short story
ok don't know where this came from. I just started writing. Ending is a bit depressing I have to warn you, but I thought it was good writing.
He stood over the field on a high, breezy hill, the wind flowing around him making swirls of a smell and smoke that inseparably mixed. The sweat, death, and exhalations of the land were high in the air, the scents glued together with humid moisture. It seeped in his skin, it clung to his hair. The smell was unsettling. The vision was worse.
He began walking downhill. Small groups of bodies obstructed his path. Streams of blood trickled from underneath them, creating small pools within little dips in the earth. Pale skinned and filled with emptiness, the plush faces gaped toward heaven, staring into oblivion, the smile of death presided over their mouths. The mystery was gone, the peace had overtaken them, all light, thought, reason, pain, fear removed from their expressions. The transparent clouds created a humid mausoleum of peace and solitude. He continued walking downhill carefully, daring not to touch them, daring not to interrupt the serenity. His living presence, with all its movement and change however, was an interruption in itself.
The little blood streams ran beside his feet as he continued downward. The liquid crept between the small pebbles, surrounding them, picking a few up, blanketing others in thick coagulation, but still obeying the laws of nature and pressing ever onward downhill. Gravity seemed to take its toll on his heart. He was sinking in despair. Tiredness crept over him. This place was hot, and the steam rose from the growing blood rivers. They began joining, he began following. The gravel path to him was so long and dead. The blood was entrancing, and the life within him, in all its movement and change followed the familiar. It ran over his feet and between his toes. It burned.
He was calm however, despite what he would see, and from this point onward he would remain so. At that very moment his eyes began to observe everything around him with objectivity as strong and resilient as the disgusting mess around him everywhere.
Arms, hands, fingers, were all laid out dripping. Saturated curls gave off beads like a dropper, spiraling down the strands to its inevitable end. Legs with streams and streaks, faces with red tears, and dark, sopping clothes seeped from between the fibers out onto the ground in a giant collaboration. If the dead were old, the cracks in their skin were stained red. If young, it looked more like fresh brush strokes on porcelain. The flesh was draining empty, the liquid flowing alive, and no little drop wanted to be left alone, so they squeezed themselves out in desperate hopes they would make it into the streams. The atmosphere pressed down containing every molecule of moisture that the sun summoned to escape.
More faces, more blood, more parts. His mind was now searching. He pressed onward ignoring the splashing and singeing. The disgusting piles of flesh grew. His mind remained sterile. The bodies became more and more mutilated. His mind, like a sword, swept through the material and made room for the intangible. Quietly he traversed on ignoring the meaning of all the scenery and crying flesh, but taking it in all the same. His bloody burning feet followed his heart.
He came to a crimson steaming lake. The solitude and isolation that was within him evaporated into the atmosphere, joining the humid smoke with a welcome embrace. The surface swelled with the new tributaries. The lake edges gathered ground and clung to new pebbles. His toes immersed. It burned and seared. The liquid spoke to him through the pain. Dissolved within it was the life of all those in the entire valley. The mosaic of all human emotion came in contact with his skin. The combination of pain, suffering, fear, hopes, happiness, and anxiety ate away at him. Not knowing what to do, he remained steadfast in agony. His toes were disappearing and breaking apart as if becoming soup. There he stood, alone.
The blood had no sight so it ran to his eyes. It could not smell the earth or flowers or trees so it ran to his nose. The blood could not feel so it flowed through his veins trying to sense something. It could not taste so it ran to his mouth hoping to experience it once more. It could not hear either so it ran to his ears. The blood had no voice so it screamed out through him, and in a loud shriek he cried out for someone to save him.
But there was no one there to see his eyes, nose, ears, mouth, fingers, and skin burnt out into hollow holes. Therefore he surrendered himself to the blood, and in a violent splash he perished.
He stood over the field on a high, breezy hill, the wind flowing around him making swirls of a smell and smoke that inseparably mixed. The sweat, death, and exhalations of the land were high in the air, the scents glued together with humid moisture. It seeped in his skin, it clung to his hair. The smell was unsettling. The vision was worse.
He began walking downhill. Small groups of bodies obstructed his path. Streams of blood trickled from underneath them, creating small pools within little dips in the earth. Pale skinned and filled with emptiness, the plush faces gaped toward heaven, staring into oblivion, the smile of death presided over their mouths. The mystery was gone, the peace had overtaken them, all light, thought, reason, pain, fear removed from their expressions. The transparent clouds created a humid mausoleum of peace and solitude. He continued walking downhill carefully, daring not to touch them, daring not to interrupt the serenity. His living presence, with all its movement and change however, was an interruption in itself.
The little blood streams ran beside his feet as he continued downward. The liquid crept between the small pebbles, surrounding them, picking a few up, blanketing others in thick coagulation, but still obeying the laws of nature and pressing ever onward downhill. Gravity seemed to take its toll on his heart. He was sinking in despair. Tiredness crept over him. This place was hot, and the steam rose from the growing blood rivers. They began joining, he began following. The gravel path to him was so long and dead. The blood was entrancing, and the life within him, in all its movement and change followed the familiar. It ran over his feet and between his toes. It burned.
He was calm however, despite what he would see, and from this point onward he would remain so. At that very moment his eyes began to observe everything around him with objectivity as strong and resilient as the disgusting mess around him everywhere.
Arms, hands, fingers, were all laid out dripping. Saturated curls gave off beads like a dropper, spiraling down the strands to its inevitable end. Legs with streams and streaks, faces with red tears, and dark, sopping clothes seeped from between the fibers out onto the ground in a giant collaboration. If the dead were old, the cracks in their skin were stained red. If young, it looked more like fresh brush strokes on porcelain. The flesh was draining empty, the liquid flowing alive, and no little drop wanted to be left alone, so they squeezed themselves out in desperate hopes they would make it into the streams. The atmosphere pressed down containing every molecule of moisture that the sun summoned to escape.
More faces, more blood, more parts. His mind was now searching. He pressed onward ignoring the splashing and singeing. The disgusting piles of flesh grew. His mind remained sterile. The bodies became more and more mutilated. His mind, like a sword, swept through the material and made room for the intangible. Quietly he traversed on ignoring the meaning of all the scenery and crying flesh, but taking it in all the same. His bloody burning feet followed his heart.
He came to a crimson steaming lake. The solitude and isolation that was within him evaporated into the atmosphere, joining the humid smoke with a welcome embrace. The surface swelled with the new tributaries. The lake edges gathered ground and clung to new pebbles. His toes immersed. It burned and seared. The liquid spoke to him through the pain. Dissolved within it was the life of all those in the entire valley. The mosaic of all human emotion came in contact with his skin. The combination of pain, suffering, fear, hopes, happiness, and anxiety ate away at him. Not knowing what to do, he remained steadfast in agony. His toes were disappearing and breaking apart as if becoming soup. There he stood, alone.
The blood had no sight so it ran to his eyes. It could not smell the earth or flowers or trees so it ran to his nose. The blood could not feel so it flowed through his veins trying to sense something. It could not taste so it ran to his mouth hoping to experience it once more. It could not hear either so it ran to his ears. The blood had no voice so it screamed out through him, and in a loud shriek he cried out for someone to save him.
But there was no one there to see his eyes, nose, ears, mouth, fingers, and skin burnt out into hollow holes. Therefore he surrendered himself to the blood, and in a violent splash he perished.