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Whose idea of Redemption is this?
(from Prosthetic Amalgams)

We are in the hold of a ship or something like it that is constantly shifting, rocking. The wooden surface slopes downward such that we must constantly brace ourselves to keep from slipping into the foul sewer-like muck at the bottom. It is completely dark, no light, not even a twinkle. I reach to touch my eyes, to convince myself they are there. I have no idea how long I’ve been here. I have no memory of anything beyond a short while ago but the scabs and scars covering my body indicate some sort of healing, some sort of time that has passed. The darkness is impenetrable. My thirst overcomes me. I slide carefully towards the stench below. I reach out my hand to skim what liquid I can from the surface but strike a reed or stick emerging from it. I grasp the reed to pull it up, examine it, but it pulls back resisting my attempt. I then feel the flow of air in and out, in and out. I grasp it again and tug, but it will not give, it pulls back, unwilling to let go the air from above.

Kenny A. Chaffin – 1/17/2015

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Hey guys. I wanted to share with you the honest answers to all of your writing questions. 

This post is mainly for aspiring authors, and others who want to be a writer, but are unsure of the specifics.

Comments and feedback is greatly appreciated.  

The room was empty. Rafters above huddled and shivered, cobweb covers drawn tight. People danced and caroused in shadows cast by lonesome candles. A single pen lay discarded on the floor. Inked meticulously above the inviting door frame: “drabble frenzy and mini fiction!” The air remains heavy. A head emerges, followed by two shoulders; a traveller, it appears. Wearily he gazes, assessing the room. The beams above peer curiously, the shadows flutter, frenzied, alight with gossip. The traveller sits beside the pen. He casts about for some paper. With a sigh, he begins to write across the floor: “at long last.” 
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