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Member
Join Date: Apr 2008
Posts: 12
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Short Stort....title pending
Well, this is a serious attempt at a short story, it's approximately 2800 words. It's an extreme first draft, and I just wanted to see what you guys think of it. took me about 1 1/2 weeks to do, on and off writing. Was a fun process coming up with ideas (eg. in the shower or in front of the screen, ust staring at it).
I'll be happy to critique your work if you want me to, I need some practice and it would be better if I had specific work to view rather than trying to choose!
Thanks!
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The man walked. He walked on burning sand. He stepped on thorns and stones. He dragged his sole less boots through the sharp wind. The man walked, but never moved. He stopped to drink the last of his gin. It dribbled down his chin and smouldered on his tongue. Letting it linger there with his head staring at the blaze above, the man fell to his knees. His donkey stood behind him as if it had seen it all before. It and the man had been marching like this for three days now. Slowly their stride had divulged into a half-hearted amble. Every day the man made sure his companion had enough food and water to keep going. It was more important than him. It was his only family left. He wanted to leave the world knowing he had kept at least one being close to him alive. He dropped his gaze to the horizon, which wavered ever more intensely as his brain and body became loose. This had been a very big gamble, this decision to flee. He heaved a bout of laughter from his dry throat. His life was built on gambles, why should it not end on one? Raising himself from the ground, slowly, he continued his journey.
If one were to watch this man reduced to a mess from above, they would liken it to a lost ant, wondering where his fellows were. This minute object moved slowly, but always forward, despite yet with no direction. A speck in a vast world of angry temperatures and choking void is all anyone would see. It was all anyone would have seen for a long time before that too. What they would never see is the burden that, like an ant, he carried selflessly. He himself did not realise its full weight. Time would reveal this.
The future was simply a present that came with every step. The past was inconceivable as everything fell into one. Time was nothing anymore. His body being manipulated by the drink as it was, he did not feel part of the space around him. Time was lost, and so was the physicality he was so used to. There was a past, he knew it, but it seemed to him another world. There may be a future, but with only two choices - one unexciting and one unfeasible. Admittedly, it was continuously playing in his mind; a subconscious belief that putting one foot in front of the other would drag him out of Hell. He staggered and lurched for far too many reasons. The sun, behind him now, cast a shadow he chased in random directions. Collapsing again with his arms flailing as if they were etherised he let out a yell that came out as a rope of sound. Spittle swung like a pendulum before tearing loose and falling to the sand. He had to keep moving. Keep moving or become nothing. There is a thing worse than death, and that is death coupled with one or multiple negative feelings. Guilt, for example, was one such feeling. Perhaps shame, a sense of failure, indignity, or disgrace. Any of the above would do. He turned with his head down towards his trusting steed. Slowly, he brought out a hide of water. With quivering hands he took a sip, a swig, a gulp. Guzzled before he knew it, he threw the empty skin away and slumped against his animal. Looking over the endless grains he relaxed somewhat. Alcohol was quite possibly the single greatest invention made by men. Surely he could rest now, he thought to himself. The reality was that even if there was not a danger that had awareness, there were the elements. Unbridled fury of fate by the hand of some angry deity was just as likely as anything else. The man dozed beside his animal, trying to get some rest. It was difficult when you were famished and dehydrated, despite his exhaustion. There was something else though, a throbbing which wasn’t in head, though there was that too. It seemed to flow all through him. Trying to ignore the annoyance, he readjusted himself. A spike of pain shot into his hand, and he roared in pain, shaking his arm as if trying to detach the appendage. Composing himself, he looked at the donkey – it was moving in spastic circles, trying to remove the satchel draped over it. Cradling his hand (which no longer actually hurt), he cautiously moved to the animal, trying to calm it and remove the satchel. He ripped the bag off and threw it away as if it contained a poisonous insect. Ignoring his donkey for a moment, he moved towards the bag, which seemed to be throbbing. He couldn’t decide whether it was the alcohol, the heat or if it was real. Everything seemed to be falling out of sync. He didn’t want to be moving this way. Why was he moving this way? Falling on all fours, he tried to look inside the bag from a distance. When that failed began to reach in. What was happening? He didn’t want to do this. What was in there? A part of him did know what was in there. He did know that he should not be reaching in. His instincts told him this. Whatever it was in there was unsafe. The final thing he knew, as his fingers drew closer to the cavernous slit, was that he couldn’t help it. There was a force at work. This force blotted out everything. His mind was wiping – his conscience could not be heard beneath the din of eternity. His eyes were wide, his breathing heavy, and sweat was pouring down his every surface. Nothing but reaching in that bag would satisfy him. Nothing but running away from this atrocity, even if it meant eventually collapsing in a disgusting pile of human remains, could possibly offer more happiness. Bile rose up along his gullet as his body attempted to reject the poison. It would never work. One final effort to pull away.
