Leequilibrium's Scribblings

Hey there! I'm new here and thought I'd say hi by posting some of my work! :)The majority of my writing is usually based upon dreams I have... and hence, is very peculiar. So I'll start off with a piece of writing that's a little more "normal" than what I'd regularly create.

The series of images that follow make up my English Language AS Creative Writing coursework. The story is a very loose re-write of the classic Fairytale "Snow White". It is written in a vaguely Sci-Fi style in a post-apocalyptic environment. The work is riddled with Dark Tower influences and is more of a homage to King's magnum opus than it is a grab at decent grades. :P Still, my lecturers seemed to enjoy it, so I succeeded in both aspects!

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Again, greetings to you all! I hope you enjoy reading it!

Welcome to this wonderful site, leequilibrium, I am looking forward to reading your work and getting to know you:couple:

Can you please post your text right here?

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Hey leequilibrium, can i call you Leeq? It's easier xD

Looking forward to reading this stuff, I'm doing AS English Language now, so it should help with the standard i should be writing at.

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Originally Posted by Jean

Can you please post your text right here?

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Sure! No problem.

Classic Fairytale Re-Write


Tirdas, February XIX, 2590

Dear Diary,
Happy birthday to me! I can’t believe another year’s passed already. It seems only yesterday I was twelve years old and hurling stones at the peasants with the other boys down at the Slums. Yet here I am - a little older, a little wiser… sort of. All of my gifts have been amazing, though my sweetest gift came from dear old Stepmother - a box with the word “Bullshit” scrawled across the lid, accompanied by a label reading “I thought you may be running out, dearest! xxx”. Dear old Stepmother has always been a witty character; she’s also always been a spiteful, vindictive bitch. Ever since I can remember she’s always been a sour one – a nuisance, if you like? Poor old Stepmother… but screw her, today is my day.

That girl came back again today. Not sure if I mentioned her before… the one with that awful laugh. The one that insists we spend some time alone on the Greens together. The one that insists it’d be “worth my while”, the one that insists on bothering me most every-fucking-day of the week at ridiculous hours. Whore. I’m sick of it. Downright sick of it. I mean, the girl’s attractive enough, but I’ve asked around and apparently she’s one of dear old Stepmother’s right hand sluts. Not the sort of person I’d care to get involved with – not in the slightest! It might seem nonsensical, but something just seems peculiar about the girl. The girl… Kaija? Was that her name? It doesn’t matter, I suppose. What matters is that it’s probably not too paranoid to assume that Stepmother sent her. Is it? So what if it is? A good dose of healthy paranoia never did anybody much harm. If the girl turns up again, I’ll have father tell her that I’m in the bathhouses. Maybe that’d just switch her on even more. It’s difficult being this sexy.

On a more positive note, Father’s men have managed to dispose of almost all of the Devil Oil; the “noocleeyar waste” that once festered in semi-fluorescent pools down on the south of the Greens, like swamp gas. That terrible waste left behind by the Ancients. Ah, the ancients. In spite of all the trouble they left behind, they truly were an amazing race. They supposedly created carriages that moved without horses, created sky-carriages that moved through the very heavens themselves! They were people that created extraordinary machines that would emit music without the aid of musicians, perform plays without the help of performers! That was all before the Collapse. Such wonders…
Nonsense.
Bullshit.
The stuff of fairytales - stories for children, for Christ’s sake! A man of eighteen ought not to believe in such rot.

But I digress. What was my point? Ah yes! The waste! With the last of that glowing Devil’s Oil gone, the southern regions of the Green should soon be safe from those fucking Thugs. Those fucking Thugs were people once… people that grew into monsters under the influence of the Devil Oil. First the waste would cause their bodies to deform… and then their minds.

Jesus, look at me here depressing myself on my birthday! I’d better bring this entry to a finish. Perhaps I’ll catch up with you later.

Wow… eighteen. This looks to be an eventful year.

Stephen Williams


Fridas, February XX, 2590

Dear Diary,
You won’t believe my luck. I pulled a fair maiden. Aye, so I did. She took me all the way out into the depths of the Greens. You wouldn’t believe how romantic it was. The moonlight fell down on us as we ran gracefully through the long grass. Her hair fluttered out behind her like the beautiful golden streamers that dance so seductively atop the batons of the dancers who perform at the autumn celebrations, just out of reach. We ran deeper and deeper into fathoms of the Green that I didn’t even knew existed.. She glanced over her shoulder and batted her eyelids at me as she weaved her was elegantly through the flora. I was definitely going to get laid.

