queenofdisco
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Desperate Essence
A short story only just finished written by me
Its based of a poem I posted a year ago that totally sucked hopefully this says what it was meant to say much better.
Its set in fable not tlc, and after the hero kills jack.
He's lost his wife in childbirth.
Desperate Essence
The ancient man sat there on his darkly stained armchair, how is it that he was so old all people die young in this day yet the faceless shadow had yet to claim his hollow soul. The curtain drapes had been yanked closed not moving for sun or moon. The grey haired warrior sat on the rotten chair swilling his finely aged whisky to his fat belly not caring for anything more not even Mrs Grey who lay on her bed in his chamber dead with a sword stiff in her neck keeping the whore attached to the bed she had been a
night but didn‘t fill the gap in his heart that was his wife’s. Back in the library of the Grey castle of Bowerstone lay a screaming baby innocent but blamed for the death of his fathers wife she had died in childbirth, starving it is, how it has the energy to continue cry was beyond his father even lady Grey had the compassion to try to care for the child though it was not hers, death was her reward she’s a lucky b*t*h thought the hero.
The man snatched the empty bottle of whisky then throwing it into the fire that he so Longley gazed at for hours on end, the bottle shattered to a thousand pieces in the fire it laid there now slowly melting with the unaffected mask of Jack. The mask had been there for weeks yet the drunken depressed ‘hero’ felt coldness from its touch forever cold it didn’t burn. Aside the fireplace there was a great golden axe double headed shaped like a hawk with its wings high as sky, blood covered the top right blade it wasn’t fresh but was clotted and hard like a second skin, countless artefacts were littered around the mansion all used sometime throughout his great life, his trophies from past quests ridden with dust he didn’t care for them anymore. People searched for a hero, why? Jack is dead his maskless corpse caged high on the wall of the Grey mansion power was his desire and his undoing.
“Fame truly is a curse” mumbled the old weak man while opening another bottle of aged poison. Wherever he went people cheered for him, countless beasts lay dead, and men alike they await him across the thick black river where eternal battle and eternal pain call for him. All those that tasted the sharp end of his blades wait for him and they will have there revenge on him forever I’m to old to fight he thought while his hands quivered freely trying to grab his drink to calm himself and his nerves. He looked through the blurred glass filled with his whiskey as he drank it and seen a rose dead it was, blackened just like his life and his wife’s ashes there’s nothing left anymore, the gold. The riches mean nothing without someone to spend it with he could own all of Albion tenfold with the money he achieved in his life, yet it mattered as much as the smell of his foul breathe, thieves every week entered the castle taking small bags of gold the hero knew this still he drank, the young fools could have it all.
“What should I do?” begged the old whimpering man as he looked up at the near covered picture of his love, filthy the picture was, you could barely see her beauty her thick brown hair loosely hanging on her shoulders the thin smooth lips glistened with dark red and her eyes the most virtuous thing about her more green than a light blue so unique she was. “what should I do?” he moaned as he lay there intoxicated near to ruin to end. All went quiet the embers from the fire didn’t spark or burn anymore “old man care for your son!” the hero’s eyes flickered from a voice that he nearly forgotten the sound of, tears poured from him now.
“My son” he said to himself while listening to the constant cries of the baby in the library, he pushed himself up from the chair that seemed to hold him down demon like it was the chair stunk of ale and tears. He pushed through the doors scrambling through the empty hallways falling and stumbling he fell on his side landing on a chair sharp stinging pains came from where he landed on his left kidney his stomach instantly reacted in a violent manner he gagged and vomited all over the floor and himself.
So graceful he used to be, nimble, now though he could barely walk, he heaved himself up pushing his heavy body up with his hairy pale arms he got to his feet and fell back into the wall his sight was blurred he couldn’t taste the rotten air nor smell it. But he could hear an extremely loud cry. He held out his arms leaning on the walls of the corridor for balance he painfully trudged on with his legs aching were they’d not been used for so long, finally after what seemed like a battle against young men bullying him for his slowness and his age he made it to the library.
He seen a blur of white hopefully it was his son he thought, he gently picked the baby up supporting its head all by touch he could see nothing. The baby stopped crying and turned its attentions to the ugly thing that held him. A thick greying beard with strains of black that had not been shaven for a long time, dark brown eyes bloodshot twitching aggressively, and near complete grey hair greasy down to the mans ears, the baby laughed at the sight of his father. “My son, my boy, I hope yer not gonna be as ugly as me, lets go home”
------------------------------------------
Comments ASAP please
I must rest now it was quite tiring writing that I have been listening to some
old sad rock songs
A short story only just finished written by me
Its based of a poem I posted a year ago that totally sucked hopefully this says what it was meant to say much better.
