Marked Man, A literary portrait Options

[Guest_Cailean_*]

... and he kept walking.

Soft sound of his steps, bare feet rasping on the sand. The sunlight washed over him, as the crashing waves did not. Walked slowly yet with purpose, with determination. Sometimes he wondered why he was so driven, why did he walk this long road? He supposed ... it was just what he had always done. There is a certain momentum in routine and habit.

As he trudged along the beach, surrounded by the light of the sun over the waves, he thought about his journey. Ever walking upon this beach, as if time stood still, the sun ever upon the horizon. His only clues that he was not in some eternal stasis with an unchanging landscape that may have been painted upon some wall, were the waves regularly crashing upon the shore, and his own presence here.

He felt the marks upon his flesh, scars of the past, a part of him now. A burden he bore as if the titan Atlas, holding up the world. He reflected upon that metaphor. No, he did not carry the world, just the torment of one man.

... he walked onward.

He could feel the essence of each tattoo seep into his very being. Were they merely representations of tribulation, or something more ... malevolent?

The Viper. He felt it coiling around his left bicep, fangs sinking deep. He remembered the burning green venom of jealousy and possessiveness, flooding through his blood. His heart ached with the memory of the love he had lost to that bitter poison. Her once caring words twisted with hate. The serpent blameless - it was he who had embraced it; how could he not expect to feel the sting of its bite?

The Werewolf. The savage teeth still tore, the cruel claws slashed his flesh. On his right shoulder the wrathful lycanthrope danced his dance of death - gleefully wallowing in an orgy of destruction and gruesome feasting. He remembered the state he had sunk to, more beast than man, base urges fostered by hatred of the world, yet still more hatred of himself. He had revelled in the excesses that such an animalistic soul brings, yet with none of the purity of the natural order. A monstrous hybrid of animal and human, with the most repellent traits of both.

The Chains. Weighing down his wrists, his ankles with their shackles, draped over his collarbone and neck like a noose. He wished he could loosen their hold upon him, shift some of the weight, but being tattooed into his flesh this was a futile hope. The weight of guilt upon his soul, the terrible things he had done, the people who had suffered, for he could never make amends. That was why he walked so slowly, the weight not only of his own pain, but the pain of others.

The Demon. No grinning imp, or strangely cute devil this, but dark majesty, a creature of shadow and flame. Digging its fey talons into his back, riding him with its malignant power, like some twisted loa and its slave of chevaux. Taking him over with thoughts and feelings of abject fright and terror, sending tendrils of dread into his very being. The fear to act, to make a mistake, to fail. It seemed far better to hesitate, procrastinate, be passive - let everything happen without him. An observer impartial, always blameless, yet also guilty by omission. And the demon, of no substance, had spread its corruption through him, claimed a piece of his soul.

The Vortex. Spiralling blackness, cold as space, resting over his beating heart, chilling him with its otherworldliness. Infecting him with its entropy, its seductive voice of apathy and self-annihilation calling out to him to abandon his journey, to end this torment called Life. As he endured, day by day, the unrelenting suffering, the call of the vortex, singularity siren, grew stronger. He did not know how much more he could resist.

He looked out to the sea, and she was waiting for him. The restless spectre beckoned him to join her, peace in the waters. She had been there for an ageless time, ever beckoning him to her. And in her eyes, there was no hate, no reproach, no anger. Just torment, and he knew she mirrored the torment within himself. The tortured spirit merely wanted them both to be at peace.

He knew of the peace she offered, the oblivion of Death, that she sincerely meant it as a means of ending his torment, her torment.

Turning from her again to look at the unmade road ahead of him, he wondered about his goal, the horizon, the dying sun. Such beauty in demise. Was it actually the sun's death? He couldn't remember where that radiant orb had been before.

Was it death or rebirth?

... and he kept walking.

[Guest_Zeus˛_*]

Cailean,
This has just a hint of Dante's Inferno.
Like you you set this up and then chronicle his inflictions.
Good display of the nuances with each of the demons that tormented .
Profound with the imagery.
Minor item in the second stanza, second sentence : Ever walking upon this beach, as if time stood still, maybe just: Ever walking, as if time stood still,.
Liked the last line, kind of sums it up.
Larry, z2

[Guest_Cailean_*]

Thanks for your comments, ZeusxZeus :) And I agree with that line change, makes the line a lot less wordy and I mention the beach earlier. I've changed my masters to match that :) Thanks for that too, feel free to poke around with anything else that you may have an issue with. I get an impression here that criticism here is constructive and friendly, and I can definitely live with that, and that's what I give back too. Although, I can't properly appreciate poetry or offer suggestions on it ... my poetry skills SUCK!

May your life get a little better every day. Blessed be.

Cailean Darkwater.

[Cleo_Serapis]

Hi Cailean!

Well, I've FINALLY read a story in here! I've copied your story and added some of my observations on flow, punctuation mostly below. What a neat story! The metaphors are wonderful and the conclusion is profound.

Nicely done!
~Cleo  

... and he kept walking. {He kept walking.} I have an issue with starting a sentence with ellipses - so here is a slight variant to mull over.

