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Old 10-27-2007, 09:12 AM
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Default A Witness to the Wicked

Status: Unfinished
Characters As Of Now: 8,725
Finish Date: N/A

hmm.. well, while i was planning to release the other story i had been working on, which i had written about 70k for, my computer was replaced, and with it, the story was lost ;_;

While i attempt to reboot the system and retrieve that story, i am writing this, which i was planning anyways...

so, without further ado, here ya'll go!

A Witness to the Wicked

Part 1: Must Everything be Muddled?

They had always been there. At no point in my memory had I neglected their presence. They were my gods, my leaders, the righteous beings in my existence. How I had come into essence, I do not know, nor can I discern their purpose in ripping me from nothingness and setting me high up on their land. Perhaps I would serve as their guardian against the imposing darkness, or maybe I was just a delegate of mockery, of foolish hatred. Whether I had any function in this world, I had never been told, for my idols rarely graced me with their company. Did I have any place on this cruel planet, or had I just been set aside as some child’s toy? This was what I had set out to discover. The single clear thought that held a constant place in my mind was that I was put on this earth to serve, in some way, my masters; until the end of time itself, I would adhere to the humans’ wishes.


The air was thick with trouble; that much I could sense already. Whether it had spawned from the sinister clouds overhead, or drifted among the billowing breeze, its advent was unknown. The atmosphere teemed with a strange vibration, a pulsating ripple that would unquestionably serve as the indicator of a storm, as any fool could tell.

A brutal draft coiled across the barren landscape, scooping up clumps of ground and scattering it among its fellow comrades. Before the dust could settle however, another viscous rivulet of air would catch the handful and toss it effortlessly into the sky, watch as it trickled downward in a hurried fashion, then repeat the process. One would think that this procedure would purge the earth of its very soil, but as I watched with an apprehensive sensation brewing within the confines of my being, the wind always found a patch of untainted filth to continue its “little game.”

It swept across the horizon, an ominous mass against the picturesque sanguine sky that succeeded in its valiant effort to peek through the throbbing charcoal clouds. The vortex of shuddering, swirling black seemed to skip over the terrain, giving the impression that it relished in the destruction left in its wake. I doubted that the cyclone felt any remorse toward those who had suffered in its presence, nor toward the innumerable families that had been destroyed, torn apart by this untamed savage.

The twister thrashed this way and that, its tail never leaving the comfort of the ground. While its base sported a scrawny, fragile frame, its upper regions swelled into an incomparable bulge, the bulk alone enough to send a shiver of dread coursing down my very spine, had I been granted one. The accumulation of monotonous gray and black streaks had been flecked with dribbles of a chalky, paste-like interior, indisputably endeavoring to add a menacing expression to the already threatening tornado.

The terrain, having never been granted the burden of supporting any form of vegetation, provided the storm a simple path in which it could breeze through easily, whipping up the sand and tough ground that served as the floor to this region.

No sound permeated the dense air, save for the incessant crunch and snarl of the beast as it wrenched yet another farmhouse into the heavens as though the structure was a cowering Weedle and it a fierce Mightyena that would stop at nothing to annihilate the inferior creature.

Stricken with an unrivaled panic, I strained my eyes to glance behind me, though to no avail. I was rooted to the spot, the detested pole by which I clung serving as an anchor. I was set firmly in this very direction, unable to move, powerless to alter my position. For that was the life of a scarecrow, a stationary, tedious life crammed atop a withered dowel to stare motionless out at the land.

But who was I to complain?

I had never known anything other than this, so I could hardly criticize my masters, the generous, compassionate people that were so abundant in their care.

The laws of nature, my law of nature states that I should partake in no other task besides fortifying the pitiful crops that the superior mortals were so bent on developing.

My vision allowed me to survey such crops, and upon glimpsing toward them, I felt a tremble invade my imaginary innards, as though the gritty tufts of hay could take on a feeling of shame.

The protruding leaves, tinted a fluorescent jade singed by a captivating maroon, quivered in the blusterous gusts that relentlessly burst forth from the twister. Their scrawny stems looked as though they would emerge from the soil any moment and take flight among the jagged floorboards that were evidently airborne near the core of the monster.

The clusters that were so often tended to by the inane farmhand were sparse here, an occasional plump crimson bulb rose up here, a shoot of filmy yellow there. They spread out as far as my sight would allow, though I doubted that such an unworthy batch of plants would go much farther than that.

It surprised even me the other morning when I had awoken to an irksome tickle at my base, come to discover a gaunt stalk, most likely stemming from the somewhat triumphant plot of green beans that had long since been planted to my left, reaching up to flutter against the pole.

I knocked aside those trivial thoughts for the time being, since the howling wind had picked up and was now releasing plumes of sadistic air in my direction.

During that lapse in which I had delved into my scrutiny of the land plot, the tornado had spanned the majority of the gap between the road and my master’s housing unit.

The cackling fiend loomed over me now, casting an impenetrable gloom over my surroundings. The tattered cloth that had so carelessly been draped across my shoulders embraced my frame rigidly, bestowing a peculiar discomfort upon my midsection.

The threadbare hat that had for so long sheltered me from the harshest of sunrays toppled from the scraggly shrub of silage atop my synthetic head, leaving me vulnerable to the ruthless chill that was compelled toward me.

Breaths were taken in fleeting heaves, my imaginary lungs shriveling by the lack of oxygen. The cyclone was but half a kilometer away now, and my previously-inert stake wobbled ever so slightly, just enough to announce its inevitable evacuation of the earth.

It height more intimidating than anything ever I had ever witnessed, the churning mountain bounded even closer, seemingly anxious to add yet another house to its list of ruined homes.

Just as a torrent of weeping, terrified voices that urged me to move began to enslave my mind, a new sound presented itself from somewhere behind me, in the proximity of the farmhouse. It was a concoction of screeching metal and hasty footsteps, unquestionably the noises of my master and his kin escaping into the makeshift bomb shelter he had thrown together in hopes of it serving as a barrier between them and the ferocious storm.

I was able to distinguish three separate voices, all portraying the same note of alarm. While a squeaky juvenile voice chattered insanely about saving the Miltank, a melodious, feminine one struggled to subdue his worry. Their words were all too jumbled, and having had only a brief knowledge of human syllables, I was unable to grasp the full conversation, but I could note the tone of anger that ooze into a gruff, masculine voice as my master hushed them.

The final clank of the hatch being thrown across the door proclaimed the dismaying fact that I was now alone, forced to fend for myself against this invincible foe.

I had no more than two seconds to reflect on the situation before the whirlwind fell upon me, and an instant frostiness numbed all anxiety.

With a distant snap, my supporting pole was ripped from the earth, allowing the rest of my body to be lifted brusquely into the dead center of the twister.

A series of unidentified objects lashed out at my body as I took to the heavens, aided by this monstrosity. My legs knocked against one another to the shaky rhythmic flow, banging together with such vigor that the seams of my jeans split and released a flurry of golden hay into the intense murk.

The biggest jolt struck as my head collided with some stiff article, and I reeled back and forth, virtually a feather amongst the immensity of a bodybuilder. There was no denying that that impact had completely severed my abdomen from my rest, and with a last anguished moan, my chest left my waist, and I succumbed to the utter despair that was so keen on taking a rightful throne in my heart.

Vision blurred by both incredulity and pain, I could no longer persist through the unbearable suffering, and I allowed myself to slip into the complete and total obscurity of nonexistence.


Last edited by Bryce; 10-27-2007 at 11:14 PM.
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