Blackbeltmitpen's Storybook

So I'm Thinking of posting some of the old writing exercises I've done; perhaps old poems or other creative projects of mine. If this isn't the appropriate forum; simply inform me and delete.

Thanks.
-Mitchell Pennell

Short story poem I've recently finished.
This is just a rough draft and is actually a part of a pre-writing exercise for a novel I'm writing.
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Countdown By Mitchell William Pennell
1/30/17 11:38 pm-12:02 AM (#10) 11:12 PM- 11:30 PM (2/1/17) (#9) 12:10 PM- 12:22 PM (2/13/17) (#8 and basic outline theme) 6:36-6:38 pm (2/15/17) (#7); 9:22pm-9:28pm (#6) (2/18/17); 11:56 AM- 12:17 PM(#5/#4) 3/6/17 8:36 pm- 8:42 (#3) 5/30/17 10:46pm-10:49pm (first few lines of #2) 5/31/17 2:35 pm- 3:09 pm(#2; #1 and # 0) Total time: 160 Minutes until rough draft finished


10
He woke up.
The room was small. Cold and unfamiliar. And he was scared.
The large digital clock read “TEN” and the Metal chair he was sitting on groaned under his shifting weight,
He was in a strangers’ pajamas- blue with white fluffy clouds and feet on the end- He stared down at his hands.
The scars were faded around his knuckles but the memory remained.

9
The sound of the clock chimed echoed hollow against the walls.
He needed to stand up.
The Clock Read “NINE.”
He could not see a door from where he was placed- “placed”?- Had he been Placed here? And by whom?
The dizziness was causing nausea and he felt for sure he was going to get sick

8
The strain of sitting up causing vertebral pop-pop-popping
The shifting of his weight straining the metal chair- groaning with relief
The concentration to see the button strains his unfocused eyes
His temples explode with ache and migraine
The clock read: “EIGHT”

7 ((The door is locked the button causes dizziness)
The cold of the handle and the cold of the ground,
The button- inviting- begging to be pushed.
The smallest pressure to light the light
The nausea is sickly sweet and ever present.
His body sways and gravity collides.
The floor is almost inviting.
THE CLOCK READ “SEVEN.”

6 (the light changes from red to green)
The flashing screen- the red light blinks
Red-off-Green-off-Red-off-Green-Off
Swiftly changing - blending screams
THE CLOCK TICKED “SIX”
The dizziness is all encompassing
The cold of the ground is almost a welcomed embrace

5. (the men come in and bring in a television) (*Changes to first person here)
I wait upon the ground,
THE CLOCK TICKED “FIVE”,
The bodies shuffle outside-
-grasping at the metal locks-hollow thud of falling pins-
Squeak of rusty wheels- straining under the weight
The strength of big men reaching down- throwing me back into that chair
The locking of shackles unseen- tight against the skin
The shuffling of shoes as they retreat
The soft click- the shadow embrace of darkness
The abrasive glow of the television seems harsh upon my eyes.

4 (The voice on the television welcomes the detainee)
“Please remain calm.
Welcome number 141-986-31
You may be a bit disheveled by your environment;
We know that adjusting to our facility can be harsh;
We here hope you’re not too distressed.
We hope that you will learn to like it here at the Institute.
Soon this building will become like a second home to you.
Don’t Distress- All your questions will be answered in time.
Please remain calm.
The clock ticked "FOUR"

3 (The Secret is revealed)
Fluttering nausea in the pit of my stomach
The flashing lights flick black-and-white,
The voice echoes in the room.
THE clock ticked "THREE"
“We know your past. We know who you were. You are safe here.
Don’t distress. Please remain calm.
We have been contracted to exact a (screeching whisper: Death) “punishment” of sorts.
You’ve made a lot of enemies.
Please take these.
We hope you will survive the task.
Please remain calm.

