A young man came upon the closed gate. Having no desire to turn around yet again and hopelessly fish around for a better route out, he simply stood before it, contemplating what might await him on the other side. Intricate leave patterns of wrought iron clung to panes of frosted glass, obstructing any view of what might be beyond.Dunno how I feel about this one, just sort of needed to get into the habit and get started. I'm sure that more will come along. Post a comment if you like what you see and want more. If not, no worries, this is mainly here for me anyway. Feels good to write again. Writing just for me too. :3
Thoughts he had been trying to push back into the corners of his mind were now charging to the front, each screaming loudly to be heard and the young man nearly plopped down to sit right there if he hadn't equally been so wary of the Garden already. Sitting was giving up. Giving up meant death.
How long have I been in here really? Was the first one to break free from the pack of ideas now overflowing in his mind. He glanced upwards for some hope of sunlight or moonlight, but the tiered buttresses of frosted glass above proved a frustrating buffer to the outside world. How was he supposed to know what time it even was? Would it do him any more good to know that it was six o'clock or eight? Even midnight? Noon? Knowing would probably only bring him more frustration. That was the last thing he needed more of.
His stomach growled fiercely again as another thought broke through. Hunger. Food was what he really needed. Now even the leaves of the hedges and densely thick flowered bushes and tree trunks looked appetizing. He would have found it funny under any other circumstance, but now it left him feeling slightly foolish. Perhaps the Garden would make him go mad yet.
He nervously rubbed the raw and now peeling skin of his face, still complaining silently that it was ridiculous for him to get sunburnt when he hadn't the least idea if this was real sunlight. A more sickening thought chimed in as well, perhaps he would not live to see real sunlight ever again.
Feeling a burst of apathy from this he reached out to the green iron gate handle and closed his sweaty palms around it, pushing down his weight on it until he could hear the metallic clicking, feeling the whole gate creak as if it would fall to pieces under his touch. Would this be the end? Maybe he wasn't being man enough about this. After all, would it not be better to die at least fighting with a creature than collapsing in some godforsaken corner of this wretched labyrinth? To go down like a warrior?
Though there had been much debate in his mind lately over what exactly he had become since beginning this journey, warrior seemed far from it, especially since he barely had anything to battle with. A rusted hand-sized pair of garden hedgeclippers seemed a pretty lame choice of weapon in his opinion. You didn't hear stories of the great and mighty hero's terrible hedge clippers. Oh better watch out all you neighbors with stray bits of hedge. He'll come for you alright. Sure you could do damage yes, but what's a pair of hedgeclippers versus a sword, axe or even a gun. Hell a plank of wood with nails in it would more than likely beat them anyday. He couldn't help but laugh nervously again. Any thoughts of having to defend his life with something so trite wasn't exactly helping any. At least with a gun there was less mess. But one often didn't come across a dead body that just so happened to be carrying a working weapon with bullets nearby - unless one was playing a video game - har har.
If that was the case, he would kindly ask the player to press pause now and get back to more important things. Or choose a game they could actually win.
As he continued to grip the handle, the marker of decision in his mind leaning back and forth between opening and releasing it altogether, he asked himself for the third time since he had awoken if this was really worth the effort.
The smell of vanilla filled his nostrils as Emily, his Emily, strolled towards him, stumbling a little on the sidewalk, her long brown hair flopping awkwardly in her face but laughing about it merrily as she flipped it back and let out a long whoop of laughter. Hers was the best laugh somehow because it was so genuine and it always brought more out of anyone who heard it. He took her hand and she immediately squeezed her fingers tightly around his, her pursed lips full of hidden giggles just waiting to burst like a volcano, leaning in close as if to whisper a secret joke that she couldn't bare to keep to herself. She held them back long enough to utter quietly, "I love you." Was that enough?
He opened his eyes. Then he pulled the handle towards him, opening the frosted glass gate.
night · craft · er [ˈnaɪtˌ-kraf-ter], noun;
1. One who creates within darkness.
2. One who commands nightmare creatures [See DREG].
3. One who manipulates the fears and emotions of others to their advantage.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Nightly Story Fodder 001
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment
Thank you for taking time to leave a comment. Please feel free to leave me any constructive criticism. Let me know where the weak spots are and any typos or grammatical errors you found. I appreciate the gesture so much!