Sir(e) Skeleton

Some time ago I began a work of short fiction, one I felt very good about. I recall the invigoration I experienced as the words materialized on the page, the exhilaration that coursed through me as I relocated commas, meditated upon diction.

However, after inking the introduction, I became somewhat disenchanted with the piece. I still extremely enjoyed what I'd wrote, but I no longer felt a burning desire to write further. I felt a need to mature, for the concerns of my words to progress, grow, evolve. As such, I've largely abandoned this attempt at literature. However, here it is for any interested parties. I hope it entertains.


Sir(e) Skeleton

Once, it was said;

“One shouldn’t wake the Dead.”

His words complied.

“Yes Master.”

Yet his eyes defied.

The thick, sickening stench of death dominated the dungeons of Dorian’s distinctly dour domain. The foul and foreboding bastion (carrying confidently the tell-tale qualities of its titular tenant) had fashioned formidability over eons against hundreds of hopeful, hate-filled hordes hurling pitchforks and tossing torches. Horrors of essentially every embodiment and essence had through the generations inhabited this atrocious, abhorrent abode, and had been loathed by the neighbouring townsfolk for as long a time.

When the vividly virginal maidens of the unfortunate village, so endlessly pure in pattering pounding of chest that they would willingly arrest their daily duties to often even strangers assistance, began vanishing from their consequently hopelessly harrowed homes, all grieving gazes, overflowing with animosity, gravitated towards these terrible tenements. When the wind that innocently whistled through the tower windows by day would turn to horrifying howls of the holes in sinister silhouettes by night, citizens shuddered and barred their doors against an evil so ethereal, so intangible, it seemed to walk within the vaporous rivers of respiration and bastardize each breath, infect each inhalation.

And now, when gaping graves were found wanting of corpses to call contents, when tombstones and epitaphs alike proclaimed proudly individuals and axioms that simply did not inhabit the six feet deep of empty air that yawned forlornly before them, every mobile mind loping bipedally through the haunted hamlet knew that the malevolent manor was to blame. The worries of every waking walker playing the percussion of cobblestone streets wafted along whispered words to the supposedly corpse-ridden corridors hidden behind the turreted terrain’s wicked walls.

2 comments:

Chadd Cawson said...

Thanks for posting this Chuka it did entertain me indeed. You have a gift for language. I love the line "the percussion of cobblestone streets"
What a great image!

Anonymous said...

Wow you have a big vocabulary. Very well written, it'd be cool if you got the inspiration to continue this piece.
For some reason the imagery sort of reminds me of the game Resident Evil 4.

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