter guard improvement on the CX-35.

He lifts my severed leg above his head.

The chanting continues.

“Man or Fliurg? Man or Fliurg? Man or Fliurg?”

Big guy puts the severed leg next to my bloody stump. Several tentacles spring forth from my exposed flesh and coil around my now detached limb.

“Fliurg!” the crowd cheers.

My leg reattaches. I grab it. It is fully attached. I don’t notice any scars or blood on the sheets. I look up. I’m in my bedroom; the morning light casts through the window.

I rush outside looking for my chainsaw. I see it tossed against the side of the shed, stained with blood. Is the blood mine or did I forget to wipe it yesterday after dismembering Tracy?

I pick up Rusty. I was never this reckless. I’m sure I cleaned it and stored it back inside the shed. I look at my leg.

I would love feedback on the story, the writing itself, really on everything you can think of.
Did the final twist land?
What is wrong with it?
What is the thing I need to improve the most?

Thank you!

Man, or Fliurg?

A crowd of aliens is watching me. They vary in size, some with more appendages than others, some might taste good if properly barbecued.

Between me and the crowd stands a tall, thin alien, clutching a dainty microphone. It has a huge bug-like head. A spotlight shines on Buggy, another on me. I am in bed. Bigger creatures flank the bed, not as tasty looking. We are in a black void.

“What is he?” the announcer asked.

“Man, or Fliurg?” the crowd cheered, cackling and flapping limbs in applause.

I cover my ears in pain and annoyance. A metallic piece is lodged inside my left ear.

A long-handed alien pulls the sheets off my right leg.

A fuzzy brute is trying to start a CX-35 chainsaw. Such gargantuan fingers couldn’t normally operate it, but this is my CX-35 chainsaw. I’d recognize my baby anywhere. I’ve made several improvements to Rusty over the years, one of them for easy startup. The CX-35 chainsaw is known for its superior gouge-action, capable of easily cutting through bone.

This is my bed. I grab the knife from beneath my pillow and start stabbing the nearest creature. The biggest aliens pin my limbs apart. The metallic earpiece coming loose in the struggle.

“Plagdum flegleg,” or some shit like that, the announcer said, gesturing at the multi-tentacled purple monster wrapped around my left arm. Purply slides the earpiece back into place.

Buggy, giddy with the show, turns to the audience.

“That’s some Fliurg behavior if I’ve ever seen it.”

The crowd starts chanting.

“Man, or Fliurg? Man, or Fliurg? Man, or Fliurg?”

Big Fuzzy is startled by the chainsaw whirling in success. My panic strength kicks in but isn’t enough to overpower my captors. Compared to them, I am a woman.

Fuzzy starts cutting my leg. I writhe in pain, managing to move both arms slightly. Fuzzy is halfway done. The pain stops. I watch in shock as my leg is amputated. Blood shoots everywhere, yet not as much as you’d expect, on account of my ingenious splatter guard improvement on the CX-35.

He lifts my severed leg above his head.

The chanting continues.

“Man or Fliurg? Man or Fliurg? Man or Fliurg?”

Big guy puts the severed leg next to my bloody stump. Several tentacles spring forth from my exposed flesh and coil around my now detached limb.

“Fliurg!” the crowd cheers.

My leg reattaches. I grab it. It is fully attached. I don’t notice any scars or blood on the sheets. I look up. I’m in my bedroom; the morning light casts through the window.

I rush outside looking for my chainsaw. I see it tossed against the side of the shed, stained with blood. Is the blood mine or did I forget to wipe it yesterday after dismembering Tracy?

I pick up Rusty. I was never this reckless. I’m sure I cleaned it and stored it back inside the shed. I look at my leg.

Since a grown chimp is smarter than a human baby and more aware of itself.

I stand in front of the door in disbelief. I heard three knocks. Must have been rocks hitting the outside hull in an unusual rhythm.

Bonk! Bonk! Bonk! Another three knocks.

“Let me inside,” a voice echoed through the submarine.

At the bottom of the Mariana Trench and somehow not alone. Volunteering for operation Below See Level has provided no escape from my burdens above.

“Let me inside,” the Voice repeated. I recognize it. Regrets are easy to remember.

