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The jet-black clouds had been gathering through the day on the shadowy breeze of a winter’s afternoon.
As the sun’s final rays faded from the horizon they erupted.
What was once the ominous sign of a storm had grown bigger and darker, deeper and stronger; the clouds rolled and boiled in the darkened sky. They became solid, a heaving mass of pitch. A writhing, living cluster of darkness which masked the stars and blotted the moon from existence.
The breeze picked up through a strong wind, surpassing a howling gale and into something wholly unnatural. It rolled ancient, mossy boulders across the plains towards the hill and ripped the grass from the ground. It spun the atramentous mountain of cloud into a swirling, spiralling tornado of death.
White, crackling light rippled around the pillar of sin, the colour deathly against the black. The angry white lived as did the black, it spun and danced with it. The light and the darkness were joined as one, connected through their purpose; to give their life to another.
A creature of imagination would be made this night, brought into existence by the thought of one, and the deeds of another - the thinker and the scribe.
The white gathered in the black, into a tight ball of of anger, of pain, of life. The hatred, the scorn, the emotional anguish of life was free, so pure that the white shone through the blackness of death, casting rays of concentrated hate into the subdued countryside. As the white gathered, the black threaded into in.
A twisted pattern, echoed in the corrupted souls of men, took form on the hill amid the darkness. The pattern’s complex lines of life and death grew thicker and deeper until they merged into each other, into a tangled ball which breathed and smelt and heard and tasted the electricity in the air; the head of the creature. A single line of white light snaked down from the ball and formed the outline of the creature, a human shape, which the blackness of death and disease filled.
A deep, booming rumble issued from within the clouds; it grew louder and deeper as it spread outwards, shaking the foundations of the earth and pulling at the very threads of life; warning every living thing, plant and animal, that something had been created. Something had been born by the thinker and the scribe, by their wishes something had been forced into existence against the will of the gods. The god of war, of disease, even the god of the underworld would not have created such a beast - one that would cause such destruction in the world the creator himself would turn away in despair.
The rumble stopped, creatures waited cautiously at the entrance of their homes for what would come. They knew what the rumble had told them - that they had no chance of life, that what had been created would spare nothing. The ancient oaks, planted at the dawn of time, would be ripped from the earth and the new-born child would be ground into dust. Not the smallest leaf or the most inconsequential bug would survive. The all-consuming fact of their deaths left the creatures with nothing; all they could do is wait and hope to look upon what would remove all life from the earth.
Silence consumed the earth, the black clouds imploded and sank to the ground without a sound, forming a thick foot-high fog of pestilence. The creature, the mystery, stepped down from the hill’s summit.
Death raged before it.
The mystery walked towards the village in the valley, to its masters, to its creators. This thought was all that filled its head, the black plague that spread for miles in all directions from his body was unnoticed and unimportant. As it walked the ground rippled and wailed under its feet, the earth’s life was being taken form it. A scream, the hideous pierecing scream of the earth’s torture wrapped around it, encasing all the doomed in a blanket if pain. The world was dying.
As goodness and life was ripped from the earth it became black and hard. Harder than any natural material, this was unnatural, evil, a deep black, shiny cover of death across Gaia’s dying soul.
The mystery noticed nothing.
The world died and the blackness took its place. The green and blue planet of life was now nothing more than a concentrated lump of evil; a black so dark it tore the light from the sun; a menacing ball of hate which polluted the galaxy, the universe and began to demolish it.
The sun, the stars, the moon exploded.
The creature walked on, unfettered.
It reached the place the village once stood, which was now nothing but a space on the ball of hate.
But a small cottage stood untouched, the home of its masters; its parents. The mystery walked through the wall; the cottage’s two inhabitants said nothing. A small fire roared in the hearth, one of the two - the thinker - sat in a chair next to it, hand folded in his lap. The scribe sat hunched over a desk, the pen in his hands writing out the events as they happened.
Before they happened.
The mystery stopped and opened it’s mouth. “MWA?” it whispered.
The man by the fire nodded and stood - he had a tail.
The scribe, fanatical about something, carried on scribbling.
The mystery look upon his masters for a moment then ripped the first apart, taking his soul and crushing his body into nothing. The scribe carried on writing for a while, a heavy look of depression, guilt and shame crossed his face and the fire in his eyes faded. He had given up on life.
He had created too far, this was not meant to be.
The thinker had given him a task, and he had wrote it. He had done his best, given his heart to the piece, and now the piece would take his heart.
He finished the last sentence, one of the inevitable future and signed his name.
The mystery took his life, the last on the planet and spread its force to the rest of the universe. Nothing would live. Everything would die.
Because of one man.
FFF
As the sun’s final rays faded from the horizon they erupted.