Contact.
Blinding light. A figure with no face. A deck of cards. His enemies. His family. His guns. Himself lying in a pool of alcohol and urine. Swinging ropes. Images cascaded against his already wrenched mind. It felt like his brain was tearing apart. There was only one thing to do. Unable to take the mental assault, the man passed out.
The man walked. He walked in endless white. He stepped on cool purity. Every few metres there was a room. In every room he could see himself, sitting there while images moved and darted on the walls around him. He instinctively knew it was him he was looking at, even though he had no memory of who he was or how he had got here. The rooms all played an individual scene repeatedly. Watching from the doorway of one, he observed the breaking into of a room and the theft of a velvet pouch. In yet another room the walls showed a man receiving a large amount of money from someone who looked authoritative. The final room envisioned the hanging of a woman and small girl, blowing in the wind under a twisted tree. He left this space with haste. A sudden terror fell on his soul with torrential force as he continued. There was something wrong in all this serenity. Then he could hear it; a far off rumbling, like drums. Then he could see it; a rolling wave of wispy black horror bearing down on him. He made to run, but a million selves were behind him, blocking his escape. His body collapsed under absolute helplessness. He openly wept tears of fear. Then all he felt was pain.
Pain. Pain had him by the ear. The man was awoken by his donkey biting his ear lobe. He stumbled up and went to check his ear for bleeding. His gaze casually grazed his bag. Why was it on the ground? Momentarily confused, he bent down with a frown. Then he remembered the item he had stolen. Horror once again swept his eyes back and reared back as if stung. Nausea welled up. Shaking his head, he knew he must compose himself. That little decision of his to steal that velvet pouch - that had started this debacle. What was it though? When those thugs had chased him for it, well, he knew it must be precious. He hung there, contemplating leaving whatever it was out here to be buried in time, but he didn’t. He just stood there waiting for his courage to build up enough so that he could grab the bag. He needed the money; he needed it more than anything if he wanted to live. With no other alternative appealing to him, the man turned around for a bottle (despite the fact he was still drunk). He got two steps before he realised he wasn’t alone.
“Hello, Hansel.”
Even with the blistering heat and the warm gin coursing its way around Hansel’s body, his body sent slivers of ice through every part of him. He visibly shook. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a figure. Suddenly, the same feeling he had felt near the bag came back, though not as strong. His mind was clouding over like the sudden shadow a cloud casts on a bright day. He was compelled to turn and face this being. It wasn’t something he wanted to do. Some voice in his mind screamed in torment and protest, but as before, it was no use. He swivelled round by something unseen as he gave up. What he saw made him yelp in surprise, but also in disgust - pure, utter and unbridled disgust at what he was. Tears rolled down his face – they felt numb against his skin. The wind blew over his body – it felt as if it went right through him. The figure spoke again.
“Whatever is the matter?”
Its voice (for it was undoubtedly an “it”) seemed to come from inside Hansel’s head and from everywhere around him at the same time. It had the shape of a human, and wore a long, tattered robe. Hansel’s eyes could not stop staring at its face – or faces. The texture of its skin seemed to morph and melt, recombining for a moment before contorting again. There were no features; no mouth or nose or eyes or hair. The hands ended in splendid claws that seemed made of mercury and were the length of daggers. Hansel could not think properly. He had no idea what this was, or what it would want with him. Or, in all that is Holy, how it knew his name. Surely Death had come to take him away. The thing gave a low chortle.
“I am not Death, nor any such being,” it explained. “I have power, but not the power of an Almighty. I am a demon, trapped in a glass prison until you kindly showed yourself to me. I watched you pick me up. I watched you steal the orb in ignorance, and also observed why you did it. I want to thank you.”
