View Full Version : [Voting] Literature of the Century #19

Mar 26th '19, 06:16 PM
http://i.imgur.com/rs6C9Ey.jpgLiterature of the week


Alright Ladies and Gentlemen, it is time to vote for your favorite entry our contestants made on the theme:
""Dark, Magic, Alone, Exotic,Weird.""

Remember, you can only vote for one entry so choose wisely.

The criteria on which you should probably judge the entries are:

Impact on the reader (yourself)

It entered my body. I couldn’t resist it. I was so weak, vulnerable and dependent at the time, that even if I tried to fight it, I don’t know if I could have stopped it. However, I didn’t even notice it’s presence at the beginning. It was just something. Something that was there, but didn’t quite have any impact, strength or control. But it was growing. The more I weakened, the more I fell into the darkness, into despair and depression, the stronger it got.

As it got stronger, I got to know that I was not alone. Someone, something was there with me. It was keeping me company during the bad times, cheering me up and caring for me when I was down. But in reality, it was feeding on me, on my darkness, on my weakness. I didn’t realize at the time, but I got more and more dependent of it, of its attention. Or should I say, “his” attention? Hard to know, I’m not sure if it has a gender, or if it cares about having one.

Anyway, this thing was like a parasite and I didn’t even know. I thought it was my friend, and I thought it was a blessing, someone that would do me good and made me feel better. Like a drug. When it went away, or rather, when it hid its presence from me – since it couldn’t run away, being inside me – I would spiral again into the pits of despair, of insecureness and doubt. I would start craving for its company again, for one more dosage of that joy, that drug. And that was my mistake, because the more I craved for it, the more it fed on me. And the more it fed on me, the further away from salvation I strayed.

My parents, despite being such a seldom presence and negative influence in my life, or so I thought, noticed this evil presence in my body. They tried to save me. Took me to the hospital but everything was fine with my health, to a psycologist but no pills or treatment helped. Their last attempt ended in the church. They weren’t that religious. They went to the mass every Sunday, sure, but it was just to mantain a good image in the neighborhood. As soon as they would get home, they wouldn’t care about anything except for themselves or their work. God had no place in our home, and no place in my heart either.

The priest called for an exorcist, since, as he said, this was “outside his area of expertise and we require a real professional”. I guess he was right. The exorcist came. A slim, tall man with a black shirt and a white collar, not that different from our priest actually. He had short, military hair, small sulken eyes and dry lips. He kept on wetting them with his tongue. Carried a bible and a pendant with the cross on it.

It was a Sunday afternoon. They had locked me in an old dungeon in our church, as it was an old church and had cellars, rooms and halls underneath it. The priest, aiding the exorcist, had handcuffed me to the wall with some chains and cuffs. I was not in myself, as it was angry about the whole situation. It did not want to be expelled, and knowing that the exorcist would be trying to purify and exorcise me, I felt a rage grow inside me and taking hold of me. It was the demon, taking control of my whole body to fight off the exorcist.

We were there the whole Sunday. The exorcist kept on praying, reciting verbs after verbs of the bible, chanting chants I did not know that one would assume were meant for exorcising demons. He was sweating profusely, his throat dry, his voice failing. As much as he licked his lips, he did not have more saliva to wet them. The priest repeated what the exorcist said, but he too was getting tired and desperate. The more they went on, the stronger its presence grew. The angrier it got. It fought against the shackles, I pulled from the wall and bent backwards, my spine almost breaking. I would not be able to do that myself. I was screaming and foaming from my mouth, while they held their crosses against me and splashed me with holy water. It burned. They went on …

At 3 am of Monday, I broke free. The old dungeon was so old that the stones on the wall were weakening. I pushed the shackles that were stuck in the stone continually, and the stones finally broke. I saw the face of the priest go blank. I could smell shit on his pants. The exorcist doubled his efforts to try to hold me down with his cross, but to no avail. I was already jumping at the priest throat, laughing at the exorcist’s failure. My laugh, my voice were different. It was a hoarse, thick, manly voice. What I said, it said, I do not remember. I just remember a gush of warm blood splattered across my face as I slashed open the priest’s neck with my fingernails. The priest fell on his knees, holding his throat with both hands, but it was too late.

