Everyone has one, so I will too. This is where I will paste my works. Which I had and have a lot of. Poetry, Songs, Short Stories, and a Headline Story, which is still in the planning stages. Also, as said by the title, this will be filled primarily with darkness. War, death, etc. The only type of writing I've ever felt comfortable writing.
My favorite poem I wrote (Not anyone elses' though : / ):
Helicopters' Wrath
The chopper is flying, The men are running. All there is, Is a certain doom.
It flies over them, It screeches from above. It's guns open fire, Shredding the men into piles of pulp.
The men scatter, But there is nowhere to go. They're alone on that road, That road in the dessert.
The Apaches are shooting, The rockets are flying. Men are being slaughtered, Thrown around and shot.
The tanks are fleeing, The jeeps are seeing. All these helicopters are doing, Is the final blow of the US Army.
There are hundreds of them, Running, Driving, Screaming.
But the helicopters, The birds of death, Keep firing, Until not a soul is left.
The poor soldiers are gone, None left. All in pieces, Splattered and slaughtered.
The massacre was short, The pain long. The helicopters merciless, The pain real.
Death gripped the men, From Kuwait they had been. They tried to take it, But failed miserably.
Now they lay in ruins, Death overtaking them. The tanks rolling over them, Burning them.
From the dessert they came, To the dessert they died. Few were left, Most were dead.
Imagine what it would have been like to be an Iraqi soldier evacuating from the US Army. Watching that happen to everyone you know. Hehe, doesn't sound like a lot of fun.
Anyway, here's a story I wrote. Not new, but it's good. You can find the other two perspectives on the Morbid Literature thread.
The Final Hour
I sleep in this bed. It's all institutional, and I have been set here for something I had done. Something of the most heinous nature. I hadn't meant to do it. It just happened. One minute I'm burglarizing that house, the next I'm stabbing old Tim Jones to death. It was all euforic, mixed with psychosis. I don't remember any of it. Apparent;y I stabbed him 64 times, but I think less. That is however enough to kill me for, due to the fact it was a robbery. I don't understand it all though. I plead guilty, I went through 3 appeals, and yet here I still am, sitting on death row watching the occasional killer go down those halls to the electric chair, or Yellow Mama, as the guards refer to it. Now I know I'm up. The clock is ticking down. 48, 40, 32, 24, all the way down to now. Now I go. Now I face my fate in the electric chair. It is the place I will live last, and the place I will die in.
Here is the Murder Scene. WARNING!! Morbid, Dark Literature Ahead!
I sit here in this house. A robbery, or at least it was supposed to be. I sat there, stabbing this poor old man, Tim Jones, multiple times. In the arm, letting the blood ooze down is forearm and onto the floor. His morbid screams are muffled as I had put a cloth into his mouth. In the eyeball, poking at it, letting it roll around, and the blood squirting all over the place. A yellow brown liquid started to drool out of his eye socket, where I had gouged it out with my fingers. And a couple more stabs to the shest and stomach, watching the blood again, ooze out into a puddle on the floor. As I stand up, I kick him in the head with ultimate force, cracking the skull and splitting the skin. I threw the knife at the back of his head 'Bullseye' I thought. He lay there letting out one last muffled sound. I walk away with the loot, letting him sit there a bleed to death in his own home. I have no idea what my twisted mind was going through, but I did it. One of the most morbid things anybody has seen.
Erm I'll post mine f ou don't mind...one of my old stories. Don't read it in the dark.
It hit his nose like a pepper grenade. The sickeningly sweet smell of decay, the salty air of blood, the cheap tobacco scent that hung around the room. And there in the middle of the room, hanging from the chandeliers, was the carcass. The officer's torch issued a faint beam of light, flickering at the gruesome scene.
In all his four decades with the force, never had he seen such a sight. A strained rope dangled the body like a desperate fish on a hook, suspending the thing in midair. The yellowed eyes bulging in the sockets, the blackish-blue swollen tongue sticking out like a grotesque over bloated slug, the blacked fingers caught in the all too familiar post-mortem grip, the joints bent back as though in heâs last final moments he was trying to escape. But no, a definite suicide, the steel door was locked from the inside; took the forces' largest pair of shears to cut the locks chained outside.
The dark hair softly covered the corpse's face, eerily hiding his features, casting shadows under the eyes. Those haunted eyes that still seemed to be alive, as if daring him to make a move. They laughed at him, mocked him, screaming at him.
