Mom, Phineas is Getting Writing Inspo from Twitter Again!

Recently, this tweet stumbled across my timeline:

    For some reason, it really inspired me at 2pm on a Thursday afternoon, so I decided to write a story about it. The excerpt below is the first two paragraphs I wrote, so the ‘intense slowburn’ aspect is a bit limited. However, I am super proud of this, and I wanted to share it. No, I will not tell you the plot–that would be too easy.

     Before he even thought to open his eyes, Esmond squeezed them shut. Overwhelmed by the rays of glaring, white light, his left arm instinctively rose to shield his face. If not distracted by the intense pulsing sensation inhabiting the pack of his head, he would have been startled by the heaviness of his own limbs. The joints of his knuckles cracked with each cautious movement his stiff fingers made, and his throat stung with the dryness of a lake drained by the heat of a thousand wicked suns. He did not notice the pressure of someone absentmindedly tracing her thumb along the lines of his palm until she tugged her arm back in haste. The pullback made his entire right side feel vulnerable, as if she had been guarding him from the openness of the room they occupied. The scent of stale ocean water and dried blood left with her, and though he did not have the strength to pry open his own eyes, he hung on to the swelling feeling her presence spun into his chest. Something began to scream at him, demanding that he find her again.

     The tranquility she brought to the room vanished after a few fleeting moments, and it was swiftly replaced by the sounds of dense shoes echoing off the stone floor and muffled speech. A large door screeched loudly, and the space became congested with a frantic, oppressive energy. He suspected that the people whom those voices belonged to were trying to communicate with him, but he could not understand a word they spoke; though he sensed their concerned presence right next to him, it sounded as if several concrete walls separated them. A broad, icy hand grabbed Esmond’s shoulder and brutishly joggled it, causing his entire chest to rattle. Fear incited a spark of adrenaline that spread from his air-stricken lungs to each inch of his bruised, swollen skin; it subdued the hissing white noise that numbed his sense and unbolted the locks of disarmament that held his eyelids together. He jolted upright, momentarily blinded by the brightness of the room.

Author: Sydney Knotts

“A person is a fool to become a writer. His only compensation is absolute freedom. He has no master except his own soul, and that, I am sure, is why he does it.” — Roald Dahl

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