What was once the ominous sign of a storm had grown bigger and darker, deeper and stronger; the clouds rolled and boiled in the darkened sky. They became solid, a heaving mass of pitch. A writhing, living cluster of darkness which masked the stars and blotted the moon from existence.
The breeze picked up through a strong wind, surpassing a howling gale and into something wholly unnatural. It rolled ancient, mossy boulders across the plains towards the hill and ripped the grass from the ground. It spun the atramentous mountain of cloud into a swirling, spiralling tornado of death.
White, crackling light rippled around the pillar of sin, the colour deathly against the black. The angry white lived as did the black, it spun and danced with it. The light and the darkness were joined as one, connected through their purpose; to give their life to another.
A creature of imagination would be made this night, brought into existence by the thought of one, and the deeds of another - the thinker and the scribe.
The white gathered in the black, into a tight ball of of anger, of pain, of life. The hatred, the scorn, the emotional anguish of life was free, so pure that the white shone through the blackness of death, casting rays of concentrated hate into the subdued countryside. As the white gathered, the black threaded into in.
A twisted pattern, echoed in the corrupted souls of men, took form on the hill amid the darkness. The pattern’s complex lines of life and death grew thicker and deeper until they merged into each other, into a tangled ball which breathed and smelt and heard and tasted the electricity in the air; the head of the creature. A single line of white light snaked down from the ball and formed the outline of the creature, a human shape, which the blackness of death and disease filled.
A deep, booming rumble issued from within the clouds; it grew louder and deeper as it spread outwards, shaking the foundations of the earth and pulling at the very threads of life; warning every living thing, plant and animal, that something had been created. Something had been born by the thinker and the scribe, by their wishes something had been forced into existence against the will of the gods. The god of war, of disease, even the god of the underworld would not have created such a beast - one that would cause such destruction in the world the creator himself would turn away in despair.
The rumble stopped, creatures waited cautiously at the entrance of their homes for what would come. They knew what the rumble had told them - that they had no chance of life, that what had been created would spare nothing. The ancient oaks, planted at the dawn of time, would be ripped from the earth and the new-born child would be ground into dust. Not the smallest leaf or the most inconsequential bug would survive. The all-consuming fact of their deaths left the creatures with nothing; all they could do is wait and hope to look upon what would remove all life from the earth.
Silence consumed the earth, the black clouds imploded and sank to the ground without a sound, forming a thick foot-high fog of pestilence. The creature, the mystery, stepped down from the hill’s summit.
Death raged before it.
The mystery walked towards the village in the valley, to its masters, to its creators. This thought was all that filled its head, the black plague that spread for miles in all directions from his body was unnoticed and unimportant. As it walked the ground rippled and wailed under its feet, the earth’s life was being taken form it. A scream, the hideous pierecing scream of the earth’s torture wrapped around it, encasing all the doomed in a blanket if pain. The world was dying.
As goodness and life was ripped from the earth it became black and hard. Harder than any natural material, this was unnatural, evil, a deep black, shiny cover of death across Gaia’s dying soul.
The mystery noticed nothing.
The world died and the blackness took its place. The green and blue planet of life was now nothing more than a concentrated lump of evil; a black so dark it tore the light from the sun; a menacing ball of hate which polluted the galaxy, the universe and began to demolish it.
The sun, the stars, the moon exploded.
The creature walked on, unfettered.
It reached the place the village once stood, which was now nothing but a space on the ball of hate.
But a small cottage stood untouched, the home of its masters; its parents. The mystery walked through the wall; the cottage’s two inhabitants said nothing. A small fire roared in the hearth, one of the two - the thinker - sat in a chair next to it, hand folded in his lap. The scribe sat hunched over a desk, the pen in his hands writing out the events as they happened.
Before they happened.
The mystery stopped and opened it’s mouth. “MWA?” it whispered.
The man by the fire nodded and stood - he had a tail.
The scribe, fanatical about something, carried on scribbling.
The mystery look upon his masters for a moment then ripped the first apart, taking his soul and crushing his body into nothing. The scribe carried on writing for a while, a heavy look of depression, guilt and shame crossed his face and the fire in his eyes faded. He had given up on life.
He had created too far, this was not meant to be.
The thinker had given him a task, and he had wrote it. He had done his best, given his heart to the piece, and now the piece would take his heart.
He finished the last sentence, one of the inevitable future and signed his name.
The mystery took his life, the last on the planet and spread its force to the rest of the universe. Nothing would live. Everything would die.
Because of one man.
FFF
Huzzah!
Hey very good FFF, upto your usual standard :)
Keep it going!
Keep it going!
L337ist wrote:
> Whoops, thought I was in a forum for talking about games for a second.
You got the wrong forum then dude. This the future of gaming. No talking about games here.
> Whoops, thought I was in a forum for talking about games for a second.