Its set in fable not tlc, and after the hero kills jack.
He's lost his wife in childbirth.
Desperate Essence
The ancient man sat there on his darkly stained armchair, how is it that he was so old all people die young in this day yet the faceless shadow had yet to claim his hollow soul. The curtain drapes had been yanked closed not moving for sun or moon. The grey haired warrior sat on the rotten chair swilling his finely aged whisky to his fat belly not caring for anything more not even Mrs Grey who lay on her bed in his chamber dead with a sword stiff in her neck keeping the whore attached to the bed she had been a
The man snatched the empty bottle of whisky then throwing it into the fire that he so Longley gazed at for hours on end, the bottle shattered to a thousand pieces in the fire it laid there now slowly melting with the unaffected mask of Jack. The mask had been there for weeks yet the drunken depressed ‘hero’ felt coldness from its touch forever cold it didn’t burn. Aside the fireplace there was a great golden axe double headed shaped like a hawk with its wings high as sky, blood covered the top right blade it wasn’t fresh but was clotted and hard like a second skin, countless artefacts were littered around the mansion all used sometime throughout his great life, his trophies from past quests ridden with dust he didn’t care for them anymore. People searched for a hero, why? Jack is dead his maskless corpse caged high on the wall of the Grey mansion power was his desire and his undoing.
“Fame truly is a curse” mumbled the old weak man while opening another bottle of aged poison. Wherever he went people cheered for him, countless beasts lay dead, and men alike they await him across the thick black river where eternal battle and eternal pain call for him. All those that tasted the sharp end of his blades wait for him and they will have there revenge on him forever I’m to old to fight he thought while his hands quivered freely trying to grab his drink to calm himself and his nerves. He looked through the blurred glass filled with his whiskey as he drank it and seen a rose dead it was, blackened just like his life and his wife’s ashes there’s nothing left anymore, the gold. The riches mean nothing without someone to spend it with he could own all of Albion tenfold with the money he achieved in his life, yet it mattered as much as the smell of his foul breathe, thieves every week entered the castle taking small bags of gold the hero knew this still he drank, the young fools could have it all.
“What should I do?” begged the old whimpering man as he looked up at the near covered picture of his love, filthy the picture was, you could barely see her beauty her thick brown hair loosely hanging on her shoulders the thin smooth lips glistened with dark red and her eyes the most virtuous thing about her more green than a light blue so unique she was. “what should I do?” he moaned as he lay there intoxicated near to ruin to end. All went quiet the embers from the fire didn’t spark or burn anymore “old man care for your son!” the hero’s eyes flickered from a voice that he nearly forgotten the sound of, tears poured from him now.
“My son” he said to himself while listening to the constant cries of the baby in the library, he pushed himself up from the chair that seemed to hold him down demon like it was the chair stunk of ale and tears. He pushed through the doors scrambling through the empty hallways falling and stumbling he fell on his side landing on a chair sharp stinging pains came from where he landed on his left kidney his stomach instantly reacted in a violent manner he gagged and vomited all over the floor and himself.
So graceful he used to be, nimble, now though he could barely walk, he heaved himself up pushing his heavy body up with his hairy pale arms he got to his feet and fell back into the wall his sight was blurred he couldn’t taste the rotten air nor smell it. But he could hear an extremely loud cry. He held out his arms leaning on the walls of the corridor for balance he painfully trudged on with his legs aching were they’d not been used for so long, finally after what seemed like a battle against young men bullying him for his slowness and his age he made it to the library.
He seen a blur of white hopefully it was his son he thought, he gently picked the baby up supporting its head all by touch he could see nothing. The baby stopped crying and turned its attentions to the ugly thing that held him. A thick greying beard with strains of black that had not been shaven for a long time, dark brown eyes bloodshot twitching aggressively, and near complete grey hair greasy down to the mans ears, the baby laughed at the sight of his father. “My son, my boy, I hope yer not gonna be as ugly as me, lets go home”
------------------------------------------
Comments ASAP please
I must rest now it was quite tiring writing that I have been listening to some