BDark
Three Thousand Club
Hey, guys, how are you? I'd love to say "I'm Dark" but that's stupid because it's literally right beside the post so it's kinda redundant I guess. I'm sorry that this introduction is so bland, I'm just feeling pretty down right now and uninspired, so there's that. Also, I suck with intros.
So I'm a fifteen (16 this twenty-fifth of Spooptober) year old boi from Egypt and I've recently (as in almost a year ago) decided to write. So far, I've written three stories, a bunch of 'articles', and a couple of emotional pieces. I'll, in the order in which they were written, post my two favourites here.
As a young boy, I never truly understood what was happening in the world around me; I knew very little of the grave dangers with which I have been blighted; the curse which has been bestowed upon my homeland. I knew not of the hunter to whom I was a mere prey; the falcon to whom I was just another tiny, tender sparrow soaring through the sky for it to catch; the wolf to which I was a succulent sheep, the only thing between us being the livestock guardian dog that defended the herd, which I knew not of, too. This hunter was an ancient creature, almost like a man, that was known as the Dullahan.
At the age of nineteen, he came for me, mounting his great dark steed in the dead of the night. I was on the road, when I felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the brisk night air, and heard the noise of hooves against pavement and wood against pavement, and I saw him, riding towards me, on a particularly imposing horse, holding something that seemed like a syncretism between a helmet and a lantern high on one arm. I was transfixed, and almost immediately he was here. He was clad in black, and his horse was as dark as night, if not possibly darker. Held high in his raised hand he carried a head with flaming yet black eyes that darted about like the foulest fireflies and a most odious grin that split the head from ear to ear. His head. And as I looked up into his vile eyes I saw the souls of the damned and his victims. As he unmounted his horse, something large, black, feathery, came diving down, and with it was something glimmering gold in the moonlight. The Dullahan let out a fearful screech from his guillotined head and most swiftly yet hastily mounted his horse, a wail that would haunt me for many years to come, escaping beneath the moonlight and he was no longer in sight, and I realized that I had fallen onto the cold stone thoroughfare. The crow, too, was gone into the dark night.
For many years following the encounter, I have been tormented by dreams, nightmares, of the Dullahan attempting to claim my soul, and those of many others. I heard his screech in my sleep in many forms--triumph, vexation--and saw him riding through the Emerald Isle upon his anathematized beast; at times he would ride alone, and at other times he had his accursed brougham towing almost silently behind him; a coach made of worm-eaten pall and ancient coffins, wheels of what may have been bones and dark alder, and skulls with candles lit it. The Mare would often but not always come to me and ride my chest as I rested at the end of my day; after long days of arduous labour, or after the shorter days of tranquility, his ponderous weight leaving a most unfaltering repercussion on my soul, growing more of a burden with each visitation.
I grew restless of my ignorance. I wanted to be learned the truth behind my pursuer and adversary, and to ascertain the truth behind the steward of the Emerald Isle who kept the worst of evils at bay. I sought the lore of my ancestors under the light of moon, candle, and sun, and it took three quarters a score of months to inculcate myself properly on the matter. I learned that my nimrod was an ancient creature from the days of yore, whose name was the Dullahan, or Gan Ceann. As claimed by those who kept the rare and esoteric records, there is no way to bar against the Dullahan, for all locks and gates open as he nears them. He despises being stalked as he himself does, and it is said that he fears nothing but gold. I also solicited information on the warden of the Emerald Isle, but I found exceedingly scant matter on the subject, so I sought the defender himself, but only to ill success.
To my great gratification, the Dullahan had fortunately appeared in my nightmares less than ever, and I hoped that he had gone almost completely and all that was left of him were the meager nightmares, the residue of our first and only meeting; a memory of the past that would hopefully fade as time grows older. However, I knew better than to envisage or even dream of such unworldly feats, for I was aware that, one day, he shall return, but I was asinine, and I let my wishes manipulate my mind into believing what was false, but the mind likes sweet satisfaction, and not bitter truth. I was lulled into a false state of equanimity, and when I heard his distant scream one moonless night I was awoken from my peaceful slumber, and I knew that I must persist in my quest to find the warden of the Emerald Isle, so I set off towards the northwest, past Stua Laighean, towards Kells, and it took me around two days to lay eyes upon my destination at last.
