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| Xeogaming Forums - Story Realm - Wire: The Story of Jonas Rawcliffe |
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Cairoi This isn't about you and your loud mouth, This is about me and my fucking beard.         Since: 08-29-04 From: PA Since last post: 4848 days Last activity: 4471 days |
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| Ok, so I know it's been ages since I posted one of my stories on here. I wrote this for my Creative Writing class. The assignment was a 10 page double spaced short story. This is what I came up with. I would LOVE comments and creative criticism.
?Why would you want to go there, lad? It?s been years since anyone?s lived in those halls. Some of the people ?ere say that it?s haunted, they do. They even go as far to say that the mansion itself is alive! ?Well, if you?re really dead-set on it, lad, I can?t stop you. You can use Honeytin, the black pony in the third stall. Pleasure doing business with ye, and I better see ye back soon with me mare.? The bartender habitually cleaned out a flask as he watched the young man exit his bar. With a sigh, he turned back the throes of men drinking their worries away with mead and ale. Under his breath, the portly man spoke once more, saying ?Lord ?ave pity on that boy?s soul. May history heal it, not steal it.? ? The young man walked a rigidly slow pace to the stables, being lightly coated in the drizzling rain. His thick black hair was strewn about the top of his head, and the circles under his eyes were as dark as his skin was pale. It looked as though he had not slept in years, and his tattered, aged jacket and trousers would lead anyone to believe he was a walking dead. He pulled the large stable doors open, instinctively locking his eyes to the stall where his horse would be waiting. He ignored the rotting carrions of horses standing in the other halls, looking at him with blood red eyes and mauled sections of flesh and muscle. Though most would flee at the very sight of these undead abominations, the young man did not even twitch. Instead, he clenched his left hand into a fist and the barbed wire strung tightly around it dug deeper into his palm, driving the demonic visions from his sight, gone with the white flash of pain coursing through him. He lightly sighed as the jagged silver cord peeled out of his skin, dipped in blood. The young man took a moment to bandage the spot, pulling the thorny instrument from his hand long enough to patch the cut. The pain was his eternal tie to reality. Some days, the only tie. ? ??Ey, Allen!? called a drunken patron to the quiet bartender. ?Was that who I thought it was? I thought that whole bloody family was dead!? Allen Bailey, the owner of The Twelfth Tudor Bar, looked back at the man speaking to him. This drunkard had a surprisingly unslurred speech, even though his prominent mustache was stained with whiskey. ?Aye, sir. That was the sole heir of the Rawcliffe estate, and the tragedy that it contains. Jonas, his name is. He looks as dead as his family, though. There will always be things we?ll never understand.? As he looked out the window to the rain-drenched path the young man now rode down, he began to cough, a thick, grating cough that had been haunting him for many years. It had been getting worse, lately. As he cleared his throat and went about his business, he began to think there might be destiny behind it. ? Jonas allowed Honeytin to set the pace down the winding uphill path. He was in no rush to face his nightmares. In fact, he loathed each step the horse took, but he had to take them. If he was ever going to be free from this curse, he would enter the aged wooden walls of his childhood and come to terms with the incident that scarred him so. His mind drifted, or much rather, flowed, to the horse he was riding. He petted its mane with his right hand. ?Do you remember me, Honeytin?? He spoke, his voice so meek and soft it might have been lost in the calm wind. ?I used to ride upon your back as a child, like now.? The horse snorted, its eyes set upon the path ahead. ??I suppose not.? The path continued on up the hill, laced with jagged rocks, contrasted by an oasis of flowers here and there, contrasting the wasteland nature of the drained cliff sides. For Jonas, each step was one filled with memory, as he recalled bouncing about in a carriage, eyes in the clouds, or running up with supplies from the village below with the family servant, an older man who owed Jonas? an eternal debt of gratitude. But now, the melancholy weather and lightly throbbing pain in his left hand kept Jonas from being lost in these dreams. They only allowed him glimpses, samples, bittersweet teases. So he had expected. His attention was caught wholly once more by the road, as it now was level and straight. His eyes slowly lifted from the rocky path to the sight ahead- The mansion. Suddenly, his vision seemed to fade father back into his head, the mansion seeming to grow farther away in his