Soft sound of his steps, bare feet rasping on the sand.
AN alternative:

Bare feet rasping on the sand, softened the sound of his steps. The sunlight washed over him, as the crashing waves did not. Add 'He' ? Walked slowly yet with purpose, with determination. Sometimes he wondered why he was so driven, why did he walk this long road? He supposed ... it was just what he had always done. There is a certain momentum in routine and habit.

As he trudged along the beach, surrounded by the light of the sun over the waves, he thought about his journey. Ever walking upon this beach, as if time stood still, the sun forever upon the horizon. His only clues that he was not in of not being in some eternal stasis with an unchanging landscape that may have been painted upon some wall, were the waves regularly crashing upon the shore, and his own presence here.

He felt the marks upon his flesh, scars of the past, delete [a] add {ALL} part of him now. A burden he bore as if the titan Atlas, delete [holding]  add {held} up the world. He reflected upon that metaphor. No, he did not carry the world, just the torment of one man.

... he walked onward. Delete the ellipses and capitalize the He.

He could feel the essence of each tattoo seep into his very being. Were they merely representations of tribulation, or something more ... malevolent?

The Viper. He felt it coiling around his left bicep, fangs sinking deep. He remembered the burning green venom of jealousy and possessiveness, flooding through his blood. His heart ached with the memory of the love he had lost to that bitter poison. Her once caring words twisted with hate. The serpent blameless - it was he who had embraced it; how could he not expect to feel the sting of its bite?

The Werewolf. The savage teeth still tore, {use semi-colon instead} the cruel claws slashed his flesh. On his right shoulder the wrathful lycanthrope danced his dance of death - gleefully wallowing in an orgy of destruction and gruesome feasting. He remembered the state he had sunk to, more beast than man, base urges fostered by hatred of the world, yet still more hatred of himself. He had reveled sp.> {reveled} in the excesses that such an animalistic soul brings, yet with none of the purity of the natural order.   Add {He was} >fragment -A monstrous hybrid of animal and human, with the most repellent traits of both.

The Chains. Weighing down his wrists, his ankles with their shackles, draped over his collarbone and neck like a noose. He wished he could loosen their hold upon him, shift some of the weight, but being tattooed into his flesh this was a futile hope. The weight of guilt ADD {lay} upon his soul, the terrible things he had done, the people who had suffered, for he could never make amends. That was why he walked so slowly, the weight not only of his own pain, but the pain of others.

The Demon. No grinning imp, or strangely cute devil { delete [this], but dark majesty, a creature of shadow and flame. Digging its fey talons into his back, riding him with its malignant power, like some twisted loa {what is a loa?} and its slave of chevaux. Taking him over with thoughts and feelings of abject fright and terror, sending tendrils of dread into his very being. The fear to act, to make a mistake, to fail delete {. It } seemed far better to hesitate, procrastinate, be passive - let everything happen without him. An observer impartial, always blameless, yet also guilty by omission. And the demon, of no substance, had spread its corruption through him, claimed a piece of his soul.

The Vortex. Spiralling sp.>{spiraling} blackness, cold as space, resting over his beating heart, chilling him with its otherworldliness. Infecting him with its entropy, its seductive voice of apathy and self-annihilation calling out to him to abandon his journey, to end this torment called Life. As he endured, day by day, the unrelenting suffering, the call of the vortex, singularity siren, grew stronger. He did not know how much more he could resist.

He looked out to the sea, and she was waiting for him. The restless spectre beckoned him to join her, peace in the waters. She had been there for an ageless time, ever beckoning him to her. And in her eyes, there was no hate, no reproach, no anger. Just torment, and he knew she mirrored the torment within him Delete >{self}. The tortured spirit merely wanted them both to be at peace.

He knew of the peace she offered, the oblivion of Death, that she sincerely meant it as a means of ending his torment, her torment.

Turning from her again to look at the unmade road ahead of him, he wondered about his goal, the horizon, the dying sun. < CHANGE TO {semi-colon} Such beauty in demise. Was it actually the sun's death? He couldn't remember where that radiant orb had been before.

Was it death or rebirth?

... and he kept walking. {He kept walking.}

[Guest_Cailean_*]

Thanks for your comments, Cleo :) I've made some changes, and also, ZeusxZeus's changes have also been added too to my master copy. Guess I gotta update the ebook and the anthology master, lol :) Oh well.

The ellipses are staying, however, call me eccentric, but I like em :)

The word "loa" is Haitian Creole, I believe. It refers to a spirit of great power, the so called "voodoo gods". In ceremonies, they enact a ritual possession on a "chevaux", French for "horse", so a mambo or houngan (female or male ritualist) is "ridden" by the loa. The connotation, probably lost on most folks, and no kicks to them, is that a twisted loa with a slave of chevaux would be a very malevolent possession indeed. Not a benign possession that brings strength and wisdom, but a possession that would be a terrible control, and effectively, a bad "trip" to liken the experience to a drug experience.

The extra Ls ... I think that's where Australian (British) English and American English clash? I think we use the extra L. My spell checker and my own experience is that there is another L ... we also spell the word "worshipper" like so. :)

Anyway, love the feedback, I gotta get to the other piece I have been trying to post about for days, stupid comp keeps crashing :)

Cailean Darkwater.