The darkness choked me.
I could feel the air being squeezed from my burning lungs. Each breath scorched my lips, dripped from my mouth like acid. Each blink stabbed at my swollen eyes. My tongue, purple and inflated in the cold daylight, probed my mouth, licking at the bloody holes where teeth had been eaten away by cavities. A faint, stinging throb echoed between conscious thoughts.
At times it grew worse, and I was forced to hold my breath to keep the air from tearing through my throat: daggers through sails, screaming, bleeding. Sometimes the pain would ebb, but, more and more often now, it would grip me, tightly, until my mind fell into unconsciousness. It was at times like these that I wished I had the strength to plunge myself into the water, to let myself sink into its murky depths. But the cold sky held me against the boat’s floor, and my aching limbs were sprawled limply upon the deck.
I had used to dream, used to sleep. But now I drifted between the underregions of wakefulness and unconsciousness. I lay somewhere along the borderline, never truly sleeping, yet never truly awake. Memories were all I had left. Yet even they drifted away at times, so much that I forgot who I was, forgot my purpose. But I had no purpose.
“You control the main line,” the captain had said, many days ago, before the fire, before everything. I did not control anything now. Not my life. Not my death.
But it was painful to remember the past. Days of glory and conquest - all gone, eaten away by the thunderous sea.
Something lurched me into the present. Agony jolted through me, singeing my face, screeching along my weak limbs. A sharp intake of breath shattered against my throat.
My boat had hit something.
I forced my eyes open, even though they could do naught but squint. The blaring sky crushed them, blinded them. My neck cracked as I turned my head, just slightly, just enough to see a tall wooden plank floating upon the water.
A dock?
I lifted my hand, pain threatening to swallow me, and took hold of its soft edge. With slow, gentle movements, I pulled my boat along it, careful not to let my labors pull me under. But eventually the heartbeats tore at my eardrums, and I allowed my arms to retreat and my eyes to close. The boat’s momentum carried me forward upon the swelling waves.
It seemed like hours passed before it came to a stop on a sandy shore.
The breaths came quickly now. It was difficult for my ravaged brain to contain the agitation. I needed to rest, to let go.
But, somehow, I could not.
Eyes opened. I crawled out of the small boat, and then lay there, hands pawing at the sand. It scratched at my torn shirt, at my raw skin. But I managed to pull myself slowly forward. I reached up, grasping at a low branch. The thorns dug into my palm, and I saw the blood trickle down upon the sand, but still I managed to pull the sickly berry from its nesting place. Bringing it close, I squinted at it, the thing lying in my bloodied hand. It was small and black, wrinkled with age, but I let myself shove it into my mouth. I felt it burrow into my neck, squeezing itself along my throat’s inflamed surface. But it was food. Food, at last!
By the time I had eaten all of the berries within reach, a small portion of my strength had returned. Rising to my hands and knees, I moved to the other side of the bush. But soon my stomach, not having digested anything for days, churned, and my hands slipped and I vomited. A dark bile came spewing from my throat, pooling and bubbling slightly on the sand. I turned away and waited for the noxious taste in my mouth to fade away.
But I felt better now, better than I had felt since the fire. I found myself able to stand, to at last get a good picture of my surroundings.
Before me lay a labyrinth of shrubbery and sparse trees, stretching onward for miles. Beneath it, a layer of stone rose and fell from the greenery, blanketed by a mossy film. The plain extended endlessly along the shore. But its colors seemed fake, dulled, all some tainted shade of gray. I limped towards a sculpture near me: something humanoid, but rounded and disfigured by years of weather’s wrath. I wiped away its dark green skin, revealing a portion of the statue’s chest. By the thin daylight, I could distinguish a weathered carving embedded there. A man pressing a knife against a woman’s heart.
I stepped back, uneasy. There was something unnatural about the layout of the botany, something indescribable. Some alien pattern. What is this?
An object was lying on the beach some distance away, a silhouette against the gray sky. As I neared it, it became recognizable.
A corpse. Of a boy.
It looked ancient, flesh rotted away, hollow eyes staring upward. Its skin was tethered to its thin skeleton, and its arms were laid awkwardly at its sides. It was old, but somehow well-preserved on this sandy shore.
I relegated my gaze to the sea. The worn-down dock drifted noiselessly in the waves. My boat throbbed in and out with the tide. How did I ever come to this place?
“You’re strong, Darrel,” the captain had said, many years ago. But the captain was dead now, dead....
A hand gripped my shoulder.
Startled, I spun around, pain stabbing through my weak legs.
A boy stood before me. His face was smooth and young, but pale, cradled by a nest of black hair. He was thin, and I could easily see the ribs lining his shirtless chest, in his starved eyes. But there was a certain grimness about him. A determination.
“Come,” he said, tugging on my weathered shirt. He spoke with the voice of a child, and yet the manner in which the single word was emitted resonated with age and experience.
I looked over. The corpse was gone.
But I came. I followed him as he strode towards the tundra, struggling to keep up with his brisk pace. Eventually the shrubbery became denser, and we were climbing over statues and crumbled walls. The sand turned to a hard soil, which clawed at my bare feet. More and more often the bushes would brandish long thorns in place of their berries, and the colors grew ever duller, until they were barely perceptible from the gray.
And then we stopped.
The boy and I stood before a small cave. It rose from the earth like a hill, suddenly cut off to reveal the gaping mouth. Soil blanketed the cave’s exterior. Thorn-coated branches dangled from its craggy lip. Two great statues stood on either side of it: one was an owl, wings spread, eyes fiery; and the other was a man in tattered clothes.
The boy looked over at me and gestured for me to follow him. And, as he began to walk once more, I did. The owl’s eyes traced my steps.
As soon as we stepped inside, we were swallowed by darkness. Startled, I glanced back, expecting to see the cold daylight, but even that could not permeate what surrounded us now. And then I was on the boat again, aching, rocking back and forth on the ceaseless waves, never dreaming, never living....
