Thread: 02/16/09 - Follow Your Heart

Hello, Dear Writers, and welcome to your next LM. Your challenge this round is:

Follow Your Heart
In no more than 500 words (not including the title), write a story based on the phrase “Follow Your Heart.”
Thank you to C Gholy and eggo for the prompt.

Submissions may only be posted in this thread or in the thread provided in the Writers' Workshop (you must provide a link to your submission in this thread if you opt to use the Writers' Workshop). Everyone is welcome to participate. Note: Judges are welcome to participate, but their entries cannot receive a score.

Submissions will be accepted until midnight my time, March 2nd (2 weeks)
Judging period: March 3rd - March 9th
Results will be posted on or before March 10th

Good luck to everyone!

Your judges for this round are:
alanmt
C. Gholy
SoNickSays
Hawke

Author's Note:

The forum software doesn't let me format this correctly, so I've done the best I can.

EXT -- OUTSIDE LOUISE'S HOUSE -- DAY

An English street. MRS PATEL, an Indian in her late thirties,
knocks at LOUISE's front door.

LOUISE opens the door. She's in her early
thirties, dressed casually.

MRS PATEL

Louise Draycott.

LOUISE

Yes.

MRS PATEL

My son's name is Rajesh Patel. You're
his English teacher.

LOUISE

Rajesh? Yes.

MRS PATEL

Did you have sex with him?
(beat)
I said, did you have sex with him?
(beat)
He's fourteen years old, Ms Draycott!

LOUISE
(obviously guilty)
Oh my God.

MRS PATEL

I'd better come in.

CUT TO:

INT -- LOUISE'S LIVING ROOM -- DAY

LOUISE's living room is neat but lived-in. Teaching certificates
are displayed on the wall.

LOUISE

I don't know what to say to you, Mrs Patel.

MRS PATEL

I don't know what to say to you either.

LOUISE

Ah--would you like tea?

MRS PATEL

Of course I don't want your tea.

LOUISE

No, of course you don't.
(beat)
What will you do?

MRS PATEL

I ought to speak with the head teacher.

LOUISE

I would deserve that.

MRS PATEL

Why did you do it?

LOUISE

I love him.

MRS PATEL

You do not love him.

LOUISE

I was a fool. I'm so sorry.

MRS PATEL

You should go to prison.

LOUISE

Please--

MRS PATEL

He has a video of you on his phone.

LOUISE

You saw that?

MRS PATEL

It is disgusting.

LOUISE

I've been so stupid.

MRS PATEL

Yes you have.

LOUISE

What will you do?

MRS PATEL

I don't know. I can't think straight.

LOUISE

Please sit down, at least.

They sit.

MRS PATEL

Have you done this to other people's children?

LOUISE

No!

MRS PATEL

What kind of monster are you? A paedophile!

LOUISE

No I'm not. A paedophile's a man who rapes
children. It's not the same.

MRS PATEL

It's exactly the same.

LOUISE

He enjoyed it.

MRS PATEL

You dare say that to me.
(beat)
You have raped my son.

LOUISE

I would never hurt him. I couldn't.

MRS PATEL

Rapist!

LOUISE

Do you believe that?

They lock gazes, and MRS PATEL looks away first.

LOUISE

What I did was wrong, and I'll be punished for
it. But I'm no rapist.

MRS PATEL

I can't think straight. I can't even look at
you. I hate you.
(beat)
I saw you. On Rajesh's phone. Doing things
for him. To him, I mean. Like a prostitute.

LOUISE

So what will you do?

MRS PATEL

Stop asking that.

LOUISE

You can be as angry as you like, Mrs Patel.
You can sit on my sofa calling me names for
hours, if you want. But when you're done,
you'll still have to decide. What will you do?

MRS PATEL

I don't know.
(beat)
You're a teacher. I should be able to trust
you. Why can't I trust you?

LOUISE stands up. She is quite calm now. MRS PATEL remains
distraught.

LOUISE

Mrs Patel. Look at me. What will you do?

MRS PATEL

Will you leave my son alone?

LOUISE

If he wants me to. But if he doesn't, I'll have to
follow my heart.

PS: I don't know what to call that. It's an excerpt from my one attempt at writing a screenplay; the screenplay's called "Silhouette" but that title isn't obviously relevant to that piece.

