The twisted work of The Nightcrawler

Turn out the lights. Close the curtains. Blow out the candles. Welcome to my dark abode, the section of this forum that must hold home to the dark and glumness of what I write.

I have a tendency to lean towards the darker side of literature. I write stories that hopefully shock a reader, because if you're going to hit them, you might as well hit them hard.

Just a bit of background: I've been writing since primary school. My first books were little paper pokemon stories, which later grew into pocket newsbooks and eventually, 30 page fantasy novels. Hey, I thought that was a lot at the time. I even tried my hand at comic books, but unlike my good friend and fellow admin, God, I was never any good at them. My strength lies in words, descriptions and extravagant plotlines. Especially fantasy. Fantasy is my strongest genre, but I think could make a decent sci-fi or romance novel if I put my mind to it.

Anyway I'm going to shut up and get on with it now.

The first thing I'm going to post here is the first chapter of the novel I have almost completed. It's a dark fantasy novel, with a bit of religion, fire, ice, murder, heartbreak and madness on the side. It's not the best thing I've ever written, but it's a good storyline and I loved writing it. (I wish I could say the same for the editing process.)

Prison of the Fragile: Chapter One -

There was something much more captivating than the beautiful winter this time around. It ebbed like a gaseous ribbon that swivelled through the cold, comfortable air; Ciaran closed his eyes and let it envelop him. His knees suddenly became weak, causing him to stumble and almost fall to the soft white snow below him. The strange intoxicating smell drifted towards his brain, blowing all concepts of self preservation away. He began to trudge mindlessly through the snow towards its source, one foot after the other, completely against his will. But he didn’t mind. There was nothing important in the world anymore. Not that there ever was. A numbing had taken over him. It was like happiness, but a little icier. Wobbling as if he had underestimated his drink, Ciaran tumbled wearily to the ground. The snow was a cushion. He brushed it from his drab, mahogany robes and pulled himself up. As he did so, a flicker of worry that was no bigger than the flame of a candle suddenly sparked within his misty head. Was it right that he should lose himself to such a sweet smell? It wasn’t natural, nor was it godly... Then, a shocking realisation hit him. This smell had held him hostage before. It was no pleasant whiff; it was the stench of evil.
Ciaran shook himself violently in an attempt to drive the ensnaring fog from his head. It was taking over him. He knew this smell. He could not recall ever actually coming across it, but he was sure it had to be shelved somewhere deep within the vaults of his memory. Appealing to the consciousness that clung to his brain with one shaking finger, Ciaran yelled out as loud as he could. It was the only sound in the white world of silence around him. He continued to grapple with the monster that was claiming his body. It was a furious fight, mentally exhausting him. Perhaps running away would do the trick. Without hesitation, Ciaran sped as far away from the smell as he could. Many times did he slip over the snow, for his mind was cloudier than the foggiest morning. Pattering footsteps, that were not the result of Ciaran’s boots hitting the cold snow, echoed from behind. Somebody was following him. He quickened his speed down the slope. As the hour was late, his vision was severely obscured, yet he let his feet run free. They were the only of part him that were completely secure from his captor. Running through the dark, crisp night had cleared Ciaran’s mind somewhat. He had recovered the ability of thought, but the smell lingered around his nostrils, making sudden grasps for his consciousness from time to time. The sound of snow crunching beneath a boot sounded once more. He stopped and stared behind. Nothing. As he spun around once more, it felt as the winter had disappeared and he was bathing in a steaming pool of relief. The monastery was in sight. This joy chased away the sinister effects of the smell. He was free again. There were no footsteps. No sounds. Only the secretive winter that was shielding his stalker.
Exhausted both physically and mentally, Ciaran paused to catch his breath. Gasping, he stared ahead. The monastery was a mere minute away. It sat comfortably at the foot of a looming grey mountain, unaware of his plight. Before he could continue his escape, a sudden sound of footsteps and a flash of red jolted him into full awareness of his surroundings. He forgot his fatigue and scanned the winter around him. The crisp air’s breath was once again the only sound. He felt a strange prick on his arm as if somebody had prodded him with a needle. Ignoring it, he pulled himself together and staggered quickly towards his home. He was not alone. Another flash of red, and something pulled him to the ground. A blinding ache formed in his arm, almost pulling a scream from his dry mouth. Whatever violent beast had followed him was now speaking in a low, delicate whisper.
“It’s him...” The voice belonged to a woman. “Use the pipe,” she whispered to a silent companion. Her voice sent shivers soaring painfully down Ciaran’s spine. It was undeniably beautiful, echoing like a choir of angels in his head, but formed a strange, uncalled for emotion of hate and grief within him. Forgetting the agony of his arm, Ciaran rose to his feet. He would not use violence, for he was a god-fearing man, but something inside of him commanded him to run away as fast as he could. He took one step before crumpling once more onto the ground in unadulterated agony. His arm was screaming in pain, writhing. Had he broken it? He rolled back the sleeve of his robe and took a glance at his throbbing arm. Blood was seeping out of little septum’s, dying the snow red with hate. Of what breed was this inhuman creature? She was smiling at him like some Goddess of horror. Her hair was as red as the blood that stained the snow; her eyes were malignant; fiery yet so cold. She wore an elegant black corset yet still looked so wild - so merciless.
“Who are you?!” Ciaran asked whilst pulling himself through the snow with desperation.
“You don’t remember? I wonder what has happened to your mind if you can forget me,” she smirked. “Consumed by grief, perhaps?”
“You have the wrong person, I don’t know you!” Ciaran replied. He tried to keep the volume of his voice down. The last thing he wanted to do was wake the other monks. He would bear the evil of this woman, not them.
“Your face is imprinted upon my memory,” she spat. Instantly, Ciaran received another huge dose of pain. His arm was almost invisible through the thick sheet of blood that covered it.
“Piper!” she snarled. “Use it!”
Faintly, Ciaran heard footsteps. They were heavier than the woman’s and more than likely belonged to a man. He felt his consciousness slip away once more. The wonderful smell was back. His pain disappeared...
A familiar voice broke Ciaran from his trance. It sounded from the direction of the monastery.
“Damn them all!” The woman shrieked. “We shall be back.” With that, the woman and her piping companion dashed into the mountains ahead. Ciaran watched as her blood coloured hair flew wildly behind her like fire.
“Hello? What’s going on?” It was the voice from the monastery. Ciaran attempted a reply, but his voice would not comply. His arm had stopped bleeding. As he noticed the friendly figure of Adam Ashcroft running towards him, he allowed himself to drift into unconsciousness, where he could achieve some sort of temporary sanctuary from the throngs of evil that would never cease to hunt him down.