But at the time of sunset I was still on the road, even though I had neared my purpose, and I heard the horrifying sound and felt the same familiar hypothermic sensation which I had felt before, and my eyes darted about, seeking shelter to hide in until the return of sunlight; a burrow or a cave, perhaps, or even a hollow trunk, and my eyes rested upon what may have once been the burrow of a fox or a badger. I hastened towards it and forced my body inside it. I lay there crouched in the critter-infested hole, accompanied by nothing but my light sack of travelling goods and a dagger, and the insects that crawled most obscenely, as the sound of hooves neared, then changed. He had deviated from his path, and he no longer rode on stone. I was filled with dread as I heard the crunching of leaves grow ever closer and the air ever colder, and time seemed to flow like water in a waterfall, for he now stood before my hiding place. I could see the hooves of his horse, upon which stood long, powerful legs darker than the darkest of nights, and all voice but the breathing and snorting of his horse seemed to fade, and it seemed a long moment before his own feet hit the ground; he lacked his cóiste bodhar, just as he had before. He lowered his body, and his gloved hand reached inside my hiding place, grasping, and I thrust my crooked blade into his wrist. He let out a yell of ire. There was the noise of a bird flying, and he twisted his body frantically to get on his horse, his bellows growing ever louder, only to be chased even farther, away from his beast. I could hear him faintly lumbering away through the woods, the calls of the crow chasing him away, until they were far enough for me not to hear them any longer. I waited still, until the Dullahan’s beast had trod away, and I left my hiding place. The rider had left a trail of broken boughs and trampled bushes in his wake, which I followed, feeling oddly guarded.
I found him after a score of minutes in a clearing deep behind the thick straggle of trees and my heart leapt in joy, for his body lay lifeless upon the ground, the fire in his eyes doused, and his dark raiment bloody, but he was not alone, and the triumph inside me was smothered as I realized that, a short distance away, the crow lay similarly dead and bloody. I know not for how long I lay there lamenting the expiry of the angel that had watched over the Emerald Isle since the beginning of time. I inhumed him later that day in the most ostentatious crypt the sun has ever lain eyes upon, and I grieved his demise for many years to come; the steward of the Emerald Isle was fallen.
An Author’s Note:
I write this late in the night and early in the morning, as my sickness increases, and as dopamine rushes through my brain like a flooding river, and as the chords of a song ring through my head. Many things have happened recently, and I’ve been meaning to write about them, but I neither had the inspiration nor enough material for a single decently-sized piece, as I always wish to make. I shall name them chronologically.
The first of these few things took place last week. A Lebanese band performed in Egypt, and they openly supported homosexuality, and for this they were exiled and imprisoned, which I will first give my thoughts about: I thought it was quite stupid. They lacked the insight and they didn’t think what they had meant to do through, and their idiocy frustrates me quite a lot; however, as I have made clear multiple times before, I very strongly support their cause and oppose the lack of freedom within my country.
Thus, this gave rise to many discussions of the topic, as well as others related to it. On one hand, I had to endure many things--many harsh words that hurt me deeply, albeit not aimed at me, and I could do nothing, for I was more than afraid, and looking back upon that, even in my current state, sends a twinge of fear throughout my body and along my spine. But egad! It also improved my mood quite strangely, for I have found that a peer of mine is, albeit seemingly less strongly than me, supportive of the cause, and even though his knowledge was misguided, I have taken a much greater liking to this old friend of mine now and I have given him a new respect which will be within me.
Thirdly, I am to speak of that which I have never been open about before, partly because it has almost never been relevant, and partly because there was none to open to. On Thursday, I have a met a girl that I have taken a great and deep liking to. It is what the ancient Greeks such as Plato have named Ludus, I believe. I do not know where this will end, but I know that it may lead to many things, for it has already lead me to a great euphoria and a state of relaxation that I have experienced rarely before, as well as a strange confidence which seemed to have come out of a distant world. I am glad, indeed, for recently I have also found myself strangely unfeeling these emotions, only feeling hatred for others and myself, and a powerful rage, as well as horror and a strong lack of confidence, but I am glad to know that I can feel these emotions of elation and affection as well, and at last I can claim a breath without feeling a weight upon my chest.
