Dazza01
04-12-2009, 07:37 AM
Hey
I'm new to the forums, and this is one of my first major works for English at school.
Any comments; queries and criticisms welcome!
Dale,
~
Love is as fragile as a single heartbeat. It lives on life itself, and all its catalysts… time, soul, & essence. It seems so invincible at first, yet it only needs one single disease; deadly enough to end the time, the soul, and the essence we perennially live upon to cause a cease in its existence… to make it perish as quickly as it came in the first place.
I loathingly arise from my tear-streaked bed, the lining a morose, putridly nauseating green. It was enough to make me empty the contents of my stomach into the nearest cockroach infested latrine, also formally known as a sink; but how the tyrannical, yet sycophantic head officers can call… this a sink is beyond the stretch of anyone’s imagination… including a man who has lost all in life; and in love. Both of those emotions are entwined within my soul, making it all the more devastating.
Admitting I needed to see the sun rise over the breathtakingly abhorrent seaside at least once more in my hopeless life, I hurriedly took a stroll outside of the back of the tent, realising for the first time that it was tinted the same disgustingly putrid green that lined my bed linen. The steeped edges harshly weathered & eroded from the constant climatic change that seems to happen in the northernmost parts of the horrible Earth I ‘live’ in; and the perimeter was entwined with steel reinforcements, making sure that the enclosure was to never collapse onto our sleep deprived, frail bodies. I almost believed that these steel rods were more paternal than their human counterparts, who just seem to be just as horribly, almost cruelly inanimate. I concluded that the totalitarian military force made the linen from the same materials as the tent, deluding us mere beggars into thinking that we were given some sort of a luxurious commodity.
Seeing the awe inspiring sun glide across the seaside to gradually reveal the many thousands of deceased, lifeless corpses lying face down in the ghastly lagoon made me feel something I had scarcely felt before; utter rage. It was an emotion never felt by me since I had my brain carelessly plucked out from one ear to another by the military officials. I didn’t just feel such rage against the enemies of this horrible turmoil, for putting us penniless soldiers through Hades and back to realise we had never ventured out of it in the first place… no… NO! I felt rage at the country that sent us to put us through this process… to realise that we are utterly worthless in their collective eyes, and to see that we were merely lifeless pawns in the grander scale of a political struggle; a political espionage. At least that’s how it felt. My heart feels as if it has been ripped into two separate parts, as if yin and yang had been separated from each other. I burst into frenzied cries of fury, and without noticing the bullet – as miniscule as life’s perspective – hurtling towards my body, I sullenly collapsed on the very seaside that I cussed about just before I stepped onto its grains of sand. How the sands of time worked will never cease to amaze me in the most baffling of situations.
To my surprise I had survived my temporary departing of this world with nothing more but a mere scratch. I groggily awoke to a horribly candescent torture chamber, barely lit by the candelabra neatly nestled in between two seemingly white-hot oil pots. It contained what appeared to be a deathly mixture of boiled petroleum, with a trace of a candle wax like substance – no doubt from the downtrend of the candlewicks in the candelabra. The only semblance of light other than the exquisitely abysmal candelabra was the pale Moon shading most of the dark etches of the hell I lay in at that point in history. Its rocky edges were carefully tailored to show its past turmoils, a beacon of light surrounded by caliginous scenery. It brought an ironic bliss to the folks who are able to bask in its beauty – its light – its warmth. It almost paralleled a life of mine previously owned by me, except I don’t exist in the framework of life anymore. Always longing. Never belonging.
I finally muster the courage of a lifetime to pry open my drooping eyelids to be utterly stunned that the once enigmatic, beautiful night had turned into the serene grace of dawn. The sense that all of my problems were at the apex of the pyramid frantically bolted across my mind before I saw the most beautiful sun drift across the mahogany framed, lightly grey tinted window. The Sun was the colour of the desert sands; a harsh burnt orange. Lilac dancers – each swaying & dancing to a different rhythm – surrounded it. Some were dancing to the beat of a frenetic, yet controlled jive-jitterbug, whilst others leisurely swaying to a Mozart masterpiece. Each of the dancers highlighted the sun’s eccentricities, yet even though each told the story of its magnificence individually, they collectively fitted together to answer a puzzle… a puzzle no one could ever dare to understand.
