I wrote this yesterday. I'm not sure if it's finished. I might write an alternate ending. I will continue to still leave this one up though. This story is an extension off my 2nd post here and my 1st story, the character mapping. The only reference to that other story is, "a blade unlike his others" so this story is still very coherent without having read the other.

Corruption and Bravery

                Fury unsheathed, fire erupting within, he races toward the beacon's gate — his fingers wrapped around a glimmering blade, a blade unlike his others. Mud whips beneath his feet, his body blitzing through the stormy air, his face wrinkled from a seething anger. A great thunder can be heard crashing throughout the grey sky; lightning approaches the beacon.

                These conditions do not deter him in the least. They're nonexistent. Only the beacon's gate and those who dwell beyond it interest him; his focus begging for the sight of those monsters — those opal white shells that envelop their sludgy souls; eyes that invite the naive but enrage the focused; a gait that tantalizes the educated.

                His grip tightens as he readies himself. Pouncing upon the gate, climbing its many-pillar design, he leaps to the miry earth before the beacon. A smile envelops the darkness. 

                "Finally here." he remarks.

                Only a few men remain outdoors, the rest holed up, barricaded from his fury. They stare wide-eyed, fear-stricken. Their hands tremble while loosely gripping rusted daggers. He approaches, grip tight, and mouth curved. The sky bellows one last time. 

                "Time to end this little game. I've got you cornered and if you think you're cutting me with those pitiful knives, you've got another thing coming!"

                And right as he exhales these last words his feet dig into the muddy earth, like an engine revving its turbines, and leaps to their place. His first swing is that of a lightning strike, cleaving straight through the man's body, leaving him split in two. Blood pools out and while the other two are left paralysed in fear from this horrifying sight, he pounces toward them and begins twirling like a dreidel, forming a windmill fashioned attack. Once they notice, however, it's too late. The rotating blade digs into their flesh, ripping apart every nerve and vein inhabiting them. The air dyes red and his eyes begin to blaze with an even fiercer determination. 

                "I can do this!" he shouts and cackles.

                "Come on! Stand before me and accept your fate!"

                The air is still. Not a door opens. He realizes their fear and reproaches them further.

                "I slaughter your guardians and your answer is hiding behind some oak? Do you think you're going to escape your destiny!? You're all going to die but at least you could die with some fucking dignity!"

                 Toward the East a door slowly croaks open and a boy no older than 5 steps out. His blonde, curly hair whips about the windy sky while he puts on a face that screams bravery and heroism. The wood beneath leaves his presence as he leaps from the balcony and toward the charlatan. A mother runs out in tears, screaming for his return. It's too late. The boy's leap delivers him to the muddy earth, toward a fate that all know will leave him bloody and warped. The boy, at the tender age of 5, does not acknowledge such a fate. The boy only recognizes what must be done. The boy understands. His wisdom surpassing even the elders. This barbarian must be stopped. The boy reaches behind his trousers and pulls out a dagger, uttering only a few words in return to this barbarian's mocking expression.

                "The same blade he cherished will also avenge him. Father, watch over me." 

                Sneering in return, feet revving, and hands tightened about his blood-stained blade, the barbarian charges at the boy and swings. 

 

The King of our kin, The God of our dreams

Fury and flame sheathe the being

from an ever perpetual doom

of recognition

of a countenance, an embodiment

Awakened one day

the being finds its gait

only to discover that he, too, is just a man

Eros and Thanatos

Uhm, the story's not exactly finished. Kafka would be proud.

                The winds here often crash down in spiralling formations, wreaking havoc upon the village and its constituents. Many try to predict these violent monsters, incapable of reason or direction, and flee toward distant caves when assured of their arrival. Failure is often met as these caves house many unfriendly creatures. These winds cannot be predicted nor controlled, much like the spontaneous death of the crushed or fallen. Others try and fail; a consequence of them being human. All that's left is to endure the cracking of the wind's transparent whips and to bear their crusades until our eyes discern no more. 

