REUNION UPON THE RIVER STYX:
The Wretched Passage Of The Damned:
I gave my ticket to the boatman to pay him for my passage. I found his features both pleasing and profound, in that stark and fleshless manner so oft befitting of his kind. To pass the time he would amuse himself by laughing softly, as one distracted, by both the untold darkness of this, his unnamed dwelling place, as well as the ageless tedium of performing this, his dark and thankless task.
Once his laughter had subsided, and the silence within which he brought his dismal craft to drift across The Channel of Forgotten Souls had for some moments been resumed, I braved so much as then to ask him the sacred question, which had been burned with the might of The Infernal Heat of Irons, upon my bare and wicked flesh; however, cautious as I was, not to reveal to him the untold secret of my journey, I could immediately perceive that he was both afraid and loathe to answer.
His eyes wavered, deep pools of madness, solitude and memory, looking ever inward toward himself, searching his vast forbidden knowledge of the past, as the sudden dark import of the unholy message, enshrined so boldly now upon the weak and wicked flesh of the figure standing at once before him, brought an ancient shriveled tear unto his pale and fleshless visage.
Never before, within the long unnumbered years of time, had The Seven Words of the Abomination been written in their pure and truest form, scrawled within the fresh-bleeding wounds of The Lost Child of the Divine. Never before, within the unfathomed sufferings of each and every untold age, had one such as I been chosen to bear The Wretched Markings, upon his mortal flesh. Never before, had The Mighty Hand of Death been swayed, reduced to bitter tears of shame and glistening smiles of gladness, by the quiet innocence of a weak and forgotten child, to allow me this most forbidden passage.
Upon the apt completion of our crossing, as the huddled weeping figure of the boatman knelt dejectedly before me, murmuring prayers in ancient long-forgotten tongues and bestowing gentle fleshless kisses upon my blistered feet, he seemed at once to know, that at long last, his lost and once-forgotten master had returned.
I gave my ticket to the boatman to pay him for my passage. I found his features both pleasing and profound, in that stark and fleshless manner so oft befitting of his kind. To pass the time he would amuse himself by laughing softly, as one distracted, by both the untold darkness of this, his unnamed dwelling place, as well as the ageless tedium of performing this, his dark and thankless task.
Once his laughter had subsided, and the silence within which he brought his dismal craft to drift across The Channel of Forgotten Souls had for some moments been resumed, I braved so much as then to ask him the sacred question, which had been burned with the might of The Infernal Heat of Irons, upon my bare and wicked flesh; however, cautious as I was, not to reveal to him the untold secret of my journey, I could immediately perceive that he was both afraid and loathe to answer.
His eyes wavered, deep pools of madness, solitude and memory, looking ever inward toward himself, searching his vast forbidden knowledge of the past, as the sudden dark import of the unholy message, enshrined so boldly now upon the weak and wicked flesh of the figure standing at once before him, brought an ancient shriveled tear unto his pale and fleshless visage.
Never before, within the long unnumbered years of time, had The Seven Words of the Abomination been written in their pure and truest form, scrawled within the fresh-bleeding wounds of The Lost Child of the Divine. Never before, within the unfathomed sufferings of each and every untold age, had one such as I been chosen to bear The Wretched Markings, upon his mortal flesh. Never before, had The Mighty Hand of Death been swayed, reduced to bitter tears of shame and glistening smiles of gladness, by the quiet innocence of a weak and forgotten child, to allow me this most forbidden passage.
Upon the apt completion of our crossing, as the huddled weeping figure of the boatman knelt dejectedly before me, murmuring prayers in ancient long-forgotten tongues and bestowing gentle fleshless kisses upon my blistered feet, he seemed at once to know, that at long last, his lost and once-forgotten master had returned.
posted by Valhenstrogg | Wednesday, May 10, 2006
2 Comments:
Are these your interpretations of books, short stories or literary passages? I'm confused.
Be not distraught, my humble friend, for in your question you are most copiously 'companied; for such are the vast imaginative exploits, the haphazardly creative suppositions, and the twisted, philosophic musings, which serve to form this curious repository, this absurd menagerie, this uncanny compilation, of my own disjointed and deluded sound and fury.
With respect to this latest entry, itself the dejected and maniacal progeny of untended mythos and cosmology; you have my honest and heart-felt assurances that any number of viable interpretations which you might presume to derive here from, are in all respects, the products of your own imagination.
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