Severus Snape
Proud Member
Well, I didn't win the writing contest I had submitted this piece for. Those who did win wrote tripes about cliché topics with no objectionable content within their pages, and overall it was all a disappointment of massive proportion. Only a few pieces [or fragments of them, anyway] were worthy of their place, and the first-place winner was just absolutely dreadful. I personally think the person who won fifth place should have gotten first place, even though the theme of her piece was common (something to do with war, etc.) It was, however, well-written, and it talked about something that isn't quotidian life or some sappy love rag, for once.
In any case, there was an obvious bias in this process. How do I know that? Simple. Neither the story you are about to read below, nor the other poem I wrote with death as its theme, made it onto the top five, nor onto the literary publication, despite being superior to a great number of the other published pieces (and concerning my poem, the one which was omitted was superior to some of my other pieces.)
They did, however, publish my poem about Unity Mitford, which was surprising, given the theme. I suspect they published it because they have no idea who Unity Mitford was (judging by their misspelling her name.)
The other selections are permeated with the same theme as the top four winners, and the darkest anyone (who wasn't me) dared to go was a vague reference towards someone's drinking, and the war story which earned fifth place, for dancing around the issue. "He died a painless death, and every time I think about it, I whisper, 'thank God." (That's the other thing--the necessary "cheerful" ending with the obligatory god reference [that's what I get for attending a Catholic school...] but, like I said, that story was probably the best of the ones which did win, which is scary.)
In any case, on to other things. Here is the story I submitted, and since I lost, I'm making it available just for kicks, I reckon. The following story does not contain:
-A modern setting
-A happy ending
-Some reference to commonplace events/people/comforts
-Patriotism/Military themes
-God or religious references
-Sappy 'young love' dialogue
-Half-baked play-on-words regarding trite themes
However, be warned, out there be monsters. To those of you who care, enjoy. If nobody cares, neither do I. By the way, the thread's title is the story's full title.
On to the story...
--
John Prince was a gentleman of incredible renown, a writer and poet by profession. He lived in a grand house with his servant and chauffeur. At present, he could be found in his study, working on a book of poems he was intending to publish. By candlelight, he scribbled with his quill on yellow parchment, letting the ideas flow from his mind onto the paper. He hoped the book would be a success, for his writing had never been published before, and had spent the last few nights working on the fine details of his masterpiece.
Exhausted from reviewing his work all afternoon, Prince decided to retire to bed. He stored his ink bottle and his parchment away in a nearby drawer, and put his quill away for the night.
Rising from his seat, he gazed at the window and observed a pale moon looming on the horizon. The sky was adorned with bright stars as night came into being.
He looked away from the window and pushed his chair in, signifying that he was done for the day. He grabbed his brass candle holder and departed from his study, closing the cherry wood door lightly before going into the kitchen for some tea.
Gertrude, his servant woman, knew that Mister Prince enjoyed sipping chamomile tea in the evenings. She had prepared a cup of the finest tea for her master, and set it on the table for him to drink, along with some biscuits.
Prince sipped his tea calmly and ate the delicious biscuits before going to sleep.
He walked up the stairs and went to his room. Once he arrived in his room, he slipped on his pajamas and sleeping cap. Prince picked up a book and read for a while before blowing his candle out and drifting off to sleep.
Prince managed to sleep for a while, but suddenly awoke. He glanced about the room, and saw naught but darkness. Shortly after that, he went back to sleep. However, he was soon awakened once more, this time by the sound of his name being called out.
Roused from the enchanting dream world, John opened his eyes and looked to see who had called him at such strange hours of the night. There was no one in the room, yet he was sure he had heard someone call his name. He got up from the bed, lit his candle, and walked about the house in search of the as of now disembodied voice.
All the rooms were devoid of anyone's presence, save his own. Deciding the voice was best attributed to his imagination; Prince climbed up the stairs once more and went in his room. The sight he was met with once he entered his bedchamber would remain with him for the remainder of his life.
Shrouded in incandescent light stood a beautiful woman, pale-skinned with light brown hair tied up in a delicate bun. He recognized her as being Robyn Elizabeth, the woman he had been in love with for the longest of time. Puzzled as to what the reason for her presence in his room at midnight could be, he observed her for a while before inquiring.
Once he had posed the question, Elizabeth answered it.
What she said would haunt his mind for days to come. She told him she was, in fact, dead. She had been swimming in the icy waters of a river near her house, when she was swept away by a swift current and met her demise. Before love could unite them, fate had forever divided them.
