jamie
09-02-2020, 10:35 PM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Roboto+Condensed|Mr+Dafoe' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .jamie_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background: #9ca09d; width: 600px; padding: 0 0 0 0; border: solid 1px #000; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .jamie_container p { margin: 0; } .jamie_image { position: relative; z-index: 4; width: 600px; } .jamie_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 560px; margin-top: 20px; margin-bottom: -75px; background: #b0afaf; background: url('https://i.postimg.cc/NFPjm88h/bg.png'); box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #343735; } .jamie_quote { font: 11px 'Roboto Condensed', sans-serif; text-align: left; text-transform: uppercase; color: #343735; padding: 20px; letter-spacing: 2px; border: solid 1px #343735; border-bottom: none; } .jamie_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #211d1b; padding: 20px; background: #adb1af; border: solid 1px #343735; } .jamie_quotetwo { font: 11px 'Roboto Condensed', sans-serif; text-align: right; text-transform: uppercase; color: #343735; padding: 20px; letter-spacing: 2px; border: solid 1px #343735; border-top: none; } .jamie_name { position: absolute; z-index: 10; font: 70px 'Mr Dafoe', cursive; color: #343735; bottom: 570px; left: 20px; } </style> <center> <div class="jamie_container"> <div class="jamie_text"> <p class="jamie_quote">from the destruction, out of the flame</p> <p class="jamie_message">
The shadow thing delights in the quiet where there was once such a dreadful sound.
And the landscape here is so spectacular in its oddness, the way things appear to be far away and right in front of him all at once. There is no depth here, only illusion. But he moves toward the movement, drawn to it as if by magnets. He does not think of Beyza, does not worry where she might have ended up. He feels no guilt, no grief. He feels only some quiet, insistent need to hurry.
Go, go, go, his brain murmurs.
Come, come, come, the moving things call.
He can hear them. Their want for him to come closer echoes in his head, in the marrow of his bones. Surely if the heart still beat, it would push the sound of their want through his mottled veins. But there is no heartbeat so the sound is not in his veins, it is everywhere else. It is inside him and outside him. It is in the peculiar earth and in the strange, strange sky. It is in the roots of the perverse trees with their twisted spines. It is in the rise of some distant (or is it close?) mountainrange. It is the beginning and end of time, the moving things’ want.
And who would he be to deny them?
He goes so willingly. Lovingly. He surrenders to them. He belongs to them.
How ecstatic he is to belong to anything at all. Finally.
He is a figment of <i>their</i> imagination. He has come home.
And the moving things appear before him one by one. An army of darkness. Their shapes warped by the peculiar sun. So dark that they appear purple. Or some shade of some color he’s never seen before. They are grinning shark-tooth smiles at him. Ink-black mouths. Freakish yellow eyes.
They are him.
Each one of them.
Or some twisted version of him, at least.
Grinning at him, all wide-eyed. Unblinking.
<i>Come, come come,</i> they chant. And he goes, goes, goes. Fog curls around their ankles. So many dozens of them. His fog. But it is black instead of gray. It is black just as they are black. Or is it purple?
“<b>I’m home,</b>” he sighs. And there is no pain here. The lungs do not rattle and the heart does not spasm. He is home and he feels nothing but relief.
<i>Home, home, home,</i> they echo. He could disappear among them. But the sky goes dark, too. Plunges them into their own shadows. And the first him turns its strange head and sinks those razor sharp teeth into his shoulder. He cries out in surprise, Jamie. Stumbles. The pain is tremendous, compounded by his sense of betrayal. He has found his way home, but even his home does not want him.
He turns to look and finds only air where the edge of his shoulder had been. A second him sinks its teeth into his hip as he begins to bleed. He cries out this time in pain. Blinding pain. Pain that makes his vision strobe and his knees weak. Pain unlike anything he has felt before, certainly. Worse even than the pain the fog had wrought.
“<b>No!</b>” he cries, but this army of darkness cares not about his objections. Another plunges its teeth into his spine. Jamie can feel the bone splinter. And he knows them, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the bones are real. That he has not imagined them. But his hind end goes weak and he sways on his feet just as another goes for his windpipe. Another for his other shoulder. And each time he looks, he sees glaring holes in the darkness that he has come to think of as flesh. They are taking and swallowing whole parts of him. Ink-black mouthfuls of the shadows that comprise him.
They are him and they are showing him what he is capable of. One of them (him?) reaches into his mind, puts a laugh there. Something maniacal, something cruel. This is everything he had feared.
<i>Home, home, home,</i> they chant and their voices grow in volume, expand until this whole strange world is nothing but the sound of their voices.
And the pain is so tremendous that he cannot see beyond it. Around it. Through it. He knows they are there by the way they continue to sink their teeth into his flesh. He knows they are there because they belong to him and he belongs to them.
There is nearly nothing left of him when the whole world goes some dreadful black. A fish hook in his belly, dragging him from their grasp to someplace else.
