Tisch application, Dramatic story, advice please~


New Member
Super excited to send my first thread!

I'm Layla. This is my first draft dramatic story. To be honest, I am not so sure about format and my way of storytelling....So if you guys have time and patience to finish these 3 pages, I'd be honored to hear your advice.

Thanks in advance!!!


The sky was so cloudy as if a strong hand coming down to crash him. He rushed into a cave. Breathless, face pale, thighs shaking, sweating like a towel, he felt the sword on his back weighed a million pounds.

Ding! It’s the sound of that men cutting. The cave submerged him like dark icy water. He stood for a while to easy his breath and to wake up his eagle-like eyes. Ding! Ding! Sparkles, bloody red, bloomed one after another in the end of the cave. He could gradually see……

White sleeves waving like wings of butterfly. In that loose cope is a man with a chisel in his right hand and a hammer in the left. He must have heard the comer so he decided not to turn back. As he raised up the chisel, the comer saw his bony hand and took a step back.

Suddenly he turned back. Two pairs of burning eyes crashed. Sword out.

Finally, after all these years, it is time to put an end to it.

There wasn’t one day he gave up practising since mother gave him this sword.

His father died when mother was still pregnant. Killed by his enemy, taken home with only one last breath. Father diped his own blood, wrote down the name of that enemy on mother’s arm, and left. Mother picked up his sword.

On the day he was tall enough to reach that red oleander on the edge of roof, the sword was given to him, along with a tattoo of that enemy’s name on his arm.

“Never forget this name. Go find and kill him for your father.”

That became the only purpose of his life.

He never called father’s name once. He didn’t know father just like he did not know that enemy. If one day he actually finds that enemy, there is nothing he can do but to kill him. Sometimes he prefered to be killed. Sometimes he appeciated that enemy. Sometimes he felt he was borrowing that enemy’s name to live.

“But I have to revenge. I’ll know it’s you when we met!”

Unluckily, he killed the wrong man and was hunted. On that rainy night, he had no choice but to break into that temple. The monk saw him. Just after he ducked behind the statue, hunters came.

“Why didn’t you tell on me?” He said, wiping his sword, covered in a blanket the mank gave him.“I killed a man.”

“It’s not your fault.” The monk was diping honey with a bun. He smiled like a honey bear, with eyes narrowed. Honey monk, he gave him a secret name.

“Could you please ask Buddha where I could find my enemy for me?”

The monk satisfiedly finished his bun, stood up and bowed to salute. How silly am I! He thought to himself.

The monk straightened up and pointed to a montain on the east.

He almost faint down. Part of him knew it was him before entering the cave. Him, the honey monk.

Ding! The monk raised up his hammer. White sleeve slid down, revealing an obvious tattoo on his arm.

It’s father’s name.

All of a sudden, he could see nothing but that name. Every stroke of it sparkled with his heart beat. He even forgot his sword. He shrinked and shrinked until became cloud. Then he came back again and back again until his body was filled with his own soul.

He looked down. In front of his feet were a hammer and a chisel. He kept up his sword and picked up the hammer. As he walked to the monk, the monk moved aside a little to make room for him. Two drops of tear shined down his face.

Father died at that moment, he believed. Killed peacefully by his betray.

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