Thread: Chainsaw Kitty's Writing

Wow, your a good writer

People are too lazy to read long stories, but I'll try anyhow.

First (not quite finished) chapter of my story in the making.

WARNING

This contains some violent content. If you are in any way offended I'm sorry, that was not my intent. The thing is it's also not my problem. Please don't complain about how it offended you. And before you ask, no, I don't think all preasts are zealous, fanatic serial killers. This is a FICTIONAL CASE.

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Man-Made Angels

Chapter 1

Down the sidewalk, step by step, just as every day. He hated being amongst the unbelievers, the scum. They were everywhere. A parasite leeching off the beautiful society that God made for them. He nodded quietly to the sound of his mind’s voice. The path turned off and came to a set of stairs. As usual, step by step, up he went. The magnificent sight of God’s holy place almost brought tears to his eyes. How special, he thought. “It shows His mighty influence.”

The beautiful embodiment of his belief was striking. It was truly humongous, with carved stone statues of his idols. Colorful stained glass windows showed scenes from his holy book. He glided across to those strong oak doors. After tenderly opening them and stepping inside the building, he knelt and showed his ritual of respect. Straightening his collar, he continued down the corridor, passing by the never-ending sets of cold hard benches. Peasant benches. Benches where one can be vulnerable to God’s wrath or love.

Today it was quite empty. All the more to pray, he thought. More time to think, he thought. Things had been going very smoothly for him. Enough heathens had been treated as they should be treated. “Just like my Lord wants them treated”, he muttered. In fact, he still had many more to treat. He just needed to prepare the necessary components. Then he would do them a favor. He would help them. He loved to help people. It was his job, after all. They were all lucky to be forgiven.

He would pray later. First he needed to prepare. Smiling, tears leaking down his cheeks, he took long strides to his private studio. Rustling around in his pocket, he grabbed hold of his special keys. He loved the echo that sounded every time his foot hit the floor. He loved the clang the keys emitted when they softly hit against each other. He loved metal. It was a gift from God. It helped him help others oh so much.

Once he got to the door, he slid the keys into the slots and unlocked the door, step by step. Then he walked into his lovely haven. He carefully locked the door again. Most people wouldn’t understand his ways. They were ignorant. However they were good enough that they didn’t need special help. That would happen without him. God was forgiving enough with them, so they didn’t quite need his help.

Everything was going well. His wonderful tools of God were all set. Now he just needed to find someone to help. That wouldn’t be hard, he thought. There were always people to help. He stepped up to the table, admiring his work. He pieced it together a bit more, taking his time. He slowly worked at it; an artist at his finest. God needed him to do his greatest, and that only motivated him.

Once his masterpiece had been completed, he lay it down and once again walked out into the public space of the church. As soon as he had finished locking the door once more, he heard the large oak doors being opened. He knew that sound well. In came a young girl, a young girl with a face he new well. However something was not right. She did not show her honor as she came in. She simply walked right up to him.

“Hello Father.” she said. “Why hello my Child, why have you not shown your respect to our Lord?”-“I have come to a decision, Father. I’d like to talk with you about it.”-“But of course my Child. Come with me to my study.”-“Yes, Father. Gladly.” He guided her back into the private chamber. Once they were both in the area, after the long procedure of unlocking and locking, she gasped in awe. “How beautiful”, she said. “I’m glad you like it, my Child. I ask those who find dead birds to bring me the wings. Also every time the butcher slaughters a dove or white chicken, I have them delivered.”-“I see.”

“So, Child, what is it you would like to confess?”-“Well, Father, I am not confessing directly. I have no shame for what I am about to tell you. I am quitting the community. I no longer wish to be part of this church. I have just realized how wrong you all are. I just wanted you to know, since we have known each other for quite some time that I have now found truth and I am happy.” He stood there quietly for a second letting her words sink in. The priest’s veins bulged out of his temples as his face turned a light shade of red. However he couldn’t help but smile slightly. He looked maniacal. Deadly. Dangerous. Someone to help at such a perfect time, he thought. God would be proud.

“Father, are you alright?”-“Yes I’m quite alright, my Child. You, however, need help. I shall help you. Don’t worry.” The priest’s weak smile turned into a grin. His grin turned into maniacal laughter. The blood on the pretty young girl’s face drained. She backed up and tried to reach for the door. “It is too late, Child. Do not worry. You will soon be with God. I will send you there. I am helping you.”