2 (The punishment is passed)
Spinning chairs and spinning lights making dizzying fairy fire in my eyes.
The echo of those words causing anything but calmness at my core.
“Dispensing pills”-A small lever slides pills into his right hand; as the clasp unlocks.
Stretching out to the Red-blue capsules feeling sticky in his hands; somewhere behind him the squeak of a door slams ominously.
A flash of crimson and pain attacking my temples as distance voices implore that I take the accursed pills.
Defiant to the last; dropping them like so much loose change out of ones’ pocket; they cascade to the ground.
“That was quite foolish of you. Those were meant to ease your transition into the task we have for you.”
THE CLOCK TICKED: TWO
Then, almost an afterthought;
“The wasteland will find a place for you. I hope your transition is as painless as possible.
Good luck.”

1 (The Lights fade)
The blurred dissonance of those last words plays black against my synesthetic brain.
The heat of that blurred white; the fluttering nausea of the wind on my face.
THE CLOCK TICKED "ONE"
The finality of the crack of wood as I free myself from these sickly sweet shackles.
The strain to escape and the taste of hot blood in my mouth- like so many copper pennies.
The weight of my limbs crashing into the weight of the door- The popping of joints sore and used.
The bright blinding white that greets me. The burned and tattered landscape.
The influx of nausea and swinging hills; the floor rushing up to meet me.
The burnt light fading; the taste of defeat upon my tongue; a cool hand upon my brow; the kind voice imploring “Rest now.”

ZERO.

5/11/16 7:07 PM – 7:27 PM

The world has a hole in it
By
Mitchell William Pennell

I
I always knew the world was broken
Up seemed to always be too high
And down seemed to be too low
And everyone seemed to be stuck in between

II
I saw some writing on the wall and tried to translate it
But suffixes and prefixes are trick when one speaks the fires language,
It told of a time BEFORE the collapse- Before the rains
Past tense prophecy it’d seem to be.
Something beckoning to be free
Something calling from the trees.

III
The echo we hear now is booming hollow
The whispered truths or half-truths or lies from BEFORE
The world has a hole in it now and we are lost
The Wasteland calling through the trees.

IV
Child Gods and Brand New Shiny Monster
Roam free on screens so small they can fit in your pocket.
The loudest voice is often the least one sane
But still the whisper remains – “time to fill up the world hole!”

V
A vagrant with his child close; wandering from street to cracked concrete slab street;
Names like Loki Avenue and Anansi Square
Hearkening back to the God-bones we built our new religion on.
But The Wanderers remember, and always keep their blades sharp.

VI
The Wanderers know the secret name- that ancient stone cutters word;
But minds so full of “nothingness” are not ready to be hear and pray.
 

VII
The world has a hole in it; and somewhere wandering;
A man has fire in his veins, and whiskey on his breath; and strong stone craft hands.
He carry’s the word of truth to those to blind to think for themselves;
-like a shield against the coming dawn.-
He’s been walking past the wall – that tower built;
Where Cane slew Able and Jesus wept;
The wind is howling secret names of Gods forgotten from history.
The world most DEFINITELY has a hole in it; and
Vanity will now fill its crevasses; Gold is shiny rock against its grain;
The ghost children play through circled rings
And ashes fall that once had names.

VIII
The world has a hole in it;
The Wasteland beckons memories best left forgotten;
And NO MAN can keep up while others flee,
For the wastelands whisper has become
A deaths head plea.

“FILL THE HOLE”. . . . . . .
“FILL THE HOLE” . . . . . . .
“FILL THE HOLE; . . . . . . . “

The Death/rage priest crawled into the ancient crypt in February to start his search for Truth.

THE DEATH PRIEST
BY
Mitchell William Pennell

The crypt door cracked apart and fell with a heavy thump to the earthen floor. The blue-robed man coughs as he steps into the crypt. The ancient dust stirs after Eons of silence; filling his bruised lungs.

The man has been sent here on a mission. He was a “Sacerdos Ex Deo Est Mors”; (priest of the god of Death) and his status within the Order dependent on finding an answer to his questions and further knowledge. He MUST find it and Find it he would.

After months of research; in the ancient library of the Abby; he found The dusty map and the scrawny writings in the margins of many journals of long dead brothers; A hint in lyric and legend; a line here; a stanza there; Nothing that directly pointed to his answers but when the pieces were put together; a pattern emerged nonetheless.

The crypt SHOULD have the next clue in his quest for Truth; It HAD to!

