Personal Narrative: Art In The Ground

Every now and then, the sounds of gunshots could be heard in the distance, signifying the tragic death of another. I felt bad for whoever the victim

The bird split right in half and fell to the ground. “Finally,” he thought “I’ll retrieve some water.” He bent over to fill his cup, but the the spring was empty. In want of water, he climbed up the rocks. As he was about to fill his cup from the spring , he noticed a Viper. The snake’s throat was slit, with the poisonous venom leaking from it. Suddenly, he realized his mistake. His bird was trying to save his life from the imminent danger, but out of his anger, frustration and impatience, he had killed his faithful bird. Sadly, he picked up his loving bird; wrapped it in his blanket, carried back to his castle. He later buried it with high honors of protecting the king.

Glancing down at the bread in my hands that I stole, I smile at my yet other accomplished mission for food.Entering the warehouse, I squint my eyes trying to see through the dark. I gasped as I felt a pair of tiny arms grip around my waist, "Bea you're back home!"

I slowly open my eyes and I am terrified. Where am I? How did I get here? I can hear many loud booms which I presume to be the constant shelling of my brothers-in-arms. I see syrettes, saws and lots of black rats lying dead with unearthly expressions of anguish on their grotesque faces. There is fresh blood on the floor next to me, a bitter metallic smell penetrating my nose. I close my eyes for a second to regain my composure and when I open them fragments of information start coming back to me.

I start to raise my meal to my lips as some ungodly wailing begins from outside the inn and an unknown assailant pounds on the door. I rise from the barstool and ready my hammer for whatever monstrosity is on the other side; no mortal beast I know of could produce such a tortured cry. The door cracks and a pink, jelly-like arm claws its way through. It cracks more, and breaks. A fleshy, blobby, being ambles towards me, with splinters stuck in its see-through body. I feel my blood begin to boil as my rage surfaces. I flip the nearest table and slam it into the beast as it lets out another painful squeal, pinning it against the wall by the door. More of the freaks begin to pour in from the remains of the bar door. A gust of hot wind on my left blows a table into a freak. I smell burnt flesh. Muscles strain. Hammer swings. The freaks barely notice my strikes. I strike harder. Harder. Harder! As the freak dies it melts, like an old

“‘Not even the eagle soars as high as this!’” “As the words crossed his mind, he felt a warm stream flow over his shoulders. He had come too close to the blazing sun, and the sweet-smelling wax that bound the feathers was melting. With a shock of terror he felt himself hurtling downward.” His wings were broken into a thousand parts.

It all started in the summer of nine teen sixty two, ever since I visited my parent’s grave. A equine crow was staring at me. Equine because the crow was the size of a three year old toddler. It’s eyes were blood thirsty red and it had teeth, teeth that are white daggers. It kept staring at me and I couldn’t make myself look away, it felt as if the bird from hell was eating my soul. Then it occurred.

He flexed his ebony wings. They were large and the deep black of pitch, or so everybody told him. He wanted to fly, They told him he could not, that he would never soar effortlessly like them. Their wings were soft and white as freshly fallen snow. They were the angels that ruled all, sitting at their petty counsels. They were beautiful, with pale faces that looked as if they were carved from ivory. Sometimes he could believe that they were, for their faces, though lovely, showed no emotion. Their smiles were empty and their eyes were cold. His eyes were golden—or so he was told.

I shuddered and momentarily shut my eyes tightly. I then looked up and the small bird was nowhere to be seen. Lost like a tear drop in a field of snow. "Poor bird" I whimpered. "It is such a cruel world" I thought to myself. Then abruptly, out of nowhere, the small bird reappeared from the crevice, puffed out it's chest and made strong eye contact with the fearsome black beady eyes of the vicious falcon. The much superior falcon could only retreat and flew slowly into the distance as I let out a big sigh of relief. Cool soothing drops of rain started falling on my face so I quickly

All of their corpses laid upon the ground. At eternal rest they lay silent. The remains are bloodied and sliced to the point of no recognition. Time is still, and I stand in the room adjacent from the carcasses. My head is spinning, my breath is quick. The knife in my hand suddenly feels as if it’s one thousand degrees. The smell of iron creeps into my nose and shakes me to the core. I become so shaky that the seemingly ablaze knife comes loose and falls to the ground. A crisp three clicks fills my ear, and I suddenly am standing with a revolver to my head.

In no time at all every undead had been eliminated, splintered bones and fragments of marrow consumed the floor. The pursuers continued towards the black robed man, not obstructed by the bones, and swiftly swung a blade at his neck. His head tumbled from his body, not even able to utter a plea for his life.

I look around in the dark room, below me were disgusting, filthy, diseased rats swarming around the plate that held food, several rats eating the bloody corpse of another dead rat. I turned my head once more to see the vicious blade two inches from contact. This is it! THIS IS IT! I am going to die… there's nothing I can do… one more swing and it's all over! The blade dropped lower, it’s making its final swing.

A velvety black crow sat in the tree; its tiny beady eyes stared directly into mine for several moments before it flew away. It could not be Myles, for surely he is dead, I think to myself before closing my eyes again.

My eyes slowly began to adjust to the darkness of the room. I sat staring at, what can only be described as the mess that lay before me, wondering what had happened. The warm sticky pools that had formed helped as a dark reminder. It hit me. This, this horror, this hill of hideousness, it was me. I should be horrified by this, the carcass I had fashioned, the… monster that I was, I could never hurt someone, I should be sickened, but I wasn 't. I was calm, I was cool, and if anything at all, I was excited. The buzz filled my whole body, from my head to my toes, a feeling anyone would crave. There, in that darkened 12th floor apartment of gore is where my story begins.

Smeared blood, shredded feathers. Clearly, the bird was dead. But wait, the slight fluctuation of its chest, the slow blinking of its shiny black eyes. No, it was alive.