So I guess I'll have to call it "Untitled Screenplay", with apologies to the judges.

My counter says 500 words. I believe it.

Disclaimer:

One use of the F-word

Follow Your Heart?

Follow your heart?

What type of damnfool topic is that?

Why can’t they set something interesting for once?

Something like “Put The Hammer Down”, or “Ten A Penny”, or “Going In Style”?


Morgan Catchpole rolled his chair back from the computer and swivelled ‘round to gaze skywards, through the study window, at cloud formations.


Hmmph. I can’t write about stuff like that. Follow your heart indeed.

I bet that old git TwistOneTwo'll have a go. He’s quite an emotional type. He’ll probably churn out some pap on the subject of being in love. And how about that strange girlie from...where was it again? Fort Bragg? Somewhere like that. She’ll be in it. Right now she’ll be scribbling a draft concerning robodrone organ donations, or something. And that lesbian, whatsername. She’ll enter, with more finger down throat stuff about how this is really it, this time.

Maybe I could do it.

Maybe I could write something about body-snatchers, and about how these dead people’s spirits hang around cemeteries watching, and...umm, let’s see, how would I do this? I have to work a heart in here somewhere...I know...there’s these fellers, they’re surgeons at Guy’s Hospital in London, it’s 1823 or thereabouts, they’re desperate for cadavers to practice on, the government won’t let them use real live cadavers from the Morgue, they have to resort to paying body-snatchers, who re-open fresh graves and grab bodies that they sell to the surgeons...ok...that was the exposition; I'll start the main story with this feller’s spirit watching as his body is dug up and thrown on the body-snatchers' cart, and when the spirit hears one body-snatcher say, “They need this one for a heart dissection,” it decides to follow...no, hang about, I can’t use Guy’s, they read it they’ll sue my arse off; I’ll have to invent a hospital somewhere.


I know. I’ll write about Jack the Ripper instead. He ripped out women’s organs. That Catherine Eddowes, she was a bit of alright. I could do something similar here, bring old Catherine’s spirit into the story, have Jack carrying her heart back to Buckingham Palace to feed the corgis, and have her spirit following behind, up The Mall. Old Liz won’t sue. That’d be undignified. Corgis? That’s a funny-looking word. Probably spelled corgies. Nhuhuh, that looks strange too. What’s the dictionary say? Acronym: Council Of Registered Gas Installers. Fuck. What use is that? Although, look on the bright side, Morgan...I’ve just found another way to bait that Welsh plumber...I’ll call him Corgi in future; he’ll blow a fuse trying to figure that out.

Where was I?

Ah, yes, Jack and Co. Bit corny, really.


Maybe the key is the word follow. There was that weird feller in Workshop the other day saying how, if you hear a word as you read it, it can make all the difference.

Follow.

Furlough, maybe?

For low?

Foul! Oh!?

Fallow?

That’s it! Fallow your heart.


Oops. Fallow isn’t a verb.



I think I’ll forget this damnfool competition. It’s just too hard.

Needing spare change for a transplant
I once decided to open a motel for moths
For business moths, no roaches allowed
I still had standards back then, you see
Looked like a sweet deal for me

But my porch light attracted no moths
And the bank repossessed the bulb
Along with my new organ snatched right
out of my chest, without blinking an eye
That was traumatic, no lie

I sat heartless flipping the light switch in expectation
Watching through the tiny window in my door
Wishing for my porch light’s missing yellow orb
Pondering what a moth would say
If it dared to visit me one day

Springtime and no one had bought my heart
The bank recanted and took another chance
Loaning me cash on a kidney
Hoping to lure butterflies from Barcelona, I planted periwinkles
Moths were more fickle than I believed- wink, wink


When summer came around, wiser but still heartless
I hocked my remaining kidney, bought a fly swatter,
a can of Raid and opened a Lepidoptera cemetery
With kidney stone head markers distilled from pee
Looks like a sweet deal for me

Heart Attack

He had noticed that the red-haired woman was looking at him while he was drinking his decaffeinated latte in Joe’s. He was a good-looking guy, so a woman checking him out wasn’t exactly a new experience for him; but, when she got up and followed him out the door and across the road, it made him nervous. He wasn’t neurotic by nature, but he had only recently come home from hospital. His heart-transplant had gone without hitches and he was recuperating well, but he still felt pretty weak and vulnerable.


