Chile's Stories

[Chile]

This is a collaberation between my brother and I, and one of our long time friends. Hopefully more friends will join in to contribute something awesome. I will keep updating this.

A Collab Story (In progress)
by Pierce Jacobs, Ryan Sonnier, and Casey Sonnier

Pierce Jacobs

And so it began...
As I've stated before, I'm not quite sure how I came to be in this place, and exactly where this place is I simply cannot say with any amount of certainty. So strange and yet vaguely familiar as if at any moment something might click and restore some faint memory or recollection, but as of yet there is nothing....

Ryan Sonnier

...except the chill in the air nuzzles the scent of crisps leave barely clinging to their decaying lives. The seasonal irony couldn't have played better nuance to the onsetting nyctophobia. Like an army, the shivers take me and the stranglehold that fettered my childhood drags me from the fading light.

The irrational fear that plagued my sleep and carved a sinister chasm upon my soul was now reaching out. It snaked it way through my thoughts, hissing at any attempt of subduing my anxiety. I curse the sun as the stars appear. Clinging to the trunk of a mighty oak, I forget the importance of how, when, and where.

I focus on the moment and the urgent new question. What?

I can feel it coming as the night descends on the horizon. All of my senses terrified in nostalgia of this reunion. Again, I curse the sun.

I'll be found here.

Alone; in the dark.

Casey Sonnier

The insatiable darkness claws at my spine, wrenching me into submission against the slow encroaching blackness. In my fear I subconsciously reflect upon a moment of childhood bravery. One where I face the thick expanse of the night where it rested like a silent predator in my closet. My mother had spurned me to action, to engage my fear and defeat the darkness which had held me in terror by the lungs.

She allowed me to breath. The thoughts arise like smoke teeming from the newly enkindled fire in my mind. A thought arose and it was of my mother's death.

But wait- I can't remember how my mother died. Did she ever die? Did she ever exist? In this moment I find myself questioning my own sanity, trying desperately to conjure an image of the maternal parent which HAD existed within my life. But I couldn't pull up anything. Not a single thing.

Now I clutched at my chest, feeling the hard shape of something that resided within my coat pocket.

[Chile]

This is the beginning of several poems apart of a story titled The Evening Prayer. I hope you enjoy this first part.

The Evening Prayer

Guillotine Gates and Hungry Graves

It was a paradoxical Juxtaposition,
Watching the embodiment of Love
Marching fettered souls mumbling contrition.
From the bloodied hills sprang the Guillotine Gates,
Roads of Dirt and Gold lined with weeping Angels
Preachers and Prisoners marched shackled to Fate.

I am clothed in holiness and flames
A clever guise to hide the Lion within my frame.
Upon unquestioned Orders
I sent Humanity to Hungry Graves,
I prided myself in murder.
I am the First Son.

He purged humans and their obligation to the Noose,
Cast out the Sun to the ocean,
And gave domain to the Silver Smiling Moon.
I watched the Massacre, (through closed Eyes)
And the unholiest of sins are tolerable
Without the Sun to bring them to Light.

It made me smile to watch him slaughter
the Second Son.
The Favored Son.

[Chile]

The Evening Prayer

The Holiest of Killers

He told me to search for Her,
On the Isle of Broken Shores
And it's a recurring theme that
the taste of Such, is what We
Die for.

My order was to find and Kill her,
Because when it came to dealing Wrath
I was the most Holiest of Killers.
I didn't note the sign of worsening weather
I'm the Angel Crusader heightened on gilded feathers.

Soon my temple will be torn Asunder
A sepulcher for my mistaken faith
I climb through shattered clouds cracked by Thunder
Towards the Evening Prayer and her belated Fate.

[Lustre]

I really love the rhythm in the first stanza of "The Holiest of Killers". It's somewhat lost in the second stanza, but then makes its return in the third. Perhaps rework the second one to include that fantastic rhythm of yours?

[Chile]

Maybe if I add some instead of reworking it? I feel like the word stone completely offsets the whole thing. Hmmm... I'm thinking... or maybe cut that last line?

[Chile]

The Evening Prayer

A Garden for Mr. Frost

Envisioned by a poet,
Really lofty and sincere,
We've created a garden,
On this desolate Isle,
"With (some) lovely Flowers Strown",
And laced the straight and narrow,
With Golden florets that prick
Not flesh, but poison the soul.

Tis but a step for the Devil Daughters.

It's not about the hunt,
Or the murder, or the pain
It's about resurrecting Hope,
Just so it can once again be slain.

And here he Comes! To reign and Rain
On my parade.

Alrighty guys. I'm back and with the third poem for the Evening Prayer. If you haven't caught onto what I'm doing yet, I will try and clarify things in the fourth poem. However, I'm trying a different style with each different interlocutor or narrator. The next style will be a sort of stream of consciousness without rhyming.

