Post by contention on Jan 22, 2006 15:57:41 GMT -5
(Summary at Bottom)
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Prologue: This is Our Sanctuary
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It’s that touch, the feel, a sensation; an erotic push, an exaggerated pull, two fragile hands on the very cup of what we are. A sip from the rim, a lapping tongue to suckle dry what all clench so dear. Gulps and slurps shall wash the palate in us clean and leave the smallest glass astray. What a damn fine way to live, in constant scrutiny of thirst. How life bakes these throats, mocking us, stuffing in the unnecessary sweets to brittle our lips. So wicked in how it makes one crave to lunge for the very goblet. Such is how I feel, for these infamous hands have thrust into the elixir; soaking it in pore by pore, wrinkle by aging wrinkle. I am the seed, and I will sprout from its mercy; drench my petals within its ecstasy and I shall bloom unto my demise. Bury me in its fertility, but cut me down with its worthless cries. Where it ripples, my image does not falter; no, for now it belongs to me. Into my stomach it drops like a rock, only to be lost, only to digest into what I have become. If you knew how it felt, if you could see the things I saw; I suppose that you could be me, but who I am is something accounted for nothing.
This is a path, unpaved by a motherly touch; yet how it lies, scarred by a broken womb. I highly come to doubt, that any would ever ask this of a son, but nothing ever held me back. Not one dainty finger was placed on my chest; no striking force echoed throughout my bones. Only a thought of her existence plagues this very descent, it’s a growing cancer, a bleeding wound. How it blackens my very organs, like a scar that burns for every sin. Here I sit, where neither scent nor image flows; mocking me for that prayer, my plea to see her face, to know her name. Yet, one alone does hook me by the gum and reel me in; for here I am the prey and He readies the traps. Ironic isn’t it, to have the very soles you wore taken right out from under you. Even still, I walk with two feet as a third foot stands proud. I still see love, oh do I ever, it is my gain, my pleasure, and my tool. To this very day my legs quiver to drain it down my throat; taking every last drop, like a used syringe. But down upon these gallows I mourn the loss of what was once so full; within the crack of these valleys I stream my very river, a river none shall ever see.
This place I can not determine nor part to understand; like a puzzle it moves, constantly turning in a cycle. No painter, sculptor, or even the most literate of creatures could bask in inspiration here, for they would surely lose the ability if that was their making. Brevity I suppose would do justice, but how can one be quaint when not bound by the belt of our father? Many a wandering soul would clasp their eyes tight upon entrance, because what awaits us all is indeed what drives us. We may enjoy the ride, but sight of our puppeteer can shatter the thickest of all lenses. Sometimes being blind can merely cask the pain, but here we neither pity nor favor. This air, this ground, and these steaming blocks are mere masks to the face beyond. Within these tides this place becomes your senses: senses that make you, senses that break you. Slowly all become a part of what it is; evolving past what they were, becoming what they dreamed to never be. One can not hide nor break these cufflinks, inch by inch they shall erode into your corpuscles. Taking away sanity and bringing you closer to yourself.
Let me try, or at least manage to scavenge of up the dire being of this endless cyclone. Do not expect a sonnet or any rolling scrolls of wisdom, as a whole I do grow but describing what enthralls me is near impossible. Now where to start may pose a filthy issue, but logic is the rag to wash such problems away:
Out there, somewhere, lies the very tip to this place; at the highest of all altitudes yet lower than where the dolls do play. It’s stature I can not recall, years have been buried since I myself spotted it. Cold though, that I remember, the shrill chill it gave; as if your body had lied naked in the barren sea for countless days. Yet its amoral beauty still stuns my very conscience, those long and slim hollow bars. Oh, how they towered from top to bottom, reaching into an eternal night sky. One could not help but notice their solid exterior, drenched in what seemed to be a dripping tar. An illusion I suppose, for the bars themselves were as hollow and hardened as my very heart. Yet, the closer they reached the ground the more they seeped tears of their very blood; alas, such I found was but mere rust from years of experience. And within this design, lied a wire frame, bouncing from hinge to hinge. It is an image of warning, a foreshadow of what’s to come, a message from God as the last note of knowledge. Look closely and you shall see: bodies upon bodies, arms across arms, and knifes against broiled blades. What this means is all up to you, but let your mind choose wisely. Not all answers can lead to salvation, and no matter how hard you think you are bound to come up empty. I’d say that personally the hardest part is passing through. Holding your breath as your hands shift in front of your face, that final breeze gives the message of how deep this place can really go.