tunnel-like vision. And as quickly as it seeped away, it came flooding back, but with it, the memories of November 8th. The waking nightmares bathed the mansion in dark fire, and the sharp screams of innocent men and women blasted in his ears. His family, his friends, and his life, they now all screamed in fear. Before him seemed to stand a man he did not recognize, covering half of his face, wisps of flame underneath. The man threw his head up and stared deep into Jonas? eyes, who could not look away. The half of the man?s skull seemed to bore into his soul with its craterous black pit of an eye socket. The instinctual white flash of pain came and dispelled the illusion, saving Jonas. Despite being free, he continued to press the barbed wire into his hand. It was his most loyal medicine. After a moment of averting the pain from his heart to his hand, he let go and his quickened breath began to shallow. He stepped off Honeytin, ambling the horse over to the shelter of trees before facing the house once more. ?Please wait for me.? He said as he petted its mane one last time. With that, he was off. Fear and reluctance slowed his steps, but yet determination and fury kept his eyes locked upon the mansion. He stepped through the wet grass, surprised that the fires all those years ago had not done much damage to the actual building. The porch, though brittle and filled with holes, seemed to be largely present. As he took his first step onto it, he placed his hands upon the thick door and closed his eyes. All dancing thoughts in his mind faded, all doubts hid away. He drew a sharp breath and slammed open the door, flinging it off its decayed hinges and several feet into the foyer. He looked at his hand, then his own lithe frame for a moment, surprised at what had happened. With a shrug, he continued in, taking his first step into the foyer in nine years. Nine years of nightmares. ? Allen Bailey sat in deep concentration in his room. His son, Edward, was running the bar above him. Allen had been too lost in thought to run the store. He softly lit a candle to light up the darkening room, his eyes searching deep into the fire to remember the day he could never forget. It had been such a beautiful morning, that November 8th. Allen was at the time had felt a much younger man, and had just finished building The Twelfth Tudor a few weeks before, with the help of his brother-in-law and his family. The whole group was celebrating inside, and the warmth of people?s smiles, the food, and the fireplace filled the air. His sister was petting the hair of her daughter, a young girl with eyes that shined like pearls, as she talked to Allen?s wife. Her husband, a man of considerable renown in the village, was all smiles as he downed the mead and talked with Allen about the grand future of the bar. Allen?s son and nephew played their childish games outside, too confined inside to properly enjoy themselves. All seemed well, until the two boys ran in, panting and wide-eyed. ?Daddy, daddy!? cried Allen?s nephew, his thick, wild black hair tied into a ponytail. ?There?s a strange man here to see you! He says he won?t go away until you talk to him!? The air in the room turned stale. Unsure but quietly guessing, Allen?s brother-in-law rose and made his way to the door, with Allen soon after. They exited the building to see a man covered in multiple layers of dark leathers and crimson cloths standing there. His scarred, wrinkled face had a smirk upon it, thin and smug, and his eyes were filled of poison. ?Ahh, good to see you, Daniel, and you as well, Allen.? The man said, his voice deep and sinisterly polite. ?I?ve told you countless times, I will not leave this village! My ancestors have lived here for hundreds of years. No matter what you say, my family will live in our house upon the hill for countless years more!? Daniel said, anger and hatred flying freely at this man. ?Truly a shame, Daniel. Truly a shame. I have told you many times that I get what I want. If you refuse to leave and stop your fruitless quest to become mayor, then I will just have to continue our ?negotiations?, with the stakes risen. You are the last person to oppose me on this, Daniel. I will claim this town, one way or another.? The scarred man turned and walked away, saying under his breath ?See you tonight, friend.? ?What should we do, Daniel?? Allen said, his anger piqued. He had always looked for a reason to fight, ever since his youth. In his youth, he had lived by his emotions and instincts, rarely his head. ?Nothing, brother. That man is nothing but talk. He is a crook and walking evil, but his only weapon is his silver tongue. We have nothing to fear.? Seconds after he said that, his young boy ran out and grabbed his father?s leg, hugging it. ?Is everything ok, Father?? The boy asked, looking up at him. ?Yes, Jonas. Everything?s fine. Why don?t you get your mother and your sister, and we?ll get ready to go home.? That night, Allen awoke to the smell of smoke. Bandits had raided the mansion and