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| 19 Feb 2012 09:23 AM |
“A deathly scene it was, truly a sight to behold. Blood on the floor, the walls, the very heavens themselves full of the stench of rotting human juices, and pain. Skulls, piled one upon the other, two grisly pillars, held with human sinew, making a crude “gateway” of sorts. Every once and a while, blood drips from that gateway. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. I stood watching, revulsion in my eyes. I could not think clearly, the terrible sight overwhelming all my senses. I felt fear then, real fear. Fear of knowing there are people in this world who would do this. I was violently sick, watching this grim altar of sacrifice. I walk through the gateway of skulls, trying not to think about how they seemed to be grinning at me, beckoning me in... My senses seem to come back to me for a while, long enough to get a good long look at the bodies after the gruesome gateway. Two bodies. These aren't any ordinary bodies. They have a lack of all skin. No skin left. Leaving me to see the insides and organs and blood. Uncountable amount of blood. I then vaguely remember my feet slipping on the blood, falling down, a sharp crack, and then nothing..... I was nine at the time.” The man pauses, holding the quill contemplatively. There was always silence, a great silence, a deep, subtle, knowing silence, so sad and forlorn. Yet powerful and omnipotent, chocking out all attempts at happiness... always there, yet not always noticeable. He tried covering it with accounts of his past on paper, hoping that it may bring back laughter and joy, terror and hate, anything, besides this powerful knowing silence. He puts his hand on his white hair, but stops himself, hoping to finish his writing before he goes completely mad. He stares at the page numbly for a couple of seconds, sighing and reflecting upon his bloodstained past, thinking of all he has done, the friends he had to sacrifice, and how far he has come, Rising so high, but with wings made of wax. The sun has melted his wings and he has fallen, leaving a broken man, once so proud and powerful, Full of hopes and ambitions, now writing is all he has left... He dips the quill in the ink, and start writing, hoping that the words put on paper might drown out the deep silence that he has grown to dread, and starts scratching the paper with his quill. _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ I wrote this on a plane trip once, then posted it on an alt of mine. I recently edited it again, and am going to type the next part soon.
Comments? Constructive criticism? Ideas on where the story should go? Post them.
No one wins a butter eating contest. |
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Graulas
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| Joined: 26 Nov 2010 |
| Total Posts: 8634 |
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| 19 Feb 2012 10:09 AM |
Graucias.
No one wins a butter eating contest. |
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AbCatchem
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| Joined: 20 Nov 2010 |
| Total Posts: 31757 |
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| 19 Feb 2012 10:19 AM |
Very grim and gruesome. The description is amazing, very eerie! I like it! |
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LoganB
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| Joined: 18 Apr 2008 |
| Total Posts: 2782 |
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| 19 Feb 2012 10:37 AM |
| We need to get him to the rubber room. |
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| 19 Feb 2012 10:55 AM |
Thanks.
No one wins a butter eating contest. |
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| 26 Feb 2012 12:37 PM |
...
I've got nothing.
Derp.
No one wins a butter eating contest. |
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