A scratching sound woke me. Suddenly a bright light pierced the blackness, illuminating the cave’s walls. I turned, rubbing my eyes, and saw that the boy carried a torch. He stared at me. The light danced off his eyes.
“This way,” he said, ushering me forward.
As we walked, our footsteps echoing infinitely into the murky distance, I could not help but notice the intricate carvings etched upon the cave’s interior.
“What are these designs?” I asked, tracing my hands along them as we hiked deeper and deeper.
“She made them.”
“But they’re...all the same.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The boy did not answer. We continued to walk, guided by the flickering torchlight. The footsteps pounded against my ears.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“The tomb,” he answered shortly.
“Tomb? For who?”
Again, he chose not to answer.
My limbs began to ache. Though the berries had somehow rejuvenated much of my strength, I was still not fully recovered. I could taste blood in my damaged throat. “Wait,” I croaked, stopping to catch my breath.
The boy looked impatient. “We are almost there.”
I spat. “I need rest.”
“Don’t be long,” he answered, shifting uncomfortably.
I sat on the cave floor and breathed, massaging my legs. I frowned. Why was I even following this boy? Into this cave? Into this...tomb? I had never questioned him, never doubted his motives. After all, what harm could such a small boy do? I was alone, afraid. Weak.
“Are you finished?” he asked, fiddling with the torch.
“I am.” I stood. My legs were still burning, but not agonizingly so. The boy turned and began walking again, me following him. It was not long before we stopped once more.
“Here we are,” he whispered.
Before us lay a large cavern. The wide stone walls curved and came together on the end opposite me, a great distance away, and formed a bowl shape, like some subterranean dome. An unseen source of light illuminated a structure that dominated the room; it was almost like a temple, ascending toward the ceiling in a perfect four-sided pyramid. Countless steps lined each face, rising to the top, where I could barely make out an inky shape. Though the pyramid was gray (no doubt made from stone) and colorless, its grandeur could not be mistaken.
“What is it?” I asked, toothless mouth hanging open.
“The tomb,” he said. He smiled, just slightly. “Come.”
He led me down a steep path that wound into the hollow. As we descended the rocky slope, the boy began explaining the structure.
“I built it myself,” he started. “It took years. I would spend entire days working on it: planning, moving the stone, carving. She would ask, ask what I was up to, but I would never tell her. She...she had her suspicions, of course. But she pretended not to. She wanted not to. Now she is dead. Now this is her tomb.”
“Who?”
He looked up at me. There was a pain in his eyes. “My mother.”
We reached the floor of the cavern. Having no further need for the torch, the boy put it out and set it down beside a rock. The pyramid was now more ominous than ever, looming high above us, shadow cast over our bodies. The steps, which seemed so small and numerous from the entrance, were now huge and impassible.
“Are we going to climb it?” I asked, staring up at the tomb.
“Yes.”
“Why did you make the steps so high?”
We reached the first step. It was as tall as I was.
“Follow me,” said the boy, escorting me around the pyramid, until we had reached the far side. There, a small opening, hardly any taller than he was, led into the tomb itself. A faint glow radiated from it. Holding the torch high, he entered, and I bent down and followed him.
It was amazing. We were in a massive, square room, larger than any manor I had set foot in. Furniture - chairs, tables - dotted the floor. A massive winding staircase snaked upwards toward the ceiling, from which hung a glittering chandelier, lined with candles. And the colors! - since I had arrived on this island, everything had appeared cold and faded, and now the blinding hues scorched my eyes, mesmerizing me. But the most impressive feature was the tapestry: an enormous painting that hung on the far wall, beside the staircase. It was of a woman.
“Was that her? Was that your...mother?”
“Yes.”
“She’s beautiful.”
She gazed down at us with lustrous green eyes, her ebon hair draped over her shoulders in long, parted strands. There was a kindness about her features, her rounded nose, her thick eyebrows. But there was something I could not describe, as well. Something almost... familiar.
“Who are you?” I asked, turning suddenly toward the boy.
“You already know, don’t you?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but closed it when I found that I had no answer. Finally, I said, “Why did you take me here?”
“So you could help me. And I could help you.”
“I don’t need help.” But I did. I needed help from the moment I jumped down from the ship in that small rowboat.
The boy, sensing my thoughts, laughed. “Are you hungry?” he asked, turning and striding toward the other end of the room.
“Yes.”
He reached a cupboard, and pulled from it two small golden plates. “Sit,” he said, gesturing toward the stone table beside him. I sat. The boy went to retrieve something; food, I hoped. I looked down at my plate. Behind its glittering exterior, I could see a network of delicate carvings and designs.
“Here.” The boy handed the word to me, along with some black, powdery substance, which he dropped onto my plate with a narrow spoon.
“What is this?” I asked, staring at the grotesque mass.
“Food,” he answered, serving himself and sitting down on the chair opposite me. “You said you were hungry.” He raised
a handful to his lips.
I pushed away my plate, letting it skid across the stone surface. “I’ll manage.”
“If you insist,” said the boy, chewing tenderly.
“Seems like you’ve got this place pretty well stocked,” I said.
“I...live here.”
I furrowed my brow. “You live here? In your mother’s tomb?”
“It’s the only way I can keep track of her,” he replied, looking back down at his plate. The black substance - the food - was almost gone.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see.” He picked up the last grain. Holding it between his thumb and forefinger, he gazed at it, almost sorrowfully.
Then he thrust it into his mouth. “Now we must go,” he announced, sliding his chair back and standing up.
“Where?”
“To my mother.”
There was something about how he said it, something about the demeanor with which he uttered the two words, that frightened me. I rose. “Why?”
“Because you must help me. Now come.”
We strode over to the great winding staircase that led up to the ceiling. It was made entirely of stone. We climbed its steps, not speaking, watching the room grow smaller and smaller. By the time we reached the top, I was weak with fatigue.
The boy drew from his pants pocket a fist-sized canteen. “Do you need water?”
I drank, handing back the empty canteen. “Thanks.”
The boy ignored me, staring at the dark brown ceiling, now hardly a foot above him. Raising his hands, he pushed open a small square door above his head, revealing an opening.