Departed will your body be, and now the true embers will fight to show. Once you step on hallowed ground, forever you are entwined. Who you were is what we have become, and what you hated shall be your very costume. Each corner here is the same. That is when one can be found. There we play with you, constant reminders of your guilt and frustration ripping you apart from socket to socket. Vein to crossing vein, fiber from lapping fiber, flesh from hanging flesh; remember well an artistic vision, now you are a piece of the picture. No matter how hard one searches, this child’s top can never cease; it will spin on its axis, untouched by gravity. Strangely though, it seems that many do fight for an unimaginable escape, only to be given one of two choices: left or right, whichever you choose the destination can only lead to the same spot. Punishment I suppose, to the fact that no sinner can make the correct choice once damned. Deep, deep, and deeper does the funnel go, and where it stops, nobody knows. I myself can not answer such things; reasons which I dare not speak make it so. The bottom could be anywhere, anyplace. Even to some, it might be on my very crooked stoop and to others it may not. Don’t play with what you don’t understand though, because you’re bound to come up with an answer.
From all I know of up and above, that’s all I can really say. To me this is where the journey comes to an end, but I could go on forever about my domain. It’s a home, kindled in my lovely flame and drenched in my touch. Neither separate rooms nor windows could lighten this hall. That kind of light has died long ago, somewhere embellished in clouds none shall ever see. The walls and the floors didn’t take me long to envision, for you see my first guests arrived ever so graciously. At first they declined to take patronage, but who wouldn’t when the work was so undone. With a bit of push and a slight little pull they perfectly fit into place. I know what you’re thinking, how could I be so rude as to make my own company do me menial task. They didn’t complain though, but that might be because I couldn’t quite understand them. Yet, after all was said and done we couldn’t disagree with what we had. Their bodies had made perfect additions to the barren scenery the once surrounded me. Of course, they bleed just to anger me; it’s not that I don’t favor such things, but staining the new epistolary is not the way to begin a new friendship.
To this day, whichever that may be, my feet have never lifted from the essence of this place. My hands constantly grope into the fabric, just to feel it wrap around my fingers, to have them smothered in that fur. At times I can hear their moans still, it replaces the need for music, the need for entertainment. It’s not my fault though, that I think like this; it’s not my problem that this is how I get my kicks. If you could look around you right now, you’d see all my exotic pets, these adorable facets of my existence. Without them I would surely shrivel, or fill to the brim with the presents of which they can only receive. Even now my voice cracks from the insanity that plagues me, I don’t want to be this way but I can’t help it. Where were you mother when I needed you? Is this place not good enough for you? Are you saying that you’re too brilliant for Hell itself? Don’t you want to see what your own flesh and blood has done with his life? I’d bet you’d be happy mother, to sit amongst my friends and talk while looking into their gaping mouths. I wonder how long it would take you to notice the doubtful stare in their eyes and the pieces of dried skin peeling off their ruby lips.
Every ticking little passing moment that my body cringes for more, I only reflect on the past. The ability to see the future is gone; I can neither plan nor prepare for what is to come. I wish that I was alive, and that this flesh could feel the breeze from beyond. When I sleep I only dream of the times I could run my fingers through their hair and feel that texture; to feel the smooth run from top to bottom, and the little frills which twirled from side to side. Oh, I drool at the very lust of it all; my saliva runs, only to bring more fear to those still holding on to what they have around me. This is why I still choose to talk, because I know that somewhere, something is listening to every word I say. Maybe it’s for the family I never had, or maybe it’s just my conscience trying to make an excuse to keep on going. Whatever I do it for, in a way I’m glad I can; at least they didn’t take my voice, and I still have my very words to cling to. So here in my little sanctuary of Gods and the choices you make, I’ll share with you a little story. All I know is my life, and that’s all I care to mention.
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This story was based merely off a comic that I have read lately based off a furry Grim Reaper known as JACK. My favorite character was the object of Lust known as Drip. Drip Tiberius Rat, a heck of a figure in the facet of what he did. This "FanFiction" is based off his life, or a part of it. This is only the prologue which still has bumps and I'll probaly edit the pieces from time to time to make sure that they fit alright. There is not much more I can say besides if paragraph one is or was confusing in its subject I'm sorry about that. More less the glass is a human, or to Drip a creature. The drink inside of it is innocence. He states that once his glass is gone, he wants everyone elses because life taunts him by making him thirsty AKA lust.
