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The pandemoniac noise about me is drowned out by the silence of my thoughts as I finally manage to grasp the fact that I’m conscious. I take a breath and searing hot air reaches into my lungs like hatred. Strangely, I do not choke on it, or even find it as disturbing as perhaps I should. Indeed, the pain is oddly comforting, flowering out across my chest and imbuing life into muscle and bone that has no right to it
I, Kieran Blake, can feel my body. I stretch my fingers, roll my head and feel my chest move as I take another breath. Despite the heat, I dare to open my eyes, but I’m either blind or in complete darkness. However, I know without seeing that I’m lying on my back, and so I roll over and get to my feet.
The chaos of noise begins to work its way back into my senses, and among the myriad of sounds I can discern the clanging of metal against metal, the rasping of shapeless creatures and the tortured screams of some unfortunate soul. The air stinks of sulphurous smoke, and the overall atmosphere generates a tangible sense of disembodied malice. I turn around, and turn back again, trying to sense if there is some direction from which the sounds might be coming, but the noise is like the air itself, potent, filled with ire, and everywhere. Nonetheless, I straighten my back and stand tall. I’ve not come here unprepared to accept my fate.
But nothing approaches. Nothing steps forward to take me away, or strike me down. To defile or break me. Is this it, then? Is this Hell? What is my fate, if not to suffer at the Devil’s pleasure?
I don’t bother to dwell on the matter. I pick a direction at random and start walking. My pace is slow; flailing my arms ahead of me to avoid walking into whatever may lie ahead, and moving forward in a succession of half-steps, to avoid tripping on anything. The ground beneath me is solid, if uneven rock. I can’t see any walls, much less a ceiling, so I cannot tell if Hell is merely a hot cave, or something more sinister. Regardless, I keep walking, although the cacophony of sound around me gets no louder ahead or quieter behind me.
After a while, I find I can bear to breathe through my nose. The poisonous air licks my nostrils like a most potent acid, but the pain is now insignificant, and soon the sensation is calming, even pleasant, as it ripples through my face, tingling my eyes and ears with burning ecstasy.
Suddenly, I feel rock in front of me. Groping blindly I feel that it is a vertical pillar of sorts, rough and even sharp in places. I try to gauge its significance, is it holding something up, or is it merely symbolic of something only Hell would understand? There is no way to tell in this soul slaughtering darkness, and the constant blare of harrowing background noise makes it difficult to concentrate anyway.
As I walk beyond the mystery pillar, my thoughts wander as I grope helplessly through the hot black depths of Pandæmonium. An unforgettable image flashes before my flaming hot eyes. The last thing I should have known. A police officer, shotgun in hand, releasing his weapon’s deadly fury into my chest. I hadn’t even heard the gun go off, hadn’t felt any pain as I fell to the floor. Hadn’t felt anything until I had woken up here. I had given myself in, held my hands aloft to let him take me away. The officer, clearly, hadn’t harboured any intention of taking me alive. I, of all people, should have known better than to trust the law.
I am pulled from my reverie as I stumble across a second pillar, equal in girth to the first, and just as rough. Is it the same one, I wonder? Have I just walked in a circle? It’s difficult to tell in this blackness, and the thought of me so helplessly and uselessly groping about in the darkness is beyond irritating. Only common sense keeps me from striking a blow against the stone.
And just then, in the corner of my eye, I see a light. A flame. Either small or distant, it flickers defiantly against the oppressive and baneful shroud of night. Turning to face it, I see a second patch of fiery resistance appear from nowhere, close to the first. Quickly, ravenously, the flames grow in size, and it is soon very apparent that they are close by. Soon they begin to lash the surrounding rock with wavy streams of hot, red light, and I can see the floor, the walls, the steps leading upwards to the rapidly growing conflagrations. And also, I can see the figure waiting patiently between the two patches of fire. At first, little more than a silhouette of shadow against the burning lights, as the coruscating flares grow in strength, I quickly begin to make out the shape of a throne, and a powerful looking beast sat regally upon it. Strong, muscular and clawed hands grip the stone rests of the throne, and piercing red eyes stare incompassionately down at me. Although the glitter of wildfire could be lying, the beast appears awash with dark, dirty red skin, which is covered with lethal looking, symmetrical black spikes.
I try to gather my wits, and take in what I can garner of my surroundings now. Stood underneath a stone arch at the bottom of a flight of steps, which lead to the very throne of Hell, the Devil stares down at me, His latest acquisition. Despite the burning, relentless heat of His domain, the mighty beast manages a cold, heartless smile, before speaking.
