Post by Hakfu Song on Jun 11, 2006 23:37:46 GMT -5
This is copy/pasted from my thread in Si Guo Sagas. It is a work in progress. Its not long, as this is just the prologue:
Hissing.
What was that hissing?
A clawing breeze blew across his face, filling his lungs. His heart was beating. His mind was thinking.
His eyes opened, his body shuddering. He was screaming, he was screaming. Why couldn't he remember his name? His life was non-existent. He screamed because he was an infant. He screamed because he was a grown man that could think, reason, know, but without the memories as to how. He screamed because he was caged in darkness. He screamed because he was restrained.
Something was moving. It felt cold. Why did this tickle him, frighten him? He just knew it was there. At last, it slid out of the back of his head, the base of hisneck, this snake, this metal whip, the slathering tongue of something foreign, slipping out of his head. He screamed again, his vision of the shadow of his world turning to a dark-reddish hue.
A lukewarm substance was spilling out of the gaping hole in the back of his head. It gave such a strange sensation. Blood. That was blood. The sudden jog of memory only made his torment worse, as he began to breathe heavily from such a cold, biting pain. He wanted to be free of these sensations, these foreign ideas that sprang into his mind, this madness.
His arms were clamped down at the wrists, and so too his legs at the ankle's What were these thoughts that flashed through his mind? It told him... pain, escape, freedom, this feeling in the back of his head: most definetly pain, but htis minor biting all over his body? No, it was... was.... sore, raw... pickled? What the hell? What is "pickled"? No. That wasn't what his body felt like. It felt..
Suddenly, the darkness was thrown away, an escape of pressure, a contortion of his body, as he writhed for answers, for freedom. The light burned into him, into his eyes. There was a gasping sound, as the suddenly apparent glass seal's cover before him blew out, the internal locks blasting with it, and the confines upon his arms and legs released.
All at once, he fell to the ground, a man standing over him, snickering...
[shadow=yellow,right,300]"Took a little longa to ge' ye' outta there, stranja.."[/shadow]
A feeling started at his stomach, rose out into his throat, and all over into this man's treaded boots. The man just laughed at the naked person who lay at his feet, whose legs couldn't even move. He supported himself only with his right elbow, his grip on his right hand heavy with such a feeling of a fatigue that it couldn't function correctly.
His eyes were blinking profusely as his head swivered back and forth, slowly taking in the surroundings. Cold, metal, tile floor, steel-plated walls, a very odd, uncomfortable feeling given off by the general infrastructure, or interior, or whatever... how did he know these words!? Left hand rising, he sunk it into his own vomit, and mushed it around, tryin to get a grip on the floor, to stand himself up. This amused the enigma of a man before him, even as he sat down on the short steps to an opening where a blinding light was from. He pushed himself up, a strength... 'returning' to his legs, it would seem.
... So there was strength in his legs before?... Still much confusion.
[shadow=yellow,right,300]"Ye not the firs', an' ye shan't be de las', frien'. Millions o' pods, full o' you bugga's."[/shadow]
Eyes travelled to this... odd person. Pods? The man before him wore a tattered, but incredibly huge brown trench coat, but there was... more to this... this... man.
A large circular hat, with a seemingly crushed cone in the middle of it was there to accomodate his roundish head. His right hand wore a simple brown glove, that, from the looks of the scratches on it, had a decent grip for something. Formal looking wedding shoes, it would seem, of an italian class, and likewise his pants, both of which were black. Yes... almost right, but something was, just wrong with this picture.
First was the unkempt look of uneven hair on his face, small cuts everywhere, but notably so in places like the eyebrows that obviously don't need shaving. He wore no shirt, exposing his muscular chest, making the man almost stocky, but still lean, his rib cage showing a little more then would be thought normal. His left arm sleeve was empty... try as he might, even with his still-adjusting vision, it only seemed to him that... this man... only had one arm..? Even on his chest, too, were slash marks, but more so cut in symbols, swatsikas, crosses, x's, and various other things. His face was contrastingly squarish, compared to the top of his head, adding to his strange, and slightly demenetive look.
