Post by Silas on Jul 11, 2010 13:04:29 GMT -5
A piece I wrote for a class a while back. I was still working on phrasing/making the piece easy to read so some of the sentences get confusing. Anyway, I've only had once critique on it, and it was from a professor whose opinion might not count. You might notice the style is similar to Poe's, but that's because it is supposed to be. :3 I wrote it as sort of my one attempt at such a thing. The plot is darker themed, it might have what some would call gruesome, but I hope you guys like it. Anyone who wants to critique it, I would welcome it, although I just barely posted it up due to some of the sentences, so I do realise it doesn't flow very well in some places xD Anyway, go crazy.///
Why is it you call me demon? None has felt what I have, none can dare see what I have, yet still your tongue brings forth that putrid pseudonym of your own make. Here, I stand on the ere of mine own destruction, and I tell to you that I have been persecuted, demoralised, and loathed by all whom stand in my path. Lonely is the road by which I follow, sorrow fills it with the dark muses which wish nothing more than to ensnare me in their pitfalls. Yet no fate awaits me but this, so it is with a heart trapped within dark nets which I myself wove from the inequities of my crimes, by which let my cadaver lies for eternity.
Even when it comes to my mind there is little regret for that which I chose to do, and my mind has slowly, so slowly came to affirm the decisions cast so long ago. Neither death, nor life can take back those acts, therefore the only true path which lies in front of me is forward. With burdened heart nary, I must travel this road alone, for the harbouring of hate is of a man whom has regrets, which I refuse to be. Since first I travelled from the prospects of my benefactor, to that auspicious little home where there sat a sinister man ready to call my foul, there has ever been content in my heart. Thousands of things should I be, but demon, monster, and hated I should not; for you know not of what it is I have wrought. Perhaps in vain it was conceived, for in it I desired for my own thane like aspirations, and it was in these wherein I found a vocation henceforth unknown.
One might claim his own stake in the creation of this power; however, in the passions I arose, no one, not even you can take a share in its demands. Therefore in full assurance I sat longingly on the jurisdiction henceforth denied to me by those who would think me frail, or impotent, as my mind curled over the thoughts of those around me. In a perfect moment I wrapped my fingers, long and dark around the throat of a man whose pretence was that of a perfect gentleman. Fire, thick like plumes of smoke which withered around me scorched from his eyes, and my fingers could feel the cold of his neck still to this moment. Victim of the time was he? Of course not, such calculations did I conceive, so shorthanded did I weave the net about him that even now no part of me can help but marvel at the level of skill put forth into the demonstration.
Even now the touch of skin under my fingernails, the smell of sweat lingering in the air, and adrenaline danced upon the inner workings of my mind as my hand wrapped around the knife in palm. Not even the hilt on it could cover the feel of steel on my skin, and the pretty workings on it could not hide its true intent; death.
“And do you know, what it is like. A thousand deaths, a thousand lies. All in screams of a child’s eyes? Sing to me this symphony,” With riddled words, and a riddled tongue, the knife went to this young man’s throat. A metaphor more sound than Beethoven, and more obscure than Mr. Heim.
Lightly I pressed upon his skin, as I could feel his heart beat rise in tempo, the rhythmic thump gain more and more speed as he protested, “What is it you want from me.”
Yet, his scream meant none to me, for my mind was already set like an eagle soaring over its prey and my only response was, “Your soul.”
A scream went into that night, it echoed into the fringes of sanity for just a second as it was silence forever, and this finite state caught up to him. Thin gloves encased my hand, dripped with red blood, and felt like a sheet of glass upon me. Blood still spilled out, yet the body was limp in my hand, and time was not on my side right now. Haste would have to be of the essence for still there was that small chance that perhaps I may arrive at my abode quick enough to breakfast with my peers, rather than have to make an excuse for my absence. For my not being in my bed at morning might be some cause for disturbance which I would not like to explain to those who awaited my swift arrival. And now my demonstration was over, so I could leave this place.
For truly, that was simply what it was; a demonstration of the might by which I would devastate the world, and in their woe they would come to me. Theirs’ would be that of those whom deserve the fate which I dealt, theirs’ would be the pain of the world embodied. So, not lightly did I venture to the state of aspiration, not for that of friend, but of vigilante. Death could only come to those whom I deemed unworthy of life, and there is no qualms with the corrections I made, for simply, it is truth.