I decided that once the dazzling display had finally decided to subside, I was to analyse the room that I was probably going to pass from this life in. This room – or a boxed in Hades with four chillingly stale walls – seemed to be your average torture room, where the government were to keep prisoners of war to whittle away their pride, dignity & courage, only to helplessly slaughter them; if not deemed fit to serve as an adequate brown-nosed sympathiser that is. However, on closer inspection, the room of anguish was more than just that. The walls were drenched in stale blood marks, each individually depicting the most horrific ways to slaughter a man. Each individual crevasse portrayed the sheer abhorrence that men endured when chained up into the room of death; and each weapon detailed and finishing the ominous, grotesque painting that personifies torture, hideousness and depravity…
However, it was on my third close inspection of the room that I found what was the most startling thing in the room itself. A fragile, yet kind spirited adolescent female of about 16 years. Her eyes were so delicate in profound slumber; her supple hands delicately resting on the vivid red chains she was infinitely bound in, and her aura deeply disturbed, yet elegantly beautiful… a girl full of inner turmoil, yet bliss in a paradoxical way.
The definition of good – and evil for that matter – needs no bounds, but needs the faith of ones faith in another for it to merely exist.
“… I thought I had died!” was softly whispered from her delicate, frail mouth…
“You have. Just not in the way you think,” was all I could muster from my failing body as I coldly replied to her rhetoric, my lips shaking from previous and present exhaustion.
“Who are you?” was hushed after a while of awkward silence from her mouth, sensing the tension & turmoil that has been repressed for quite a while. Her naturally inquisitive nature was dictating her words.
“I am a prisoner of war my Lady. I was captured by one of your soldiers. Why are you here is a question I should be asking. No one but prisoners of war is seen in these parts of the prison wall,” I coolly replied; trying to distance myself from the mysterious girl of whom I just met.
“I may not really seem like a prisoner of war, sir; but I assure you, I’m a prisoner of my own war. A war between my father & I,” she replied with tears steaming down her eyes, choking her for valued breath. I so desperately wanted to reach out and touch her soft, beautiful body, but the chains binding both movement and thought restricted me to lay in utter silence.
Until -
“Mai espérons toujours être avec vous,” I softly replied with baited breath.
At that beautiful moment, the door calmly opened to reveal two men, whom looked like they were sent to knock on our door labelled ‘death’. Taking little notice of their scabrous voices, I carefully surveyed both of the pitiful men in detail. They were from the same side all right, yet they danced so differently to one another. The second doctor, barely more than 5 foot was pretending – almost desperately attempting – to assimilate into the lifestyle afforded by his mother country, only to deeply realise he was wrong in judgement. However, the first doctor, tall and slender like the steel reinforcements back at the home tent, was just as cruel, vexing & vindictive as they came. A fiery persona, capped off with the most abhorrent smile, which seemed to unhinge when ‘joyous’. Only looking down at me when holding the weapon of choice in his hand; a needle -
“WHAT ARE YOU GRIMACING ABOUT YOU FILTHY, DIRTY PRISONER PEASANT!” screamed the first doctor, before bellowing out a holler a hyena couldn’t emulate. It was the first time I had truly been horrified in my lifetime.
“I hope this hurts you piece of -”
Suddenly, the shackles on my wrists were loosened, and I was able to manoeuvre around the doctor and strike an uppercut right between his hollow, piercing eye sockets: knocking him out cold. The second doctor – contrary to stereotype – innocently rolled over to play dead at the sight of my freedom. Seeing the same vivid mahogany stained window from earlier partially open, I speedily untied the girl I knew to be Henrietta, and quickly rush out of the window, never bothering to look back; perhaps the exact reason why I accidentally pricked Henrietta’s soft arm on the way to freedom; anarchy...
They say love is as fragile as a heartbeat. That may be the case; but tended carefully enough, you may just keep it forever – the smiles on our faces replacing the ones of sadness many years ago.
