Writing Ahem, a new story.

[Charles]

[I]Before you read this, I want to warn you that it might be boring and not make sense. We've all seen cliche' movies where someone lives alone in a scary house and people are afraid of 'em. Essentially, that's what this is based on. I tried to make it Edgar Allen Poe-ish, but I'm no Edgar Allen Poe, lol. Read it if you dare.[/I]

Old streets, cobblestone roads intertwine with decrepit Northgate and Cove. Placed atop a hill, is mine own lair, so hideous, so bare. Deep within a mossy dungeon do I lurk, hoping, praying, [I]clawing, crawling[/I]. A Rotting roof collapses above my head, windows lined with razor sharp slits, resembling spider veins flow with blood of the dead. Old NorthGate and I are falling. Death's raspy voice is calling......calling.

Foreboding danger clings to rotting boards, rusted iron nails fail like dulled swords. My world is collapsing. Some claim, I have never seen the pristine light of day; claim that my skin, like my home, is peeling and gray. Horrifying tales told over again, manifest from childhood, into nightmares and multiply inside of men.

Do you know what it's like to be more than a man? Deep within the chasms of dreams so true, their imaginations ran. What lies within the depths of a human being, is a methodically encroaching fear, that I'm now seeing. Living, breathing, copulating outside of my home, it watches, waits--roams.

I was once a man, desperate and secluded. Slowly, my sanity wavered and they knew me as pure deluded. Inside the walls of Northgate and Cove, lurked a troublesome beast. Soon the children learned that on flesh I feast. Sprouting wings, losing humanity altogether, atop Northgate and Cove floated a beast, lighter than a feather.

They trapped me within this tomb. I am a legend, this home the womb. The years give way, and a legend is birthed stronger with each passing day. Slightly, the sun both rises and sets opposite Northgate and Cove; in the distance, life repelled, casually flows. 'Tis the price of being a legend I suppose.

Under mine dungeon, discarded bottles of vodka lie, scattered askew. Under mine dungeon, flames lick the walls, dusty and blue. With a shovel in mine hand, I throw coal into the awaiting furnace. On it gobbles, burning in earnest. Sweat and grit, stain my body, with each shovel I throw. Awaiting flames depravedly glow. The searing heat does not deter me from my task, rather it motivates me to fulfill an ungodly quest.

Standing erect, wiping salty sweat from my brow, with a slippery arm, I admire my dungeon's charm.

Facing night alone is my worse chore. Alone I snore, struggling--struggling with visions of fantasy, disaster and war. Stirring within nocturnal slumber, does an invisible demon have my number. Stirring, tossing and writhing, my soul wails dominant over my wretched crying. A nightmare, a mere hallucination shakes me from artificial chains of sanity; peering through my veil of vanity.

Tingle, does my ear, as Midnight's buzzard calls unto the dead land; perched atop a fragile branch, that points accusingly towards a deserted land. To me, it chastises, to me it scolds. Oh, what sweet disaster this night doth hold!

I peered into the demon's eyes, held it's glance for but a moment, only to feel an eternity's torment. Emerald pupils parted mine soul, leaving behind a conscious hole. Yet, did I enjoy death's cold hold.

What tortures does the waking world bring forward? Glaring into the dark abyss, staring, creating fears to fear, ignorant to shadows creeping; aware of sweaty blankets seeping. It is with much, misguided pleasure, I continue sleeping.

Sanity failing, awareness bailing, I lie on my bed, a legend, a monster, finally peaceful, finally dead.

[The Vampire: Ed]

That story kicks ***, and it's very Edgar Allen Poe-ish. This story should get more recognition then this. Great work.

[Stitch]

i think i just fell in love............ you are my kinda person i love writing like that in fact thats all i write like i wish that old engliish would be used more often as it makes a story give a lot of expression and that story is plain beauty keep up the good work

[Charles]

I know that my stories can be hard to understand, so I want to thank both of you for reading it and for the nice words. :D

I'm really impressed that there's another person on here that's fond of using Old English. I agree that the style really adds another dimension to stories and poetry. In fact, I feel that my current story would lose a lot of effect without it.

Once again, thanks you two.