It is the sound of the waves crashing against the beach that rouses him. And he is so impossibly still for a long moment. Until the lungs cry out for air and he drags in a rattling breath. Exhales a wheezing sigh and forces those freakish yellow eyes open. He lifts his weary head to examine the body and finds himself whole again.
He lets loose some mournful sound. This is Beqanna. He is alive again. He can tell it by the heart beating in his chest and how the lungs twitch and spasm with their want for air. He had finally found his home and then he had been stolen from it again.
</p> <p class="jamie_quotetwo">you need a villain, give me a name</p> </div> <div class="jamie_name">Jamie</div> <img class="jamie_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/qqzM21cj/jamie1.png"> </div> </center>
The shadow thing delights in the quiet where there was once such a dreadful sound.
And the landscape here is so spectacular in its oddness, the way things appear to be far away and right in front of him all at once. There is no depth here, only illusion. But he moves toward the movement, drawn to it as if by magnets. He does not think of Beyza, does not worry where she might have ended up. He feels no guilt, no grief. He feels only some quiet, insistent need to hurry.
Go, go, go, his brain murmurs.
Come, come, come, the moving things call.
He can hear them. Their want for him to come closer echoes in his head, in the marrow of his bones. Surely if the heart still beat, it would push the sound of their want through his mottled veins. But there is no heartbeat so the sound is not in his veins, it is everywhere else. It is inside him and outside him. It is in the peculiar earth and in the strange, strange sky. It is in the roots of the perverse trees with their twisted spines. It is in the rise of some distant (or is it close?) mountainrange. It is the beginning and end of time, the moving things’ want.
And who would he be to deny them?
He goes so willingly. Lovingly. He surrenders to them. He belongs to them.
How ecstatic he is to belong to anything at all. Finally.
He is a figment of <i>their</i> imagination. He has come home.
And the moving things appear before him one by one. An army of darkness. Their shapes warped by the peculiar sun. So dark that they appear purple. Or some shade of some color he’s never seen before. They are grinning shark-tooth smiles at him. Ink-black mouths. Freakish yellow eyes.
They are him.
Each one of them.
Or some twisted version of him, at least.
Grinning at him, all wide-eyed. Unblinking.
<i>Come, come come,</i> they chant. And he goes, goes, goes. Fog curls around their ankles. So many dozens of them. His fog. But it is black instead of gray. It is black just as they are black. Or is it purple?
“<b>I’m home,</b>” he sighs. And there is no pain here. The lungs do not rattle and the heart does not spasm. He is home and he feels nothing but relief.
<i>Home, home, home,</i> they echo. He could disappear among them. But the sky goes dark, too. Plunges them into their own shadows. And the first him turns its strange head and sinks those razor sharp teeth into his shoulder. He cries out in surprise, Jamie. Stumbles. The pain is tremendous, compounded by his sense of betrayal. He has found his way home, but even his home does not want him.
He turns to look and finds only air where the edge of his shoulder had been. A second him sinks its teeth into his hip as he begins to bleed. He cries out this time in pain. Blinding pain. Pain that makes his vision strobe and his knees weak. Pain unlike anything he has felt before, certainly. Worse even than the pain the fog had wrought.
“<b>No!</b>” he cries, but this army of darkness cares not about his objections. Another plunges its teeth into his spine. Jamie can feel the bone splinter. And he knows them, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the bones are real. That he has not imagined them. But his hind end goes weak and he sways on his feet just as another goes for his windpipe. Another for his other shoulder. And each time he looks, he sees glaring holes in the darkness that he has come to think of as flesh. They are taking and swallowing whole parts of him. Ink-black mouthfuls of the shadows that comprise him.
They are him and they are showing him what he is capable of. One of them (him?) reaches into his mind, puts a laugh there. Something maniacal, something cruel. This is everything he had feared.
<i>Home, home, home,</i> they chant and their voices grow in volume, expand until this whole strange world is nothing but the sound of their voices.
And the pain is so tremendous that he cannot see beyond it. Around it. Through it. He knows they are there by the way they continue to sink their teeth into his flesh. He knows they are there because they belong to him and he belongs to them.
There is nearly nothing left of him when the whole world goes some dreadful black. A fish hook in his belly, dragging him from their grasp to someplace else.
It is the sound of the waves crashing against the beach that rouses him. And he is so impossibly still for a long moment. Until the lungs cry out for air and he drags in a rattling breath. Exhales a wheezing sigh and forces those freakish yellow eyes open. He lifts his weary head to examine the body and finds himself whole again.
He lets loose some mournful sound. This is Beqanna. He is alive again. He can tell it by the heart beating in his chest and how the lungs twitch and spasm with their want for air. He had finally found his home and then he had been stolen from it again.
</p> <p class="jamie_quotetwo">you need a villain, give me a name</p> </div> <div class="jamie_name">Jamie</div> <img class="jamie_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/qqzM21cj/jamie1.png"> </div> </center>