I was quite pleasantly inebriated from my Coming of Age celebrations. Well, some may say that. Others may say that I was drunk beyond measure. It shames me to say that the latter, although slightly less eloquent, is the more accurate wording. I’d been drunkenly staggering about the Mead Hall, when I was overcome with incredible lust. So I snatched the first wench I could get my filthy drunken hands on and fled from the hall – it just so happened to be a girl that had been staring at me for the most part of the evening. I staggered groggily after her as the bitch giggled and kept easily one step ahead of my drunken stumbling. I knew I recognised her face from somewhere… and that laugh. That insufferable laugh! That shrieking cackle was like nails on a chalkboard, but now in my state of moderate sobriety, I’d know that laugh anywhere. But what did I care? She was curved in all the right places and I was ready for drunk, clumsy love.

We finally emerged in a sort of glade. She let herself fall backward on the floor and smiled at me from across the clearing – but though that false smile remained on her lips, the playful glint had disappeared from her eyes. She looked worried. Scared, in fact, to say the very least. She advanced towards me and paused. It occurred to me for the first time that she was twiddling something behind her back. The worry in her eyes had turned to pure anxiety. She screamed something about not being able to do “this”. She dropped a knife from behind her back and ran off. I was mortified. I had just lost the opportunity some perfectly good sex. I wouldn’t realise until later that the girl had intended to kill me. Yes, this was certainly dear old Stepmother’s doing. She’s a wily one, dear old Stepmother, but she can’t fool me!

Anyhow, I’ve currently taken shelter in an old abandoned cottage until the rain stops. The place is a shambles and it reeks of the Rot, but it’ll have to do for now. I’ll begin trailblazing my way home once the storm and my gargantuan hangover have passed. I suppose you must be wondering why the hell I’d bring my diary with me on a drunken sex-starved chase. To be honest, I’m not really sure myself. Curious… suspension of disbelief I suppose.

You have no idea how much it pains me to write this, you really don’t. The telltale, migraine-induced swarm of black dots that have cascaded across my vision are making it damn-near impossible to even see the pages I’m writing on. No matter. Sleep should fix that.

I better wrap up this entry and hit the sack.
Big day tomorrow.

Severely Wasted


Loredas, February XXII, 2590

Dear Diary,
I am an idiot.
I am a fucking idiot.
The cottage wasn’t empty. Of course it wasn’t empty! I guess when they removed the Devil’s Oil; they couldn’t quite remove the Devils that it created. The house was occupied. Oh yes, but wait ‘til you hear the good part. It was occupied by a group of Thugs. Yep, a gang of those mutated, deformed, sons-of-bitches. Wonderful. Just my luck!

I was scouring the house for something to keep warm; blankets, wood for the stove, perhaps even blankets for the stove. The temperature dropped dramatically after the storm got worse. I was searching through a cupboard when I noticed the smell of the Rot was intensifying.

One of them struck me around the head.
Crack
Thud
Unconscious noises
Dramatic, no? Well, I may have romanticised it a bit, but it was pretty damn painful.
One of the bastards had snuck up behind me and cracked me around the head with a log - which I still maintain he (she/it?) did purposefully in order to add a certain degree of irony to the situation, the crafty swine. I don’t remember much from that point onwards… swimming in and out of consciousness, catching brief bits of their inarticulate ramblings. God may know what they were saying but I do not. Most likely discussing how they were going to kill/cook/rape me. Though I’m not sure which; perhaps all three, though not necessarily in that order.

God, I shouldn’t even be joking about this. I am in some serious shit here, and I’m in deep. They’ve built some sort of rudimentary cage around me whilst I’ve been unconscious - if only I still had those matches. Even if escape were possible, I’m pretty heavily outnumbered. There are seven of them. Yeah, seven. Although they appear to have some sort of level of intelligence, they don’t seem too fast, owing to their deformations. In fact, they may just be the most sleepy, grumpy, dopey sons-of-bitches I’ve ever seen. The one that got the best of me must have surprised itself. He seems to be the leader of the pack. He (she/it?) mostly skulks around the rundown cottage shoving the others, the smaller ones… only seems to halt this seemingly non-stop ritual in order to push a pair of shattered spectacles back up its rotting nose.

