Professor S
10-25-2005, 12:56 AM
Since this is a literature thread, I thought I'd post the beginnings of a story I've been working on... or not been working on for a few weeks. Any feedback would be appreciated and may help snap me out of my block.
Letters From Hell
A pillar of black smoke pushed up through the burgundy sky, the top snaking behind as it moved forward. Faint whispers were heard before the horn blew and children screamed. Whimpering and crying grew as fire shot from the sides of the train and its catcher tossed emaciated bodies from the tracks as they tried to grab the sides. The locomotive screamed to a halt and all was quiet.
Ronwe stood on the platform, staff in one hand and a large tome in the crook of his arm, a slight smile creasing his face. Pushing his glasses to the back of his nose, he hailed the conductor.
“Belphegor, what are you doing conducting “The Boat”? I thought you were stationed in France?”
“Yeah, the big guy pulled me out. I have a pretty good idea why, though. Take a look.” He said as he motioned to the back, with worried smile below his massive nose.
“You have to be kidding me. Volume has gone up again? Is anyone watching the store up there, Bel? I like the business but this is getting a bit silly.”
“Just look Ron,” Belphegor’s smile was replaced with a furrowed brow, “and we’ll see how much joking you do.”
“Fine, you big baby.” Ronwe opened the book in his arm and pulled a Bic from his shirt pocket as we walked towards the massive freight cars, “I’ll go back and see what the damage is.”
With a hard jerk the first car door slid open.
The Bic fell from Ronwe’s open mouth.
Outside of Satanachia’s Hall the contents of the freight cars gathered, creating a landscape of souls whose number met the horizon. Some looked as if they had already met the Dark Lord, their faces locked in unspeakable horror. Most milled around, talking to themselves or each other, wondering aloud what they could have done to warrant an eternity of suffering. A small percentage were even impatient, tapping their toes and complaining about how their “time”, a term that they did not realize now had no meaning, was being wasted.
“Coming through. Excuse me. Hey, this is a no smoking plane of existence. Put it out. Thank you.” Ronwe pushed through an endless sea of newly Damned. Holding the registry close to his chest he fumbled with his glasses as he was jostled to and fro, inevitably thrown into the back of a large, denim clad soul. His glasses falling to the ground, Ronwe stooped to pick them up and when he rose Jeans Jacket stared down at him through a thick beard.
“You got a problem?”
“Who, me? Oh no, not at all. I was just wondering what that was.” Ronwe stuck his finger in the chest of Levi Strauss. When Harley Davidson peered down, Ronwe flicked his nose, enveloping his head in a torrent of flame. “Sorry, that was your head spontaneously combusting. I thought it might have been a spot of ketchup.” Ronwe resumed his travels.
“I swear, people have no respect for the Long Big Hurt anymore.”
“Did you see that?”
“Hm?”
“Did you see that?”
“See what?”
“The guy screaming with his head on fire!”
“That?” Jack replied with a chuckle, “You must be new.”
“How long have you been here?” Asked Phil.
“I’m not sure. My watch stopped in March of `84.”
“Good Lord.”
“Good? Not too sure about that anymore.”
In the distance figures created a silhouette above the horizon of souls. Tall and thin, their many numbered legs shuffled through the crowd. Rifling though the souls, they picked them up, juggled them and then threw them back to the ground.
“What are they?” Phil stuttered.
“No idea. Kind of excited about it, though. Wonder if it will hurt?” Jack answered, standing on the balls of his feet, trying to get a better look.
“You want it to hurt?”
“Let me ask you a question: How do you feel right now?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ve been standing here for a long time. Do your feet hurt?”
“No.”
“You’re in Hell. Is it hot?”
“It’s actually pretty comfortable, I guess.”
“You guess. Can you tell?” Jack punched Phil in his nose.
“Hey!” Phil screamed, “What is wrong with you?”
“I just punched you in your face. Does it hurt?”
Phil’s eyes widened and he whispered “No… nothing.”
“When you’ve been here as long as I have,” Jack said as he looked back towards the many-legged silhouettes, “anything is better than that.”
“Uhck.” Phil choked.
“Uhck? I bare my soul and give you a profound observation and you answer with-” Jack turned to an empty space where Phil used to be.
Phil on the other hand, was not as lucky. Instead of an empty space, he was staring directly into the eyes of one of the many-legged silhouettes, which now were not quite so nebulous. The comforting distant blackness was replaced with blue, blotchy skin stapled across a wide angular face with large brown eyes that sank into its skull. The many-legged blue blotch stared into Phil’s gaping mouth and probed him with its long, soft fingers. Inhaling deeply with Phil only inches away, it paused and concluded the meeting by stamping Phil on the head with a pricing gun, throwing him over his shoulder and muttering “How disappointing.”
The many-legged blue blotch (or MLBB for short) repeated the process with Jack, save the personal comment, and continued about his business with the rest of the dismayed souls.