You got the wrong forum then dude. This the future of gaming. No talking about games here.
Thank you, much appriciated.
Heh, very good :-)
This is my Random Story Club story by the by.
So .... read it?
So .... read it?
Yes.
Whoops, thought I was in a forum for talking about games for a second.
The jet-black clouds had been gathering through the day on the shadowy breeze of a winter’s afternoon.
As the sun’s final rays faded from the horizon they erupted.
What was once the ominous sign of a storm had grown bigger and darker, deeper and stronger; the clouds rolled and boiled in the darkened sky. They became solid, a heaving mass of pitch. A writhing, living cluster of darkness which masked the stars and blotted the moon from existence.
The breeze picked up through a strong wind, surpassing a howling gale and into something wholly unnatural. It rolled ancient, mossy boulders across the plains towards the hill and ripped the grass from the ground. It spun the atramentous mountain of cloud into a swirling, spiralling tornado of death.
White, crackling light rippled around the pillar of sin, the colour deathly against the black. The angry white lived as did the black, it spun and danced with it. The light and the darkness were joined as one, connected through their purpose; to give their life to another.
A creature of imagination would be made this night, brought into existence by the thought of one, and the deeds of another - the thinker and the scribe.
The white gathered in the black, into a tight ball of of anger, of pain, of life. The hatred, the scorn, the emotional anguish of life was free, so pure that the white shone through the blackness of death, casting rays of concentrated hate into the subdued countryside. As the white gathered, the black threaded into in.
A twisted pattern, echoed in the corrupted souls of men, took form on the hill amid the darkness. The pattern’s complex lines of life and death grew thicker and deeper until they merged into each other, into a tangled ball which breathed and smelt and heard and tasted the electricity in the air; the head of the creature. A single line of white light snaked down from the ball and formed the outline of the creature, a human shape, which the blackness of death and disease filled.
A deep, booming rumble issued from within the clouds; it grew louder and deeper as it spread outwards, shaking the foundations of the earth and pulling at the very threads of life; warning every living thing, plant and animal, that something had been created. Something had been born by the thinker and the scribe, by their wishes something had been forced into existence against the will of the gods. The god of war, of disease, even the god of the underworld would not have created such a beast - one that would cause such destruction in the world the creator himself would turn away in despair.
The rumble stopped, creatures waited cautiously at the entrance of their homes for what would come. They knew what the rumble had told them - that they had no chance of life, that what had been created would spare nothing. The ancient oaks, planted at the dawn of time, would be ripped from the earth and the new-born child would be ground into dust. Not the smallest leaf or the most inconsequential bug would survive. The all-consuming fact of their deaths left the creatures with nothing; all they could do is wait and hope to look upon what would remove all life from the earth.
Silence consumed the earth, the black clouds imploded and sank to the ground without a sound, forming a thick foot-high fog of pestilence. The creature, the mystery, stepped down from the hill’s summit.
Death raged before it.
The mystery walked towards the village in the valley, to its masters, to its creators. This thought was all that filled its head, the black plague that spread for miles in all directions from his body was unnoticed and unimportant. As it walked the ground rippled and wailed under its feet, the earth’s life was being taken form it. A scream, the hideous pierecing scream of the earth’s torture wrapped around it, encasing all the doomed in a blanket if pain. The world was dying.
As goodness and life was ripped from the earth it became black and hard. Harder than any natural material, this was unnatural, evil, a deep black, shiny cover of death across Gaia’s dying soul.
The mystery noticed nothing.
The world died and the blackness took its place. The green and blue planet of life was now nothing more than a concentrated lump of evil; a black so dark it tore the light from the sun; a menacing ball of hate which polluted the galaxy, the universe and began to demolish it.
The sun, the stars, the moon exploded.
The creature walked on, unfettered.
It reached the place the village once stood, which was now nothing but a space on the ball of hate.
But a small cottage stood untouched, the home of its masters; its parents. The mystery walked through the wall; the cottage’s two inhabitants said nothing. A small fire roared in the hearth, one of the two - the thinker - sat in a chair next to it, hand folded in his lap. The scribe sat hunched over a desk, the pen in his hands writing out the events as they happened.
Before they happened.
The mystery stopped and opened it’s mouth. “MWA?” it whispered.
The man by the fire nodded and stood - he had a tail.
The scribe, fanatical about something, carried on scribbling.
The mystery look upon his masters for a moment then ripped the first apart, taking his soul and crushing his body into nothing. The scribe carried on writing for a while, a heavy look of depression, guilt and shame crossed his face and the fire in his eyes faded. He had given up on life.
He had created too far, this was not meant to be.
The thinker had given him a task, and he had wrote it. He had done his best, given his heart to the piece, and now the piece would take his heart.