What the hell am I doing? Sitting here taking biological field notes of these bastards? What the hell am I doing sitting here writing in this fucking book is probably the more important question.

Must bring this entry to a finish. It’s not safe. I fear they may take the book from me if they see me writing in it.

This day just keeps getting worse and worse.




Tirdas, June VI, 2590

Dear Diary,
Four months. Four months I spent under the captivity of those grotesque monsters. Forced to clean up and tend to that pathetic shambles of a cottage, whilst those misshapen excuses for life went out to scavenge the old mines that the Ancients left behind. They’d come home with ancient tools held close to their chests, in fear that one of the other pack members would snatch their worthless treasure and claim it for their own. I’m yet to understand their mentality.

And now I’m poisoned.

Oh, I lost a foot. Thought I’d mention. One of the Thugs snapped and twisted it off when I decided to test the effectiveness of a housework strike. I’ll never forget the noise; that grinding, squelching sound of flash against bone that stretched those painful minutes into an eternity. It was a mite painful. Oh and the blood. Everywhere. Ick. But that was a good two months ago. Can’t be dwelling on the past, though I do miss old lefty from time to time. Never mind – I’ll get along without him.

Oh, about that poison, funny story! You remember that upstart whore? Kaija? Was that her name? It doesn’t matter now, I suppose. But yes, of all people, she’s the one who finally came to my rescue. Fancy that? Under orders from dear old Stepmother too!

I was a fool to trust her.

But after a good four months of physical abuse and foot removal, I was about ready to take any possible help that came so much as a foot within my grasp. So, when the monstrosities were out raping the old mines for resources again one day, the door flies off its hinges, and there she is! The girl. The wench. The whore. Though, I must admit -incredible strength for a small lass! That door looked pretty hefty.
“I come in the name of your Stepmother.” she says. “Had a change of heart.” she says. Bullshit. That old bitch must be running out of the stuff by now. Never mind. The girl was my much needed escape rope, dear old Stepmother, or no.

She helped me hobble along on my one good leg and out of the cottage. She gave me a drink of water and some food to help me regain some strength. Dried meat. Grapes.

An apple.

I’m still not exactly sure how everything went after that. Dear old Stepmother must have infested the apple with one of the many bizarre potions that the Ancients left behind. “Kemikals” as the wise people called them. Perhaps even with the Devil’s Oil! Why does it even matter? The point is, I think I’m dying… or slipping into a coma. If I can get back to the town, hopefully one of the shamans or medicine men can cure this blight. One can hope. One sure can hope…

Feeling weak. Drowsy. Write later.





Date Unknown

To Whom It May Concern:
You have no idea what it’s like. Years. Decades. Centuries. It doesn’t matter now, I suppose. Entire millennia could be just blips on the wheel of eternity for all that it’s worth to me now. It’s impossible to tell how long it’s been since the slut and the fruit. Dear old Stepmother and the unopened gift. The shack and the monstrosities.

No matter. Time doesn’t have much value lately. Not since that infested fruit trapped me inside the fleshy prison of my own body. An immortal mind stuck inside a corporeal prison – it turns out immortality is overrated.

No doubt the world has moved on since my eyes were closed to it. God knows where my body may be resting (if anywhere at all). Perhaps this is death? If this is death, I don’t much care for it. The whole ordeal has been severely romanticised by the religious prophets. Gates of gold? Choirs of angels? Hell, I’d give anything even to see some fire and brimstone. Just to see anything. Feel anything. Cold, warmth, love, despair – I couldn’t care less! Something! God, let it be something!

What eats at me the most is that I’m pretty sure this isn’t how it’s supposed to end.

Is it?

I’m supposed to be rescued. Isn’t that how it goes? Some busty young heroine swoops along just in the nick of time and awakes me with a kiss or two, then more of course. That’s how all the children’s tales went – mayhap excluding the gratuitous intercourse that’ bound to follow. Yes. That scenario would be much preferable to this. She wouldn’t even have to be that well endowed… just somebody.