I swung the chains around and hit the exorcist as he was running towards the exit. I think he intended to lock me in there, the fool. The chains hit him in the right ankle, hooked around it thanks to the weight of the stones on their end, and I pulled him. Thud, he fel on the floor. I went into all fours and crept onto him, staring into his tearful eyes as he begged mercy and prayed to his god for salvation. It did not help him, as the shackles they used to hold me for a whole day were the ones who suffocated the holy life out of him.

At that point, the merging was complete. There was no me and it. We were one person. Or should I say, one being? For I was no person anymore. We coexisted. I gave it a body, and it gave me power. I was the host, and we shared my body. I needed it, and it needed me. Finally, my existence had a meaning.

To hell with the sun, he thought half-opening his eyes as the first rays of sunshine woke him up. The sun, the world’s most insistent interrogation light, in a questioning that repeated every day. After all, if finding an answer to the meaning of life is its very purpose, wouldn’t the sun be an excellent interrogator? He sighed. What kind of stupid thoughts are these? Then again, aren’t all morning thoughts nonsensical? He‘d rather go back to sleep, he thought turning to the other side. He hated waking up.

Alas, the daily routine was ruthless and escaping it was virtually impossible without consequences. Those dreaded consequences, haunting everyone all the time, keeping them from relaxing and enjoying themselves. On the other hand, keeping them from going crazy after a while too, I guess. Been there and not going back. He hopped off the bed. The routine itself wasn’t his problem. Robotically, he started preparing himself to go to work.

In the bus he caught himself staring emptily outside the window at a stop, watching an old lady water her plant, talking. Talking to it, perhaps. He was reminded of a movie he‘d watched years ago, a character in it saying that talking to one’s plants is a sign of loneliness. He himself liked plants and flowers as well, perhaps due to memories of his mother, a florist. As a kid he had learned all kinds of flowers and even what each one of them symbolized and when it should or should not be gifted. Reminiscing childhood memories while on the bus to work. How about this for a lonely moment?

The hours at work passed extremely slowly, as usual, the sense of time passing bent by the notorious force familiar to everyone, boredom. And how can I not be bored in that place? As a teenager, he dreamt of becoming a painter, but when the inevitable disillusionment arrived along with her best friend, adulthood, he ended up as a graphics designer in a firm. His job paid very well and thus painting was pushed down to a talent that went wasted, as so often happens. Didn’t have enough of it anyway, wasn’t that the assessment? Maybe. Or maybe not. Not certain enough to risk it. Those dreaded consequences. Painting had been reduced now to a mere hobby. Despite that, he still got the brochure for the upcoming exhibition that the local gallery would host. Same as he did for the last three such exhibitions he ended up not attending. Too much work keeping him away, he said back those times. Growing dull, he thought now. Instead of going straight back home, he decided to go grab a cup of coffee, wake up from this lethargy.

Walking towards the caf�, he started reflecting once more. Curious how many things one notices while walking the streets alone. The hidden beauties of this world that otherwise go unnoticed, the ugliness that one filters away while being at good company. People, reactions, interactions, conversations. The ugliness in some beauties and the beauty in some of the ugly ones. Feelings of sadness or contempt for the former, feelings of empathy and joy about the latter. But after a while, the seed of apathy that’s rooted deep in the soul of every human being begins to grow, for the cure to that, is becoming part of all this and sharing it with others.
And I miss that so much. He exhaled.
Lost in the daily routine, he hadn’t realized that he had alienated and had been alienated by almost everyone and this was starting to get to him. He looked around and for a moment panicked by how he perceived his surroundings. Felt stranded, the crowded environment looking like an ocean surrounding a deserted island. He shook himself and moved on.

The problem was, he concluded while waiting for his coffee to be served, that he had remained stationary for too long, a rock in that unapproachable island his mind so fittingly conjured during the walk, his days the waves crashing on him ever so slowly eating on the rocky surface, making it smooth, numb. Getting lyric, are we? He scoffed. Not enough talent for a painter but maybe enough for a writer. Despite himself, he grinned. Oh god, how about this for a lonely moment? Half-grinning still, he turned his attention to outside the caf�’s window.