“Kieran Blake” He says, in a powerful and commanding voice that echoes intimidatingly about the place “we’ve been expecting you. Welcome to Hell.”
With that, the noise rises to a deafening cacophony of excitement, and suddenly there are little grey creatures scuttling about at my feet, giant, winged demons littering the walls, from those stood impassionately on the floor right up as far as I can see, and at last there is a source for the terrible chaos of noise that I have heard from the beginning. I should feel terrified and awe struck. This is a religious moment, a powerful, once-after-a-lifetime rendezvous with fate. Whatever torturous future He had designed would be announced here, now. I should have dropped on my knees among the horde of dancing grey creatures and pleaded through teary sobs for leniency.
But I don’t. I stand here in the fire-lit depths of Hell staring up at the Lord of Darkness thinking, ‘how cliché’. And He knows it.
I, Kieran Blake, can feel my body. I stretch my fingers, roll my head and feel my chest move as I take another breath. Despite the heat, I dare to open my eyes, but I’m either blind or in complete darkness. However, I know without seeing that I’m lying on my back, and so I roll over and get to my feet.
The chaos of noise begins to work its way back into my senses, and among the myriad of sounds I can discern the clanging of metal against metal, the rasping of shapeless creatures and the tortured screams of some unfortunate soul. The air stinks of sulphurous smoke, and the overall atmosphere generates a tangible sense of disembodied malice. I turn around, and turn back again, trying to sense if there is some direction from which the sounds might be coming, but the noise is like the air itself, potent, filled with ire, and everywhere. Nonetheless, I straighten my back and stand tall. I’ve not come here unprepared to accept my fate.
But nothing approaches. Nothing steps forward to take me away, or strike me down. To defile or break me. Is this it, then? Is this Hell? What is my fate, if not to suffer at the Devil’s pleasure?
I don’t bother to dwell on the matter. I pick a direction at random and start walking. My pace is slow; flailing my arms ahead of me to avoid walking into whatever may lie ahead, and moving forward in a succession of half-steps, to avoid tripping on anything. The ground beneath me is solid, if uneven rock. I can’t see any walls, much less a ceiling, so I cannot tell if Hell is merely a hot cave, or something more sinister. Regardless, I keep walking, although the cacophony of sound around me gets no louder ahead or quieter behind me.
After a while, I find I can bear to breathe through my nose. The poisonous air licks my nostrils like a most potent acid, but the pain is now insignificant, and soon the sensation is calming, even pleasant, as it ripples through my face, tingling my eyes and ears with burning ecstasy.
Suddenly, I feel rock in front of me. Groping blindly I feel that it is a vertical pillar of sorts, rough and even sharp in places. I try to gauge its significance, is it holding something up, or is it merely symbolic of something only Hell would understand? There is no way to tell in this soul slaughtering darkness, and the constant blare of harrowing background noise makes it difficult to concentrate anyway.
As I walk beyond the mystery pillar, my thoughts wander as I grope helplessly through the hot black depths of Pandæmonium. An unforgettable image flashes before my flaming hot eyes. The last thing I should have known. A police officer, shotgun in hand, releasing his weapon’s deadly fury into my chest. I hadn’t even heard the gun go off, hadn’t felt any pain as I fell to the floor. Hadn’t felt anything until I had woken up here. I had given myself in, held my hands aloft to let him take me away. The officer, clearly, hadn’t harboured any intention of taking me alive. I, of all people, should have known better than to trust the law.
I am pulled from my reverie as I stumble across a second pillar, equal in girth to the first, and just as rough. Is it the same one, I wonder? Have I just walked in a circle? It’s difficult to tell in this blackness, and the thought of me so helplessly and uselessly groping about in the darkness is beyond irritating. Only common sense keeps me from striking a blow against the stone.
And just then, in the corner of my eye, I see a light. A flame. Either small or distant, it flickers defiantly against the oppressive and baneful shroud of night. Turning to face it, I see a second patch of fiery resistance appear from nowhere, close to the first. Quickly, ravenously, the flames grow in size, and it is soon very apparent that they are close by. Soon they begin to lash the surrounding rock with wavy streams of hot, red light, and I can see the floor, the walls, the steps leading upwards to the rapidly growing conflagrations. And also, I can see the figure waiting patiently between the two patches of fire. At first, little more than a silhouette of shadow against the burning lights, as the coruscating flares grow in strength, I quickly begin to make out the shape of a throne, and a powerful looking beast sat regally upon it. Strong, muscular and clawed hands grip the stone rests of the throne, and piercing red eyes stare incompassionately down at me. Although the glitter of wildfire could be lying, the beast appears awash with dark, dirty red skin, which is covered with lethal looking, symmetrical black spikes.