Tomorrow drew nigh, and it was not per chance which kept my work this long, for I knew this might take me exceedingly long. Slowly, so slowly did I recede from this corpse, blank eyes still fell upon myself with deadly intent, yet even then I did not know of the folly I had formed, and surely there was but one single hair on that floor, one single finger print about his neck which led them to me. How meticulous was I, how careful my plans where so not as to get caught, yet still their nosing, their particularly careful nature triumphed even mine. Still, I left that house with the swagger of a king, and slowly made my way from the mundane crypt, and left behind the cadaver to rot in its grave. No doubt lingered in my mind that they would find that body, but as I left it behind I had no suspicion that the man whom laid blind eyed on the ground would leave evidence of my being there.
Three days passed, each one normal, and completely uneventful, it was as if life itself was a bright hill which I could play on without reserve. So in my state of apparent divinity it seemed only natural to flaunt my ability in such a way that none would understand the true complexity of my perfection, for I had broken the system. Such unblemished perfection it had been, but so easily it had cracked, and in turn had shattered into a million pieces as they fell through the air. Perhaps I would take the time to pick those fragments up later, help to rebuild the hole I had made, or at least that was what I believed.
Still as sat in my throne of my own self-centred nature, all of this came in upon itself to drop me upon the valley of my own destruction. Into the house, with the old man, and the chair he sat so lonely upon they stormed at me, their eyes full of disgust of the man they believed me to be. In this agony I was suspended, to spend my days, my hours, and an entire life caught between disturbed, and hopeful. Except that all changed, now I sit in this chair, my eyes full of hope as I see that needle come dangerously close to my skin. Looks of pure terror are directed towards me, as they see the smile that crosses my lips, yet it almost makes me chuckle even more. Few things could have prepared them for this, in my moment of great faith I awaited my death, the hand of the doctor to come.
Feelings dance in his eyes, they range from deceitful fear, to hopeful vengeance, and both cover up the true haunting nature of his paranoia. Cause to be scared I did give to them, for as the needle went into my arm there is a small laugh, and while small pain follows it does not matter. Soon it will all be gone, soon they would just see a shadow of what I am, and then I will have to suffer no longer. Darkness is taking me, and I welcome it.
No regrets do I harbour, so death deal me your bold hand for I can bear this agony no more.
Why is it you call me demon? None has felt what I have, none can dare see what I have, yet still your tongue brings forth that putrid pseudonym of your own make. Here, I stand on the ere of mine own destruction, and I tell to you that I have been persecuted, demoralised, and loathed by all whom stand in my path. Lonely is the road by which I follow, sorrow fills it with the dark muses which wish nothing more than to ensnare me in their pitfalls. Yet no fate awaits me but this, so it is with a heart trapped within dark nets which I myself wove from the inequities of my crimes, by which let my cadaver lies for eternity.
Even when it comes to my mind there is little regret for that which I chose to do, and my mind has slowly, so slowly came to affirm the decisions cast so long ago. Neither death, nor life can take back those acts, therefore the only true path which lies in front of me is forward. With burdened heart nary, I must travel this road alone, for the harbouring of hate is of a man whom has regrets, which I refuse to be. Since first I travelled from the prospects of my benefactor, to that auspicious little home where there sat a sinister man ready to call my foul, there has ever been content in my heart. Thousands of things should I be, but demon, monster, and hated I should not; for you know not of what it is I have wrought. Perhaps in vain it was conceived, for in it I desired for my own thane like aspirations, and it was in these wherein I found a vocation henceforth unknown.
One might claim his own stake in the creation of this power; however, in the passions I arose, no one, not even you can take a share in its demands. Therefore in full assurance I sat longingly on the jurisdiction henceforth denied to me by those who would think me frail, or impotent, as my mind curled over the thoughts of those around me. In a perfect moment I wrapped my fingers, long and dark around the throat of a man whose pretence was that of a perfect gentleman. Fire, thick like plumes of smoke which withered around me scorched from his eyes, and my fingers could feel the cold of his neck still to this moment. Victim of the time was he? Of course not, such calculations did I conceive, so shorthanded did I weave the net about him that even now no part of me can help but marvel at the level of skill put forth into the demonstration.