He always enjoyed watching people, noticing the little patterns in their behavior, getting excited whenever something unexpected would happen. He spaced out watching a father playing with his son, until the sound of a voice, to his great surprise directed at him, broke the silence. He turned.
“Hello, I am sorry if I interrupt you but I noticed you have the brochure from the gallery I am planning to attend. I can’t find my own for the life of me so could you perhaps give me some information?”
He looked up to see a young woman looking at him with eyes full of anticipation. She was wearing a flowery summer dress. Time freezing for a moment, he noticed the type of flower making the pattern on the dress. Iris. He glanced upward, finally meeting her green eyes.
Waking up had never felt so nice.


Of demon horns and freckles

The phrase ‘feed one to the lions’ had never felt so ironic, Anna thought.

Carrying the body of yet another lifeless girl in her arms. This one had been blessed with how her body stored her fats. Blessed had also been Anna’s demon mother, who dined on her serving girls’ large breasts and then slumber peacefully until her next meal.

Anna concluded she had walked far enough from the house where the foul stench of a dead carcass would not follow back.

Anna dropped the girl unceremoniously, moonlight shone over and cast its shine over the girl’s body and Anna felt her eyes droop to notice some highlights.

The girl’s toes had curled during her last breath, and now have firmed. Her crotch clothed, a small white, but crimson taint, skirt rounded her hips exposing her skinny thighs.

Besides her top to toe freckled body, the girl had one of the most noticeable features on her. A big bright red birthmark that contrasted the young girl’s pale skin, it extended over the side of her stomach.

Alas, such sight was no longer visible. Now hidden in smudged blood, from flailing her arms in struggle to fight back and later from dropping them by her side, it had hidden it completely. A large dark size of dried blood now laid in what once located her bosoms, some blood streaks have managed to seep on the outer frayed end of her tiny skirt.

Anna exhaled a shaky breath, relieved by the knowledge that she wouldn’t have to bring that garment back and that it meant one less girl in their household.

A frown formed on her face right after.
Staring at the mess she had made, recalling how her hands had trembled while she cut her flesh.

I'm so ... stupid scolded Anna
It had been difficult to make the girl cooperate, they never tamed no matter how long they stayed. But adaptation was their fate as was their fate to obey and die as a sacrifice for something good.

That is, if you consider it good... For Anna? It was not.

Anna stood in the cold weather, watching over her carcass. The moonlight started to shine brighter, previous partially obstructed by the clouds. And the girl’s dull brown bushy hair colored almost entirely red. Her curly locks falling around her shoulders and her eyes were slightly open.

Dark startling brown eyes stared back at Anna.

Anna felt her eyes sting. This could have been her. She was a half blood, it would take so little to have her mother turn on her. Memories flooded to what had happened earlier when her mother had displayed an odd mood.

“Bring another”

“But m�ther, I cannot give you another set. It will take months to groom them and cutting them traditionally.”

Anna had frozen on spot when her mother advanced towards her and grabbed Anna’s arms tightly, her nails digging into skin as she began to sniff her chest. Lick. Taste.

"M�ther!" cried Anna "Please, it's me"

"Then bring me another one, the freckled girl"

A gentle breeze woke her from her thoughts, reminding her that she had no further business staying, after all Anna was naked and as the night creeps, so does the cold.

Her eyes fall upon the girl’s chest again.
Her bleeding has stopped since a few hours, right when Anna’s mother asked to take the trash outside.

“It will stink the house,” she had exclaimed “and remove your own garments – they will stain otherwise”

“Fuck you” muttered Anna. Uncertain who was more deserving from her profanity.

“It is your fault! Your own fault ya hear me! I'll have to find new dumb girls like you to save my own neck!” lashed Anna decidedly, screaming before kicking her bare foot against the girl’s head. It didn’t budge, in fact it was as hard as a rock.

“Ouch, fackfackfack! What the hell are you?"

The girl’s eyes moved unexpectedly and a gruff voice coughed out before it spoke:

"I don't die"

The girl who was no longer dead, sat up before altering her position to stand up. Her chest bled heavily.

"How is this possible?" Anna cried, a tremble through her voice.

"I am ginger"


no offense to gingers.


