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The Window

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Wed Apr 20, 2011 5:08 pm
DaisyMegan says...

The Window

The End

The girl is standing at the top of the steeple, looking to the ground to search for the answers. She is trying to fight the thoughts of good and evil; she is trying to understand every emotion in her heart, and she is shouting against the screams howling through her mind. Her contorted expressions mirror the pain ripping through her heart as she fights the fear and the anger compelling her to step into the night sky.
She falters at the edge of the cracked steeple and rocks backwards and forwards as if possessed by another being. Her screams penetrate the silent yard, causing birds to awake and flutter distressed from the trees, and startling the bats swooping through the dark night. The girl pushes her arms out in front of her as though trying to restrain the air, and the tears roll furiously down her face as she crumples to the roof of the steeple.
She wraps her arms around her body and the violent sobs shake her frail frame. The girl shouts the words ‘Devil Boy’ into the distance and searches with distraught eyes to seek the soul for whom she has been calling through the night.
The scene is wrong, and the girl does not seem to belong to this world. She has scarred and maimed her body, and her face speaks of a horror that has been long encountered. She looks as though her existence is wrong, and her strange appearance is one to evoke fear and disfigured thoughts. The girl screams as though shouting at somebody standing with her, although she is completely alone and the yard is dead. The wind whips through her hair and stirs a frenzy in her mind as the conversation she has been having with this imaginary being ceases and she staggers to her feet. She screams the words ‘evil’ and ‘hell’ into the empty darkness and her scream pierces the air once more, before she steps into the hollow night.
Her body now lies on the ground in a crumpled heap, the white jagged bones protruding through the skin of her back, blood seeping into the rotting earth. The corpse is twisted and mangled, lying awkwardly between the graves of two bodies decaying deep in the ground below. The bats have begun to swoop through the sky once more, guarding the yard from evil, and the birds have settled back to their nests; the yard remains eerily silent after the screams of the night.

The Middle

I shall call him the Devil boy because he does not have a name. It does not seem to be imaginable that this boy can exist in reality but it is impossible to believe that I could have created such a beautiful and extraordinary creature purely in my imagination.
I cannot remember my first memory of the boy, although I remember that when I was a child, I created an imaginary friend who played with me when I was lonely. He was a beautiful boy, but he was sad, and I could not comprehend how someone so young could possess so many sorrows. But his presence comforted me. And I felt safe when I was with him.
Over the years, he began to talk to me about things that I didn’t understand. He spoke in a strange language that seemed to have aged beyond his youthful appearance, and his words spoke of the evil that exists in the world. He scared me throughout my childhood and as much as I was comforted by his presence, I was scared of what might be the next words to leave his mouth. He was not cruel, but his harsh honesty angered me, and when he at last told me of the truth that I had been avoiding I found my contempt grew to hatred of the boy.
I knew that there was something strange about this creature. He should not exist and yet I know that he is real. His eyes betray his cherub-like face, usually glowing as black as the night , but occasionally flaring red like the embers of a dieing fire. I know that he is wrong, but the bond between us is so great that I could not endure the separation from this boy. But the true nature of this beast was hidden from me for so long that there were no means by which I could have discovered the reality of his grotesque identity.
When the gargoyle of the Devil’s son appeared behind my window frame one evening, I discovered the truth, and my screams frightened him back to the hell from where he belonged. He had always spoken of being parented by something evil, he had tried to speak the truth, but the idea that he was the son of Satan; Lucifer; the Devil, the most impure being to exist in the world-the idea was inconceivable and I blocked out the words time and time again when he had spoken to me.
After six months of the monster being absent, I began to miss him. He had always spoken to me before about things that I could speak of with no-one else. As much as his words had caused me to fear, he had comforted me and held me when I was alone, he had protected me and spoken softly to me when I was upset. I began to need him more and more, the longer he was away from me; and the reality began to become known that I was in love with this impossible being. For I had known it all along. This creature who had sat on my bed and looked at me when I was a child, the creature who had awed at my beauty when my waist and hips had begun to form a smooth curve, the creature who held me to him all those nights when he visited. I knew that I belonged to him and him to me. I yearned once more for his touch, his words, his breath on my neck.
And that night when he returned to me, he was waiting in the darkness; again as the gargoyle that I had seen growing out of the ground all of those months previously. Beyond the window he was a black, ugly monster. His skin was puckered and looked to be burnt, his fingers withered and frail. His body was bent into shapes that should not be formed, and his face was indistinguishable, apart from the slits where his eyes should be. His whole body was destroyed; a mess of mangled limbs and tar-like contortions of the skin. He seemed to be ageless, although his presence reeked of an ancient time, and his body exuded the smell of death and decay. He tried to speak but the only noise that I hear is a foul hiss, and I could scent the putrid smell of darkness.
As he clambered through the window, gripping onto the bricks in the wall with his scaly hands, he resembled a spider scuttling to safety. Before my eyes the skin transformed from something so ugly to something more beautiful than my memory had ever shown me and my hatred of him dissolved in the same moment. He was wearing no clothes, and his carved body had grown immensely in the two years that we had been apart. He was tall and muscular, with a torso that rippled as he moved. His eyes were as black as the night and they shone when he smiled as he ran his fingers through his tawny hair. I could see his eyes moving up and down my body, mirroring my movements and drinking in my appearance. My love for this creature grew as we stood together in the dim light, but I was weary of the mask that he had been wearing for all of these years. I had yearned for him, but I was not entirely sure of who or what I had been yearning for.
The calling began soon after we had committed our love to each other for the first and only time in the depths of winter. We lay together as sinners, tearing our souls and merging together as one. This was the unforgivable mistake for which Satan had condemned his son; the devil boy.
Lucifer has been howling and hissing in my thoughts for weeks, months, years , screaming at me to surrender my soul, the boy’s soul, our lives. Even now Lucifer is awake in my mind and feverishly imploring to me that I am impure. He tells me that I am evil, and I do not know who to believe. I am in love with an impossible being who lives in the darkness and exists as a creature of death. My hatred and love of the creature seem to exist symbiotically, and his presence which once made me feel so safe and comforted, now makes me feel as if a thousand worries are pushing down on my shoulders.
Destiny is sure to make itself known.