Anybody.


Okay, maybe a little well endowed.

The worst thing is that, if you think about it, it’ my stupid teenage lust that got me into this mess. Isn’t it? That sly old bitch… what was her name? I had trouble remembering it even when time wasn’t just something I thought of nostalgically. It doesn’t matter now either, I suppose. But aye, it was her. She was the conduit for dear old Stepmother’s evil. Without her I wouldn’t have lost myself in the forest. Without her I wouldn’t have lost dear old left. Without her I wouldn’t have lost my dignity that time in the clearing. Without her, I wouldn’t have lost my life.

She stole so much from me and I don’t even remember her name. Though I suppose it was still grandmother’s doing, when it boils down to it. Fuck.

I’m not sure even why I’m bothering to log this. It’s just not the same since I lost my dear old Diary. No matter..

Someone will find me…
Someday.

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Originally Posted by Mark

Hey leequilibrium, can i call you Leeq? It's easier xD

Looking forward to reading this stuff, I'm doing AS English Language now, so it should help with the standard i should be writing at.

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Haha, sure, Mark :P. Call me Lee, if you want... would probably confuse me less in the long run.

Ahhh, that's awesome. I quite enjoyed the AS year in English Language. There was a lot more opportunity to write creatively than was offered in the second year of the course. I wrote both this and a review for the metal band Alestorm's debut album which both scored (to my surprise/delight) pretty highly.

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Originally Posted by Leequilibrium

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Originally Posted by Mark

Hey leequilibrium, can i call you Leeq? It's easier xD

Looking forward to reading this stuff, I'm doing AS English Language now, so it should help with the standard i should be writing at.

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Haha, sure, Mark :P. Call me Lee, if you want... would probably confuse me less in the long run.

Ahhh, that's awesome. I quite enjoyed the AS year in English Language. There was a lot more opportunity to write creatively than was offered in the second year of the course. I wrote both this and a review for the metal band Alestorm's debut album which both scored (to my surprise/delight) pretty highly.

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You're the only person i've ever met who likes Alestorm...
Also, i clicked the first link and the image wont enlarge, dunno if i'm the only one with this problem, other than that, i read through the rest and it was a very entertaining read, but also scares me slightly by the standard i have to meet now :lol:

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Originally Posted by Mark

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Originally Posted by Leequilibrium

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Originally Posted by Mark

Hey leequilibrium, can i call you Leeq? It's easier xD

Looking forward to reading this stuff, I'm doing AS English Language now, so it should help with the standard i should be writing at.

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Haha, sure, Mark :P. Call me Lee, if you want... would probably confuse me less in the long run.

Ahhh, that's awesome. I quite enjoyed the AS year in English Language. There was a lot more opportunity to write creatively than was offered in the second year of the course. I wrote both this and a review for the metal band Alestorm's debut album which both scored (to my surprise/delight) pretty highly.

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You're the only person i've ever met who likes Alestorm. Also, i clicked the first link and the image wont enlarge, dunno if i'm the only one with this problem...

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Haha! Yeah, they're a good bunch of lads. Their music's not bad, either :P. Yeah, I figured there was some sort of problem going on... I've submitted a post with the work in text form, instead, but I'm waiting on it to be approved, apparently - so hopefully it should be up, soon!

Leequilibrium: thanks a lot for posting! Now, if you don't mind, I took the liberty of removing your italics - your text is far more readable this way, and I know I am not only speaking for myself: there's been discussion on readability in connection with the big italicized passages in Duma Key, and most people agreed that it is hardly bearable. If it was, however, intrinsic part of how you conceived your story, I'll put the italics back.

Also: does the story have a title?

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No, no, that's quite alright :). The italicism isn't crucial to the way in which the story should be perceived, so if it makes it easier on the eyes, I welcome the change!

In regards to the title, I don't think this particular one of mine ever had a real title other than "English Language AS Original Writing" or "Classic Fairytale Genre Re-write".