How I developed a taste for raw meat

We arrived early. It was 4.30 when the last of the fellow passengers got into a car, leaving me alone on a small, unremarkable square named after a poet. I didn’t know anyone in this town, I didn’t understand the murmur of jolly teenagers that passed me by on their way back from a night club; the poet’s name was written in a script that was like poetry itself – almost dreamlike, half-remembered half-foreseen, concealing its true meaning. Yet I was calm, sitting on a low fence under a tree, with the suitcase holding all my earthly possessions by my feet. I left behind everything that tied me to the city I had called home when I decided to take up this exploration, to step into the unknown, to search for a tongue that could express things kept unsaid, and I felt safe in the knowledge that wherever this journey took me, I’d end up closer to myself.

Just as I put the lighter back into the pocket of my coat, warming my soul on the habit that, they say, will eventually kill my body, I heard her steps down the street called Resurrection or something – I forgot everything my guide had written in our last night’s exchange the moment my eyes met her dark gaze. „The hotels are all booked, the place is full of your colleagues. You’ll stay with me.“ I just silently followed, taking her words as an order. I guess that every tourist would get a bit lost here, especially in the cold morning light that pulled a curtain of nondescriptness even over town’s better features, but the way I relied on this enchanting stranger and the one language we had in common made me feel like my life was in her hands, and it was both strangely comfortable and exciting.


The hours spent at the conference are a blur; I still wonder whether I actually attended or just imagined it all, even the concrete building that she said looked like a church and thus never entered. Only in the presence of my guide did the town feel real, and those times themselves were the most real in my life – I didn’t think I’d ever been anywhere or ever spoken to anyone else, no other place in the world had existed, no past or future ever had or would happen; there was only that, but I’m afraid all my languages are too dead to describe it.

I presented the paper on Megleno-Romanian phonetics on the very first day, still tired and sleepy after a short nap on her couch. „You should move to the bed tonight“, she said later at the restaurant, in the same tone in which she recommended a dish suitable for my vegetarian diet. I barely had the time to digest her suggestion. The next thing I remember was being in her mouth and then all over the sheets, falling asleep with her small, cold hand resting in mine; it was still there when I woke up.

In daylight she hid behind those ridiculous black sunglasses even in the shy November sun; I thought she knew that otherwise I would go blind for all the things she wanted to show me. And did she have much to show! She knew the best places to walk and to sit and to hear the music and to observe the birds and to smell the sea and knew the best ways to instill them all into my memory. She spoke about history with solemnity and sadness as if she’d been through all of it – in her voice I could hear the sighs at being tortured in the blood red tower, could feel her hand tremble while she was explaining the names of certain streets we avoided. She was the best company a linguist could ask for, equally adept at reading inscriptions on ancient monuments and pointing out peculiarities of her people’s modern vocabulary. Maybe that’s how it could feel like I’d spent centuries there with her, and not just what the calendar tells me had been a few short days.


The morning of my departure was colored by sorrow that lay heavy on my chest; I tried to drown it in the waves of her coal black hair spilled over my shoulder. After feeling a tiny kiss on my neck, I pulled her closer in a tight embrace, knowing that in just half an hour I'd have to let go.

She was in the kitchen, making her favorite juice, while I was getting dressed, disentangling myself from the intricate threads she weaved around that apartment, allowing me to feel like I was at home. "Don't forget anything", she said, helping me pack, but "I won't" barely made it into a whisper. I put on my scarf, not suspecting that the curse of memory was a noose that would keep choking me on sleepless nights.

At the door, her eyes struggled in the light from the corridor that I had already stepped into. "Goodbye. This tomb locks from the inside," she smiled, with a drop of juice still hanging from her lower lip, and gave me a kiss. If I had known it was our last, I would've held her longer. Still walking down the stairs I started dreaming of a return, but when the fresh autumn air outside washed over me, somehow I knew that no map or train could lead me back there.


For months I’d longed for that last taste of her, tried to find it in other mouths, other cities, in the richest fruits of the wide world’s gardens, not accepting that what had been lost could not be regained. I got afraid I’d lose myself before finding her again, but couldn’t stop. All in vain, till this spring.