He got out his special metal. The metal God gave him. The metal God gave him to help others. She banged her fists against the door, wailing for mercy. “Oh, you will be given mercy.” Tears ran down the helpless girl’s face. “Do not worry, Child. You will be sent to Him as a pure flower. You will be an angel. Do you not want that?” She attempted to get away from him. However it was no use. The room was too small. There were no windows. There was nowhere to go.

Once he finally had her backed into a corner, he thrust his hand his at her pale throat. His powerful hand clenched around it. She sputtered and gasped for air, trying to pry his massive fingers off of her petite throat. He squeezed harder. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. She was frail. She couldn’t change the fact that her life would end within seconds. She’s just a puny woman, he thought. But she would please God well. She was attractive too. What a majestic angel she would become.

After a short time, her body went limp. Her eyes were wide and empty. She was gone. The priest lay her down and closed her eyes with his middle and pointer finger. It was time to send her to heaven. He put her on the steel table near the wall, placing her on her stomach. With a fine scalpel he sliced through the thin material covering her back. He traced his fingers along her back, finding her scapula. With the scalpel, he marked them, slicing easily through her delicate skin. The blade was very sharp.

The blood, still warm, trickled down her back on to the table. He didn’t like the mess, but it was unavoidable. Shuffling over to the middle of the room, he fetched the two twin wings. They really were entrancing. He had seen to it that they miraculous bird’s feathers had been washed, leaving them gleaming. They were pearl-white. Worthy only of an angel, he thought. He gently carried them over to the young girl’s body. He set them down on her legs. Then he retrieved the scalpel.

He carved small ovals around the marks on her scapula, lifting off the skin and muscle as it came loose. As done many times, he tenderly took the wings and stuck them in the small holes. He delicately fixed them into her back, burying them deeper. Finally they were secured into her back. Following that he traced line along her spine. Then he sliced a second line vertically across it. A cross. She was appropriately marked now. He was sure she was probably already basking in the sun of eternal joy. He brushed a tear of joy away from the corner of his eye. He loved doing the Lord’s work.

He removed the rest of her clothing. After all, angels were fabled to be naked. He wrapped her in one of the luxurious silk blankets laid in a neat pile at the foot of the table. Now she had to be cremated, so that her soul could truly be released to the heavens. He would have to burn her clothes as well so the heathens wouldn’t be after him for his sacred work. He brought the silk enthralled body to another holy chamber; the crematorium.

In the middle of the room stood a cremation furnace. It looked like a simple box made of some kind of metal, with a lid, where the body was shoved through. He laid the body in a container made of wood, as he went to deal with other businesses. He stepped over to the furnace, and started the flow of propane gas. Then he quickly tapped a button and heard the flames instantly dance up. He opened the lid of the furnace. He went back over to the casket, picked it up, and after he reached the furnace, gently set it in. He gingerly pushed the wooden box deeper into the flames. Then he closed the lid.

Once enough time had passed, he sifted through the remains. It was about right. He sealed the cremations in a sheet of plastic and placed it in a cardboard box. He would spread the ashes around in the lush field right outside of the church. Another one of God’s wonders, he sighed. He carried the box out the back door and went into the middle of the field. He sprinkled the ashes out into the grass, smiling. It was almost as if he could see her spirit rising up. Another person saved, he thought.

Hands clasped in prayer, the priest made his way back to the church. He passed along the chambers back to his private study. The only thing left to do was to mop up the remaining blood that had trickled from the girl’s back. The angel’s back now, he thought. He picked up a rag and mopped up the mess. He dropped it into an empty bucket; he would deal with that later. On the way out to the door, he suddenly froze. He clutched his head as he fell to his knees, mind reeling out of humanly control. It wasn’t pain. Or at least it wasn’t physical pain. No. This time it was the psychological pain.

Decades of memories flashed before his eyes. He rubbed his temples, nearly screaming out of the sheer pain it caused him. Then he did. A hollow scream erupted out of his mouth, echoing through the halls. Then he saw her. “No, no! GET AWAY!” he yelled. She was there. Holding that weapon of eternal pain. He stuttered. She whipped. He screamed. She was there. She was holding the metal. Daddy was dead. She killed daddy.