I'm new to the forums, and this is one of my first major works for English at school.
Any comments; queries and criticisms welcome!
Dale,
~
Love is as fragile as a single heartbeat. It lives on life itself, and all its catalysts… time, soul, & essence. It seems so invincible at first, yet it only needs one single disease; deadly enough to end the time, the soul, and the essence we perennially live upon to cause a cease in its existence… to make it perish as quickly as it came in the first place.
I loathingly arise from my tear-streaked bed, the lining a morose, putridly nauseating green. It was enough to make me empty the contents of my stomach into the nearest cockroach infested latrine, also formally known as a sink; but how the tyrannical, yet sycophantic head officers can call… this a sink is beyond the stretch of anyone’s imagination… including a man who has lost all in life; and in love. Both of those emotions are entwined within my soul, making it all the more devastating.
Admitting I needed to see the sun rise over the breathtakingly abhorrent seaside at least once more in my hopeless life, I hurriedly took a stroll outside of the back of the tent, realising for the first time that it was tinted the same disgustingly putrid green that lined my bed linen. The steeped edges harshly weathered & eroded from the constant climatic change that seems to happen in the northernmost parts of the horrible Earth I ‘live’ in; and the perimeter was entwined with steel reinforcements, making sure that the enclosure was to never collapse onto our sleep deprived, frail bodies. I almost believed that these steel rods were more paternal than their human counterparts, who just seem to be just as horribly, almost cruelly inanimate. I concluded that the totalitarian military force made the linen from the same materials as the tent, deluding us mere beggars into thinking that we were given some sort of a luxurious commodity.
Seeing the awe inspiring sun glide across the seaside to gradually reveal the many thousands of deceased, lifeless corpses lying face down in the ghastly lagoon made me feel something I had scarcely felt before; utter rage. It was an emotion never felt by me since I had my brain carelessly plucked out from one ear to another by the military officials. I didn’t just feel such rage against the enemies of this horrible turmoil, for putting us penniless soldiers through Hades and back to realise we had never ventured out of it in the first place… no… NO! I felt rage at the country that sent us to put us through this process… to realise that we are utterly worthless in their collective eyes, and to see that we were merely lifeless pawns in the grander scale of a political struggle; a political espionage. At least that’s how it felt. My heart feels as if it has been ripped into two separate parts, as if yin and yang had been separated from each other. I burst into frenzied cries of fury, and without noticing the bullet – as miniscule as life’s perspective – hurtling towards my body, I sullenly collapsed on the very seaside that I cussed about just before I stepped onto its grains of sand. How the sands of time worked will never cease to amaze me in the most baffling of situations.
To my surprise I had survived my temporary departing of this world with nothing more but a mere scratch. I groggily awoke to a horribly candescent torture chamber, barely lit by the candelabra neatly nestled in between two seemingly white-hot oil pots. It contained what appeared to be a deathly mixture of boiled petroleum, with a trace of a candle wax like substance – no doubt from the downtrend of the candlewicks in the candelabra. The only semblance of light other than the exquisitely abysmal candelabra was the pale Moon shading most of the dark etches of the hell I lay in at that point in history. Its rocky edges were carefully tailored to show its past turmoils, a beacon of light surrounded by caliginous scenery. It brought an ironic bliss to the folks who are able to bask in its beauty – its light – its warmth. It almost paralleled a life of mine previously owned by me, except I don’t exist in the framework of life anymore. Always longing. Never belonging.
I finally muster the courage of a lifetime to pry open my drooping eyelids to be utterly stunned that the once enigmatic, beautiful night had turned into the serene grace of dawn. The sense that all of my problems were at the apex of the pyramid frantically bolted across my mind before I saw the most beautiful sun drift across the mahogany framed, lightly grey tinted window. The Sun was the colour of the desert sands; a harsh burnt orange. Lilac dancers – each swaying & dancing to a different rhythm – surrounded it. Some were dancing to the beat of a frenetic, yet controlled jive-jitterbug, whilst others leisurely swaying to a Mozart masterpiece. Each of the dancers highlighted the sun’s eccentricities, yet even though each told the story of its magnificence individually, they collectively fitted together to answer a puzzle… a puzzle no one could ever dare to understand.
