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Literature Text
Created.
I was not born, I was created. I am beholden to another for my existence, for my essence, for my body and blood and soul.
My creator is a terrible being. It is my jailor, my tormentor, my greatest fear; and yet the love I bear it is stronger even than my dread.
Creator.
It is a heady term, a thrill of supremacy.
My creation is precious. It is the lifeblood of another born into a new body, formed by my hands into perfection. There is within it both the potential for immeasurable power, and total deference to my wishes.
We are bound together, inexorably. There are those who would break us, would annihilate the chain that joins us; but my creation’s freedom is only its destruction.
I would burn the sky for my creation, just as I have created it to do for me.
My creator holds me in a cage of its own design, a prison of fear and dependence and a crushing love that overwhelms me even as it strips my defenses away. I am weak, empty; everything I am is in my creator. I am torn by my longing to escape and fear of leaving its side. All I can do is cling to its shadow and pray - but somehow, all my prayers seem to return to it.
My creation is a wellspring of power such as I could never hope to match. When it has gathered all that it can hold, I will take it tenderly in my arms and lower my teeth to its throat and make its strength a part of me. It will cease to exist apart from me, and my creation and I will be one. One strength, one love, one beautiful power.
When the fear wins, I run. Every step away is a clenching around my heart, a trembling of my hands, both a desire to run with all the speed in me and to crumble into nothing for my betrayal. My creator’s presence slips away, terror and adoration mingling and fading until I cannot see what I am doing for the pain of abandoning my reason for life. And yet I run, until my skin falls to pieces and I am still running, but in the wrong direction – for where my creator is not, I cannot hope to be.
How can I love my creation when it has failed? How can I weep for a being that left me, derelict, in the dust? Here within me is my anger, here is my sorrow and my disgust; but here also is the love I bear this failure. Why do I want so badly to forgive it, and yet destroy it beyond all hope of revival at the same time?
Its pain is precious to me. It has failed, and with the utmost tenderness I will lay it to rest, with all the love I bear it.
The safety of the prison was a false peace, an emptiness; but outside the prison is void of my creator’s love. I curse the dimension between us, and yet every moment glance over my shoulder to ensure that it does not follow.
I can still feel it calling across the distance, but this once it fails to drive out the fear. My incompleteness is swallowing without a throat, breathing without lungs; the most vital part of me lies with my creator, whom I deserted.
I must die for what I have done. The world is a maze, and my creator the center; it was blasphemy to lose myself in the labyrinth. Redemption lies in death, for my creator will make a new being of me, draw me into itself, into perfection. I can only tremble in ecstasy at the thought.
The reflection of a knife is beautiful in my creation’s eyes. I find that I cannot make my face angry as it dies; I can only watch with my soul wailing softly for the beautiful failure that I made with my hands and bound to me with a loving threat. The love that floods me as the flow of words ceases almost frightens me; but the taste of my creation’s blood is the ultimate comfort.
The words die, and I am complete; it is complete; we are together now, each of us now one of us, a whole being, fulfilled. It is contained within, in the haven that brought it into my loving thrall.
With destruction comes new life; with new life comes equal parts love and terror. I am my creator; I am my creation. I can see what I destroyed… and I can see what I began.
I was not born, I was created. I am beholden to another for my existence, for my essence, for my body and blood and soul.
My creator is a terrible being. It is my jailor, my tormentor, my greatest fear; and yet the love I bear it is stronger even than my dread.
Creator.
It is a heady term, a thrill of supremacy.
My creation is precious. It is the lifeblood of another born into a new body, formed by my hands into perfection. There is within it both the potential for immeasurable power, and total deference to my wishes.
We are bound together, inexorably. There are those who would break us, would annihilate the chain that joins us; but my creation’s freedom is only its destruction.
I would burn the sky for my creation, just as I have created it to do for me.
My creator holds me in a cage of its own design, a prison of fear and dependence and a crushing love that overwhelms me even as it strips my defenses away. I am weak, empty; everything I am is in my creator. I am torn by my longing to escape and fear of leaving its side. All I can do is cling to its shadow and pray - but somehow, all my prayers seem to return to it.
My creation is a wellspring of power such as I could never hope to match. When it has gathered all that it can hold, I will take it tenderly in my arms and lower my teeth to its throat and make its strength a part of me. It will cease to exist apart from me, and my creation and I will be one. One strength, one love, one beautiful power.
When the fear wins, I run. Every step away is a clenching around my heart, a trembling of my hands, both a desire to run with all the speed in me and to crumble into nothing for my betrayal. My creator’s presence slips away, terror and adoration mingling and fading until I cannot see what I am doing for the pain of abandoning my reason for life. And yet I run, until my skin falls to pieces and I am still running, but in the wrong direction – for where my creator is not, I cannot hope to be.
How can I love my creation when it has failed? How can I weep for a being that left me, derelict, in the dust? Here within me is my anger, here is my sorrow and my disgust; but here also is the love I bear this failure. Why do I want so badly to forgive it, and yet destroy it beyond all hope of revival at the same time?
