an analysis of the dumb things I’ve written (pt. 2)

After sharing two stories I’d written in my youth, I felt compelled to look back through old school papers to find more.

This is what I found. An English assignment, most likely from a chapter on descriptive essays or some such nonsense. Now my grammar curriculum, Rod and Staff, was an extremely rigorous Mennonite program. And because I was a bit peeved, and I didn’t like describing things, and I thought it’d be funny, I decided to write this monstrosity.

Sorry for this, Mom. Fifteen-year-old Grace was hardcore.

The Feast

(My comments are in green.)

You find yourself in a large hall. (How did you get there? Completely irrelevant. And second person, present tense is weird.) The ceiling stretches farther than your eye can see, straining the cold air from the warm. (Not sure what this means, but I thought it sounded cool when I wrote it.) Windows reaching from the floor to the dark abyss line both sides of the hall with only torn rags to cover them. In the center of the room, a group sits around a long, oval table. You decide to come closer. Ten paces away, you have a clear view of the table—if you could call it clear. The reason why you couldn’t see something poking you in the eye (what) is because the hall’s lighting consists of thirteen candles (oooh, edgy), bouncing a shaky light off the faces and casting uncertain shadows. You inch forward, unsure of what to focus on, and then you see the feast.

Pools of blood fill the crevices on the table, and less-recently spilled blood has dried onto its surface. Bones and traces of meat from the first course haunt the edges of the table, to make room for the next course. And the second course isn’t for the faint of heart….or the mentally stable. (This sentence makes me cringe so much.) After glancing in a few porcelain bowls, you decide they’re having stew—until an eyeball pops to the surface. A human eyeball. (Edginess intensifies.)  At second inspection, you realize the bowls aren’t made of porcelain or wood or metal or china—they’re skulls. (Not sure why you’d think bone looked like metal, but okay.) The utensils? All hand-carved from bone. And inside the goblets? Aged type AB(-) blood, perfect for savory dishes. (I did way too much research on what blood tastes the best for this.)

Once you pry your eyeballs off the dozens on the table (I actually like this line), you divert your attention to the feasters. (Or you could, y’know, LEAVE.) The man at the head of the table catches your eye. His beard is soaked with blood and braided with bones throughout. You look away quickly, and as you scan the rest of the crowd, you’re on detail-overload. Ragged velvet evening gowns and stained silk gloves. Worn leather boots and blouses stitched together from assorted fabrics. (What century is this?!??) Teeth stained pink from blood and years of avoiding dental work. Golden sword hilts catching the faint candlelight. Hands and napkins and faces all grimy from the feast.

You back away from the table on tiptoes, fully aware that you’ve stayed too long. The wooden floorboards groan twice as loudly as you remember (they weren’t even making any noise earlier), and you wince at every step that brings you closer to the exit. You are so absorbed, in fact, that you don’t hear a server struggling with trays behind you. As soon as one of the platters grazes your back, you abandon all plans of staying silent and rush out. I would leave too, but I’m afraid it’s too late for that, because I’m already part of the third course.

• • •

We’ve got several problems here. Firstly, the fact that you just “find yourself” in a creepy, abandoned mansion, and you don’t immediately leave. And no one seemed to notice you the entire time, but I guess the lighting was bad? Then, assuming there’s a good reason you’re there, what is actually going on? Did you time travel? Are you dealing with cannibalistic vampires? I don’t know. I also don’t know what possessed me to write this story, but my Google search history after researching for it is not something that I would like to discuss. (I swear I’m not a serial killer.)

I would like to point out that I finally learned which words should be capitalized and which should not, so A+ to me. It took long enough.

What are your thoughts? Have you ever written something that made you question your sanity?