I decided that once the dazzling display had finally decided to subside, I was to analyse the room that I was probably going to pass from this life in. This room – or a boxed in Hades with four chillingly stale walls – seemed to be your average torture room, where the government were to keep prisoners of war to whittle away their pride, dignity & courage, only to helplessly slaughter them; if not deemed fit to serve as an adequate brown-nosed sympathiser that is. However, on closer inspection, the room of anguish was more than just that. The walls were drenched in stale blood marks, each individually depicting the most horrific ways to slaughter a man. Each individual crevasse portrayed the sheer abhorrence that men endured when chained up into the room of death; and each weapon detailed and finishing the ominous, grotesque painting that personifies torture, hideousness and depravity…
However, it was on my third close inspection of the room that I found what was the most startling thing in the room itself. A fragile, yet kind spirited adolescent female of about 16 years. Her eyes were so delicate in profound slumber; her supple hands delicately resting on the vivid red chains she was infinitely bound in, and her aura deeply disturbed, yet elegantly beautiful… a girl full of inner turmoil, yet bliss in a paradoxical way.
The definition of good – and evil for that matter – needs no bounds, but needs the faith of ones faith in another for it to merely exist.
“… I thought I had died!” was softly whispered from her delicate, frail mouth…
“You have. Just not in the way you think,” was all I could muster from my failing body as I coldly replied to her rhetoric, my lips shaking from previous and present exhaustion.
“Who are you?” was hushed after a while of awkward silence from her mouth, sensing the tension & turmoil that has been repressed for quite a while. Her naturally inquisitive nature was dictating her words.
“I am a prisoner of war my Lady. I was captured by one of your soldiers. Why are you here is a question I should be asking. No one but prisoners of war is seen in these parts of the prison wall,” I coolly replied; trying to distance myself from the mysterious girl of whom I just met.
“I may not really seem like a prisoner of war, sir; but I assure you, I’m a prisoner of my own war. A war between my father & I,” she replied with tears steaming down her eyes, choking her for valued breath. I so desperately wanted to reach out and touch her soft, beautiful body, but the chains binding both movement and thought restricted me to lay in utter silence.
Until -
“Mai espérons toujours être avec vous,” I softly replied with baited breath.
At that beautiful moment, the door calmly opened to reveal two men, whom looked like they were sent to knock on our door labelled ‘death’. Taking little notice of their scabrous voices, I carefully surveyed both of the pitiful men in detail. They were from the same side all right, yet they danced so differently to one another. The second doctor, barely more than 5 foot was pretending – almost desperately attempting – to assimilate into the lifestyle afforded by his mother country, only to deeply realise he was wrong in judgement. However, the first doctor, tall and slender like the steel reinforcements back at the home tent, was just as cruel, vexing & vindictive as they came. A fiery persona, capped off with the most abhorrent smile, which seemed to unhinge when ‘joyous’. Only looking down at me when holding the weapon of choice in his hand; a needle -
“WHAT ARE YOU GRIMACING ABOUT YOU FILTHY, DIRTY PRISONER PEASANT!” screamed the first doctor, before bellowing out a holler a hyena couldn’t emulate. It was the first time I had truly been horrified in my lifetime.
“I hope this hurts you piece of -”
Suddenly, the shackles on my wrists were loosened, and I was able to manoeuvre around the doctor and strike an uppercut right between his hollow, piercing eye sockets: knocking him out cold. The second doctor – contrary to stereotype – innocently rolled over to play dead at the sight of my freedom. Seeing the same vivid mahogany stained window from earlier partially open, I speedily untied the girl I knew to be Henrietta, and quickly rush out of the window, never bothering to look back; perhaps the exact reason why I accidentally pricked Henrietta’s soft arm on the way to freedom; anarchy...
They say love is as fragile as a heartbeat. That may be the case; but tended carefully enough, you may just keep it forever – the smiles on our faces replacing the ones of sadness many years ago.