               Living upon these wind-stricken knolls is a small town known as Desperatus. Much like its name implies, Desperatus is a lost society formed by the last of our kin and carries little hope. Many suffer cruel deaths while the rest cling to survival, slowly sliding toward an inevitable demise, and in the process, suffering irremediable burns from life's tattered rope.  All have been scarred and traumatized in some way, left with nothing but desperate struggle for every breath. Once welled within us was the hope that our descendants would discover a way to live beyond these perilous hills; to not have to settle with survival. To live! The days wane on and possibility of our old dream wanes with it. The mortality rate of our brethren is crippled beyond repair. Poor nutrition and scathing conditions keep us from attaining any speckle of health. All that's left is lament and regret...

                And so the tale begins. Waking up from a deep sleep I see a brighter today; the sun's rays bathing my face in gold. Such is unusual and the thought of warmth excites me. Quick on my feet I proceed outside. My eyes blister before the golden globe's flooding rays. The warmth and even slight hesitation I experience from this unexpected light floods my mind with nostalgia and happiness. It's been months since our village received such a blessing. Tears roll down my face. Shouts of excitement spill forth. I'm not alone. Many of my neighbours can be heard celebrating the arrival of this burning globe. An old friend approaches; a powerful spark erupting within his eyes.

                "Winston, Winston! Can you believe this? -we're saved!" Granger, my friend, shouts in excitement.

                "Th-This is beyond what I could have ever dreamed of. The sun's even brighter than last time. And look, no wind! We might actually be saved this time. We may once more have hope."

                As the two of us stare into each other's eyes, Granger speaks up, urging me to join him in attending the assembly hall to hear our leader profess what to make of this. Many others soon join in our path to whom we owed our allegiance to. 

                Stoneman presided over what little had survived this world. He was a fearless man who calculated the survival of the village with icy precision. If rations were low someone was bound to be cut off in favour of the women and children. Stoneman didn't do this out of love or pity. He did this out of a sense of duty in reintroducing a new population to this world. Like many of us, he held much doubt in our race's survival, but possessed a conviction no other man could parallel — to try and find a miracle, no matter the odds. 

                As Granger and I finally took sight of the assembly hall, sickness flooded my mind. Despair, sadness, hopelessness... This impromptu day, while beautiful and reassuring, was no different than the last. Nonetheless, hope pervades every human being, no matter the circumstances. If you're cornered by a sharp-toothed beast, you carry hope — hope that you'll escape. Reason, on the other hand, would lead you to understand your circumstances. You're not getting out. The beast will rip you to shreds. That sliver of hope, that sliver of golden salvation you so desperately cling to, from abroad the dark and murky caves of fear; it's poison to the mind — poison to the mind of those aware of reality's barren face. Granger, me, the others — we're all poisoned with hope. With hope these days, bathed in golden brilliance, might carry us through our strife. I look Granger in the eyes once more. He meets mine with an equally powerful conviction — we must still try, no matter how sick our reason or how ill our hope may make us. There is always a way. At least, that is what Stoneman told us.   

Second post - My story

If any of you were guided to this blog from my Sodafuck account, then you should know I'm writing a story. To be completely honest, I don't have a whole lot mapped out — and when I say that, I mean I don't have the execution mapped out. I know what I want to write; what the plot and characters will entail. But how I'll go about conveying these ideas and effigies is still up in the air. I have written a sort of story/character mapping of my novela (not execution) which I'll share here. But don't expect a lot of it to really make sense. Anyway, without further ado, here it is.

November 2nd

Within these deep indigo walls lies crowd among crowd, too busy to notice their surroundings' lack of interest, the sky's bleeding monotony. I myself once followed this same gait. Bathed in jubilance and spirited optimism, I treaded on. Finding solace through the sound of shuffling feet, gazing upon the night sky's freckled atmosphere, I recognized one thing: The here and now. Oh how life melts in the palm of one's hand. Or perhaps it's your face that melts. After all, life still goes on. You have but yourself to mourn.