“A trapdoor,” I said, gazing at it.
The boy climbed up so that he stood precariously on the railing, supporting himself by pressing his hands against the ceiling on either side of the trapdoor. From there he placed both his forearms onto the floor on the other side, and pulled himself up, until he was standing upright behind the trapdoor.
“How am I going to get up?” I called, acknowledging that my tired limbs could do no such feat.
“Be patient,” replied the boy. Soon, a wooden ladder was cast down to me. I placed my foot on the first rung and climbed slowly upward. When I reached the top, I allowed myself a few seconds to breathe before I raised myself to my full height and stood beside the boy.
We were on the top of the pyramid, looking down at the tall steps that lined its sides. When he shut the trapdoor, we were enveloped in dimness. Only a faint light now came from the cavern’s roof; looking up, I could see that it was being emitted through a small crevice.
“It’s almost nighttime now. We must be quick,” muttered the boy.
On my right was a colossal heap of some black material, nearly invisible in the gloom. It lay on a wooden block. A sound, barely a whisper, a breath, emanated from it. A horrid sound, despite its inaudibility.
“Is that...her?”
The boy sighed. He walked forward and lay his hand on the black mass. The ghostly cries grew louder by a nearly imperceptible amount. “When she died but two weeks ago, I took her body here.” He gestured to the wooden box - the coffin, I now realized. “I slept here, just that night. But her body rose from the coffin.” His pale face stood out in the darkness.
“Like...a ghoul?” I asked. The light continued to grow colder.
“It rose, and it screamed at me, called me...horrible things. But in the morning, it grew silent. I heard the lid shut.” A tear leaked from his eye. “On the second night, the same thing happened. I realized I needed a way to keep her inside, to prevent her from escaping. So I burnt all of her belongings.”
“Why? Why choose something as light as ashes over slabs of stone, which you have so much of?”
“Stone wouldn’t hold her. She is stronger than that.” He gazed sadly at the coffin. “After that, normal food never satisfied me. I grew to despise it. So now I eat only ashes.”
“You’ll die.”
A moan escaped the wooden box.
“Night is very near now,” whispered the boy, gazing apprehensively at the opening in the cavern’s roof. Very little light escaped it. The darkness surrounding us was nearly complete. “But now the ashes are not enough to hold her. I have heard her moan and stumble about from my bed inside. Every morning I walk up the stone steps and place all the ashes back onto the coffin lid.”
“She does not escape down the steps?”
“They are too high.”
“Nor does she try the trapdoor?”
“She does not know of it. It is well concealed.”
“Then what is your problem? Why do you need my help?”
The boy looked hesitant. “I need you to help me kill her again. So that she doesn’t haunt me. So that she can rest in...peace.”
“Again?”
“A person always dies twice. The first is physical - you know about that. The soul departs from the body. The second is more difficult to explain. But you will know.”
“Give me a hint,” I pressed.
But the boy was silent. His eyes strayed back to the coffin. “Sometimes she would take me to a hill, far away, where the clouds floated just above our heads. It was beautiful there: we could see the meadows, the forests, the mountains. ‘The sun always shines here,’ she would say. And it did. We would spend days there, though it could have been years. It should have been years.”
“Can you take me there?” I asked.
He sighed. “I’ve never been able to find it again. I’ve searched for many days under the gray sky, but I can find only ruins.”
“What are the ruins of?”
“Many years ago, we built a kingdom here, my mother and I. We built for miles and miles, she the queen, me her prince. We were happy then. But eventually we came to a sandy shore, and there we stayed." The boy sighed. "Then I found the cave. I think she misunderstood. She would wander about the streets at nighttime, while I slept. I think she knew that I was only trying to please her. But she hates me now. She hates me.”
I was silent for a moment. “Why does she hate you?”
The boy looked at me, his face contorted in anguish. “Because I killed her.”
A steady pounding now came from the coffin. I could now barely see the boy’s face in front of me.
“I need light,” I said. I reached down and opened the trapdoor, shedding soft candlelight into the cavern. “And we need to think.”
“We have very little time,” said the boy. His unclad chest was shivering.
“I know. But you need to tell me how I’m supposed to kill her. A weapon? A plant?”
“I don’t - “
“Think!”
The pounding grew louder. Beat. Beat. Beat.
“There has to be something! A word! A color!”
“I don’t - “ The boys face became bone white. “The trapdoor!”
And then there was an explosion of darkness and ashes, and in the pale candlelight stood a monster. Her face was a cavity of rotted flesh and skin, and parts of her skull - her forehead and cheekbones - stood white and exposed in the dull luminosity. She wore a black, tattered dress that blanketed her ravaged body. The long, onyx hair depicted in the painting was now a mane of thin, disheveled strands. Looking at this fiend, I could somehow relate it to the beauty on the tapestry, but all of the kindness was sapped out of it.
“Get inside!” screamed the boy, shoving me down the trapdoor. My feet missed the ladder, and I landed painfully on my back on the stone stairway. My breath was sucked from my lips.
The boy was standing above me, staring anxiously at the closed trapdoor. Having caught my breath, I rubbed my aching head and stood up.
“Did she...did she see us? Did she see the trapdoor?” I asked.
“I’m not sure.”
A rhythmic pounding throbbed against the square door. The wooden board shook and incurvated.
“Let’s go,” I said, pulling the boy toward the staircase. As we began the long, spiral descent, a loud crack sounded behind us, followed by a thump and an agonized moan.
“She broke through. She’s inside,” said the boy between steps. Already my heart was beating rapidly in my chest, but I couldn’t stop. Clumsy, pounding footfalls echoed our own.
At last we reached the bottom, and we darted synchronously toward the opening, pushing past leather chairs and tables. I risked a glance back, and saw her stumbling over the final step, arms stretched out, vulture-like. Something caught on my foot, and I fell to the floor, my jaw slamming against my skull. Blood streamed into my mouth. She was only feet away from me now, her moans metamorphosing into shrill screams. I scrambled to my feet, and launched myself toward the opening. A cold hand grazed the back of my leg.
