11-09-2015, 02:51 PM
mine:
"The only flames that I can see are those black ones which flicker and wane, but then they grow strong again, these black infernos reside within his eyes, which cannot be eyes, for eyes are portals to the soul, and Carnage has no soul, he was raped of one when he emerged from the loins of Thaqib. So these pits within his Arabic visage, what are they, truly? I believe them to be onyx gathered from lava pits, hollowed out and within them his creator (whoever it may have been) lit black fire within the hollow space. And so those…those things, for I fear calling them eyes would bring wrath down upon us all, stared out, how were they so empty yet so burning, so engulfed and tainted by malice? But yet if you stared deeper within them (as you surely will, for it is so easy to become lost in these black flames of his) you would see a joy, an almost loving joy. He was eager for the birth of his children. But my goodness, I have lost myself talking of his dark pits, those things within his skull! For I have explained the burning part, but not yet have we gotten to the angel part, have we? I forget myself so easily, staring into those fathomless things, those dark pools, those portals to nothingness. He was, quite frankly, not what one would call an angel. He did not gleam a milky white, and no halo of gold crowned his head in some grandiose glory. Should he sing, I can assure you, his tone would not be lulling, it would merely be a grating cacophony. He does not know a God, by that name or by any other name (for the record, he does not know a Devil, either). But demon creatures are often referred to as fallen angels, heavenly beings removed from Heaven for their vagarious sins weighted to heavy upon them for redemption to be sweet. And although he was no named demon, what else could he have been? So, my friend, he is a burning angel that is not a burning angel."
--a Carnage post circa 2003. I was 15. 15 was a very strange, arrogant, horrible time for me, as evidenced by this incredibly melodramatic description of Carnage's ~*evil*~ eyes
"Two horses, both sleek by the rain, stared at each other in a dimensional confrontation, their features were twin images etched in blown glass, with a lightening backdrop of the cosmos. The stars disregarded their pain; the screams echoed silent within a world forever deaf. They each saw within each other reality’s reflection in a surreal form, as bright stars arched above the power of pain grew slowly, murdering its silent partner. And in this phantom world, in contrary motion father and daughter glared, the earth’s barren soils stirring beneath them. Reflecting against the far-flung starlight of night’s canopy, an end became clear, appearing like a mirage of a desert’s oasis."
--Carnage and his daughter, circa...2004? not so much bad as incredibly overwrought and nonsensical. I loved the thesaurus a little too much. overcompensation?
"Can I be saved? Or have I been condemned from birth, cursed the day Epic threw herself at him? I thought it could be valuable, this life. Is it, yet? I am a stigma to them all, they all cowered beneath penumbra and gloom, cloaked themselves in dark. Oh, the whispers of shadows are disgustingly adhered to my hide, but I will not fall to them! I am combating it, trying! Let me prosper…pull the phantom from my skin let the sun sparkle down!"
--Mephisto circa 2004ish. It gets better, teenage self. It gets better. Now quite whining so much.
and from when I learned to make fun of myself, a Satire post, circa 2015.
"The brute ingressed across the loamy tierra firma, his visage held aloft as his limpid pools scanned the other equids. His pelt was ebony and ivory, and his phlegmatic carcass was a bit obese – how his pistons held him upright is something only the deities know. His nares flared wide as he drank in the mysterious scents of, like, grass and water and horses.
Moving again because that’s what those of the equine persuasion do, his flints struck the earth like it had told him a yo momma joke, or a really bad pun. The frondesence around him was a rich green and the herbage was also green. So was the glebe. The firmament above was blue, though, so that was a nice change. Such was his colossal encompassment. A light zephyr whispered lustily across his visage.
Lowering his cranial for a moment, his enamels clipped at the verdant grass, because a man’s got to eat. His auds swirled like satellites as he listened to everybody talk and laugh without him.
(He was very lonely, possibly because no one appreciated his ballin’ vocabulary.)
His labrums lacerated a final piece of grass with loathing and his piqued boa raised his dial once more. This was getting old (but not as old as him – rim shot). His jaded whipcord and dynamic tassels (I’ll leave it to you, faithful reader, to figure out which is which) fluttered against his lithe hocks and prodigious crest, respectively.
His small brown lanterns looked at the horses again. As the narrator, I’m pretty sick of looking and listening to other horses. But what else is ol’ Satty boy to do?
There were equids of all colors – flame hued and ebonite and moon washed and sun kissed and sepia and talc. Satty himself was a mix of stygian and alabaster – ‘piebald,’ to you commoners. He hadn’t gotten this hue from his sire nor his dam, it was a weird accident. Like most things Satty.
The fat stag was especially interested in the senescent brujas who were in Beqanna, but he wouldn’t say no to the seasoned, brawny vagabonds. Maybe not a flicka – that was too young – but then again, never say never. He was a brute of preppy exigency, after all.
Mostly Satty was elated – he often was – as he transgressed across the mirthless ground. A bellicose wind was blowing through the gnostic strands of his pelage, but he didn’t care.
“HEY GUYS,” he articulated to no one, feeling very transgressive and 2003."