I try to gather my wits, and take in what I can garner of my surroundings now. Stood underneath a stone arch at the bottom of a flight of steps, which lead to the very throne of Hell, the Devil stares down at me, His latest acquisition. Despite the burning, relentless heat of His domain, the mighty beast manages a cold, heartless smile, before speaking.
“Kieran Blake” He says, in a powerful and commanding voice that echoes intimidatingly about the place “we’ve been expecting you. Welcome to Hell.”
With that, the noise rises to a deafening cacophony of excitement, and suddenly there are little grey creatures scuttling about at my feet, giant, winged demons littering the walls, from those stood impassionately on the floor right up as far as I can see, and at last there is a source for the terrible chaos of noise that I have heard from the beginning. I should feel terrified and awe struck. This is a religious moment, a powerful, once-after-a-lifetime rendezvous with fate. Whatever torturous future He had designed would be announced here, now. I should have dropped on my knees among the horde of dancing grey creatures and pleaded through teary sobs for leniency.
But I don’t. I stand here in the fire-lit depths of Hell staring up at the Lord of Darkness thinking, ‘how cliché’. And He knows it.
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http://www.writewords.org.uk/default.asp
Thats one, anyway.
Thats one, anyway.
Good story, what is the writing group you mentioned?
Funnily enough "Blood Lust" has recently been put up for critique in my writer's group. It's getting torn to shreds.
But I will be re-writing it and expanding on it sometime in the near future.
Thanks,
IB
But I will be re-writing it and expanding on it sometime in the near future.
Thanks,
IB
Critical criticism can only be good. It is needed to help development and strengthen writing techniques, content and flow.
Stocking up for winter was the first story I wrote since leaving school, which is a while ago now, and I wrote it after reading other peoples efforts on here.
I do like IB's writing, especially the shorter pieces. Although I would like to know (hint, hint) what happened to the story of the 300 year old vampire.
So IB (if you read this) did the story get expanded upon, did you find an end to it? I thought it was a good, interesting, start that captured the imagination and didn't need to be dragged out like Half Life to complete. I'd really like to know what happened with it.
Stocking up for winter was the first story I wrote since leaving school, which is a while ago now, and I wrote it after reading other peoples efforts on here.
I do like IB's writing, especially the shorter pieces. Although I would like to know (hint, hint) what happened to the story of the 300 year old vampire.
So IB (if you read this) did the story get expanded upon, did you find an end to it? I thought it was a good, interesting, start that captured the imagination and didn't need to be dragged out like Half Life to complete. I'd really like to know what happened with it.
Yes, but are probably one of the best creative writers on here, Black Glove.
Ineedsleep wrote:
> Black Glove is too kind, he reads everything and always comments to
> let you know he read it.
I promised myself I would be more critical when responding to stories, but then I thought: people will think I see myself as a cocky-know-all or something [which I in no way am]. I've only been writing short stories and similar stuff for about 10 months in truth.
> Black Glove is too kind, he reads everything and always comments to
> let you know he read it.
I promised myself I would be more critical when responding to stories, but then I thought: people will think I see myself as a cocky-know-all or something [which I in no way am]. I've only been writing short stories and similar stuff for about 10 months in truth.
I liked it. I imagine that Hell would be a personal thing; yet it would probably be formed by our perceptions of what everlasting punishment should be like. Being human of course, we make Hell into a "real place" ruled by a fallen angel.
RoJ wrote:
> Well, I was going to reserve my opinion, as it will probably lead to
> sparks with you, but I will voice it now. I frequently notice you
> never comment on other people's work. Manys a time I have entered
> stories, as well as other people, and I have never seen you comment
> on them. Not good enough for you to read, I suppose? Or should you
> bother your time reading others stories? After all, yours are far
> SUPERIOR, or so it seems from your continual aloofness from others.
> There is a word for, that you know, and it is ARROGANCE.
Actually, I read and comment on large numbers of stories, just not so many on here. Superior? Having joined a writer's group, I'm all too aware of my own writing downfalls. As for my post regarding no comments, the whole "*shakes fist*" thing should have at the very least given the idea that I wasn't exactly seriously disappointed.
