Heyloeth guys,
'Tis Thursday so a writing piece is due. :)
This week for American Lit. I had to read a short story titled "The Telling-Heart" by Edgar Allan Poe. It's an unnerving tale told with an insistent voice.
The basics of the plot are that a young man murders an older man. What I wrote is told from the perspective of the old man after he's murdered. However the route I decided to go is different, because there's no human conscience present, it's just his body and his blood and how they "react."
It's very... disconnected, because there's no one being to control and direct the thoughts.
While it would mean more to you if you read "The Telling-Heart," hopefully this will be an interesting way to spend a few minutes of your time.
To find out why the younger man murders the older man, click here: The Telling Heart
(the last part in italics is from "The Telling-Heart," I own none of Poe's characters or his words, no copyright infringement is intended and I make no profit from this)
Blood Always Tells
At first silence is the only sound.
Red rivers flood and collide with twisting rushes of dark water. Red rivers roll and submerge themselves in the essence of simply being. They no longer belong to anything or anyone, they are themselves.
Now they are thinning and running apart until they vanish in the wisps of rusted drains and porcelain bodies.
The blood of the murdered has already been lost. Nobody remembers it anymore.
_____
The bones and flesh lie in condemned shadows.
Abandoned… but are they forgotten? Whispers of life still wets their thrumming shapes.
The murdered is gone. And yet they quiver in remembrance, of what it was to move and feel stone and glass.
Now all they feel is each other.
And hate.
Frantically the bones sing out and snatch at the life misting away into the clotted air. Flesh cries out.
The final traces from the vanished rivers of red stir in agony.
All together they give a final push.
_____
A ringing beat.
One. Two. Three…
The heart is alive.
It is a slow and ponderous beat… It quickens.
It dips, it pounds, it marches as if to rise out of the earth where stained hands laid it.
_____
It grew louder --louder --louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! --no, no! They heard! --they suspected! --they knew! --they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now --again! --hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!
'Tis Thursday so a writing piece is due. :)
This week for American Lit. I had to read a short story titled "The Telling-Heart" by Edgar Allan Poe. It's an unnerving tale told with an insistent voice.
The basics of the plot are that a young man murders an older man. What I wrote is told from the perspective of the old man after he's murdered. However the route I decided to go is different, because there's no human conscience present, it's just his body and his blood and how they "react."
It's very... disconnected, because there's no one being to control and direct the thoughts.
While it would mean more to you if you read "The Telling-Heart," hopefully this will be an interesting way to spend a few minutes of your time.
To find out why the younger man murders the older man, click here: The Telling Heart
(the last part in italics is from "The Telling-Heart," I own none of Poe's characters or his words, no copyright infringement is intended and I make no profit from this)
Blood Always Tells
At first silence is the only sound.
Red rivers flood and collide with twisting rushes of dark water. Red rivers roll and submerge themselves in the essence of simply being. They no longer belong to anything or anyone, they are themselves.
Now they are thinning and running apart until they vanish in the wisps of rusted drains and porcelain bodies.
The blood of the murdered has already been lost. Nobody remembers it anymore.
_____
The bones and flesh lie in condemned shadows.
Abandoned… but are they forgotten? Whispers of life still wets their thrumming shapes.
The murdered is gone. And yet they quiver in remembrance, of what it was to move and feel stone and glass.
Now all they feel is each other.
And hate.
Frantically the bones sing out and snatch at the life misting away into the clotted air. Flesh cries out.
The final traces from the vanished rivers of red stir in agony.
All together they give a final push.
_____
A ringing beat.
One. Two. Three…
The heart is alive.
It is a slow and ponderous beat… It quickens.
It dips, it pounds, it marches as if to rise out of the earth where stained hands laid it.
_____
It grew louder --louder --louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! --no, no! They heard! --they suspected! --they knew! --they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now --again! --hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!
"Villains!"
I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up the planks!
here, here! --It is the beating of his hideous heart!
-THE END-
-THE END-
 |
| marker and pencil - quote from Evanescence's song "My Immortal" edited in Pixlr-o-matic |
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