Aghast, John Prince stood motionless, his eyes frozenly staring at the apparition in front of him. They looked at each other for a mere minute, before Robyn Elizabeth evanesced into the darkness of his surroundings.
The following days would serve as the stage for a series of strange events.
Gertrude and Earl, the chauffeur, had noticed a change in their master's routine.
Master Prince no longer rose in the mornings, as he had done in the past, living an entirely nocturnal existence. He slumbered as the sun rose, and spent the sum of his time locked away in his bedroom scribbling on parchment and muttering to himself. Clearly, he was stricken with grief over the death of his dearest Robyn. In spite of her death, however, she still visited him nightly, and they conversed for long hours as they had never done so during her life.
Bearing witness to the odd behaviour exhibited by their master, Gertrude and Earl talked amongst themselves as to what to do next. They recognized Prince could not be permitted to go on as he was, for to them he appeared to be increasingly unbalanced. He seldom addressed them, and when he did, it was to voice odd complaints. He often complained of the tick of the grandfather clock's hands at strange hours of the night, or the crowing of the murder of crows gathered outside his house. Never before had he griped about such things.
The behaviour which disturbed them the most, however, was the incessant muttering which occurred nightly. They could have sworn he was holding a conversation with somebody, however, no voice save his own was ever heard.
One day, Gertrude and Earl decided to confront Prince about his erratic behaviour, out of pure concern for his welfare.
“Master Prince, are you alright?” Earl inquired as the three of them sat at tea time.
Prince refrained from answering the question.
“We dearly esteem you, Master Prince,” Gertrude said.
Prompted by questions asked by Earl and Gertrude, Prince soon gave in and told them of the events which had taken place the night he found out Robyn was dead.
Neither of them spoke, for they knew not what to say. Both knew that Robyn Elizabeth was indeed alive, and had no idea why Prince came to believe otherwise. His statements made little sense to them, and did naught but increase their existing apprehension.
Prince continued to believe Robyn was dead, until one fateful day, when he had been stirred from his diurnal sleep, he glanced out the window and watched as miscellaneous groups of people went by. Among these people was the young Robyn Elizabeth, arm-in-arm with her fiancé, a man John did not recognize. Bewildered by the sight, Prince ran from his room, intending to step outside and see if what he saw before him was real.
Indeed it was.
“Miss Elizabeth, I thought you were dead!” John shouted as he attempted to catch up with the pair.
She cast him a disgusted glance before being escorted from him by her fiancé, a man of twenty-five years.
“Who are you?” Prince addressed the fresh-faced lad.
“I'm her fiancé,” the fellow answered coldly, and asked the same.
Crushed by these words, Prince had no spirit to answer that question. Instead, he stepped away from them and retired back to his house.
She was not dead, after all. Yet, she may as well have been, for she did not love him.
He went back to his bedchamber, his heart heavy with the cruel sort of sorrow that only unreturned affection can bring about. His mind was clouded with bitter thoughts. He no longer knew what was real and what wasn't. The only certain thing in this world was that Robyn Elizabeth's heart belonged to another.
Overcome with the emotion this truth conjured within him, Prince searched his bedside table's drawer and took from its contents a silver dagger. He grasped its cold handle with his trembling hands, and proceeded to slit his own wrists.
Before the damage he did became fatal, he was found by Earl, who promptly called for the doctors to come and take Master Prince to the hospital. Prince, at first, refused to cooperate, rambling incomprehensibly and resisting their attempts to restrain him. After he had tired from struggling against them, however, Prince was taken to the medics and treated accordingly.
Doctor Grey, one of the medics who treated Prince in his hour of need, thought him to be mentally insane, and recommended he be put under the custody of an asylum until he regained his senses.
Prince was taken to the Morde Asylum, a shelter for those who were mentally insane and in need of medical attention.
He spent the next year at the asylum refusing meals and assaulting staff whenever they attempted to intervene. His behaviour would eventually earn him solitary confinement.
Prince was placed in a dirty stone dungeon at the basement level of the Morde Asylum, his bony arms chained to the wall to keep him from attacking others. His mental state, under these conditions, suffered greater damage. Being the imaginative man he had always been, he invented all sorts of conversation partners with whom to spend his lonely hours in the dark, rat-infested chamber. He composed poems and stories in his mind, and uttered them repeatedly so as to engrave them in his memory. The habit of muttering to himself became even more marked once he had been admitted to the asylum, and he had quickly deteriorated due to malnutrition.
