Another succesful kill. Sometimes he stared at the heavens whether in the plains of the highland villas or the sands of the torrid deserts, sometimes in the plains of river alluvi or even in the winds of the coast, what was his success, what was the quantum in his life. Each victory in the pathetic excuse of his life would perfect that vaunted title he had taken, the best murderer in the planet and it would result in another job and another and another and another.................................................................................. that marred his soul in the eternal confusion called life. But did he want to kill again? But then again did he want to die? Did he want to lose all those pleasures he had gained his life? Did he want life? Did he know Life? What was Life? An Eternal ectasy and symphony of pain? Was he even alive?
The boy had grown into the perfect haunted man. The man for whom Death held no charm yet neither did life but yet he went about sensing the climax, the arousal of it every day and found the sweetness and the taste of both. The intoxicating charm of the sensual oblivion of Death the sensory overload and the cheer and sweetness of the beating heart of life itself.
The pain and hope seemed intoxicating to the boy as he rose metres above the humdrum of these greatest Necromantic drug of all and lived its ectasy and its honour and its pure pleasure. Such state of affairs pushed him to spend every penny of the vast fortunes of his bank account between every kill as he tasted life "to its lees" and prepared each waking hour hour to fight and yet welcome that inevitable oblivion that waited for him at the ever sinking horizon.
He didn't know defeat, especially not at the hand of a two bit bird. He had learned to fight on and on and on.
He had tasted every girl this world had to offer from voluptuous models to the aristrocrats to the poor lovers. He had tasted the olive and cherry of the west and the chocolate and honey of the east with the ebony of the equator. He had tried every Aphrodite, every Helen, every Laila, Sheba and Rambha and Menoka. He had sunk in Beauty and come out all the more stronger and kept strengthening his resolve. He felt he had acertained that Love was one thing he had flushed out in those intimate embraces and loving touches and he had felt the feminine heart as it pounded and surfeited to his feet not only the last droplets of its physical treasures but also those delicate strains of her heart in thrall to his embrace. And he had enjoyed grounding it feeling not a thing in his heart for he believed it dead and he lived only on the strength of his loins and muscular physique.
He felt that he had beaten the two bit bird and sang one day:
Let me not to fear for it scares of me
Let me not to Death surrendered be
Let this world not know for they are my thrall
Fate and Death have with my hand pushed to stall
Let Love not come near me
For my thrall for Eternity it is to be
I command Emotions this day
I come the new Messiah in even newer lay
For I am of Fate and this world, Lord
Bow to me, your new GOD
The exultation lasted always till the bank got dried and then came the task, the pain of poison, the pain of a bullet, knife, bomb, he had endured all and willed each time for the all cleansing clean Death to end all pain all strife, for Freedom but then again his mighty heart willed his punishment on, he wouldn't die, he couldn't die, he lived to die another day. Then came the pleasure of life, in food, music, parties, engrossing books, exotic vacations in the never ending vacation. The loving embrace of a simple rural belle or the welcoming bed of the aristocrat. Sometimes it was the exulatation of the killing and fighting of the Evil in Humanity but with it also came the pain to be suppressed with movies and Nature and Death Defying Sports. He was the violent enigma of pain and death.
....................................................................................................
Three months had passed and Spain had exhausted of Daughters and Rebels to satisfy the unquenchable thirst of Life. The Ardennes caged Life no longer in his rugged beauty and so with empty purse walked out Death to the Living World.
Hi there,
ReplyDeleteSome very good lines here. I liked the olive/cherry and chocolate/honey. The language is very lush though you need to copyedit in places.
A few points where you can improve:
Firstly you have to change your colour sheme. This is very hard to read.
Secondly, when writing a longer story it is important to have variations of pace. A uniform high pitch tends to get tired very easily.
Thirdly, the character of the boy/Death is too nebulous. I don't get a sense of solid reality behind his cahracter. I suggest you do a character sketch of him up to the point when the story openes, working out his background, values, habits, attitude, weaknesses, skills, and major life events and influences.
Madam I am honoured with your comments but on two points I would like to differ. You see the vagueness of the boy is intentional and the whole idea lies in the unreality of the plot to make it something like hyper-real for the reader to drive home my own thoughts on death and life and if you have read the first part Mindreader, you will find the very first aspect I use is the high pitched allusion of the dart retarding to high-pitched attitude of language you mentioned and it is also to serve the hyper-realism of the text and three more parts of this text is in the pipe-line.
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