Eyes.
It was this man's eyes that sent a cold fire down his spine. There was many bags under his eyes, about seven or so, but all were rather thin and delicate looking, like old slices of paper. But it was the pupils, the sickly, hawk-eyed, yellow pupils. They bore into him, flicking this way and that, very observant, never blinking, never blinking, never blinking.
[shadow=yellow,right,300]"Your very fortunate, ya know... most don' survive, when we open up 'em pods. At least, in such fine condition..."[/shadow]
His tongue slacked out of his mouth, rubbing his left cheek a little, smacking his lips as he did. A... brooding llok in his omniscent eyes. This man's voice, so gutteral, so scratchy, so much accent with the "ach", saying things such as "achleast". It wasn't so deep as to make it sound like a demon, but his voice echoed in his throat, and was incredibly eerie. But again, what did he mean about 'opening up the pods'? His head turned around, as he brought himself to a crouching position, to start to really look around.
He saw cracked open pods with dried up blood splattered across the glass sealing, a pipe from the building's low ceiling that evidentally wasloose and impaled another pod, a shriveled body in where a man should've been, and some successfully opened pods where the body was gone, but, where the hands and feet remained, locked onto the metal clamps.
As he began to shriek, shrilly, loudly, he looked again at this man's eyes, which had been locked onto his this whole time as realization dawn for only a small moment. The terror grew, until his lungs were empty, and at once, his sight went black again. What? This man was laughing at him! But he stopped, and he could hear the steps as he came closer and closer..
[shadow=yellow,right,300]"Welcome back to what you knew as 'earth'. You may call me... Der Metzgermeister."[/shadow]
Blackout.
The following is a rather graphic story that I've created, based on the song of Mein Teil, which was created by the German group, Rammstein. I do not recommend anyone with a particularly weak stomach to read this, but, if you do, I'd appreciate remarks of criticizim, as it'll help increase the telling of future stories, and perhaps this one included, as it goes along.
Some explanations are left out on purpose, for all who get confused.
Enjoy.
Some explanations are left out on purpose, for all who get confused.
Enjoy.
"Mein Teil"
A Short Story by Yuan Shu
Inspired by Rammstein
Hissing.
What was that hissing?
A clawing breeze blew across his face, filling his lungs. His heart was beating. His mind was thinking.
His eyes opened, his body shuddering. He was screaming, he was screaming. Why couldn't he remember his name? His life was non-existent. He screamed because he was an infant. He screamed because he was a grown man that could think, reason, know, but without the memories as to how. He screamed because he was caged in darkness. He screamed because he was restrained.
Something was moving. It felt cold. Why did this tickle him, frighten him? He just knew it was there. At last, it slid out of the back of his head, the base of hisneck, this snake, this metal whip, the slathering tongue of something foreign, slipping out of his head. He screamed again, his vision of the shadow of his world turning to a dark-reddish hue.
A lukewarm substance was spilling out of the gaping hole in the back of his head. It gave such a strange sensation. Blood. That was blood. The sudden jog of memory only made his torment worse, as he began to breathe heavily from such a cold, biting pain. He wanted to be free of these sensations, these foreign ideas that sprang into his mind, this madness.
His arms were clamped down at the wrists, and so too his legs at the ankle's What were these thoughts that flashed through his mind? It told him... pain, escape, freedom, this feeling in the back of his head: most definetly pain, but htis minor biting all over his body? No, it was... was.... sore, raw... pickled? What the hell? What is "pickled"? No. That wasn't what his body felt like. It felt..
Suddenly, the darkness was thrown away, an escape of pressure, a contortion of his body, as he writhed for answers, for freedom. The light burned into him, into his eyes. There was a gasping sound, as the suddenly apparent glass seal's cover before him blew out, the internal locks blasting with it, and the confines upon his arms and legs released.
