ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
The tome lay abandoned on the cobblestone streets, rain laying waste to its yellowed pages. Scrawled writing bled across the pages, its black ink joining with the rushing waters on their way to the sewer. A heavy boot fell next to the book, the coattails of the figure brushing the flooding lane. He bent to pick the book up, grabbing it with gloved, quick fingers concealing it within the folds of his coat. Sending his surroundings nothing more than a cursory look the man stalked off, soon disappearing into the righteous thunder and harsh rain.
The purges began the day the swaddled bastard became baron. Before that dreadful time, not a soul knew his intentions, carefully kept under lock and key –hidden behind a genial facade.
Onyx hair flew behind her shoulders as the horse beneath her galloped past the viridian trees surrounding them. The animal's muscles morphed between her thighs –the powerful movements sending a delightful trill through her body as she swayed to the rhythm of the horse. Her eyes narrowed from the wind trying to force her backwards even as she lent backwards to still the creature's hooves.
The vision in front of her stole her breath, as it did every day she made this trek. The lake's cyan waves lapped the shores, sending soothing sounds through the patch of land. A peaceful smile lit her face, as her eyes roved the scenery. Suddenly, her emerald orbs caught sight of a book lying near the water's edge. She strode toward the tome, eyebrows scrunched while her teeth nipped her mouth, full of curiosity. Falling on bended knee, she reached for the book with pale hands. Filching the book from its resting spot on the rocks, she rose and turned back to the horse; mind focused on reading the mysterious find.
Time passed, each day bringing more news of raids and massacres down the coastline. Messengers tried to say it was because of the barbarians, but town gossip spread quicker, and carried more truth as well.
His boots and gloves fell away with easy movements and were placed on top of his windowsill. Shrugging off his sodden coat, the young man hung the item on his coat stand, just barely remembering to grab the odd manuscript before swaggering to the fireplace -sitting in a plush, high-backed chair. His hand slid to the small table next to him, grabbing the pipe sitting there out of habit. He stuffed it with sweet smelling herbs and a hint of tobacco, lighting the scented plants with nothing but a flick of the match. Palming the leather-bound book, he flipped to a legible page. The statuesque man began reading, his eyes widening with every passage.
Soon, his machinations made it to my town. His soldiers marched to the town square and called all able-bodied males to join them. I hid in the barn as my father traveled the five miles to the town on foot. He never returned.
Delicate, shaking fingers tried to stem flowing tears, failing as the liquid diamonds stained the page, making the ink run as puddles materialized. She placed the diary, as she now knew it to be, on the grass beside her, the green stalks tickling her skin. Any other time soft giggles would have escaped her mouth, yet now nothing but empty sobs tore from her throat.
The words she read made her eyes widen with shock at first, heart hammering in her chest. Not very long after, her hands shook with the might of an earthshock. Tears started pouring and never stopped. The terror in the words gracing the book sitting beside her squeezed her heart, wringing it with hands of unequivocal bloodshed. Despite her misgivings, she laid a quivering hand on top of the textured cover, picked it up, and began to read again.
My mind never forgot that moment, even years later. Blood dripped from between her fingers, onto the dirt road. Her mouth gaped as she eyed the wound in shock. Her body crumbled to the ground, all life erased. I was ten and three years that day.
All pretenses vanished as the book slipped from his limp fingers. The gleam in his tawny eyes fled, now replaced with wet shimmer. A single tear dribbled down his cheek; lost within the maelstrom of emotions, he never noticed as more followed.
He didn't know how long he sat in the plush chair he now took no comfort from. The fire had long burnt out, the embers now barely holding their light. Standing on numb legs, the man walked to the brick structure, shifting the glowing coals until they relit. Turning away from the heat, he stumbled back to the lacking comfort. He paused before sitting down, eyes resting on the leather book lying on the floor. With a heavy sigh, the man fingered the tome, finally making a decision and lifting it –began the bloody tale anew.
Years fell from my life, each marked by a new atrocity. By the time I reached the age of ten and nine, my entire town faced destruction. Any man older than twenty and five had been killed in the first massacre, many others soon followed. Even as I write this, I hear their armor laden steps march to the square. They are doing a final call. This time, I shall be there to answer their commands.