He shook his head, snapping out of the trance, tearing his gaze from that horrible face, examining the bleeding torso. Half a dozen cruel pocket knifes protruded from the abdomen, their shiny glint from the torch's feeble light making the officer's eyes blink and tear. That guy sure made a good job of himself, he though disgustedly, as he saw the sickly pale pink bowels peeking from the large slit at his stomach, oozing a yellow pus.
As the officer looked to the ground, he was startled. A dark black chalk circle was drawn under the body, Satanic patterns zigzagging the floor. He shuddered. Thirteen half burnt candles surrounded the circle, the wax hardened and grimy. As he stepped backwards, he noticed something even more awful, something that wanted to make him retch. A half decayed goat's skull lay on the floor, the eyes intact, and the grey molting flesh starting to peel as flies buzzed around it. It seemed to grin at him, sending out a warning. Ah foolish man, alone by himself in this dark night? The ugly and bizarre trophy completed the macabre display.
The officer felt his bravery wane. Always a superstitious one, seeing he came from Santa Domingo. Fuku, Devil's rites, monstrous cults. The stories came flooding back.
Without warning, a viscous liquid started to flow slowly from under a nearby closet. It pulsed, damn thing almost seemed alive. Snap! The carcass crashed to the floor, as the rope finally broke, showering the officer with the disgusting gore, covering him with the dark liquid. The sound of crunching bone reverberated across the empty chamber.
He fled. Fled like he never ran before. Ran like a sprinter into the cold midnight moon as a slow cackle trailed out from the crypt, crying at the skies.
And here's the last part in that series. I wrote this one.
Second Thoughts
My knuckles turn white as I gaze at the man sitting in the chair. He's a brutal murderer; stabbed a poor, innocent old man sixty four times. Mutilated him. And yet, as the rage and fury and disgust built up in me, ready to bubble to the surface, I couldn't help feeling pity for the poor man about to be killed, no matter what he had done. I could see he was shaking slightly. His pale, sweaty face contorted with fear. And although my heart was hardened; I had done this dozens of times before; I did feel sympathy. He was going to die and he knew it. Old Sparky waited to be brought to life, and to steal this man's life away. But was he really a human? No human could do what murderers and torturers could do, those...things destroyed people. And yet, could humans do that? The soul was darkening. And war, poverty, bloodshed, torture, humans did that. And were any crimes punishable by death? Were we, the servers of justice, turning just as bad as the criminals? Were we going too far, too brutal? And yet, there was no time to think about this. As the large clock on the wall ticked noisily, I gritted my teeth. And I pulled the lever. And there was a scream, a flash of electricity, and the murderer slumped in the chair, death holding him in its dark embrace.
Here's the only part of a story I'm writing that I'll release to AG. It's a post-modern, post-apocalyptic based in Houston, Texas. I'm actually using real places, locations and streets. Here it is:
Prologue:
It was a fine day. September 14th, 2012. Houston, Texas was quite a bustling city this day. It was a perfect day, very rare for September. 77F, 60% humidity and a 5 MPH breeze. A truly perfect day. Joseph was leaving his work in the Woodlands, Texas, a town on the northern end of Houston. He just happened to catch a glimpse of the news. The president was on, explaining the general danger of the recently nuclear Iran. They had gotten several nuclear weapons from Russia, now the newly instated USSR, and reactivated the cold war. However, this time it wasnât a stalemate. This time it was for real, and the world would die this time around. The president was explaining this threat as soon as General of the Army Johnson walked on to the stage and whispered something to the president. "What's he saying?" asked an onlooker in the Wal-Mart. "I don't know." Said Joseph. "We'll find out shortly I guess." Said another onlooker. Out of the blue, something shot through the sky above Washington D.C. The camera turned to it as soon as it could. "Is that what I think it is?!" Asked one of Josephs' friends at work. All the sudden everyone started looking out the doors of the Wal-Mart. A missile was screeching across the sky above The Woodlands. Then as if out of a dream, it detonated just as the one in D.C. did. A massive explosion washed over the whole city, as well as several other ones in the Houston metropolitan area. Within microseconds a blinding light swept over all of Houston, flash blinding 90% of itâs in habitants. Slowly a mushroom cloud became a clear feature in the sky. Shortly after that a massive wave of wind and debris annihilated the Wal-Mart, killing nearly everyone inside. All throughout the city nukes were detonating, killing millions. Massive mushroom clouds were enveloping the city in darkness, and fallout was being thrown and strewn about as well as burnt corpses and incinerated vehicles. This was happening in just about every major city in the western world, as the US and its' allies launched retaliatory strikes against the east. Within hours over five billion people were dead, and entire cities wiped off the face of the Earth. Entire populations were wiped out, monuments destroyed and towns turned to craters.
