Congratulations, Invisiboy! You have won the competition by default. Great work and thanks for the contribution.
I was expecting a better turnout for entry's, but it didn't happen. Maybe next time.
The Great Demon
Time immemorial has passed since I was sentenced to spend eternity here. But eternity and a day could not erase the horrible recollection that is my only companion in this hellish void, and I have no occupation of my time other than to recount the heinous crime the Great Demon wrought with these hands of mine. But you, passing shadow, have nothing binding you here, and if you would wish to retain your cheery disposition, I suggest you return to the happy hypocrisy that constitutes Real Life. Otherwise, assume a position of comfort to you and prick up your ears
I suppose the damning chain of events began at the turn of the millennium (or so), when the Great Demon crawled out of my bottle, took his place on my shoulder and began to whisper temptation into my ear-not all at once, but inching closer and closer until he felt I trusted him enough to adhere to his every instruction. As the months passed, my movements became less belonging to me and more so to him. Every step, every bite of food, every breath was only taken at his instruction. Then he made his move.
The unsteadiness of sight and auditory commonly associated with inebriation comes upon me whenever I chance to recall the intricacies of the act, but the act itself, sadly, is as clear in my recollection as the moon and stars amid the night sky.
The tavern was a familiar haunt of his, so it took none for surprised when I located him there, nursing the nectar of Bacchus-or perhaps Hades. Addled as he was, he did not recognize the glint of Hermes in my eye as I sidled up to his booth and ordered a drink to match his. I struck up meaningless conversation with him-politics, weather, and other small talk-and he periodically interrupted to remark, "True, true!" though he heard naught through his alcoholic stupor. In any case, he did not move from his seat, just as the Great Demon had predicted.
Then, as he showed signs of approaching sobriety, I changed the subject to his writing, for the fellow was a penner of stories short in length. "You know, Edgar," I began, "youve been writing your little horror stories for a good part of your life, and you have been published only once, and only for nine notes. Doesnt that make your life a bit meaningless?" The effects of the drink had worn enough for my statement to rouse him significantly, and I continued on this topic, all the while easing a small bottle out of my pocket and onto the table. I am not sure whether it was the mention of his late wife or the subtle suggestion to make use of the deadly liquid on the table that finally decided his fate, but either case ends with him stepping outside and pouring the instrument of Fate down his throat.
It was then that the Demons influence lifted from me and the magnitude of what I had done struck me. I begged and pleaded for my sin to be redeemed, for my friends life to be restored, but alas-it was not to be. I could do naught but watch as my comrades soul descended to Hades for its final sin.
By the time he was discovered and brought to a doctor, he lacked the wits to do anything but repeat my surname and beg the lord in vain for forgiveness. I cursed myself for allowing the Demon to take control.
I have not, to this day, been convicted by any human court. Every year, on the day commemorating his birth, I am permitted to leave my eternal confines and pay tribute to the lost soul at his final resting place. I, however, have been cursed to live with my guilt forever.
Poor Edgar Allan Poe. Poor Thomas Reynolds.
Poor me.
I was expecting a better turnout for entry's, but it didn't happen. Maybe next time.
The Great Demon
Time immemorial has passed since I was sentenced to spend eternity here. But eternity and a day could not erase the horrible recollection that is my only companion in this hellish void, and I have no occupation of my time other than to recount the heinous crime the Great Demon wrought with these hands of mine. But you, passing shadow, have nothing binding you here, and if you would wish to retain your cheery disposition, I suggest you return to the happy hypocrisy that constitutes Real Life. Otherwise, assume a position of comfort to you and prick up your ears
I suppose the damning chain of events began at the turn of the millennium (or so), when the Great Demon crawled out of my bottle, took his place on my shoulder and began to whisper temptation into my ear-not all at once, but inching closer and closer until he felt I trusted him enough to adhere to his every instruction. As the months passed, my movements became less belonging to me and more so to him. Every step, every bite of food, every breath was only taken at his instruction. Then he made his move.
The unsteadiness of sight and auditory commonly associated with inebriation comes upon me whenever I chance to recall the intricacies of the act, but the act itself, sadly, is as clear in my recollection as the moon and stars amid the night sky.
The tavern was a familiar haunt of his, so it took none for surprised when I located him there, nursing the nectar of Bacchus-or perhaps Hades. Addled as he was, he did not recognize the glint of Hermes in my eye as I sidled up to his booth and ordered a drink to match his. I struck up meaningless conversation with him-politics, weather, and other small talk-and he periodically interrupted to remark, "True, true!" though he heard naught through his alcoholic stupor. In any case, he did not move from his seat, just as the Great Demon had predicted.
Then, as he showed signs of approaching sobriety, I changed the subject to his writing, for the fellow was a penner of stories short in length. "You know, Edgar," I began, "youve been writing your little horror stories for a good part of your life, and you have been published only once, and only for nine notes. Doesnt that make your life a bit meaningless?" The effects of the drink had worn enough for my statement to rouse him significantly, and I continued on this topic, all the while easing a small bottle out of my pocket and onto the table. I am not sure whether it was the mention of his late wife or the subtle suggestion to make use of the deadly liquid on the table that finally decided his fate, but either case ends with him stepping outside and pouring the instrument of Fate down his throat.
It was then that the Demons influence lifted from me and the magnitude of what I had done struck me. I begged and pleaded for my sin to be redeemed, for my friends life to be restored, but alas-it was not to be. I could do naught but watch as my comrades soul descended to Hades for its final sin.
By the time he was discovered and brought to a doctor, he lacked the wits to do anything but repeat my surname and beg the lord in vain for forgiveness. I cursed myself for allowing the Demon to take control.
I have not, to this day, been convicted by any human court. Every year, on the day commemorating his birth, I am permitted to leave my eternal confines and pay tribute to the lost soul at his final resting place. I, however, have been cursed to live with my guilt forever.
Poor Edgar Allan Poe. Poor Thomas Reynolds.
Poor me.