Her gasp rang through the clearing as her tears, once dried, welled again. Falling swiftly down her cheeks, she thought it apt that she spread her life's water over the earth as the man had spilt his blood for his people. Sitting there, back pressed against a vibrant, living tower the woman gave a gentle smile. Her tears fell, weeping for a man long gone, his only remnant a leather-bound book. She placed the journal against the tree trunk, rising on shaky legs to remount her horse. Guiding the animal away from the clearing, she turned back giving the scenery one last look; knowing she would never return.
All doubt eclipsed, the man knew the diary held secrets untold. Grasping the book with desperate fingers, he placed it on the highest ledge he could find. Paths of trailing water still surged from his eyes, blurring his vision yet solidifying his resolve. He promised himself that years later he would pass the diary down his family line, never letting those of his bloodline forget the tale of a nineteen year-old man with nothing to lose and nothing to gain.
Finished his task, the man collapsed into the chair that once offered him comfort. He gave the tome a long gaze before resting his eyes on the burning fire. There they stayed until the sun broke the horizon and coated the room in its scarlet rays. Looking around, a shiver laced the man's spine.
The dawn of the new day mirrored the rivulets of blood cascading from the diary's pages.
The purges began the day the swaddled bastard became baron. Before that dreadful time, not a soul knew his intentions, carefully kept under lock and key –hidden behind a genial facade.
Onyx hair flew behind her shoulders as the horse beneath her galloped past the viridian trees surrounding them. The animal's muscles morphed between her thighs –the powerful movements sending a delightful trill through her body as she swayed to the rhythm of the horse. Her eyes narrowed from the wind trying to force her backwards even as she lent backwards to still the creature's hooves.
The vision in front of her stole her breath, as it did every day she made this trek. The lake's cyan waves lapped the shores, sending soothing sounds through the patch of land. A peaceful smile lit her face, as her eyes roved the scenery. Suddenly, her emerald orbs caught sight of a book lying near the water's edge. She strode toward the tome, eyebrows scrunched while her teeth nipped her mouth, full of curiosity. Falling on bended knee, she reached for the book with pale hands. Filching the book from its resting spot on the rocks, she rose and turned back to the horse; mind focused on reading the mysterious find.
Time passed, each day bringing more news of raids and massacres down the coastline. Messengers tried to say it was because of the barbarians, but town gossip spread quicker, and carried more truth as well.
His boots and gloves fell away with easy movements and were placed on top of his windowsill. Shrugging off his sodden coat, the young man hung the item on his coat stand, just barely remembering to grab the odd manuscript before swaggering to the fireplace -sitting in a plush, high-backed chair. His hand slid to the small table next to him, grabbing the pipe sitting there out of habit. He stuffed it with sweet smelling herbs and a hint of tobacco, lighting the scented plants with nothing but a flick of the match. Palming the leather-bound book, he flipped to a legible page. The statuesque man began reading, his eyes widening with every passage.
Soon, his machinations made it to my town. His soldiers marched to the town square and called all able-bodied males to join them. I hid in the barn as my father traveled the five miles to the town on foot. He never returned.
Delicate, shaking fingers tried to stem flowing tears, failing as the liquid diamonds stained the page, making the ink run as puddles materialized. She placed the diary, as she now knew it to be, on the grass beside her, the green stalks tickling her skin. Any other time soft giggles would have escaped her mouth, yet now nothing but empty sobs tore from her throat.
The words she read made her eyes widen with shock at first, heart hammering in her chest. Not very long after, her hands shook with the might of an earthshock. Tears started pouring and never stopped. The terror in the words gracing the book sitting beside her squeezed her heart, wringing it with hands of unequivocal bloodshed. Despite her misgivings, she laid a quivering hand on top of the textured cover, picked it up, and began to read again.
My mind never forgot that moment, even years later. Blood dripped from between her fingers, onto the dirt road. Her mouth gaped as she eyed the wound in shock. Her body crumbled to the ground, all life erased. I was ten and three years that day.
All pretenses vanished as the book slipped from his limp fingers. The gleam in his tawny eyes fled, now replaced with wet shimmer. A single tear dribbled down his cheek; lost within the maelstrom of emotions, he never noticed as more followed.