The red-haired woman had the most vivid blue-eyes he’d ever seen and they seemed completely fixed on him. He wondered if she had been crying, but there were no tears, just the damp intensity of her stare.

He didn’t want her to follow him home so, instead of going straight back to his apartment, he took a detour and slipped into Smiths to browse through their discounted stationery. On the opposite side of the road, Woolworths was being refitted as ‘Cheap Jacks’. Through Smiths’ window he saw the woman stop to ask one of the workmen what time it was, or directions somewhere, something. Whatever they were talking about, it made her smile; and the warmth that spread across her face seemed to brighten the filthy greyness of the street. He wondered if she was someone he used to know but had forgotten.


Ten minutes later, he noticed she was waiting for him outside the Union Street exit to Smiths. She was smiling at him through the window. He put down the pile of A4 notepads he was thinking of buying and went to her.


“Do I know you?” he asked. Close up she was beautiful; her eyes deep-blue and hypnotic.
“I’m Louise.” She said, apparently unable to take her eyes from the level of his chest. “I’m a nurse at St Hilda’s.”
“Did you look after me? I’m sorry, I--”
“No. I work in paediatrics. My boyfriend, Shane, died in a car wreck. You have his heart.”
“That’s why you were following me?”
“I wasn’t following you. I was following this.”


She put her hand against his breast-plate. He could feel the heart beating against the pulse in her thumb.


“Shane gave it to me, you see. He said it was mine, forever...”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.” He looked into her deep-blue, watery eyes and was overwhelmed by the intensity of her gaze.
“You don’t understand” she said. “It belongs to me.”


As if from nowhere, her left hand produced a knife and plunged it into his gut, twisting to make a rough incision, big enough for her hand. Then she stuck her right hand deep inside him, reached up behind his ribs, beneath his viscera, and tore out what she wanted.


“Thanks” she said, smiling, as his legs folded beneath him, as people’s screams merged with the squeal of buses and the ringing in his head.

The Chase

And there it went.

Felix picked up his bags and left through the back door. I took to the bathroom window where I watched him open the boot, dump his things, and disappear around a corner with the brassy growl of the engine.

I went back to the bedroom. The sheets were still wet from where he’d thrown a vase. I could already see a pair of his trousers that he would eventually have to return for. I took them downstairs and began cutting into the denim with a pair of kitchen scissors.

He wouldn’t miss them. Felix had hundreds of trousers. He was metrosexual like that. But less so in that he’d consistently leave them on floors and in piles. Dirtied, stained, and waiting for me. I put the pieces in a black bag, and on top, emptied his compost bin. Felix hated me throwing away his compost. But the blend of tea bag, cabbage and cous cous was too much to handle – especially after his leaving.

Felix was one of those once-in-a-lifetime sort of men, the kind that comes around at least twice a year. There is the immediate lust, there is a chase, and then there is the gorgeous body and the well-paid job. All this leads to a dangerous love – you are built up to perfection, you expect it. The flowers he buys soon become predictable; the kisses he gives become a chore to respond to. These are the guys I fall for. I know how it’ll end before we’ve even gone back to his and done it on our fronts, backs and sides. Perhaps I should change my M.O. before I myself grow stale along with the relationships. Perhaps I should change before I meet someone less inclined to just pack up and go when the shit hits the fan and covers us in the faeces of a... broken love. I’m always concerned they’ll get violent.

I went back to our room and began to strip the bedclothes. I pulled out a clean sheet and made hospital corners, before spraying the duvet and pillows in a lavender scent. Felix hated lavender, but I hated his B.O.

I threw away the empty condom packets that had fallen behind the bedside table. I put my favourite lingerie to soak in the bath, and polished my handcuffs. I settled them gently in a drawer with other valentine presents, efforts to keep things going, to help the evenings burn a little brighter.

I showered, dressed in an overt little dress, and prepared to leave for town. The phone began to ring.

“Mary? Mary, why didn’t you follow? I waited for you. We could have worked it out.”

Oh, Felix, I sighed as I buckled my boots.

“Darling, I only just let you leave.”

The phone disconnected. Outside, the taxi sounded its horn, and I left for the night.