The priest emitted another painful scream. He clutched his hair in his fingers, pulling it taught. He screamed and screamed. He felt as if his lungs no longer functioned. He fell onto his side, silent. He no longer screamed. He no longer thought. All was black.

Kinkey. 8)

Originally posted by Chainsaw Kitten
People are too lazy to read long stories, but I'll try anyhow. *

First (not quite finished) chapter of my story in the making.

Ok, This is a very good start for a story... I enjoyed it... I look forward to reading more...

as it is, i think it should stand alone as a short story.

you create excellent atmosphere in your writing. it has a fresh style....
and it matches your dark little smirk, and that fiercely angelic glint in your eyes it takes a thinly harnessed lunatic to create such interplays between the spark of illumination, and the heavy shroud of shadows.

or, like neuro said ..."kinky"
(you're the kind of girl who i'd allow to bind and dominate me in a candlelit room anyday, heh)

Originally posted by Asher
as it is, i think it should stand alone as a short story. *

*you create excellent atmosphere in your writing. it has a fresh style....

I agree with Asher that it could stand alone as a short story but It left me wanting to know more... It caught my attention and kept it...You have talent

Two brand new fresh poems. Straight out of the owen! Shit and sugar!

Iunno. I like them.

---------

Dreams to Persecution

‘Twas not two nor three days ago,
The life that she did live.
‘Twas not exciting, nor arid,
The way she did exist.
However as we all should do,
Her epiphany did come.
She decided to break out of it,
And find a brand new love.

Her life she did live happily,
No fretting, no regrets.
Her iron cage she did undo,
With will to endure the costs.
She fulfilled her childhood fantasies,
Basking in their light.
Yet how could she ever know,
That such would bring a fright.

The problem is, my dearest friends,
She was greatly feared.
By those not familiar with freedom,
And they let out their ruthless jeers.
Persecuted did they she,
And now forever gone,
The one true virtue, the one true human.
And the nightmare has just begun.

Now listen here, my good folk.
The message I state is clear.
The greatest ideas,
The most astonishing genius,
The people these do fear.

Living as one wishes most,
These things are not accepted.
So sadly if you try to fulfill your dreams,
Your life shall be rejected.

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The Cell

In her realm of darkness,
Not many do alight.
Her days she lives in silence,
No meaning, not even fright.
A rotting corpse taught how to breathe,
She tries to find her way.
However sun shall she never see,
In her enclosure shall she stay.

When they venture down,
Their faces be concealed.
Her lifetime do they bring,
In form of glass and bowl.
And when she stares into their shadow,
Expressions she cannot recognize.
Her naked eye untrained,
Their features remain disguised.

Oh many a time she has wished to leave,
To venture far away.
Off into the other life,
The solitude to escape.
She cannot even chew.
Her tongue remains chained on.
The red remains inside of her.
She can never break that bond.

When release did they she,
She did express no fright.
Her head placed on the bloody block,
She wished to see the light.
And once the weight sliced off her shoulders,
Again darkness did she see.
Nothing awaited her inner.
False hope her did deceive.

She cannot even chew.
Her tongue remains chained on.
The red remains inside of her.
She can never break that bond.[/b]

this was my favourite section...."her tongue remains chained on" conjures a fantastic idea..

you should pursue writing as a career if you aren't planning to do so already. or certainly consider it.

As someone who has been writing for about seven years, I can say that I think your writings are very good. I have known a lot of 14 year olds, and I have never seen one who could write as well as that. You have totally blown me away. Keep it up. Just think of how you'll be writing by the time you're twenty! :bravo:

Fray and fray, past and past, stride by stride. Smile leering. Eyes prying. End nearing. No words could describe the jumble that consumed what used to be me. No words could describe the lack of emotion that had been forced into me, twisted, burned, shaped. The monster created a monster. And the monsters would destroy each other. The most important things seemed now petty. Where, what, whom, how, when? All were irrelevant terms mashed into the leftovers of Sunday Night’s dinner.

My brain was the meatloaf of that dinner. Shoved into the fridge to be forgotten and left to become a biologically active site. Mold slowly creeping over and coating what used to be rich, tasteful and whole. My entire existence was that meatloaf.

