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| Eschatology; Triptych II | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Dec 5 2009, 02:27 PM (292 Views) | |
| jsg | Dec 5 2009, 02:27 PM Post #1 |
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Title: Eschatology Rating: PG I have decided that the three stories I have written in the past twenty-four hours form a series of sorts; three distinct yet related scenes. A triptych of stories. This is the last of the three pieces to be written, but the second in chronological order. Tears for Salvation is, therefore, Triptych I and Sounds and Pictures is Triptych III. There are a couple of themes and ideas that I intend to link these three scenes beyond the characters and the darkness. I think it is more fun to let people argue about what these themes might be, however, so let the literary criticism commence :grin: . I'm not particularly happy with how this one has turned out. I was hoping for something better, and I don't think I hit all the targets I wanted to. Your comments and criticism are gladly welcomed as usual. Hell is a world without the touch of love. Hell is a world where the only affection is negotiable on the price of a few drinks. However, even in Hell at least the Devil may play whilst souls writhe. When he was younger, Kyle's grandmother used to tell him old folk stories. His mother thought they were inappropriate for a child his age, not having been eviscerated by her generation, but Kyle loved every one of them. One in particular stuck out in his memory now; a young man on a quest, as they were wont to do, is caught by the Devil. He is set for torments and damnation until the Devil's mother appeared to tell him off. How he hoped she would appear now. He set down the bottle, two-thirds gone in the past hour and a half, and sat up on the edge of the creaking, bed. On the bedside table, by the overfull ashtray, mouldy mugs and empty foil packets, a photograph lay taunting him. The Devil stared out of the picture and smiled. The Devil was said to be the fairest before he fell, and Kyle now could understand this. Fear not the foul, but the fair; for the fair take hold of all that is dear. He was often tempted to take the photo and tear it, to destroy his demon, to burn it with a cigarette and put out its beautiful, beautiful eyes. He would hold it for seconds, minutes, hours — time stretching into an indiscernible blur — before, shakily, returning to to the table with a final caress. Would he never be free? His eyes were bloodshot, and his buddies in the frat house had long given up asking why he had begun this precipitous descent. He was fine, all is right with the world, he was fine, there was nothing wrong, he was fine, he just had a bug, cold, flu. They had stopped noticing the haze of alcohol on his breath and coming from his skin, the late nights in disreputable bars, the fug of smoke that smothered his room. His erstwhile friends had long given up. A month, or was it two, and he would be free. Maybe out of Llanview he could beat the hounds of Hell. Maybe once he crossed that border, he could begin agi'n, a'new. The summer sun had barely set and a crepuscular glow still clung to the world, defying the dark. But soon night would blanket the town, and he would be left with nought but his thoughts and the bottle of booze in his hand. In his hand again, he didn't remember picking it up. He unscrewed the cap, and barely noticed took a slug, then another. The liquid didn't burn any more. He was too numb for that. He found himself humming a song; a quiet nonsense rhyme that the Devil had taught him, who had learnt it from his mother. One fine day in the middle of the night, Two dead men got up to fight. A blind man came to see fair play, A dumb man came to shout hurray. The memory made him blink, but he couldn't, wouldn't, cry. No tears for that man. The were sitting in bed, this bed, in the dark and Kyle had tried to turn the light on. He had knocked a glass of water all over his sheets, and giggling the Devil had hooked that rhyme and memory into his heart. He would not cry. Suddenly a girl's breathy laugh; a laugh of desire, of lust soon to be sated. Seeing it in his mind's eye, he wasn't surprised by the next voice. That Iowa accent was unmistakable. The Devil was playing. He held the bottle tightly, and took a swift drag. The weight felt good in his hand, it had heft. Even he was surprised to see it, now empty, arc through the air and hit the door. A thousand pieces of scintillating glass showered the floor, defining the sudden silence in the house. A nervous girlish giggle, a faux-masculine joke, the sound of footsteps on stairs. The Devil was playing, whilst his soul writhed. |
| AzureHorizon | Dec 5 2009, 02:38 PM Post #2 |
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Kish Fic Laureate
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Breathtaking. You are amazing. There are some slight grammatical and spelling errors every now and then, but it's pretty much perfect. Do you have a link to any of your other works? I would love to read all of them. I used to think I was a good wordsmith, but you are of a level I could only hope to aspire to. :wow: Edited by AzureHorizon, Dec 5 2009, 02:41 PM.
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| rhombus | Dec 5 2009, 02:38 PM Post #3 |
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Let us frankly discuss the mad hot sex we're about to have.
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Agh! So good! (You wanted something deeper, perhaps? I'm incapable of that at the moment.) So. Freaking. Good. |
| appleridge | Dec 5 2009, 02:41 PM Post #4 |
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That was Awkard But Amazing At The Same Time |
| smuchshypush | Dec 5 2009, 03:32 PM Post #5 |
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Poor sad, betrayed Kyle. And Oliver as Devil? Ouch, but makes sense. I am in freaking awe of the fact that you wrote all these fics in one day. I think I could type forever and not write even one story as deep as these. *bows* |
| TimeToFly | Dec 5 2009, 04:22 PM Post #6 |
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James
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I'm quite impressed myself. You worried over the story, and I dunno how you wanted it to come out, but I thought it was magnificent. Poor, drunk, betrayed Kyle... and Oliver not having a clue... |
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2:48 AM Jul 11