Indeed, this new and strange rush of emotions, which are all currently drowned by the lastly mentioned, has made me quite irrational and even more, perhaps, confused. I feel irrational and impulsive, and my atheistic thoughts are not satisfying, but I know that I am later to return to them, perhaps only to abandon them once more in the future, or not--I am yet to finally believe in a religion, or lack thereof. As of now, I am slightly less atheistic than before, but not quite; I still do not truly believe in a god, and my other thoughts are unfazed, but only built upon paradoxically, for telling myself that religion isn’t true is no longer satisfying, yet I am denying the other option still.
I cannot come up with a proper parting note for this piece; at least not an organised one. I truly hope that these records of my emotions, which come upon me like sudden wolves pouncing upon the sheep, and when they come least expectedly they are also like a downfall of rain. I am very happy to know that I am not losing my spirit any time soon--hopefully. And indeed, I have missed putting my thoughts into words, and I am glad to have done this once more! All of that written, and with the weight upon my chest gone (for now), I am feeling like a different person altogether, and as if I belong elsewhere and I exist elsewhere, for even that is an understatement to my strong feelings of rapture and tranquility.
Goodnight!
now b0ss pls feedback pls b0ss
So I'm a fifteen (16 this twenty-fifth of Spooptober) year old boi from Egypt and I've recently (as in almost a year ago) decided to write. So far, I've written three stories, a bunch of 'articles', and a couple of emotional pieces. I'll, in the order in which they were written, post my two favourites here.
The Watcher
As a young boy, I never truly understood what was happening in the world around me; I knew very little of the grave dangers with which I have been blighted; the curse which has been bestowed upon my homeland. I knew not of the hunter to whom I was a mere prey; the falcon to whom I was just another tiny, tender sparrow soaring through the sky for it to catch; the wolf to which I was a succulent sheep, the only thing between us being the livestock guardian dog that defended the herd, which I knew not of, too. This hunter was an ancient creature, almost like a man, that was known as the Dullahan.
At the age of nineteen, he came for me, mounting his great dark steed in the dead of the night. I was on the road, when I felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the brisk night air, and heard the noise of hooves against pavement and wood against pavement, and I saw him, riding towards me, on a particularly imposing horse, holding something that seemed like a syncretism between a helmet and a lantern high on one arm. I was transfixed, and almost immediately he was here. He was clad in black, and his horse was as dark as night, if not possibly darker. Held high in his raised hand he carried a head with flaming yet black eyes that darted about like the foulest fireflies and a most odious grin that split the head from ear to ear. His head. And as I looked up into his vile eyes I saw the souls of the damned and his victims. As he unmounted his horse, something large, black, feathery, came diving down, and with it was something glimmering gold in the moonlight. The Dullahan let out a fearful screech from his guillotined head and most swiftly yet hastily mounted his horse, a wail that would haunt me for many years to come, escaping beneath the moonlight and he was no longer in sight, and I realized that I had fallen onto the cold stone thoroughfare. The crow, too, was gone into the dark night.
For many years following the encounter, I have been tormented by dreams, nightmares, of the Dullahan attempting to claim my soul, and those of many others. I heard his screech in my sleep in many forms--triumph, vexation--and saw him riding through the Emerald Isle upon his anathematized beast; at times he would ride alone, and at other times he had his accursed brougham towing almost silently behind him; a coach made of worm-eaten pall and ancient coffins, wheels of what may have been bones and dark alder, and skulls with candles lit it. The Mare would often but not always come to me and ride my chest as I rested at the end of my day; after long days of arduous labour, or after the shorter days of tranquility, his ponderous weight leaving a most unfaltering repercussion on my soul, growing more of a burden with each visitation.