Now outside the tomb, the boy pulled me up, and we were running again, towards the cave. Our bare, bloody feet slapped against the rock. Shrieks followed us.
But as we reached the narrow path leading up to the entrance, I was becoming weary. My legs throbbed, needles tearing at their raw muscles. But she was following us. I had to go on. And so as we scaled the hill, him running, me half-crawling, I forced myself to endure the discomfort.
“Come on!” called the boy, already having ascended the path. I heard a clawing sound behind me.
At last I reached the top, and then we were moving again, running through the black air of the cave. Our feet echoed endlessly ahead of us.
“How do we kill her?” I asked, breathless.
“You’ll know.”
Suddenly we were out again, into the night air, into the tundra. The sky was veiled by a blanket of darkness - there was no moon, no stars. The boy and I stumbled blindly over the bushes and stone ruins, tripping, jumping. Thorns tore at our clothes and bare skin. And she was close now, taking advantage of our slow progress, barging forward through the greenery and rocks, unhindered. I could see the beach, a faint white spot in the blackness. It grew larger and larger, while the beast drew nearer and nearer - I could feel her putrid breath on my neck - and then, taking the boy in my arm, I dove forward into the sand.
She was there, looming above us, a tower, her net of dark hair waving in the breeze. And her bony hand was reaching down -
“Onto the dock!” I yelled, and I rolled as the hand landed beside me. I leapt to my feet and raced toward the planks, the boy at my side. We reached it, the sound of agitated waves stinging our ears. The wood was stiff against our heels. But soon we reached its end, and I turned to face the woman.
And yet, in the silence that followed, I heard a noise - the faintest noise, like a whispered moan. And, as the woman descended upon us, I grabbed the boy and jumped into the small boat that had drifted out beside us. The momentum carried us outward into the sea.
“What do we do now?” asked the boy.
“We wait until morn - “ But my words were eclipsed by a roaring splash.
The woman was swimming out to us.
“Paddle!” I yelled frantically, thrusting my hand into the water. But she was moving too quickly. I looked over at the boy.
He was doing nothing. Just sitting there.
“Thank you,” he said.
“What?”
The splashing drew nearer.
“Thank you.”
A white hand lurched out of the water, wrapping around his wrist. But he ignored it. “I understand now. You did it. You - “
And then he was gone.
I sat there, in that boat, drifting on the ceaseless waves. And sometime between then and eternity, my ship arrived, and pulled me aboard.
whoa that is one hell of a story. Its awesome, your really talented mashallah, you should consider writing for a career i have to remind myself that its not a book and that its your written work. I know the end is confusing, but i also understand why i have read many short stories that end like that, and i remember getting angry at the book because i wanted to know what happened next. My short character description on Dylan is the same.
keep it up its magnificent
... I'm getting a feeling that this is a delusion on Darrel's part. Me being me, I habitually see into works a bit (or perhaps a lot) deeper than the author usually intends. So, here's my version of what happened.
Darrel burned down that ship. This would make sense, since the theme of the source material is burying guilt. The boy here, then, represents Darrel himself, and the dead mother is the burned down ship. Perhaps this is why she can only be controlled with ashes? That's a tenuous reference, but it's solid enough to send shivers down my spine when I realized it. Anyway, they go into the room, they run away from the mother, and then they escape her in the ocean. The ending mirrors the beginning, it seems, when Darrel escaped from the ship, he also leaped into water. In this sense, the moral is pretty family-unfriendly: there's no point in dwelling on your mistakes, bury them, seal them off forever, run from them, and you'll be golden. I must admit that I'm a fan.
Your descriptions are absolutely breathtaking. Honestly, your style reminds me less of Kafka and more of Lovecraft. They are lush and viscous, pulling you in and holding you there. Though the question that begs asking is -- are they necessary in a piece such as this? Do they play a role, are they connected to what you're trying to say? The ruins certainly do. The boy, also. Darrel's (I keep trying to write Darren for some reason) pains throughout the story are a bit overblown, but they definitely have their place in the narrative. The description of the mother? I think, not so much. I mean, she's a ghoul, that's all we really need to know. No need to describe every nook and cranny of her cranium (forgive the awful wordplay).
Relevance to source material: The only part I really found jarring was that the child in the story appeared a lot more mature than how (at first) Sopor's child appears in his song. There, he says absolutely nothing until they reach the crypt. That makes me think of a little child, too shy perhaps to speak at first, but who nevertheless desperately needs the help of another. Then, after the dark events in the song take place, he cannot bear it anymore and breaks out in his monologue about just what happened to his mother, and what he's doing in this underground crypt. In your version, he is more of an omnipotent, haughty god: he replies to questions with "You'll know", "You'll understand", and so on. Upon finishing the story, it seems more like the child hoped that Darrel will know all these things, that he knew, relied even, on the fact that Darrel will understand the situation. But when I initially read the story, it seemed like the child was some deity teaching Darrel a lesson. Other than this, I most certainly see the relevance. Good job on translating it to text.
Contest results will be announced tomorrow.
Lyrics:
I didn't quite like this. Your MC doesn't make sense to me. First of all, he's shipwrecked, and he keeps on making the usual mental contradictions (that was my purpose... I have no purpose... blah, blah). And he's all anguished and everything and in pain and barely holding on.
Next thing we know, he has a couple of berries and BAM! He's ready to go and do whatever... even make a couple of snarky comments to the boy. WTF? I mean, I know this is going to sound petty, but berries ain't enough. A human can go three weeks without food, but only three days without water. Which, I guess is all right and everything because it sounds like he's dead anyway, from the ending. But he doesn't act like he's dead yet, so it's really confusing. And, were he to puke, it would likely be a dry heave because he doesn't have anything but the berries, and that ain't enough, as previously mentioned.
I think it's weird that he follows the boy or whatever. Why would he do this in the first place?
Also, why would the boy kill his mother anyway? The way the MC accepts that is just... odd. I would be like, "Uh huh, you're joking, right?" And, if I believed him, I might say, "Why?" But they just kind of stare at each other.
