> This is a story I wrote for workshop, it is 728 words, which is important since, as a piece of flash fiction is needs to be under 750 words. Please tell me what you think, I won't hear from the rest of the class till Tuesday.

A few technical points:

> A Night with Poe
>
> It was on Jan. 15th that I, Jack Phoebe, found myself locked in the library after midnight during the worst ice storm in twenty years. I had fallen asleep, and was awoken by the storm.

Instead of "awoken", try awakened.

> The library was dark; the lights left on when the librarian left went out when the ice had pulled down the power lines. Fortunately I had a small flashlight on my key chain.

"Fortunately, I..."

> As I sat in the darkness I considered my options. I couldn't leave.

"...darkness, I..."

> I'd be soaked and frozen before I could get halfway home. I resolved to wait out the storm were I was. I could get out in the morning.
> I listened to the storm, the roaring of the wind, the slashing of the ice against the windows, and the blasts of trees breaking under the strain of the ice.
> Not expecting to fall asleep again that night I chose to continue reading.

"...night, I..."

> I was reading Edgar Allan Poe.
> As I read tales of black cats and macabre masquerades I started to hear another sound.

"...masquerades, I..."

> A sound that had nothing to do with the storm outside.
> Whumpha. Whumpha.
> I was determined not to pay attention to the sound; I wasn't going to let my imagination run away with me. I poured myself into the tales, trying to block out the sound with black birds and live burials.
> Whumpha. Whumpha.
> The sound was increasing in volume steadily, despite myself I began to sweat.

"...steadily; despite..." or "...steadily. Despite..."

> My mind raced.
> Whumpha. Whumpha.
> I found myself convinced I was not dreaming. Something was making the sound, something that was coming towards the dark corner in which I was cowering.
> Whumpha. Whumpha!
> Terror griped me.

Gripped. Griped = complained.

> My psyche reeled. My mouth felt dry, my palms were sweaty.

"...dry; my..."

> I thought of the tales and poems I had read the terror, the death, and the madness.

Hmm. A comma could come after "read", since it could be a list of things the character was thinking of. I might put a semicolon instead, even though it makes a sentence fragment; I tend to overlook those in fiction.

> Whumpha! Whumpha!
> My mind latched on the last thought, madness.

"...thought: madness."

> That was most often the thrust of Poe's stories, the characters went mad, with despair, anger, or terror.

Again, hmmm. I would put either a colon or semicolon after "stories."

> I felt myself grow stronger. I refused to go mad.
> Whumpha! Whumpha!
> I rose from my seat and searched my book bag, looking for something to defend myself with. Nothing seemed likely to work as a weapon, until I laid hands on my history text, a large book that would serve well as a club.
> Whumpha! Whumpha!
> I stepped out of the reading room, flashlight in one hand and book in the other. I scanned the darkness. Nothing unusual was there.
> Whumpha.
> Suddenly the sound stopped. The silence struck me like a brick. I had thought nothing could be more terrible than that sound, but the silence was worse.
> I moved through the library, searching for the thing. The silence pressed on me. I couldn't stand it. I talked to myself.
> "Come on Jack, don't freak out. In a few more hours we can get out of here. Just look around, there is nothing here. Oh God, what the hell was that sound?"
> I kept up a running string of chatter as I stalked the isles. The bookshelves loomed over me, with a claustrophobic effect. I felt like I was trapped in a tomb.
> I came to the front of the library and checked behind the desk finding nothing. If there was anything in the library aside from myself it was in the office. The door was ajar.
> I entered, slowly. As I swept the light across the room I saw it. It was vaguely human, but the limbs were too long and thin. It wore no clothes and had no hair. It looked at me as the light struck it; its eyes were over large and gills flapped on its neck. It was rooting in the refrigerator.
> "Whumpha urgha!" it groaned through those gills as it leapt on top of the fridge.
> Spinning on my heals I ducked out of the room and slammed the door.

"heels", unless you're playing an RPG. ;-)

> I guarded that door all night. Come dawn the sheriff came to let me out, my parents had called during the storm.

"...dawn, the...", assuming Come dawn isn't his name.

> I told him about the thing. I could see he didn't believe me. He opened the door. It was gone. The window was smashed and fridge was open.
> No one believes my story. They think I did it. But I know the truth, that I wasn't the only one in the library that ferocious January night.
>
>
> Sen'Whumpha. Whumpha.'try

Other than that, and that which was pointed out in another part of this thread, good story.

Nyperold