Writing Exercise: Pain

[TheExperimentalist]

If anyone would like to read the whole document, let me know.

 

[TheLobster]

This snippet would probably have the title "Death of the Author".

I'd go with "Sorrows of the Young Writer."

 

[ShelbyDawn57]

Thank the gods Derrick and Steve had been there. I fought back the tears as I washed my makeup from my face, considering the bruise the asshole I’d been dancing with had left on my cheek when he slapped me with the back of his hand. Dancing. We were just dancing, having fun. What the fuck?

Steve grabbed his arm before he could hit me a second time with his fist. Derrick made sure he knew it wasn’t polite to hit a lady. My only satisfaction was knowing my friends had made sure he got the worst of it.

Zed had always been a safe place, as long as you were careful, even for a girl like me. It wasn’t an openly gay club, but it was known to be ‘friendly.’ I guess I could take a bit of the blame… Hell no. Fuck that. We were just dancing. I didn’t give him any idea of having a chance of anything more. Why would he care? Why would it matter? It was just a dance.

But he did. And had it not been for my friends, the cost of my great deception would have been a trip to the emergency room. I knew girls that had been there and decided I was lucky not to be joining them, but fucking hell, why? It just didn’t make any sense, not to me. I didn’t choose this.

I grinned at the thought that Dr. Marshall would have been pissed as hell if the asshole had broken my nose. That made me retrospective. I admired his work, my cute nose and rounded jaw, my decidedly female hairline and smooth throat; no hint of an Adams apple. My breasts were perfect, not huge, but nice and pert. My waist nice and trim flowing down so smooth hips and very nice legs.

I was fucking gorgeous. That asshole should have felt lucky to be dancing with a girl like me.

There, between my legs, the bane of my existence, the source of his ire, his hatred, his anger, his wrath.

“You fucking freak! You goddamn pervert, get away from me!” and his hand found my face. Rage filled his eyes. All because my tuck failed.

I looked at myself in the mirror again. Sure, the bruise would heal. I could cover it with makeup, but the pain in my soul only grew.

Fucking why?

 

[ElectricBlue]

This is an extract from an autobiographical story that I submitted very early to Literotica, almost the reason I joined the site. This coda is matter of fact, the rest of the story more lyrical. But this bit hits the gut (I hope).

One of the great shames of this great southern nation is what the "benevolent white man" did to the aboriginal people. We have a stolen generation who were removed from their parents, dispossessed and a diaspora.

One of the dreadful consequences of this theft of children was a breakdown of marriage within aboriginal people. Because the children had been removed from parents, they might never know who their kin might be. This meant they could never take the risk of marrying another aboriginal person, for that person might be kin, and marrying within kin is the biggest taboo.

Their solution, this tragic generation, was to marry outside their people, marry into the white man. That way, they could never accidentally marry their kin, their cousin, their sister, their brother.

Clio had always said she was half Italian. It was her explanation for her darkness, her dark skin, her black eyes. She may have been half Italian, but I discovered later, so much later, that she has aboriginal blood in her. I don't know how much, she never ever told me, I never knew.

Clio's story is so much more complicated than mine. Her parents were from the stolen generation, and her mother truly had lived a long and hard life, and maybe her husband was Italian. I don't know.

It is an indictment of this country, that even in the late seventies, a little koori girl from a small country town would be scared of the stigma of her race, and would never say who she really was. She never told me, I never knew. The girl with the most beautiful smile in the world.

 

[redgarters]

A snippet from a WIP, since it has been allowed.

The clock on the wall was broken. It had to be. Those last two hours felt like ten.

The room was stuffy and airless. Like the walls were slowly pushing in on me.

There was a paper cup of grey machine coffee in my hands. It tasted like nothing. I drank it anyway. Sipping it gave me something to do.

Then the silence just… took over.

A nurse brought sandwiches. One turkey. One ham. Packaged tight in plastic, with a packet of mayo and mustard.

I opened it. Tried a bite. Couldn’t muster the appetite.

Ash in my mouth.

I looked at the clock for the hundredth time. It was past four. three and a half hours since she’d been shot. Every time I heard someone walk past the door my head snapped up like yanked by strings.

Then nothing.

At some point I started whispering prayers. I wasn’t sure to who. Whoever might be listening. Whoever might help.

Please.

Please let her come back to me.

Please don’t take her away.