Could it Think - 498

The quote read: “Could it think, the heart would stop beating.” The author was Fernando Pessoa, and the heart that beat unhappily behind the boy’s breast found the sentence so blatant a truth that it decided immediately to act upon this inspiration. Hurdling itself against what it could, the heart caused a stir within the boy’s body. The boy dropped the book and fell to his knees on the room floor.

He clutched his breast and retched, though no bile spewed forth to show proof of this strain. The heart, acting upon instinct, tore into the lungs it had long known in idle misery and ascended their narrow vacuum to the boy’s mouth.

The heart saw through the boy’s teeth two wretched hands, clawing at the mass lodged inside. The tongue before it lashed to all sides like a burnt and dying serpent. Warm saliva sloughed down the insides of the boy's cheeks onto the obstinate tongue.

Intrepid beyond reason, the heart lunged and forced the tongue to submit and leapt from the boy’s mouth to hit the floor with a wet slop. It took no time to assess its surroundings but rolled towards an open door, leaving a mucus trail in the carpet as it rolled over the threshold towards a descending flight of stairs.

It propelled itself over the edge and slapped and slopped down the steps, mucus and goo relieving themselves of its frame and flinging into the air, the lumbering steps of the boy close behind as he followed after the heart.

The heart hit tile and continued then was stopped. Inquisitive eyes blocked its path. A creature that seemed to have a soft motor inside its stomach and thin yarns protruding sideways from its face stared maliciously. Then, with sadistic humor, it slapped the heart with a padded foot and sent it into a wall.

Dazed, the heart sought escape, but the bastard creature was upon it again and hitting it across tile and carpet and surfaces the heart could not discern through this horrid beat down.

The creature realized the excess of mucus it had accumulated in its fur. It ceased and left the heart to its fate and trotted off to a private corner where it could groom itself alone.

An infinitesimal rejoice evoked new strength within the heart, but the moment was brief then vanished once the heart saw the boy.

It turned to flee but a hand was already around it and lifting it towards the mouth. The heart writhed within the grasp, but the teeth continued to grow as the hand’s rise brought them closer. The heart saw the sharpest of the rows and knew with sudden clarity that its escape was naught.

The teeth tore into the heart’s soft skin and dug through its core and unstrung the wires and chords and inexpressible makings that the heart possessed. And so it ended. The boy swallowed the dead heart, uncaring of the passion it only this once displayed.

The End

Big Black Box.

Jackson always kept a big black box on the corner of his rusted metal desk. He was a salesman. His specialty; whatever you required. Every time the greasy bastard called me into his office he was caressing the big black box. Every time he turned his back to glimpse out the window I attempted to peak into the big black box.
I was sleeping with his wife.
He didn't know this.
To him I was just another wage monkey on his payroll. I smiled and nodded, I grinned stupidly. He sneered down at me and condescended. We had a chemistry.
It was a Thursday. That fateful day. His wife's black thong was in my back pocket, still damp; sweaty and smelling of her nectar. When noone was looking I pulled it out and inhaled that pungent scent with a sigh.
The last thing she said to me was "I'll see you Sunday lover." as she grabbed my dick with an unslakeable smile. And that was what I was thinking when he called me into his office. I sighed heavily. I was still trying to sell Mr. Luhrman on a daughter which we both knew was the last thing he needed, but he could certainly afford it.
I swung the door open with force, not enough to break it, only enough to startle the management. "Yes, Mr. Kubias?" I grinned ingratiatingly.
His greasy sausage fingers were caressing the box like it was his dick or perhaps a breast.
"I was speaking with Madeline this morning..." his smile was falsely warm and serpentine, "she said you called on her."
I blinked.
Once.
Twice.
That bitch!
I attempted to regain my composure without being discovered. "Oh, did she?"
The big black box glistened as if it were sweating. It seemed to pulsate unevenly under his touch.
"Yes, she did." The smile was gone. "She said...hold on," he exhaled through his teeth, "that you made me look..."
Stupidly I interupted "inadequate?"
Jackson clapped his hands and smiled so gleefully I was afraid his face would split, "Yes, inadequate!"
My gaze was drawn to the pulsating black box. I couldn't look away. Secretion gathered beneath it on the rusted green desk. Under the 100 watt bulb of his desk lamp that secretion seemed luminous. Jackson licked his thin lips. It made a wet smacking sound.
I was breathing heavy. I hadn't noticed before, but my breathing was labored.
"Open it. Go ahead." Jackson goaded me.
Reluctantly and with a trembling hand I lifted the lid. It creaked. The innards smelled of lemon pledge, but it was empty.
"How curious, its empty. I wonder why. Ask me why the box is empty you cretin."
I complied.
"I'm going to strike you a bargain. Or perhaps, if you'd like to look at it another way; I'm going to give you a choice."
The air had gotten stale and heavy. The box still pulsated. I was sweating. Jackson was grinning widely, drool had collected in the corner of his lip. I was afraid of what he was going to say. I was terrified that he was going to pull a pistol out and gun me down. "What's the choice?"
"I can kill you or," he pointed at the box with his meaty fingers, " I can take your heart, put it in a box, and we can go about our daily business. You will still work for me, I will pretend not to know that you are sleeping with my wife, and when the time comes," he shrugged.
"I will follow my heart?" I inquired sarcastically.
He nodded in agreement and placed a razor sharp knife on the desk.
"You see, keeping my wife happy is important to me, but I can't have you go unpunished can I?"
I inhaled deeply, "No."
"No what?"
"No sir."
His eyes met mine and guided them to the box, "So, do we have a bargain?"
I nodded without meeting his eyes.
The next morning the scent of lemon pledge filled my senses.

