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I remember the days of innocence. There were so many who were naive enough to believe what they were told, to prosper with no real knowledge of what was happening. These were but a farce. Blinded by something. Perhaps by nothing at all. People needed to wake up to what was real.
Everyone entered the old mill; it was a place of beauty, a Mecca for those with desire, a truly stunning place to sit. To look at what we used to be and wonder if we would once return. Now it has little visitors. Only the ghosts of the innocence that haunt this place in quiet harmony.
It never really started, just slowly got accepted, like a fluid movement of the gods, like a natural occurrence that was always going to arise, to bring fear to those whose time it was, to bring order to a freedom that had no intent on stopping.
Then the murder started.
One by one those of innocence at heart would perish. The dusty boards of wood that covered the old mill turned to devastation; rotting, decaying, slowly losing its purity from the cold blood that caressed its surface. It was no longer a place of prosperity, for nostalgia and dreams flood back, the place would scream at your inner thoughts. You would collapse under the pain that riddled its wall, the fever of hatred that crept through its veins, the aroma of death that would never pass. Many were found to have crippled under this, left swaying back and forth with the same creaking found throughout the building. Some were found years after they happened because their families knew the inevitable. They knew what had happened.
But naivety is still runs loose. They don't realise what happens to those that are pure. This is but an act of love, to stop the torture of what this life will bring. There is no brutality in what happens here, no struggle, nor any sound. Such finesse to slice a throat that you would think it to be godly, so much tenderness to string up a corpse and hide the wound that brought the end. Such movement was not of evil, no matter how sharp the blade was, the beauty of such a slice could tint your vision. To see this is to watch poetry in motion.
The only friends of this place are not of this world. The dead linger beyond the decaying of their body, not to warn those that may come to see what lurks beneath the feeble shell, not too dissimilar to the most caring of elders, but instead to show them light. This is all for love, not the satisfaction of piercing skin, nor to revel in the house of awe that corpses rest in.
I am simply here to show you the way, to bring you to what is not the end but the start of such a beautiful act. I am not a victim, but a chosen one. To live is to succumb to Temptation...
Rickoss
Everyone entered the old mill; it was a place of beauty, a Mecca for those with desire, a truly stunning place to sit. To look at what we used to be and wonder if we would once return. Now it has little visitors. Only the ghosts of the innocence that haunt this place in quiet harmony.
It never really started, just slowly got accepted, like a fluid movement of the gods, like a natural occurrence that was always going to arise, to bring fear to those whose time it was, to bring order to a freedom that had no intent on stopping.
Then the murder started.
One by one those of innocence at heart would perish. The dusty boards of wood that covered the old mill turned to devastation; rotting, decaying, slowly losing its purity from the cold blood that caressed its surface. It was no longer a place of prosperity, for nostalgia and dreams flood back, the place would scream at your inner thoughts. You would collapse under the pain that riddled its wall, the fever of hatred that crept through its veins, the aroma of death that would never pass. Many were found to have crippled under this, left swaying back and forth with the same creaking found throughout the building. Some were found years after they happened because their families knew the inevitable. They knew what had happened.
But naivety is still runs loose. They don't realise what happens to those that are pure. This is but an act of love, to stop the torture of what this life will bring. There is no brutality in what happens here, no struggle, nor any sound. Such finesse to slice a throat that you would think it to be godly, so much tenderness to string up a corpse and hide the wound that brought the end. Such movement was not of evil, no matter how sharp the blade was, the beauty of such a slice could tint your vision. To see this is to watch poetry in motion.
The only friends of this place are not of this world. The dead linger beyond the decaying of their body, not to warn those that may come to see what lurks beneath the feeble shell, not too dissimilar to the most caring of elders, but instead to show them light. This is all for love, not the satisfaction of piercing skin, nor to revel in the house of awe that corpses rest in.
I am simply here to show you the way, to bring you to what is not the end but the start of such a beautiful act. I am not a victim, but a chosen one. To live is to succumb to Temptation...
Rickoss
Cheers for the comments, Meka. There were a few typos in there and made even harder to read than it already is, must have missed a few when I read through it :-D
I promise it made sense in my head though, at one point or another ;-)
I promise it made sense in my head though, at one point or another ;-)
An intersting start, and the single line "Then the murder started" works well, and throws us into something else. But much of the rest of the story lacks clarity, even though it is quite well written.. Plus I was utterly confused by the line: "But naivety is still runs loose".
Nah.
It's good to leave a bit to the imagination.
It's good to leave a bit to the imagination.
It was just meant to be a mentalist really, of no specific gender or religion, called Temptation (didn't think many people would get that). More of an anonymous killer than anything else, oh and yes, a few of the idiots did get mangled just a tiny bit ;-)
Wasn't really meant to be as clear as crystal (cue: you don't say ;-)).
Ah well, I tried.
Wasn't really meant to be as clear as crystal (cue: you don't say ;-)).
Ah well, I tried.
I'm assuming human sacrifice here but could easily be wrong. There are too many lines for me to read between and form my own assumption.
after reading the story:
Interesting, although I didn't quite get it...
