Another day, another short story by Serpent Syra. Over the last weekend, I have gotten inspiration to write three one-shots, since my brain just started producing so many fantasy-themed short stories to work my mind while writing my chaptered fantasy story, Sky. Then today, I was released from school 22 minutes after I arrived (a burning building was nearby and the smoke got into our school, so we evacuated and they sent us home immediately), so I spend that time doing homework and writing one of the planned one-shots, Eternity's Prison.
Eternity's Prison is a rather fantasy one-shot with horror elements, more like describing what a virus is doing to a dying warrior inside. Burning stomach, bloodstained bowels, just small spats of horror here and there. Anyways, the meaning is quite simple, though enhanced beautifully in my eyes. Some might feel as if the meaning should have been stronger, which I can understand, and I'd be glad to edit this. I consider this one of my best works yet, and revising parts would be a pleasure. If you find anything abnormal, weird, or mistakes, please let me know immediately. Well, here's Eternity's Prison.
Once, humans wondered if they would reach the top of their lives before death would wither their souls away forever, to haunt the bone yards and many gravesites. In another era of time, we contemplated over whether it was worth struggling to become the best when your fatality was already set, possibly coming as soon as we were given a life.
Now, our mind continues to wander the breadth of the world and its divine surroundings, feeling the need to sacrifice everything to get an eternal life in return.
We try, each and every one of us, to fight hard in our battles, learn and gain knowledge, and journey across different terrains to find our purposes. We are destined to fulfill certain dreams, certain accomplishments, to walk diverse paths and obtain happiness. Having a life that will never be wasted away by scars, blood, and feelings can be an utter luxury, though we fail to realize that this enchantment doesn’t necessarily have benevolent sides.
Very few find ceaseless souls as a curse. Bewildering as it may be, it is the more courageous enigmas of the land, the ones who have already blossomed their fantasies. Those few humans are the black spots on the white paper, arousing imperfection wherever they stand tall and proud. They fear of misery, depression, wrath, sins of the heavenly world, for being around at a timeless cost is an absolute hex.
We tend to disregard their opinions and continue to hope, every single day and night, that the world will be blessed with magic. That way, we can summon powerful forces and put our spirits under a perpetual spell.
The blinding white sand stretched across acres and acres of land, silver pearls of the moonlit sky dancing in the balmy winds. The velvety, dark-cobalt skyline was deeply defined against the actual sky, spotted with motionless golden stars and a full, silver-blazing moon.
Torrid, howling gales blustered around wildly, blowing tumbleweeds about. The heating temperatures heightened to the high nineties, baking the dunes and the grounds. Large, jagged brown rocks, with stripes of white, rose up from the surface, slashing at the hot airstreams. The day was searing, magical, and dying.
A lone shadow shifted in the distance, staggering and stumbling while wandering into the open sandbanks. He moved along the smooth surface of the arid vicinity, weaving paths around the rocks and the hallucinated sandcastles and glowing spheres. Footsteps stamped in the soft sands, the muscular warrior found himself in pure distress, screaming in his very mind.
But, he was in no hurry to find assistance from anyone. It would be only a matter of seconds before the pain would ease away, blessing him with purity and healing wounds.
His large, toned, light-skinned body was covered in slate gray armor. Once polished, mirroring surfaces, it was now covered in dust and soot and sand. A long, gray cape flapped wildly against the warrior’s back as wind blew clouds of powder past him. His face concealed in a burgundy, horned mask, the swordsman hid all of his indignant expressions under the slate of featured steel.
His immense, gold sheath crossed behind his back, bloodstained and dirty. It had been several long, heating nights and boiling, blistering days for the lost warrior, wounds slowly healing while blood hardened around the openings. But, he just tottered at his normal pace, concentrating to easing the hurt rather than finding help.
He was out in the open, deserted lands of Galabonia, a vanishing soul of the dunes. The warrior had suffered from a great battle nearly three weeks ago with an adversary, finally losing the brawl and punished by his own clan. They sent him here, the rolling wastelands of the western section in the magical world. Three excruciating weeks, twenty-one unfolding days, several unbearable hours. The swordsman still kept faith, hoping that he would still live to at least see the next daybreak.
He was well aware of the boisterous winds and searing temperatures as they climbed to the low hundreds, stomach churning in hunger and bowels shifting with infection. He had become a victim of a drugged virus, one that would leave many in ache for such a long time, finally fading away for a brief second or two before it would sting again. His fellow gang purchased the bug from a wealthy scientist and tricked him into taking the medicine with a delicious plate of food.
