And he drank the deep red, thick, warm liquid from the goblet. The fruity smell of wine and the flowery smell of sticky hashish was thick in the air around him.
This feeling, not felt before, made him giggle. But then he came to a steely resolution. He was one with the Creed now.
"And now, you are whole," said Holy, with his deep and monotonous voice, "you have known death, and you have known life. You have known what life can be, and thus, completion is upon you."
The weight from his past life lifted from his shoulders. He is a new man now, one without fear, without chaos. He is a man only of strength.
"Now go, Donnie, finish what I ha
Snap. Snap. Snap. Their screams faded into a sound unheard by any but He.
His dilated pupils, ever hungry for light, searched for his next opportunity. He saw the next perfect victim.
He approached the lady, all dressed in red, her scarlet cheeks glistening with beauty. Perfect, He thought. He loomed over her petite frame, and She looked at him. No fear, no surprise in her expression.
"Man with no name," She said. He was startled, had He heard her correctly? "What ever is the matter, nameless man?"
"I- uh..."
"Frightening isn't it? Not being frightened of, nameless one."
"Who- are- you?" He stuttered.
"Why would I tell you, He, who
Shivering, He awoke from his hellish dreams.
He smiled.
His idea of a blissful dream was a hellish one, one full of hate, anguish, despair. One in which He feels dead. These are the dreams that make him feel most alive.
He looked at the clock at his bedside table. It read 1:00 am; the perfect time he always awakened.
A scream coming from his darkroom confirmed that it truly was time.
Slowly, he pulled himself out of bed, fixed his hair, and started moving towards the screams. By this time, the screams from his darkroom had intensified. They were full of rage, a methodical hunger that would eat any hope, any happiness from any poor soul
He was a really good photography. You may be wondering, 'how can a man be a style of art?' A man can't, unless you're him.
Developing chemicals resting against the tiled wall of his dark room, He pondered the pain they could cause if drunk and shuddered. He should save such thoughts.
A knowing knock disturbed him from his thoughts. Bastard, He was so looking forward to exploring the depths of his photos.
A second knock, louder this time, forced him to open the door.
Staring at him from the doorway, Charles Fritz ruined the tranquil state He was in before.
"What?" He asked bluntly.
"We've had more complaints about you. The resid
And he drank the deep red, thick, warm liquid from the goblet. The fruity smell of wine and the flowery smell of sticky hashish was thick in the air around him.
This feeling, not felt before, made him giggle. But then he came to a steely resolution. He was one with the Creed now.
"And now, you are whole," said Holy, with his deep and monotonous voice, "you have known death, and you have known life. You have known what life can be, and thus, completion is upon you."
The weight from his past life lifted from his shoulders. He is a new man now, one without fear, without chaos. He is a man only of strength.
"Now go, Donnie, finish what I ha
Snap. Snap. Snap. Their screams faded into a sound unheard by any but He.
His dilated pupils, ever hungry for light, searched for his next opportunity. He saw the next perfect victim.
He approached the lady, all dressed in red, her scarlet cheeks glistening with beauty. Perfect, He thought. He loomed over her petite frame, and She looked at him. No fear, no surprise in her expression.
"Man with no name," She said. He was startled, had He heard her correctly? "What ever is the matter, nameless man?"
"I- uh..."
"Frightening isn't it? Not being frightened of, nameless one."
"Who- are- you?" He stuttered.
"Why would I tell you, He, who
Shivering, He awoke from his hellish dreams.
He smiled.
His idea of a blissful dream was a hellish one, one full of hate, anguish, despair. One in which He feels dead. These are the dreams that make him feel most alive.
He looked at the clock at his bedside table. It read 1:00 am; the perfect time he always awakened.
A scream coming from his darkroom confirmed that it truly was time.
Slowly, he pulled himself out of bed, fixed his hair, and started moving towards the screams. By this time, the screams from his darkroom had intensified. They were full of rage, a methodical hunger that would eat any hope, any happiness from any poor soul
He was a really good photography. You may be wondering, 'how can a man be a style of art?' A man can't, unless you're him.
Developing chemicals resting against the tiled wall of his dark room, He pondered the pain they could cause if drunk and shuddered. He should save such thoughts.
A knowing knock disturbed him from his thoughts. Bastard, He was so looking forward to exploring the depths of his photos.
A second knock, louder this time, forced him to open the door.
Staring at him from the doorway, Charles Fritz ruined the tranquil state He was in before.
"What?" He asked bluntly.
"We've had more complaints about you. The resid
People call me Antonio. I'm a thriller/ horror novelist, who likes to explore not only writing, but I also dabble in photography as well. I also play guitar, piano, a little bass.
Current Residence: Portugal deviantWEAR sizing preference: small/ medium Print preference: nothing in particular Favourite genre of music: Regge Favourite photographer: William Henry Fox Talbot Favourite style of art: surrealism/ Cubism Operating System: Windows XP Professional/ Windows Vista MP3 player of choice: iPod Classic 80gb Shell of choice: turtle Wallpaper of choice: barewall effect Skin of choice: tanned Favourite cartoon character: Grommit Personal Quote: a friend with weed is a friend indeed
10 times out of 9, im working into the early hours, when the clock turns to 25:00. this makes it extremely difficult to actually finish any writing coz i get bored. :@