He didn't know how long he sat in the plush chair he now took no comfort from. The fire had long burnt out, the embers now barely holding their light. Standing on numb legs, the man walked to the brick structure, shifting the glowing coals until they relit. Turning away from the heat, he stumbled back to the lacking comfort. He paused before sitting down, eyes resting on the leather book lying on the floor. With a heavy sigh, the man fingered the tome, finally making a decision and lifting it –began the bloody tale anew.
Years fell from my life, each marked by a new atrocity. By the time I reached the age of ten and nine, my entire town faced destruction. Any man older than twenty and five had been killed in the first massacre, many others soon followed. Even as I write this, I hear their armor laden steps march to the square. They are doing a final call. This time, I shall be there to answer their commands.
Her gasp rang through the clearing as her tears, once dried, welled again. Falling swiftly down her cheeks, she thought it apt that she spread her life's water over the earth as the man had spilt his blood for his people. Sitting there, back pressed against a vibrant, living tower the woman gave a gentle smile. Her tears fell, weeping for a man long gone, his only remnant a leather-bound book. She placed the journal against the tree trunk, rising on shaky legs to remount her horse. Guiding the animal away from the clearing, she turned back giving the scenery one last look; knowing she would never return.
All doubt eclipsed, the man knew the diary held secrets untold. Grasping the book with desperate fingers, he placed it on the highest ledge he could find. Paths of trailing water still surged from his eyes, blurring his vision yet solidifying his resolve. He promised himself that years later he would pass the diary down his family line, never letting those of his bloodline forget the tale of a nineteen year-old man with nothing to lose and nothing to gain.
Finished his task, the man collapsed into the chair that once offered him comfort. He gave the tome a long gaze before resting his eyes on the burning fire. There they stayed until the sun broke the horizon and coated the room in its scarlet rays. Looking around, a shiver laced the man's spine.
The dawn of the new day mirrored the rivulets of blood cascading from the diary's pages.
Literature
Matchstick
irreplaceable yet unnecessary
leave me in your retrospect
where you found me, unwanted & with a question mark over my head
or a Matchstick, maybe
I'm the fire you started &
couldn't put out
the one you doused &
the One you'll freeze without.
Literature
Devastation
Aftershocks shook her soul for weeks.
Literature
Ceteris Paribus
In an eon
You and I will greet the choate moon
Surrounded by her fairy dogs
warrior wolves and magnetic fox tails
who howl some foretelling tune
decoded only by the whistling winds
within my once listless room
I nip your Adam's apple by my Cupid's bow
we are a perfect art, a Sistine Michelangelo
We are stomata of the umpteen,
swimming in each other's dulcet drippings
of halved and pitted French tongues and ears
Let the years pass in this gentle deaf-muteness
where Ceteris Paribus
In this, Hallowed and His Seraphims know
how in the glow of one night tide
the firmament of all
folded into my limitless room
You and I part in sweet sorrow
t
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
This has to be the easiest I've ever written anything. Written for =DailyLitDeviations's Summer Contest.
Written to: "Wish You Were Here" by Pink Floyd.
EDIT: Minor mistakes were fixed in a rudimentary rereading.
Word Count: 1,156
Feedback is welcome
Written to: "Wish You Were Here" by Pink Floyd.
EDIT: Minor mistakes were fixed in a rudimentary rereading.
Word Count: 1,156
Feedback is welcome
© 2012 - 2024 LightOverpowers58
Comments14
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Me again, Ed. Helloo! Back with #GrammarNaziCritiques!
I do like the style, and how the stories of three(?) characters are intertwined through the use of formatting. I'm not sure whether it would be a good idea to give a little more explanation to the diary. At the moment, we know whatever is in it, it's very sad. But is that enough? It's hard to do it without seeming too expositional, but it would be a good challenge. We know very little about the characters, in fact. And seeing as there isn't much in terms of plot (it's all about the diary), we need something more concrete to keep a hold on.