All at once, he fell to the ground, a man standing over him, snickering...
[shadow=yellow,right,300]"Took a little longa to ge' ye' outta there, stranja.."[/shadow]
A feeling started at his stomach, rose out into his throat, and all over into this man's treaded boots. The man just laughed at the naked person who lay at his feet, whose legs couldn't even move. He supported himself only with his right elbow, his grip on his right hand heavy with such a feeling of a fatigue that it couldn't function correctly.
His eyes were blinking profusely as his head swivered back and forth, slowly taking in the surroundings. Cold, metal, tile floor, steel-plated walls, a very odd, uncomfortable feeling given off by the general infrastructure, or interior, or whatever... how did he know these words!? Left hand rising, he sunk it into his own vomit, and mushed it around, tryin to get a grip on the floor, to stand himself up. This amused the enigma of a man before him, even as he sat down on the short steps to an opening where a blinding light was from. He pushed himself up, a strength... 'returning' to his legs, it would seem.
... So there was strength in his legs before?... Still much confusion.
[shadow=yellow,right,300]"Ye not the firs', an' ye shan't be de las', frien'. Millions o' pods, full o' you bugga's."[/shadow]
Eyes travelled to this... odd person. Pods? The man before him wore a tattered, but incredibly huge brown trench coat, but there was... more to this... this... man.
A large circular hat, with a seemingly crushed cone in the middle of it was there to accomodate his roundish head. His right hand wore a simple brown glove, that, from the looks of the scratches on it, had a decent grip for something. Formal looking wedding shoes, it would seem, of an italian class, and likewise his pants, both of which were black. Yes... almost right, but something was, just wrong with this picture.
First was the unkempt look of uneven hair on his face, small cuts everywhere, but notably so in places like the eyebrows that obviously don't need shaving. He wore no shirt, exposing his muscular chest, making the man almost stocky, but still lean, his rib cage showing a little more then would be thought normal. His left arm sleeve was empty... try as he might, even with his still-adjusting vision, it only seemed to him that... this man... only had one arm..? Even on his chest, too, were slash marks, but more so cut in symbols, swatsikas, crosses, x's, and various other things. His face was contrastingly squarish, compared to the top of his head, adding to his strange, and slightly demenetive look.
Eyes.
It was this man's eyes that sent a cold fire down his spine. There was many bags under his eyes, about seven or so, but all were rather thin and delicate looking, like old slices of paper. But it was the pupils, the sickly, hawk-eyed, yellow pupils. They bore into him, flicking this way and that, very observant, never blinking, never blinking, never blinking.
[shadow=yellow,right,300]"Your very fortunate, ya know... most don' survive, when we open up 'em pods. At least, in such fine condition..."[/shadow]
His tongue slacked out of his mouth, rubbing his left cheek a little, smacking his lips as he did. A... brooding llok in his omniscent eyes. This man's voice, so gutteral, so scratchy, so much accent with the "ach", saying things such as "achleast". It wasn't so deep as to make it sound like a demon, but his voice echoed in his throat, and was incredibly eerie. But again, what did he mean about 'opening up the pods'? His head turned around, as he brought himself to a crouching position, to start to really look around.
He saw cracked open pods with dried up blood splattered across the glass sealing, a pipe from the building's low ceiling that evidentally wasloose and impaled another pod, a shriveled body in where a man should've been, and some successfully opened pods where the body was gone, but, where the hands and feet remained, locked onto the metal clamps.
As he began to shriek, shrilly, loudly, he looked again at this man's eyes, which had been locked onto his this whole time as realization dawn for only a small moment. The terror grew, until his lungs were empty, and at once, his sight went black again. What? This man was laughing at him! But he stopped, and he could hear the steps as he came closer and closer..
[shadow=yellow,right,300]"Welcome back to what you knew as 'earth'. You may call me... Der Metzgermeister."[/shadow]
Blackout.