Fragmented Mirrors of a Chilled Mind (Warning: Violence and disturbing content)A shivering tremble of foreordination; there was nothing in the hollow of the night but a vacated void ravaged by the earthy elements. Snow was permeated from Perun, his awful breeches of human comfort set yet again a long-lasting Russian Winter. Even layered within coats of fur, robbed from the native mammals of the eastern forests, he still felt as if he was submerged, naked in a frozen lake. Even before him and his temperature crippled rifle at his feet, the blazed fire, a primitive gift from the gods, ceased to provide substantial heat to his disintegrating body. His stomach growled like a polar bear which had been without food for weeks; this time, the last meal he had the pleasure to feast on was a rotted caribou carcass the night earlier. It was his only source of food for survival; he had no choice. Beyond the fire lie one of his mates, grimly staring at him, with stiffly frosted hair and an icicle which had grown down his scruffy beard. His eyes were glassy, and seemed devoid of spirit, for truly the Grim Reaper of Winter’s Past and Present had harvested his somber soul. Beyond his sculptured body, the backdrop of unclothed, slender trees disguised themselves in the purgatory darkness, seemingly hiding from whatever was… out there. A whistling roar hummed through the woods, covered by snow which dropped heavily from the pitch black skies. At first, he concluded that the hum he heard was of the wind hastening through the trees. “Nonsense” he thought to himself. He had been in windy forests nearly his entire life living in Eastern Russia, and now, his career, as a Cossack exploring Siberia for the Russian Empire. Why would it sound any different this time? Suddenly, the hum began to warp its eerie sound, evolving into a muffled noise and then a familiar sound which penetrated the fabrications of his brain and into his memories. The hum was that of a kettle, gleefully steaming with pride as it was scorched by the hot embers harassing it below. It was lifted off its rack in the kitchen’s furnace and was poured with such embrace into the porcelain cups on the hardwood table, befriended with food filled plates. The sound of the sweltering liquid pouring its tropical warmth into the cup was enough to engulf yet another memory, tearing through the thin relaxation of his mind. The smells were of cedar, recently chopped and snuggled into the holds of the brass rack near the fireplace. The walls of the room were of elderly, toughened wood which reaped its fair share of terrorizing winters. Dark green paint had already begun to peel off the wall, and in the corner an adolescent spider proudly crafted its web. The grandfather clock marched to its steady rhythm and filled the empty space of air with dedication and fondness. “The books haven’t been dusted in a while,” he thought to himself before turning his head to the mantel on the wall, one of which sat his family, formal and in uniform. It was his father, mother, two sisters and an older brother. However, he couldn’t help tilting his head as he examined the picture, attempting to pinpoint the obvious discolouration of their own faces. “It’s of age,” he reassured himself, but, to his unbeknownst horror, he noticed the faces. They weren’t there; they were disfigured cruelly, as if an artist had attempted to perform a pickaxe lobotomy. In fact, all the family photos were mutilated, maimed faces all along the sides of the wooden walls. Fixing his horrified gaze to his mangled father, the image of him began to move, slowly but with an unnatural moving of limbs. The face of his mutilated father leaped towards him, and with a colossal force, shoved his rear end onto the hard wood floor, which soon swallowed him up. As he strained his eyes up from the abyss he was falling through, he could see the faces of his entire family, all lined up the edges of the hole, glaring at him with ghoulish smiles, a smile that was not even their own. As if his own heart had descended into the bowels of his freezing body, the warm clasp of his childhood memories at his winter homestead had shredded themselves apart, leaving his frenzied mind and blackening his soul with bitter frostbit. Suddenly, visions of a murky past oozed like slime into the walls of his mind, images of his father, tall and slender, standing over him like Fafnir, the Norse giant, savouring the beating he ensued onto his son, like a malnourished dog to a chicken bone. He ravaged the boy, splitting open his creased skin, allowing the previous scars to return like the unwrapping of a forgetful Christmas gift. Screams pierced his mind, screams of his mother, as his father had mercilessly beaten her feeble body apart, for he did not appreciate what he called her as a “[REDACTED BY STAFF].” Contrasting to the reality of what happened in the past, he witnessed distorted visions of his mother’s murder as his wretched father beat her until the sounds of her moving limbs ceased. In rage, he envisioned himself as a weak boy transforming into a hairy beast, bringing his limp body to a stand. He lashed all his might out on his father, using his long skinny