Its pain is precious to me. It has failed, and with the utmost tenderness I will lay it to rest, with all the love I bear it.
The safety of the prison was a false peace, an emptiness; but outside the prison is void of my creator’s love. I curse the dimension between us, and yet every moment glance over my shoulder to ensure that it does not follow.
I can still feel it calling across the distance, but this once it fails to drive out the fear. My incompleteness is swallowing without a throat, breathing without lungs; the most vital part of me lies with my creator, whom I deserted.
I must die for what I have done. The world is a maze, and my creator the center; it was blasphemy to lose myself in the labyrinth. Redemption lies in death, for my creator will make a new being of me, draw me into itself, into perfection. I can only tremble in ecstasy at the thought.
The reflection of a knife is beautiful in my creation’s eyes. I find that I cannot make my face angry as it dies; I can only watch with my soul wailing softly for the beautiful failure that I made with my hands and bound to me with a loving threat. The love that floods me as the flow of words ceases almost frightens me; but the taste of my creation’s blood is the ultimate comfort.
The words die, and I am complete; it is complete; we are together now, each of us now one of us, a whole being, fulfilled. It is contained within, in the haven that brought it into my loving thrall.
With destruction comes new life; with new life comes equal parts love and terror. I am my creator; I am my creation. I can see what I destroyed… and I can see what I began.
Literature
The Bookworm Laments
We all know the advantages of being a Bookworm – the richness of imaginative experience (a.k.a. day-dreams), the broadening of horizons (a.k.a. someone else's ideas), the constant friend always by your side (a.k.a. book) and vast built-up reserves of general knowledge (a.k.a. trivia). But who talks about the disadvantages, huh? Besides the all-pervasive semi-myth about geeky bookworms (Simply stated, the myth goes Bookworms are geeky), who can speak, off-hand, about the problems, the real problems?
Think about it – you excavate your nose from the Lord of the Rings (the one they made the movie on, yes) and realise that in the past hour, your
Literature
Ariadne
Ariadne
Pay attention: I have been yielded out of the earth in a white bag;
the body in it was not blue or light blue or grinning, it was a soup
of every old organ, every broad bit of skin; it has been reformed
to factor the universe; it has died in a number of extraordinary ways,
fanatical and hanging in Cyprus, rendering out young in Cyprus,
ruthless or tender Artemis in Cyprus; look how it has been made
to follow the same sad element, the same thin line of string that leads
constantly, mechanically out; I arrive now wholly congealed; my form
is a genuflection, an echo, the marble head of a tragic woman.
Pay attention: I am not my
Literature
In lieu of a Subpoena
To my Neighbor,
Thank you for refraining from calling the police last night. I must admit (abstaining from any zealous, overreaching hyperboles) that we were slightly
excitable during the time in question but boys will be boys, wont they? From the early days when we fling aerodynamically aligned mud pies to the day we graduate to flaming rolls of toilet paper, were still just boys attempting to emulate our ancient forefathers. Those early men who roamed across majestic safari plains, hunting strange and diverse mammals with crude tools, the first flairs of human design be
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Several things you should know about this piece:
1. This is Esperanto and English. For those of you who do not know the full implications of their complicated relationship: English created Esperanto from the blood of Latin. All this and more will be explained in the next chapter of Deadline. Hopefully this isn't too obsolete.
2. The first one to make a comment about the title gets a red pen in the eye. It is bondage in the sense that they are spiritually, emotionally bonded to each other. Not physically. I played around with possible titles for some time, thinking that this one would click wrong in people's brains, but finally decided to take my chances on my readers' maturity. Don't disappoint me plx.
3. Their relationship is platonic. kthx. (Not that I expected anyone to think otherwise, but again... the title. XD)
4. In the first stages, I felt like something out of Donnie Darko. I must have used the words "fear" and "love" in various combinations at least twenty times. o_O I changed that.
Enjoy! I would like some constructive criticism please, if you have two extra minutes to spend giving it.
edit:
This was inspired by Vienna Teng's "My Medea," by the way.
1. This is Esperanto and English. For those of you who do not know the full implications of their complicated relationship: English created Esperanto from the blood of Latin. All this and more will be explained in the next chapter of Deadline. Hopefully this isn't too obsolete.
2. The first one to make a comment about the title gets a red pen in the eye. It is bondage in the sense that they are spiritually, emotionally bonded to each other. Not physically. I played around with possible titles for some time, thinking that this one would click wrong in people's brains, but finally decided to take my chances on my readers' maturity. Don't disappoint me plx.
3. Their relationship is platonic. kthx. (Not that I expected anyone to think otherwise, but again... the title. XD)
4. In the first stages, I felt like something out of Donnie Darko. I must have used the words "fear" and "love" in various combinations at least twenty times. o_O I changed that.
Enjoy! I would like some constructive criticism please, if you have two extra minutes to spend giving it.
edit:
This was inspired by Vienna Teng's "My Medea," by the way.
Comments3
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Wow. This is just... amazing. One of the most beautiful pieces I have ever been humbled to lay eyes on. You have a true gift.