Also, I hate how the little boy knows more about everything than the MC. So the MC ends up looking like he's stupid and everything. Plus, unless there's a snarky comment that the MC can sneak out, he is completely and utterly obliging to the boy. Whhyyyyy?
Also, where does the MC get all this energy?
And why does the boy say, "You'll know" but we never get a hint as to why this man should know or even know if the MC wonders about these words. The dialogue is flat, and partly because everyone accepts everything and doesn't question anything.
And then, in the end, the very fact that he was a sailor whatever has no real bearing on the story as well. It's like, the beginning was just a gimmick to lead us in. Sure, his boat brought him in at the end... kind of circular. But it seems really odd and gimmicky. You might as well have him and his family get mauled by a pig and then have him angst about that. Then, at the end, his wife shows up with a platter of bacon and leads him home.
SO. If he's a sailor and stuff? MAKE THAT IMPORTANT. Maybe he can tie knots over the stone slab or whatever. Don't make him just passively go along. Make him DO something.
...I think that's the main part of the critique. O_o
Why do you have so many epic reviews?! Errr, sorry. I just want to warn you that I really don't know if I'm going to be helpful at all here. That's what I get for taking ages to get to requests, I guess. Anyways, yeah, if you have any questions or comments about this review when I'm done, just let me know.
I've just had a skim through some of the other reviews and I think I might actually have a few things to mention that haven't been critiqued already. Before I get into that though, I'd like to say that I agree with a couple of things that have been said already--the whole confusion thing being the main one. I won't lie... I am the most unintelligent person ever when it comes to figuring out what things mean, for example, the end of this story. Considering others have mentioned it being confusing though, I don't think it is just me this time. Here are the main questions I have right now:
Who was the corpse? (I'm assuming it was the boy, but that just opens another load of questions).
What actually happened to the MC for him to be in the situation?
Why were the mother and the boy familiar?
What happened in the ending in general? (Obviously, Azila understood it because she's one of those weirdly smart homschooled kids. Oh! Hang on... You know when the MC was found by the ship, was he dead? Maybe that could explain some things...)
Also, why didn't the boy just, like, burn his mother's body so she wouldn't haunt him...? Then he could have ate her. Yum. 
(I know that would kind of like ruin the whole plot, but hey, I just thought I'd throw some logic in there. Besides, you could always just give the boy a weird obsession with his mother so he couldn't kill her because of that. Mind you, he seems pretty weirdly connected to her anyway...)
With most of these questions, I do have theories, but that's the problem. They're just theories and there are too many of them. If you'd maybe left one or two things a bit hazy, it would be okay, but it's a bit annoying for me because there's quite a number of events and questions that aren't confirmed. It's especially frustrating when I have 101 theories running around in my little brain. I'm not saying that you have to blatantly tell us everything, but a few clues and less haziness would be nice.
Before I get onto some deeper critiques, I want to bring up some nit-picky ones. I'll begin with the physical state of the MC. You started this off with him basically dying. (One of my theories is that the whole situation with the boy and his mother was a hallucination/dream because of his state, but that's one of my less likely theories. If that is true though, this next critique might not be as relevant). Anyway, yeah. Basically, he started off with zero energy, but by the end, he was blooming swimming. He hadn't really eaten or drunk anything during his time on the island, so I don't get how he had so much energy to be able to climb through the trap door various times, run from the evil woman thingy as well as swim away. He just simply wouldn't have the energy, especially judging by the way you described his weakness at the beginning.
Staying on the subject of food, I found the scene where the MC refused food from the boy. Well, I say food, but it was ashes (They were ashes, weren't they? Sorry, I have the memory of a dead goldfish). Still though, if the MC was as hungry as you'd described him at the beginning, I'm almost certain that he would have eaten whatever he could have. He almost seemed snobby to me when he refused to eat the ashes. Even if he didn't decide to eat them because of taste or whatever, I'd have that that he'd have at least tried them or something. I guess it just seems a little... unnatural and unrealistic?
Something else that I found a bit unrealistic was the dialogue, certainly in one area.
“A person always dies twice. The first is physical - you know about that. The soul departs from the body. The second is more difficult to explain. But you will know.”
“Give me a hint,” I pressed.
But the boy was silent. His eyes strayed back to the coffin. “Sometimes she would take me to a hill, far away, where the clouds floated just above our heads. It was beautiful there: we could see the meadows, the forests, the mountains. ‘The sun always shines here,’ she would say. And it did. We would spend days there, though it could have been years. It should have been years.”
“Can you take me there?” I asked.
He sighed. “I’ve never been able to find it again. I’ve searched for many days under the gray sky, but I can find only ruins.”
“What are the ruins of?”
“Many years ago, we built a kingdom here, my mother and I. We built for miles and miles, she the queen, me her prince. We were happy then. But eventually we came to a sandy shore, and there we stayed. Then I found the cave. I think she misunderstood. She would wander about the streets at nighttime, while I slept. I think she knew that I was only trying to please her. I...I cry sometimes at night, because now she haunts me.”
I was silent for a moment. “Why does she haunt you?”
“She hated me.”
“She didn’t hate you. She loved you. You know that. Why would have she hated you?”
Hey Kaf,
First of all, as many people have said before me, your description was great. I love description, so this was right down my alley. Your grammar, as well, was close to perfection. I'm not really going to go on with that more sinc other people have, but just know that those were the makings of the piece for me.
I saw thirteen reviews and I wasn't really sure if I would have anything to say, but luckily for you, I do. Mainly they're opinions, so if you want to disregard them, do so.
At times it grew worse, and I was forced to hold my breath to keep the air from tearing through my throat: daggers through sails, screaming, bleeding.
Though you have great description, sometimes I don't know what you're describing. You like using the pronouns, which is fine, but I lost track a few times.
After the colon, what is that? Memories, the way his throat feels?
I had used to dream, used to sleep.
The use of had makes this great sentence a bit awkward.
But now I drifted between the underregions of wakefulness and unconsciousness.