In one of my searches for ever better words and the meaning of silence, I found myself in a corner of the Earth far from her city. The market was full of people moving around with the busyness of bees, apparently gathering into groups along the river bank. Their chattering noise was at times interrupted by animal cries followed by what sounded like chants of a priest, giving the whole mess an aura of a ritual. I approached one such lot with my arms outstretched and hands cupped the same way as those of the locals around me, expecting a blessing that my heart felt it needed despite not knowing where it would come from. As soon as the gift landed on my palms, I was pushed by the mass away from the giver, without ever seeing his or her face.

I kept walking, feeling like I missed a healing look of the savior, though I had only a slight idea of what I just witnessed. Only when the voices behind me became indistinguishable from the wind in the trees, did I lay my eyes on the huge chunk of bovine liver in my hand. So soft and wet against my skin, it felt it could slip away any moment. I put the other hand on top of it, caressing it gently, when a memory started awakening in my fingers. In a single breath, driven by the strangest urge, I brought it to my mouth and sank my teeth into its delicate spongy flesh. Its death on my tongue, still warm and dripping with blood, finally felt like my undying, undead love.

Entry#5 (Oh my god we actually have 5!)
Planeswalker waded through the sea of sand, but left no wake behind him. The ravaging sandstorm would have blinded anyone who used eyes to see the world around them. Fortunately, Planeswalker suffered no such handicaps. He stumbled upon a tip of a monolith half buried in the sand. Its revealed part crumbled by the unending storm. Diving into the sand to study the lower, sheltered part he discovered it was carved in pictograms. Primitive method of chronicling, but nothing he hasn’t seen countless times already.

It spoke of prosperous, agricultural people, living in harmony. Never knew war, never knew famine, never knew sorrow or suffering. Then overnight, the sand came and devoured them all. The last glyph was barely complete. He sensed two skeletons right next to the monolith. Embraced. An artisan parent who carved the story, and his child. Not his people… he sighed and lost all interest. Unprepared people destroyed by nature, their last, failed attempt to preserve their legacy and last goodbyes of parent and child… nothing he hasn’t seen countless times already.


Moving through to another world, he found himself on an asteroid, passing by a twin solar system. No. Two stars, who never before seen each other, hurling unstoppably towards one another. A smaller, water-covered planet of the blue star, crashed into large Jovian planet of the red star. If noise could travel through the vacuum of space it would have deafened most creatures. Not Planeswalker though. A starship passed next to him, and another of completely different design and origin. Carrying what little hope the people of these worlds had with them, venturing into the unknown. Neither of those people were his own. A flash of purple plasma soared around the impact area instantly vaporizing surrounding debris as the stars gave birth to a black hole. Planeswalker left for another world before the shockwave could reach him. Not that it would damage him in any way. He’s just seen it all countless times already.


He was in a large scantly lit amber hall. In the center, a dodecagonal table was filled with what looked like food. Right above the table three large plum masses of eyes and tentacles were floating, grabbing pieces of sustenance and stuffing it in one of three beaked “mouths” that each possessed. Just a well-endowed family having lunch. Nothing he hasn’t se- “Aren’t you going to introduce yourself Planeswalker?” the creature spoke in his mind. …well that was new.

It took him a while to remember how to communicate “Forgive me, I wasn’t aware I could be sensed by anyone.”

“And that makes your intrusion here less rude?” The largest blob approached him and sighed “For eons your kind hasn’t changed.”

“You know something of my people?” Planeswalker’s heart raced “I have been searching for them for-”

“Of course you have.” All eyes from all three blobs blinked in unison “Always searching for something. Always curiously wandering far beyond the things anyone should ever wander beyond. Searching for something new and exciting. Never stopping to give the already seen things a second glance. And then when you get lost, who’s to blame? Fate? Destiny? Some other untellable force? Nothing but guideless children.”

“My people are the most elder race!” Planeswalker took quite an offence “They’ve seen all there is to see in the world!”

“That is a very relative term” the blobs tilted themselves slightly with their eyelids half closed “And your sights are rather narrow… prove me wrong. Look around you. Take time to let your surroundings sink in your senses. Will your initial thought about what occurs here change?”

He hated indulging this disrespectful creature, but if it could point him to home then he had little choice. He observed the three creatures, moving in perfect unison… “You all are one!”

