Since I got so many updoots on my proposed writing competition the other week, and no response neither positive or negative from the mods, I've decided to go through with it. Write in the comments below a short story, essay, or piece of poetry based on the prompt "Echos in the dark". The winner will be determined by whoever has the most updoots within 7 days. I'd highly recommend you start writing straight away to get the most eyes on your work. I too will be writing something for fun, but won't be included as a possible winner.
The winner of the competition will be announced in a separate post, either just winning bragging rights, or will get a shout out to any social medias or websites they're working to promote.
It was pitch black, an empty void. The only indication that there was any end to it at all was the echoes bouncing back and forth against the walls with his first step.
The sound slowly grew in volume throughout the following minute. The man didn’t move a muscle for several seconds, while the sound amplified in volume. The echo across the walls faltered. With this, a soft humming sound shook the room, almost too low to hear it.
Jack moved his head around, reaching his hands out in the dark, with the booming quieting, he felt safe to continue figuring out where he was.
He reached towards the floor and moved his hand back and forth, feeling the grass prickle his fingers. It was damp, from a cool humid night. The blades of grass each echoed the sound of the smallest blades being unsheathed. Normally unheard, but now the sound jumped back and forth. At first the hair on Jack’s forearm stood like a scared kitten, his heart beat hastening, and the hum grew.
He carefully took his hand off the grass, but the blades soon after became real, the echoes ripping through his skin, leaving flecks of blood across his arm. He held his tongue, careful not to make a sound; to make things worse. But his heart had other plans. While it continued to beat the humming turned to a roar in the distance.
Petrified, he tried to keep still for as long as humanly possible, but the gentle roar became the voice of a lion crying out just before him.
Soon enough Jack yearned for the blades of sound to return, to rip through his skin, rather than remain in the room. As the storm grew so did his heart: he could feel every beat, perfectly in sync with the sound drumming against his chest. No longer silly little waves, but now a boulder, pushing him to the wall. With a loud thud he fell to the ground. His life flashed before his eyes even before his death, for he knew what came next.
The thud made its way across the room, shook the walls and returned to Jack while he cried in agony. He pulled at the grass with tears falling across his face. Shaking and writhing in pain, covered in a blanket of blood. His tears fell across his body, salt to a wound, he let out a final cry.
There was a silence, filled with anxiety for the next boom. And eventually it came, but no echo came with it. The walls fell to rubble, but Jack couldn’t get up. He lay in the grass kept warm by his own blood around his neck, waiting for the will to get up again.