I hadn’t prayed in years. Not since I was a kid hiding under the covers, praying for the sounds of yelling and slamming doors to stop. For escape. For my mom’s boyfriends to disappear or something.

Please... just let her live. That’s all. Let her live.

I’ll take anything. I’ll take a wheelchair. I’ll take machines. I’ll take whatever you give me.

Just don’t take her from me.

I don’t know who I meant by “you.” God. The universe. The people in the green scrubs who held her fading life in their hands. Whoever or whatever power was watching. If anyone or anything was.

Just let her come back to me.

Let her come home.

The door opened. I held my breath, staring at the person in the scrubs, standing there looking serious.

No. Please. No.

 

[Kumquatqueen]

I reached for my bedside lamp. Muscles inside my arm clenched their claws, reminding me I didn't want to do that. True, only I didn't want to lie in the dark all day, either.

Attempting to ignore the sharp scratches of muscles resenting any demands, I sat up.

Crunching neck: present and correct, no worse than usual. That cold burn whooshing down my spine, unsurprising. I paused until less light-headed, or rather, until I was bored of waiting and decided I could stumble to the curtains.

Nerves in my calf stabbed me while my opposite ankle tugged, resisting my standing on it. Gripping the bedpost, I ignored that information.

Daylight sprang in; mission achieved. I turned to return to bed, the pressure on my chest making that imperative. A Labrador sitting on your ribs, the doctor described it. Better than the elephant it once had grown into, still heavy. Inflamed lungs oppressed me, more than anything else. A metaphorical weight on the mind, feeling physical, two for the price of one.

The dog went on a diet over the next ten minutes. Enough for me to stand again and step towards the stairs. Ignore the throbbing in the left calf, pay attention to every placement of my right foot so as to stretch the tendon in a good way, not wrenching it further. Five, six. Down the stairs, right foot first onto every step. Mark the pelvis complaining about being pulled out of alignment, push my sacrum back into place at the end, perform two twisting exercises to keep my physio-terrorist happy more than because they did any good.

I reached the kettle. It needed water. I tensed, helping my shoulder to scream as little as possible. Not so bad when I lifted it; horrible pinch as it filled. I dropped it in relief. While it boiled, I performed calf stretches, hoping in vain to alleviate their painful hypertension.

Resting the kettle on the countertop, to avoiding its weight when pouring, I carefully left space for sloshes as I collapsed on the sofa, panting with the effort.

Half an hour to make tea.

Anyway, good morning. How are you?

 

[Kumquatqueen]

I may have taken the title a bit literally, reading shortly after waking up this morning.

 

[ADirtyPerv]

I held my wife's hand, supporting her as she waddled to the fridge, in search of more pickles. Always the pickles. She glowed, always radiant, especially now. Her belly was huge, she couldn't even properly bend to get the pickles, but she insisted -- it might finally kick off her labor!

Who the fuck carries twins to full term?

Deanna, apparently. Unfortunately.

Thirty-nine weeks and three days. Those little balls of love were healthy as can be, as was Deanna. Textbook pregnancy. They had scheduled her inducement for the full forty weeks, refusing to budge; she was moving around, all day, every day, trying to kick things off sooner. We really needed to bring them home a few days early. It mattered.

I had placed the pickles on the bottom shelf on purpose.

"Hup!" she exclaimed, performing her awkward half-bend, half-squat to grab the jar. "I'm getting pretty good at this balance thing," she said, trying for a playful smile, but it came out as a grimace.

"Mhmm," I said, smiling back at her, equally stilted. I checked my phone.

"How is he?" she asked.

"Lucid. Rachel's playing cards with him."

"You won't fly home?" she asked yet again. "Go say goodbye?"

I just shook my head. We'd had this conversation before. "He'll hang in there. He will."

Colon cancer doesn't have symptoms, it turns out, until you're already almost dead. This past month had taken a very dark turn, indeed. Joyful anticipation had turned into a race against the clock, in hopes of letting my dad at least see pictures of his first grandchildren. He was teetering on a knife's edge, each day more likely to be his last.

I breathed. Just breathed. "Another walk?"

Deanna smiled, tense as piano wire. "Sure. And then maybe some sexy times? See if you can knock them loose."

I barked a laugh, holding onto my one lifeline in this sudden sea of fear, just as she held onto me. "That sounds good."

We would get through it. I looked down at her, and I just knew we would. Somehow. For now, we would take things a single hour at a time...and just hope.