I grew restless of my ignorance. I wanted to be learned the truth behind my pursuer and adversary, and to ascertain the truth behind the steward of the Emerald Isle who kept the worst of evils at bay. I sought the lore of my ancestors under the light of moon, candle, and sun, and it took three quarters a score of months to inculcate myself properly on the matter. I learned that my nimrod was an ancient creature from the days of yore, whose name was the Dullahan, or Gan Ceann. As claimed by those who kept the rare and esoteric records, there is no way to bar against the Dullahan, for all locks and gates open as he nears them. He despises being stalked as he himself does, and it is said that he fears nothing but gold. I also solicited information on the warden of the Emerald Isle, but I found exceedingly scant matter on the subject, so I sought the defender himself, but only to ill success.
To my great gratification, the Dullahan had fortunately appeared in my nightmares less than ever, and I hoped that he had gone almost completely and all that was left of him were the meager nightmares, the residue of our first and only meeting; a memory of the past that would hopefully fade as time grows older. However, I knew better than to envisage or even dream of such unworldly feats, for I was aware that, one day, he shall return, but I was asinine, and I let my wishes manipulate my mind into believing what was false, but the mind likes sweet satisfaction, and not bitter truth. I was lulled into a false state of equanimity, and when I heard his distant scream one moonless night I was awoken from my peaceful slumber, and I knew that I must persist in my quest to find the warden of the Emerald Isle, so I set off towards the northwest, past Stua Laighean, towards Kells, and it took me around two days to lay eyes upon my destination at last.
But at the time of sunset I was still on the road, even though I had neared my purpose, and I heard the horrifying sound and felt the same familiar hypothermic sensation which I had felt before, and my eyes darted about, seeking shelter to hide in until the return of sunlight; a burrow or a cave, perhaps, or even a hollow trunk, and my eyes rested upon what may have once been the burrow of a fox or a badger. I hastened towards it and forced my body inside it. I lay there crouched in the critter-infested hole, accompanied by nothing but my light sack of travelling goods and a dagger, and the insects that crawled most obscenely, as the sound of hooves neared, then changed. He had deviated from his path, and he no longer rode on stone. I was filled with dread as I heard the crunching of leaves grow ever closer and the air ever colder, and time seemed to flow like water in a waterfall, for he now stood before my hiding place. I could see the hooves of his horse, upon which stood long, powerful legs darker than the darkest of nights, and all voice but the breathing and snorting of his horse seemed to fade, and it seemed a long moment before his own feet hit the ground; he lacked his cóiste bodhar, just as he had before. He lowered his body, and his gloved hand reached inside my hiding place, grasping, and I thrust my crooked blade into his wrist. He let out a yell of ire. There was the noise of a bird flying, and he twisted his body frantically to get on his horse, his bellows growing ever louder, only to be chased even farther, away from his beast. I could hear him faintly lumbering away through the woods, the calls of the crow chasing him away, until they were far enough for me not to hear them any longer. I waited still, until the Dullahan’s beast had trod away, and I left my hiding place. The rider had left a trail of broken boughs and trampled bushes in his wake, which I followed, feeling oddly guarded.
I found him after a score of minutes in a clearing deep behind the thick straggle of trees and my heart leapt in joy, for his body lay lifeless upon the ground, the fire in his eyes doused, and his dark raiment bloody, but he was not alone, and the triumph inside me was smothered as I realized that, a short distance away, the crow lay similarly dead and bloody. I know not for how long I lay there lamenting the expiry of the angel that had watched over the Emerald Isle since the beginning of time. I inhumed him later that day in the most ostentatious crypt the sun has ever lain eyes upon, and I grieved his demise for many years to come; the steward of the Emerald Isle was fallen.
An Author’s Note:
To my dear readers, I hope that you have enjoyed the brief story above. The concept of a crow that defends its home from a vile demon came to me on the first day of 2017 when I was attempting to sleep. I heard the noise of a baby outside, and felt horrified, as it was too late for someone to be walking with their baby, and there were no apartments in the direction from which the sound came. I felt safe only when I heard the caw of a crow and the voice stopped, and the event inspired the events of the story above, along with my love for crows. With two days of work, the story was finished.
Some changes were also made to the mythology from which the Dullahan (DOOL-a-HAN) came. In the original myth, the Dullahan was a creature, and there was more than just one. When he or she would stop riding his/her horse and call a name, then that person either dies immediately or on the spot where the name was called. I would also like to mention that the Emerald Isle is a poetic title for Ireland, which it earned for its green hills, and Stua Laighean is the Irish term for Mount Leinster, and cóiste bodhar (pronounced coach-a-bower) is the Irish term for the Death Coach, meaning Deaf Coach or Silent Coach. I would also like to indicate that the title could refer to two of three characters in the story. None of the art belongs to me. I thank you for your time.
