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Crimson Snow and Other Works by Fantasy Madeline

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Story notes: Hello, and welcome to the confines of my mind. Pleasant that you dropped by. Let me tell you a bit of why these are here.

I was rereading my writings, and I noticed that my work I post here is very different then the story ideas that I had floating in my head. So, I decided to post them here if anyone wanted to read some dark poetry and morbid short stories. Now, all of my work here is metaphor. That means, if it is talking about, oh let us say a tree, it's not talking about a tree. They were meant to be analyzed yourself, but if you want to learn what the metaphor and the ways of my writing, shoot me a message. Or e-mail me at maddybroedel@gmail.com (I love talking about my writing). Now, I hope you enjoy.
Chapter notes: The first short story I had written. I hope you enjoy.
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Chiming of the Bells
Madeline Broedel


Every day the same profound repetition, and every day the same dull clatter of polished black shoes upon cobblestone. Oh, to such a dreadful pattern our society has fallen. And amongst the desolate streets, amongst the cracked and crooked buildings, was the home of my birth.

Towering over the dismal town was the bleak estate of my family. Closed and boarded, the home appeared deserted for all to see. Three stories of gloomy corridors and castled towers painted a perfect portrayal of my aura of near-permanent depression. The room I spent most of my life growing up in was a peculiar one. Atop a winding staircase with an ominous creak, one would pull down the rope to enter the attic. Oh, the attic. Of what a lovely decorum it had. Spider webs adorned the walls and windows like thin, wispy curtains of lace. Books, thick tomes of ancient parchment, lay on the top of boxes beside the decaying scraps of newspaper. A pile of portraits, painted by a artist of multiform and manifold talents, sat stacked up in the corner. Boxes were pushed against the walls, grimy and moldy they were. How, I spent many a fortnight entranced in the words of poets and bards, before falling asleep on the torn and tattered rags that I meagerly called a bed.

It was in this room I grew and studied, rarely ever leaving my place of asylum. And it was, as I grew, that I came to loathe not only the town but society as well. Weeks I would spend locked in my attic with only the light of my slowly fading candle. And with each second of my seclusion did my hatred grow.

Society! Of which pondered that could never be obtained. Society! With monotonous utterances passed in the streets as empty greetings. Humans were such fowl, self-possessed creatures, that at one point I might have pitied our existence at all! And, of course, the constant chiming of the church bells.

With the bells came an intolerable ringing, a never ending flow of mind-wrenching noise. It was as if trying to add another shade of color to a grey town. But the hues of existence spread far over the realm of mortal alteration, and I knew well that the feeble attempts by Man could have no change on the divine resolution. And nothing could ever mask the sorrows that stretched across our world like a plague. Misery and human malice had long since settled in my mind in different forms, consuming what little soul I had.

And as this curse spread throughout my being I became weak, both in mind and body. It was around this time my family had died, and suppressed in my own guilt I had refused to leave the comfort of my attic. The fumes of Death weighed the air down like a fog. The wretchedness of the human psyche was enough to keep me bound in the chains of my own thoughts.

It was from then where I started to develop the oddest of quirks. I had taken to pacing, and when I wasn’t walking I would always move back and forth in my sitting position. My grimy nails were always scratching at the back of my hand, the blood still loomed there. I would ponder why it wasn’t coming off. Rubbing my hand until raw and painful in a pitiful attempt to wipe away the blood of my family that coated my hand. I would never sleep, I could never sleep. Such a thing was surely impossible, the bells of the night would keep me up, as they called upon the most fearsome of demons to lurk in the corners. They would never approach, just sit there, watching me.

It was from these sleepless nights that I would bury myself in the texts I had once loved. It was a desperate and enervated attempt to drown out the sounds of the bells. And for a while, it worked. For a while, I was ignorant of the chiming and ignorant of the horrid misfortune of society. But even in those moments, the demons would still watch me, never coming close enough to touch.

At that time, suffering was the blood of my existence, proven from and in the fact of my pestilential prison. My disease was me the way that my name was my name and body were perceived as me as well. I myself could not record the slow change of my cynical personality that threatened to dominate my mindscape. The shadows crept into the room no matter what, and so the curtains were always drawn, even though the windows had no panes to them. I burnt the pictures of my family that I once respected and hailed as glorious works of art. I shredded the newspaper scraps, no longer being able to tolerate the constant sight of the descriptive text, making out the universe as if all that mattered was trivial subjects and categories. As the pictures and newspaper shreds burned, through the smoldering haze, I stared at the demon in the corner as it ever so slightly stepped an inch closer.

Thick bags circled my eyes, and my hair was permanently dirty and tangled. I would reach out to try to touch the Hadean specter, but I still could never get close enough to feel it. And still, the endless chiming of the bells.

Deep in the midst of one night I lay listening to the chatter of people in the streets below. How insufferable their never-ceasing remarks were! Why did the people, why did society, try? Why, oh, why did they shout so? Their existence was meaningless, didn’t they know? With trembling fists I looked up to see the specter perched upon the windowsill, the curtain torn down revealing the empty black night. On shaky feet I approached it. I reached out, my fingers extended, as I walked forward even more. The floorboards creaked under me as I stood, staring at the demon. I then suddenly lunged, and my fingers grasped its rough, leathery skin.

Three infernal church bells tolled their Panglossian strain as I let out a terrified shriek at the creature, stepping backwards out of the window to my death.
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