It was his punishment. He would have to live with it, until he would be naturally cured at a hospital. But, the treacherous desert went on for miles and miles, and he was alone. A wanderer of a wasteland.
A shadow of the sandbanks.
A withering host for a virus.
A soul locked in his fatality.
The warrior went stammering forward, legs shaking as bones itched of the traveling disease. It was spreading quickly in his bloodstream, though he was realizing exactly what was happening to him.
In a matter of time, it would tear through his skin, hungrily devouring it while rotting his bones away and clogging his throat with blood and black spats of biological compounds. He would be suffering from a vast deal of severe hemorrhage, screaming and shrieking and calling out for help.
His ribcage throbbed, feeling as if it was slicing his organs throughout his pain-filled body and sending the virus in all directions. The swordsman’s toes tingled slightly as weary, tired eyes glanced in the distance.
A silhouette of a flying beast came into view, dust and sand and ash twirling around the blackened frame. The figure spread its sharp, thin wings, bulleting out of the cloud and disappearing into the darkness of the night skies. Surely, the warrior had been hypnotized by the heat waves and collision with the sandy grounds, thinking that it was something that could assist him.
The virus was becoming worse and worse, burning his heart and starting to journey to his upper body. He could feel himself moving slower and slower, his intestines rippling like slicing daggers. Taking just a single step forward, a cold block of air exhaled out of his throat, nearly choking him with all of its might.
He screeched.
The man collapsed weakly on the sandy grounds, feeling a rush of energy being flushed out of his well-built body. He was dangerously ravenous and growing weaker as the virus began to attack his hard bones and muscle tissue. He watched as the blue-enveloped silhouette plummeted to ground, determination gleaming in its red eyes. The blackened glow of shadows quickly bolted away from its body, swirling and whirling in the hot gale, revealing its dragon features. The warrior observed the dragon beast, surprised and shocked and bewildered.
There, bulleting towards the surface was the legendary that could heal him. He carried natural powers around, maneuvering through disastrous weather in attempt to cure or curse the benevolent and malevolent organisms. The warrior had hope. The warrior could be healed of all his torture, his anguish, and his guilt. After such a long time carrying the virus in his body, it would be vanquished by the Latios’s draconic energy.
A change in the future was looking very, very promising to the swordsman.
“Oh Latios, cure me of this horrible pain and set me free from the virus!” the warrior begged, throwing all of his energy and strength into the loud, clearly spoken words.
The blue dragon beast shook his head silently, instead circling around the dying swordsman. The warrior thought of this as a trick, hoping that the legendary was gathering all of his power to zap him in one blast, treating him. He clenched his chest as it shifted; the sickening bug was definitely starting to take a toll on the man. The legend-dragon only observed with curious eyes, knowing he wasn’t worthy of being washed away of his aches.
All through the warrior’s life, he had been fighting other men, protecting his clan as they sabotaged environments and created castles throughout Galabonia. The Latios had been watching as the man took away natural homes for Pokémon, scaring them away with cloned, monstrous horses and strength-building, man-made robots. He had accidentally murdered smaller infant creatures of woodlands and forests, though he wasn’t aware of it. Nevertheless, that didn’t excuse the fact that Latios didn’t like it.
The warrior started to grow impatient, cursing words in his mind. The legendary was taking too long. Although he suffered of extreme pain, the dragon needed to rid it. Latios sent a bolt of green lightning at the warrior, shocking him with a more blinding curse. The warrior closed his eyes, allowing the legend to escape. He went climbing in the atmosphere, disappearing into the beautiful heavens above.
The warrior was left there to be suffering from the eternal bug, for Latios had done was what necessary from his perspective. Once the swordsman broke away from the emerald bolt of lightning, the pain had gotten worse. He went collapsing on the ground, struggling and desperate for air. His lungs were shriveling, barely inhaling and exhaling oxygen from the dusty atmosphere.
His bowels were soaked with blood and his stomach burned in hunger and corruption. He balled his fist, punching at the sand while a deep thought came to his mind. Latios had cursed him with a greater deal of pain, one that would never go away. He knew that the blue dragon beast had trapped him inside of a malicious cage, for they usually did one or the other. Free the soul or trap the soul.
He was left there to be staggering in the sandbanks, to be the wanderer of the wasteland. He would never die, but his ache and agony would always haunt him. The swordsman would soon be diagnosed with from the ultimate spark of hurt from the virus and he would never be alleviated.
He would be caged in eternity’s prison, never to be let out.
A cloud of dust enveloped him in its body, trapping him in the acres of blinding white sand, their prisoner forever.
