"I been searchin low and high"
(If anyone gets why I titled this post the way I did, I love you forever)
I wrote this a few years ago and came across it again tonight. I kinda like it. What do you guys think? Does anyone still read this thing? If you like this, let me know and maybe I'll actually post an old poem I wrote too.
"The Seeker"
Every night it came. Anne-marie called it the Seeker, because it always found her. Regardless of where she slept, each night on the verge of unconsciousness she would catch the smell of brimstone and then it would be there, most often in the corner, hunched over and defining the darkness. It wasn't black so much as the absence of color, wasn't dark so much as the absence of light. The Seeker's appendages were spindly, its arms hanging low to the ground, its hands touching the floor. Its legs seemed unnaturally short, especially for the thick, bulk of an abdomen it had. Its head was perfectly round, its only features being a pair of sharp, almost horizontal ears extending back, and a pair of oblong eyes, solid in color. Its skin, if it was indeed skin, was smooth and unmarked by anything.
The Seeker would always appear in the corner around the same general time after the sun had melted into the horizon and the night was born. Anne-marie's eyes, heavy with fatigue, would shut. Just on the verge of sleep, she would smell brimstone and slumber fled then as uneasiness took her. The Seeker wasn't there, and then it just was. In the dark it would stand in the corner and watch Anne-marie in her bed. It never moved, but its eyes would be a different color each night; violet sometimes, emerald occasionally, ruby now and then. They throbbed subtly. Anne-marie never spoke, never attempted communication. She stared back occasionally, wondering what it was thinking, wondering if it thought at all.
The first night it came, she stared in shock and wet her bed. She had stayed awake all night, afraid to move and the Seeker stared back. Rigid, Anne-marie noticed she was incredibly tense, but not afraid. As dawn came, she glanced out the window to see sunlight gently spilling over the trees in the front yard, over her bike that rested on the lawn. Smelling brimstone again, she looked back to the corner to find it empty. She slept all afternoon.
Every night. Every night the Seeker would come. Anne-marie slowly grew to accept this and began to fall asleep earlier and with less apprehension each night. After all, the Seeker had never left its corner. Soon, she slept as a normal child would, though she had never had a bad night's sleep. Her dreams were peaceful, her sleep restful, and her mornings pleasant. And every night at the correct time, even in her sleep, she would smell brimstone and know the Seeker was watching from its corner.
On the night of her eighteenth birthday, she wrapped herself in her blankets and, without much thought of the Seeker, she drifted in the worlds between slumber and awareness. Inevitably, she smelled the brimstone, though she noticed it was more concentrated, more powerful. She could feel herself falling asleep. Just before she fell into slumber, she felt a presence by her bedside and knew instinctively who it was. She felt a soft current of air as a breath like cobwebs brushed across her cheek and then slight pressure on her head. Almost like a kiss... then brimstone. She dreamed.
The next night as Anne-marie lay in bed, she reflected about her birthday and how she had matured over the years. She was a young woman now. And as she drifted away into darkness, she felt something missing. Just as she fell asleep, she realized -- no brimstone.
And then the nightmares started.
I wrote this a few years ago and came across it again tonight. I kinda like it. What do you guys think? Does anyone still read this thing? If you like this, let me know and maybe I'll actually post an old poem I wrote too.
"The Seeker"
Every night it came. Anne-marie called it the Seeker, because it always found her. Regardless of where she slept, each night on the verge of unconsciousness she would catch the smell of brimstone and then it would be there, most often in the corner, hunched over and defining the darkness. It wasn't black so much as the absence of color, wasn't dark so much as the absence of light. The Seeker's appendages were spindly, its arms hanging low to the ground, its hands touching the floor. Its legs seemed unnaturally short, especially for the thick, bulk of an abdomen it had. Its head was perfectly round, its only features being a pair of sharp, almost horizontal ears extending back, and a pair of oblong eyes, solid in color. Its skin, if it was indeed skin, was smooth and unmarked by anything.
The Seeker would always appear in the corner around the same general time after the sun had melted into the horizon and the night was born. Anne-marie's eyes, heavy with fatigue, would shut. Just on the verge of sleep, she would smell brimstone and slumber fled then as uneasiness took her. The Seeker wasn't there, and then it just was. In the dark it would stand in the corner and watch Anne-marie in her bed. It never moved, but its eyes would be a different color each night; violet sometimes, emerald occasionally, ruby now and then. They throbbed subtly. Anne-marie never spoke, never attempted communication. She stared back occasionally, wondering what it was thinking, wondering if it thought at all.
The first night it came, she stared in shock and wet her bed. She had stayed awake all night, afraid to move and the Seeker stared back. Rigid, Anne-marie noticed she was incredibly tense, but not afraid. As dawn came, she glanced out the window to see sunlight gently spilling over the trees in the front yard, over her bike that rested on the lawn. Smelling brimstone again, she looked back to the corner to find it empty. She slept all afternoon.
Every night. Every night the Seeker would come. Anne-marie slowly grew to accept this and began to fall asleep earlier and with less apprehension each night. After all, the Seeker had never left its corner. Soon, she slept as a normal child would, though she had never had a bad night's sleep. Her dreams were peaceful, her sleep restful, and her mornings pleasant. And every night at the correct time, even in her sleep, she would smell brimstone and know the Seeker was watching from its corner.
On the night of her eighteenth birthday, she wrapped herself in her blankets and, without much thought of the Seeker, she drifted in the worlds between slumber and awareness. Inevitably, she smelled the brimstone, though she noticed it was more concentrated, more powerful. She could feel herself falling asleep. Just before she fell into slumber, she felt a presence by her bedside and knew instinctively who it was. She felt a soft current of air as a breath like cobwebs brushed across her cheek and then slight pressure on her head. Almost like a kiss... then brimstone. She dreamed.
The next night as Anne-marie lay in bed, she reflected about her birthday and how she had matured over the years. She was a young woman now. And as she drifted away into darkness, she felt something missing. Just as she fell asleep, she realized -- no brimstone.
And then the nightmares started.