When I first got here the only thing I fussed about were the chains. Digging into my wrists and peeling away at my pasty skin, all trickling down. Now the chains that wrapped around my meatloaf were the only things concerning me. I wonder how he got them in there. I imagine him with a scalpel removing the top of my head like a cookie jar lid. Snapping the manacles onto my squishy pink meatloaf.

Maybe he did it while I was sleeping. Or was I sleeping when he did that? Did he appear when I was asleep or awake? Day dream, night dream, waking dream, sleeping dream? Reality seemed to mix into the concoction of the terms. My meatloaf was being made into soup to be served to the fourth graders. Easy, cheap recycling. Screw the goddamn health regulations. Hair nets on, mystery meat out. Dishing one by one. A dollar a go. Hey kid, want any?

Rattle, rattle went the snakes around my wrists and squishy pink. Rattle, rattle. And he was still there, jabbing at me with those visual organs. I wince as he stabs me with them again.

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I went into a random spree with writing this and now I can't think of anything else. Fuck it. This is surreal though. Strange.

Your good. Very good. I myself am considering a career in communications/literature. You should also. Good work

I'm going to be honest by saying that I just skimmed them, I'm not really in a reading mood, I suppose. But I really like the "Man Made Angels" story. Just the idea of an actual man-made angel. Attatching wings and whatnot.

Great work.

Painting picture with words....beautiful.

My Tyrant

Chapter 1 (Introduction/Preface)

The chains clink together as I struggle. More and more I feel the chafe of the cuffs digging marks into my innocent wrists. How I manage to convey this ordeal to you, dear reader, is beyond my mental comprehension. Just know that in dire situations you tend to become very, very resourceful. My mouth aches as it clamps on, the ink black and thick, spilling onto my tongue and dripping off of my skin. It tastes terrible. I can’t help but feel proud as to have accomplished such a feat. But for now I can only hang here, the blood further draining as I think of him. He’s the one who did this to me. That pompous, manipulative and all too clever bastard. Yet stuck here ranting out my heart and soul will achieve nothing. My, nobody cares nor will they ever. This parchment will rot and die, as will this wasted body next to me. Well, I take it back. Step one it’s already achieved. The maggots will have it soon. Eventually I will be that corpse.

Know, dear reader, that when I speak of him, I speak of myself. I am not so delusional so as to think he is separate. He inhabits my head, haunting me yet also annoying me like an insect; persistent and repulsive. Why he is, I do not know. In fact, I don’t really care why he is. I just want to rid myself of him, no matter what the cost. And exactly this I will do, despite any level of disbelief from anyone or anywhere. Things will fall into place, even if I have to push them there. For now, I finally have the time to take a break and express it all. I can scribble my whole story now. I can describe the beast that plagues me. I can describe everything… from the beginning to the present. I will delve back into my past and let it all out. Listen, dear reader, for I will now tell you my story. It all started when…

And then I awaken. Very funny, I think. If only you could always act on opposite impulse you fickle son of a bitch. And of course he refuses to reply. Next to my already aching head the clock transitions up from six fifty-nine. “RING! RING! RING!” Off it goes; bracing me for the equivalent, and possibly more torturous sounds soon to be made by parents, teachers, cars, people, students, anything, everything and more. All will fill up space with deafening pitches. Nonsensical, useless trash all crammed up into a life-defying concoction. Every single person who inhabits this earth suffers from such an illness. The cure is impossible, as every object and being surrounding us is infected. So the cycle continues, ravishing simple and complex minds alike. Destroying the old and forging the new; abolishing millennia of evolution and work. Now we step back. Now we crawl back into the egg from which we hatched, or into the chicken from which it came. Now we slowly walk back into mark zero. We’re walking back into the cave and forming a new brutal club.

How I wish I could remain curled up in this warmth. My cheek nuzzles into the deliciously soft pillow and my breathing finally reaches regularity and peace. These few minutes after my awakening are always the most satisfying. My conscious mind is consumed by the bliss of no complication. I am merely enveloped in the haven of my thoughts… ever so silently with the soft trickling tick of the clock… one…two…three… “GET UP! NOW!” Oh boy, here it comes. Well, rest is for the weak. And I need strength, in my own way of course, to defy him. He can’t break me! My will is iron, enforced with the bestial mule, embroidered with the armor of eternal stubbornness. Sadly, in comparison, the poor animal seems to be collapsing not only from the weight of the amour, but also from the bulk of the burden. I already imagine the skeletal, wimpy, beaten pack animal letting out a sigh as her knees crack inward and she tumbles to the floor, abused and helpless.

