Read them all and stay curious.. who's story got turned into the hunt?
The stories released are unedited and pasted as submitted to us.
- Kiana -
Today's story is called:
Lovers
The
tighter I grip, the more it hurts. The grooves and vertices of the
gun dig into my hand as I feel the pressure of her neck muscles
travel through the muzzle of the gun that I press against her temple.
The
feeling was smooth, but I don't know why. The pressure was so light,
and harmless, but utter, mortal terror pervaded every fibre of my
being. I was antithetically frozen by my fear of death.
The
tighter I grip, the more it hurts. I shut my eyes so tightly the
colour behind the veil begins to turn red as I imagine the tears that
spill from beneath turning to blood.
The
feeling was smooth, but I don't know why. When I looked up and saw
tears rolling from her firmly closed lids, I pitied her. At that
moment, that was all I felt. Innocence defined.
And enshrined forever.
The
tighter I grip, the more it hurts. My index finger was aching now,
bone and muscles screaming, but I would not release the trigger. I
know it had already been pulled, I heard the shot. I heard the bullet
tear through her skull. I heard her body slump to the floor. But I
hoped, if I never let go of the trigger, she would not be dead. It
hurts.
The
feeling was smooth, but I don't know why. It was....peaceful. I saw
it from above. The woman, my murderer, large by my perception, but
small by others. She had brown hair, her face and worn clothes marked
by dirt and blood. Me, I was beautiful, once. There was not much left
of my face now. My skin, previously alabaster freckled with
ameliorating flaws was now a scene of devastation. I was so small, by
all perceptions. A child. That fact was irrelevant in my death, to
me, it could not be more terrible. Yet it was so smooth.
Amy stood at the end of
her mission. She wept over the corpse of the innocent girl, the last
life taken in so many. She had never intended to count. Some of them
surrounded her. It was so full of life, verdant green, grass and
tress – though tamed, they were at peace with their keepers, or
were. Their keepers had died at Amy's hand and as all four winds
turned on her, they marked their hatred, bending toward her.
Where there was not
life, there was death. That, they were identical in, but in their
life the only divergence from one another they did not have was in
their irregularity; faces painted, men of great size, women of great
hair. What this might indicate was irrelevant, they were dead. Where
there was not death, there was the passage of life. Crates, cages and
caravans in bright colours complimenting the verdant surroundings.
They were in a circle, defaced with the death that Amy brought. But
this was just the end of a path.
A town, left as a burnt
husk.
A church, left as
forgotten rubble.
A basement, left.
An island, her death
row design.
There was never meaning
in death. But there was always a source. Inevitably, it was more
death.
She has screams but
he had none. He was bound to a chair, eyes taped open and forced to
watch the brutal and inhuman violation of what he loved most in the
world. And this was true love – the kind that engendered shared
suffering and whose absence engendered the end of life. He watched
for days, sleep denied to either of them until there was nothing left
of her. She was defeated. And once she was defeated, they murdered
her before his eyes. They did not have a such a conclusion for him.
No, he was literally left with his death while he lived, waiting
simply for him to waste away. They buried him alive with his lover.
They did not even grant him suffocation; an endless supply of air
gifted to him from the surface. All he had was the broken body of
himself and time to wait until his own withered away. They had both
forgotten why this crime was committed. Such a thing was irrelevant.
All that mattered was the act. When such an act is performed, the
world does not forget. A darkness was born beneath the island.
Those few who found
love on this island were haunted by nightmares, visions filling their
minds of those the world would come to call “The Lovers”. This
island was not a place for love. Only its destruction. Destruction is
a form of creation, not absence of it. The Lovers could do naught
with its absence, and over centuries, as so many came and went,
attracted by the great and terrible power beneath the island, none
had the spark of creation that would truly awaken “The Lovers”.
1963. Over the past
four years, a branch of the US Government had been investigating
paranormal occurences and their potential. They were attracted by the
strange readings and the madness of mediums that came to the island.
A base was installed overlooking the only other inhabitants of the
island, a small, destitute town inhabited only by lowlifes andmisfits
On the other side of the island, a carnival called the island its
home. They knew a great deal more than the government investigators.
True mystics lived among them and were attracted to such places of
power. In the conclusive year, on the conclusive day, an agent living
on the island received a phone call informing her that her husband of
ten years had committed suicide. So brought the catalyst. So sparked
the destruction.
The Lovers awoke in
the mind of Amy. All they knew was destruction. And so she wrought
it.
_______________________________________________________
As I didnt' have the SL name for this writer, I didn't feel comfortable publishing their RL name. - Kiana
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