Archive for April, 2010
The Mid
Posted in Fiction, Horror on April 14, 2010 by GuNNheadThe clock strikes twelve. I’m in the study, reading. The arbitrary alteration of the clock’s hands go unnoticed by myself. I turn the page. Books line the walls of my mahogany and maroon room. Older books tend to emit a musty odor, but in my study, that disappears, replaced by the rum and maple scent of my pipe tobacco. I don’t know how long I’ve been reading, it’s unimportant, really. The amber lamp on the small table to my right fills the room with a bright, relaxing light. I take a sip from my teacup and set it back down on the saucer. I turn another page.
Slime crawled up the walls as I began to read to words aloud. Screams came out of the air, bombarding me though I was alone for miles in my country estate. Wind encircled me, and yet I continued to speak the words. In my mind I cursed it all, everything that this world is. I’ll be glad when the new world I am summoning will overtake it all. What never was shall always be. The floorboards in front of me begin to lift up and break apart. Billowing smoke shoots out of the hole. The ceiling sets aflame and the walls melt away.
Then, It arises from the depths.
The It that death dare not speak its name. The creature oozes insanity, I lose my mind a thousand times over simply by witnessing it claw up from the portal. Then, inciting countless horrors from its abysmal realm to flood my mind, tearing it apart to make their homes, It speaks without sound.
“It is I, The Mid.” Each word echos and reverberates through my brain, every aspect of my reality shatters. I cannot believe the world that I have lived for over 40 years is but an illusion to stop one from unleashing these arcane terrors. I have transcended, learned, I can no longer live in the world of man. It speaks again to me.
“It is lunch time.”
I’m pulled down into its realm, where I am to suffer for eternity within a life without death. Neigns feast upon my dreams and live in my nightmares. Unable to move, unable to see. They taunt, and feast upon me from the inside. There is nothing I can do, It is beyond all.
I turn the page.
An insane asylum. A place filled with visions that no sane person can conceive of. Reality exists solely unto the individual. Entire stories and universes exist within minds that only they can comprehend. An imagination gone out of control, no one can say what is reality, what is true, truth comes from within. Those here lost themselves to the inner workings instead of the outer. The truth, for some, is that their innermost mind is a place most odious.
I close the book, and place It back on the shelf.
By the Lava-Steel of the FlameSword of Tarnaal
Posted in Fantasy, Fiction, Legends of the Primal Energy on April 12, 2010 by GuNNheadNight falls across the battlefield. Hundreds of soldiers stand poised. The moonlight floods the scene as the sunlight dies out, billowing out their individual shadows into a conglomeration of continual darkness. Once the sun has gone, they begin forward, their armor, swords and shields gently clanging; lit in pieces by the moonshine. In the distance ahead of them, there is a beacon of light, of death.
On the other side of the field, the Lava-Steel of the FlameSword glows and burns the night air. The flames that lick the hands of its owner do not burn him, for he is Tarnaal. His muscles bulge as he lifts the sword, arms glinting with slight perspiration. His bare chest shines with the light of the FlameSword as a drop of sweat beads down in between his pecs and down his abs, down to his animal skin loin cloth. He breathes in deeply, heavily, taking in all of his surroundings.
The army is approaching. Tarnaal lifts the FlameSword over his head, and unleashes a horrifically fierce war cry. While only a yell of valor, it exudes manliness, injects the essence of man forcefully into the air. He runs toward them. A few of the soldiers run in the opposite way at the sight of this one man, screaming and brandishing a sword above his head. Some have heard the legends, some realize the source of their fright in their own imaginations. The rest regain their confidence in numbers, and pick up speed towards this sole warrior, this one man.
The opposing forces meet with screams of burning pain as the FlameSword scorches the flesh of any who it touches, in addition to cutting through the limbs. Arms and blood fly past Tarnaal. He makes his way deeper into the crowd, never stopping his assault. The battle lasts throughout the night.
As the morning sun begins to rise, the chill of the night remains. Tarnaal is the only figure that remains standing. He breathes out the cool night air into the morning, the moisture-laden air from his lungs chills into a mist. Blood is dripping off every inch of his body; his messy hair, caked and dirty. The FlameSword in his hands throbs and pulsates with energy, fed into the lava-steel. He, in his warrior mind remains confident. He did not always have the FlameSword, and used to engage in battles of this nature. Nothing has changed, only the amount of pain he inflicts towards those he cuts in twain. At the first sign of the sun appearing over the hills, it strikes his eyes, he spits upon the bodies of the dead soldiers.
He is loved, he is a friend, just not here.
GuNNhead 