He finished the last sentence, one of the inevitable future and signed his name.
The mystery took his life, the last on the planet and spread its force to the rest of the universe. Nothing would live. Everything would die.
Because of one man.
FFF
As the sun’s final rays faded from the horizon they erupted.
What was once the ominous sign of a storm had grown bigger and darker, deeper and stronger; the clouds rolled and boiled in the darkened sky. They became solid, a heaving mass of pitch. A writhing, living cluster of darkness which masked the stars and blotted the moon from existence.
The breeze picked up through a strong wind, surpassing a howling gale and into something wholly unnatural. It rolled ancient, mossy boulders across the plains towards the hill and ripped the grass from the ground. It spun the atramentous mountain of cloud into a swirling, spiralling tornado of death.
White, crackling light rippled around the pillar of sin, the colour deathly against the black. The angry white lived as did the black, it spun and danced with it. The light and the darkness were joined as one, connected through their purpose; to give their life to another.
A creature of imagination would be made this night, brought into existence by the thought of one, and the deeds of another - the thinker and the scribe.
The white gathered in the black, into a tight ball of of anger, of pain, of life. The hatred, the scorn, the emotional anguish of life was free, so pure that the white shone through the blackness of death, casting rays of concentrated hate into the subdued countryside. As the white gathered, the black threaded into in.
A twisted pattern, echoed in the corrupted souls of men, took form on the hill amid the darkness. The pattern’s complex lines of life and death grew thicker and deeper until they merged into each other, into a tangled ball which breathed and smelt and heard and tasted the electricity in the air; the head of the creature. A single line of white light snaked down from the ball and formed the outline of the creature, a human shape, which the blackness of death and disease filled.
A deep, booming rumble issued from within the clouds; it grew louder and deeper as it spread outwards, shaking the foundations of the earth and pulling at the very threads of life; warning every living thing, plant and animal, that something had been created. Something had been born by the thinker and the scribe, by their wishes something had been forced into existence against the will of the gods. The god of war, of disease, even the god of the underworld would not have created such a beast - one that would cause such destruction in the world the creator himself would turn away in despair.
The rumble stopped, creatures waited cautiously at the entrance of their homes for what would come. They knew what the rumble had told them - that they had no chance of life, that what had been created would spare nothing. The ancient oaks, planted at the dawn of time, would be ripped from the earth and the new-born child would be ground into dust. Not the smallest leaf or the most inconsequential bug would survive. The all-consuming fact of their deaths left the creatures with nothing; all they could do is wait and hope to look upon what would remove all life from the earth.
Silence consumed the earth, the black clouds imploded and sank to the ground without a sound, forming a thick foot-high fog of pestilence. The creature, the mystery, stepped down from the hill’s summit.
Death raged before it.
The mystery walked towards the village in the valley, to its masters, to its creators. This thought was all that filled its head, the black plague that spread for miles in all directions from his body was unnoticed and unimportant. As it walked the ground rippled and wailed under its feet, the earth’s life was being taken form it. A scream, the hideous pierecing scream of the earth’s torture wrapped around it, encasing all the doomed in a blanket if pain. The world was dying.
As goodness and life was ripped from the earth it became black and hard. Harder than any natural material, this was unnatural, evil, a deep black, shiny cover of death across Gaia’s dying soul.
The mystery noticed nothing.
The world died and the blackness took its place. The green and blue planet of life was now nothing more than a concentrated lump of evil; a black so dark it tore the light from the sun; a menacing ball of hate which polluted the galaxy, the universe and began to demolish it.
The sun, the stars, the moon exploded.
The creature walked on, unfettered.
It reached the place the village once stood, which was now nothing but a space on the ball of hate.
But a small cottage stood untouched, the home of its masters; its parents. The mystery walked through the wall; the cottage’s two inhabitants said nothing. A small fire roared in the hearth, one of the two - the thinker - sat in a chair next to it, hand folded in his lap. The scribe sat hunched over a desk, the pen in his hands writing out the events as they happened.
Before they happened.
The mystery stopped and opened it’s mouth. “MWA?” it whispered.
The man by the fire nodded and stood - he had a tail.
The scribe, fanatical about something, carried on scribbling.
The mystery look upon his masters for a moment then ripped the first apart, taking his soul and crushing his body into nothing. The scribe carried on writing for a while, a heavy look of depression, guilt and shame crossed his face and the fire in his eyes faded. He had given up on life.
He had created too far, this was not meant to be.
The thinker had given him a task, and he had wrote it. He had done his best, given his heart to the piece, and now the piece would take his heart.
He finished the last sentence, one of the inevitable future and signed his name.
The mystery took his life, the last on the planet and spread its force to the rest of the universe. Nothing would live. Everything would die.
Because of one man.
FFF