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Welcome.
Welcome to Decaying Darkness.
Decaying Darkness is a steadily growing literate Warriors RPG. It was created by Blood and Jasper for the purpose of roleplaying and having fun. Please read the rules, which are quite lenient I might add, and look around. A warm welcome from both Admins. <3
Joined: Jun 2008 Gender: Male Posts: 5 Location: The Everdarkgreen
Re: Chronicles of the Burning Baby « Reply #1 on Jun 27, 2008, 7:16am »
Alegria was being driven to the hospital by her boyfriend. Eyes flit around the room, forced shut. Mind considers the future, forced limp. Traffic lights burn her eyes, hope dies, why? A halt, a hospital like the Tower of Babel, castle of venomous fable. Dark are the veils of death. Birth is death. The baby, alive at last, buried before hitting the bed. Hallelujah, to be alive! Alegria takes the baby back home, as it cries.
She gets out of the car, and waves her boyfriend goodbye. She walks into her small house, exhilarated. She stops, and wipes a tear. She opens the door, and slams it shut. The baby cries. She puts it in its cradle and goes to bed, but it cries through the night. She cannot sleep. She has a burning headache, and is freezing. She can finally manage to pay for the house and still have money remaining. In the other room, the baby shatters a piece of china, belonging to the landlord. She can afford to pay for it, but she will only have a few dollars left. She hears it, and is too tired to go into the other room to check, but fears the worst.
The oven beckons.
« Last Edit: Jun 27, 2008, 7:22am by Funeralopolis »
Joined: Jun 2008 Gender: Male Posts: 5 Location: The Everdarkgreen
Re: Chronicles of the Burning Baby « Reply #2 on Jun 27, 2008, 12:54pm »
AN ODE TO OVENS
Flames that flicker within Turn to hatred. Fear. He who created the oven Melted from the anger in his heart.
Food is life. Fire is death. Death is food, contaminates your breath A life of death, if by Beethoven Would be the crackle of flames in an oven; If by Picasso, Burkina Faso Killing just for a hot meal; And if by Prokofiev, The third movement would represent life, yet As in his Fifth Symphony, the last would twist, The staccato would speak of flames.
Death is not malicious, nor is life. People are. Sometimes merely victims, But once the seed of death is planted It grows past the heavens, It will never stop until cut down. Yet there are thousands of these seeds, and no one person has the ability to destroy the whole forest by themselves. For fire only makes them grow faster. Yet when there is nothing burning, There is an empty vacuum, That calls to be filled. Crackle.
« Last Edit: Jun 27, 2008, 1:02pm by Funeralopolis »
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