Was it some mysterious ghost, or a religous fanatic, or people killing themselves from their guilt or just being clumsy and falling into the Windmill's mechanisms and getting mangled? :-D
after a second read:
Ah. Religous fanatic I'm thinking. :-)
after reading Rickoss' comment on my story:
Awww.... rats! :-D
I'll try and get Roj to edit his reply. :-)
Interesting, although I didn't quite get it...
Was it some mysterious ghost, or a religous fanatic, or people killing themselves from their guilt or just being clumsy and falling into the Windmill's mechanisms and getting mangled? :-D
after a second read:
Ah. Religous fanatic I'm thinking. :-)
after reading Rickoss' comment on my story:
Awww.... rats! :-D
I'll try and get Roj to edit his reply. :-)
Well the only one of these stories I've actually read is Ashman's. Haven't seen any others about. I was gonna read Strafio's but looked at the replies first and the ending was spoiled. Muuuh!
Very enjoyable read there Rik, quite similar to mine, though.
Well, I think you have your writing ability back.
I didn't quite understand it all to be truthful but I did like it, since it was so descriptive and dark.
And there is no way in hell I am going to lick your burn.
I didn't quite understand it all to be truthful but I did like it, since it was so descriptive and dark.
And there is no way in hell I am going to lick your burn.
I remember the days of innocence. There were so many who were naive enough to believe what they were told, to prosper with no real knowledge of what was happening. These were but a farce. Blinded by something. Perhaps by nothing at all. People needed to wake up to what was real.
Everyone entered the old mill; it was a place of beauty, a Mecca for those with desire, a truly stunning place to sit. To look at what we used to be and wonder if we would once return. Now it has little visitors. Only the ghosts of the innocence that haunt this place in quiet harmony.
It never really started, just slowly got accepted, like a fluid movement of the gods, like a natural occurrence that was always going to arise, to bring fear to those whose time it was, to bring order to a freedom that had no intent on stopping.
Then the murder started.
One by one those of innocence at heart would perish. The dusty boards of wood that covered the old mill turned to devastation; rotting, decaying, slowly losing its purity from the cold blood that caressed its surface. It was no longer a place of prosperity, for nostalgia and dreams flood back, the place would scream at your inner thoughts. You would collapse under the pain that riddled its wall, the fever of hatred that crept through its veins, the aroma of death that would never pass. Many were found to have crippled under this, left swaying back and forth with the same creaking found throughout the building. Some were found years after they happened because their families knew the inevitable. They knew what had happened.
But naivety is still runs loose. They don't realise what happens to those that are pure. This is but an act of love, to stop the torture of what this life will bring. There is no brutality in what happens here, no struggle, nor any sound. Such finesse to slice a throat that you would think it to be godly, so much tenderness to string up a corpse and hide the wound that brought the end. Such movement was not of evil, no matter how sharp the blade was, the beauty of such a slice could tint your vision. To see this is to watch poetry in motion.
The only friends of this place are not of this world. The dead linger beyond the decaying of their body, not to warn those that may come to see what lurks beneath the feeble shell, not too dissimilar to the most caring of elders, but instead to show them light. This is all for love, not the satisfaction of piercing skin, nor to revel in the house of awe that corpses rest in.
I am simply here to show you the way, to bring you to what is not the end but the start of such a beautiful act. I am not a victim, but a chosen one. To live is to succumb to Temptation...
Rickoss
Everyone entered the old mill; it was a place of beauty, a Mecca for those with desire, a truly stunning place to sit. To look at what we used to be and wonder if we would once return. Now it has little visitors. Only the ghosts of the innocence that haunt this place in quiet harmony.
It never really started, just slowly got accepted, like a fluid movement of the gods, like a natural occurrence that was always going to arise, to bring fear to those whose time it was, to bring order to a freedom that had no intent on stopping.
Then the murder started.
One by one those of innocence at heart would perish. The dusty boards of wood that covered the old mill turned to devastation; rotting, decaying, slowly losing its purity from the cold blood that caressed its surface. It was no longer a place of prosperity, for nostalgia and dreams flood back, the place would scream at your inner thoughts. You would collapse under the pain that riddled its wall, the fever of hatred that crept through its veins, the aroma of death that would never pass. Many were found to have crippled under this, left swaying back and forth with the same creaking found throughout the building. Some were found years after they happened because their families knew the inevitable. They knew what had happened.
But naivety is still runs loose. They don't realise what happens to those that are pure. This is but an act of love, to stop the torture of what this life will bring. There is no brutality in what happens here, no struggle, nor any sound. Such finesse to slice a throat that you would think it to be godly, so much tenderness to string up a corpse and hide the wound that brought the end. Such movement was not of evil, no matter how sharp the blade was, the beauty of such a slice could tint your vision. To see this is to watch poetry in motion.
The only friends of this place are not of this world. The dead linger beyond the decaying of their body, not to warn those that may come to see what lurks beneath the feeble shell, not too dissimilar to the most caring of elders, but instead to show them light. This is all for love, not the satisfaction of piercing skin, nor to revel in the house of awe that corpses rest in.
I am simply here to show you the way, to bring you to what is not the end but the start of such a beautiful act. I am not a victim, but a chosen one. To live is to succumb to Temptation...
Rickoss