I need to lead my life within these brief moments. It’s ironic that my waking moments used to be the dreadful ones. I was sulking and wallowing in self pity and dread. Now it’s my pleasant hiding spot. He has no full control in this state. In any case, the dreamland fantasy refuge had been turned into a horror zone. My vapid routine could no longer be evaded through my colorful escape way. I started my epic quest to get rid of him by trying to stay awake. But after a few days my mind’s resistance didn’t quite cut it to ward out the sleep my body so desperately sought.

The injuries received during the internal battle never show. But my body still aches as I endeavor to push back the tempting, warm cover and sit upright. The trickle of blood can still be felt. My hand feels wet. The taste of ink still lingers. I, however, refuse to wince. It’s nothing particular. My body breaks into a shiver as my feet brush against the cold floor beneath. Ever so gingerly I hoist myself upright, using my night table as a crutch. Although it’s excruciating, again it is just part of the morning ritual. I reach for the sky; the ever mighty heaven that I sure as hell hope exists. Chances are death is just death, but there’s always room for hope, right? That’s the foundation of which Christianity was built upon. Hope. Blind hope or delusional hope if you like, but hope nonetheless. Mind you, if God really is like the Christians make him out to be, I much prefer my current life to direct contact with him in a supposed afterlife. So… in the end, who needs heaven? Well, at least stretching towards it straightened out my back. It gave me that much.

I stride across the room, trying to keep balance as I pull on my clothes. I stop for a quick rest at my desk; throwing myself into the seat and dropping my head back. Idly my feet push off of the wood, twirling me around until I feel ill. The ceiling I gaze at so intently all becomes a large blur, molten together by my spinning mind. With a sigh, I prop myself up onto the table, my elbows supporting my throbbing jaw. My eyes scan the surface of the table, pausing on things which seem mildly interesting; old pictures of my bird-brain “friends”, the laptop which owns my heart and soul, little doodles and sketches. Out of all of these “precious” items, none of them makes me smile. None of them have the nostalgic effect I have so often heard of. This just raises the idea to me… that I have not been living a worthwhile life. If anything could cause such a riveting plummet in my mood, this would be it. Unfortunately I am far too detached for such an emotion. The shock passes momentarily. My eyes continue to wander, and the most unpredictable thing ensnares my view.

An economics book? Yes, an economics book. My eyes narrow, my mouth lets out a nervous chuckle and my hands caress the sides of the random inanimate object. I flash back to how excited I was the previous year when I discovered economics was a possible subject. I’d conjured up images of fantastic understanding of politics and such systems. Insight on human behavior and interaction has always been enticing, but the curriculum involved none of those factors. So once I figured out what the class really entailed, my stomach burned with boredom. “Deregulation… exchange rate… rate… graph… chart… elasticity… efficiency”, I murmur. Term after term begins to whiz back and forth. Each one has no meaning. Each one only has associations; associations with no meaning. How completely useless, I think.

Originally, I never bothered to change classes since it was an easy course. It was one of the breaks of the day. The minute the teacher began to lecture my mind would wander off into a state of hyper reality. Everything would become slow and spacey. The voices would mingle into one solid beam of monotony. This, of course, was not the problem. I wasn’t particularly enthused by the idea, but I could deal with taking notes like a drone or sketching a few ridiculous scenes in my tattered notebook. The dilemma was very simply the sleep. Especially due to the fact that I persuaded myself to endure the minimum amount of sleep possible during the night, keeping my lead-filled eyelids open in such an environment was quite frankly impossible.

So after taking my nice class-time nap, I would wake up on the floor sobbing and clutching my knees to my chest. Obviously this was both unwanted and unexpected to teacher and students alike, so after many looks from under stiff noses, I was sent to the school psychiatrist. And of course, being the little genius she was, I was given sleeping pills. Unluckily people caught on to the fact that I refused to take the drug, and so therefore it wound up in dinner, my mug of tea or wherever possible. When I began to starve myself or not drink what was given by my mother, it was shoved down my throat… literally.

