Chime
11-29-2005, 03:09 PM
Forward: yea...this story is both untitled and unfinished. It was written as an assignment; It's s'posed to be a scary story. However, as I utterly suck at horror stories, I opted for a morbid one instead.
The main character's name is "Siber" [meaning: 'Ice cold'] and he is a rather typical 'bad guy'. His lair is under a mountain, in a frozen lake that has been carved into a layrinth, of sorts. He's killed a lot of people, and, for reasons that are as yet unknown, all the people he killed are frozen into the walls of his house/lair/castle type thingy. Oh, and he can't leave, because all of the exits are sealed with ice, snow, rust, and age. Basically, he goes insane and dies. constructive criticism is welcome. Here it is:
Shadows on the purest snows are blue. But there is no snow here, only ice and death. Inside this place, inside of myself, there is nothing but void.
Hell is not warm. The fiery heat that Dante envisioned is the warmth of heaven, the embrace of divine bliss. Hell is cold. Inescapable, solitary iciness that kills one from the inside; sanity becomes just a distant memory.
Inside my hell, I wonder if heaven exists. Perhaps people only believe in a god because without hope, they would die inside. Die without the thought that they might one day escape their demons.
I will die soon, joining the ice children, the figures enclosed in the walls of my perfect hell. Some appear as though asleep, although some have expressions of horror or rage upon their faces, a lingering and undeniable reminder of things long past. They were human once, just as I was, but now their spirits serve only to haunt my waking dreams. Sometimes, their gazes become unbearable. I begin to wish that they had never died, staring, endlessly, as though they know that it serves only to rid me of the last remnants of sanity that I possess.
Sometimes I dream. In my dreams, the figures in the walls come to life, dancing an endless lifeless dance, amidst this ice that never melts.
Sometimes I wonder if I am already dead. Perhaps I could drift through walls; I have felt translucent ever since I was left alone. However, I will not try; their eyes gaze down upon me, damning me, wishing for me to eternally continue my wanderings down the idle corridors of my mind.
Within my enigmatic mind, dreams begin to stir. Fear, pain, remorse; the emotions overwhelm my senses, the dread flowing, joining the penitence and pain that fall like rain into space. Recollections become fainter with every minute spent in agony, each breath like swallowing glass.
I recall a distant, long suppressed memory, locked in a box and left in a dusty, empty room, only to be found again in the most inexplicable of moments. "Kuroi Yuki". The remembrance comes reluctantly, glassily, like liquid; cool and slow. A faint scent of almonds, a swish of long, long hair, and luminescent, defiant, violently beautiful eyes like compact suns.
Kuroi Yuki; black snow. Breezy, distant, pure, lovely. Untouchable, unreachable, indescribable; elusive as the snow that melts in your hands and runs free. The closer one tries to hold it, the sooner it disappears.
And she did; she disappeared.
The sweet whiff of almonds has dissipated, replaced by the acrid, overwhelming reek that is blood. Yuki: beautiful, intelligent; elusive like a flurry of snow. Yuki; lying silently. Yuki; cold, the snow around her unmelted, stained black by her beautiful blood.
My reality resurfaces. Or is it reality? I have so long lived within myself; the line between hallucination and veracity seems to have been all but erased. I have so long wished for this to have been but a dream. I now know, however, that I will not awaken to Yuki’s soft embrace. The people in the walls are still here, still staring. I wonder what they think about, trapped there for a period of time with no beginning and seemingly no end.
The main character's name is "Siber" [meaning: 'Ice cold'] and he is a rather typical 'bad guy'. His lair is under a mountain, in a frozen lake that has been carved into a layrinth, of sorts. He's killed a lot of people, and, for reasons that are as yet unknown, all the people he killed are frozen into the walls of his house/lair/castle type thingy. Oh, and he can't leave, because all of the exits are sealed with ice, snow, rust, and age. Basically, he goes insane and dies. constructive criticism is welcome. Here it is:
Shadows on the purest snows are blue. But there is no snow here, only ice and death. Inside this place, inside of myself, there is nothing but void.
Hell is not warm. The fiery heat that Dante envisioned is the warmth of heaven, the embrace of divine bliss. Hell is cold. Inescapable, solitary iciness that kills one from the inside; sanity becomes just a distant memory.
Inside my hell, I wonder if heaven exists. Perhaps people only believe in a god because without hope, they would die inside. Die without the thought that they might one day escape their demons.
I will die soon, joining the ice children, the figures enclosed in the walls of my perfect hell. Some appear as though asleep, although some have expressions of horror or rage upon their faces, a lingering and undeniable reminder of things long past. They were human once, just as I was, but now their spirits serve only to haunt my waking dreams. Sometimes, their gazes become unbearable. I begin to wish that they had never died, staring, endlessly, as though they know that it serves only to rid me of the last remnants of sanity that I possess.
Sometimes I dream. In my dreams, the figures in the walls come to life, dancing an endless lifeless dance, amidst this ice that never melts.
Sometimes I wonder if I am already dead. Perhaps I could drift through walls; I have felt translucent ever since I was left alone. However, I will not try; their eyes gaze down upon me, damning me, wishing for me to eternally continue my wanderings down the idle corridors of my mind.
Within my enigmatic mind, dreams begin to stir. Fear, pain, remorse; the emotions overwhelm my senses, the dread flowing, joining the penitence and pain that fall like rain into space. Recollections become fainter with every minute spent in agony, each breath like swallowing glass.
I recall a distant, long suppressed memory, locked in a box and left in a dusty, empty room, only to be found again in the most inexplicable of moments. "Kuroi Yuki". The remembrance comes reluctantly, glassily, like liquid; cool and slow. A faint scent of almonds, a swish of long, long hair, and luminescent, defiant, violently beautiful eyes like compact suns.
Kuroi Yuki; black snow. Breezy, distant, pure, lovely. Untouchable, unreachable, indescribable; elusive as the snow that melts in your hands and runs free. The closer one tries to hold it, the sooner it disappears.
And she did; she disappeared.
The sweet whiff of almonds has dissipated, replaced by the acrid, overwhelming reek that is blood. Yuki: beautiful, intelligent; elusive like a flurry of snow. Yuki; lying silently. Yuki; cold, the snow around her unmelted, stained black by her beautiful blood.
My reality resurfaces. Or is it reality? I have so long lived within myself; the line between hallucination and veracity seems to have been all but erased. I have so long wished for this to have been but a dream. I now know, however, that I will not awaken to Yuki’s soft embrace. The people in the walls are still here, still staring. I wonder what they think about, trapped there for a period of time with no beginning and seemingly no end.