 

[ShelbyDawn57]

Thank the gods Derrick and Steve had been there. I fought back the tears as I washed my makeup from my face, considering the bruise the asshole I’d been dancing with had left on my cheek when he slapped me with the back of his hand. Dancing. We were just dancing, having fun. What the fuck?

Steve grabbed his arm before he could hit me a second time with his fist. Derrick made sure he knew it wasn’t polite to hit a lady. My only satisfaction was knowing my friends had made sure he got the worst of it.

Zed had always been a safe place, as long as you were careful, even for a girl like me. It wasn’t an openly gay club, but it was known to be ‘friendly.’ I guess I could take a bit of the blame… Hell no. Fuck that. We were just dancing. I didn’t give him any idea of having a chance of anything more. Why would he care? Why would it matter? It was just a dance.

But he did. And had it not been for my friends, the cost of my great deception would have been a trip to the emergency room. I knew girls that had been there and decided I was lucky not to be joining them, but fucking hell, why? It just didn’t make any sense, not to me. I didn’t choose this.

I grinned at the thought that Dr. Marshall would have been pissed as hell if the asshole had broken my nose. That made me retrospective. I admired his work, my cute nose and rounded jaw, my decidedly female hairline and smooth throat; no hint of an Adams apple. My breasts were perfect, not huge, but nice and pert. My waist nice and trim flowing down so smooth hips and very nice legs.

I was fucking gorgeous. That asshole should have felt lucky to be dancing with a girl like me.

There, between my legs, the bane of my existence, the source of his ire, his hatred, his anger, his wrath.

“You fucking freak! You goddamn pervert, get away from me!” and his hand found my face. Rage filled his eyes. All because my tuck failed.

I looked at myself in the mirror again. Sure, the bruise would heal. I could cover it with makeup, but the pain in my soul only grew.

Fucking why?

@StillStunned It just occurred to em that I should have written this in second person.

 

[EmilyMiller]

Writing Exercise: Pain​

I keep reading this as how to write about exercise-related injuries

 

[dirk2024]

@StillStunned It just occurred to em that I should have written this in second person.

What? To bring even more pain into the experience?

 

[EmilyMiller]

I winced, the initial impact took my breath away. For a few seconds it was just the shock of that filling my brain. Then sharp white light morphed into aching burning redness. As red as I knew the welt on my ass would be. “One,” I said through gritted teeth.

“I’m sorry,” said the Principal, “I can’t hear you.”

“I said, one,” I began, but my ears were then full of the swish and crack. And my nerves full of molten iron. I tried not to yell an expletive. That would just lead to and extended punishment. I breathed deeply and said, “Two,” as clearly as I could manage.

I desperately wanted to grip my injured butt cheeks, to alleviate the pain by squeezing or caressing flesh. But that would have meant the bamboo across my hands, and I couldn’t take that.

Swish - crack!

My body involuntarily jerked. The blow had landed in the same place as one of the two previous ones. “Fuck,” I said under my breath.

“What?” demanded the sharp-eared Principal.

“Nothing, I mean three, OW!” I couldn’t help the exclamation, it had been the hardest one yet.

“Four,” I sniveled.

“Now pull your underwear down!”

I obeyed, dreading the last two strokes.

Swish - crack!

“Five,” I wailed, now crying.

Swish - crack!

“Six,” I sobbed. “Thank you.”

“That’s perfectly OK, dear,” said my wife. “Now aren’t you going to ask me about my day at school? Now that we have your little… ritual… out of the way.”

“Of course, dear,” I replied, pulling up my boxers and pants. “And could we maybe, you know, later, maybe?”

“We’ll see. You will have to be a very good boy though.”

“I do try,” I replied.

 

[VerbalAbuse]

Here's mine (because I know at least half a dozen of you witty people already want to do this):

Pain au chocolat

Paul Brouzet made the best pains au chocolat in town. Everyone acknowledged that. They melted on the tongue to dissolve into a blend of flavours and aromas. They were buttery, flaky, sweet and yet satisfying enough to keep a person going from breakfast to lunch. They were, simply put, the best.

Paul was proud of them, but he never told anyone why he’d put so much effort into perfecting them. When asked, he’d laugh and shrug. “Luck,” he’d say, “and the blessings of the baking gods.”

The truth was actually quite simple. Above the shop across from his boulangerie was an apartment, and in that apartment lived Marie. Marie was small and lithe, with dark curls and dark eyes, and every morning she opened her door, crossed the street and came up to Paul’s counter.

“Un pain,” she’d say, pointing at the stack of pains de chocolat.

And Paul would smile and select one for her – the best one of the day – and then pass it to her wrapped in a paper napkin. She’d take it in one hand and walk off with a wave to him, taking the first bite on her way to work.

But Paul yearned for more. He wanted to be part of her life – a bigger part than simply the man who baked her breakfast. He wanted to bring her breakfast as she woke, and sit on her bed while she ate it and they discussed the day ahead, and then kissed and went their separate ways until the day ended and they were together again, and kissed and told each other how their days had been.

And this day would be the first step. Today, he would ask her to have drinks with him after work. Today he would become part of her life.

So when Marie’s door opened and he saw her crossing the street, he took a deep breath and smiled. “Un pain?”

But she shook her head, turning to look as her door opened again and a man appeared, juggling a coat and a covered coffee mug. Then she turned back to Paul. “Deux.”

clearly a failure. 0*.

 

[PapaRomantic]

From my Valentine's story, "To the Very End"

We had our last conversation with each other on a Tuesday. Her voice was just a whisper, but I knew she wanted to say something because she lightly squeezed my hand. To be able to hear her, I stood up and leaned over her bed, so her whispers came right to my ear.

“Lucas, I’m sure my time is up. I need to tell you one more time how incredibly lucky I was to have you in your car that day outside the park. I’m certain that nobody else would have immediately accepted me in their life like you did and love me even though I didn’t have long to live.

“But you did. I still don’t fully know why, but I’m glad you did. I feel like we had a lifetime of experiences in our few short months. And I know we shared a lifetime of love.”

I fought to hold back the tears as I replied, “Baby, loving you was so easy, because you loved me as much as I loved you. I wish I had so much more time with you, but I’m so thankful for the time we shared. You will always be in my heart, my love.”

She managed a tiny smile as she said, “Thank you for loving me, Lucas. Thank you for sticking with me and giving me the best months of my life. I love you more than you could possibly know.”

She closed her eyes as I bent down to give her a kiss. I could feel the waves of grief and pain mounting up, but I refused to let them overtake me as long as she was with me. I did it for her – and I did it for me.

She never opened her eyes again. At 3:25 a.m. on January 15, Misty gasped lightly a couple of times. I watched as her chest quit expanding, and her breathing stopped. She lay still, in pain no more. Misty was gone, and I sat back in my chair and sobbed…

 

[AG31]

I see that this is no longer strictly limited to new writing.

But I find I still don't have anything I want to publish as a contribution. Given that almost all of my stories are dark BDSM, and probably all include pain at some point, this seemed odd to me.

I figured out that the pain in my stories is there to evoke submission, not to dwell on the physical sensations. So the relevant scenes are not really "about" pain.

 

[StillStunned]

I may have taken the title a bit literally, reading shortly after waking up this morning.

Your snippet read a lot like Joe Abercrombie describing Inquisitor Glokta going down the stairs.

 

[Kumquatqueen]

Your snippet read a lot like Joe Abercrombie describing Inquisitor Glokta going down the stairs.

Never heard of him - the books sound rather grim. Are they any good?

He walks with a hunch, limping and leaning heavily on a cane, wincing with every step; stairs are his bitter enemy. - I'm not hunched and the stick is for balance, gesticulation and style, but I'm with him on the stairs! At least I've got better teeth!

 

[StillStunned]

Never heard of him - the books sound rather grim. Are they any good?

He walks with a hunch, limping and leaning heavily on a cane, wincing with every step; stairs are his bitter enemy. - I'm not hunched and the stick is for balance, gesticulation and style, but I'm with him on the stairs! At least I've got better teeth!

The books are styled "grimdark", but mostly what that means is that the characters are very realistic. It's a shitty world, and everyone is just trying to get by.

Joe Abercrombie is excellent at writing characters who are multiple shades of grey. I found myself sucked in from the very start.

If you have the patience for audiobooks, Steven Pacey - who playes Tarrant in the last two series of Blake's 7 - brings the characters to life even more. You can probably check out a 5-min preview on Audible.

 

[Erozetta]

I started a new snippet and before I knew it it was in the 750 range.

It's now at 1600 words. I reckon it'll be around 2k when I submit it in about an hour.