"The only flames that I can see are those black ones which flicker and wane, but then they grow strong again, these black infernos reside within his eyes, which cannot be eyes, for eyes are portals to the soul, and Carnage has no soul, he was raped of one when he emerged from the loins of Thaqib. So these pits within his Arabic visage, what are they, truly? I believe them to be onyx gathered from lava pits, hollowed out and within them his creator (whoever it may have been) lit black fire within the hollow space. And so those…those things, for I fear calling them eyes would bring wrath down upon us all, stared out, how were they so empty yet so burning, so engulfed and tainted by malice? But yet if you stared deeper within them (as you surely will, for it is so easy to become lost in these black flames of his) you would see a joy, an almost loving joy. He was eager for the birth of his children. But my goodness, I have lost myself talking of his dark pits, those things within his skull! For I have explained the burning part, but not yet have we gotten to the angel part, have we? I forget myself so easily, staring into those fathomless things, those dark pools, those portals to nothingness. He was, quite frankly, not what one would call an angel. He did not gleam a milky white, and no halo of gold crowned his head in some grandiose glory. Should he sing, I can assure you, his tone would not be lulling, it would merely be a grating cacophony. He does not know a God, by that name or by any other name (for the record, he does not know a Devil, either). But demon creatures are often referred to as fallen angels, heavenly beings removed from Heaven for their vagarious sins weighted to heavy upon them for redemption to be sweet. And although he was no named demon, what else could he have been? So, my friend, he is a burning angel that is not a burning angel."
--a Carnage post circa 2003. I was 15. 15 was a very strange, arrogant, horrible time for me, as evidenced by this incredibly melodramatic description of Carnage's ~*evil*~ eyes
"Two horses, both sleek by the rain, stared at each other in a dimensional confrontation, their features were twin images etched in blown glass, with a lightening backdrop of the cosmos. The stars disregarded their pain; the screams echoed silent within a world forever deaf. They each saw within each other reality’s reflection in a surreal form, as bright stars arched above the power of pain grew slowly, murdering its silent partner. And in this phantom world, in contrary motion father and daughter glared, the earth’s barren soils stirring beneath them. Reflecting against the far-flung starlight of night’s canopy, an end became clear, appearing like a mirage of a desert’s oasis."
--Carnage and his daughter, circa...2004? not so much bad as incredibly overwrought and nonsensical. I loved the thesaurus a little too much. overcompensation?
"Can I be saved? Or have I been condemned from birth, cursed the day Epic threw herself at him? I thought it could be valuable, this life. Is it, yet? I am a stigma to them all, they all cowered beneath penumbra and gloom, cloaked themselves in dark. Oh, the whispers of shadows are disgustingly adhered to my hide, but I will not fall to them! I am combating it, trying! Let me prosper…pull the phantom from my skin let the sun sparkle down!"
--Mephisto circa 2004ish. It gets better, teenage self. It gets better. Now quite whining so much.
and from when I learned to make fun of myself, a Satire post, circa 2015.
"The brute ingressed across the loamy tierra firma, his visage held aloft as his limpid pools scanned the other equids. His pelt was ebony and ivory, and his phlegmatic carcass was a bit obese – how his pistons held him upright is something only the deities know. His nares flared wide as he drank in the mysterious scents of, like, grass and water and horses.
Moving again because that’s what those of the equine persuasion do, his flints struck the earth like it had told him a yo momma joke, or a really bad pun. The frondesence around him was a rich green and the herbage was also green. So was the glebe. The firmament above was blue, though, so that was a nice change. Such was his colossal encompassment. A light zephyr whispered lustily across his visage.
Lowering his cranial for a moment, his enamels clipped at the verdant grass, because a man’s got to eat. His auds swirled like satellites as he listened to everybody talk and laugh without him.
(He was very lonely, possibly because no one appreciated his ballin’ vocabulary.)
His labrums lacerated a final piece of grass with loathing and his piqued boa raised his dial once more. This was getting old (but not as old as him – rim shot). His jaded whipcord and dynamic tassels (I’ll leave it to you, faithful reader, to figure out which is which) fluttered against his lithe hocks and prodigious crest, respectively.
His small brown lanterns looked at the horses again. As the narrator, I’m pretty sick of looking and listening to other horses. But what else is ol’ Satty boy to do?
There were equids of all colors – flame hued and ebonite and moon washed and sun kissed and sepia and talc. Satty himself was a mix of stygian and alabaster – ‘piebald,’ to you commoners. He hadn’t gotten this hue from his sire nor his dam, it was a weird accident. Like most things Satty.
The fat stag was especially interested in the senescent brujas who were in Beqanna, but he wouldn’t say no to the seasoned, brawny vagabonds. Maybe not a flicka – that was too young – but then again, never say never. He was a brute of preppy exigency, after all.
Mostly Satty was elated – he often was – as he transgressed across the mirthless ground. A bellicose wind was blowing through the gnostic strands of his pelage, but he didn’t care.
“HEY GUYS,” he articulated to no one, feeling very transgressive and 2003."