Some changes were also made to the mythology from which the Dullahan (DOOL-a-HAN) came. In the original myth, the Dullahan was a creature, and there was more than just one. When he or she would stop riding his/her horse and call a name, then that person either dies immediately or on the spot where the name was called. I would also like to mention that the Emerald Isle is a poetic title for Ireland, which it earned for its green hills, and Stua Laighean is the Irish term for Mount Leinster, and cóiste bodhar (pronounced coach-a-bower) is the Irish term for the Death Coach, meaning Deaf Coach or Silent Coach. I would also like to indicate that the title could refer to two of three characters in the story. None of the art belongs to me. I thank you for your time.
A Midnight Writing
I write this late in the night and early in the morning, as my sickness increases, and as dopamine rushes through my brain like a flooding river, and as the chords of a song ring through my head. Many things have happened recently, and I’ve been meaning to write about them, but I neither had the inspiration nor enough material for a single decently-sized piece, as I always wish to make. I shall name them chronologically.
The first of these few things took place last week. A Lebanese band performed in Egypt, and they openly supported homosexuality, and for this they were exiled and imprisoned, which I will first give my thoughts about: I thought it was quite stupid. They lacked the insight and they didn’t think what they had meant to do through, and their idiocy frustrates me quite a lot; however, as I have made clear multiple times before, I very strongly support their cause and oppose the lack of freedom within my country.
Thus, this gave rise to many discussions of the topic, as well as others related to it. On one hand, I had to endure many things--many harsh words that hurt me deeply, albeit not aimed at me, and I could do nothing, for I was more than afraid, and looking back upon that, even in my current state, sends a twinge of fear throughout my body and along my spine. But egad! It also improved my mood quite strangely, for I have found that a peer of mine is, albeit seemingly less strongly than me, supportive of the cause, and even though his knowledge was misguided, I have taken a much greater liking to this old friend of mine now and I have given him a new respect which will be within me.
Thirdly, I am to speak of that which I have never been open about before, partly because it has almost never been relevant, and partly because there was none to open to. On Thursday, I have a met a girl that I have taken a great and deep liking to. It is what the ancient Greeks such as Plato have named Ludus, I believe. I do not know where this will end, but I know that it may lead to many things, for it has already lead me to a great euphoria and a state of relaxation that I have experienced rarely before, as well as a strange confidence which seemed to have come out of a distant world. I am glad, indeed, for recently I have also found myself strangely unfeeling these emotions, only feeling hatred for others and myself, and a powerful rage, as well as horror and a strong lack of confidence, but I am glad to know that I can feel these emotions of elation and affection as well, and at last I can claim a breath without feeling a weight upon my chest.
Indeed, this new and strange rush of emotions, which are all currently drowned by the lastly mentioned, has made me quite irrational and even more, perhaps, confused. I feel irrational and impulsive, and my atheistic thoughts are not satisfying, but I know that I am later to return to them, perhaps only to abandon them once more in the future, or not--I am yet to finally believe in a religion, or lack thereof. As of now, I am slightly less atheistic than before, but not quite; I still do not truly believe in a god, and my other thoughts are unfazed, but only built upon paradoxically, for telling myself that religion isn’t true is no longer satisfying, yet I am denying the other option still.
I cannot come up with a proper parting note for this piece; at least not an organised one. I truly hope that these records of my emotions, which come upon me like sudden wolves pouncing upon the sheep, and when they come least expectedly they are also like a downfall of rain. I am very happy to know that I am not losing my spirit any time soon--hopefully. And indeed, I have missed putting my thoughts into words, and I am glad to have done this once more! All of that written, and with the weight upon my chest gone (for now), I am feeling like a different person altogether, and as if I belong elsewhere and I exist elsewhere, for even that is an understatement to my strong feelings of rapture and tranquility.
Goodnight!
now b0ss pls feedback pls b0ss
