Post by Rouch on May 21, 2006 14:41:05 GMT -5
Alright - I was bored, and not quite ready to reply to the role-play threads we have here at NS. So, I remembered a story my friend had once wrote (She has very morbid writing, and it reminds me of Edgar Allen Poe) So, I decided to try my hand at that style of writing. Not sure if I like it, but it was amusing to write. I know it's sort of short, but meh. Comments and Critiques always wanted =D
Dead. Dead as the sun when it retreats from the sky. Dead as God in his heaven above. For what sort of God lets death run rampant? Is it not a duty as Lord of the land to protect from pain and suffering? And yet the suffering of death lingers onwards to claim victim after victim. Dead. No breath will ever leave those lungs again. No eye will ever wander to size up a possible mate. Gone as the moon when the sun claims reign again. Cheek pressed against the wood of a crypt that will never open. Dead. In an instant eyes snap open, a thudding of the heart and a flailing of the hands. There is no escape. For the world assumes death, while only you and I know the truth. A scream echoes from lungs that were assumed useless – nails scratch against the surface wildly. Air! The air runs from the wooden coffin that was meant for dead. The clawing continues, but not at as fast as before. Thudding of heart and quick wasted breath are the only sound. And soon, even they are gone. Forgotten by God, forgotten by all.
Rouch's attempted at a Morbid peice of writing
Dead. Dead as the sun when it retreats from the sky. Dead as God in his heaven above. For what sort of God lets death run rampant? Is it not a duty as Lord of the land to protect from pain and suffering? And yet the suffering of death lingers onwards to claim victim after victim. Dead. No breath will ever leave those lungs again. No eye will ever wander to size up a possible mate. Gone as the moon when the sun claims reign again. Cheek pressed against the wood of a crypt that will never open. Dead. In an instant eyes snap open, a thudding of the heart and a flailing of the hands. There is no escape. For the world assumes death, while only you and I know the truth. A scream echoes from lungs that were assumed useless – nails scratch against the surface wildly. Air! The air runs from the wooden coffin that was meant for dead. The clawing continues, but not at as fast as before. Thudding of heart and quick wasted breath are the only sound. And soon, even they are gone. Forgotten by God, forgotten by all.