Would it be preferable for me to assign the story a title? Or to use one of the titles I just mentioned, simply for organisation concerns?

you know, I've only had time to glance through your story briefly, but I would say it does deserve a title of its own http://i91.photobucket.com/albums/k2.../bearheart.gif

The Last Man

I hear the moan of tired gears grinding to a peculiar halt amidst the shrouds of dank, jade mist. The pounding heartbeat of the Earth deteriorates into a distant din, a soft hum… silence. The frayed veneer peels away and as the mechanism dies, the fog retreats to reveal the ancient plains of impossible motion. Primordial fields of over-grown emerald struggle their way through the thinning haze and bloom callously beneath my feet. This is the world behind our eyes. This is the space between the walls. This is where the road began.


I tread cautiously through this alien dreamscape, taking extreme precaution not to disturb the thick silence that clutters the air. I notice the squalid aroma of empyreuma clinging inexorably to my nostrils, but the timeworn wheel of the sky overhead remains unscathed by smoke. Scanning the horizon of the surrealist landscape, I notice a hulking, gothic structure, far in the distance, where the land meets the sky, seeming to pin the two together. Being the only object, other than myself, to so brazenly intrude upon the emptiness of the vast plains for miles around, the importance of the structure seems immovable. It swims in and out of focus, dancing on the edge of the earth as if it were simmering in the heat of some mid-afternoon sun.


I make my way towards the building, hoping to find refuge from the unfamiliarity that surrounds me; the construct seems to be the only thing human in this world beneath worlds. The small comfort it offers is enough to entice me towards it. I begin to close the distance between the building and I, carving my way through the vast ocean of emerald as the cosmic wheel of the sky continues to turn above me, indifferent from my growing feeling of displacement. Its apathy unsettles me. My pace quickens.


I wade noiselessly through the swamps of jade; inexplicable anxiety wells in my heart and my eyes dart frantically back and forth over the empty plains. Darkness begins to fester in the sky. Time feels broken here. It fluctuates back and forth in long, warbling arcs like a pendulum at the bottom of the ocean. It holds no surprise for me that the foundations on which our beliefs were built would be so unstable; so maddeningly unintelligible. The sky grows darker still, and I become aware of a creeping, incongruous presence. I realise that it's my own. My pace quickens further. I begin to run.


As I dash across the rolling plains, the world around me seems to shift. The radiating humanity of the approaching construct grows cold and dies. The angles of its architecture grow incomprehensible. The colours become all wrong. I make pains to drag my eyes away from the new, sick majesty of the monolithic structure looming on the horizon and find myself gazing into the sprawling heavens above. The stars are out, but these are not my stars. Polaris has been doused. Orion has been swept away. The sky is littered with lunatic spheres of light, clung together in twisted constellations. I close my eyes against them and my steady dash quickens to a frantic sprint.


As I tear closer, the structure reveals itself to be a colossal cathedral, ludicrously overrun with coarse ivy of innumerable eternities. The roof of the building teems with sodden moss and broken gargoyles. Dead eyes, sunken deep into malformed stone heads, perched atop hideously carved perversions of the human form gape at me from the dizzying heights of the gargantuan cathedral's slanted roof. I run blindly towards the cathedral and throw my weight against the contorted, oak doorway. The doors give begrudgingly as its prehistoric, rusted hinges shriek in silent pain. Once inside, I slam the doors shut behind me – they do not make a sound – locking it all out; the hot malevolence of the gargoyle's vacant stare and the cold unconcern of the ancient sky. My breath rips out in short, rasping tears. I stare at the large oak slabs blocking the entrance way. The gargoyles avert their gaze and the sky takes its indifference elsewhere. They dare not touch this place. It's all I can do to prevent myself from asking why. I dust myself off, though there is no filth to be dusted, and turn my eyes upon the interior of the cathedral.


The cathedral is not, as I had expected (hoped) abandoned. The pews are occupied. My breath is momentarily confiscated as a silent congregation fills my vision. Frozen in disturbing tableaux, they sit, transfixed, staring eternally towards the rotten pulpit with eyes that have withered to black pulp in their sockets. Their peculiar tranquillity has allowed the same creeping vines that have swamped the exterior of the cathedral to grow over them, ensnaring their withered bodies to the stiff, knotted wood of the pews and cutting ruthlessly into their gnarled flesh. I wonder who (what) in the name of God would allow such calamities to go on living; and to what avail? I stagger awkwardly up the nave, unable to keep from gawking at the peculiar cavalcade of loyal followers. I draw closer to the head of the room and a dark figure swims into view, partially obscured by some unexplainable veil. I feel the silence deepen around me and I tremble under its weight. I soon approach the pulpit and weakly raise my head to meet the eyes of the flock's shepherd.