                                                               November 3rd   

In the dead of night, reflecting upon times of school bells and late night star gazing, the feeling of cold steel burning my hand, I let out a frustrated sigh. Turning my head toward the reddening floor, our eyes met. It vying for recognition, mine distraught over the atrocity I committed. A sudden look of apologetic sorrow masked its seething anger. I knew all too well. It wanted to stand where I stood. It wanted its hands to shiver before cold steel, to stand in a puddle of my crimson filth as I was in its. 

To switch places may have been its desire, but its desire was wrought from a sense of shallow greed. Pitiful. I finished draining its body and left promising it a reawakening.

November 4th

            I would like to open this entry with another existential telling of the world, yet I'm afraid that won't be possible as a consequence of my distraction. The earth is purring. Yes, I can feel the bees buzzing beneath the crackling concrete. It's so inspiring. I'm so close. We'll be together again, Suzy.

November 5th

The blades are staining. I don't have much money so I use them as kitchen utensils as well. Many will find that revolting; even the journalists found the somewhat transparent red hue eerie. I can confirm this through the occasional odd looks as I made them sandwiches in the kitchen. Oh yes, I almost forgot. Two journalists came for a visit this morning. One wore a dark blue trench coat, the other a red one. I don't know why, but I found the two coats side-by-side quite pleasant. I offered them sandwiches and tea and the two accepted, both smiling at each other as if honored to be served by none other than Neitsnie himself. As they inquired over my progress with the tuning of this world's energy, we ended up conversing over my work. Of course, I made sure not to reveal too much. They were rather nosy though.

November 29th

It's no use. I've been found out. The spirits will no longer guide me and fate has challenged me to a duel. My knives won't be able to take fate down. Fate is too gallant, fate has too much support. What do I have? These bloody knives. Suzy, I'm sorry. I couldn't... I couldn't make it.

First post - My Poetry

Here are a couple poems I felt weren't complete and total shit. I hope you think they're not complete and total shit too.

Yoshihide's Screen

Fervor hides the pain

 Hides a shallow spirit,

 Of decadent character,

 Of hedonistic behavior

 An efude intrinsic to a wilting head 

 Foreboding its master's descent, it complies through dark strings

 Engaging its five shepherds,

 It strikes with a gruesome splash

 Fervently clawing at the surface of a porcelain earth

 Erupting its crimson stain

 Upon an ivory globe,

 Tired eyes watch over

 Restless is the hand,

 To hide the pain


Note: 'Efude' means 'paint brush' in Japanese. This poem was written in response to a Japanese short story I read. I realise most people won't know what 'efude' means and if this was a prosaic piece I would use 'brush' instead. But this is a poem and so I'll follow the lyrical progression a poem demands. Efude does sound way better.

Sunset Illusion

It saunters about the open fields,
Confused,
Ignorant of the greater truth,
That it’s despised,
That it’s looked down upon with a seething contempt

Eroding colors blossom in the sewage of its mind,
Leaving a pallid beige to plummet the field’s harrowing face
It watches as the verdure grows apathetic,
Leeched of its vitality

Eyes distraught,
Mouth burned with thirst,
It sprawls its fingers about the cold, steel bars of death
They’re blackened from the soot,
The ashes of its tears

It can only look up as this place lies deep in the caverns of its hell
Witnessing the grandeur of an omnifarious existence above,
It can only wonder why such dejection was cast upon itself

Broadening its reach, it howls for acknowledgement
Only silence remains, draping it down, suffocating it,
Mutilating its every thought

This place is dreadful
Nothing is alive
Screams of agony echo throughout the colorless sky
Shrill shrieks of death thicken the atmosphere

Tears pool out of its eyes
This is hell