You've got some really nice imagery. And you obviously know the power of alliteration. That, however, can make you use words that don't quite fit. As nice as "Paths of trailing water still surged from his eyes" is creatively written, a little meaning is actually lost. 'Trailing' is defined as 'something left behind' - which suggests its only remnants of what it was. 'Surging' however, if full '(sudden) powerful movement'. Those two don't seem to link too well. It's all well and good using imaginative lexis, but you need to make sure they convey the right idea. You get it very well with 'empty sobs' and a few other phrases. Careful too, with using too many words for the same thing. For example, the diary is also a book/tome. The horse is also a creature/animal. All of these have slightly different connotations and you should be careful about interchanging them.
A few specific things:
-You start every sentence in the first paragraph with a main clause and then a modifying clause consisting of an *ing. It sticks out a little. For the sake of repetition, it might be nice to have a little variety in syntax structure.
-There's a repetition of backwards in the 3rd paragraph too. Consider revising.
-"her emerald orbs" - I think this is a bit of a far fetched way to describe eyes. When have you ever heard them being called orbs before?
-"Falling on bended knee, she reached for the book with pale hands." - lovely line
-"I hear their armor laden steps" - armor-laden (you're using it as a single adjective)
Unlike *NotenSMSK I understood the 'ten and three' reference straight away. It's an interesting way of referring to age, I think.
What made you think of this format? It could lead quite nicely to think about writing in the three stages of time: past/present/future, surrounding the diary.
It's a nice piece, you're language is, obviously, quite extensive. But I've said this to a few people now, being able to use words creatively, or even use uncommon lexis, only works if you do so occasionally. If I wrote, say, "Perpetual dwelling in concordance with ubiquitous utilitarianism leads to abhorrent regality," might need a bit of deciphering. When 'If you keep thinking about this belief, you will become a hated king.' Now obviously, the first one is far superior in terms of language (and meaning, if you understand it all) but the second is more accessible. A middle ground is probably needed, but I hope you get the idea anyway!
Hope that helps a little.
I do like the style, and how the stories of three(?) characters are intertwined through the use of formatting. I'm not sure whether it would be a good idea to give a little more explanation to the diary. At the moment, we know whatever is in it, it's very sad. But is that enough? It's hard to do it without seeming too expositional, but it would be a good challenge. We know very little about the characters, in fact. And seeing as there isn't much in terms of plot (it's all about the diary), we need something more concrete to keep a hold on.
You've got some really nice imagery. And you obviously know the power of alliteration. That, however, can make you use words that don't quite fit. As nice as "Paths of trailing water still surged from his eyes" is creatively written, a little meaning is actually lost. 'Trailing' is defined as 'something left behind' - which suggests its only remnants of what it was. 'Surging' however, if full '(sudden) powerful movement'. Those two don't seem to link too well. It's all well and good using imaginative lexis, but you need to make sure they convey the right idea. You get it very well with 'empty sobs' and a few other phrases. Careful too, with using too many words for the same thing. For example, the diary is also a book/tome. The horse is also a creature/animal. All of these have slightly different connotations and you should be careful about interchanging them.
A few specific things:
-You start every sentence in the first paragraph with a main clause and then a modifying clause consisting of an *ing. It sticks out a little. For the sake of repetition, it might be nice to have a little variety in syntax structure.
-There's a repetition of backwards in the 3rd paragraph too. Consider revising.
-"her emerald orbs" - I think this is a bit of a far fetched way to describe eyes. When have you ever heard them being called orbs before?
-"Falling on bended knee, she reached for the book with pale hands." - lovely line
-"I hear their armor laden steps" - armor-laden (you're using it as a single adjective)
Unlike *NotenSMSK I understood the 'ten and three' reference straight away. It's an interesting way of referring to age, I think.
What made you think of this format? It could lead quite nicely to think about writing in the three stages of time: past/present/future, surrounding the diary.
It's a nice piece, you're language is, obviously, quite extensive. But I've said this to a few people now, being able to use words creatively, or even use uncommon lexis, only works if you do so occasionally. If I wrote, say, "Perpetual dwelling in concordance with ubiquitous utilitarianism leads to abhorrent regality," might need a bit of deciphering. When 'If you keep thinking about this belief, you will become a hated king.' Now obviously, the first one is far superior in terms of language (and meaning, if you understand it all) but the second is more accessible. A middle ground is probably needed, but I hope you get the idea anyway!
Hope that helps a little.