The Beginning

I’m looking through the window. It is the window where I see the skies turning dark. It is a blackout window, a window in my mind. I find this window in the dark crevice at the back of my conscience, the cavity where rotten thoughts decay, leaving my brain to decompose. I look through this window when the air around me turns red, when I think my heart will explode. I look through this window for answers, I search for my identity, for the truth behind the mask. I search for the key that will unlock the meaning of life. I search to find human compassion, to find love, to discover the cruelties and the beauty of life.
I am trying to look for the signs of good and evil. What is wrong and what is right? What makes somebody a good or a bad person? I am trying to look for a safe place; in my mind and in my existence. But safe does not have a pure definition. Safe is where my heart beats slowly and my brain slows to a halt. Safe is being loved. Unsafe is the feeling of black. Unsafe is blood pounding through my veins and my body jerking involuntarily. Unsafe is the darkness in my mind and the weight constantly beating down on me.
Safe is knowing. Safe is being. Safe is impossible.

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Wed Apr 20, 2011 8:57 pm
cookEmonster says...

Whoa, that... was... amazing! I was so enchanted by the way you wrote it. It's very unique and i was surprised to see that other people didn't post reviews on it! You're a very good writer ;]

To accept life is to accept the fate it comes with- we were born to die.
So why not make the best of what we've been given with the short time we have on earth?
I like to live every day to it's fullest. (: And writing helps me do that...

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Wed Apr 20, 2011 9:33 pm
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BigDaddyDawg1899 says...

I agree, this was a good piece of writing. It really wasnt the story that was unique, but the wat that you wrote it. I would love to read more stories from you like this is the future.I can tell you put time into it because your spelling and punctuation was very neat. 3.5 out of 5 for me. If you like dark, scary writing, please check out mine and critique it. I am always up to hearing good or bad things about me work. Thanks and cheers.

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Tue Apr 26, 2011 6:34 pm
carbonCore says...

BigDaddyDawg hits the nail on the head there-- the story itself was confusing, odd, and overall not as enjoyable as I think you could have made it, but it's the writing itself that holds the greatest merits. Today, I've preached again and again that good descriptions do not come from an overuse of adjectives, and thankfully, it looks like you've learned this lesson without my intervention.

The story structure caught my eye as well. I wouldn't call it unique, but it certainly works in this piece. Would the piece read the same way if the structure had been conventional? Hmm, I don't know, but as it is now, it works. Still, pieces that benefit greatest from this kind of structure are the ones that hide some sort of a secret in the beginning (which is last). For instance, Kurt Vonnegut's novel "Slaughterhouse-Five" jumps all over the place with the story time. Backwards 10 years, forward 5 years, 2 years before marriage, 8 years after the war, and so on (basically, the main character is able to travel in time). The big climactic event, the fire-bombing of Dresden, takes place in the middle of the story, chronologically - but in the text itself, it's the last two pages or so. It reveals why the narrator was so messed up.

What does your beginning reveal? The main character had found a window in her subconsciousness. I wonder-- does this hint at some depth I do not see? Why does the window spew out the Devil's son? Who is the main character? Why is she the one who sees this window, and not, say, me? I wouldn't mind chilling with the Devil's son, myself. So what's special about her? This is what the "beginning" part should have revealed. The core reason, the problem at the heart of it all. As it happens, the story does not really reveal anything of the sort.

And while we're on the subject, why is it specifically the Devil? If you just needed a supernatural villain, why couldn't it be some bizarre demon from Ars Goetia, for instance? I ask because I think that any inclusion of God, or the Devil, or an angel in a fantasy story should be justified. Is there a religious lesson to be learned here? Or, though I don't like to stereotype, a Christian lesson? "Don't daydream?" "Don't fall in love with the Devil's son?" Hmm.

This aside, I enjoyed your writing style tremendously. I will definitely stalk up your portfolio sometime. If any of your other pieces are as well written as this one AND boast a good story, then you're very, very promising.

Your devil,

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Tue Dec 13, 2011 5:57 pm
JamieP says...

That was amazing... so impressed, makes me ashamed of my poems :P

You cannot have an opponent if you keep saying yes.
— Richard Siken