Chile's Stories

[Chile]

I feel like it might be inappropriate to make a whole thread for one story, so I will post more in the future. The long future. But here is one I recently wrote that is raw and unedited. I would very much like if you read it.

And Feel Free to Comment!

Ghost Among the Dead
by Casey Sonnier

He could remember a moment in time. A mere second. But he took that second and broke it down into fragments, and those fragments he turned to little pieces, until the second became an eternity. In this eternity of a second he recalls a gentle sensation on his arm, sunlit strands of gold, a summer backdrop filled with flowers bowing gracefully in respect to the breeze. Her eyes were filled with an ocean of light and there was a small tug at the corner of her lips- an esoteric smile- just for him. Just for him.

Tap tap tap.
It’s time to walk among them.
I awake to a swinging gaze and a barren waste fills my eyes. A cold breeze acts upon my featherweight frame, stimulating me into motion. Gently now, from left to right. My skin works to recall a sensation on my neck. It’s warm at first. The warmth turns to burning pain. It seems, there is a loose noose around my neck.

Tap tap.
The swinging ends with an abrupt plummet. I land on the depleted soil as a large wooden structure casts a shadow over me. It appears I’ve been hanging from the Gallows. My savior is a small black bird, perched atop the Gallows.. A Gallow’s bird.
And it speaks to me.

It’s time to walk among them. As a ghost among the dead.
How long have I been a dead?
Your whole life.
So I am a ghost now?
Soon you will be.
Where are we going?

The Gallow’s bird tilts it’s beak, and my eyes follow along, from the tip of it’s beak, across an impoverished land, until I spot a lonely door. A glowing exit sign hangs above it. The bird flies towards the door. I grab the dangling end of my noose and begin to follow along. Once I reach it, I place an unsure hand on the golden knob. It turns with a creak. I enter and discover that my feet feel concrete. My eyes recognize a city, cacophony of mumbling and cars enters my ears, odor ascends through my nose, and calculations are made within my brain just to put these words on my lips.

I’m standing on a sidewalk.
Yes you are.
Now am I a ghost?
Yes.
But I can feel? Aren’t ghosts supposed to be... intangible?
A fallacy.
So can other things feel me?
No.

A hasty man in a suit bumps into me, knocking me off of my balance. Instinct tells me to call out to him, to make him aware of the encounter. However, he would remain oblivious to this ghost. Upon closer inspection of the man in the suit, and even the people around him I notice something... odd. The people, they had nooses around their necks; some were tight, some were loose, and the rope that followed varied in length. The Gallow’s bird perched upon my shoulder, as if it knew that my mind had become like a carousel, and it’s carrion claws became a gentle hand to stop the spinning.

Why are those nooses wrapped around their necks? And their eyes... Why do some shine like candles, and others are so grey and dim?
It’s contingent upon the person.
Where does it come from?
I don’t know.
Why am I here?
To walk among them.
Are they in pain?
All the time.

The children’s eyes are wide and bright, hungry and hopeful. The adults’ eyes are dim and grey, forlorn and sad. This implies that the Dimming is natural, a process that occurs over time. I feel a comfort in this. If it’s natural, why should this ghost fear it? The Gallow’s bird preens itself on my shoulder.

You say I’m here to walk among them, but where do I walk?
Anywhere.
You’re not very helpful.

The Gallow’s bird shakes out it’s feathers in irritation. It takes flight, leading me through the winding streets of the city. I push through the crowds of hollowed eyes; their motions seemingly automated and meaningless. They seem like clockwork, and their watchmaker has doomed them to a life of wandering through erect columns of steel and concrete. I round the corner and then there was nothing. A void and a window inside the void. The Gallow’s bird perches upon the windowsill; it cocks it’s head.

Peer into this one’s memory.

I lean in through the window. A grain of sand is set in the white void the window displayed. I reach; my fingers desperately curl to grasp the small spec. With every muscle in painful extension, I allow myself to climb onto the windowsill. Still, the spec is not in my reach! It seems like the tips of my finger just barely graze my prize, but I am so far away. With a small shuffle in my legs, I fall through the window and into the void. In fear I close my eyes shut, and a hard force stops my body, all the momentum carried by my fall spreads into my being, racking my form with pain. It’s at this moment I am wishing I was incorporeal. Or, whatever it was when you didn’t feel things. As my eyelids flicker, the void is replaced by a desert gleaned of any life at all. And the odd zipping noises. Like... like... bullets flying through the air! I swing around to see some soldiers perched atop a sand dune skirmishing with another group of soldiers that holed themselves up in a small shack.

I thought this is where you wanted to be?
No! Why would anyone want to be on a battlefield?!
Ask those men.

I approach the ones in the shack. They are U.S soldiers, in their battle gear. The nooses on their necks are long and tight, the light in their eyes are smoldered cinders. But why?

