literature

In The Beginning

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Literature Text

  If there had been man or woman present in those first few moments of the world, they would have craned their necks in curious trepidation to gaze at a broiling, stygian sky, where creases and cracks appeared, and the frothing clouds poured forth like obscenities from gaping black mouths. Great flashes of light could be seen way up above the overcast mantle, and the blasts of thunder that followed were much too loud for any human ear to ingest.
  Yet suddenly all was quiet and still, such as it is in the eye of a storm. An eerie muteness hung on the air, the way ink hangs in water, and nothing in this half-made world moved. Then, both quite abruptly but also somewhat expectedly, the sky turned a brilliant white, so much so that any eyes that beheld it would have turned to milk, and run from their sockets like pearly tears. The clouds parted, almost solemnly, and a golden fork of lightening struck the bare earth, leaving a vicious crater in its place.
  And if either man or woman had gone inquisitively to that place of scorched rock and dust, they would have beheld a figure lying curled up amongst the tiniest of waning flames. His auburn tresses, like rivers of fire pouring from his scalp, were tangled in his limp and slender fingers like shackles. His eyes were pink and raw from weeping, and all his limbs, made in the likeness of finest ivory, shook and trembled as he sobbed into the sand. The last few feathers, singed and crisp, fell to the ground in scant indifference, dissolving as they came to embrace the burning ground, and the great skeletal wings that rose up behind him now shivered, as if they were cold. His delicate digits clenched, and blood sprang from his palms as his nails, like claws, tore into his pulsing flesh. As his hands wept scarlet, he threw them over his face, peering between his fingers, as if caged. Blood and tears smudged together, until he wore a vermillion mask over his cheeks, and his eyes – yellow like a young bruise – stared out at the wasteland around him.
  He surely saw only bitterness, only chaos – a pale reflection of himself.
  Then the ground beneath him opened up, and he was gone, and the world was a little bit darker for his leaving it. Up above, as the clouds turned grey and mournful, all the angels wept; whilst down below, if there had been man or woman present, they would have hurried to get out of the rain.
Prologue from my silly set of short stories 'Portraits of the Devil', a fantasy-cum-philosophical tale about people's experiences with the angel that fell from Heaven. Hahahaha what do I sound like?
I'm not sure how I feel about this, because I don't often submit things that I write. This is only a silly fantasy piece, and nothing serious, but literature doesn't get a lot of love on dA, so to anyone who actually takes the time to read this: thank you.

This particular piece, however, is dedicated to ~Slothful-Wrath because he is very encouraging about my writing, and requested something about Lucifer aaaaggggeeeees ago. Let me know if you want the next bit.
© 2013 - 2024 the-foolish-princess
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Hm... That is very interesting, my dear. I really don't have any idea how else to put it. It was quite stirring, and a thought-provoking account, to be sure! I do hope I will have the pleasure of reading more of your work in the future (: