Sci Fi & Fantasy / Raven Poem: Chpt. 1 Breach
Chpt.1:
Breach
I am one whose fate is not his own, one man against the hosts of hell, hunted by the throngs of heaven. The path I walk, I walk alone, my destiny chosen long before I was ever conceived. I was created as a weapon; forged by the will of God himself. Now they fear I cannot be controlled; waiting for a single reason to destroy me. No place to call my own, I stand between the conflicting armies of two immortal forces, and it is I who am to decide the balance.
But it has not always been this way. No, my life is not what it used to be. Until recently, I had no clue as to who or what I was. Being adopted at less than a year old, I remember nothing of my birth parents. The only thing I have left of them is my name, Uriel Lucian; one of many ‘unique’ gifts they chose to leave behind. My name, Uriel, pronounced your-eye-el, was given to me by my birth mother. It means angel of light. They say she always said I was her angel; a far cry from the man I am today. If it wasn’t for my foster parents, who knew both my mother and father when they were still alive, I’d know nothing of them at all. They were a comfort to me, a blessing after my family passed away. But then so were you; my Adrienne. You have been the one pure thing in my whole miserable life; the light amidst the darkness, and my only reason for caring. These pages I wrote for you; to be read by the woman I love. To maybe offer a better understanding, some explanation, as to why I’m unable to be the man you need of me. I hope you can forgive me, and that your love for me is not lost.
There’s no real beginning to start from. No true point of origin; my life has always been a magnet for the bizarre. But the day I chose to seek my own answers, was the day destiny chose to call me into its embrace. I’ve spent my first nineteen years trying to live the normal life. I put on acts to make you and everyone else think I was ok, just another antisocial youth. But that’s not the case, and I think you knew that. It’s hard growing up not knowing where you come from. Living where you feel you just don’t belong. Being raised by people that look and sound nothing like you. Sometimes I think you could tell I was fighting an internal struggle. One between the man I wanted to be, and the man I feared I would become. It seemed as though things would never change.
But my life didn’t just fall a part all at once. Over the course of several weeks I had been having the same horrific dream, reoccurring visions of my birth; a horrid apparition of my entry into the world. So vivid; every taste, smell, and feeling could be felt. An experience I have been unable to shake to this day.
The sterile hospital room reeked with the scent of birthing fluids and musk as the thralls of labor left my mother sore and exhausted. As the contractions grew closer and closer together the time to push was nearly upon us. She was now fully dilated and the doctor would soon give her the go ahead. I could feel the tensing and relaxing of her vaginal muscles as she tried to urge me into the world. The strain was nearly enough to cause her loss of consciousness, but she would hold on for my sake.
At first I refused to go. But as I began to crown, my head making way to this world, the bright lights of the room nearly blinded me as I left the darkness of the womb. It appeared as things were going well, but an immediate threat on my life would become apparent. I could feel my body growing limp as it struggled for oxygen. I couldn’t tell what was wrong with me. Why can’t I breathe?
The doctors began to move in a frenzy, trying desperately to save my life. I could hear them talking to one another in panicked words, but still had no clue as to what was wrong. Then I heard it, the lead doctor speaking to the others. The umbilical cord was wrapped around my throat and I had begun to asphyxiate. Damn. Death would claim me before I had a chance to live. If only. Maybe then my mother would have had a chance.
What to do? I fought to hear what they would do next, only then I wish I hadn’t. Again it was the lead doctor who spoke, giving orders to the others. His voice was a low gravely sound, probably caused by years of chain smoking. He spoke clearly enough with an authority that was not to be misunderstood. What he said still haunts me today.
“There’s no sense in risking it. We only need the boy. Rip him from the womb, and kill the mother. Then dispose of the body. She would’ve only been a loose end anyway.” His voice trailed off as my whole body tried to scream in protest. It was no use. They obeyed without hesitation.
I felt their hands close in around me. I knew I would live, but at the cost of my own mother’s life. I would have no say in the matter. As I was yanked into the world, I could feel her slip away, the life slowly draining from her body. And then, nothing, there was only darkness. I awoke, once again drenched from head to toe, my body covered in sweat. What the hell did it mean? I needed answers, or at the least, someone to talk to.
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I see what you mean about the graphic novel bit – your usage of language in the opening paragraphs is certainly dramatic and punchy enough for that sort of work. Short, brutal sentences that grab the reader’s attention and then refuse to give it back. Not so sure about the bit in the middle – the descriptions are a little too visceral for my liking. It’s also slightly disengenuous; how would an unborn baby know so much about female anatomy from the inside?
That’s really only a blip though. I love your style and I’d be very interested to read more. You leave it at a very tantatlising point.
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It’s very compelling. I get a very dark feel from it, which is good for Gothic Fantasy. I think I would read on to see what is going on.
Please don’t take this as a dig or anything but, for a self-professed artist, the imagery is not very vivid. What I mean by that is that, as an artist, your artwork itself IS the visual image. In writing, you have to paint a mental image in the reader’s mind. Use words that evoke the same kind of graphic mental image as you would ever draw or paint or whatever you do. Spice it up a bit.
Also… “pronounced your-eye-el”—I don’t think this is needed.
I liked the story very much. The journal struck me as a bit old-fashioned in tone, almost like a man in the Victorian period would write it, with all the poetic language (the hosts of hell, the throngs of heaven, the path I walk I walk alone, etc.) That was fine, since I thought it enhanced the gothic nature of the work that you mentioned in your comments. But then the subject matter he wrote about was rather modern (his being an antisocial youth, etc). I think the mixture of old and new made Uriel seem interesting and unusual. One doesn’t normally think of teenage rebels as being poetic. There were a few spelling and punctuation issues, but I won’t waste your credits by pointing them out here. If you like, I’ll do so in a comment. Overall, a very nice piece of work.
Once again, I’m very impressed with your story. You have an intriguing plot, and I like the fact that it’s written as a letter, but you need to remember that because it’s written to Adrienne you cannont explain things to the readers that she would already know- like how to pronounce her lover’s name. The pacing got a little sluggish right before you described Uriel’s birth, and I think it would be better if you could draw your audience into his feelings and senses a little bit more. I’m still a fan of yours, and I’m wanting to read more.
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