The Black Market - 494 words

Somewhere in Brazil, 2040

A gentle rain pattered outside the Café Ofelia as Santiago waited in his booth for Mr. Tobias. The Café was on the edge of a valley, overlooking a city with blanched buildings. He watched out the window, waiting for the meeting he arranged under a false name, waiting for a man that took two years to track. A baby began to sob from a distant booth.

Santiago awoke to Juliana’s hand upon his chest. He rolled over to find his wife’s half nude body glistening with sweat. Her face was blue, contorted in fear, and from her mouth gasped feeble whimpers. Santiago quickly put her on the floor and tried to shake her awake. Her breathing came heavy – then stopped. Santiago performed CPR until he could go no more. She was dead. He collapsed atop his wife and bawled like a child.

The Café was still empty. He reached inside his jacket and put his hand around a revolver. The metal was smooth, cold. He could see chefs in the kitchen; some pans clanged as they fell into a sink.

“This is our only hope,” said Juliana. “We will be given $40,000 each, more than enough to pay for the medicine.”

She glanced at her young children as they played. They seemed healthy, but the virus was merely dormant.

“Is it really safe?” asked Santiago.

“Perfectly,” replied the balding man who sat with them. “The removal will be simple, and I’ve never seen an artificial heart fail. Some say they’re better than the natural ones. Not my client though,” he chuckled.

There was a gush of steam and aroma as Juliana finished cooking dinner. Her beautiful hair fluttered from the summer wind coming through the window.

Santiago was growing nervous. He could feel the hard mass in his chest throb. It seemed as if it would burst. Just at that moment the Café’s door opened, and in walked Mr. Tobias. Santiago met his gaze and watched as the man walked to his booth. He sat down with a smile, suspecting nothing. Tobias did not recognize him.

“Do you remember me, monster?” whispered Santiago as he flashed his revolver at the bald Tobias.

“Oh my…I…don’t…is that you Santiago?” his face was flushed.

“Yes. You killed my wife. The heart didn’t work. It didn’t work!” He was talking loudly now. “You gave us defective machines, you crook. Who has my heart? A rich fool who wants to live forever?”

“I don’t know Santiago. I’m sorry, her death was a fluke.”

“A fluke,” repeated Santiago. A tear fell from his eye. “My wife stole my heart, and you stole my wife. If my children weren’t alive today, I would have killed you Tobias. She prized our children more than herself, and for that reason she will forgive you. I would not. But my heart belongs to my wife, even after you sold it - and I will follow her, even if it leads me to forgiveness.”

Santiago left the revolver on the table and walked out.

498 Words

Disclaimer:

Naughty language and gore, so hats should be held.

Jeremiah's Man

I crack the whip and flecks of skin peel from her face beneath the wrath of its entrapped shards of glass. Tears and blood have formed a bubbling mess where her mouth once was. Her eyes are like singed candlewicks.

She cries for mother, for father, for salvation. I laugh until I’ve got my own tears running into my mouth, and when I get thirsty I drink from the glass on the table beside me. The glass with the bloody handprint on it. The glass that reeks of vinegar.

