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furry arts discussion => furry storytelling => Topic started by: Ol Rab on August 10, 2012, 09:19:04 pm
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-Short stories are enjoyable. Surely most enjoyable are the terrifying and rather funny sort. not much more is required to be specified, besides keeping stories fairly clean and free of overly graphic material (Vivid sexual themes and gorn not allowed.)-
It Was Warm
Timothy Farnes, aged thirty-four, opened his eyes. He was cold. And his bladder felt full. He sat up groggily and rubbed the back of his neck. He looked around for his blanket. It had fallen from his bed again. He sighed and stood up. He walked over to the side of the bed where it had fallen, and stared at it. It was very dark in his room. From where he stood, it looked like a black puddle. It had touched the floor, it would not be too clean now. "Oh Well." Farnes thought. "It will do. I can always wash it in the morning."
He shuffled over to the bathroom, rubbing his eyes. He hated the cold. He liked to be warm. The air was on, and the cool draft did not make him feel too pleasant. He utilized the bathroom, and then turned the air off. Timothy shuffled back into his room. His room was nice and small, and he always shut the door. A man has a right to feel comfy in his own home does he not? He certainly felt entitled to this right, and he found that havng the door open did not make him very comfortable. He bent over, and picked up his blanket. It was a rather old thing. His grandfather had used it, and his own father had used it. It was fuzzy and very thick, and smelt a little odd. It was bare in some places, where the fuzzyness had been worn down. In these blank patches, it resembled a kind of leathery material. Timothy shook it out, and spread it across his bed before slipping back under it. It felt a little cool, but soon his body heat warmed it up.
Farnes woke up again. He felt warm. He was sweaty. Although he was fond of being warm, he certainly did not enjoy being sweaty. It made him feel greasy and slippery. He sat up and frowned, still a bit of a sleepy haze. He was too warm alright...But so was his blanket. It felt as if it was giving off heat by itself. He was motionless for a few moments, his face frozen. He then quickly pushed the blanket off of himself. The ratty old thing had also felt greasy and slippery. And warm. And he could have sworn, that through the foggyness of his tired mind that he had felt the thing pulsating.
He leaned over, and stared at it on the floor. It resembled a heap of discarded horse skin from where he was.
Farnes rolled back over, and stared at the ceiling. He did not mind being cold. He felt himself drifting off after awhile. Visions of the day's activities ran through his head, as he began to slip away. He then heard an odd sound. It resembled a very faint rasping sound, barely perceptible. He thought he could hear it close by. Right next to his bed. He did not move. His back was to the sound. He imagined what it could be. He imagined the old blanket. Sliding across the floor. It's innumerable loose threads and stitches coming undone, and waving in the air, like the feelers of some abombinable insect. He had a good imagination, he himself knew it.
Farnes did not hear the sound anymore. He did not move, nor did he barely breath. He imagined it had slid itself beneath his bed, piling up under the cover of darkness. He was so very tired though, and his weary mind soon forgot everything, and surrendered to sleep.
Timothy Farnes woke. He was warm and sweaty. He tried to move. He felt as if he was wrapped up. He opened his eyes, and saw nothing but darkness. He felt his body moving. He was not the one moving it. Something moist and hot and suffocating pressed up against his face. He opened his mouth to exclaim, but grotesque hairy cloth pushed into his throat. He was on the floor. He felt himself being squeezed under something, something under which he would not easily fit. His bed. He did not remember falling to the floor. He tried to thrash, but all around him clung pulsating cloth. The cocoon squished under the bed, and into the darkness. It began twitching unnaturally, like a dead animal, where nobody could see it.
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A interesting story, one moving toward a possible horrible end.
Keep up the good work. :orbunny:
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-The Hiiro realized how many mistakes were made in his story. That is what one gets, after only a half hour of thinking what to write about, and then writing it.-
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Writing a great story off the cuff is unusual at best. It's good writing practice though. :orbunny: