Short Stories/Snippets that were made from Writing Contests

Couldn't Drown My Wrath, But I'd Rather Stay Mad

When he came to, blinking away the haze and standing up unsteadily, looking around with a muddled expression. Grabbing onto the edge of a table to steady himself, he eyed the clearly rotting furnitures and hanged picture frames, collecting dust and were indistinguishable with the amount of dust covering it. He didn't know where he was, nor could he remember either but a nagging and buzzing something had whispered to him that he had lived here - that he should know what this place was and where he was, but it seems that his lack of memory disregarded any validation for that. So he stood there in the middle of what he assumes to be the kitchen, he took in his surroundings in a daze whilst trying to collect himself, he may not know where he was or what this place was but he could feel a sense of familiarity from the room alone. A feeling of a nostalgic memory seemed to have scratched at the surfaces of the confines of his conscious mind; a warm yellow luminous light peeking through the curtains of the window, a steaming cup of coffee held firmly in his bare smooth and gentle (human?) hands, the warmth of the sun that greeted them (them?) with it's bright light that rose from within the horizon and the black coffee that he drank brought such a fulfilling warmth to his stomach. The amount of such warmth and contentedness had him deeply breathing in, an unexplainable feeling of stuffiness in his cold and still chest made him stumble, he drew out a shuddering breath, blinking and shaking his head as if to pull himself to reality before moving to step out of the room.

Walking around the table and through a door way, he stepped into what he assumed was the living room, he took a glance back towards the kitchen then looked back down to his hands. His hands were covered with black gloves made of a smooth - almost silk-like fabric, but even with it on he can tell, can see and feel that his hands - that he is not human. Whatever he had envisioned could've only been a far-fetched dream, an unrealistic and unimaginable image of a scenery that was so... human, his memory was lacking, he knows that but for his own mind to show him such humanity--

It's unreal and - and ideal for him.

Dropping his gloved (not human) hands, he walked into the middle of the living room, observing every aged furniture and vintage objects placed on top of drawers and the fireplace that was attached to the wall, covered picture frames hanged up on the walls. The paint wrinkled and was peeling itself off the walls, dark smoke flickering within his peripheral vision, pushing it back and away from his face and shoving down the feeling of distress. The discomfort of knowing he has no way of controlling anything from this situation, because this is reality and not a dream nor someone's mind space.

His eyes landed on a bookshelf and as if he was drawn to it, he walked towards it. The wooden floorboards creaked against each step, stabbing through the silence within the room as he reached over and taking out a book, blowing off some dust from it he swiped his gloved hand across the hard cover of the book.

'The Hamlet' He read 'by William Faulkner'

A sudden feeling of being submerged in water consumed him, if there were sounds and wherever it's coming from, he couldn't here it. The background was blurry and dark, the room being dimly lit by the fiery bright embers of the sparking and crackling fire within the hearth, warmth enveloping him and the other person sitting comfortably in front of him as they spoke, their soft, nimble hands worked and moved with such precision; knitting as they spoke of how their day went, but despite the melodic and sweet sound of their voice, it sounded muffled and he couldn't clearly hear or form any words of​​​ what they were saying. A book was in his hands, the smell of parchment, pine wood and kindle soothed him, half-heartedly reading and barely forming and registering any words from the book he held and was placed snuggly on his lap, as most of his attention was on the other that sat across from him. He couldn't hear what they were saying and his ears felt like they were covered in cotton and his vision tunneled to the ink printed text in the book, his sight never leaving it, eyes landing on a line he's read many times.
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"Brevity is the soul of wit"