Hello, so I just finished a small story (1.5 pages) and it'd be nice if some escapist readers could give me some feedback.
It does have some more mature content, so I'd advise younger readers to stave off. No seriously.
And I'm not a very good writer so..read at own risk.
A steady beep in a hospital room, rasping breath, every second the beep is quicker, tired eyes search for something in the ceiling, faster and faster, but wait, it?s steady now, she?s dead. A black robed figure stands by the bed, an old scythe in his hand, looking with boredom at the body. Faded parchment floats in the air before him, an inked quill ready at the side. Taking the quill in skeletal hands he inscribes her name onto the paper, the ink briefly glowing before the quill and parchment fade from existence. Then he is gone, stepping through some rip in reality, his void of a robe leaving nothing but disturbed air in its wake.
In a desolate plane, there sits an old and tired house, peeling black paint, fallen shingles and broken wood. A bone chilling wind blows as Death walks across the plane, a pale horse tied to a post near the house raises his head in greeting. He pushes the door open, dust sitting upon old furniture, stepping on the old boards he makes his way to an office. Settling into an old leather chair behind an old oak desk, stacks of faded papers nesting in the cubicles of the desk, ink stains blotting the surface.
Death leans his scythe on the side of the desk, putting his hands on the top of the desk, faded white bone fingers. An old grandfather clock sits in the corner, hordes of dust clinging to its surface, gently gonging in the corner.
The clock dawns 12, but wait, all the numbers on the clock are 12.
Death rises from his chair, taking his scythe in hair, his bone feet scraping on the wood as he walks from his old home. He steps to his pale horse, putting a foot in the stirrup and swinging into the saddle. The horse is silent, barely bothering to blink. Death kicks the horse in the sides and the horse gallops away from the house, the ground falling out and the dust drifting into the void.
It would be nice if death were somehow drudgery for normal people, but no, only for one being is it drudgery. For death is a grievous affairs, that summons forth tears and shouts of anger. If only we could feign that it wasn?t the end, but everyone is so incredulous that death becomes this great big?thing that you can?t escape from.
But from the endless plane comes the envoy of the void, cloaked in black robes with an old blade in his hand, the harvester of souls, the writer of death, the stare of the end. A horses hooves on wet concrete in a dark alley, invisible to the world Death waits, waiting ever patient . A fat and repugnant man grips a young woman?s arms, painfully she tries to squirm, but oh, life is not so sweet.
She cries out one last time, the breath escaping her, as blood slides down her face and she closes her eyes one last time, and the grubby man on top of her smiles, the smile of the wicked. The faded parchment and inked quill floats before Death, he gently signs her name on the paper. Death looks at the scene one last time, but feels nothing for either of the participants, for Death does not discriminate, we all go to him in the end.
Stepping through the rip in reality he sits upon his horse in a brilliant green field, a warm wind sails on the air, and the wondrous laughs of children is heard. A child sprinting across a field, a bright red jersy wrapping his chest, black cleats housing his feet, closing in on the soccer net, stepping faster and faster, the ball rolling along with him. He goes to kick, but oh, he trips, so close to the net, falling forward like a stone, hitting the metal with his fragile neck, impelled forward by the neutral force of death.
Snap, so sudden, but Death does not care for ceremonies, it will happen, slow or quick.
The yellow parchment and inken quill floats before Death, begging his touch, and so he signs the boys name. He swings off his mount, stepping through the fabric of reality, into a warm room, a teenage boy sitting in a bed, surrounded by those he loves, speaking with such candid words they spill onto him.
But he is slipping, and his mother escalates the morphine, the only thing that keeps the smile on his lips. She holds onto his hand, tears in her eyes as he stares back at her, gently drifting away into the void. Then he is gone, the mother holding his still warm hand, tears falling onto the bed.
Slowly he went, slow and peaceful out of this world.
The faded parchment and inken quill, ever present as they pass, the only absolute we can confide in, death. He steps from that warm room, for Death and death does not stop, stepping into an expansive room. Chairs fill the room, people looking forward to the stage, a suited speaker stands atop, his voice booming through the room. His monolog of peace and joy spreading throughout his listeners, such warmth there is, and such cold infects it.
?We will scuttle out the hate! We can use our expedient tools to root out those that would deny us rights!?
An obvious flair for speaking spills from his lips, and smiles are ever present on the audience.
An auxiliary of hope and peace, and who would take that away?
?We will all have equal rights! To marry and love together!?
Such rainbow flags adorn the stage, only to be splattered with blood. But oh, a man steps from the crowd, his voice course in the room, the voice of the wicked.
?DIE YOU FAGGET!?
Words of hate, only accompanied by bullets of pain, two shots is all it takes, but there is six. The speaker falls to the ground, one last word escapes his lips before he passes
?Why??
But Death nor death answers that question, and the parchment is signed and the soul sent away. The world is heterogeneous, and death does not pick and choose. Because the prognosis of death is always true, no matter how much we wish we could escape it, it stalks us all.
Death steps through the rip of reality, into his old house, falling into his old chair with the old and dusty clock. Tick, tock is goes, bone fingers rest on the desk, and time marches forward.
