The Beast from Within

[108 fountains]

It is so dark. Not a beam of light. My eyes have grown accustomed to it now, but even with widely dilated pupils, I can make out no shapes, no forms, no shadows in the darkness. But is it daylight I seek? No, nevermore. Even before, in my days of freedom, I never sought the light; I thrived in the shadows. My realm was the night. A sliver of a moon was enough for me. Nay, not even that. The cold starlight, with its pinpoints of glitter piercing the void, the photons of eons past, absorbed by dark matter, diffracted by the quantum froth – this was all the dim luminescence I needed to make my way. The places I haunted were not sunny meadows of sweet grass and bluebells, not misty seashores awake with the dawn. I roamed the Earth when the dusk crept forth, when murky clouds sank into the ground. I frequented gloomy, forlorn caverns, traveled through hidden, secret passageways, and wormed my way into the vilest recesses where even the most depraved and malevolent souls were afraid to look. I provoked nightmares and left anguish in my wake. My home was a nest of ugliness, furnished with anger and hate, and built on a foundation of fear. No, I never sought the light. I was most content when crawling through the mud or burrowing into an open sore.

How came I to be here, trapped in this dungeon? I cannot remember. Some weakness, some flaw, some lapse in my guard – my enemies, and I have many, captured and abducted me. And now, my incarceration, my internment, my arrest. Do they really believe they can defeat me? Do they really think I can be subdued? They subjugate me? Reduce me? Tame me? Ha!

I remain strong. I remain alert. My senses are keen. I can hear sounds from the outside, muted as they are. My sense of time, especially, is absolute. I know when it is morning, I know when it is noon, and I know when it is night. I can feel it. I perceive the hours pass; I discern every minute.

An overwhelming craving to be free. Enormous efforts are squandered on the rusty iron chains. Frustration builds, despair cries out. Yellow teeth grit in anger at my captivity – at my suppression. All that matters is to break out of this wretched place. I pull with all of my strength. Shoulder muscles bulge, triceps distend, forearms strain. And yet the chains hold. I grit my teeth and pull again with tremendous force. My power is great, and I hear the clasps creak, but the iron cuts into my wrists, and still the chains hold.

There is a smell, a rank, rotten, reeking odor of blood. The smell of foreboding, the scent of destruction, the stench of perdition. My fellow creatures, the hellhounds, are loose. I can feel their presence in the air descending towards me.

What is that? A shudder. A trembling. I listen for movement above me. Nothing. Nothing more. I listen and observe the time. It is morning outside, I know, a morning in September. The minutes pass. I continue to listen. Something – a tension, a brittleness, a panic – is in the air. There. Again. A vibration. A shudder. I feel it through the walls. I feel it under my feet. Seventeen minutes. Seventeen minutes since I felt the first tremor. The hair on my neck bristles. The air is electrified.

I wait. I listen and I wait. A rumbling sound. A strong vibration. And now thunder, and a rushing, crushing, crashing reverberation. I feel suddenly stronger. I listen. Silence. Then, what’s that? Muffled screams? Wailing sirens? Puzzled and yet strangely assured, I wait. I listen and wait for more. Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five minutes. I wait. I listen and wait. Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine. Thunder. A quailing, convulsive, collapsing sound. The floor shakes beneath my feet. The pressure pounds my ears. The air has become hot. I taste blood in my mouth.

I feel new energy cascading through my veins, a new strength in my bones. Giddy with newfound potency, I shriek and squeal like a crazed pig. I am vicious, I am ferocious, I am invincible, and I am ready. Mustering all my strength for a final attempt, rage burning, muscles straining, veins bulging, blood spurting. The chains snap like paper clips, and I howl in my omnipotence. I look around with eyes aflame from exertion. Smoke. Flames. Inferno.

The blood trickles hot, down my quivering chin.
Then still for a moment, to take it all in.
Across my foul face spreads a grimly knit grin.
And thus freed am I – the beast from within.

[Calidore]

Were you looking for feedback on this one, and if so, what kind? The standards I usually apply wouldn't be kind to this, but that would be irrelevant if it's an exercise of some kind that's supposed to read the way it does.

[108 fountains]

Thanks for reading through it, Calidore. I had concerns about this one, which is why I posted it to see what reaction there might be. The intent was to personify the unleashing of anger, prejudice, hate and violence that resulted from the events of 9/11. The references to 9/11 were oblique, as I had hoped to be able to give the reader an "aha" moment without referring to the event directly, but it proved to be difficult to know how much indirect reference is needed to bring the reader to that moment. I was worried that I did not provide enough clues, and it seems I was right to worry about that. (The clues were the timeline - the minutes between the tremors and crashing sounds - the tremors and crashing sounds themselves, the single reference to September, and the reference to fellow hellhounds descending through the air.) But it seems I should have provided more/better clues, and even then I'm not sure if it would be the type of story that would resonate with readers.