I still fight against it whenever I can; occasionally taking it in front of my mother and vomiting it back out. Either that or I manage to hide the pill under my tongue and spit it out later. I refuse to give up my fighting. I know what’s best for me. And here I am, still drowsy from the 1.5 mg of Lorazepam. It’s a disgusting treatment; a nonconsensual treatment. Slipped into whatever seems handy. Although none of this has been lovely to cope with, it’s been enlightening to say the least. Through all of these muddled thoughts the light shone through. It took long enough for it to come, but now it’s here. The accumulation of my pondering had built itself up onto a breaking point. And here it is; that ever-so-needed epiphany. That smack-in-the-middle explosion of realization: “I am wasting away. I am doing nothing of worth. I must reincarnate. I must resurrect myself. I must be reborn.”

I know exactly what one would think: what a cliché. The whole overused metaphor of the born-again butterfly majestically hatching from the oppressive cocoon. But the point is, when you realize something, that transition is impossible. You don’t turn into a beauty within a matter of days. No, no. You may possibly go from a maggot to a fly, and that’s only if you’ve really got guts. I need to emerge into the fly status, however disgusting it may seem. It’s something that I can achieve, but not on my own. I need to create vulnerability and blindness beyond all. I need the most inexplicable openness known to man. Funnily enough I already am sure of what this will entail. What a smart little cookie I am. What a sarcastic little cookie I am.

I need to meet people; people who can at least attempt to change me. I need people who can create that cocoon with me. I vaguely remember a shady place in the centre of town which could aid me. To me, it’s the doorway for the exceptions. Everyone who entered into that dark alley was shrouded in an aura of mystery and mischief, yet they always had books and glints of at least a sense of cleverness sheeting their glossy eyes. They are my unknown idols. They are the ones whom I have no knowledge of, yet so desperately ponder about. And I admire them. Don’t tell me you don’t have people like that. You have the same, don’t you? It could be that brainless, popular jock you long after, despite the fact that he in all truth will chew you up and spit you out. It could be the picture on your magazine cover, her digitally edited face and her silicone breasts beckoning to you from the plastic sheeting.

It could be anyone or everything which you in all honestly can only assume about. They are what drive you, what move you on to improve or degrade yourself. They are your modern gods. They are your Socrates and your Plato, your Mozart and your Beethoven, your Shakespeare and your Ibsen, except nowhere near as cultured. Yeah, it is pathetic. I agree. I won’t exclude myself from that line. This society is pathetic. I undoubtedly have been pulled into that trend of anxious, hasty and outright ridiculous behavior. I simply look into the mirror and see that effect; twitchy eyebrows, nervous eyes, a constant shrouding of confusion.

And it constantly is such a temptation to blame it on you… all of you. Because that’s the easy way, isn’t it? It’s not my fault I changed, you changed me. It’s not my fault I dress this way, you forced me to. It’s not my fault I shot him, he provoked me. There’s a constant nagging sensation to be able to do that, if even just once. Responsibility is not an unchallenging thing to accept. With the values we’re spoon-fed today, it’s no wonder the common trait is to dismiss it.

I need to rid myself of all of these flaws and more. I want to emerge perfected, because that’s the only way to defeat him. I will tower above him and crush him like a cowering ant. The tables must be turned, and the golden goblet of blood will be on my side. Images of grandeur explode into my mind. My heart swells with the excitement of such implications. I will give up life as it has been and alter myself drastically. I will live the extremes so I can escape. I’m tired of being the underdog; always groveling around and procrastinating about change, but in the end not lifting a finger. To force myself out of that scheme I will jump into the freezing water instead of meekly testing it with my toes. Instead of following like a sheep I will push away. I will join those masked faces with the clever eyes. I will venture into the world of social rejects and learn exactly that which I have excluded myself from. I will abandon everything about my current life to abandon him.

Maybe this was a step from grubbing around in decomposing flesh. Maybe concluding that this “education” is a stab in the dark could lead to greater things. But first, I needed to break away. First, I needed to establish a new hidey hole. However this time, it would be a hidey hole that was vulnerable. My cocoon should have countless flaws. It will have countless areas to be pierced, scarred over and toughened. And when I emerge from that sheath, I will be a phoenix.

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It's a book already. I'm just giving you guys a taste.