Eternity's Prison is a rather fantasy one-shot with horror elements, more like describing what a virus is doing to a dying warrior inside. Burning stomach, bloodstained bowels, just small spats of horror here and there. Anyways, the meaning is quite simple, though enhanced beautifully in my eyes. Some might feel as if the meaning should have been stronger, which I can understand, and I'd be glad to edit this. I consider this one of my best works yet, and revising parts would be a pleasure. If you find anything abnormal, weird, or mistakes, please let me know immediately. Well, here's Eternity's Prison.
-[::::ETERNITY'S PRISON::::]-
We’re all searching for a magical spell that’ll bless our lives with an eternal soul. It is dreamt by thousands, it becomes a goal to many adventurers, and blossoms into thoughtful measures in a scientist’s mind. Having to live in such a marvelous, money-producing world would be a vacation to some, a cruise to others, and the rest will find out what joy it’ll bring. Once, humans wondered if they would reach the top of their lives before death would wither their souls away forever, to haunt the bone yards and many gravesites. In another era of time, we contemplated over whether it was worth struggling to become the best when your fatality was already set, possibly coming as soon as we were given a life.
Now, our mind continues to wander the breadth of the world and its divine surroundings, feeling the need to sacrifice everything to get an eternal life in return.
We try, each and every one of us, to fight hard in our battles, learn and gain knowledge, and journey across different terrains to find our purposes. We are destined to fulfill certain dreams, certain accomplishments, to walk diverse paths and obtain happiness. Having a life that will never be wasted away by scars, blood, and feelings can be an utter luxury, though we fail to realize that this enchantment doesn’t necessarily have benevolent sides.
Very few find ceaseless souls as a curse. Bewildering as it may be, it is the more courageous enigmas of the land, the ones who have already blossomed their fantasies. Those few humans are the black spots on the white paper, arousing imperfection wherever they stand tall and proud. They fear of misery, depression, wrath, sins of the heavenly world, for being around at a timeless cost is an absolute hex.
We tend to disregard their opinions and continue to hope, every single day and night, that the world will be blessed with magic. That way, we can summon powerful forces and put our spirits under a perpetual spell.
+ + + + + + + + + + +
A waterless desert. The blinding white sand stretched across acres and acres of land, silver pearls of the moonlit sky dancing in the balmy winds. The velvety, dark-cobalt skyline was deeply defined against the actual sky, spotted with motionless golden stars and a full, silver-blazing moon.
Torrid, howling gales blustered around wildly, blowing tumbleweeds about. The heating temperatures heightened to the high nineties, baking the dunes and the grounds. Large, jagged brown rocks, with stripes of white, rose up from the surface, slashing at the hot airstreams. The day was searing, magical, and dying.
A lone shadow shifted in the distance, staggering and stumbling while wandering into the open sandbanks. He moved along the smooth surface of the arid vicinity, weaving paths around the rocks and the hallucinated sandcastles and glowing spheres. Footsteps stamped in the soft sands, the muscular warrior found himself in pure distress, screaming in his very mind.
But, he was in no hurry to find assistance from anyone. It would be only a matter of seconds before the pain would ease away, blessing him with purity and healing wounds.
His large, toned, light-skinned body was covered in slate gray armor. Once polished, mirroring surfaces, it was now covered in dust and soot and sand. A long, gray cape flapped wildly against the warrior’s back as wind blew clouds of powder past him. His face concealed in a burgundy, horned mask, the swordsman hid all of his indignant expressions under the slate of featured steel.
His immense, gold sheath crossed behind his back, bloodstained and dirty. It had been several long, heating nights and boiling, blistering days for the lost warrior, wounds slowly healing while blood hardened around the openings. But, he just tottered at his normal pace, concentrating to easing the hurt rather than finding help.
He was out in the open, deserted lands of Galabonia, a vanishing soul of the dunes. The warrior had suffered from a great battle nearly three weeks ago with an adversary, finally losing the brawl and punished by his own clan. They sent him here, the rolling wastelands of the western section in the magical world. Three excruciating weeks, twenty-one unfolding days, several unbearable hours. The swordsman still kept faith, hoping that he would still live to at least see the next daybreak.
He was well aware of the boisterous winds and searing temperatures as they climbed to the low hundreds, stomach churning in hunger and bowels shifting with infection. He had become a victim of a drugged virus, one that would leave many in ache for such a long time, finally fading away for a brief second or two before it would sting again. His fellow gang purchased the bug from a wealthy scientist and tricked him into taking the medicine with a delicious plate of food.
It was his punishment. He would have to live with it, until he would be naturally cured at a hospital. But, the treacherous desert went on for miles and miles, and he was alone. A wanderer of a wasteland.