apparently killed everyone inside. It had taken the town watch everything they had to quell the fire to get inside. Everyone was accounted for but Jonas, who had disappeared. Allen wasn?t sure if Jonas remembered the face of his uncle. After a moment of silence, he coughed once more, tasting blood painfully arise. He drew out a paper on his desk and dipped his pen in ink. His ailment was worsening. With bloodstained hands, he began to pen his will. ? Jonas sat in the corner of the foyer, his eyes shut. He was as asleep as he could be. The one gift he had been bestowed was his ability to sleep a deep, dreamless sleep first, instead of after dreams, like most people. After two hours, his body is able to awaken, fearful of the impending nightmares. After two hours of resting, he awoke with a gasp. He slowly rose, using the walls as balance. He looked around and reminded himself of where he was. The night had set in and darkness was everywhere, but at least the rain had stopped. The darkness did not frighten him as much as the nightmares did, so night was nothing but an inconvenience to Jonas. He reached into the large sack he had brought with him and pulled out a lantern. It was old and frail, chipped in many places. But, it had been the one thing he had with him when he ran away from the sight of the burning building. It was his friend. He lit it and held it aloft, leaving the bag there in the corner. He made his way to the bottom of steps and placed his hands upon the railing. Somehow, despite the rain, the wood was dry. Quickly, he turned to the wall and touched it, only to notice the same thing. Strange, he thought, before returning to his place at the foot of the stairs. As he made his way up them, he adjusted the pressure he put on them as to their strength. He did not want to fall through them. Soon, the door to his sister?s room loomed before him. He opened it lightly, the smell of her perfume coming to his mind, almost as real as if it actually were real. Sadly, it was not. He looked in at the room of one so innocent and pure and saw how much it had decayed. The roof was open, allowing moonlight to shine in upon the tattered carpet and beddings. The mirror she had combed her perfect hair in every morning was shattered on the desk below, with some pieces still lodged in the frame it had rested in. The innocence was gone in this room. From the shadows across the room came the aged servant he had climbed the winding path to the house with many times. His face was alive with anger, and he held in his hands a brandished sword, glistening in the light of a fire. Jonas wheeled around to see a bandit charge forward through the open doorframe, and dash into him. As Jonas turned to witness the illusion play out, he saw the aged servant stab his blade into the chest of the bandit, dropping him dead. His sister was behind him. Rather than clench the barbed wire upon his hand, he moved away and watched the scene play out. The servant pushed the body aside as more bandits charged in. Jonas could see wave after wave of bandit scum being cut down by his childhood friend, desperate to save his sister. Jonas grew afraid as the servant grew weary. The servant knew his time was short, so he charged forward, moving bandits away with the might of his swing. When he reached the door, he was met with a sword of equal skill, one that plunged into his gut, stopping him. When it seemed he would fall, mortally wounded, he lifted his sword and felled the bandit who dealt the blow. He then crawled over to the weeping girl and covered her with his body. ?No...? Jonas said as a bandit entered the room. ?No!? He said as the bandit smiled and drew his own blade, moving towards the heaving old man and the girl he was protecting. ?NO!!? He yelled as the bandit lifted his sword, and with a blinding white light, Jonas dug the wire deeper into his palm then ever before. He dropped to the ground and screamed as tears poured down his face. The tears were as white as clouds, and sparkled like diamonds before hitting the ground. He cried without stop for an hour. Tears had not fallen from his tired eyes in so many years. ? The door to Allen Bailey?s room creaked open. The face that appeared in the slit was that of Allen?s son, Edward. The young man looked much like his father, though thinner and with a full head of hair. ?Father?? Allen looked over his shoulder at the form of his son entering the room. ?Close up alright, lad?? ?Yes. I had to fish out a few of the men from their pints, though?.? He said, chuckling softly. He was received with a warm laugh from his father. ?Comes with the job, son, comes with the job.? Allen quickly turned around and faced the now dry parchment he had been writing for hours. He folded it neatly and tucked it into the envelope on his desk he had readied, sealing it shut with the Rawcliffe seal he had received from his brother-in-law many years ago. ??Jonas is alive, son.? ?What?! Where is he?!? Edward exclaimed, absolutely dumbstruck. He had almost forgotten his