The use of underregion here confuses me. I didn't even know that existed as a word, so I looked it up on Dictionary. com and in an actual dictionary to try to find a definition for the word itself. I know what under means and I know what region means, so maybe I'm over looking something, but I could find no definition that fit for that. It is a word. I just don't have a definition.
Now that I've rambled enough, I suggest changing it to something else. It's an easy word to assume, so you don't have to, but it's driving me crazy. Could you tell me what it means?
But now I drifted between the underregions of wakefulness and unconsciousness.
I lay somewhere along the borderline, never truly sleeping, yet never truly awake.
You have a lot of repitition. I would choose one of the two sentences I have here.
But I have no purpose.
You have a tense change here, and I'm not sure if it's intentional or not.
“You control the main line,” the captain had said, many days ago, before the fire, before everything.
You give many flashes of the MC's past, but never elaborate. They hold no importance, so I would chuck it.
My boat had hit something.
You also have many duh statements. We're smart. We can figure it out.
I lifted my hand, pain threatening to swallow me, and took hold of its soft edge.
In the song, we know it's rotten, but I really didn't get the whole soft edge thing, and I wasn't sure if you were talking about the boat or the dock. This is rather small, and if you feel that you're in the right, by all means keep it the way it is.
With slow, gentle movements, I pulled my boat along it, careful not to let my labors pull me under. But eventually the heartbeats tore at my eardrums, and I allowed my arms to retreat and my eyes to close.
The breaths came quickly now. It was difficult for my ravaged brain to contain the agitation. I needed to rest, to let go.
Your MC let's go in the paragraph before and then needs to let go. Make sure it's all the same.
It scratched at my torn shirt, at my deep, unchecked stomach wounds, probably grotesque and infected.
This is the only time you mention this stomach wounds. It's not mentioned in the song. Honestly, a lot of this is a small stretch of reality. Making your MC do all of this with stomach wounds and suffering from dehydration, starvation, and whatever else is too much.
Get rid of the stomach wounds.
But I managed to pull myself slowly forward. I reached up, grasping at a low branch. The thorns dug into my palm, and I saw the blood trickle down upon the sand, but still I managed to pull the sickly berry from its nesting place.
I would say something about the berry before you pluck it.
But soon my stomach, not having digested anything for days, churned, and my hands slipped and I vomited.
Comma after slipped.
But I felt better now, better than I had felt since the fire. I found myself able to stand
Your MC just threw up anything he had eaten. The berries wouldn't have made him feel any better. Instead, stay he doesn't want to give up when he's found what he has. He needs to continue pushing forward. etc. etc. In much better wording, of course.
rounded and disfigured by years of weather’s wrath.
The before weather's?
A corpse. Of a boy.
Both of these don't need to be sentences or fragments or whatever. It breaks it up too much.
“You’re strong, Darrel,” the captain had said, many years ago. But the captain was dead now, dead....
First, one too many periods to be really nitpicky.
Second, I really don't like these flashbacks. They never have anything to do with the story, unless I'm really missing something.
I looked over. The corpse was gone.
This is completely personal opinion, but I made the connection without this. I think it takes some of the mystique out of the story instead of adding it, which is what I think you meant to do.
But I came. I followed him as he strode towards the tundra,
Here's what I found for tundra:
a vast treeless zone lying between the ice cap and the timberline of North America and Eurasia and having a permanently frozen subsoil.
That's all I found. I'm not sure you're using that word correctly.
the colors grew ever duller
The use of ever here is correct, but it sounds odd.
until they were barely perceptible from the gray.
Gray what? I don't think you actually had intended anything to be gray, so maybe try, "until everything seemed like a solid gray," or change perceptible to imperceptible and play around with it. Keep it if you want. I'm not making much sense. I don't think.
Two great statues stood on either side of it: one was an owl, wings spread, eyes fiery; and the other was a man in tattered clothes.
A lot of people use colons this way, but I swear to you, it is WRONG. Colons are mainly in bible verses, the time, and lists. There are a few other purposes, but none of them are seperating two sentences. You could use a semicolon or, even better in my opinion, a period.
As soon as we stepped inside, we were swallowed by darkness. Startled, I glanced back, expecting to see the cold daylight, but even that could not permeate what surrounded us now. And then I was on the boat again, aching, rocking back and forth on the ceaseless waves, never dreaming, never living....
A scratching sound woke me.
What? Darkness, the boat, aching, rocking, the ocean? How? Where? WHAT?
...I don't get it.
Though the berries had somehow rejuvenated much of my strength, I was still not fully recovered.
Again, they couldn't possibly do that.
“The tomb,” he said. He smiled, just slightly. In relief? “Come.”
Again, with the question, you never actually follow up on that. Was it relief? Was it fear? We'll never know. Just cut it.
“I built it myself,” he started. “It took years. I would spend entire days working on it: planning, moving the stone, carving. She would ask, ask what I was up to, but I would never tell her. She...she had her suspicions, of course. But she pretended not to. She wanted not to. Now she is dead. Now this is her tomb.”
So, up till now, this kid has been answering with monosyllables. There's nothing wrong with that. In fact, I kind of like it. Just make sure you stick to the quiet, serious, I'll tell you what you need to know when you need to know it personality.
She was. She gazed down at us with lustrous green eyes, her ebon hair draped over her shoulders in long, parted strands.
I could see the boy saying "she was", but in the MC's thoughts it seems weird.
There was a kindness about her features, her rounded nose, her thick eyebrows. But there was something I could not describe, as well. Something almost... familiar.
“Who are you?” I asked, turning suddenly toward the boy.
“You already know, don’t you?”
I agree with other reviewers on this part.
“So you could help me. And I could help you.”
How does the boy help the MC?
I pushed away my plate, letting it skid across the stone surface. “I’ll manage.”
I don't really want your MC to eat ashes, but if I was starving like he should be, I would accept anything if someone called it food.
“A trapdoor,” I said, gazing at it.
Really? I think your readers can figure it out without you spelling it out.
“Be patient,” replied the boy.