---------------------------------------
Prologue: This is Our Sanctuary
---------------------------------------
It’s that touch, the feel, a sensation; an erotic push, an exaggerated pull, two fragile hands on the very cup of what we are. A sip from the rim, a lapping tongue to suckle dry what all clench so dear. Gulps and slurps shall wash the palate in us clean and leave the smallest glass astray. What a damn fine way to live, in constant scrutiny of thirst. How life bakes these throats, mocking us, stuffing in the unnecessary sweets to brittle our lips. So wicked in how it makes one crave to lunge for the very goblet. Such is how I feel, for these infamous hands have thrust into the elixir; soaking it in pore by pore, wrinkle by aging wrinkle. I am the seed, and I will sprout from its mercy; drench my petals within its ecstasy and I shall bloom unto my demise. Bury me in its fertility, but cut me down with its worthless cries. Where it ripples, my image does not falter; no, for now it belongs to me. Into my stomach it drops like a rock, only to be lost, only to digest into what I have become. If you knew how it felt, if you could see the things I saw; I suppose that you could be me, but who I am is something accounted for nothing.
This is a path, unpaved by a motherly touch; yet how it lies, scarred by a broken womb. I highly come to doubt, that any would ever ask this of a son, but nothing ever held me back. Not one dainty finger was placed on my chest; no striking force echoed throughout my bones. Only a thought of her existence plagues this very descent, it’s a growing cancer, a bleeding wound. How it blackens my very organs, like a scar that burns for every sin. Here I sit, where neither scent nor image flows; mocking me for that prayer, my plea to see her face, to know her name. Yet, one alone does hook me by the gum and reel me in; for here I am the prey and He readies the traps. Ironic isn’t it, to have the very soles you wore taken right out from under you. Even still, I walk with two feet as a third foot stands proud. I still see love, oh do I ever, it is my gain, my pleasure, and my tool. To this very day my legs quiver to drain it down my throat; taking every last drop, like a used syringe. But down upon these gallows I mourn the loss of what was once so full; within the crack of these valleys I stream my very river, a river none shall ever see.
This place I can not determine nor part to understand; like a puzzle it moves, constantly turning in a cycle. No painter, sculptor, or even the most literate of creatures could bask in inspiration here, for they would surely lose the ability if that was their making. Brevity I suppose would do justice, but how can one be quaint when not bound by the belt of our father? Many a wandering soul would clasp their eyes tight upon entrance, because what awaits us all is indeed what drives us. We may enjoy the ride, but sight of our puppeteer can shatter the thickest of all lenses. Sometimes being blind can merely cask the pain, but here we neither pity nor favor. This air, this ground, and these steaming blocks are mere masks to the face beyond. Within these tides this place becomes your senses: senses that make you, senses that break you. Slowly all become a part of what it is; evolving past what they were, becoming what they dreamed to never be. One can not hide nor break these cufflinks, inch by inch they shall erode into your corpuscles. Taking away sanity and bringing you closer to yourself.
Let me try, or at least manage to scavenge of up the dire being of this endless cyclone. Do not expect a sonnet or any rolling scrolls of wisdom, as a whole I do grow but describing what enthralls me is near impossible. Now where to start may pose a filthy issue, but logic is the rag to wash such problems away:
Out there, somewhere, lies the very tip to this place; at the highest of all altitudes yet lower than where the dolls do play. It’s stature I can not recall, years have been buried since I myself spotted it. Cold though, that I remember, the shrill chill it gave; as if your body had lied naked in the barren sea for countless days. Yet its amoral beauty still stuns my very conscience, those long and slim hollow bars. Oh, how they towered from top to bottom, reaching into an eternal night sky. One could not help but notice their solid exterior, drenched in what seemed to be a dripping tar. An illusion I suppose, for the bars themselves were as hollow and hardened as my very heart. Yet, the closer they reached the ground the more they seeped tears of their very blood; alas, such I found was but mere rust from years of experience. And within this design, lied a wire frame, bouncing from hinge to hinge. It is an image of warning, a foreshadow of what’s to come, a message from God as the last note of knowledge. Look closely and you shall see: bodies upon bodies, arms across arms, and knifes against broiled blades. What this means is all up to you, but let your mind choose wisely. Not all answers can lead to salvation, and no matter how hard you think you are bound to come up empty. I’d say that personally the hardest part is passing through. Holding your breath as your hands shift in front of your face, that final breeze gives the message of how deep this place can really go.
