Advertisement
If you have a new account but are having problems posting or verifying your account, please email us on hello@boards.ie for help. Thanks :)
Hello all! Please ensure that you are posting a new thread or question in the appropriate forum. The Feedback forum is overwhelmed with questions that are having to be moved elsewhere. If you need help to verify your account contact hello@boards.ie
Hi there,
There is an issue with role permissions that is being worked on at the moment.
If you are having trouble with access or permissions on regional forums please post here to get access: https://www.boards.ie/discussion/2058365403/you-do-not-have-permission-for-that#latest

Open Crypt

  • 01-12-2005 5:08pm
    #1
    Closed Accounts Posts: 49


    This is about the Black Death in England in the 1660's. It came off me doing an essay about a play in 1600's Britain. It's my first creative writing thing here, so hope you like it. The quote at the end was said by the wife of the rector of Eyam where they barricaded themselves in to, stop the plague from spreading. They were succesful but she died.

    Deep in a built-up crypt, a pure white sheet covers an off white body covering an innocent hanging between Earth and purgatory. A rank smell drifts off into the unadulterated wind, killing it's innocence with the overhanging smell of death and suffering that is here to stay .His sobbing mother bathes his once proud loins; now all that remains is oozing skeleton.
    His torn and bloodstained shirt is stuffed in his mouth, from hearing his tortured scream, the rats fled; they knew their work was done.
    The fever rises once more and the pock marked flowers form a macabre mural on his breast, where but days ago lay another flower; a single pink carnation. His buxom bride is gone too; soon after she was deflowered she found her flowers back, speckled fuchsia over her porcelain body. If heart broken tears could resurrect the dead she would be here now, but nothing can stop the sickness. All she is now is a historian’s statistic, quietly rotting in an open grave with no commemoration.
    Hallucinatory angels slowly count to one hundred over him; ready or not they come and relieve him from the pain. His last forced breath reverberates around the room while his face glows and his hands are clasped in prayer. No sounds are needed, his cream face gone white and his life gone away.

    The tears of a grieving mother haunts the audiences mind, they are of such emotion that to try to comprehend would crush your spirit. She weeps bitter tears of anger and misunderstanding, of ignorance and relief. She lives and he dies; if only Death would negotiate, if only Death was quick, if only Death was merciful.
    “O the air, it smells so sweet”


Comments

  • Closed Accounts Posts: 69 ✭✭McFiddler


    Excellent. It boggles me to wonder why someone hasn't replyed to this yet considering the quality of the piece. Your use of imagery is very powerful and you have described the scene perfectly in my opinion. It really captured my imagination anyway. Well done, looking foward to more..


  • Closed Accounts Posts: 49 MsMolko


    Awh thank you! There shall be more I hope...


Advertisement