The Scarlet Chapetere

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is my first story based off of a literature genius whom has become my personal leader in writing. This story was dedicated to that of Edgar Allan Poe; a short story that has many twists and turns, walls that will leave you breathless from trying to fight through them, and a maze of events that only very few will ever understand. Which path will you follow?

Submitted: October 20, 2012

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Submitted: October 20, 2012




It had been the grimmest hour of Twilight; and I had laid awake until the darkest of all those slow, passing hours of the slowly approaching hours of the marrow, where the shrill cries of the small avian parasites that loitered in the snarled strokes of green and brown canvas of which surrounded my ramshackle hovel in the ground, coated in the moss and the insects that crawled upon my soft, flaky flesh.

 Inside of my fragile mind the retched ticking of a German coo-coo-clock chimed soullessly into the flooding venom of the emptied holes of my thoughts, collecting the delicate feel like drops of slow, oozing crimson sap that emerged from my broken fissures. That damned ticking just would not stop! It mocked at me an attempted to jester me upon the boat docks only to plunge me inside their liquidly folds, forever tumbling with the common aquatic brethren that sang to me from among the depths of the generous arms of closed death, Lady Death, the fragrant maiden of death, the sweet Florence of revenge.

  I had only risen from my hole for a few moments before falling away into a marriage of a onslaught of a silk, scarlet cloak, misery and gruesome secrets that littered the floors of the Vanclaster catacombs underneath the love of their beloved luxury of their ancient castle, their so much beloved home.. the house right next to the meadow of where I.. a small, bundled abandoned fossil, was abandoned by the arms of a  young fleeing Maidchen, was laid at, so Death's arms, where they welcomed me with their toxically cold embrace. The place in the meadow, under the old oak tree, where I was born and laid to rest.

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