cousin, once his dearest friend. ?He?s at the mansion now. He should be back tomorrow, I think.? Allen rubbed his face with his hands, facing the desk. Edward stood still in disbelief. He recalled the evening of November 8th, the last time he had seen his cousin. Had it truly been nine years? ? Jonas stood in the center of the foyer, the lantern bathing the whole room with a dim light. He watched as bandits and servants moved endlessly up and down the stairs, in and out of doors, in a mindless, nonsensical pattern. Jonas knew it was an illusion, nothing more. He rotated where he stood, looking for a familiar face. He gasped when his eyes locked upon the face of his father. His father walked slowly through the flowing crowds, carrying the lifeless corpse of his wife, Jonas? mother. The famous, beloved man cried tears of fury and sorrow from his eyes, glowing with hate. He stepped outside the building and stood now before an evil, scarred man draped in dark leathers and crimson cloths. He said not a word, just stood firm and bore his spiteful stare at the grinning man, until he grunted in pain and surprise as a sword traveled down his back, dropping him to his knees. His last breaths were not spent cursing aloud. His eyes spoke a curse no tongue could ever match. As Jonas had almost reached his limit, he noticed a group of men separate than the bandits running up to the mansion. The town watch, led by his uncle. His uncle saw the scarred man watch with joy as Daniel Rawcliffe died, and charged forward, screaming. The scarred man flipped around and looked at Allen Bailey with eyes of fear as the sword ran straight through him in a powerful, clean sweep. Black smoke seemed to seep from the evil inside him instead of blood, though it could be said his blood as black as his soul. The illusion faded away on its own. No blinding pain, no white flash, no wire to pull him back to the faded reality. The past faded into the air as though made of dust, leaving Jonas alone in the cold, dark field outside the mansion. He knew what he had to do. ? Edward awoke to the smell of smoke. He rose from his bed, and made his way outside, looking out to the hill rising high above them in the distance. Black clouds curled into the air and faded into nothingness. The sun was about to rise. ? Jonas walked out of the burning mansion, every step blurred and fluid. He moved like a drunkard, and his eyes were still and sleepy. He walked up to Honeytin, who has braying loudly at the cackling, burning mansion. He petted its mare and calmed it with his voice before mounting it. ?Take me home to Uncle.? Jonas whispered to Honeytin before falling asleep on the saddle of the horse. He was so tired, and had so much dreams he needed to make up. Several minutes later, as Edward finished readying his trek up the mountain, he saw the form of horse and rider trotting down the winding path. The rising sun was behind them, and the slumped figure of Jonas was obscured by the last remaining darkness of the morn. As Edward ran to them and pulled Jonas off the horse, his father approached him. He could sense Edward?s worry, and spoke solemnly. ?Let him rest, son. He?ll be asleep for a long, long time, but when he awakens, he?ll be as pure and content as he was before the fire all those years ago.? And so, Jonas Rawcliffe slept an untouched, unharmed sleep for an entire year, never needing food or water. It was a magic, perfect sleep that the angels of the world tend to have, and the demons dream to acquire. And so it was. (Last edited by Cairoi on 01-07-08 06:44 PM) |
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FX Zombie Marco Since: 03-24-06 Since last post: 3829 days Last activity: 3725 days |
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| There are a few awkward sentences, but they're easy to get over. The entire story is gripping throughout. Only wish more actually happened. Felt let down a bit at the end. | |||
Xeios You WANKER! Since: 08-16-04 Since last post: 5073 days Last activity: 1383 days |
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Chrislandx5 (1:47:42 AM): Like it was said though, things seemed to happen a bit too quickly near the end Chrislandx5 (1:47:58 AM): and I know you used that for a dramatic effect and to build up the climax Chrislandx5 (1:48:42 AM): but it seemed almost as if you started off knowing you needed 10 pages, got 5 or 6 pages in, then realized you only had a few pages left Chrislandx5 (1:48:54 AM): so you sped it up to get to the end Chrislandx5 (1:49:05 AM): but that's my only criticism really. Well written Clashx59 (1:49:08 AM): You know me too well. Chrislandx5 (1:49:09 AM): Clashx59 (1:49:23 AM): That's like exactly what happened. Chrislandx5 (1:49:25 AM): lol Chrislandx5 (1:49:34 AM): Well, I'm good at judging sorts of things like that There's my opinion. well done, but sped up at the end to finish the story within the 10 page limit instead of allowing it to reach 12 or 13 pages. |
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