Departed will your body be, and now the true embers will fight to show. Once you step on hallowed ground, forever you are entwined. Who you were is what we have become, and what you hated shall be your very costume. Each corner here is the same. That is when one can be found. There we play with you, constant reminders of your guilt and frustration ripping you apart from socket to socket. Vein to crossing vein, fiber from lapping fiber, flesh from hanging flesh; remember well an artistic vision, now you are a piece of the picture. No matter how hard one searches, this child’s top can never cease; it will spin on its axis, untouched by gravity. Strangely though, it seems that many do fight for an unimaginable escape, only to be given one of two choices: left or right, whichever you choose the destination can only lead to the same spot. Punishment I suppose, to the fact that no sinner can make the correct choice once damned. Deep, deep, and deeper does the funnel go, and where it stops, nobody knows. I myself can not answer such things; reasons which I dare not speak make it so. The bottom could be anywhere, anyplace. Even to some, it might be on my very crooked stoop and to others it may not. Don’t play with what you don’t understand though, because you’re bound to come up with an answer.
From all I know of up and above, that’s all I can really say. To me this is where the journey comes to an end, but I could go on forever about my domain. It’s a home, kindled in my lovely flame and drenched in my touch. Neither separate rooms nor windows could lighten this hall. That kind of light has died long ago, somewhere embellished in clouds none shall ever see. The walls and the floors didn’t take me long to envision, for you see my first guests arrived ever so graciously. At first they declined to take patronage, but who wouldn’t when the work was so undone. With a bit of push and a slight little pull they perfectly fit into place. I know what you’re thinking, how could I be so rude as to make my own company do me menial task. They didn’t complain though, but that might be because I couldn’t quite understand them. Yet, after all was said and done we couldn’t disagree with what we had. Their bodies had made perfect additions to the barren scenery the once surrounded me. Of course, they bleed just to anger me; it’s not that I don’t favor such things, but staining the new epistolary is not the way to begin a new friendship.
To this day, whichever that may be, my feet have never lifted from the essence of this place. My hands constantly grope into the fabric, just to feel it wrap around my fingers, to have them smothered in that fur. At times I can hear their moans still, it replaces the need for music, the need for entertainment. It’s not my fault though, that I think like this; it’s not my problem that this is how I get my kicks. If you could look around you right now, you’d see all my exotic pets, these adorable facets of my existence. Without them I would surely shrivel, or fill to the brim with the presents of which they can only receive. Even now my voice cracks from the insanity that plagues me, I don’t want to be this way but I can’t help it. Where were you mother when I needed you? Is this place not good enough for you? Are you saying that you’re too brilliant for Hell itself? Don’t you want to see what your own flesh and blood has done with his life? I’d bet you’d be happy mother, to sit amongst my friends and talk while looking into their gaping mouths. I wonder how long it would take you to notice the doubtful stare in their eyes and the pieces of dried skin peeling off their ruby lips.
Every ticking little passing moment that my body cringes for more, I only reflect on the past. The ability to see the future is gone; I can neither plan nor prepare for what is to come. I wish that I was alive, and that this flesh could feel the breeze from beyond. When I sleep I only dream of the times I could run my fingers through their hair and feel that texture; to feel the smooth run from top to bottom, and the little frills which twirled from side to side. Oh, I drool at the very lust of it all; my saliva runs, only to bring more fear to those still holding on to what they have around me. This is why I still choose to talk, because I know that somewhere, something is listening to every word I say. Maybe it’s for the family I never had, or maybe it’s just my conscience trying to make an excuse to keep on going. Whatever I do it for, in a way I’m glad I can; at least they didn’t take my voice, and I still have my very words to cling to. So here in my little sanctuary of Gods and the choices you make, I’ll share with you a little story. All I know is my life, and that’s all I care to mention.
------------------------------------------------------------------
This story was based merely off a comic that I have read lately based off a furry Grim Reaper known as JACK. My favorite character was the object of Lust known as Drip. Drip Tiberius Rat, a heck of a figure in the facet of what he did. This "FanFiction" is based off his life, or a part of it. This is only the prologue which still has bumps and I'll probaly edit the pieces from time to time to make sure that they fit alright. There is not much more I can say besides if paragraph one is or was confusing in its subject I'm sorry about that. More less the glass is a human, or to Drip a creature. The drink inside of it is innocence. He states that once his glass is gone, he wants everyone elses because life taunts him by making him thirsty AKA lust.