“Wretch!” I cry and bring the whip down harder than ever, relishing in how her shoulder splits open and yellow muscle bursts out like infuriated pus. “Witch, wretch, whore!” Another crasshack and I see I’ve knocked one of her eyes right out and onto the stone floor. It rolls to a stop, its bloodshot iris peering at the ceiling. I swear it turns to face me before I kick it into the dark.

She begs, and I realize I’ve got a boner. “Please stop this! There’s no more room for pain in this body!”

I continue to laugh, and oddly enough she seems encouraged by it. Her voice sounds as if she is baring her teeth.

“I want you to stop, be it so, be it so. Take forth your vengeance and make it slow, make it slow.”

Something tickles the back of my mind, and I’m reminded why I’ve brought this woman here. Why Jeremiah wants her fried and sautéed for our Christmas dinner, why his stomach rumbles for the tang of witch-meat. “What are you doing, woman?” She is on her knees now, and a spark of fear ignites in my ribcage.

“Vengeance and pillage and rape of the soul, tearing and ripping and rendering me so. Carry out your wishes and furnish your den, with witch-skin and witch-hair and the bones of children.”

I am bringing the whip down in panic now, but it is not enough to keep her from shouting. Perhaps if I am not so fearful of touching her I can do something about it. Perhaps I can wrap my arms around her mouth and stifle her, even suffocate her. But I am afraid, and all I think is, End it! Bring it down, bring it down! So I do, and it is not enough.

“One more whip, one more time in full art,” she spits. Yellow teeth fly from her mouth in a shower of red. The back of her head resembles nothing more than an animal rundown by carriage. “Vengeance is rendered, now follow your heart!”

At the last word, the witch spins on her heels and jabs a finger into my chest. The ceiling seems to fall away and I am left in entire darkness, fumbling for anything. I find the handle of the whip, and I grasp it with white-knuckled strength. I feel something throb on the other end, and then I am whisked into the infinite night.

Code of Honor

Sir Ceslinus, wearying of the slow pace of the unmounted pilgrims to Compostello and forgetting his self-appointed honorific as their Protector, rode off to explore the rugged countryside of the Aubrac Plateau.

The Knight guided his steed among recalcitrant snowbanks and swaths of brightly colored blooms shivering under the cold clouds, past remote stone shepherd huts and through mysterious meadows where large stones poked up in mystical patterns. On the muddy edge of a little brook, barely more than a rivulet, he marveled at the paw print of a wolf.

Far he wandered and wide, until late in the afternoon, his solitary journey was arrested by a lonely and fearful cry of distress, off to the east. Spurring his horse to a quicker pace, he rode up the grassy hillside to his left. The cry was repeated, and he could make out words, a plea for mercy. As the Knight crested the hill, he saw below him a beautiful maiden, bound and on her knees before a large, rough man, who stood poised to pierce her heaving chest with the cruel tines of a rustic pitchfork.

Sir Ceslinus was a chivalrous and romantic man. "Follow Your Heart" was the motto of his House, and he was the personification of the motto. He drew his fine sword and charged down the hill. The man holding the pitchfork looked up in surprise, a confused look on his homely features as the knight's sword slashed into his neck. The man fell heavily, his blood staining the ground in the place of the bound maiden's.

Turning about, the Knight dismounted and tenderly released the frightened maiden from her bonds. He offered to escort her to the nearest village, but she demurred. She was to become a nun and her abbey was nearby. She must not be seen alone with a man, even one as noble as the Knight who had saved her.

"God has sent you to me," she said, "but your purpose is served and he will see me safely home now."

Reluctantly, Sir Ceslinus acceded to her wishes. Then he prayed, offering gratitude for the opportunity to serve as the messenger of God's will. He knelt to offer a prayer for the soul of the murderer, and saw that chips of bones littered the hard earth. He understood that he was in a place of dark deviltry, a pagan sacrifice ground, and rode away at once.

When Sir Ceslinus was returning from his pilgrimage, the superstitious villagers of the plateau were telling the tale of a foul murderess who, having poisoned all of her family and being sentenced to death, was carried off by the devil on a fiery night mare. The charitable Knight offered the tale of his own heroic rescue of the young acolyte to contrast the salvation which was the reward of piety with the eternal damnation that was the punishment of the sinner.

Hey all,

my entry

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1249261