[Chile]

The Collab Story Round One

Round Two of the Collab Story



Pierce Jacobs

Not recalling having put any thing in my pockets nor to whom these tattered rags even belonged to for that matter... for I would never choose such a wardrobe of my own accord. Out of this small pocket I withdrew a strange smudged picture frame, a picture frame seemingly to large to have been placed on the pocket in the first place, but this is not what initially piqued my curiosity. No, what caught my eye was the strange markings on the frame itself. Running my fingers around the perimeter of this little artifact brought me no closer to understanding its origins. It had such awkward angles upon which my eyes had never before gazed. curious as to who would place a beloved one, or a picture of anyone into such an absurd frame I attempted to clear the smudge. In the process of cleansing I found myself all the more fixated on the possibilities of what I might find upon completion. But alas, all I found was horror, as there was no picture, and this was no picture frame...inward I fell...

Ryan Sonnier

‎..and outward I land. What the hell is happening?! The rags I wore are now royal and purple in depth. The frame I held still resides in my grasp but it is not the same picture and from the look of the table next to my chair this piece that puzzles me belongs in the clean space atop the dusty surface.

I set it down casually, still eyeing it for signs of hunger as if it would let me know before sucking me back up. With no sudden moves I inch back in my seat and my hands grip the arms, finally I take notice of the throne and feel the weight on my head. My fingers are adorned with jewels and the woman at my step grovels incessantly. Amidst her sobbing and mumbling I can only wonder.....

Casey Sonnier

‎...who the hell is she? During the moment I take to ponder why the hell and who the hell, my hand generates a mind of it's own, gesturing naturally towards an armored man with a wolf's pelt draped about his shining steel pauldrons. He steps towards the woman and grabs her by the ankle and then begins to drag her down the regal hall. She claws at the ground viscously trying to escape the man, pleading through broken sobs and screams. But I am unable to speak or utter a word of compassion in her favor. Soon all that's left of the women is bloody trails left by the torn tips of her fingers.

A steward steps towards me and bows as if addressing royalty, then erects into a formal posture emitting an air of discipline and conduct. "My oh bizarre and twisted Mad King, I believe we have business to discuss?" I take a moment to let his words sink in. Mad King. The title burrows deep into my skull and leaves me puzzled wondering....

[MaryNight]

The first story was gorgeous. I wish I was reading that for English.

[Chile]

Thank you Mary Means alot to me to have support from my lady

[Chile]

Old Shitty Poems

This haunted steel skeleton is silent in it's sorrows
The ghosts and shadows whisper not, deepening the hollow.
Far off, a war rages on; bombs crack like lightning
and the
Drum of bullets lull demons into sleeping.

Crumbling bricks, and shattered steel, holds no story
But the structure breaths on some forgotten glory.
In this secular place, god holds a starlight
under the
Rubble and ashes, lies an angel under the blanket of night.

This world is pervaded with silhouettes of martyrs
Vicariously atoned for those buried in gardens.
But the cheering visage on your sweet face
never fades
Amidst your wounds, bruises, and blood cut lace.

So sweet seraph wake, Beauty's muse, please wake
Wrap that blanket around you, you're the only thing I plan to take.
We are leaving this place, the lucidity of your grace
I will
Not let complement the shudders of winter and gray.

__________________________________________________ __

I wish for once, your glass perceptions
That suspend you in spiralling perpetual destruction,
I could shatter with my screams of silence,
The thoughts that you never hear, the things
That torment me to tulmultuous sombreness,
Rioting waves that end up eroding my will to continue
This existence that has become so dim.
It's always been my heart on this thin line,
It's always been your fault, not mine
As my line has become thinner, and the plunge
Becomes deeper, and your glass perceptions are reinforced
With callous lies, and pretty delusions.

And for all the rest of the cattled population,
Peers that only see the shining smile,
But care not about the trudged mile,
Or the sore feet, and the simple compassion
Covetedly desired by a broken boy,
Simple inquiry on what he's written, or what he feels.
But of course, their glass perceptions
Cannot be shattered by screams made in the mind,
By meek thoughts of desire, by young yearning
Of a dream better than the ones I fear to fall
Asleep into, as my preferences have changed
To visit the cousin of sleep, and hope he can change my dreams.

__________________________________________________ ___

The night dims down the firelight
Toil though the light may, it's drowned out
Swimming through silhouettes of watchful eyes.
The theif which you see, standing right in front of you
Is simply the man who robs you blind
With a shotgun, in the silence of his charms.

We used to fight for ourselves.

In the night, we are all blind,
People sing the melodies of their maladies
Ignoring the anguish in their hearts.
That stench in which you smell
Is simply the filth we revell in during
Those blackened out days.

We used to beleive in more.

Night is a savage, it starves us
Amplifies those dark desires, corners us against the wall
And our integrity fades in the wake of our hunger.
That feeling you've never felt
Is the blood on your hands, the blood on our hands
That nightime guises as acts of heroes.

We used to love one another.

I'm heading toward the daybreak, to let the sunlight
Burn through my skull, and I'm going to bring you with me
To watch the prisms of lights destroy those scars
Those scars that made you feared, that you still fear.
Do you hear that?
It's the sound of rushing water, and birds, lovely choruses
In the sunrise of life, of our life.