But these are good men, fighting for their country!
So are they.
No, they are the enemy!
So are these men. Look at that one there.

The Gallow’s bird points a claw at a young man with the Americans. His face is painted with grime. His hands are painted with blood. Under the dirt and the smoldered cinders of darkness are two small inset sapphires; eyes that had the potential to shine like the sun-kissed ocean. The soldier’ expression is contorted by the fear and struggle of his situation. This ghost would like to weep for him. But I am incapable of tears it seems. The Gallow’s bird perches upon my shoulder; its carnivorous claws were slowly becoming a steady source of comfort in my walk among the dead.

I will show you his story.

He recalls another moment in time. The second he recalls is like an eternity in death. An eternity in the embrace of despair, indecision, and anxiety. It was his indecision, and his anxiety, but it was her despair. Her oceans of light were overflowing, and running down her cheeks. Behind her was a window; the rain drops traversed the glass reflecting her tears. The house was dark, the air was silent, the mood was solemn. It was in this fragment of a second, he felt like dying. The light faded in her eyes as these words parted from her lips, “Don’t leave.”

The Gallow’s bird had brought me through time, and now I sit inside the kitchen of a small quaint house, observing the myriad of war trophies and medals to a soldier of outstanding quality. A miniature shrine to his greatness. I gasp in admiration.

Oh wow. Look my feathered friend, this man has so many achievements!
Achievements?

A picture of the man whom the trophies extended their glory to, hangs right above the glass testimony. In this picture he seems strong and noble. Proud and fierce. I hear a groggy holler and a loud thump. Into the kitchen steps the man I’ve been admiring. He clutches a bottle of alcohol in one hand, a cane in the other. He wears khaki pants and a pale wrinkled collared shirt. The noose on his neck is the longest I have seen since I began this journey. His eyes are nothing more than shadows in places humans don’t dare to glance. He barks like an old man, calling for his child. A young boy steps in, his dirty blond hair hangs in his face, his soft face holds two balls of light that shine in love for his hero. For his father.

This is our little soldier.
His eyes are so wonderful. What could have happened?

The boy helps to illuminate the color, to bring back life to where it had just before been grey. I find myself enjoying his company and carefree demeanor. The boy helps his father into his chair. He proceeds to help fix his father’s breakfast. The Old Man speaks in hollowed out cracks; much like a whip. His words ooze onto the table and spill onto the floor, and where they splatter makes the room more grey. He counters the effect of his son. He talks of war, of his son’s destiny to be a soldier, and how much he fought for his country and people. When the words reach the boy, he Dims ever so slightly.

What exactly did this man fight for?
I don’t know. And neither does he.
Is that why it feels so wrong?
Yes. Look at this.

And in this instant the boy’s life begins to unfold before my eyes. I watch as he lives his childhood with his heroic father, taking care of the Old Man without aid. I watch as he listens to his father’s words, as he goes to school, as he graduates,as he meets the girl he loves, as he enlists, as he leaves her and goes to war. As he fights. Throughout this flash, I witnessed a noose forming around his neck, a noose that wasn’t there when his eyes were bright and vivid, full of life and color.

So does War cause the Dimming?
It’s one of the symptoms.

I’m becoming impatient and disturbed. And sad. Was my life like this? Was I dead before I became a ghost? The questions gnaw at my brain, hollowing out my skull. The Gallow’s bird returns me to the city after watching our Little Soldier.

Will he die?
Yes. Everyone does.
Why am I here? Can I do anything to save them? Their lives are sad, their suffering is inevitable, but there must be some hope. I have seen it, and it glimmered within that child. How can I save them?
The echoes of the dead ring through their ears all day. They choose not to listen. They provide their own nooses- they cause the Dimming.
There must be something I can do? Just for one human being!

The Gallow’s bird tilts its head. It seems interested in my proposition.

Okay ghost. Come with me.

It takes flight, charting a winding path through the city. As I follow, the grey city seems to slowly melt, the sludge of reality seeps into drainage voids. It reveals a colorful scene, of flowers and hills, and a solitary white house that stands erectly contrast to it all. The front door to the house swings open, and out comes a young woman, with long flowing blond hair. She is walking her dog, and at the moment she steps into the light, her hair shimmers a brilliant sun stroked gold. I feel at ease with her. This woman’s eyes are like light house beams, evaporating all darkness with her gaze; they possessed a guiding effect that could lead the fearful to warmth and safety.

I thought this is where you wanted to be?
Well... it is now.
Liar.

The Gallow’s bird was still speaking in riddles, but this time, the bird’s tone was more bemused than melancholy. It was a nice change of pace for the feathered fiend. Then it took off. I watched it soar into the sunset.

Walk with her for a while.

He recalls his last moment in time, a somber and distasteful moment. He could recall his better half being ripped from his body, his colors receding away into the ditches around the park. The casual rocking of the swing he sat in nauseated his stomach. His world had gone grey, and the smell of a fresh rainfall permeated his senses. The wind was motionless, the grass was graceless. In this moment, he closes his eyes.