It does have some more mature content, so I'd advise younger readers to stave off. No seriously.
And I'm not a very good writer so..read at own risk.
A steady beep in a hospital room, rasping breath, every second the beep is quicker, tired eyes search for something in the ceiling, faster and faster, but wait, it?s steady now, she?s dead. A black robed figure stands by the bed, an old scythe in his hand, looking with boredom at the body. Faded parchment floats in the air before him, an inked quill ready at the side. Taking the quill in skeletal hands he inscribes her name onto the paper, the ink briefly glowing before the quill and parchment fade from existence. Then he is gone, stepping through some rip in reality, his void of a robe leaving nothing but disturbed air in its wake.
In a desolate plane, there sits an old and tired house, peeling black paint, fallen shingles and broken wood. A bone chilling wind blows as Death walks across the plane, a pale horse tied to a post near the house raises his head in greeting. He pushes the door open, dust sitting upon old furniture, stepping on the old boards he makes his way to an office. Settling into an old leather chair behind an old oak desk, stacks of faded papers nesting in the cubicles of the desk, ink stains blotting the surface.
Death leans his scythe on the side of the desk, putting his hands on the top of the desk, faded white bone fingers. An old grandfather clock sits in the corner, hordes of dust clinging to its surface, gently gonging in the corner.
The clock dawns 12, but wait, all the numbers on the clock are 12.
Death rises from his chair, taking his scythe in hair, his bone feet scraping on the wood as he walks from his old home. He steps to his pale horse, putting a foot in the stirrup and swinging into the saddle. The horse is silent, barely bothering to blink. Death kicks the horse in the sides and the horse gallops away from the house, the ground falling out and the dust drifting into the void.
It would be nice if death were somehow drudgery for normal people, but no, only for one being is it drudgery. For death is a grievous affairs, that summons forth tears and shouts of anger. If only we could feign that it wasn?t the end, but everyone is so incredulous that death becomes this great big?thing that you can?t escape from.
But from the endless plane comes the envoy of the void, cloaked in black robes with an old blade in his hand, the harvester of souls, the writer of death, the stare of the end. A horses hooves on wet concrete in a dark alley, invisible to the world Death waits, waiting ever patient . A fat and repugnant man grips a young woman?s arms, painfully she tries to squirm, but oh, life is not so sweet.
She cries out one last time, the breath escaping her, as blood slides down her face and she closes her eyes one last time, and the grubby man on top of her smiles, the smile of the wicked. The faded parchment and inked quill floats before Death, he gently signs her name on the paper. Death looks at the scene one last time, but feels nothing for either of the participants, for Death does not discriminate, we all go to him in the end.
Stepping through the rip in reality he sits upon his horse in a brilliant green field, a warm wind sails on the air, and the wondrous laughs of children is heard. A child sprinting across a field, a bright red jersy wrapping his chest, black cleats housing his feet, closing in on the soccer net, stepping faster and faster, the ball rolling along with him. He goes to kick, but oh, he trips, so close to the net, falling forward like a stone, hitting the metal with his fragile neck, impelled forward by the neutral force of death.
Snap, so sudden, but Death does not care for ceremonies, it will happen, slow or quick.
The yellow parchment and inken quill floats before Death, begging his touch, and so he signs the boys name. He swings off his mount, stepping through the fabric of reality, into a warm room, a teenage boy sitting in a bed, surrounded by those he loves, speaking with such candid words they spill onto him.
But he is slipping, and his mother escalates the morphine, the only thing that keeps the smile on his lips. She holds onto his hand, tears in her eyes as he stares back at her, gently drifting away into the void. Then he is gone, the mother holding his still warm hand, tears falling onto the bed.
Slowly he went, slow and peaceful out of this world.
The faded parchment and inken quill, ever present as they pass, the only absolute we can confide in, death. He steps from that warm room, for Death and death does not stop, stepping into an expansive room. Chairs fill the room, people looking forward to the stage, a suited speaker stands atop, his voice booming through the room. His monolog of peace and joy spreading throughout his listeners, such warmth there is, and such cold infects it.
?We will scuttle out the hate! We can use our expedient tools to root out those that would deny us rights!?
An obvious flair for speaking spills from his lips, and smiles are ever present on the audience.
An auxiliary of hope and peace, and who would take that away?
?We will all have equal rights! To marry and love together!?
Such rainbow flags adorn the stage, only to be splattered with blood. But oh, a man steps from the crowd, his voice course in the room, the voice of the wicked.
?DIE YOU FAGGET!?
Words of hate, only accompanied by bullets of pain, two shots is all it takes, but there is six. The speaker falls to the ground, one last word escapes his lips before he passes
?Why??
But Death nor death answers that question, and the parchment is signed and the soul sent away. The world is heterogeneous, and death does not pick and choose. Because the prognosis of death is always true, no matter how much we wish we could escape it, it stalks us all.
Death steps through the rip of reality, into his old house, falling into his old chair with the old and dusty clock. Tick, tock is goes, bone fingers rest on the desk, and time marches forward.