In the course of a single year, he appeared to have aged ten, and was skeletally thin. His fingernails grew long, yellow and gnarled, facilitating his newfound fondness for self-harm. His thin arms were covered by scratches, as was his once strikingly handsome face.
By the following spring, John Prince would be dead. Such was the fate which ultimately befell upon a man with such promise and genius, a tragic end to a bright star.
In any case, there was an obvious bias in this process. How do I know that? Simple. Neither the story you are about to read below, nor the other poem I wrote with death as its theme, made it onto the top five, nor onto the literary publication, despite being superior to a great number of the other published pieces (and concerning my poem, the one which was omitted was superior to some of my other pieces.)
They did, however, publish my poem about Unity Mitford, which was surprising, given the theme. I suspect they published it because they have no idea who Unity Mitford was (judging by their misspelling her name.)
The other selections are permeated with the same theme as the top four winners, and the darkest anyone (who wasn't me) dared to go was a vague reference towards someone's drinking, and the war story which earned fifth place, for dancing around the issue. "He died a painless death, and every time I think about it, I whisper, 'thank God." (That's the other thing--the necessary "cheerful" ending with the obligatory god reference [that's what I get for attending a Catholic school...] but, like I said, that story was probably the best of the ones which did win, which is scary.)
In any case, on to other things. Here is the story I submitted, and since I lost, I'm making it available just for kicks, I reckon. The following story does not contain:
-A modern setting
-A happy ending
-Some reference to commonplace events/people/comforts
-Patriotism/Military themes
-God or religious references
-Sappy 'young love' dialogue
-Half-baked play-on-words regarding trite themes
However, be warned, out there be monsters. To those of you who care, enjoy. If nobody cares, neither do I. By the way, the thread's title is the story's full title.
On to the story...
--
John Prince was a gentleman of incredible renown, a writer and poet by profession. He lived in a grand house with his servant and chauffeur. At present, he could be found in his study, working on a book of poems he was intending to publish. By candlelight, he scribbled with his quill on yellow parchment, letting the ideas flow from his mind onto the paper. He hoped the book would be a success, for his writing had never been published before, and had spent the last few nights working on the fine details of his masterpiece.
Exhausted from reviewing his work all afternoon, Prince decided to retire to bed. He stored his ink bottle and his parchment away in a nearby drawer, and put his quill away for the night.
Rising from his seat, he gazed at the window and observed a pale moon looming on the horizon. The sky was adorned with bright stars as night came into being.
He looked away from the window and pushed his chair in, signifying that he was done for the day. He grabbed his brass candle holder and departed from his study, closing the cherry wood door lightly before going into the kitchen for some tea.
Gertrude, his servant woman, knew that Mister Prince enjoyed sipping chamomile tea in the evenings. She had prepared a cup of the finest tea for her master, and set it on the table for him to drink, along with some biscuits.
Prince sipped his tea calmly and ate the delicious biscuits before going to sleep.
He walked up the stairs and went to his room. Once he arrived in his room, he slipped on his pajamas and sleeping cap. Prince picked up a book and read for a while before blowing his candle out and drifting off to sleep.
Prince managed to sleep for a while, but suddenly awoke. He glanced about the room, and saw naught but darkness. Shortly after that, he went back to sleep. However, he was soon awakened once more, this time by the sound of his name being called out.
Roused from the enchanting dream world, John opened his eyes and looked to see who had called him at such strange hours of the night. There was no one in the room, yet he was sure he had heard someone call his name. He got up from the bed, lit his candle, and walked about the house in search of the as of now disembodied voice.
All the rooms were devoid of anyone's presence, save his own. Deciding the voice was best attributed to his imagination; Prince climbed up the stairs once more and went in his room. The sight he was met with once he entered his bedchamber would remain with him for the remainder of his life.
Shrouded in incandescent light stood a beautiful woman, pale-skinned with light brown hair tied up in a delicate bun. He recognized her as being Robyn Elizabeth, the woman he had been in love with for the longest of time. Puzzled as to what the reason for her presence in his room at midnight could be, he observed her for a while before inquiring.
Once he had posed the question, Elizabeth answered it.
What she said would haunt his mind for days to come. She told him she was, in fact, dead. She had been swimming in the icy waters of a river near her house, when she was swept away by a swift current and met her demise. Before love could unite them, fate had forever divided them.
Aghast, John Prince stood motionless, his eyes frozenly staring at the apparition in front of him. They looked at each other for a mere minute, before Robyn Elizabeth evanesced into the darkness of his surroundings.
The following days would serve as the stage for a series of strange events.
Gertrude and Earl, the chauffeur, had noticed a change in their master's routine.