I find that she owns no eyes.

I find myself staring straight through her - into a shadow of pure lunacy.

Her form has been cut from reality. What remains is neither black, nor white – a resonating, God-shaped fracture in existence. I am staring behind the darkness of space. My eyes cannot relay the immense density of the information it is receiving to my mind and my head begins to throb in dull, pulsating thuds. It throbs underneath the stress of unlimited knowledge. A searing pain cracks down my skull as I feel my brain buckle and creak. My head swarms with questions that know no bounds – and she answers them.


Every

Last

One


I scream.


Countless millennia's worth of pent-up silence is shattered in one single moment. The shards come crashing down and every eyeless, time-trodden face in the cathedral turns upon me. They stare dumbly through the darkness in their sockets, their eternity-long oration interrupted. One by one, slick, twisted grins creep across their faces. A gnarled face in the fourth row begins to bleed from its mouth as it bites down on its own tongue in a wretched effort to sport its own malignant smirk. The flow thickens and turns to a bubbling spray as the jagged blades in its rotten fissure of a maw sever its tongue into two scarlet-sputtering halves. The dead half of the tongue drops to the floor with a wet thump and lays lifeless on the cold stone, oozing thick, black bile into the pew in front.


I return my attention back towards the Piper and find myself struck rigid by her presence, unable to move. She turns her featureless face towards me and shrieks in noiseless outrage. I take a glimpse through her and into the world that lies in her pestilent shadow. My sanity snaps like a thread and reality falls away.



I sit in the Halls of Perpetual Motion, bound helplessly amongst the throngs of rotten worshippers and shattered time. She stands at the altar, bleating her sermon in harsh, frenzied, silent yelps…


And we weep for her.

I liked the Snow White story, particularly the hobbling part. Did you intentionally borrow this from Misery? Or was it subconcious/unrelated? Since the hobbling was done to workers in the diamond mind, to allow them to keep working while preventing their escape, I thought the similarity was too much to be coincidence.

You know, I hadn't even thought about that until you'd just mentioned it, now! I guess I must have slipped it in subconsciously. Good shout, though. Glad you liked it!

The diary entries are very good-did you have to write them in the form of a diary entry for your coursework? I can't help but feel that it might work better as a short story, possibly longer, in first person narrative form. But it does work very well the way you have done it. Beware of plagiarism though, especially when your work is for coursework. If you borrow too heavily from other works, examining boards etc can take a disapproving disposition on it. Which I think is silly because we are all inspired and influenced by other people's work and produce something entirely our own from it, like you have. You might not have any trouble with that for A-levels though, I can't remember. At university they definately take a stern approach.

'The last man' I really liked reading, although the third sentence of the third paragraph and the third sentence of the sixth paragraph feel a bit long and wordy to my mind. Try reading them aloud and see what you think, it's entirely up to you whether you change it of course.

From "I find myself staring straight through her - into a shadow of pure lunacy" to the end of your piece I found very effective and I can't criticise it at all. Although maybe the word "bleating" at the end could be swapped for something else, it stuck out for me as I read it the second time.

As a whole though, you have some very good work here and I'm looking forward to reading more! I'm sure you're going to ace your A levels! :clap:

Wow, I'm a little late on the response here, but thanks very much for the feedback!

I certainly see what you mean about the sentences you picked out in The Last Man, particularly with the 3rd in paragraph six - I actually remember puzzling over that one briefly whilst I was writing it. I shall definitely have to get in there and alter that! Concerning the word "bleating", it just felt right for her, at the time. I'll have a look over it and see if I can find something that fits a little more comfortably :).

Heh, the works are actually from a couple years ago, so they've long been past the examiner's eyes, but thanks anyway! My creative writing pieces passed with flying, full-marked colours, but unfortunately I was always a lot better at creative writing than I was at analytical writing, so I came out of the exams with some exceptionally average results.

I welcome your suggestions and compliments with open arms and it means a great deal to me that you'd take some time to read my writing!