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My Comp Story - The Black Hand
Topic Started: Jun 5 2004, 04:30 PM (251 Views)
SavannaFC
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The Black Hand
by Me

It is cold.. It's always cold.
I pulled my travelling cloak tighter in an attempt to ward off the night's chill. The moon was out, as was the stars, their light cutting deep into the dark veil of the cloudless autumn sky. Freezing gusts of wind blew in my face, almost as if it tried to take the skin off my skull. The wind was most apparent here out on the grassy plains. Too much time have I spent in the open fields. I continued forward towards the woods where I hoped to find some relief from tonight's harsh gale.
As I stepped into the woods, the wind relented. With one hand holding together my cloak, I brought up the other to rub some warmth into my face. Then I smelt it. The faint smell of smoke trickled into my nostrils. Smoke from firewood, a campsite perhaps. I listened carefully for any sound, and looked hard into the dark woods for any signs of light. I saw it then, the light from a fire, deeper into the woods. I began to head towards it, my steps crushing the dry fallen leaves into the dirt ground.
It was a man who sat by the fire, his hands outstretched to the flames, embracing the warmth it provided. He was a traveller too, I told myself. Beside him lay a five foot hiking pole, with a small sack of belongings tied to one end. A hobo, he was. One with no home. One like me.
I stepped out of the darkness and into the firelight, offering no introduction at first. He was startled and jumped from his seat, reaching for his pole. We looked at each other for several long moments, then he relaxed. He realized then that I was a wanderer just like him.
"Ye be just a boy." The stranger said with a thick accent.
"It's too cold out there." I said. "Will you not share your fire with me?"
"Yeah, sure." He replied. "Come an' find yerself a spot o'er here by the fire." He sat back down and began to untie his sack.
I walked in and sat down. The fire did little to warm my body. I've been chilled for far too long. The man had produced from his sack a small loaf of bread and proceeded to break off a piece.
"Ye want some bread?" The stranger asked. I shook my head, indicating that I was not hungry for bread. "Suit yerself." he mumbled as he stuffed the piece into his mouth.
"So," he began again after swallowing, "how does a young lad like you end up by yerself out here?"
So many people have asked me that question. Yet I've never mind answering it. It reminds me of my past, of the life I had once lived. I began to tell this man my story, of why I ended up wandering into his campsite at this time of night. As I told the story, like every other time, I would re-live it in my mind with a flashback.
Only a year ago, it had been, when I still lived with my parents. Just them and me, no brothers or sisters, right by the lake. I was out playing in the snow, the first fall of winter. I was running and laughing, dancing with the soft white flakes falling around me. I must have wandered onto the dock without knowing, so entranced was I with the first fall. I realized my folly when I fell, off the dock, into the frigid waters of the lake. I called for help and tried to swim to shore. My legs slowed, as did my arms, and I began to go under. My father must have heard my call, for before the water swallowed my head, I saw him reach for me. He pulled me out of the freezing lake and carried me away. I was tired, very tired, and closed my eyes. I felt that I was laying in the snow. Soft it was, like a bed. I stared up at the sky, the flakes slowly falling around me. Then a dark figure stood before me, shadowing me, a dark figure wrapped in a shroud of black cloth.
"Your heart stopped." he said to me, "A bit early, I might say." His voice was like the wind. Soft, flowing, and cold. "You'll need a new one, if you wish to see your parents again."
I tried to reach out, but I couldn't move. "Please." I begged. "I don't want to die."
"Very well," said the dark figure, "I will give you a new heart. However, you must serve me from now on."
I quickly agreed, unable to stand his cold breath any longer. Though I couldn't see into the shadows of his dark hood, I could tell he was smiling, happy with my answer. He reached into the dark folds of his robes and drew forth a small black object. He brought it down to me, holding it just above my chest.
"Here, you can have mine." the dark figure said, "I don't need it."
Then he pressed the object into my chest. His hand felt like cold iron, and I gasped for air. My entire body shivered then - a sign that I was alive. The hand stayed on my chest, burning into me the essence of the dark figure. I closed my eyes and embraced it. I was alive. The cold I felt could not shake my happiness.
Then the hand released me, and I opened my eyes, to look into the teary eyes of my mother. I was in my room, in my bed, smothered in blankets, my hair still wet. I pulled out my hand to reach for her, my dear mother, to reach for her face.
Upon that touch, that one slight touch, her face had contorted to reveal to me the most horrifying expression of agony I could ever imagine. Her skin began to crack and peel away, the colour of the flesh turning from the healthy red to deathly gray. I couldn't pull my hand away, so shocked was I. So terrified. Her body stiffened and then she fell away, falling audibly to the hard wood floor. My hand had frozen her solid.
My father rushed into the room, his eyes fell to the frozen body on the floor. His expression was that of bewilderment and utmost horror, unable to understand what had just happened. That was how his face remained after he reached for me, frozen just like my mother.
My story ended then. I was never able to finish the story, never able to tell them how I continued to kill the rest of the town and ran away into the night. I looked down to my hand. It was clasped tightly around the stranger's wrist, the piece of bread he was holding didn't freeze. I let him go then, and returned to sit by the fire. His frozen body dropped to the dirt, and there he shall remain until spring comes again. He had offered me bread, but for bread I didn't hunger.
Again, I looked to my hand. The townsfolk had called me the Acolyte of Death, the Hungerer of Souls, the Child with the Black Hand. And it was cold. It's always cold.


The End



Okay.. any comments, suggestions, even insults are welcome. Thanks.
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doom
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The Local Night Roamer
I LIKED THAT STORY IT WAS 1 OF MY FAVORITES ON THIS SITE AND VERY ORIGINAL BRAVO BRAVO MAKE MORE OF EM.
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Muhyah
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Spirit of the Phoenix
Thats a very interesting story you wrote. It puts a twist to the "Midas Touch" story. Well done!
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dutchess
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Brackenwood Lightweight
woah, v original and strange, awesomeness dude, awesomeness x :D :P
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