Thursday, January 22, 2015

1-22-15 Writing Warm-up
7:17 AM

1-22-15 Writing Warm-up

1-22-15 Writing Warm-up
Artwork © Borja Pindado, All Rights Reserved -
Story and Characters © Corey Blankenship, All Rights Reserved 
Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”

The priest runs witless into the dark demesne,
Unwary of the danger the eery lair presents,
Fear had goaded the holy man deeper,
Woe when wolf-man startles craven sleeper,
Behind lay tomes, talismans, and holy writ,
Little grabbed the priest when terror bit,
Now he wanders in the house of horror,
Will he become next victim or first restorer?

The Lord of the twisted manor draws close,

His subtle arts woven into the vilest prose,

A word could rend thought from reason,

Or send the passions into blackest treason,

Supple sentences bend and warp reality,
In an attempt to succumb priest to immorality.
“A bargain struck is a world won,” he chides,
“All is yours--if the conditions man abides.”
The sweet overtures wafts in serpentine haze
As image of the Masked Lord in his mind blazed.

Revered preacher felt his holy wrath reave

Corruption’s tendrils which thought to cleave

A fiery rage springs into swift, sure action

As grim resolve within the pure gained traction

Up leaps a vial of consecrated waters
And out jumps dagger eager for slaughter!
Dirk instead dives into leather nape
And all about the defiled chambers water drapes.
Hallowed liquid on unholy soil rains and pours,
Burning back malice’s accumulated sores.

Foul Master of the rotten, mangled cavern,

Who defaced fell Gomorrah with wyverns,

Who countless races in succession slaves,

Now in his assaulted home incensed raves,

He casts noxious fumes and venomous ink
While words vicious and spirit vile he sinks
Into the herald of a truly venerable royalty
To break with vengeance upon naive loyalty.

“Loom of lies! Lord of flesh-harrowing flies!

Shall you continue to holy Truth disguise?

Shall not the grieved ground open up to eat

All who dotingly attend you upon false seat;

How many blind have learned your trade
Which the True Lord has forever forbade?
Be cast in the furnace from which none leave,
From which such polluters find no reprieve!”

The black mist roils as if pricked with light

The priest stands resolute in this heated fight

Pallid Spirit writhes, roves, rages, and screams

Forth a cacophony darker than infernal dreams

As his pitch soars to climax most gory
The holy man calls on his Lord for glory
Instant unhinges as Eternal hell invades
Heavenly majesty into cave parades!

Gone is the dark domain of the damned

Back into the Void it has been crammed

The wearied priest follows fresh spring

As healing water renewal to land brings.

Fell may be the fight to reclaim strongholds,
But great are the gifts given to the bold,
Few may be Eden’s sons on the world,
But greater glory remains to be unfurled.


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