A few months back, my English teacher gave us an assignment to write a story.
Now, I’m pretty sure the guy’s a drug addict, so about a week later he sends as an email saying ‘STOP THE PROGRESS’ in big red capital letters. He didn’t send it to me. I finished the story a few days later.
Everyone told me, when they still thought we needed to write this thing, that it needed to be at least ten pages long, and that he wanted it to be about fifteen.
Being a writer, it quite freaked me out.
Writing fifteen pages is hard. It takes time and much effort. We had about two weeks to write this thing. The idea that some other people, who don’t even identify themselves as writers, could write fifteen page stories in two weeks made me nuts. I wanted to kill myself. The one thing I thought I was talented at was apparently something every jerk could do.
But eventually, I got myself together. These idiotic jerks I started to hate would probably write crappy stories anyway. And if they don’t – and I’d find out that every mother’s son who knows English can write stories of this length that are worth something – than, I could kill myself in peace, knowing that I was worth absolutely nothing, and that the one thing about myself I thought was unique – writing – was apparently NOT.
To be frank, I’m still waiting – you see, we’re supposed to write it next year, so I guess I’d see by then whether there’s a point to my life or not. Those of my classmate who already started writing the story are divided to two: people who couldn’t pass the tenth page, and people that got to the eighteenth and barely started the story. It’s sort of comforting, because I wrote nineteen pages (in a day!) and already finished. And, in my opinion, beginning stories is much easier than developing them.
Well, that’s the story behind the story. The story itself is not a masterpiece, but it has a beginning and an end, and it is finished – and I don’t have many of those around. I usually just write single ‘scenes’.
I took characters from the Third Dimension, but I’m not sure whether the plot would fit the rest of its events. We’ll see, I guess.
I won’t post the entire story (it’s nineteen pages long, after all), but I will post the first chapter (each chapter is quite short), and upload the .doc version of the rest.
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A Heroic Quest?
The Discharge of the Previous Servant
On the Highest Place in the Darkest of Chambers there was the Tallest Throne.
On it, sat the Queen of Hell, the Guardian of Destruction, the Maintaining of All Evil, the Mother of All Demons, the Goddess of Witches, the Dark Feminine Principle.
She wasn’t happy.
There were nine gateways leading to the Darkest of Chambers; four on her right, four on her left, and one opposing her. The eight gateways on her right and left were locked.
The one opposing her was being locked.
It was being locked by none else but the two most loyal of the six hundred and sixty five Beasts of Hell.
And trust me, my dear friends, there was a reason – a most specific, fundamental reason – why these beasts weren’t called the Beasts of Disney World.
And the Two Most Loyal Beasts of Hell were now walking towards the forth, least free person in the Darkest of Chambers. They stood behind him, unseen but well felt.
‘You failed, it seems,’ said the Queen of Hell, the Guardian of Destruction, the Maintaining of All Evil, the Mother of All Demons, the Goddess of Witches, the Dark Feminine Principle. ‘Again.’
‘My… my master… it was too hard! How could I fight alone against such a thing?’
‘Don’t try to talk yourself out of your mess! You’re a failure. You’re useless. You’re pathetic. You were so much more charismatic in your first life, Abraham.’
‘I… I…’ he stuttered. He stumbled, and fell to the Floor of Nightmares. He was desperate.
And in desperate times, desperate ideas crawl into one’s mind. Ideas of meaninglessness; and in times like this, one might abandon his hopes and believes. Hopes of justice, hopes of redemption. And in times like this, one might not only begin to wonder whether justice and redemption were on their way, but whether justice and redemption existed at all; and then, slowly, begin to wonder whether they could even exist in the first place.
At this point, one might even feel remorse. Not for having done evil; but for believing there was such thing as evil, or at least for believing such thing should have been avoided in any kind of way. Not for not doing good; but for sacrificing so much because you believed you did something worthy, while you just threw your life away. And most of all, for believing that by not slaughtering your son, you avoided selling you soul to the devil; while what you did was willingly handing it to the closest next thing.
At this point, Abram cursed himself, his son, all his offspring, and most importantly, his God.
‘Just give me… one last chance.’
‘I’ve been giving you one last chances for four thousand years,’ she said sneeringly. ‘Take him back to his cell. And then, bring me someone else.
‘I want the Oldest One.’
The Two Most Loyal Beasts of Hell grasped Abram, and dragged him to the Cells of Despair.
All souls passed through Kaf HaKela before moving on, before they were brought to what God called justice. But some souls – to which no proper justice could have been given (to God’s opinion) – stayed there; and those poor souls were brought to the Cells of Despair. And they were lost; held in neither Hell nor Heaven, expecting nothing for nothing expected them.
They were just lost, lost forever.
And the first human to be held in Kaf HaKela, though not the first to pass through there, was now sitting on the Floor of Nightmares.
He’d been sitting on the Floor of Nightmares for the last few millenniums.
There was no point in moving. There was no one to talk to.
He tried to stop; stop talking, stop moving, stop thinking, stop existing. And he was doing quite well; better than he had expected.
But no one could go on like this forever.
Only that this time what ruined his succession was one of the Guardians of Hell.
He opened the cell – which was locked for no reason, since the Prisoners of Meaninglessness had nowhere to go – and said, ‘Come.’
Slowly, painfully, the Oldest Prisoner of Kaf HaKela raised his head, which wasn’t moved for seven centuries. He gradually, excruciatingly opened his mouth; but no voice was heard.
The Guardian of Hell grasped the most old prisoner, and dragged him, not very gently, but quite slowly, to the Darkest of Chambers.