I’ve walked with her for what seems to be a lifetime, though I know for a fact it has been a short amount of time. But each second I spend, I break the moment into tiny fragments and become consciously aware of these fragments, sucking the metaphorical marrow from each rich experience. I feel as though all has been made new. Is it absurd for a ghost to feel alive? But the color, the familiarity of this life. I think I... this ghost does not possess a word for what I feel. However, I notice that her eyes are dimming. She seems torn.

The Gallow’s bird has not returned. Each day I look to the horizon, fearing he will come and take me back to the Gallows. I fear of returning to death. Each moment I spend with her, I feel as though a portion of my body is leaving. This seems silly for a ghost to be feeling such feelings, to be noting such notions- and to fear death. I am under no delusions that I am not already dead, but it doesn’t feel right. Through the passing of time, the moon crawls into the sky.

I stand by her bedside. She is crying. I place a ghostly hand upon her shoulder, like the gesture the Gallow’s bird gave me. No matter how much I want to comfort, my fingers desperately attempt to comfort. They provide no solace. A feeling of dread encroaches upon me. The familiar sound of wings flapping against the wind touches my ear.

No. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to go.

The Gallow’s bird lightly lands upon my shoulder. She is still crying.

Come. It’s time to walk among them.

He awakes to a swinging gaze. He recalls dozing off for just a second. The man stands up out of the swing. For some reason, he feels like he’s been dead for what felt like an eternity. He shakes off his feeling of a bad dream... but... he has finally found a word for it. Quickly he digs into his pocket searching for his cell phone. After frantically dialing the number he waits for a voice to answer on the other end.

What...
I’m not leaving. I don’t want to be a soldier.
Wait... What?
I said I’m not leaving. I love you. And without you, I’m pretty much dead anyways.

[98jazzy98]

This is REALLY Really good. (= I hope you keep writing, because obviously you have a talent.

[Chile]

Thank you. That really means a lot to me.

[Chile]

Some Poetry

By Casey Sonnier

Beauty can't hear her,
If it's measured by the
Reflection in the mirror.

A standard of Value,
At constant war,
Between idols like Jesus
And the stupid Spoiled Whores.

Why not wish that beauty
Spreads like Fire,
And sing the word Hope
Till our voices tire.

So let me ask you,

A monster under the Guise of Man?
War under the Pretense of Peace?
Violence in the name of Love?
Just how long is your leash?

Now hear me out,

It's a murderous indifference,
A meticulous deconstruction of the Whole;
They're not after your religion,
They only crave your soul.

A crime perpetrated for centuries,
But ignorance spreads like the Flu;
They ditch the murder weapon,
And leave us to play some Clue.

So how do we stop this?
What's our Evil's Bane?
The wicked fear Compassion and Beauty,
A mighty weapon against the shadow's reign.

[RawrItzRP]

Really, really good stuff, dude. Keep it up, okay?

[Chile]

Tanks Rawr O.o

[Chile]

My Head Hurts
by Casey Sonnier

It's a general credence accepted on the fallcy of convenience,
To be shallow and hollow, to cater to and follow
A standard so sickly and Fake; quite literally clinically insane.
We sit atop our Empire, watching the raging deluge of Fire,
And listen to the choir sing a somber dirge for the Funeral Pyre.

We are fettered players in Their game,
Restrained by self made Chains of Ignorance and Hate.
It's time we break from the shackles of our skin;
Realize we are so much More than,
Animals bondaged to desire and sin,
Doomed to a perpetual cycle of destruction,
Slaves to the corruption of several stupid inane Fucked up Nothins!

I'm not speaking of Revolution;
We've sacrifced enough Martyrs searching for a Solution.
I wish for peaceful Evolution.

To learn how to Love.
To learn how to Live.

[Chile]

Love Like Lightning

by Casey Sonnier

She's as Bright as the Sun,
And as Calm as the Moon;
An Esoteric Paradox,
For the boy with a Lonely view.
It may be a senseless Addiction,
It's certainly a painful Affliction;
To inhale the poisonous fumes of desire,
To be struck with Love Like Lightning.

Helplessness slivers up his spine;
Scribbilin his poems in romantic verse and rhyme,
Depicting a picture of a playground that rests,
Tween Midnight and the Morning Light.

The ink upon his page,
Is his tool for War,
In the conquest for her heart,
His army has been Defeated before.
But they'll keep slinging their arrows,
Trying to pierce the bosom of Love,
Cause it's a wonderful Addiction
To be struck with Love like Lightning.

[★LunaLight★]

Gosh, I read that first short story, and I will say that I wish I could describe things as wonderfully as you. I was completely gripped into your writing. I was physically incapable of turning away. How long did it take you to write that?

[Chile]

Ummm to be honest... Like a few hours e.e; I powered through it.