Though this dialouge is short and to the point, I felt that it wasn't really in the boy's character. Up until now, he's kind of been using words when he has to. This comes off as almost smart alecky.
The ghostly cries grew louder by a nearly imperceptible amount.
I'm assuming you mean just a little. Your language is wonderful, but here, again personal opinion, I think it confuses the reader more than amazes them. Just because it's a big word doesn't mean it's the best way to describe something.
“When she died but two weeks ago, I took her body here.” He gestured to the wooden box - the coffin, I now realized. “I slept here, just that night. But her body rose from the coffin.” His pale face stood out in the darkness.
“It rose, and it screamed at me, called me...horrible things. But in the morning, it grew silent. I heard the lid shut.” A tear leaked from his eye. “On the second night, the same thing happened. I realized I needed a way to keep her inside, to prevent her from escaping. So I burnt all of her belongings.”
“Stone wouldn’t hold her. She is stronger than that.” He gazed sadly at the coffin. “After that, normal food never satisfied me. I grew to despise it. So now I eat only ashes.”
All of this is needed history, so I'm slow to say this... I'm going to anyway. All of this dialouge is abnormal for your boy. I'm not sure how you could fix. I suggest making the language less flowery. Just leave the bare basics and see how it goes.
“She does not know of it. It is well concealed.”
Like here, even though this is short enough, if it wasn't, you could get rid of the second sentence. I hope it helps and makes sense.
But you will know.”
He never does.
“And we need to think. To scheme.”
The second part is useless. I would get rid of it. It doesn't sound quite right.
“She broke through. She’s inside,”
Again, we can figure it out.
At last we reached the bottom, and we darted synchronously toward the opening,
Synchronously is a great word. I didn't even have to look it up. It just makes it sound like you used a thesaurus, which is fine, just not when it makes it sound forced.
I was becoming weary.
He should have been weary from walking up those huge stairs. He's been without food and water long enough for his teeth to rot out of his mouth. Becoming weary now isn't realistic.
I forced myself to endure the discomfort.
Being chased by a zombie, stomach wounds, starvation, dehydration, bleeding mouth... Discomfort? Understatement of the century.
“You’ll know.”
But he doesn't.
taking the boy in my arm,
He would be weak to do that.
I sat there, in that boat, drifting on the ceaseless waves. And sometime between then and eternity, my ship arrived, and pulled me aboard.
This sounds like he died. If so, I like it. I really like the ending where you're leaving us shaking our head.
Sorry it took me to long, Kafka, I was skiing at a no internet place.
I really liked it! Not once did I read a sentence that didn't make me feel like I was in the story. It was as good as a published book. I was so drawn into reading it I almost forgot to critique it.
It was very descriptive and you made it easy for the reader to understand the surroundings and add a little imagination. You did an especially good job at the beginning when you described the MC's pain.
I believe you put the correct info into your story at the right points, instead of throwing all the info into the beginning, you spread it out through the story.
I think the story would have been better with more emotion. MAybe having fear flash in the boys eyes, just having the boy show some emotion. He always just did things. That may just be his character, but a realistic character would show a little emotion.
I didn't really understand the ending. I know there's some ending, but it's a little confusing.
Hello there Kafka!
First, let me just say that I can definitely see that your imagery is one of your stronger points of your writing. This was really fantastic for me to read - I was on edge reading this! I like the way you handled the ending with the last sentence. It gave the feeling of 'What just happened', but in a good, mysterious way that leaves a reader mystified and wondering just what that boy meant.
Now, for the constructive criticism:
It looked ancient, flesh rotted away, hollow eyes staring upward. Its skin was tethered to its thin skeleton, and its arms were laid awkwardly at its sides. It was old, but somehow well-preserved on this sandy shore.
I sat on the cave floor and breathed, messaging my legs.
Well, i must say, it's impressive. Though the begining and end are alittle loose, the basic storyline takes perfect sensre and is quite interesting. When i finished reading i felt like i was reading a series, and i needed to read the next book. Most of your wording and phrasing was great, and the few quirks that i did find were not worth mentioning. My main concern is the end. I think you had a tad bit trouble finishing this piece up. Maybe, instead of making th
e boy dissapear, you might have kept him around for a short period of time to explain things. Of course this is merely a suggestion, you do not HAVE to do that. I think that is it. Good job though! 
This is so clever and I really enjoyed it. I found that you are a really good and deep writer which is what I like about you. I really did enjoy your writing so well done. I'd like to see more of you some day, so I'll be aware! 
Hey Kafka! Thanks for posting in my WRFF thread. I'm kind of empty now and again so I appreciate the request. I think this is my first/second time I've reviewed for you?! It's an honour, you being featured member of the month and all! 
Anyway, I'm thinking of entering Carbon's contest too so I'm going to be ultra harsh 
I'm going to skip out grammar as I think most of your work is flawless. I'll get down to the nity gritty stuff such as plot, pace, and my general thoughts. I'll split this into two reviews as reviews that are too long freeze my poor ol' computer.
--->>
You started this off excellently. Your description was gushing from end to the other, your word choice was beautiful and if I may say so, it's better then I've read for a while. You had my tied from the very minute I read the starting line.
The darkness choked me.
I could feel the air being squeezed from my burning lungs. Each breath scorched my lips, dripped from my mouth like acid. Each blink stabbed at my swollen eyes. My tongue, purple and inflated in the cold daylight, probed my mouth, licking at the bloody holes where teeth had been eaten away by cavities. A faint, stinging throb echoed between conscious thoughts.
but it did. You did this awesomely. Really. I just think that something should have come out of all the un-informative answers the boy gave. I mean, how do we know? There should be some little hints and hidden clues here to make us feel like we've gotton somewhere. Like we understand why the boy was like this. I mean, there's no real conclusion is there? I mean even though I think the ending is amazing and I was so...there I just think there should be some more information that would satisfy are hungry minds Hi Kafka! It's sort of ironic that you requested me to review this because 1) it was already on my reading list and 2) I'm competing against you in this contest... or I will be when I stop "planning" and actually get around to writing my entry. Anyhow...