Hansel meekly shook his head, unable to do much else. Was this ractually happening to him? Could he possibly be this drunk? He felt drunk, but that heavy feeling on his soul was unknown to him. Immediately, he started looking for the drink again. When he turned around, he knocked the bottle of gin that lay at his feet. It was full. There was also a glass next to it. Not that he needed one. Before he had finished the thought it disappeared. Bewildered, a fresh wave of frailty bathed his body in unhealthy tingles. This was definitely real.
“I know your vices, and I know your past”
Quick as the great desert serpents, Hansel drew his gun and pointed it at his opponents head. Or tried to. Now it was next to him. The weapon dropped as Hansel’s melted and became loose from panic. It stood there with the presence of a prison guard. The sensation that it was leering at him was physically impossible (due to the lack of eyes) but it felt as if his very innards were being inspected. The thing brought up its hand to rest in front of his face. Infinity was etched on its skin. A deck of cards swam out of the palm, cementing itself in reality. Hansel felt a queer compulsion to take it and play. This compulsion climbed from some small part of his brain, growing until it screamed at him to take it. Within a moment the feeling disappeared. He felt himself go weak as the pressure was so rapidly relieved. The deck also vanished, curly wisps of black smoke taking its place. Hansel collapsed on the ground. He found he had wet himself. The stink made him choke and retch. His eyes stared up at a beast that was hungry for his essence. It reassured him that this was not the case.
“I mean you no harm; I simply want to play a game of cards. Twenty-one would make for short amusement, I believe.”
Hansel was incredulous towards the remarks, but was nonetheless compelled to rise to his feet. At this point he noticed his donkey was nowhere in sight. Truly alone – the last person he knew was himself. He did not think he even knew that stranger beyond the obvious. Sitting cross-legged in the sand, he understood this was the end. There was nothing left for him in the future. Everything worthwhile was history. History that had would be swept up like a sandstorm, lost in the memories of the billions of lives. He looked up at this monstrosity.
"What stakes we playing for?” he asked with a confidence of acceptance, hinted with remorse.
No response. Hansel waited. His challenger simply stood there as if the wind would dissolve him like a pillar of salt. Much like before, the cards rose out of matter, but from the ground between the two foes. Four cards floated towards their handlers; two for Hansel and two for it. Hansel didn’t want to look. It took a lifetime to do so. He sat there staring at them as they hung in space. He tried to imagine the past. He tried to relive the pleasurable memories, tried to go there in his mind. He looked – a ten and a five. He knew the odds. It read his mind. Another card drifted its way towards him. He snatched it to his breast, holding it there. Looking at his opponent, who was still beyond life, he held it up in front of his face. A seven.
Hansel just sat there. His body felt light, his mind was blank and his soul was bare. His eyes flickered up to it. Something was happening to the face. A crack, or perhaps a hole? No, it was a smile - a grin to be precise. It came from its head like the cards. Loathing welled up and his body was a dam. How dare it smile. The grin grew, red lips bloating and horridly sharp teeth protruding. It seemed to escape the head. All he could see was the smile. Darkness swirled around Hansel. He screamed at the beast, a scream not of defiance or fear, but of hate. It couldn’t end now. That pouch had been his escape, his way to a new life. The black descended on the desert, a vortex of spinning sin. Hansel was being sucked towards the eye of the storm. The demon reached out a whickering appendage. A connection was made.
Light brighter than that night. He was back in the whiteness. This time he felt the doom coming immediately like an unstoppable animal. Memories and déjà vu flashed around him from the recesses of his conscience. He had lived all this. He turned around as a wave of the abyss reared up. He had lost. He had lost everything. Everything but his memories was gone. He turned to his right and stared at the images he saw. He would go with this one. He closed his eyes and concentrated.
Hansel opened his eyes. He still felt drunk. Gathering his surroundings he tried to remember anything. Something had happened but his memory was blank. He recognised this place though. He was standing in front of a small brick house that opened up onto an olive grove. The sun was bright and the weather cool. A door clicked open behind him. Composing himself, Hansel turned to inquire the resident. He stopped with the words caught in his throat. A single tear rolled down his cheek to be caught in the curve of his smile.
__________________
Green - Change
Blue - My suggestion
Red - Destroy
Last edited by Homemaster : 05-23-2008 at 07:09 AM.
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