Feel free to tell me what you think. In the future I'll post some other little things, as well as keep you updated on what I'm actually doing writing-wise.

And if you got to the bottom, THANK YOU.

Well, obviously, I got to the bottom quite quickly seeing as I can dream this chapter by now I think it's very good, as you well know. You have a very own style of writing which, in my opinion, grabs the reader from the first line. You have a way of holding the attention too, it doesn't get boring and you leave "us" wondering what's next and wanting moreeeee. Questions rise, all the time. And eventually they are answered I also love your eye for detail. Like you once said yourself, every little thing matters, and every little thing has a way of coming back. Being so familiar with this chapter though and feeling such a bond with Ciaran () I can't really give any new, objective feedback anymore lol.

Which is your best work btw, in your opinion? TVC?

Thanks ^

I always thought my Lord Golmin prologue was pretty good. I'm going to post that at some point.

Oh yeah that was amazing

Got aweeesome ideas for my next book. I shall inform you all at some point

very good lew, can't wait to read the whole story

Thanks. It's been delayed with all my laptop issues, but it's close to completion. Just got some editing, formatting and designing to do. I can't wait to have it up on amazon/lulu for nobody to buy.

I also can't wait to get started on my next story. For the first time, I'm going to write in first person and mix up my genre again. However it's still going to have the core of Lewis inside it. I'm not straying too far from the norm.

A little sneak peek for the next book I'm going to write:

Spoiler:

The first draft of the prologue for my next book. Comments MUCH appreciated!


Prologue
I was born and then I died. It is as simple as that, though the events that occurred between are of much greater significance than my actual arrival, and eventual passing. My birth was a quiet breeze; unnoticed by all but the ones who loved me as I slept in their soft arms, unaffecting of anybody else. My death caused slightly larger effects; the wind increased its velocity somewhat, but not by much. I will still die as quietly as I came, faded away into the dark background of society. Unnoticed, unaffecting.

Currently, I am living, or more enduring, my final moments in a makeshift cemetery tucked away deep inside a metal shaft within a once secret base somewhere on Earth. I am seconds away from death. It is a peculiar feeling to know you are dying. Most general theories about the end are correct. There is no light, other than the watching spotlights along the crude walls of the shaft, but I can without doubt feel my life about to waiver and flash ahead of me like a quivering candle. My mistakes. My glory. My happiness. Yes, my life is ending and here I am, about to relive it.

The worst thing about my death is that I will face it alone. I know my killers are watching me, their cruel eyes upon my final moments, but that gives me no alleviation. I am just as alone with their cameras as I would be without. I honestly don’t know what’s worse. To meet the end, or to relive the very path that brought you to that end. Perhaps it will be good to see my better moments once again. Perhaps they will ease my passing into the cold clutch of death. No. There is no place for bliss where I am going. My mechanical heart is shattered, I no longer even hold the capacity to appreciate my better moments.

I was once a soft ball of delight in my mother’s hands. I posed no threat, delivered no wrongdoing. But tragedy can change a person, and I know change. I am change.

I’ve tried several times to scream to the black sky above, but my voice has already been taken from me. It seems my legs have failed me too. My knees lie against the blackened grass that is as artificial as my bleak hopes for revival. In time my back surrenders, meeting the grass. I stand, or lie, upon the cusp of death and the cusp of war. I will only visit one. All I now can do is wait for the beast to claim me. But I have one final chapter. The biggest chapter known to me. My life.

Note: I don't usually leave lines between paragraphs, but the forum was being stupid so I had to.

! It's very good! Different than I'm used to, because of the first person, but very good. Intriguing. Who is this someone? They are dying? Or are they dead? Or maybe even, is their life just beginning? Th first paragraph makes me feel they are already dead and "looking back", then I feel like they are not dead but dying. And the last line makes me feel like they still have their whole life to live. I like the mention of words like "mechanical heart" and "artificial". They make me wonder if this person is even real at all.

In short; it very much makes me want to read more. Well done.

Thanks!

Check out the website for my books!

www.lewiskellybooks.webs.com

I made a trailer, pleaseeeeeeeeeeeeeeee check it out It's only short.

www.lewiskellybooks.webs.com