Creation
The young man, we will call him the Creator, stands alone on a jagged rock overlooking everything he has made. He has jet black hair and high cheekbones, eerie onyx eyes in narrow slits. His expression is transcendental; his gaze could as easily rise one to the heavens as hurl them into the sulfurous burning pits of hell. The Creator holds a pallette of the eight elements, flinging about wind, earth, ice, lightning as he paints out the demons within him, that, though he has created, haunt him continually.
Crack! White-bright lightning zig-zags across the sky. It's a signal, of sorts. This particular stage has been set for the Creator, and now he can do nothing but wait. The ether his jacket is composed of shudders, and the Creator falls headlong through the brane of this universe and into a parallel world, identical to his last but for the separate version of himself. The battle has begun.
Now two stand, paintbrushes in hand, pallettes ready, trying in any way possible to do the impossible: destroy an immortal being. The Creator delivers the first blow, and blow it is: a gale so powerful it leaches the color from the sky, crumbles mountains, reverses rivers. The enemy stands, waiting for his moment, and counters the windstorm with an equally powerful wind of his own. The two meet, the front swirling to create a vortex, destroying land, rising higher and higher until it is gone. The Creator attacks again, sending a lightning bolt out, but before he knows it a torrent of water comes back to him, the charge surging through it. A wall of land is erected in an instant, stopping both water and electricity. The Creator sends forth a final attack to finish off his enemy: a heap of earth and a fluid stream of fire. His enemy is crushed, the fire feeding on all available fuel before it dies.
At first there is no movement from the heap of charred black dirt and ash. Then small tremors shiver through the pile, and the enemy rises, covered in red and black burns, his clothing and hair burned to nothing, fingers useless gnarled claws and feet curled into cloven knobs. He issued a piercing wail before running off in concession.
The Creator views his destruction with satisfaction, and with a swish of his jacket transports himself to a world of blue, gold, and white, the Heavens he has created for Himself. The balance is perfect, complete. The Creator sits, and observes, and waits.
...I'm posting some stuff I wrote in Creative Writing. I won't post stuff I hate, though...
Crack! White-bright lightning zig-zags across the sky. It's a signal, of sorts. This particular stage has been set for the Creator, and now he can do nothing but wait. The ether his jacket is composed of shudders, and the Creator falls headlong through the brane of this universe and into a parallel world, identical to his last but for the separate version of himself. The battle has begun.
Now two stand, paintbrushes in hand, pallettes ready, trying in any way possible to do the impossible: destroy an immortal being. The Creator delivers the first blow, and blow it is: a gale so powerful it leaches the color from the sky, crumbles mountains, reverses rivers. The enemy stands, waiting for his moment, and counters the windstorm with an equally powerful wind of his own. The two meet, the front swirling to create a vortex, destroying land, rising higher and higher until it is gone. The Creator attacks again, sending a lightning bolt out, but before he knows it a torrent of water comes back to him, the charge surging through it. A wall of land is erected in an instant, stopping both water and electricity. The Creator sends forth a final attack to finish off his enemy: a heap of earth and a fluid stream of fire. His enemy is crushed, the fire feeding on all available fuel before it dies.
At first there is no movement from the heap of charred black dirt and ash. Then small tremors shiver through the pile, and the enemy rises, covered in red and black burns, his clothing and hair burned to nothing, fingers useless gnarled claws and feet curled into cloven knobs. He issued a piercing wail before running off in concession.
The Creator views his destruction with satisfaction, and with a swish of his jacket transports himself to a world of blue, gold, and white, the Heavens he has created for Himself. The balance is perfect, complete. The Creator sits, and observes, and waits.
...I'm posting some stuff I wrote in Creative Writing. I won't post stuff I hate, though...
posted by xtraplanetary at 1:39 AM
1 Comments:
Reminds me of H.P. Lovecraft writing, I don't know why, it just does. Pretty good so far.
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