“Precisely.” Words flew into his mind… from behind him. Half a dozen more blobs were present. “One would assume that seeing “all there is to see in the world” would leave your mind more open for uncommon things, yet it made it… duller.” All blobs closed their eyes and shook left to right. “You also rushed your answer. This is not a meal, but a funeral. And I am the undertaker.”

Planeswalker was unwilling to process that information. The Undertaker continued “What you perceived as a wrath of nature could as well have been caused by the people who uncontrollably deforested in order to sustain their population boom, to name but one example of your shortsightedness. A race that’s seen everything, and yet saw nothing.”

Creature was reading his mind, and his discomfort was growing rapidly “Where can I find my people?”

“How should I know?” Undertaker shrugged with his tentacles. “Like I said, your kin is always on the move. You’d have more luck waiting in one place than searching aimlessly. But that “action” is not really in your blood now is it?”

“No… it is not.” Planeswalker turned to move to another world. Before he left he heard the Undertaker say “Even now you existed in this plane for far longer than you ever did in one plane in your lifetime…”

An advice given to someone else on how to live his life. Nothing he hasn’t heard countless times already.


A battlefield. Pink skinned people in green uniforms dying left and right to a hail of small metal balls that punctured their bodies. War was a simple thing in Planeswalker’s mind. Disagreement and unwillingness to cooperate always leads to one side trying to dominate another… Maybe it was fear this time? Maybe this worlds resources could only support one of two sides? Would he stick around long enough to find out? Truth be told, Planeswalker made his peace with the fact that he will always be… Alone. Such was the fate of his people.

If anyone notices anything wrong (Technical issues, not mental state of contestants. We do not judge.) send me a PM about it and I'll see what I can do about it.

Also... You will have one month to vote for this. I will ping you ALL regularly.

Mar 27th '19, 02:59 PM
5 entries?? Nice!

So the woman in 4 tasted like death? Or was it the absence of her that did? Did I miss something? :hmm

Mar 27th '19, 08:25 PM
Voted - keep up the good writing guys!

Apr 1st '19, 10:16 AM
Bump. Give votes people!

Apr 10th '19, 08:51 PM
Shameless doublebump

Apr 13th '19, 03:19 PM
Voted for #4 (https://www.opbforums.com/forums/usertag.php?do=list&action=hash&hash=4) , I thought it was the most immersive. Ironically I found the one leading the votes atm, #3 (https://www.opbforums.com/forums/usertag.php?do=list&action=hash&hash=3) , the weakest.

Apr 24th '19, 03:20 PM
Last chance to vote people! Gimme those votes!
Shaki Nekomamushi Gir SniperKing where is the staff at? :stare Lead by example :smile

Apr 24th '19, 04:51 PM
Last chance to vote people! Gimme those votes!
Shaki Nekomamushi Gir SniperKing where is the staff at? :stare Lead by example :smile

The floor is LAVA!

Apr 24th '19, 08:56 PM
Me, whilst reading #4 (https://www.opbforums.com/forums/usertag.php?do=list&action=hash&hash=4) : :accepted:, :pwease:, :hmm, :kidding:

Me, reading #4 (https://www.opbforums.com/forums/usertag.php?do=list&action=hash&hash=4) 's title again:

It is really between 4 and 5 for me. I have to be honest and say that #4 (https://www.opbforums.com/forums/usertag.php?do=list&action=hash&hash=4) is def the best written piece of all. Good work everyone!

Apr 24th '19, 09:50 PM
Last chance to vote people! Gimme those votes!
Shaki Nekomamushi Gir SniperKing where is the staff at? :stare Lead by example :smile
:gir: I'm not staff you noob :pff:

Apr 25th '19, 09:50 PM
Last chance to vote people! Gimme those votes!
Shaki Nekomamushi Gir SniperKing where is the staff at? :stare Lead by example :smile

Yeah ya plebs

May 9th '19, 06:16 PM
5 entries?? Nice!

So the woman in 4 tasted like death? Or was it the absence of her that did? Did I miss something? :hmm

I'll explain it in a PM, don't want to take away other people's right to their own interpretation :)

May 10th '19, 07:52 PM
I'll explain it in a PM, don't want to take away other people's right to their own interpretation :)

PM me too, I am very curious of your thoughts behind this! XD