/lit/ - Literature

A letter appeared under my door this morning. It contained a paper carefully folded, with only two words written on it, like two black eyes staring at me.
"Love you", where the exact words.
I'll never open my basement's door ever again.

In ancient times, there was the belif that comets, those flashing light balls that not so usually brightens the night sky, were prophets of the misfortune. A new and brief star was the prelude to the death of a king, a bloody and brutal war or some lethal plague. None of those events were on my mind when I saw, for the first time, that shine that accompanied the sunrise, like a tear made of light spilled from the mountains, defying gravity, towards the orange sky. Too big to be a star, too bright to be an airplane, I wanted to look at it more detail, but the bus that took me to work just passed by and I could not give me the luxury of missing it. Inside the hurried vehicle I could no longer saw it.

The routine made me forget that singular event. Even so, the mysterious star appeared again the next morning. It looked like it was some centimeters lower, almost touching the horizon trimmed by the surrounding mounts. It also seemed more shining than the previous day. I could even say that it were closer. That day I asked to my fellow workers if they had seen the same thing, but in our world, not many people raises their head. I also commented it to my mother, when I returned home, but she hardly paid me attention. She were still worried about my father, who had left some days ago to climb one of the mountains that surrounded our town. Seeing her like this makes me depressed. My father is out-of-shape since years ago to climb like he did in his youth. He tells my mother that he's going to climb, as a excuse to go out with some of his lovers. I think that my mother already knows that, and disguises the situation to avoid a greater problem, or to preserve her fragile happiness, I don't know for sure. I don't think I'm able to judge them by their actions.

>>502561
A letter appeared under my door this morning. It contained a paper carefully folded, with only two words written on it, like two black eyes staring at me.
>two black eyes is cliche

"Love you", where the exact words.
I'll never open my basement's door ever again

>basement door, not bsement's door

>>502564
The day after that, the star didn't appear, neither the day later. With only two appearances, that one event managed to get a considerable space in my thoughts, even if it was only as entertainment. The disappearance of that shine coincided with the beginning of a series of terrible insomniac nights. Lying down, uncomfortable, on my bed, I could hear all the noises that my house made when being compressed by the cold. The squeaking of the wood furniture, the running of the water within the pipes, an insect moving frenetically its legs, the erratic movement of my mothen in her bed. Those smooth sound that shared with me the nights of my childhood. With their spaced and irregular rate, slowly, they made me calm and managed to make me enter a pleasant sleep. Every night my mother rose and went towards the kitchen to drink a glass of water. A little, though unbreakable ritual that only take a few minutes, which my insomnia made me recall when hearing it again. The subsequent nights I began to pay more attention to that ritual, being aware, not without surprise, that as the days went on, it would took more time and strange sound were coming from the kitchen.

>>502566
My father still had not returned, and my mother was more decayed every day., as if the insomnia that tormented me was attacking her with more strenght. Distressed, I inquired intensely on her state, but she refused to give me an answer. Nothing happens, she said, althugh her face would demonstrate me the opposite. What could possibly be the dilemma that disturbes her? Could she discovered my father's secret, and what anguish her is thinking about how she has to react on the matter? I whas having those thoughts, entretaining my mind while I tried to sleep, when I heard her shifting through her blankets, then anxious feet exploring the floor, a door that opens, slippers that rhythmically went to the kitchen and another door that smoothly closes. Then, water running. I stand up stealthly from my bed, prepared to break the privacy of that ritual. With the stoneware freezing my feet, I brought myself closer to the kitchen's door, and with a slight movement I opened it a few centimeters to be able to abserv the secrets that it hid. Even today I wish that what I saw that time (and on the countless times that I spied on her again) were only product of my feeble imagination. The ghost of my father, pale, ethereal, were harassing my terrified mother with a furious face, dark and inhuman. The eyes of my mother were red and dry of tears, while she were on her knees there, with her hands on her face, silent. The ghost of my father only repeated: "Why didn't you come looking for me? I know you saw the emergency flare that I shoot! I love you... Why didn't you come...?"

I'm still walking the same roads, and still looking at the sky with horror. There are some mornings in which, slightly over the clouds and joingin the raising sun, the star appears again, just to not let us forget. To make us remember that he is still there.

>>502564
In ancient times, there was the belif that
>belief, not belif
comets, those flashing light balls that not so
>flashing light balls is just stupid, revise
usually brightens the night sky, were prophets of the misfortune. A new and brief star was the prelude to the death of a king, a bloody and brutal war or some lethal plague. None of those events were on my mind when I saw, for the first time, that shine that accompanied the sunrise, like a tear made of light spilled from the mountains, defying gravity, towards the orange sky.
>wat. please, just give a better description. thessaurus, because it just falls flat.
Too big to be a star, too bright to be an airplane, I wanted to look at it more detail, but the bus that took me to work just passed by and I could not give me the luxury of missing it. Inside the hurried vehicle I could no longer saw it.