Even now the touch of skin under my fingernails, the smell of sweat lingering in the air, and adrenaline danced upon the inner workings of my mind as my hand wrapped around the knife in palm. Not even the hilt on it could cover the feel of steel on my skin, and the pretty workings on it could not hide its true intent; death.
“And do you know, what it is like. A thousand deaths, a thousand lies. All in screams of a child’s eyes? Sing to me this symphony,” With riddled words, and a riddled tongue, the knife went to this young man’s throat. A metaphor more sound than Beethoven, and more obscure than Mr. Heim.
Lightly I pressed upon his skin, as I could feel his heart beat rise in tempo, the rhythmic thump gain more and more speed as he protested, “What is it you want from me.”
Yet, his scream meant none to me, for my mind was already set like an eagle soaring over its prey and my only response was, “Your soul.”
A scream went into that night, it echoed into the fringes of sanity for just a second as it was silence forever, and this finite state caught up to him. Thin gloves encased my hand, dripped with red blood, and felt like a sheet of glass upon me. Blood still spilled out, yet the body was limp in my hand, and time was not on my side right now. Haste would have to be of the essence for still there was that small chance that perhaps I may arrive at my abode quick enough to breakfast with my peers, rather than have to make an excuse for my absence. For my not being in my bed at morning might be some cause for disturbance which I would not like to explain to those who awaited my swift arrival. And now my demonstration was over, so I could leave this place.
For truly, that was simply what it was; a demonstration of the might by which I would devastate the world, and in their woe they would come to me. Theirs’ would be that of those whom deserve the fate which I dealt, theirs’ would be the pain of the world embodied. So, not lightly did I venture to the state of aspiration, not for that of friend, but of vigilante. Death could only come to those whom I deemed unworthy of life, and there is no qualms with the corrections I made, for simply, it is truth.
Tomorrow drew nigh, and it was not per chance which kept my work this long, for I knew this might take me exceedingly long. Slowly, so slowly did I recede from this corpse, blank eyes still fell upon myself with deadly intent, yet even then I did not know of the folly I had formed, and surely there was but one single hair on that floor, one single finger print about his neck which led them to me. How meticulous was I, how careful my plans where so not as to get caught, yet still their nosing, their particularly careful nature triumphed even mine. Still, I left that house with the swagger of a king, and slowly made my way from the mundane crypt, and left behind the cadaver to rot in its grave. No doubt lingered in my mind that they would find that body, but as I left it behind I had no suspicion that the man whom laid blind eyed on the ground would leave evidence of my being there.
Three days passed, each one normal, and completely uneventful, it was as if life itself was a bright hill which I could play on without reserve. So in my state of apparent divinity it seemed only natural to flaunt my ability in such a way that none would understand the true complexity of my perfection, for I had broken the system. Such unblemished perfection it had been, but so easily it had cracked, and in turn had shattered into a million pieces as they fell through the air. Perhaps I would take the time to pick those fragments up later, help to rebuild the hole I had made, or at least that was what I believed.
Still as sat in my throne of my own self-centred nature, all of this came in upon itself to drop me upon the valley of my own destruction. Into the house, with the old man, and the chair he sat so lonely upon they stormed at me, their eyes full of disgust of the man they believed me to be. In this agony I was suspended, to spend my days, my hours, and an entire life caught between disturbed, and hopeful. Except that all changed, now I sit in this chair, my eyes full of hope as I see that needle come dangerously close to my skin. Looks of pure terror are directed towards me, as they see the smile that crosses my lips, yet it almost makes me chuckle even more. Few things could have prepared them for this, in my moment of great faith I awaited my death, the hand of the doctor to come.
Feelings dance in his eyes, they range from deceitful fear, to hopeful vengeance, and both cover up the true haunting nature of his paranoia. Cause to be scared I did give to them, for as the needle went into my arm there is a small laugh, and while small pain follows it does not matter. Soon it will all be gone, soon they would just see a shadow of what I am, and then I will have to suffer no longer. Darkness is taking me, and I welcome it.
No regrets do I harbour, so death deal me your bold hand for I can bear this agony no more.