Has the man in the rain come back to haunt me? How was I to know his intentions? He should’ve found shelter elsewhere. He shouldn’t have gone by the sea. I remember his eyes. Azure eyes—eyes that caused me dread in the moment, and sorrow the next day, after his body was recovered.

Was it the chips? Neptune himself, angered by my littering the ocean? Does it not know of my diet? In callous gluttony, I let the bag slip from my greasy hands. Does that not warrant mitigation?

Has my wife’s nagging followed, to chastise me further for losing my wedding ring?

“Let me inside!” the Voice yells.

“Enough of your insistence!” I yell back. “My shame has sunk me deeper than man thought possible. I no longer care if you are real. I am opening this hatch, and if you are but a figment of my imagination, then better for it. Let the ocean wash in, relieve pressure off this submerged zit, and end this pile of regrets I call myself.”

I open the hatch.

A humanoid facsimile stood before me, blurred skin, yet sharp facial features. Azure eyes—after ten years I let the man in. It reaches out an appendage, holding a crumpled-up bag of chips.

I take the bag. My ring is inside.

I stand in front of the door in disbelief. I heard three knocks. Must have been rocks hitting the outside hull in an uncanny rhythm.

Bonk! Bonk! Bonk! Another three knocks.

“Let me inside,” a voice echoed through the submarine.

At the bottom of the Mariana Trench and somehow not alone. Volunteering for operation See Below has provided no escape from my burdens above.

“Let me inside,” the Voice repeated. I recognize it. Regrets are easy to remember.

Has the man in the rain come back to haunt me? How was I to know his intentions? He should’ve found shelter elsewhere. He shouldn’t have gone by the sea. I remember his eyes. Azure eyes—eyes that caused me dread in the moment, and sorrow the next day, after his body was recovered.

Was it the chips? Neptune himself, angered by my littering the ocean? Does it not know of my diet? In callous gluttony, I let the bag slip from my greasy hands. Does that not warrant mitigation?

Has my wife’s nagging followed, to chastise me further for losing my wedding ring?

“Let me inside!” the Voice yells.

“Enough of your insistence!” I yell back. “My shame has sunk me deeper than man thought possible. I no longer care if you are real. I am opening this hatch, and if you are but a figment of my imagination, then better for it. Let the ocean wash in, relieve pressure off this submerged zit, and end this pile of regrets I call myself.”

I open the hatch.

A humanoid facsimile stood before me, blurred skin, yet sharp facial features. Azure eyes—after ten years I let the man in. It reaches out an appendage, holding a crumpled-up bag of chips.

I take the bag. My ring is inside.

I stand in front of the door in disbelief. I heard three knocks. Must have been rocks hitting the outside hull in an uncanny rhythm.

Bonk! Bonk! Bonk! Another three knocks.

“Let me inside,” a voice echoed through the submarine.

At the bottom of the Mariana Trench and somehow not alone. Volunteering for operation See Below has provided no escape from my burdens above.

“Let me inside,” the Voice repeated. I recognize it. Regrets are easy to remember.

Has the man in the rain come back to haunt me? How was I to know his intentions? He should’ve found shelter elsewhere. He shouldn’t have gone by the sea. I remember his eyes. Azure eyes—eyes that caused me dread in the moment, and sorrow the next day, after his body was recovered.

Was it the chips? Neptune himself, angered by my littering the ocean? Does it not know of my diet? In callous gluttony, I let the bag slip from my greasy hands. Does that not warrant mitigation?

Has my wife’s nagging followed, to chastise me further for losing my wedding ring?

“Let me inside!” the Voice yells.

“Enough of your insistence!” I yell back. “My shame has sunk me deeper than man thought possible. I no longer care if you are real. I am opening this hatch, and if you are but a figment of my imagination, then better for it. Let the ocean wash in, relieve pressure off this submerged zit, and end this pile of regrets I call myself.”

I open the hatch.

A humanoid facsimile stood before me, blurred skin, yet sharp facial features. Azure eyes—after ten years I let the man in. It reaches out an appendage, holding a crumpled-up bag of chips.

I take the bag. My ring is inside.

I posted the first paragraph of my first short story, I'm working on.

https://www.reddit.com/r/writingadvice/comments/1uw4pcq/first_time_writing_a_story_this_is_the_first/