1. + Find Your Story +

The beginning of Dead Boys death.

From the dusty bookshelf in the corner, the sunlight beams down upon the golden cage. Awe possessed my eyes at the majesty of the scene before me. Sparkling in decay, dead flowers decorate the room. Dust cascades from the rays that seep through the wooden bars pressed to the window panes, awakening the room to splendour. For it has been asleep for centuries, for centuries it has laid in slumber…awaiting for me. Waiting for a breath of life, rot coursing through its bloodstream. I can hear the notes of his heart playing its song in the distance, but I can’t pinpoint its location. A melody haunting the strings of my heart; a violin playing the broken tune of my smile.

 

The song begins…

 

The metal has shattered, debris infused in the floorboards under my feet. They cut deep but the pain evades me. I feel the blood seep between the creases of my toes like sand. The metallic cold burns like a metal brand on my skin; melting the flesh. Bars deformed - a rusted key hangs from the peg but there's no door. A dead nightingale lay at the bottom, its feathers rotten from isolation. Trapped in a reality; poisoned by the imagination that haunts the darkness of the room. The wilting beauty disturbs the air in the room, suffocating the last chord of hope in a bind of rope.

 

A chord progression…

 

It echoes through the woodwork that holds this hell together. A fire lights the eyes of the nightingale at the bottom of the cage and a feather escapes the bars. But before it touches the ground, the barbs are engulfed in the layer of fog that is covering the ground, disappearing into a void of mist…

 

A sharp pain rattles my back. Instinctively I reach out and pull away, free from the grasp of torment. At first glance, I see nothing. The black pupils that hold my eyes drift and that's when I see it. An old Victorian mirror hangs from the wall across the room from where I stand. I see myself - a dead boy standing alone. A pair of black wings spread from my back...

 

A drum reverberates through the room…

A gust of wind beats against my skin but the windows are shut tight. A flurry of snowflakes surrounds me in a cascading waterfall of elegance. They melt against my skin, the water forming to ink as they decade, patterning my skin in broken tattoos. Eyeballs fused into my flesh, I can feel the pain as they blink away their sleep of new birth.

They’re crying…

 

Mourning this new life. All they can see is black and white. Their memories serve them well and a red lullaby burns into my skin. It should hurt but it doesn't. In fact, the chemicals of their tears seem to heal my scars. Their grief; the antidote to my pain.

 

I hear the violin tune to the empathy of the room I stand in.

 

A sweet melody of the ruins of my home. A clock chimes on the wall, the spring clank and the mechanics churn. The gears have rusted in the eternity of solitude and they seem to give up on their fate before any attempt at a revival. A spluttered breath and a bird doll pops out to indicate midnight but it doesn't retract. The metal spring snaps and the bird falls to the ground by my feet. I crouch to my knees, brushing the curve of my thumb against the curve of the small bird’s chest. The open wound upon my lips curve into a small smile, tears burn my eyes once more but they turn to dust before they can poison the air. How could something so beautiful form under the hands of the darkest of creatures? Its feathers feel real at my touch and a warm sensation coats the tip of my fingers.

 

Blood.

 

The room starts to spin, keeling over; vomit spews from my mouth and spreads out of from of me. Thick, black blood dripping from my lips. As the droplets touch the ground, the ink from my lips conforms into small lines. Concrete blood fashioning themselves in to words. My black orbs squint but I can’t read what they say. All I know is that they seem to be repeating the same words over and over. Black ink spiders trail lines across the room before seeping through the cracks in the floorboards. The orchestra fades out and my head hits the ground. My body is cold and pale, the light has left my black eyes but the fire from the nightingale reflects in the distance. A shadow stands over me; a Cheshire smile is all I can make out. A Wonderland so cruel, it’s dead.

 

“Dead boy, find your story…”

Author's Note

What do you guys think of this opening to a short story about Dead Boy?

Reviews

[EssenceofDaringx]

I apologize, but this opening leaves me a bit confused. For the most part I do not understand what is going on and I am left with more questions than answers. Don't get me wrong, you have a wonderful way with words and the imagery is masterful, but there are too many metaphors and not enough clarity for my tastes. I would like to know how this boy died and why he is experiencing the underworld in this way? I don't think you should discontinue this work, just simplify it to make it more available. That's just my two cents. Thanks for sharing!

[K. Harding]

It is meant to be confusing to inspire intrigue. Your questions will be answered later on in the book :)

[Myenigma]

I like your writings, the way you compose them like this one in particular where you break each stanza with a line/title that sets the literary piece in motion, i also like your vocabulary, but to be honest like essence I also had trouble understanding it. however knowing this is a surreal dark fantasy, I just enjoyed the ride :)

[busterlee]

You must be an Edgar Allan Poe fan.

[K. Harding]

Of course! Who isn't a fan of Poe?