The air was musky with the smell of moisture, moss, ash, flowers, and the decaying bone of long dead brothers. His robes stirred slowly as air filled the chamber for the first time in centuries. The names emblazoned along the walls were first written in English; giving way to Latin, and -further in- giving way to ancient Greek and Aramaic. The stairs were worn and lead steeply down as though into the very depths of Oblivion.

With a strong grasp on his Clawed Talisman; The man mentally tempered himself against that foul air; headed deeper into the crypt.
The fire in his hands passed from him into a sconce and torch. The fire banishing the decades of shadows that seemed to rile against the unwanted light. Shadows that seemed to be clawed things scratching out in vain against the mans’ approach.
Further on he went; hands clasp against the symbol draped around his neck; as if even a little faith could protect him from what was inside.

Down the stairs he went; robes bellowing behind him; caressing the ancient brick and stonework of the crypt like a summer lovers gentle kiss; sweeping away cobwebs whose inhabitants had died long ago.

The priests’ frantic footfalls cascade off the cobblestone. His ragged breathing echoing into the waning flickering light of his torch. His mind worked at lightning speed to find the name he sought.

The names started to become unpronounceable; either written in too archaic a language; or too worn from years of erosion; he did not know; nor did he care. It had to be here; It had to!

Down through the generations he ran; past names that saw the third great uprising in person; Past names that ushered in the new era of enlightened men; names that were long gone by the time these new men had set their minds on destroying this world.
Lost in his thoughts and manic search for the right name made him nearly miss the grave when he came to it.

A small, unnoticed low level placement inside a curvature wall that only lead deeper; a name nearly loss to time and perhaps that would have been best for all; but HE KNEW now; and so he’d make others KNOW.

Thomas Michael Summerwood.

So faded that it only read :Th—as---Mic—el-Sum---w-od. But still it was the right Tomb; It had to be the right tomb. The name fit; the dates fit; the age of this part of the catacombs fit; it had to be the right one; had to be.

The priest reached into his small satchel and brought out three small items: the first being a flask of darkly colored liquid, the second being a metallic hook to pry the grave open; and the third a much-loved and aged book of Molangus: The prayer book of his sacred Order.

With the dexterous feat of much practiced hands, the priest opened the marked book; and in the new shadowed light of his torch; The priest Read the following:

(Translate to Latin)
Protect me of great God Molangus; Protegas me magna deum Molungus
Let my hand be steady as I do your work; Fiat manus mea erit stabilis vestris opus quod facere
Make me an instrument of your blessing. Romanam Curiam definivit instrumentum Facite mecum benedictionem tuam
Help me to withstand all evil that comes after me; Omnes mihi quae me ferre opem;
Let me lead with compassionate courage; Ducam animi misericorditer
Bless me as I do this task; Benedicat mihi opus quod facere

With those last words, he slammed the book shut, and, pouring the liquid on the tool. He pierced the edge of the tomb with the metallic hook with all his strength. The crack of limestone and ancient mud-brick gave way against his assault. He plunged the hook into the ever growing breech; prayer of penitence upon his tongue for the blasphemy he was committing. But his work was more important.

The wall gave way as he dug deeper; exposing the ancient metallic hold that laid beyond. Heaving against the weight of the ages; he pulled. The hollow thud as his sought after prize fell to the earthen floor. The hollow scrape of stone against stone as he pried the lid away.

The priest brought the fire down to light whatever lay inside; The grinning decay of the long dead Brother emerged out of the shadows to greet him. The priest brought the light further down. The brothers’ robes had turned to tethered scraps holding his bones in place. The skeletal hands clasp tightly against the cherished object of the Priests search; The oldest known copy of “In Libro scientes Apocalyptic.” ( “The Apocalyptic Book of Knowing.”)

Delicately and with great respect; he pried the decaying hands from the bound book it held. With a renewed prayer of apology, the priest reconfigured the skeletal brothers’ limbs back crossed upon his chest as before- but void of the corpse possession. The priest replaced the cracked lid; placing rose water on the damage to apologies to Molangus; and as an apology to Brother Summerwood.
With his treasure in hand; the priest escaped the crypt; re-invoked “The Protecting Ones” and headed out into the night towards the next step in his quest.

why cant i save this? posting all on wattpad now

MWilliamPennell