“Asshole.” Jack said to himself, brushing off his Member’s Only jacket.
Sorry about the margins, but vBulletin is not good with spacing.
Letters From Hell
A pillar of black smoke pushed up through the burgundy sky, the top snaking behind as it moved forward. Faint whispers were heard before the horn blew and children screamed. Whimpering and crying grew as fire shot from the sides of the train and its catcher tossed emaciated bodies from the tracks as they tried to grab the sides. The locomotive screamed to a halt and all was quiet.
Ronwe stood on the platform, staff in one hand and a large tome in the crook of his arm, a slight smile creasing his face. Pushing his glasses to the back of his nose, he hailed the conductor.
“Belphegor, what are you doing conducting “The Boat”? I thought you were stationed in France?”
“Yeah, the big guy pulled me out. I have a pretty good idea why, though. Take a look.” He said as he motioned to the back, with worried smile below his massive nose.
“You have to be kidding me. Volume has gone up again? Is anyone watching the store up there, Bel? I like the business but this is getting a bit silly.”
“Just look Ron,” Belphegor’s smile was replaced with a furrowed brow, “and we’ll see how much joking you do.”
“Fine, you big baby.” Ronwe opened the book in his arm and pulled a Bic from his shirt pocket as we walked towards the massive freight cars, “I’ll go back and see what the damage is.”
With a hard jerk the first car door slid open.
The Bic fell from Ronwe’s open mouth.
Outside of Satanachia’s Hall the contents of the freight cars gathered, creating a landscape of souls whose number met the horizon. Some looked as if they had already met the Dark Lord, their faces locked in unspeakable horror. Most milled around, talking to themselves or each other, wondering aloud what they could have done to warrant an eternity of suffering. A small percentage were even impatient, tapping their toes and complaining about how their “time”, a term that they did not realize now had no meaning, was being wasted.
“Coming through. Excuse me. Hey, this is a no smoking plane of existence. Put it out. Thank you.” Ronwe pushed through an endless sea of newly Damned. Holding the registry close to his chest he fumbled with his glasses as he was jostled to and fro, inevitably thrown into the back of a large, denim clad soul. His glasses falling to the ground, Ronwe stooped to pick them up and when he rose Jeans Jacket stared down at him through a thick beard.
“You got a problem?”
“Who, me? Oh no, not at all. I was just wondering what that was.” Ronwe stuck his finger in the chest of Levi Strauss. When Harley Davidson peered down, Ronwe flicked his nose, enveloping his head in a torrent of flame. “Sorry, that was your head spontaneously combusting. I thought it might have been a spot of ketchup.” Ronwe resumed his travels.
“I swear, people have no respect for the Long Big Hurt anymore.”
“Did you see that?”
“Hm?”
“Did you see that?”
“See what?”
“The guy screaming with his head on fire!”
“That?” Jack replied with a chuckle, “You must be new.”
“How long have you been here?” Asked Phil.
“I’m not sure. My watch stopped in March of `84.”
“Good Lord.”
“Good? Not too sure about that anymore.”
In the distance figures created a silhouette above the horizon of souls. Tall and thin, their many numbered legs shuffled through the crowd. Rifling though the souls, they picked them up, juggled them and then threw them back to the ground.
“What are they?” Phil stuttered.
“No idea. Kind of excited about it, though. Wonder if it will hurt?” Jack answered, standing on the balls of his feet, trying to get a better look.
“You want it to hurt?”
“Let me ask you a question: How do you feel right now?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ve been standing here for a long time. Do your feet hurt?”
“No.”
“You’re in Hell. Is it hot?”
“It’s actually pretty comfortable, I guess.”
“You guess. Can you tell?” Jack punched Phil in his nose.
“Hey!” Phil screamed, “What is wrong with you?”
“I just punched you in your face. Does it hurt?”
Phil’s eyes widened and he whispered “No… nothing.”
“When you’ve been here as long as I have,” Jack said as he looked back towards the many-legged silhouettes, “anything is better than that.”
“Uhck.” Phil choked.
“Uhck? I bare my soul and give you a profound observation and you answer with-” Jack turned to an empty space where Phil used to be.
Phil on the other hand, was not as lucky. Instead of an empty space, he was staring directly into the eyes of one of the many-legged silhouettes, which now were not quite so nebulous. The comforting distant blackness was replaced with blue, blotchy skin stapled across a wide angular face with large brown eyes that sank into its skull. The many-legged blue blotch stared into Phil’s gaping mouth and probed him with its long, soft fingers. Inhaling deeply with Phil only inches away, it paused and concluded the meeting by stamping Phil on the head with a pricing gun, throwing him over his shoulder and muttering “How disappointing.”
The many-legged blue blotch (or MLBB for short) repeated the process with Jack, save the personal comment, and continued about his business with the rest of the dismayed souls.
“Asshole.” Jack said to himself, brushing off his Member’s Only jacket.
Sorry about the margins, but vBulletin is not good with spacing.