A shadow of the sandbanks.
A withering host for a virus.
A soul locked in his fatality.
The warrior went stammering forward, legs shaking as bones itched of the traveling disease. It was spreading quickly in his bloodstream, though he was realizing exactly what was happening to him.
In a matter of time, it would tear through his skin, hungrily devouring it while rotting his bones away and clogging his throat with blood and black spats of biological compounds. He would be suffering from a vast deal of severe hemorrhage, screaming and shrieking and calling out for help.
His ribcage throbbed, feeling as if it was slicing his organs throughout his pain-filled body and sending the virus in all directions. The swordsman’s toes tingled slightly as weary, tired eyes glanced in the distance.
A silhouette of a flying beast came into view, dust and sand and ash twirling around the blackened frame. The figure spread its sharp, thin wings, bulleting out of the cloud and disappearing into the darkness of the night skies. Surely, the warrior had been hypnotized by the heat waves and collision with the sandy grounds, thinking that it was something that could assist him.
The virus was becoming worse and worse, burning his heart and starting to journey to his upper body. He could feel himself moving slower and slower, his intestines rippling like slicing daggers. Taking just a single step forward, a cold block of air exhaled out of his throat, nearly choking him with all of its might.
He screeched.
The man collapsed weakly on the sandy grounds, feeling a rush of energy being flushed out of his well-built body. He was dangerously ravenous and growing weaker as the virus began to attack his hard bones and muscle tissue. He watched as the blue-enveloped silhouette plummeted to ground, determination gleaming in its red eyes. The blackened glow of shadows quickly bolted away from its body, swirling and whirling in the hot gale, revealing its dragon features. The warrior observed the dragon beast, surprised and shocked and bewildered.
There, bulleting towards the surface was the legendary that could heal him. He carried natural powers around, maneuvering through disastrous weather in attempt to cure or curse the benevolent and malevolent organisms. The warrior had hope. The warrior could be healed of all his torture, his anguish, and his guilt. After such a long time carrying the virus in his body, it would be vanquished by the Latios’s draconic energy.
A change in the future was looking very, very promising to the swordsman.
“Oh Latios, cure me of this horrible pain and set me free from the virus!” the warrior begged, throwing all of his energy and strength into the loud, clearly spoken words.
The blue dragon beast shook his head silently, instead circling around the dying swordsman. The warrior thought of this as a trick, hoping that the legendary was gathering all of his power to zap him in one blast, treating him. He clenched his chest as it shifted; the sickening bug was definitely starting to take a toll on the man. The legend-dragon only observed with curious eyes, knowing he wasn’t worthy of being washed away of his aches.
All through the warrior’s life, he had been fighting other men, protecting his clan as they sabotaged environments and created castles throughout Galabonia. The Latios had been watching as the man took away natural homes for Pokémon, scaring them away with cloned, monstrous horses and strength-building, man-made robots. He had accidentally murdered smaller infant creatures of woodlands and forests, though he wasn’t aware of it. Nevertheless, that didn’t excuse the fact that Latios didn’t like it.
The warrior started to grow impatient, cursing words in his mind. The legendary was taking too long. Although he suffered of extreme pain, the dragon needed to rid it. Latios sent a bolt of green lightning at the warrior, shocking him with a more blinding curse. The warrior closed his eyes, allowing the legend to escape. He went climbing in the atmosphere, disappearing into the beautiful heavens above.
The warrior was left there to be suffering from the eternal bug, for Latios had done was what necessary from his perspective. Once the swordsman broke away from the emerald bolt of lightning, the pain had gotten worse. He went collapsing on the ground, struggling and desperate for air. His lungs were shriveling, barely inhaling and exhaling oxygen from the dusty atmosphere.
His bowels were soaked with blood and his stomach burned in hunger and corruption. He balled his fist, punching at the sand while a deep thought came to his mind. Latios had cursed him with a greater deal of pain, one that would never go away. He knew that the blue dragon beast had trapped him inside of a malicious cage, for they usually did one or the other. Free the soul or trap the soul.
He was left there to be staggering in the sandbanks, to be the wanderer of the wasteland. He would never die, but his ache and agony would always haunt him. The swordsman would soon be diagnosed with from the ultimate spark of hurt from the virus and he would never be alleviated.
He would be caged in eternity’s prison, never to be let out.
A cloud of dust enveloped him in its body, trapping him in the acres of blinding white sand, their prisoner forever.
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Other that that "scratch-of-the-head" type deal here, I this is a great piece. I really hope your future one-shots are of this calibur. 