You see, I post stories on here for people to read, not to get feedback. I have a group brimming with people eager to give accurate and useful feedback on writing, and I return the favour. I've never expected anything more than "Nice one IB" or something equally supreme.
If I wanted to be arrogant, I could claim that my stories are better than any others posted here, they're not, but I COULD claim that. I haven't, I never have, you are a presumptuous moron.
If you don't want to comment on my story because, in your little world, I don't comment enough on other people's work, then fine, go away to your little hole and talk amongst yourself.
Personally, I've found that people on these forums are not adept at receiving criticism on their work, hence I often don't bother commenting. And before people start jumping up and down like fatuous morons about the idea I've only got bad things to say about people's work, that's crap. Criticism isn't necessarily a "bad thing". I, personally, have received a great deal of it, including useful insights into such highly regarded (on these forums) stories as Half-Life, which I have, thanks to decent criticism, realised was an overcaked, under-characterised piece of crap.
If I start telling people things like that about their work on here, they'll cry "Meanie" and the whole forum will back them up against me like a horde personality bereft lemmings.
I've had arguments like this in the past, bottom line is, I post these stories here for your amusement, not mine. The purpose for which they are written is for a group completely removed from this one, so I don't actualy care what you do with it.
> Well, I was going to reserve my opinion, as it will probably lead to
> sparks with you, but I will voice it now. I frequently notice you
> never comment on other people's work. Manys a time I have entered
> stories, as well as other people, and I have never seen you comment
> on them. Not good enough for you to read, I suppose? Or should you
> bother your time reading others stories? After all, yours are far
> SUPERIOR, or so it seems from your continual aloofness from others.
> There is a word for, that you know, and it is ARROGANCE.
Actually, I read and comment on large numbers of stories, just not so many on here. Superior? Having joined a writer's group, I'm all too aware of my own writing downfalls. As for my post regarding no comments, the whole "*shakes fist*" thing should have at the very least given the idea that I wasn't exactly seriously disappointed.
You see, I post stories on here for people to read, not to get feedback. I have a group brimming with people eager to give accurate and useful feedback on writing, and I return the favour. I've never expected anything more than "Nice one IB" or something equally supreme.
If I wanted to be arrogant, I could claim that my stories are better than any others posted here, they're not, but I COULD claim that. I haven't, I never have, you are a presumptuous moron.
If you don't want to comment on my story because, in your little world, I don't comment enough on other people's work, then fine, go away to your little hole and talk amongst yourself.
Personally, I've found that people on these forums are not adept at receiving criticism on their work, hence I often don't bother commenting. And before people start jumping up and down like fatuous morons about the idea I've only got bad things to say about people's work, that's crap. Criticism isn't necessarily a "bad thing". I, personally, have received a great deal of it, including useful insights into such highly regarded (on these forums) stories as Half-Life, which I have, thanks to decent criticism, realised was an overcaked, under-characterised piece of crap.
If I start telling people things like that about their work on here, they'll cry "Meanie" and the whole forum will back them up against me like a horde personality bereft lemmings.
I've had arguments like this in the past, bottom line is, I post these stories here for your amusement, not mine. The purpose for which they are written is for a group completely removed from this one, so I don't actualy care what you do with it.
Hm. Funny, I was thinking Cliche all the way through, but, of course, that's what you set the reader up to think.
You haven't been reading any Dante recently, have you?!
You haven't been reading any Dante recently, have you?!
lnsane Bartender wrote:
> Cheers Black Glove. At least one person took the time to comment.
>
> *Sneers at everyone else*
Well, I was going to reserve my opinion, as it will probably lead to sparks with you, but I will voice it now. I frequently notice you never comment on other people's work. Manys a time I have entered stories, as well as other people, and I have never seen you comment on them. Not good enough for you to read, I suppose? Or should you bother your time reading others stories? After all, yours are far SUPERIOR, or so it seems from your continual aloofness from others. There is a word for, that you know, and it is ARROGANCE.
> Cheers Black Glove. At least one person took the time to comment.
>
> *Sneers at everyone else*
Well, I was going to reserve my opinion, as it will probably lead to sparks with you, but I will voice it now. I frequently notice you never comment on other people's work. Manys a time I have entered stories, as well as other people, and I have never seen you comment on them. Not good enough for you to read, I suppose? Or should you bother your time reading others stories? After all, yours are far SUPERIOR, or so it seems from your continual aloofness from others. There is a word for, that you know, and it is ARROGANCE.
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