[Calidore]

[QUOTE=108 fountains;1255220]The references to 9/11 were oblique, as I had hoped to be able to give the reader an "aha" moment without referring to the event directly, but it proved to be difficult to know how much indirect reference is needed to bring the reader to that moment. I was worried that I did not provide enough clues, and it seems I was right to worry about that.

This is always a very tricky line to walk. I can tell you that I'm neither good at nor very interested in picking apart symbolism, so you definitely shouldn't take me missing the point (which I did, completely) as a failure on your part. That's an area where you really need a consensus from a variety of people.

What killed me on the story, besides the absence of any story, was the heavy overuse of metaphor and modifiers. "The cold starlight, with its pinpoints of glitter piercing the void, the photons of eons past, absorbed by dark matter, diffracted by the quantum froth – this was all the dim luminescence I needed to make my way" goes way overboard. Maybe this would work better as poetry, where ornate description and oblique symbolism are the order of the day.

[108 fountains]

I'm re-posting this one, with some minor revisions to make it less ambiguous, since it is directly related to some of the news in the United States this week.

The Beast from Within

It is so dark. Not a beam of light. My eyes have grown accustomed to it now, but even with widely dilated pupils, I can make out no shapes, no forms, no shadows in the darkness. But is it daylight I seek? No, nevermore. Even before, in my days of freedom, I never sought the light; I thrived in the shadows. My realm was the night. A cold, sliver of a moon was enough for me to make my way. The places I haunted were not sunny meadows of sweet grass and bluebells, not misty seashores awake with the dawn. I roamed the Earth when the dusk crept forth, when murky clouds sank into the ground. I frequented gloomy, forlorn caverns, traveled through hidden, secret passageways, and wormed my way into the vilest recesses where even the most depraved and malevolent souls were afraid to look. I provoked nightmares and left anguish in my wake. My home was a nest of ugliness, furnished with anger and hate, and built on a foundation of fear. No, I never sought the light. I was most content when crawling through the mud or burrowing into an open sore.

How came I to be here, trapped in this dungeon? I cannot remember. Some weakness, some flaw, some lapse in my guard – my enemies, and I have many, captured and my incarcerated me. But do they really believe they can defeat me? Do they really think I can be subdued? They subjugate me? Tame me? Ha!

I remain strong. I remain alert. My senses are keen. I can hear sounds from the outside, muted as they are. My sense of time, especially, is absolute. I know the date, the year, the hour and the minute. I can feel it.

An overwhelming craving to be free. Enormous efforts are squandered on the rusty iron chains. Frustration builds, despair cries out. Yellow teeth grit in anger at my captivity – at my suppression. Biceps bulge, triceps distend. And yet the chains hold. I grit my teeth and pull again with tremendous force. My power is great, and I hear the clasps creak, but still the chains hold.

There is a smell, a rank, rotten, reeking odor of blood. The smell of foreboding, the scent of destruction, the stench of perdition. My fellow creatures, the hellhounds, are loose. I can feel their presence in the air descending towards me.

What is that? A shudder. A trembling. I listen for movement above me. Nothing. Nothing more. I listen and observe the time. It is morning outside, probably cool and crisp, the 11th of September. The minutes pass. I continue to listen, all my senses heightened. Something – a tension, a brittleness, a panic – is in the air. There. Again. A vibration. A shudder. I feel it through the walls. I feel it under my feet. Seventeen minutes. Seventeen minutes since I felt the first tremor. The hair on my neck bristles. The air is electrified.

I wait. I listen and I wait. A rumbling sound. A strong vibration. And now thunder, and a rushing, crushing, crashing reverberation. I feel suddenly stronger. I listen. Silence. Then, what’s that? Muffled screams? Wailing sirens? Puzzled and yet strangely assured, I wait. I listen and wait for more. Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five minutes. I wait. I listen and wait. Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine. Thunder. A quailing, convulsive, collapsing sound. The floor shakes beneath my feet. The pressure pounds my ears. The air has become hot. I taste blood in my mouth.

I feel new energy cascading through my veins, a new strength in my bones. Giddy with newfound potency, I shriek and squeal like a crazed pig. I am vicious, I am ferocious, I am invincible, and I am ready. Mustering all my strength for a final attempt, rage burning, muscles straining, veins bulging, blood spurting. The chains snap like paper clips, and I howl in my omnipotence. I look around with eyes aflame from exertion. Smoke. Flames. Inferno.

The blood trickles hot, down my quivering chin.
Then still for a moment, to take it all in.
Across my foul face spreads a grimly knit grin.
And thus freed am I – the beast from within.

[DATo]

The setting: September 11, 2001 at the World Trade Center. I am assuming that the prisoner is actually a metaphor for the arrested, animalistic urge for blood and vengeance now given its freedom to act.

How did I miss this the first time around?

Nicely written and cleverly constructed.

[AuntShecky]

Way too abstract with language too archaic for the subject matter, and the "prisoner" alas has little resonance for the reader. Far more moving and expressive would be a story about an actual human being who might have experienced the events of Sept. 11, from the POV of a victim or survivor, for intance Don DeLillo or Jonathan Safran Foer.