Master Prince no longer rose in the mornings, as he had done in the past, living an entirely nocturnal existence. He slumbered as the sun rose, and spent the sum of his time locked away in his bedroom scribbling on parchment and muttering to himself. Clearly, he was stricken with grief over the death of his dearest Robyn. In spite of her death, however, she still visited him nightly, and they conversed for long hours as they had never done so during her life.
Bearing witness to the odd behaviour exhibited by their master, Gertrude and Earl talked amongst themselves as to what to do next. They recognized Prince could not be permitted to go on as he was, for to them he appeared to be increasingly unbalanced. He seldom addressed them, and when he did, it was to voice odd complaints. He often complained of the tick of the grandfather clock's hands at strange hours of the night, or the crowing of the murder of crows gathered outside his house. Never before had he griped about such things.
The behaviour which disturbed them the most, however, was the incessant muttering which occurred nightly. They could have sworn he was holding a conversation with somebody, however, no voice save his own was ever heard.
One day, Gertrude and Earl decided to confront Prince about his erratic behaviour, out of pure concern for his welfare.
“Master Prince, are you alright?” Earl inquired as the three of them sat at tea time.
Prince refrained from answering the question.
“We dearly esteem you, Master Prince,” Gertrude said.
Prompted by questions asked by Earl and Gertrude, Prince soon gave in and told them of the events which had taken place the night he found out Robyn was dead.
Neither of them spoke, for they knew not what to say. Both knew that Robyn Elizabeth was indeed alive, and had no idea why Prince came to believe otherwise. His statements made little sense to them, and did naught but increase their existing apprehension.
Prince continued to believe Robyn was dead, until one fateful day, when he had been stirred from his diurnal sleep, he glanced out the window and watched as miscellaneous groups of people went by. Among these people was the young Robyn Elizabeth, arm-in-arm with her fiancé, a man John did not recognize. Bewildered by the sight, Prince ran from his room, intending to step outside and see if what he saw before him was real.
Indeed it was.
“Miss Elizabeth, I thought you were dead!” John shouted as he attempted to catch up with the pair.
She cast him a disgusted glance before being escorted from him by her fiancé, a man of twenty-five years.
“Who are you?” Prince addressed the fresh-faced lad.
“I'm her fiancé,” the fellow answered coldly, and asked the same.
Crushed by these words, Prince had no spirit to answer that question. Instead, he stepped away from them and retired back to his house.
She was not dead, after all. Yet, she may as well have been, for she did not love him.
He went back to his bedchamber, his heart heavy with the cruel sort of sorrow that only unreturned affection can bring about. His mind was clouded with bitter thoughts. He no longer knew what was real and what wasn't. The only certain thing in this world was that Robyn Elizabeth's heart belonged to another.
Overcome with the emotion this truth conjured within him, Prince searched his bedside table's drawer and took from its contents a silver dagger. He grasped its cold handle with his trembling hands, and proceeded to slit his own wrists.
Before the damage he did became fatal, he was found by Earl, who promptly called for the doctors to come and take Master Prince to the hospital. Prince, at first, refused to cooperate, rambling incomprehensibly and resisting their attempts to restrain him. After he had tired from struggling against them, however, Prince was taken to the medics and treated accordingly.
Doctor Grey, one of the medics who treated Prince in his hour of need, thought him to be mentally insane, and recommended he be put under the custody of an asylum until he regained his senses.
Prince was taken to the Morde Asylum, a shelter for those who were mentally insane and in need of medical attention.
He spent the next year at the asylum refusing meals and assaulting staff whenever they attempted to intervene. His behaviour would eventually earn him solitary confinement.
Prince was placed in a dirty stone dungeon at the basement level of the Morde Asylum, his bony arms chained to the wall to keep him from attacking others. His mental state, under these conditions, suffered greater damage. Being the imaginative man he had always been, he invented all sorts of conversation partners with whom to spend his lonely hours in the dark, rat-infested chamber. He composed poems and stories in his mind, and uttered them repeatedly so as to engrave them in his memory. The habit of muttering to himself became even more marked once he had been admitted to the asylum, and he had quickly deteriorated due to malnutrition.
In the course of a single year, he appeared to have aged ten, and was skeletally thin. His fingernails grew long, yellow and gnarled, facilitating his newfound fondness for self-harm. His thin arms were covered by scratches, as was his once strikingly handsome face.
By the following spring, John Prince would be dead. Such was the fate which ultimately befell upon a man with such promise and genius, a tragic end to a bright star.