I've listened to this song a few times (I'm listening to it right now... which is a little distracting, but oh well) and you captured the feeling very well. It has that painful, dark, dirty, creepy haunting feeling to it that the song certainly has. Your descriptions, as everyone has said, is really fantastic. It's gruesome and gross (in fact, I've added a 16+ rating to this--I hope you don't mind), but quite well-done. I have very clear images of everything in my head... even if I'm not sure I'd like to have them there, because they're so disturbing. ^_~ I've never actually read the lyrics, but from what I've gathered by listening to the song, you seem to have captured the plot of it pretty well also.
I think my main problem with this piece is that it feels a little (forgive me) pointless. I mean, knowing that you wrote this based on a song, and knowing the song, I can say to myself "yeah, that's a cool way of interpreting it" or "yeah, Kafka really captured the feeling," or whatever... but if it weren't for the song, I think it just seem to ramble a bit. For the whole first half (until the chase scene) this piece almost felt like it was trying to just be disgusting and gory for the sake of being disgusting and gory. Slowly, I started getting a sense of plot, and I love your plot... but I think there is a lot of extra stuff floating around.
My suggestion, as brutal as it may sound, is that you try and cut down on your descriptions. They are terrible and haunting and fantastic and I love them... but I feel like after a certain point, they got to be too much and I almost found myself skimming them. This is partially because you're so intent on setting the scene (which you do excellently) that you get carried away and end up telling us the same things over and over in slightly different ways.
Another thing that I'd like to mention is that this whole thing feels very detached. Yes, you write (quite a lot!) about his pain, and I can see it very clearly... but I don't really feel it. You describe it as though it should be in third person. I think this also comes from trying to capture the song, because lyrics (in my opinion, anyway) always have a slightly impersonal feeling to them. Like poetry. You don't get as good a sense of a character in a poem as you do in a short story, and this short story feels more like a poem. It's more about what happens and how it happens than who it happens to. I guess maybe this is what you're going for, and it's really just a matter of opinion, but I personally found it a little hard to stay interested in the suffering of someone who I have no feelings for whatsoever.
I think you have a lot of material waiting for you here, and you need to harness it to make something out of it, and then trim the whole thing down so that we can see what you've made. There are several directions this story could go in over the editing process and you just need to pick one. For example, do you want it to be mainly about the descriptions? About setting the scene and allowing the readers to imagine the world clearly? Or do you want it to be about the plot? Or the characters? of course, all these elements need to be present but I think you need to give particular emphasis on one of them so that the whole thing doesn't start feeling like a muddy jumble.
I'd like to agree with the other reviewers in saying that I'd like to know why the boy and his mother were so familiar... or if you don't want to tell your readers outright, at least give us some more clues. Right now I feel like that whole aspect got rather lost in the shuffle, and I hate to see that happen.
Also, I love the ending. I don't know if you've changed it since you got your other reviews or what, but I don't find it confusing at all. I think it's perfect. Really. Chilling and slightly ironic and mysterious. Well done.
All in all, I think this has a lot of potential. You've done very well with capturing the song. In fact, I think you've done a little too well. Am I right that every time you read this, that song goes through your head? Yes? I thought so. It feels like the song, not like a story about the song. You're not taking advantage of everything that your medium (prose) has to offer over Sopor Aeternus' medium. I suggest you go through and judge this not in comparison to the song, but on its own. You've already done a great job of interpreting the song, now you need to fine-tune this as a short story.
Well, I hope that helps! Let me know, of course, if you have any questions or want to discuss or anything like that.
a
P.S. If When I get nightmares tonight, will they be your fault for writing something so creepy or my fault for reading/reviewing it right before bed? O.O
Many, many thanks, guys! So glad you enjoyed it!
xDudettex wrote:Kafkescence wrote:But she was following us. I must go on. And so as we scaled the hill, him running, me half-crawling,
For some reason 'I must go on' stood out to me as sounding wrong. Maybe try something like - 'I had to keep moving' or something.
borntobeawriter wrote:My problem is the same as dudette's: I have no idea what happened.
PaulClover wrote:Kafkescence wrote:I was alone, afraid. Weak. And he reminded me of someone....
One thing I would change, though, is this sentence. The last part, "And he reminded me of someone," seems like a non-sequitor or afterthought, especially since it isn't really explained (more on that in a bit). Perhaps more detail would make this mystery more solvable.
Amazing Paul here!
Just listened to the song, and I must say you captured the feeling very well. Like the reviewers before me have said, your descriptions are marvelous, and not just in the way that they usually are; the prose is really above and beyond that of most authors who have been published.
I was alone, afraid. Weak. And he reminded me of someone....
This has caused me to be slower than usual in reviewing as I got so hooked. Woah, I just re-read it again, and I'm still just like=...woah. That was good, plenty of suspense. Just, woah.
Hey there Kafka!
Well, I am awed and amazed by your descriptions. The details you set into the story seem effortless and just flow off the page so easily.
I have not read the lyrics to the song because I'm short on time. I thought this was amazing, Kafka. I was pulled into your story and physically had to stop and remind myself that I was supposed to be reviewing.
My problem is the same as dudette's: I have no idea what happened. What was the mother and son familiar to him? Who was the little corpse on the beach? Was it him? Was it a memory of himself, something he's forgotten? What happened, what ship picked him up?
Am I just being slow? haha.
I don't have anything to nitpick, grammar wise, and I've said my piece. I thought this was brilliant, and I'm confused about the ending and I would love for you to enlighten me if you get a second.
Thanks for the request and for the great read.
Tanya
Hey Kafka!
I haven't really got time for a very constructive review, but I just wanted to say that this was great. I didn't really understand the ending and I still have a few unanswered questions - why did the MC find the boy and his mum familiar? What happened to the boy at the end? But it was still a good read. Your descriptions were brilliant - if some of them were a little gross - and not at all forced.
I did spot a couple of things -
The boy drew from his pants pocket a fist-sized canteen.
But she was following us. I must go on. And so as we scaled the hill, him running, me half-crawling,
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