scarecrow like claws to thrash apart the rough skin on his back, as he, like an animal, devoured his screaming body. The final image he had seen in his pulverized mind was that of his father with three heads. First was the head of his everlasting smile of love and warmth. The second head was his anger and hellish rage which implanted horrid stories and abuse. The last head was his mutilated and split open face, caked in blood and tissue. The image of the latter lay vacant for what had seemed like half an hour, before it had evaporated into smoke like the campfires of his tormented mind. Comparable to the snapping of fingers, he had snapped back into reality and out of the glass winds of his mind, remembering the fatal situation he was in. Frostbite had taken over his stiffed limbs which were disconnected from his nervous system. Hypothermia set upon him like the venomous kiss of a lustful woman; he knew hypothermia was just the maiden name for death. Previously feeling shivering tremors and a hunger not only for food, but for life, a tropical buzz of warmth blanketed his body like the affects of a nice warm whisky. Starting as a spark, the warmth had flowed like a flood through him, and soon felt like the timid campfire at his feet was working. He did not feel his own appendages at this point, only the coziness of his mind and inner self, nodding to the possible fact that we are all merely a spirit controlling a suit made of tissue and chemical matter. He could not stress the feeling of overwhelming happiness, an implausible feeling that left him as a young child, now returning to him as he lay before the gates of Necropolis. Past his mate’s frozen corpse, now buried in a casket of snow, a grim figure stood between the trees, facing his body. His frozen heart sank like a ship into the night sea, and an unwelcoming feeling of paranoia and fear overcame him. The figure could only be described as wearing the tattered cloak of despair and the rancid stench of millions of deceased ancient bodies. Now, it hovered on a cloud of necrotic air towards his nigh empty body, and instantly he knew it had a letter for him, a letter he wished not to scratch open and read. Even though a drudge of perpetual calamity and a tortured mind battered the gates to his soul, it was as if the bridge between mind and spirit fell apart into the void, separating his grisly past and discovering a new, washed and uncorrupted version of himself. For once, he was happy and felt a spiritual warmth that only one could feel on the foot of Death’s doorstep. Nothing mattered anymore, not the past abuse, not the mission by the Russians, the frosted hunger, nothing… Now, he was to rest in celestial slumber, and for once, in 30 years, he used the remaining energy to muster a smile before the cloaked spirit of Past, Present and Future harvested his sorrowed soul. Final Draft Written on: Oct. 14th/2019 Purpose: Literary Studies 10 Word Count: 1424 Please leave a supportive comment, and if you could actually understand anything (I'm sorry for the big words) I'd appreciate feedback This is also my final copy, I will most likely not be editing further.
That ain't bad! It is pretty violent in some places, but your choice of words is spectacular and your wording excellent. I see a good writer in ya!
It is meant to be quite violent yes. Oh, I forgot, I should actually put a (warning) Thank you, I typically am not one to write, and I only started to find a love for it this semester
this is so sick, keep writing. i'd like to see some more paranormal stories from you eventually cause i think you'd be awesome at writing something like that. keep working!
Okay, so not only is your hair freaking beautiful and I am beyond jealous, but you're so good at writing Otus like seriously. Please please please, keep writing stories. I am so curious to see what you come up with next. Your word choice and sensory detail is amazing as well. We need to write stories together one of these days!
I really like writing about abstract stories about the mind and about paranoia. I think the fear of not knowing is the best kind of fear. Thank you
Thank you I attempted to make the story have as much detail and "big words" as possible to gain a certain effect, and I'm glad people liked it.
:O that story is amazing!! You're such a good writer- I LOVE the words you used! Stories with long words like that are my fave It definitely creates a vivid image in my mind you have to keep posting works of yours on here!
Thank you very much, I appreciate it. I intentionally used big words to capture a broader image in the reader's mind, and well, because I wanted too, haha. Thank you very much While writing I couldn't help but get the chills as this story can be very disturbing and dark, especially during the part when he is in a moment of "bliss" in his winter homestead.
That would be great, but... I am NOT writing this in a MINECRAFT book, haha! Thank you though I appreciate it
Ha, i tried. ... so you know.. i copy/paste into the mc books. If you like I could do it and mail to you to sign it
Bump. Only because I'm proud of this story and want anyone else who read Temple of Memories to check this out as well