The routine made me forget that singular event. Even so, the mysterious star appeared again the next morning. It looked like it was some centimeters lower, almost touching the horizon trimmed by the surrounding mounts. It also seemed more shining than the previous day. I could even say that it were closer. That day I asked to my fellow workers if they had seen the same thing, but in our world, not many people raises their head.
>raise, not raises
I also commented it to my mother, when I returned home, but she hardly paid me attention. She were still worried about my father, who had left some days ago to climb one of the mountains that surrounded our town. Seeing her like this makes me depressed. My father is out-of-shape since years ago to climb like he did in his youth. He tells my mother that he's going to climb, as a excuse to go out with some of his lovers. I think that my mother already knows that
>change that into this

>>502565
thanks for the corrections.

That was a try into the shallow realms of the creepypasta. It isn't a surprise that some clichès got their way around.

, and disguises the situation to avoid a greater problem, or to preserve her fragile happiness, I don't know for sure.
>too mant commas
I don't think I'm able to judge them by their actions.

The day after that, the star didn't appear, neither the day later. With only two appearances, that one event managed to get a considerable space in my thoughts, even if it was only as entertainment.
>managed to get a considerable space in my thoughts is awkward, revise

The disappearance of that shine coincided with the beginning of a series of terrible insomniac nights.
>a series of terrible insomniac nights is too wordy, just insomniac nights will do.

Lying down, uncomfortable, on my bed, I could hear all the noises that my house made when being compressed by the cold.
>compressed by the cold? wat

The squeaking of the wood furniture, the running of the water within the pipes, an insect moving frenetically its legs, the erratic movement of my mothen in her bed.
>mother, not mothen

Those smooth sound that shared with me the nights of my childhood.
>sounds, not sound

With their spaced and irregular rate, slowly, they made me calm and managed to make me enter a pleasant sleep. Every night my mother rose and went towards the kitchen to drink a glass of water. A little, though unbreakable ritual that only take a few minutes,
>too wordy, either remove little or unbreakable

which my insomnia made me recall when hearing it again. The subsequent nights I began to pay more attention to that ritual, being aware, not without surprise, that as the days went on, it would took more time and strange sound were coming from the kitchen.

>>502572
>>502582
Thanks a lot for your corrections, anon. You're like a little editor.

>>502582
My father still had not returned, and my mother was more decayed every day, as if the insomnia that tormented me was attacking her with more strenght.
>decayed? wat. The colour out of space? and strength is a typo

Distressed, I inquired intensely on her state, but she refused to give me an answer.
>overwordy. Intensly can be removed

Nothing happens, she said,
>add quotation marks, she's talking. weak dialogue

althugh her face would demonstrate me the opposite.
>typo although

What could possibly be the dilemma that disturbes her?
>typo disturbs

Could she discovered my father's secret, and
>could she HAVE discovered

what anguish her is thinking about how she has to react on the matter? I whas having those
>typo was
thoughts, entretaining my mind while I tried to
>typo entertaining
sleep, when I heard her shifting through her blankets, then anxious feet exploring the floor, a door that opens,
>you're shifting tense now, rephrase "a door that opens"

slippers that rhythmically went to the kitchen and another door that smoothly closes. Then, water running. I stand up stealthly from my bed, prepared to break the privacy of that ritual. With the stoneware freezing my feet,
>just stoneware, not THE STONEWARE. freezing is a weak modifier, anyhow

I brought myself closer to the kitchen's door, and with a slight movement I opened it a few centimeters to be able to abserv the secrets
>typo observe
that it hid. Even today I wish that what I saw that time (and on the countless times that I spied on her again) were only product of my feeble imagination. The ghost of my father, pale, ethereal, were harassing my terrified mother
>change were to was

>>502598
with a furious face, dark and inhuman. The eyes of my mother were red and dry of tears,
>fry of tears? rephrase

while she were on her knees there, with her hands on her face, silent. The ghost of my father only repeated: "Why didn't you come looking for me? I know you saw the emergency flare that I shoot! I love you... Why didn't you come...?"
>this is somewhat melodramatic. It's even better if you leave the dialogue unsaid.mystery is a hallmark of lovecraftian

I'm still walking the same roads, and still
looking at the sky with horror.
>I, not I'm. And rephrase looking at the sky with horror

There are some mornings in which, slightly over the clouds and joingin the raising sun, the star
>typo joining

appears again, just to not let us forget. To make us remember that he is still there.
>a wonderful concept, poorly executed. Work on creating natural-flowing phrases, and it'll benefit greatly

>>502591
appreciated, anon.

>>502601
Thanks again for all the advice. I think this particular story doesn't benefit at all by the translation. Somehow it seemed slightly more flowing in it's original language (spanish, btw), and also loses all the little metaphores like 'dry of tears', that in spanish means that one have cried so much that 'the eyes ran out of tears'. Anyways, your advice gave me some things to rethink and, hopefully, get a little better with the writting in general.

>>502630
ah, okay. Kinda reminded me of 1000 years of solitude mixed with jap horror, to be honest. Nice plot concept